CHAPTER ONE

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  
                

                                      



High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
                                                           ­     
      
                                                            
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=SScW9r0y3c4

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H35odPm7b3w Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l

Being called a ****** is something I don’t mind
In fact it's really okay and it's rather kind
I don't think it is offensive or even a sick joke
What’s a man supposed to do without a **** to poke
Okay he could stick his **** between two bits of Spam
But he really needs a hot moist **** to be a real man
If her *****'s on the blob he could settle for an ****
The ******* of both these holes simply is pure class

There are guys who prefer a **** and like a manly ***
A tighter hole maybe prefered to make those fellows ***
To **** a bloke if you're straight is an equivalent to a slum
Or even a taboo ****** act like ******* your own mum.

Manly ***** and dangly parts are really not for me
I don't bend to hairy **** it's not where I would be
Girly ***** and smoother bums is what I want to see
I'd rather **** my own **** than **** a guys jacksy

Pulling a huge Horses Plonker only fools like Rodney Trotter
Or Blind Wizards with broken glasses like Harry ******* Potter
Don't **** on your **** to hard you may just *** a cropper
Especially if you ***** up in a helmet belonging to a copper.

I would never bash the bishop what would the churches say
To find me with a spunky hat and that their faiths turned gay
We don't want ***** clergymen who **** on the silver tray
Vicars ******* choir boys keep those cassock fanciers at bay

I would'nt choke the chicken because I don't think I could
But the staff at Kentucky Fried Chicken they probably would.
They would lick your ***** up because its finger licking good.
And use their special wipe up towel to clean up your manhood.
With its lemon fragrance you will have good smelling wood.
Around your shaft and helmet and beneath your ******* hood.

Would I ever yank my plank like the pirates of the seas
The extention of my log when I'm on my ******* knees
My hand around my fishing rod and giving it a squeeze
Using a hand action to squeeze out my cream cheese
*** is flowing down my shaft like honey from the bees
I'll keep pumping on my rod and creaming in the breeze

Have you ever seen those fellows praying down at the synagogue ?
From their own expressions they've been flogging their own log
Take a look at their robes the bottom stained with their eggnog
Either that or they have been ******* some old scruffy dog
I don't think that they bothered their heads are in a fog
With all that ******* worship they would **** a big fat hog

So I'm slowly warming to it but maybe when I'm ******
And I can't get no ***** and its the last thing on my list
I may take myself in hand my **** clutched in my fist
Then I may consider having a swift one of the wrist
If you end up watching then please excuse the mist
I'll carry on with the hope that my **** gets kissed

Because Wanking is an activity that in all honesty all men do
Something that comes to hand when you can't get a good *****
When your **** gets harder and we think of god knows who
We grab our piece of man meat and imagine that *** stew

I'll  have to keep on wanking I can never get enough
Off all that lovely ***** because finding it is tough
Nothing is more satisfying than diving in the ****
Legs open wide will always be something I will stuff
Instead of wanking I would rather stick it up your chuff
But I'll probably end up looking  a bit scraggy and ruff

So I will keep on going until my **** is old and worn
With all that ******* wanking whenever I get the horn
Popping my sweet cornels just like children of the corn
Watching ****'s and ******* or granny ******* ****

EDNA:  I believe you recently had a gay little adventure, Vladimir. So why don’t you tell me all about it? I can see you are simply dying to get it off your chest…

VLADIMIR:  Well, Edna, it happened like this. I hadn't cruised the ***** toilet in the park for months and I was ******* randy, absolutely dying for a really good session, so I thought I'd go along here after the pub shut and see what was up, see if there was any ******* ******* action. I wore some **** ****** under my jeans, you know the sort of stuff: red open crotch *******, suspenders and black fishnet stockings. My **** kept dribbling as I was in the pub, just thinking of what might happen down the toilet.  At closing time, I left the pub, my carrier bag in my hand, with a big anticipatory bulge in my pants.

EDNA [gulp]  And then what happened, Vladimir, dear?

VLADIMIR:  Once I got to the toilet, I was surprised there was no one inside, but there were a few nearby shadows in the park, people smoking cigarettes, walking round, looking for it.  Once in the toilet, I selected the cleanest cubicle and took off my jeans and shirt and put them into the carrier bag. I replaced my normal shoes and socks with the white high heeled women's shoes I had waiting in the carrier. Then I waited in the cubicle for someone to come into the toilet.

After only a few moments, I heard footsteps and I looked under the door to see who was there at the ******.  It was a short muscular looking man wearing jeans and Doc Martens. I could see he wasn't *******, but just standing there, though I couldn't see his face. I opened the cubicle door and he turned around to see who was there, so I opened the door wide open so he could see me standing there in the stockings, suspenders and silk ******* with my stiff **** sticking out of the hole in them.

He was about forty and very butch looking with close cropped hair and I could see his **** hardening as he looked at me.  I went over to him and took his **** in my hand and he grabbed hold of mine and started rubbing it.  I got down on my knees and took his short, fat, uncircumcised **** in my mouth; it tasted salty and ******* gorgeous. He grabbed hold of the back of my head and forced his **** deep down my throat nearly making me gag.  I could smell the odour of his ***** hair and I loved it.  He said, "Keep ******* it, you ***** ****, or I'll pull your ******* head off." I loved him talking ***** like that to me.

EDNA [getting a bit excited]  That seems very bold of you both.  What happened next?

VLADIMIR:  In what seemed no time at all, I felt him tense and then I got an enormous mouthful of his hot *****.  I'd never known anyone come so much, he must have had a week's worth in his *****.  After he'd come, he took his **** out of my mouth, put it away and zipped himself up.  I started to get to my feet, but he pushed me backwards onto the filthy floor.  ‘You're lucky I don't knock your face in, you ****,’ he said as he went out.  I love my men to be a bit rough with me, so I was very excited by this.  I half hoped he would punch me but he didn't.

EDNA: [wiping forehead] Well, that’s really very interesting. Did you go home then, dear, or were you still up for it, as the expression goes, Vladimir?    

VLADIMIR:  I got up and dusted myself down.  I could taste his come in my mouth, it was ******* delicious.  I was still incredibly excited, my **** was absolutely rigid and I knew I just needed to give it a couple of rubs and I'd shoot my ***, but I wanted more ***, and I knew once I came, I would just feel like going home.  So I went back into my cubicle and waited to see if anyone else came in.

After about five minutes I heard footsteps, followed by more footsteps again and I looked under the door a second time.  There were two men standing there and, by straining my neck, I could see they were groping each other.  One had one hand on the other's **** and his other hand on his **** and the other man was working on the first man's **** as well.  

I let the door open and they both swung round as they hadn't known there was anyone else in the toilet.  They saw me and looked relieved it wasn't a policeman lurking in there.  One was quite young, about twenty or twenty five, but he was a bit skinny and effeminate-looking.  The other one was much older, about fifty, but he was much better looking and I could see he had a huge **** on him.  I walked over to them in my **** rigout and joined in with the wanking.  They both started feeling my **** under my *******.

I turned round and bent over, my hands on the toilet cubicle doorposts, stuck my **** out invitingly and pulled my ******* down to my knees.  ’Why don't you **** me?’ I said, bold as brass.  The older man, the one with the big ****, left the young skinny guy and took up the offer I had made.  He undid his trousers and pulled his underpants down to reveal the full length of his enormous **** and his big hairy *****.  He spat on his hand and rubbed it on his ****, but he needn't have bothered because I had already lubed my **** when I was waiting in my cubicle.  

He slipped his big **** up my moist ******* without much difficulty and then started ******* me gently.  I told him to **** me harder, to **** me harder than he had ever ****** anyone in his life, so he started to really ram it up my hole.  God, I loved it.

EDNA [sweating with mounting excitement and unable to resist touching herself down there]  Mmmmm. I wish I’d been there to see that, I really, really do.  But don’t let me disturb your narrative flow, darling….

VLADIMIR:   Then the young skinny guy got down on his knees in front of me and took my **** in his mouth.  Each time the man who was giving it to me ****** hard into me, I jolted forward and rammed my **** deep into the skinny guy's mouth.  I was moaning with ecstasy as I got ****** and ****** by two complete strangers.  The guy with the big **** couldn't last long and soon shot his load up my **** and as he did it he said, ‘O Christ, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm shooting my ***** up your ******* *******.’  This made me incredibly excited and I came off in the younger man's mouth.  The skinny youngster was wanking his own **** as he knelt in front of me and I know he came as I felt the ***** splashing on my stockinged legs.

As he removed his still fat **** from my gaping hole, a stream of the older man's ***** ran down my legs.  He said he wished his wife would let him **** her in the ******* like that.  I went to kiss him but when he smelled the ***** on my face from the butch one I'd ****** off earlier, he wasn't having any of it and left with a mumbled goodbye.

The younger man had now got to his feet and was standing in front of me as he buttoned himself up.  He said ‘We can wait a few minutes and then we can do it again if you like.  I'd love you to **** me, you've got a lovely ****.’  But it was no good, the magic had passed and I told him to ****** off.

So I went back into the cubicle, got changed back into my ordinary clothes and left the toilet.  I could feel ***** oozing out of my ******* and I could taste the first load in my mouth still.  I had a smile on my face. It had been a great night out.

EDNA:  [removing her hand from inside her ******* as unobtrusively as possible and trying to disguise the fact she has just had a cataclysmic ******]  Wow, that’s really a very exciting story. It’s made old Edna quite hot and bothered. You really are a very naughty boy, Vladimir.

VLADIMIR: Would you like me to tell you about what happened to me in the old cinema down by the docks?

EDNA: [still throbbing a bit] No, dear, that will be the subject of another interview. We don't want to over-excite our readers, do we?

*THE END

die nacht  aus alle verewigung -
verewigung die nacht - in immigrant German
spoken - not spoken, hälfte, hälfte,
pork-chops go go got taken with Australian *******...
cos selling the body saved you with the crucifix from
selling something like your soul, hence the accord to
be ready for critique of selling the magic potion of drinking
iodine... i was a fetus back then... when the atom
**** got the plastic elasticity of tangling
to wanking a didgeridoo... magician's syndrome:
**** that tightened fist and i'll assure you
you'll get the white flag of piracy's peace:
meaning they never robbed the rich men, pirates
just robbed the artists... hey wooden plank,
knock knock... don't make me into a wooden chair...
take a creaking floorboard and make it into
a shimmy toothpick... knock knock... who's there?
Jude? Jude who? hey i'm Jude? Judy Jew who?
a Jew who chewed propaganda and hid Jude.
fair enough, Jude's the everyday Jew.
no, she's the Rabbi! Rabbi who?
the Sabbatical who knows who.
some say i know god.
well, good luck with that, mostly asserted
on death row.
at least that place is given a fabric of a team effort.
by the time i think about next week's trash
i'll have written something akin to it being
taken out into a pig's trough of what resembled
the dating scene in New York...
hardly reminiscent of the gay Utopia:
so much anger yet still only the vote,
so much anger yet still only the vote...
           the intelligence poured in, but the
quiff only wanted the algebra of x
to match it up to a presidential race success with some donor's
y, and later + and squared and equals to make
those family holidays affordable.
- winter-night... deutschekaiser....
i swear it would be cheaper to build a wall
around the middle east...
like the European Union really
wanted to invest in dates... cos we were
ready to make a Sabbath from a Ramadan...
like we waited for the loss of % on added debt...
we waited, and waited... and waited...
we got McDonald's instead... and that was all
in the inventory... and that was all in
whatever we got, if we got anything:
deutsche schmutzig machen... is that perfect
German muddy - herrbzigg - or alter
Philanthropist zigzag - howdy howdy **?
dots the avenue...
and the many riches coming your way...
make muddy, or muddied already,
takes one swipe of the credit card,
ends up with 110 to nil streaks of ****
bothered about Star Trek... and the cellphone...
and the extraterrestrials of Mexico (or he co & co; huh i?)...
got the gangrene green if you
like the Licorice tangle of blank Ovid saying:
mahogany, mahogany, mahoney... mama got all da
honey... n she got the 2Pac shaky shaky core blues;
mind the albino in the hood:
or Mars the red planet, Earth the brown planet,
scary they thought of dinosaurs with dragons prior...
didn't think of Martian life prior to government
conspiracies, way before Darwinism and crowd control...
life on Mars: well, it was once there,
long before dinosaurs, and bacteria and yogurt...
long before the circus, and the commuter caterpillar...
i believe that there was life on Mars,
given the timescale... it was there...
but it ain't there anymore...
                           which might explain the U.F.O.s....
don't believe the government's audacity to have
created something so phosphorescent Zulu
as to invoke an engraving of lawless Voodoo...
before we knew of dinosaur remains we drew dragons...
before we explored Mars we were given
the proofs... life existed on Mars, long before
Earth was made the 2nd laboratory of a deity...
then it died, given the life-cycle of stars...
Mars is rocky... earth is rocky...
whatever life existed on Mars in its full potential
is long gone... is this really as weird
as what pop culture makes of man and monkey?
kettle and carpal muscles evolving from
oysters? we really can become equally ridiculous to
the extent that we turn on each other...
it didn't take much to divide Hindu from Muslim
into India and Pakistan... this won't take much thought either...
i'm just trying to counter scientific negativism,
and counter the timescale of both physicists' big bang
theory and the anti-historical Darwinism...
i'm starting with life on Mars, at a time when
Earth was inhospitable... volcanic... i might be among
the many people treated as being "mentally ill"
when the government claims to be so advanced as to practice
such projections of phosphorescent objects,
when it's dumb as Donald *****... because NASA is
not theoretical enough... and the government seeks
control by claiming NASA isn't the end result...
the usual suspects: lies... and more lies...
the Venusian Art... the pick-up artists...
i read it, never tried it... wish i did... but i also wished
for a herd of goats too...
but that's the best explanation of sighting a UFO i have...
before Earth was made habitable, Mars came prior...
Mars is rocky... is Earth... our fantasy is about discovering
life on Mars... life on Mars left a long time ago...
it's gone... gone gone gone...
the sun is cooling down before it becomes a dwarf...
before the perfection of this glasshouse of plants and animals
Mars came before us... and it was perfect...
later came this whole God and Devil debacle and plagiarism...
the first supreme, the second mildly similar...
but altogether worse... i told you, a phosphorescent object
in the night is hardly a government project...
the government is not capable of such things...
if they are, then they're like a man with a 4 inch
***** telling a girl he's a millionaire and has a fetish for
watching his girlfriend get ****** by a stranger with a 12 inch ****...
do the match... get a mud-bath.
the Welsh drew dragons and the Chinese too,
long before the dinosaurs usurped the happy-times
next to a bonfire... i'm just like that...
life existed on Mars long before we decided to look
for microbes on that red Ayers orb...
i'd be looking for sodium rather than twin oxygen trapped
into liquid by hydrogen, then always alienating laws
by ice, the said liquid and vapour...
my theory is that the original life on Mars,
didn't experience hydro sodium chloride... i.e. the seas...
Mars had only sweet life form... given the Devil
plagiarised Mars with earth, we received the seas...
we received the hydro sodium chloride... salty waters...
so if i was heading to Mars, i'd be mostly interested
in finding sodium chloride (salt) than anything...
not life... if i was heading to Mars i'd be trying to find salt...
not life... salt... salt... salt... Angie Jolie film (2010)? Salt.
because we forgot our individual intuition,
and we chose to have individual intellect that might be
easily swayed, because of this we allowed
collective intuition to arise... which we couldn't
intellectualise, because a collective intuition gave rise
premonition, prophecy and such artefacts of similar attention...
no collective intellect could ever be grasped:
atheism and Christianity and Islam and etc.
are such examples of what we lost... once we gave up
individual intuition, to replace it with a collective intellect,
we couldn't revise individual intuition with an individual
intellect (how many adherents of Marx does it
take to change a light-bulb?) - so we invested in
a collective intuition, whatever you call it, it's maxim
is still unshaken with the words: the sun will rise tomorrow.
a line from Heidegger concerning this observation:
every man is born as many men and dies as a single one -
like me, how i discovered the difference between
the man and the mass, intuition and intellect...
how man reversed the intuitive continuum of animals
to converse with an anti-animal invigoration of
intellect, and transcend the continuum of replicas,
and therefore invest in embryo, or the book of Genesis,
"original", in that, also a continuum by ontological inspection:
i.e. continually revisionist... Einstein preceding Newton...
Orangutan Joe preceding King Kong was never
really going to happen.

Many houses have been cleaned on ***** window routes
Terraced rows and bungelows and other glass recruits
Customers of differant types some casual, some suits
Pleasent ones and lovely ones, some of them fun hoots

One window shined, revealed behind someones bathroom door
An awful sight giving us a fright, more than we bargained for
We went to clean it was abscene, that horrible thing we saw
Showing his snake was it a mistake, or was he just a *****

Every time we went to clean situations would get worse
We didn't want to catch a glimps, of his ****** immerse
A naked burden it bacame, why was he so perverse
***** windows should remain to conceal that bathroom curse

The anxiousness we both felt, how low he always sank
Unwanted sightings of body flesh and yanking on his plank
Disgusting ways of a deprived mind, so very dark and dank
***** windows are one thing, but not when you ******* ****

We did not want to ascend, with each ladder run to climb
knowing what awaited us we didn't want to see his slime
That bathroom window was regular, he did it every time
His kind of antics should be re-classed as a life of grime

We're not interested in plonker pulling a real discusting stunt
Nakedness we don't want to see, or a nasty shiveled front
Your ***** windows are to much so we will both be blunt
Keep your wanking to yourself and ******* your ***** ****

We don't care how many times, or how much you try
There is no necessitation to see your small **** eye
Confess your sins and tell your wife and don't you effing lie
That you've been bathroom wanking and flashing your cream pie

We told him we're not cleaning, when he dosent wear a stitch
And because he had to ******* **** and treat us like his *****
We're not your pleasure ******, when you've got that certain itch
Your ***** windows we wont clean when your mind is in a ditch

It's time us girls said goodbye you've made us ******* cross
Window cleaners we may be but your not our wanking boss
So now we're gone and you know why, my friend it's adios
And all because you had to flash and have a bathroom toss

anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
later...
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs
noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
coordinate...
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?

A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”

No, you cannot join in.
Unless of course you also want the backlash that comes with kissing girls in public?
Take it-
please
share the homophobia.
I have had enough to last me 18 years of shame

no, this is not a game and you do not have the right to take photographs of me while I kiss her.
Unless of course you are a photographer  
here to celebrate our queer love in all of it’s natural beauty.  
For my love does not exist for your enjoyment
we are not the characters in your fantasy novel
my love is magical and you cannot publish it.
My love rains all over your non existent parade because your homophobia does not exist at pride

wide-eyed boys
encircle us as if to say that our mouths brush only so that they  
can paint the picture,
but you do not belong within my self portrait
you will not dip your ***** brush into my rainbow coloured paint set.
Clean your homophobia into the water
for our love is art
but you are not the artist
and my love is not yours to keep for later  
for wanking your anxieties into pleasure whilst you turn my pleasure, into anxiety.
This, is plagiarism.

Copyright my love.
For I should not have to be aware of who is watching
or pointing or shouting or stealing, my love.
So put your hand down your pants and think of your homophobia.  
No, you can’t come now
no, you cannot join in.

Nobody loves a fairy when's he's fifty
Nobody likes a fairy, old and grey;
And no one loves a bumboy when he's sixty
Wanking in a toilet, fat and gay.

And when a fairy gets as old as seventy
He can't get rough trade any more
And if he finally makes it through to eighty
His dilated **** will be very sore.

you know what i find funny? the phrase: i could eat you. juxtaposing vide cor meum against... this is the part where punctuation marks are never collision prone diacritical marks... but then again, there's that dietary joke... i could eat you... dependence on your bones not being properly disavowed within a langoustine broth... and there you are: a grey area mindful of Stalin... *****! i'm trying to humanise ******, stop interrupting! where once a moths' flutter, later a rainbow in the nacht! mind that niqab... nicht would mean nothing. some insinuated cappuchino, some cackles... some said cutie-pies invoking rouge cheeks... every time i watch these culinary shows i get thinking about cannibalism to counter veganism... and then i laugh... i don't want to find stinking socks and political correctness as "my way, did it to suit Lascaux cavern graffiti"... i preferred wanking than keeping up with women... it's the song i heard before lambs stiffened and muslims became muslims, and falafel was mince... ******, get under the hosepipe and you're there, all freely gagging for the fizz... a touch of tinsel... vide cor meum... return of policy... as half-heartfelt kaleidoscope returning to define a rainbow... i love that phrase given the palette opportunity... i could eat you. it's the demonic encouragement that solidifies the stench into what's to be seasoned properly... i don't know.. the phrasing: i could eat you sounds more formidable in delayed practice than: i can **** you... plus the gazpacho... which means: Batman ate cold cauliflower soup and slurred to slurp the question: but it's cold? Baldwin replied: it's supposed to be! they said orthography as a rigidness of aesthetic, i said... that's questionable whether any is applicable, given we're talking about graffiti.

i got tired of sensing other people's jealousy,
and tried to love them,
which ended up to be as much as a matrimony
toward one woman, ambition-bound
to incarnate the matrimony of swans...
  and the poor old ******, left to fantasy in
his days as a widower...
   every time i look at a lonely swans
i try to duck-quack the thing into existence...
            but there are variation of marriage...
a west london accountant can speak terrible
crap against an ethnicity i try to not identify with...
but i am courageously borne from,
    and therefore have to express some affiliation...
as a matter of principle...
  i rather not, but iu must, even though i sprechen
a host tongue... and am, therefore,
embedded with claims of socialite elitism...
                 but then i compare...
and these these comparisons are the due phrase...
Marilyn Manson's *a minute of decay
is a chance to hear the bass guitar overpower
           the drums... a bit like a culinary pistachio
moment in a risotto...
   i want room to breathe in!
     i want vaughan williams' fantasia on a theme
by thomas tallis... i sanctify the need
   for prokofiev's lieutenant kíjé's suite...
(dots are optional, the syllables aren't,
a classical dot above the iota might revel in
being the defining moment of tonguing /
dissecting a word... but it doesn't have to be so)
i need air to breath in, a moment to whimper...
why do the **** love Chopin and not Liszt?
   a bid ******* odd... i don't like either Chopin
or Liszt... because as Kaiser Yoseph said
in amadeus... to many notes...
and i agree... vivaldi made violins into cherub
       pumpernickle sparrows -
you danced, you joyed, you came across St. Vitus' dance...
   you were doing arithmetic as concord speed
within a framework of even (white) and odd (black)
numbers... once you played the nocturnal Fabergé -
someone suggested you move the ******
  goose to the Hermitage, and frame it!
why are the Japanese are the only Europeans in Asia...
      never mind, they just are,
hence they compete for playing Chopin like they consider
sushi to be a culinary exception of the tartar -
minus the influence, obviously, hence the stress to
impose Chopin... but never Liszt... odd...
          template virtuoso and you think of Liszt
than you might conjure Chopin...
           better than that... conjure champagne
bottles blundering to the volcano's worth of fizz...
still... the Japanese are a curiosity...
first of all: they abide by Chopin and chopsticks
not being utilised when gobbling sushi...
   they have the ambassadors of kimono,
samurai, origami, karaoke, bonßai (zye, rye),
          Fukushima... Hiroshima... yep, that place
were stanley lee derived the concept of x-men...
          still, they have permanent ambassadors in
opur midsts... words that can't be "translated" due
to etymological puritanism...
       finally the Portuguese sailed away, and founded
Brazil on the promise of an infinite supply of toothpicks
from the Amazon -
or? hai sensei!           hatch that with the catchphrase:
     kajagoogoo: shy-shy, hush-hush, eye-to-eye.
          we're storming the labyrinth right not,
and i still can't believe that poetry revolves around
the rhythm of rhyme... play any ping-pong, lately?
     no wonder poetry is a peacocking dollop
of clogged-up cow dung... it's just asking
for a *****-slap in a playground.
           but why Chopin and not Liszt?
the **** are what Napoleon was to the Duchy of
Warsaw... they love that arithmetic of
a pebble-dasher's *******...
       wet dreams... some authentic curiosities of
civilisation still have them... i wouldn't recommend
listening to them recounting the fables, personally...
i'd listen in on the succubus jerking them off...
  and just recently i was walking the deaf streets at
night with a bottle of beer and felt the bottle
of beer almost being tugged from my hand...
  and some say that eating a woman's umbilical-chord
is what's necessary to live as a man to later
sing some aria; or like drinking a pregnant woman's
**** will ensure you don't become myopic...
             i don't like Chopin,
i don't like Liszt either... i want a room, and a chance
to breathe... at the end of the classical expression
summarising the wind, we had a return
to the rooting in Africa... earthly delights
and a grumbling stomach in need of feeding,
  jazz did the work for us, jazz still had
an orchestral element to add a Lacan of all things
worthy of deconstruction...
       but then the French came along and shoved
fondue into our ears... and we said
alight with an eureka moment... pop!
             n'ah... the moment when the bass overpowers
the drums... i really have this wild fascination
with the bass guitar...
                 because i don't get Mozart,
and i do think that Handel did much more than
even the sacrificial lamb that Beethoven is...
                  listen... poetry doesn't have to be
music... rhyming is ping-pong anyway...
but as long as you feel in debt concerning music,
the music will come on its own accord...
today i was rattled by a mix of dub (without a step)
and beck's odelay... cruise-missile dylan...
give or take...
      well, given the italicised pr.s. (pre scriptum) -
much later an aged blonde boasted about snorkeling
******* and young ****... and missing out
when she teased me coming back to her abode...
           moth steals from a butterfly,
butterfly never turns into a daisy...
                       you're still a **** and i'm about
half of the total worth of being a ****...
which makes as equal... or queue more.
           variably condoned to be synonym with
mosque...  but i said mannequin...
     it's this **** with the five a day....
Christendom mentioned fruit & veg...
Islam mentioned variations of a murmur...
   is prayer classified as fruit, or vegetable?
you're as bewildered as i am...
   i too thought tomato is a fruit...
turns out it's a vegetable...
primarily due to basil, feta, and the mediterranean.
               herring belong in the baltic,
******* attempting that sort of ballistics...
ask about the relationship between
              a. yan sobieski
         b. ******
                    c. window on arabia (vienna,
counter st. petersburg) -
     oh you'll get many thanks...
sure... you'll end up becoming assured
that dogs don't need petting, but training,
and that you have to make all friends bound
to be kenneled, because they won't learn otherwise;
it's a bit sad...
          for about a minute...
                   you tried being peace-abiding,
peace-mindful...
   you wanted to state compassion...
  in the end people need a slap... or as 2000 years of
history proved... a crucifix.

.h'america.... the last theological playground of... whatever the mind left behind in the decrepit bulwark that's europe... oh... and those mid-western died-hard hitchcock platinum-blondes in a-waiting... my typo pristine dutch-girls-go-to-church mantra... otherwise? no b'ooh'y'ah! chugger-chugger-chugger-chuck-cherry-choppy-chops-you-*******-cuc­­k-chuckie! quasi-whitman wannabe... billy was a butcher... a thematic long lost gun... billy was a butcher... and all the ripe choppers of pork... gave us a belief in snow; and what some heaved with a falling-of-a-star of dis-.belief: i too was bound to glorification of: what was expected to be known! and the subsequent: wow! i have met only the most limited of men... i have therefore met all men... the "all" men of this rubric of a year, a decade... all that's bygone of a yawn; swear it sn't so! a so! that's not be be sown! i am here too: upon the whim of expectation... merely... waiting... a man comes to be born come his 30s... his 40s? his nostalgia "moment"... former known name of: Jack Lil Lick 'Em Boots... and the crescendo of pauper's black lining of the Wall St. "better oiled"... scalp the ******! and send him unto the rabbi's true blessing... in the cusp of the scalp of the kippah!  and now... you take... your anglo-spreschen-tangle... into the salt-wounds of your h'america! first born: young... i don't like your revision... looking toward Europe with a hope for a sensibility... this pseudo deutsche: pseudo dutch, anglo-; this is no loss of the French or the Slav! this is our celebration! does one have an irish phrasing in uns to be at in it or one? beyond this grip boyo bound glue? this clerical spare of the otherwise leftover skivvy? we have made barons of these minutes.... as if we were to be kings of the coming years... and how we didn't become gods of the atoms... and the men of the suns and planets... that is our... most worthwhile conundrum in a da pacem domine bound; you're going to Beirut on me... or something?!

in my haitus away from this canvas:
naive me thought: perhaps a surge...
again proven wrong -
albeit not disappointed -
so i had to look elsewhere -

i had to look for a clarity of diction...
i had to move away from
the western lands and their:
death of god and their death by metaphysics...

even in this barren english...
i could not figure out:
why are these people,
apologetics from the central leftists...
these liberals...
ditto: i will butcher this name...
i will butcher the pronunciation
of this word...

if there are "questions" regarding
what's being phonetically encoded...
so much for me "learning to code"...
i too once wrote a html encoding...
with all the < and < and > toys...
spacing... {[( gradations... etc.,

i had to look east, after a while writing
schlechtdeutschegrammatik...
bad german grammar...
again: it's posthumous "Latin"...
it might be...
bad grammar german...
or german bad grammar...
deutscheschlechtgrammatik...

spelling is the mathematical equivalent
of... arithmetic...
but grammar? you need a ping-pong
table...
you need something cymru-esque...
a scandinavian-esque bilingual cushioning...

english alone will not solve the matter...
it's not french, it's not german,
it's certainly not spanish...
spanish and how post-colonialism was
settled with a post-racial attitudes of
Brazil...
england has taken too much time
looking up and out of the h'american
*******...
no grand satan 'ere...
no silk road bazar of fruits exotica from...
Teheran...
something more... subtle...

i had to go back to the "tsar"...
and the цэркйэв: 'cerkiew'...
and there i was amused how...
well apparently...
there are a lot of words
that do use the sz'cz...
enough... to deviate from
the Latin bollocking represented via
шч = щ....

that's perfectly logical...
i'm done with "perfectly logical"
if it exists outside of the realm of
orthography...

szczypta soli - pinch of salt...
in russian...
щ... that's a bit of a "question"...
yes, yes it is complicated...

szczery / szczera (he's honest /
she's honest)...
szczerość (honesty)...

no it's not... you german fickle-wit!
you forget the ы!

ah! well then... щыптa....
**** me... disorientating...
they could do all that with greek and glagolitic...
but they still had to keep...
latin: roman: holy roman empire: GERMAN...
lowercase lettering...
akin to a... e... c doesn't count...
since that's a greek cedilla "missing"...
ç... or... sigma... ς -
otherwise known in english as that S
after the apostrophe...
when something is called being:
the possessive article...
a (indefinite) the (definite) - some -ism to mind?!
no... but 's is... a bit like the SS...
in greek...
all in lower case: stephen's and...
στεφηνς...
σtephenς: that very much desired: ha!
ridiculous gag... the "much desired"
alternative to an apostrophe S ('s)...

it's Stephen's! it's Stephen's!
it's Sylvester's!
three articles in english:
the indefinite article (a)...
the definite article (the)...
and the possessive article ('s) - apostrophe S...
eS eS!

russian accents...
ъ, ы, ь...

but i only know of one "hard sign" example...
and that disqualifies the J ever needing a lower-case
"dot"... ȷ... namely... зъ: ż... alternatively
also: rz... and ж...
żuk! beetle! somehow the caron makes it...

szczyt! zenith!
щыт!

- and since i'm no longer writing:
i'd be writing if i were monolingual...
or... if i was animated by
the sort of Knausgardian bilingualism
of chop of swede: marker norgie...
but... i'm painting...

i forgot how to write when i could
see "synonyms" of sounds...
entombed in two different phonetic
encodings, namely elevated latin
and "pan-greek": cyrillic...

the variations between:

й and ы...
i.e. via е - "ye"
ё - "yo" (there's an umlaut in russian?!)
"у" - yew and you...
the gamma subscript...
ю - "yu"...
and... я - "ya"...

with regards to this rubric...
i am in the middle...
i can see a distinction between
a "y" (whine why and no I)...
hardly a jotted anecdote...
and yes... the closest the russians
ever come to Cracow is with ы
to a western slavic y...
ask me: toй - ask me: toȷ...
who needs a dot above the J
in the lower-case... if...
if... there's no absolute need for it to
be there: unlike some greenwich mean time
focus?
it ȷust so happens that...
the better clasp of the equator is
married to Greenwich: London...

dr. who time lords:
bellybuttons of the world: the english are...
again: i have to remind myself...
ı am not wrıtıng... ı am... paıntıng...

1(one), l(el)... I and ı(ıota)...
i guess an apostrophe would suffice...
ıf it's not an "ı"...
ı'ota... ı: oath...
sure as fıgurative "****" it's not...

ı must wrıte some more examples
in russıan...
to get me off me mark into
some "wax lyrıcal"...
ıslander mentalıty of the hen'glısch...

see how "the dot" can appear...
and disappear, as one see fıt?
and ıt makes: no little bıt of...
"dıfference"?!

i need to sleep on thıs "exercise"...
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold...

w­­ıll eyes gets it?
hardly...

the rest of these cosmopolitan *******
focused on gwaffiti awt...
which is welsh for: GRA GRA...
when was the last time you heard
an englishman trill an R?
ı can't remember...
give me a night to soak up the pickling
juıces... i can't remember the last time
i heard an homest trIll eıther!
pauper me...

it's probably because of the welsh:
GWA GWA! gwadleıth cowonew...
or coroner row row row a rombat into a rue:
or a woo...
rhyme: contorts...
shapes and disappearing: oopses...
a whole multıtude of 'em...
come like the tıde...
leave... lıke a tilde... quası N:
it's a... H is a zeus...
and J is a Ha Ha Ha wrap-up rap of
laughter: in spanısh: of course...

i don't wrıte... ı paint...

impromptu interludes, quickened:
i'm a marriage of two continents...
and one island...
east of moscow...
asia... west of warsaw and...
these gloomy island pits of
idiosyncracy... never quiet the icelandic
answer to norway...
or greenland's answer to denmark...
but an island... nonetheless...

- to hell witth cascading linear cascades
of narrative: i'm blind to the optics
of "the narrative" in the paragraph
format...

i will look back east...
i will look at the russian script...
i will look at it as a time in ******
history equivalent to:
why didn't you just think of it as Greek?
but "my people" didn't...
and i'm not exactly a "why / didn't"...
i'm part of the excavation machinery...
i come with what was served...
i will leave without
leverage...

and here is the russian icon translated
from the Babel...
the following are orthodox letters
shared by one and all
to the western lands...

а б в г д e з и й
к л м н o п р c т
у ф

a b v g d e z i j
k l m n o p r s t u
f

now we leave: łen łill that be?
we should all somehow know...
to łork out a When a Where
(notably with the "h" being but a surd)...

mother how should i further this?
herbata
hasło (ha-s-woe)
hołd (**-**-w'd)

to no other: otherwise only in scotland:
the loch of tipsy work...
albeit: orthographic distinction...
хęć - a whim a desire...
a loch is no: cheat of a lake...
latching onto the otherwise boredom caron
exposed...

дух (ghost) with a душa (soul)...

else there's c dissociated from the s...
and more so with a kappa kaput...
the drumstick slick on a wet snare of: tss...
ц - almost...
then morphing into a ць -
yet in my version: no so silent...
ćma: moth...
цmokaць / cmokać: to click with the tongue...
to kiss smackingly -
to ingest food via a smoczek...
a smoчek - a smoček... the baby soother...

this is my third day having to return to
this canvas...

first thing's first:
palatization (palatißation)
is not... a name of german crusader song:
palästinalied...

this is one of the main reasons why
i can't imagine myself as being able:
to write a novel -
i can't bear this birth of words into
this pseudo-Kandinsky -
it would be much easier with painting
something for a year -
than writing for a year -
the same thing, over and over again...

if i write a "poem" or, rather, a poo'em...
i expect the concept of
ensō: a circle has to be drawn with
a single uninhibited stroke...
when the body is set free and the body
merely complies...

comparison... if one were to draw
a most pristine ensō...
one would never achieve an ouroboros
depiction... it's quiet impossible
to use one volume of ink
attached to a stroke to complete
a circle... let alone a depiction
of an ouroboros...
what starts off as concrete soon...
fades away... thins out...
until there is so little ink left
on the brush that individual hairs
of the brush start appearing...

a pristine depiction of life...
but never the hardline ouroboros
depiction: this cerberus of reincarnation:
i never would have believed in it -
given that: there would have to be
a limited number of souls...
the thought that i might be introspective
enough as to be one of these: "elites"...
and the rest... were "n.p.c." drones...
zombie-esque drifters...
that had no psychological infrastructure
to have memory and rubric of learning
bound to them to be: invested in?

i am still going to write this Kandinsky...
one way or another...
but i can say only that:
i can imagine myself returning
to a painting - and painting it for a year...
but a book?
if a poem can't be written in one sitting...
it's not a poem...
this is not a poem: this is a novel
equivalent...
the best to my ability: which is none...

all i will ever manage with this
is a pedantic scrutiny of russian orthography,
how i don't follow metaphysical arguments
of the germans, the english or the french,
because i don't dream that often,
and when i do dream?
i dream up nonsense...
last time i dreamed that a hiena was
biting at my arm like a corn-cob...
but it wasn't biting to draw blood...
it was biting and cackling in order
to tattoo me... it bit into my arm and detailed
indentations akin to braille...
a pianola roll...

and that's the only details of the dream
i can remember...
perhaps i strained memory...
perhaps people who dream...
are fond of forgetting...
perhaps i don't dream because i can
remember being 4...
a shadow (my maternal great-grandfather)...
a large piano, a small piano...
he worked a retirement as a security guard
in a kindergarten...
i once spent an afternoon with him...
i have seen pictures of him...
but i don't remember the face in the photographs...
he sat me before a bonsai piano
while he sat at the large piano...
and i guess: we were going to be the new
Chopins or something...
he's still a shadow... a grey form...
perhaps a extract of memory that reaches
back 29 years is the reason why i don't
dream... then again...

what if i were to have recurrent dreams?
i've heard people have recurrent dreams...
i just have details of dreams...
i'm not complaining but...
it has become exhausting to simply sleep sometimes...
to replay that lullaby of the void...
yes: yes... i will return to russian orthography:
give me a moment!

well, on my "haitus" i had to look beyond
"conventionality"...
there was a period where i found
the glagolitic script - i said to myself:
there must be an equivalent alphabet to match
the runes...

there must have been a way to encode
without the romans and greeks...
after all... there is the St. Cyrill alphabet
and that of Methodus...
how many ethnic groups are there
on this old, yawning continent -
minor point: old age is not plagued by
yawning - only youth yawns...
old age is cured of yawning -
hanging over them the yawning death...
when father - when father - will this old
ponce come into my *****?

glagolitic and cyrillic?
well Ⰱ Б...
Ⱂ and P... which is not exactly lent-greek...
i guess it's only "wise"
to go back into the modern scribbles...

there are so many branches
to be plucked off a pine
to reserve yourself with ending up
to owning a pike...
so what would it help me:
if i had to reverse and ezra pound
my way forward...
bubble bulging roma notations?
i see: when that chisel in marble
V is not supposed to be a U...

EVROPA... etc.

i need to bring to the fore my own
distinctions...
spread: universally within the confines
of the people that speak it:
i even had to made balkan additions...
like the caron S and caron C...
to hide the english gimmick
of SHarp and CHeat...
evidently we use the Z to replace
the H when stressing our "demands"...
Šarp and Čeat...

so back into russian?
i almost forgot that i said...
their orthography is not worth the dog's
bollocking of a lick...

i was wrong, obviously...
but even the russians are supposed
to be allowed their idiosyncracy -
their orthographic pedantry...
russian orthographic pedantry?
ah...

when е met э...
was also the time when э didn't meet з...
this is pedantic...
another russian pedantic "detail"...
how many Y's or J's do you need...
to detail: the elongated-iota?
before... "****" becomes confusing...
within the confines of gamma...

i'm pretty sure the russians have
fixated their attention on the Y/J "debate"
working from their central premise of
the english AYE... I... the pronoun bunker...
der deutsche affirmative: ja!
yah in the hebrew respective for: wisdom...

let's see... i'm pretty sure the russians
have all the vowels bow to this mecca
of Moscow, cite me: and please reiterate...
that i use J and Y interchangeably...
i don't imply: to jot - to "dz"ot...
or Joseph in Ypres...

otherwise: a yeti climbing a yew shouting: yes!
it's not exactly jargon -
but... a prefix y- in english...
is not a suffix -y in english...
which just... "out of the blue"...
demands to be associated with the iota
of: ply... and yet: it's no i.e. e'et...
it's neither ate or the fwench and (et)...
it's a yeti... but not a jetty!

never mind... back into the fussy russian...
i'm pretty sure you will find all
of the pentagram (vowels) bowing before
the altar of pseudo-gamma:

                                     ю (yu)
                                    /
(details in) й ------ я (ya) -- ы (oh look, solo!)
   the above"rant")  |
                                  у (which is a u)
                                /   \
                     e (ye)       ё (yo)

almost... but i'm far from learning russian...
i find these orthographic details...
coexisting...

зъ = ж = ż = rz = ř / ž...

eastern, mother slavic...
beginning with a western slavic translation
"innovation"...
central / western slavic...
balkan slavic...
oh we are such famous clarinet players!
because what happens
when the caron is sliced into two...
and an acute ****** pops out?!

hence the зъ beginning...
yes... it's not "silent"... it's simply not
palatalißed... the tongue doesn't tip-off
the palette... the sound escapes via
the gritting of teeth...
with it: the tongue can rattle and a trill
R is heard...

зъ (ż) contra зь (ź) -
życzenia - well wishes| źródło - source...
now to only write these words
in russia - without knowing the russian
noun-denotations...
for orthographic purposes...

жыченя... or is it... жычениa?
зьруд... problem... can't find the english
W in russian... or the ****** Ł...
there's the english V... the ****** W...
but russian doesn't translate (Вв)
so vell into wery: not so weary but
nonetheless very not so, so...

my problem is not about that though...
this poem this poo'em this:
a pigeon drops a zeppelin-****
on your top-hat implies good luck...
no 13's or black cats crossing your path either...
i could most honestly spend
100 years of each of the 100 individuals
bound to the salt mines in the vicinity
of Beijing... and i would still find myself...
without tears...
because this is the most inexhaustible
crux: it's really bugging me foundation stone...

i won't even mind the modern greeks
at this point... they do use diacritical markers
too... but over-do it... as if compensating
or trying to compete on level par
with their metaphysical dittos...

чaхa: czacha... almost slang term for:
czaszka... чaкшa...
and this is by no means "smart"...
i can't solve crosswords puzzles...
well i can: but i need to find myself
in the company of my grandmother...
in the morning...
i would have had to drooled over some novel
from 7am until she gets out of bed
come 9am... we'd drink coffee and i'd
smoke cigarettes...
and it would be a month prior to christmas
or easter, or the interlude...
and... i'd be freed from writing or
reading anything in english...
either me looking at diacritical distinctions
in the realm of orthography between:
russian, ******, balkan...
or... me never learning french,
or attempting to: ever, again!

******* suffix-eaters...
dyslexics in reverse...
say one thing: write another thing...
this is probably born from my frustration
at being unable to learn french...
perhaps after having acquired english
i was given german to learn...
but no... first hurdle... french...
flop!
now it's a diet of no crosswords...
some sudoku from time to time...
and my new hobby after having found
"too many" googlewhacks...

so there's nothing smart about this:
this is in no way useful to anyone -
being the sort of person
to "mind" whenever one's being asked
to spell their surname...
it's hardly that difficult but...

would i go for the echo sierra charlie
hotel lima echo romeo tango...
or go out full greek with it?
perhaps the greek...
since that would solve the problem
i've had for a while,
concerning the eta / epsilon "debate"...

how does a greek laugh -
what is the crux letter via which
a greek laughs?
you see a H shape on the horizon...
but you... hear the noun: eta...
you later see the name eta...
but that's eta: without an apostrophe...
the apostrophe 'eta being the "surd" H...

in greek then...
epsilon sigma... **** it... there's no "sch"
of a german worth in greek...
let's cut it out:
epsilon lambda epsilon rho tau...

otherwise in russian...
once more:

ś(lub) - wedding - сь(люб)
"soft" sign - ' - apostrophe -
or ACUTE elsewhere...
why not сьлуб?
i don't know... it's not like сь is even
minded in russian...

ah! my favorite!
goń! gonitwa: a race -
the verb impetus: race! chase after!
гoнь!

since ы is the "odd" one out between
the application of "ь" and
and "ъ"...
come to think of it...
ы gave birth to: ю (yu), я (ya),
у (u), й ("y"), и ("e")...
i... i.e. and... in ******...
akin to those languages that use e...
to also imply and...
ё (yo)... how did i miss the umlaut
infiltrating the russian 'bet...
i blame catherine the great!
and... е (ye)...
is that the pentragram?
u, a, e, i, o... yes! we have it!

i truly had better days when sudoku was
the better puzzle to fill a day with...
not this... from glagolitic, to greek,
to roman, to post-roman to russian
and back into...

if we are all "supposedly" literate...
begs the question why: why oh why the emoji...
the *******-wanking hieroglyphics...
the :) and what not...
i guess to better escape this sort of
headaches... minor chances of everyone
becoming a bilingual:
but what's there to brag about
being bilingual!
i guess the polyglots do not have such
headaches of detail...
they just... bypass these rules and regulations...

to better guide me:
if i managed to sift through james joyce's
finnegans wake... and didn't find any
diacritical markers in it?
can't i compensate?
i'm compensating right now!
if the 2010s as a decade was a decade
filled with... sisyphus titans akin
to kant, hiedegger, kierkegaard,
knausga(a)rd, joyce...
beckett - yes...
again that hollowed "y" distinction!
it's not a sisi: yes yes problem...
hardly me being ***** either...
e'ver... i'ver...
ain't that a *****...

clarity of diction... the best motto there is...
crab-bucket-intellectualism:
alternatively the focus away from
any ontological stressors of "example" -
ontological and its variant of
a priori:
perhaps, given that the ontological
is an a priori argument...
here's my crossword puzzle -
ref. thesaurus rex...

and by no means... at all...
etymology is the better variant of any known
history...
when this bundle of words:
that an ontological dialectic can be achieved:
that ontology can be given within
as much as an a priori: bigot! focus...
with as much as an a posteriori:
wizened unicorn quid pro quo tanz!

hamsterwheel loopholes or:
crab-bucket intellectualism...

now: i really could have put these words
to better use... to make them linear...
less cryptic... but how can i?
i'm solving a crossword puzzle in reverse!
i don't expect the easily scared moths
to entertain this fire...

i expect midgets to be dancing...
before my eyes...
whenever i listen to
faun's tanz mit mir
or in extremo's rotes haar...
when the bagpipes and the flutes
kick in...

- since if i were to write a coherent sentence:
succumb to a linear narrative...
i'd people reading this to be also found:
easily talking about it...
perhaps i don't enjoy freedom of speech
as much as i enjoy the freedom to think...
perhaps i haven't written anything
worth speaking about, regurgitating,
making vogue, working for some intellectual
period-piece of "vogue"...
perhaps this is a shared problem,
hidden in a cipher...
of: how i can't heave this tool...
this tapeworm of existence,
this medium of god...
to later trash it, to have nothing better
to do with it other than play-games...
worded games... crossword puzzles...
perhaps i need a crossword puzzle to imply:
neighbour's share some words...
together... but then write them differently...
perhaps i require a crossword puzzle...
to read into some russian...
on the praxis base of english...
flying past Warsaw toward the itch
of the edge of Asia...
breathe the air - the heart of the continent...

perhaps i would have never managed
to escape this world if i ingested
mind-benders of the h'american 1960s
revolutionary schematics of the:
new-humanists... crash course in literature:
only one magic mushroom trip away!

фoрк ин дэ рoaд (fork in the road)

ИN...

some shared words, of etymological
curiosity...

(fork) вилка - wilka -
polish? wilka? that which belongs to
a wolf... widelec...
видэлэц...

(knife) нож - nóż -
well... orthography comes into play...
while people can have their...
ahem... in-the-meantime metaphysical
playground...
the ground, the word,
the geology is already here...
written alternatively?
нузъ...

i take a different stance to the common day
****** back east...
when russia starts slagging you off...
you put on a Boris Yeltsin mask on
and dance the drunk panda dance...

(spoon) ложка - łyżka -
in polish? ah those russians... ло ло...
лож: lorz...
lo lo and behold the translated
quasi-russian into the borders of europe...
ł.w.(ызъка)...

black and white (черный и белый):

czarny i biały: rho-si-ye!
char-nee-ye! bel'ye)...

perhaps the timing is a bit off:
the proper wording would be:

czarno na białym -
not: in black and white...
чaрнo на биa-wh-ым...

knocked-out to be honest...
the russians use ый like that?
YJ? oh right! i use it too!
in the prompt:

tyj! tyj ty grubasie!
hmm... -asie...
it would do me a lot of good...
if that iota didn't have a decapitated
head of a halo hovering above it...
why? so i could introduce the acute
slant over the S and surd it...
i.e. -aśιe...

тый! ты груб... exactly...
grub-               -aсьие
тый! ты грубaсьие!
to grow fat: тый!
              "problem": -aśιe vs. -aсьие...
well... it's there: сь...
but it also isn't there: и...

but it isn't: but it also isn't...
i just managed to find out that...
in warsaw (if i lived in warsaw)...
we have that conjunction: -ый-
however rare it is: it is there...

any more delegations from Moscow?
tyj! tyj ty grubasie!  
and i will write these last few words
and know why i don't really feel like
solving crosswords puzzles...
or doing those i.q. schematic tests...

**** it... the welsh should know and help me
out... concerning?
how it's YN and not IN...
how it's Y and not I when referring to THE gwyll:
dusk...
y gwyll o hywels: the dusk of powells...
only the welsh would know my "pain"...
yn y gwyll o y hywels:
in the dusk of the powells...

taking a step back - a step back...
yes yes, apologies... if my punctuation...
is too much of a ******* arithmetic!
too bad!

p.s. and yes... don't leave anything lying
around in the drafts or as private...
chances are... with a 2 day delay...
this will never be fed into the LATEST feed.