and in my "hiatus" period of absence, circa 15th of April and 15th of December (minutes from a yesterday)... i've come to regret the Russians not having any... no... rather the bare minimum of orthography... surprise surprise! there's plenty to choose from! i had to return to a time when i was drilling greek into my head... naturally: a time for cyrillic was on the horizon... but... i couldn't do it with english alone... i need my mother tongue, a tongue that employs diacritical markers... again and again: english can do away with its j... it goes missing when raised to stand from a sitting position ȷ(J)... and it can cut the head off its I(standing)... ı(sitting)... to make an emphasis... i have been busy... drinking aside, have a look where i have been for the past... april, may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december:

ź = зь and ż = зъ

i'm drinking - and i am my most content - the world burns and goes about its usual wordly theatre... i'm huddling with a cameo role in the background... i am drinking content... my 3rd or 4th rejection letter! this time from : austin macauley publishers (london, cambridge, new york - sharjah - where the **** is sharjah?!) - i remember sending them a "manuscript" and a book already printed, bound... they said it would take them 6 weeks to reply... i didn't enclose an email address... i had to wait for the snailmail... my my... what lovely handwritting of my name and address... in the letter i did state: it's e(sch)lert... she omitted the (sch)... a rebecca crib admin assistant, of the editorial... 6 weeks though... hmm... i posted the letter and manuscript and the book way back prior to visiting my grandparents... circa 8th of september... it's a rejection letter... that much is true... but i'm drinking in celebration! i was making dinner in the afternoon and was asked: why are you so angry? i wasn't... i tried to figure out what i'd feel when enough of ms. amber was in me... i replied: i'm being apathetic... but now it's clear: i'm jovial! there's even a signature! an authentic signature... in all honesty... a rejection letter means something... if it is physically mailed... of course i'm celebrating! i exist! i exist outside the realm of getting spam snail-mail! of course i will reply... i'll tell them: destroy and recycle the manuscript - it really wasn't a manuscript to begin with... i pour my "efforts" on the manuscript canvas that's the html... but the already printed book? can you please not burn in... rather... keep it? i'd appreciate no 1933 Säuberung... and you know (kind reader) - i'll send this introspection to the same publisher... like it is... pop / pulp or whatever mongerel of style this has had to be... but a reply! i want to see how one might escape formal language, formal affairs, social affairs, esp. in letters - a dear ms. X / to whomever it might concern Y... kind regards / yours faithfuly Mr. Z... this has to be celebrated... given what's on the horizon... the norwegian novel viking a'comin'! the buldozer autobiography... the demand for a "death" of fiction... otherwise i'm still "here"... a "here" that truly is so distant that its distance allows my petty leeching and the world's grand fiasco theater of fire and smoke and mirrors! - after all... i'm not mad enough to be welcome to a cage if i'm a sparrow... a cage of rhyme, form and all those shackle devices / identifiers of "poetry"... the future is narrative... and the current narrative says? if you asked me to dress proper, for an opera... to don the shirt the tux and the bow (tie)... the well ironed trousers... perhaps... beside the point: air's in the head and i just wish i could heat it up... for a baloon of quasi-egoism effect... otherwise what is there... a former journalist becomes an isolationist essay-scribbler? all the best journalists retire from the profession and become essayists... polemicists... whatever... this "poet" says: no poet ever writes a novel... the real life is too fictive already... and most certain this "poet" adds: begone! lyricism and rhyme! i'll sing like the humming drone cleric of the hive of ambient refrigerator sounds at 2am when everything is sleeping...

capital: oh... so that's what it was... back circa 1990 - when inflation of currency was rife all over Poland? that's when foreign capital was flowing in: foreign money... the economy was flooded with pounds and dollars... and given the exchange rate: i remember a time when you could get circa 7zł for every 1 £ sterling... so why would a nation start to print its own money? well... because more foreign money is coming in - at the given exchange rate: apologies: i was born yesterday - i need to explain certain things, from scratch... as was once stated - there's only a finite amount of money in circulation... physical money... "apparently"... and no... if you were to materialise all the wealth in this world into either fiat or gold: there wouldn't be enough of it... but how else would inflation happen in a country like Poland circa 1992? foreign investement: the wild west of eastern europe when the soviet barricade fell... i do remember being asked a question as a child: which is more... these copper coins... or this piece of paper? on the piece of paper was written 5, 000, 000zł - i said the copper coins... i wasn't either right or wrong - the person asking the question laughed... i don't think it was a question of: there are more copper coins in the hand... than a single piece of paper... after all... perhaps i acted all trans-****-sapiens and became chimp and saw less zeros on the copper coins than on the piece of paper? how else does does a currency inflate - when foreign currency is poured into it... it's the opposite of foreign aid... you put £1 into an economy - with an exchange rate: currently you'd get circa 4, 50zł out of... so where is all this "excess" money to come from? the moment when foreign money is invested... is the moment you have to start printing your own money... imagine... if the word BLACK was worth more than CZERŃ (чернь): oh, we'd readily translate BLACK = CZERŃ... but we also need a sentence for that "to make sense"... and there i was... thinking that russian doesn't apply diacritical markers... oh... right... they're not as discrete with accents like some of us... notably? нь = ń... and so and likewise... wait wait... źródło (source)... in russian it would look, look: oh so ugly... зьрoьд-ł-ł-o... (wh)en (wh(en) but now i know this (w)oe: the soft sign (acute)... and the hard sign for... e.g. życzenia (wishes)... зъыченя (perhaps зъычениa) - point being: ź = зь and ż = зъ... now does language come to me...it never left me... but now ai appreciate the minor details... i see the english and their language and how they speak it... how they churn out metaphysics and how they call forthe help of **** similis to give history the rusty coating of: nothing between a today and tomorrow: there's only the hanging off a tree from a a tail that the chimpanze doesn't thave... everything is so very metaphysical: it's never orthographic! тe два: tak - тe: оба (there's a wikipedia mistake... U+0411 / U+0431... not o'bah... oo'b'ah...): щекaць: szczekać! to bark... eh... greek became too rigid... i could remember all the letters... always buckling on ζ (zETA) and ξ (11), upsilon (υ) and nu-nu-nu (ν)... and this is, practically nonsense to anyone with a base literacy knowledge... to exagerrate... who does mind such pedantic pleasures... when they could be somewhere else: skiing! but it's worthwhile to know how a nation's currency can be inflated... foreign money flows into the country - and whatever the exchange rate is... there is no such thing as a "grafitti compensation": then again, there is... perhaps literacy has been inflated... inflated for a second literacy of coding to be assured? otherwise? bypassing the orthodox print... bypassing orthodox editorial scrutiny... was... "nice"... until the moment when the mediator sought to see fit that the reader had more authority over the written word: having re(a)d it - over the person who had / has: written it! we do part our ways with the russians on the "debate" concerning the "cedilla" involving A(ą) and E(ę)... cedilla: yes yes... akin to garçon - waiter! waiter! please - that greek sigma at the end of a word: and all its ασπεκτς... aσpectς - that really is an orthographic statement... only Ssssssss'igma is a letter with "three dimensions" suited for it... a handwritten element... otherwise in the news this week? the apostrophe society is no more... like when you don't put a possessive article if the thing in "question" ends with an S, in english? e.g.? the colours' (sez sirs - alt. colours's sez sirs... ses-esses) imbued harmony... and that is a possesive article, isn't it? with an apostrophe: 's? it's not a plural identification - there would be no need for the apostrophe to begin with! pounds' worth: no... not a pound's worth - the worth of a pound... pounds' worth: the worth of pounds! - what's that german word... glücke! nein nein... etymological root: glück 'luck' (etymology is the new history... it bypasses journalism and serves some journalistic cousin that's powdered in dust of cremated bookworms) - and yes, a hypen can come to the fore: after a full-stop and the opening of a new sentence with a conjugation: - with disbelief / - and!

i'm not buying how the media narrative will turn Cymru into a "K-affair"... sim sim: similie or else... but these have been my greek buckles: ξ (oh... that's why i wrote 11... XI - ksi...) - it's rare to see ξ sometimes: esp. in philosophy books... rubric!

- ζ
- ν
- υ (i can be forgiven, these two letters
are not suited for print... unless working
with a microscope) - unlike a roman Vv...
- ξ

but this is just the greek... if you ever read some modern... you'd think: and i just don't know, where they get their ideas from - with all those diacritical excesses that heidegger notes...

but now... for my cyrillic mini-adventure:

from Miньsk (Mazowieцki): with love

it might be said, that if i just the bare minimum -
if i even do not write anything at all -
but i have too many petty griefs during the day
to much else than the odd, occasional chore;
at the same time i do not want to sound
amused, bewildered, bored or un-used...
it's just that i find writing and drinking before
falling to my 343rd death -
my 343rd labour for mask and then exfoliated
in a dream: that might come...
or might not come...
unless a known audience... a wake sized nieche
privy... i find either unconscious or subconscious
struggles to warm up to an anonymous crowrd...
unless it was me being propped up on stage...
flooded by light... and the audience in the din:
with barely a shadow to scratch...
perhaps: then and only then...
but i've found that: it would be best that i sentence
the 2hs spare i have for merely drinking
and loitering from one video to another:
perchance something new in music is to emerge...
"coquettish" with a "something" that will never
have any realism-focus for me to undertake
a second's day carnality of the banal...
perhaps all this: "going out of my own way"
has been too much - or just enough...
to make me drink more and take more pharma
knock-out enzymes...
a naproxen and an amitriptyline...
perhaps the focus was elsewhere...
to stand frozen in awe...
when someone might "add": from one big void:
ex nihil a priori to... nihil a posteriori...
and all this cameo theatre in between!
mein gott... i can also convene to praise those
brutal breeders of sorts...
enough time to occupy two decades...
perhaps even three...
and then the grim reality of: should my child
die... or... some other worse:
the mortal should not be inflicted by...
"not reading into the genetic clues": properly:
"all at once"...
oh i would be so much happier to take this mind to sleep:
to not make some idle focus -
to entertain some eyes while i turn aside all things
hyper-inflated in purpose...
to die of a heart-attack in one's sleep...
but otherwise to simply focus on a welcome tomorrow...
that would be...
a gracious beginning to posit the day's slouching
zenith... or... i'm not sure whether this be a coming
zenith or a nadir...
but there's still that clear-cutting focus
regarding russian orthography...
cutting it with two tongues... slit at the tip...
with english the "placebo": no diacritical markers evident...
well: a TILDE over a ȷ is no more necessary...
than a "tittle" (not thai-tle... ty'ttle) over an ı...
to borrow the greek phrase: cut one head of hydra -
two emerge... cut the two heads...
i come toward the russian mish-mash of diacritical
application...
it's not be-au-ti-ful... it's messy... it's what it is...
but already i can see what this: cutting off the heads
of the english j-i hydra looks like...
it's not enough to simply enlarge them to state: CAP(I)TAL-(J)...
the knitty-gritty... why then the tilde atop of 'em?
prior "corrections": łen and when...
is not akin to... wrak or wreck... although these two words
have the same meaning...
unless: "partisan" V comes in...
very - weary... Cracow or Krakov?
a W = a Ł = a W = a V ≠ a Ł...
Ęwa and Ądam (e nosinė) are not covered by
Russian orthography...
the list is as follows:
ż (зъ) and... ć (ць), ń (нь), ó (oь), ś (сь), ź (зь)...
the graphemes? i'll call them graphemes for simplicity...
even though: they're not the smallests units...
as are vowels... or the syllables of consonants
in the latin choir of B'ee, C'ee... e'M... etc.
ж alternatively RZ (Ż) or Ž... otherwise the fwench:
je (suis)... this is nothing more than...
an encyclopedic evaluation...
a trainwreck proposal of: should i ever be stuck in
in russia... and i would have to: read... (ee'd - r'ah)...
chop off a TILDE off the torso of the english:  ȷ...
a crescent moon lying back emerges in the russian... й...
but it's not the english: jeep! it's an english: yeep!
or a  ȷeep! alternatively: yawn could be:  ȷawn...
but not if: it's jaws... coming into play: to chatter from
the siberian cold... how else to explain?
if not by... example?
then there's the "exploration" of the greek F...
as much as in english...
фoughts on θilosoφy...
good to know the russians only "borrowed"
one of the greek Fs... "culturally appropriated" or...
wasn't St. Cyrill born a greek?!
and away from greek we move...
since χ (chi): yep: perpleX... a Ks to a Ts
(note, revision found below)...
otherwise hidden... in non-vowel binding consonants...
like... ч- and -х (although... that's not quiet a Ch-ur-hC -
but sure... some altar for siц and... no... no siPS)...
cholera! which is not: SHow me the CHow mein...
for that we need CARONs...
that's when ч becomes CZ (in polish) or otherwise:
Č... long have i wanted the polish to adopt this version...
to hide the SZ and the CZ (es'zed, х'zed) respectively...
how else to write: szczekam?
a russian would write... щекaм...
out of a "simple" ш out pops out a щ (this letter...
is probably the only "etymological" route to bind russian
to the oddities of Ęva and Ądam (e nosinė)...
ш (š) becomes щ (šč) -
whoever was to undermine the old rules
of engagement when the ruling parties gave up
a monolopy of literacy? you can literally hide an entire
letter / meaning by using a hachek...
hook...
as i begin to wonder:
how much did the slavic tribes "appropriate" greek...
and how much did the two greek saints...
try to make sense of the slavic glagolitic script?
em... Ⱋ looks pretty intact if you cut off the body... E:
reclining...
but i do come from the western lands of the eastern
lands... hence? hardly any cyrilic influence...
but i too: with my own oddities... already mentioned...
come to think of it? the bulgars joined
the "party"?
beside that? what other, russian"oddities"?
orthographic - i.e. aesthetic dictations / rubrics...
ю really is a я... the russians have this english tendency
to stress their pronouns...
i this... i that! i walked up a street! and kicked a black
cat 13 times down the street to ease my luck!
you can talk in polish for days... and never stress the I / я
pronoun... really...
and ю is just a variation of я...
throw in the remaining vowels and you'd probably
come up with some "new" russian letters...
like ye... good point... i did make a "mistake"...
щэкaм! i'm barking!
unless... that's only an orthographic question...
notably? if you're going to: zerkać...
peer in / at "on and off"... casually...
зэркaць... em... it must be an orthographic question...
ergo? i wasn't exactly "wrong"...
just bad taste... зeркaць...
i've already shown the difference between (ъ) and (ь)
in a latin script: that uses more diacritical markers
than english "supposedly" escapes with focusing
on the rather pointless TILDE over the J and I...
this "oddity": ы... ɨ  clearly it's not exactly a ł...
minor details... like a mona lisa smiling...
best example of close proximity?
take a... no... that's a hollowed out "why"...
i know how it sounds... and there are no diacritical marks
needed for it... since there's a clear distinction
that i know of, between: I J Y...
tY... this little sucker is born from the fact that...
western slavs have a name for this letter...
iGREK... funny... the russians borrow more greek lettes...
and have to have...
ё (yo), e (ye), у (which they treat like a greek would U -
never mind the greeks themselves
making the following ref. Υγ / Γυ) -
and of course the я (ya)... so no wonder i see this
"letter" (ы) as an absolutely oddity...
i could stomach: ż (зъ) and ź (зь) differences...
well that's as far as i would come in learning russian...
spot the odd ones out... proper...
й (j) and ё... which is some german loan vowel with
that ******* umlaut... otherwise...
this poo'em was born from trying to **** the english
hydra of "orthography", with its mighty bounty
of the ȷ-ı TILDE! my my... what a ride!
come to think of it... now i think i can sleep.
- it hasn't been such a waste of an hour... drilling this in:
into my head...
after all... what did the professional clarinet player
say then asked about playing professionally
in a travelling orchestra? after 30 ******* years of
blowing hard into this thing...
guess what i still end up doing?
it's not so much learning... i'm still practising!

because this will not end like some sort of "summary"...
i will remember each letter if i weave it into
this latin letter by letter...

the refleξive (x)
in that one might have χeated (ch) -
again!
what it is about an ξ-ray that is also an
"χ"-ray? the "ex" k'ss k'ss cuss...
is this what james joyce's finnegans wake
should have looked like?
again!
the cruξ of the matter...
whenever a question was to be raised about:
any χoice to be had...

i have come to grips with russian orthography...
i'll repeat... the crescent moon over и ("e")
to state: this must be elongated: й ("y") stands outs...

best examples are given by sports commentators,
notably in ski jumping...
suffiξes of surnames...
akin to -cki endings...
yes... you're seeing what i'm seeing...
we'll need some russians to work this one
out... how a C is not an S...
and how it's not KK either...
-цки... hello wet drum-kit snare!

of course not: you're not seeing N:И...
let alone: нaйт (night...
evidently -igh- is a bit complicated...
with ref. to the surd in knight - kappa and
the gamma and the ha ha ha ha tetragrammaton
left arm... vowel catcher i'd be most inclined
to borrow from the hebrews...
whenever they're not busy actually using it...
and not being a bunch of 'ebrews -
electronic brewing of tea?)
сo дaрк (so dark)...

which is the equivalent of writting english
grafitti "backward"... how it sounds...
and not for: what's the formality?
i figured: take the small steps, the trickle...
burn the eyes out with incremental poppy-seed
acts of progress... like the grand Pilgrim Emeryk
from the Świętokrzyski region of Poland
(holy cross)...
each year the pilgrim shuffles to the top of
the mountain with a speed of:
a poppy-seed's worth of distance each year...
by the time he reaches the top of the mountain:
the end of the world will arrive...

am i the next Delmore Schwatrz?
no... i don't have a Lou Reed to contend with...
am i obsessed with Finnegans Wake?
well i didn't spot any "additions" to the letters...
i didn't see any diacritical markers...
a book that shouldn't be translated since...
it ignores... a worthwhile mention
of the concept of orthography -
which is my escape from any western vogue
of metaphysics... i hide behind the omniscient
niqab of orthography... my face can be forever
hidden... but my eyes need to be on... fire!
fire! i want you to burn!

so i went to see the russians having
left the greeks... about any "nuance" bound
to the... ****-naked english language
with its magic act of the disappearing heads
off of J and I...
as you do... you "forget them" and also have to:
somehow "remember" them to be used...

do i still enjoy drinking and listening to
teutonic chants in german?
god almighty! when wouldn't i not listen to german
medieval music... when drinking?!
is that such a terrible sin?

also? i finished the trilogy of H. Sienkiewicz...
and i read some Boris Pasternak...
there was Nietzsche in polish - paul's leash said:
he's more bearable in this language,
than in english...
and how could i forget! there was...
Knausgård... Karl, Ove... volumes 1 and 2
of mein kampf...

now a "summary": hmm... ż (зъ) and... ć (ць)...
could... now... hard sign (ъ) is not exactly worth
ascription if... or rarther: because...
you don't treat a caron over an S or a C...
to "hide the english H" or the Aesti Z when coupled...
there's no need to write чъ... since?
that's pretty much in-itself given č of the nature
of чeap...
ć / ць is different in that... you'd have to hear
it first...
however... the one exception of this "rule" is already
self-enclosed in ж... which is зъ... somehow...
but not зь... examples?

жart / зъart... żart (joke)...
зьrebi... well there's no 'ę' in russian
to name: źrebię - mustang colt...
is there?
so... i was "wrong"...
in that ź = зь and ż = зъ is true...
but? ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж...
so from a "quiet unique" perspective...
and: mein gott! who's to see, travel,
and subsequently marvel at the pyramids of giza...
i'm a different version of what's
considered to be "tourism"...

give me this sole equation:
ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж
and i'll be happy for a month.
as i have been...

oh i'm back... and things have taken
SPEC-TAC-U-LAR turns and twists!
****-naked english over 'ere is gonna make
a chariots of fire runner...
i bet it will... when it comes against a juggernaut
like me.

I normally wouldn't do this
but I'm different than before
and you told me this
as if I didn't know, but It's true
because I didn't know
that I'm different in ways
I never wanted to be.

I'm obsessive and possesive
but let me tell you
I disagree
But it doesn't matter what I think
because you will always think
that I'm obsessive and possesive
and maybe I am.

Although this makes me sad
because obsessive and possesive
are things I never wanted to be
But let me tell you
it's not the saddest thing about this thing

What makes my heart sink
is not what you think
but what you like best
and what you like best
takes a needle to the balloon in my chest
because what you like best
is the old me.

You like me best when I hate me
So I guess I can give you a call
Whether that is when I hate me
or when I ain't me
I don't know
But I'll let you know.
Either way,
I'll give you a call
when I fall.

Inheriting independence
Intruding boundaries
You let your actions stem
from insecurity and jealousy
You want to protect me
But now I feel,
I need protection from you.

You’re taking my life and air;
Choking
Caging  
Suffocating
And Stifling me.

Love me
Don’t own me.
Protect me,
But don’t bound me.

You’re being possessive
That it turns out obsessive
And sometimes situations get aggressive.

Fire burns in your love
But your intentions become impure.
In becoming possessive
You became invasive.

You try to move my blood to your accord.
Try to be the nerve to my muscle.
But you’re blinding my eyes with tears
And leaving myself internally screaming.
It is like a curse that brings problems without a cause.

I want to b r e a t h e  
I want to s c r e a m  
I want to f l e e  

I wonder,
Where did all the happiness go?
Because I just find myself lamenting
over the days that pass by.

- Beautiful Sensitive Soul

“I can’t  b  r  e  a  t  h  e.  You’re trying to sheathe me from the world. But I just want  to scream and flee. I want to leave, I want to escape. I don’t want to be bounded, I don’t want to be caged. But your muscles are possessive, hands like shackles and ribs encasing and engaging. Your scent clings to my finger and your embracement breaks my bones. Your words make decisions for me, exerting boundaries onto me. You’re stifling my breath and suffocating me. You want my blood to move at your accord. But I am drowning, choking and gasping. You’re pushing me away by entitling me. Your possessiveness knows no limits as you become invasive. You say it’s just because you love me, that you would go beyond any limit; but it’s obsessive. I feel like I am on a leash. I am no longer my own person, but a puppet to my master. A land to your dominian.”

you're harsh
and harmful,
causing a havoc
out of my life.

you're strong
and demanding,
distrubing my already
****** up mind.

you're insane
and possesive,
crashing and breaking
my heart into pieces.

you're gorgeous
and aggressive,
piercing through
my jumbled mind.

you're simple
and fascinating,
completely destroying
my body with yours.

                                    *but baby, you're all mine,
                                              still only mine.

The silk, satin, that is, your skin
If only it could be sewn, to my own, flesh to bone
Sun-gold childlike eyes I’m, possesive over what’s mine
Guard u with a stone fort, no force could ever distort

If up to me, if president
I’d pump taxes into a fence
Tight security surveillance
Monitors a lavish palace
In which u’ll stay well protected
I wear u on me like a locket

If u are confused or ever despaired
Feeling unloved, that life is unfair
Never for once think I won’t be there
Storm earthquake hurricane, I hear your prayer
I love you more than a flame has heat
More than powers of electricity
I love you more than water’s needed by a tree
As there’s always greed for money, will u always have me

Spelled by, your charms
Your fruit disarms
Fragments of my thinking, farewell fuels a famine

Your fingerprints are ageless, riddles of a ghost nameless
Synthetic diamonds, seizing my organs,until swollen
Till we inhale, the same smoke trail
I’m a trampled leaf throbbing from nails

Your silver haired mermaid derail
With only arrows of poetry
To proclaim without humility
U’ll have the world when u have me

If u are confused or ever despaired
Feeling unloved that life is unfair
Never for once think I won’t be there
Storm earthquake hurricane, I hear your prayer
I love you more than a flame has heat
More than powers of electricity
I love you more than water’s needed by a tree
As there’s always greed for money, will u always have me

That night she wanted to prove her beauty.
So she killed all light.
Letting only a dim-dip from the moon to reflect how she danced seductively in calm, bold waves, wearing her night black gown now
heading my way .
That night I felt her beauty with all names men had for senses and some god only knew existed.
The sea was always a possesive lover who's satisfied only when humidity consumed every inch of me,
Leaving my breath heavy, skin sticky with her water.
But that night, as if assured I'll be hers forever she pulled back
sending unapologetic rough wind that matched the loud waves still dancing beneath me.
I closed my eyes and layed down on her shore in complete surrender;
letting her wipe every memory of love before her.
"Wash me"I mouth loud enough only for her to hear.
Why was I touched before.
My brain became heavy with her smell that I kept ******* gulps of, and felt tears collect themselves in my eyes.
I discovered the happiness they kept bragging about in complete decoy.
If only they know what happiness felt like.
Ocasionally I'd peak at her to see endless folds of black and my heart runs fast with fear of its majesty.
She accepted what I am, enjoyed swallowing my dark thoughts into her even darker descending bottoms.
Her distance made it clear I was not to touch, only taste her.
For once I couldn't mind,
I threw the weight of my sorrow and passed into a state I still don't have synonyms for.
Her love made me complete,
I was ready to leave this life then and there with no regrets or a second look.
For everything would be tasteless after her

He awakens, sighs, bones acreak at every move.
Reaches for the boilerplate, straps on his rapier
wit (but half of once it was), takes an aching
hold of his rusty lance, and mounts the ancient keyboard.
In clattering, staccato bursts, they gallop through
acres of verse:  thatches of haiku and senryu,
prim English gardens of sonnet, manicured villanelles,
and mile after mile of untamed blank verse just like this.
All along the journey, he tilts at the ogres
in his mind, swiping in steady rhythm
at possesive pronouns replacing contractions,
your/you're...their/they're...its/it's...gah!
Set to charge full speed downhill from the
Valhallan heights of two courses of college English
at unedited mounds of unexamined thoughts,
he fetches up sharply; slows to a trot, looking uphill
at the hordes of English majors
eyeing him and his keyboard
with malice aforethought.

for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.

I hate myself because I'm filled with so much hate.
And I hate him from taking something from me I can never get back.
I hate you for making me love you.
I hate every person that has looked at you
   talked to you
   hugged you
   held your hand
   held your attention
I hate them with every particle that makes up this pathetic body.
I hate them because for even a second they were more important to you than me.
I am psychotic, possesive, insane
and this is why I hate myself.

After some taste tests, I must admit
The differences in your kisses are not subtle
Some were animal and possesive
A sensual and surprising ferocity
Some were soft and fast
As delicious as honey and as sweet
Others were long and powerful
An outpouring of emotion
Still others were light and lovingly
Pressed to cheek or temple or neck
And though I admit they're all so different,
Their qualities bleed into one another
So that of the
Quick and passionate ones
Or light kisses with a touch of wild
All have been received and welcomed
And enjoyed

For the first time in ten months
And three days
I do not miss you.
I can breathe without you here
I can function as myself
This is not through my lesser loving for you
Or any less longing for you
Nor in any doubt of your love for me…
But in confident ease
Of our returned love and respect
We are two humans
We are separate
I see this now
I am no longer a possesive being
For we are joined
At the soul?
In fate?
I haven’t a clue
And never have
We are ever changing
Ever growing in our ways and beliefs
The likelihood of us being forever is like
A penny in a puddle
Existent
Possible
But highly unlikely for any one to find
And even less likely for someone
To attempt to reach.
For they forget the joy
That penny could potentially give.