After the battle done did rage,
my spoil of war, a frenchman,
I put in my basement in a cage,
this rarity I would not relinquish,
my personal love adviosr and sage.

He called me a " fatty american"
even though I was slim,
and said it was torture that
I kept bothering him.
He counted time like Louey Pasteur,
that was how he pronounced "hour."

I told him I was french in lineage,
and he said " I don't think so,
" the french are biologists,
perhaps your mother was a fungus
that grew on oak."
so I sprayed him with some water very cold,
" be nice, or you'll get the hose."

I told him, for his advice I would pay,
his currency was cow's milk from Calais,
he brightened even more after
I installed an *** tickling bidet.
and he would make, then nibble cheese,
as he was lecturing me.

" If you want the girl, you must always whisper,
and she will lean closer, and then you kiss her,"
such advice, this frenchman delivered.

We became bon amis, with each other pleased,
but he needed more than a bidet and cheese.
" You can either have a french wife,
or an oven for cooking bread,"
before I  even finished what I said,
" Oui, a bread oven I'll have instead."

So every night, I spent by his iron side,
Descarte and Victor Hugo we would recite,
" and against the british we helped you fight"
" and you still owe us money," he said calmly,
as he offered me a baget and I took a bite.

" We french, know the power
of the mushroom and the bedroom,
that is why we avoid the scuffle,
would rather marinate our truffle."
I gobbled up his words,
so sweet and sauteed,
and admired the clothes he made,
and he made me some
so I  "could get laid."

Then the news came, a peace treaty,
war and my personal frenchman were finished,
the United States were now
at war with the Finland,
" Right when we just started to begin,"
I yelled and he nodded his chin,
" What the hell am I gunna do with a Finn."

So I released the frenchman back into the wild,
crying like a mother seeing off her child,
I had to push and shove, he would not go,
but we had to part for the sake of love,
he dillied and dallied and bent low,
picking mushrooms that wild grow.
" For the sake of love, just go,"
I yelled, and threw a baget at him,
and he retreated into the woods,
and I wiped the tears from my eye,
and everytime I see frills or  fungi,
I think of that time, I had a frenchman in a cage,
and as I talk to the finn,
****** ,.it just ain't the same.

Jadis je vous disais : « Vivez, régnez, Madame !
Le salon vous attend ! le succès vous réclame !
Le bal éblouissant pâlit quand vous partez !
Soyez illustre et belle ! aimez ! riez ! chantez !
Vous avez la splendeur des astres et des roses !
Votre regard charmant, où je lis tant de choses,
Commente vos discours légers et gracieux.
Ce que dit votre bouche étincelle en vos yeux.
Il semble, quand parfois un chagrin vous alarme,
Qu'ils versent une perle et non pas une larme.
Même quand vous rêvez, vous souriez encor,
Vivez, fêtée et fière, ô belle aux cheveux d'or ! »
Maintenant vous voilà pâle, grave, muette,
Morte, et transfigurée, et je vous dis : « Poète !
Viens me chercher ! Archange ! être mystérieux !
Fais pour moi transparents et la terre et les cieux !
Révèle-moi, d'un mot de ta bouche profonde,
La grande énigme humaine et le secret du monde !
Confirme en mon esprit Descarte ou Spinosa !
Car tu sais le vrai nom de celui qui perça,
Pour que nous puissions voir sa lumière sans voiles,
Ces trous du noir plafond qu'on nomme les étoiles !
Car je te sens flotter sous mes rameaux penchants ;
Car ta lyre invisible a de sublimes chants !
Car mon sombre océan, où l'esquif s'aventure,
T'épouvante et te plaît ; car la sainte nature,
La nature éternelle, et les champs, et les bois,
Parlent de ta grande âme avec leur grande voix ! »

Paris, 1840. - Jersey, 1855.

something very much akin to the idea
of reincrnation...
  don't look at me,
     the romans loved culinary ******
where they'd regurgitate what they ate...
no, none of the girlie stuff,
you learned the old way:
  ******* down your throat,
then once you trained your throat,
the welsh (longbow man) method receded,
and you could do it on command
of constricting the muscular tract.

what do people really want?
   apart from a pleasure in thinking?
to laugh in their own company -
to be able to laugh, alone,
   is probably second, to the first
"demand" that's: a pleasure in thinking,
a pleasure in thinking,
and the inability to become
     a res extensa - descarte's notion
of the extended thing -
    the anti-thesis
                of the res cogitans -
namely, to avoid becoming existentialist,
to avoid, may i say:
   tattooing the earth with a human presence,
in light of: finding "god".
but in the current western society,
people are doing as little as possible,
that horrid quote-mongering -
that need to compensate via comparison;
is there some grand transcendence
of nostalgia that i'm not aware of?
   god, i hate this quote-mongering -
you always find yourself needing to cite
and then recite, what has already passed
beyond our realm of thought (non-sense),
our realm of empiricism (the pentagram) -
why was it called a pentragram?
                   huh?
    isn't it technically a pentapunctum?
    it's not a word, like the tetragrammaton
is...
               the only geometry the tetragrammton
allowed was a crux... i.e.
                                    st. andrew's orbit: X.
yet i find the modern interest in philosophy
to be akin to the hindu concept of
reincarnation, namely? regurgitation -
a bulimia of ideas akin to a man stepped
into a puddle of glue, and can't move:

to me, it's the most unpoetic of all possible
poetics of a "need" to recite and memorise
texts...
          and that's not even the beautiful
arm-guard of a text, akin to the hafiz -
       well... there's one hafiz imitation
in christianity, but the thing is...
   let's just call it a shame to begin,
for it exists in fiction, and the hafiz in question
is a literary byproduct,
    namely bound to stendhal's novel
  le rouge et le noir: yes, the protagonist
(julien sorel) is the christian equivalent of
a hafiz - he can recite you the whole bible,
having memorised it;
if christianity is to "attack" islam,
                 it can only "attack" islam,
   at the roots - by attacking the hafiz:
the guardians, extensive of the platonic term
regarding either republic or calliphate;
i have dire ambitions for western
culture, in that all this quote-mongering
is... getting on my ******* nerves!
i'd rather listen to a baboon play
                                     a flute via his ***.

˚
.                                 |

       There is no I in ego but there is in Id,

  seems inverse of what one would presume.
          /
  Rene Descarte's Cogito Ergo, Sum's it up,

                 " I think therefore I am “.

   They say the walls have ears, but I think

                  the I’s are everywhere.

                           I, I, captain

                               I O U

                        Ides of March.

                          I is a suffix

                           I is a noun

                        I is a pronoun

                         and last of all

                                  I.

                         is an island,

                            but so is

                             Ireland.