(An mémwa granfré an mwen Dodo, frè jimo a Roderik, ki disparèt an *** lanmè koté Sentlisi lé disèt maws démildisèt anbo kanno ay, In God we Troust, menm jou ti frè an mwen Toto fété swasantkatran ay)

Lè Manzè Frégat, on vyé zwazo épi tèt a sizo lan mè, rivé

Konpè Dodo té ka ba dé kudmachwa adan on ponm arak kon i té ni vyé labitid fè

Dépi lé i té ti manmay chak trwazyèm vandrèdi a mars o pipiri chantan

Sété on sèl pélrinaj pou y té pran gou a sé prèmyé ponm malaka ki té vinn friktifyé

Vyé zwazo la diy konsa: « chaben, apakonsa zafè ka fèt ! avan ou té sèvi kow, avan menm ou té comansé manjé plen vant aw, ou té dwèt ban mwen lajan an mwen, ban mwen sa anfwamenm »

Konpè Dodo pa enmé pon vyé zwazo diy pon vyé biten ! I wondi bouch, i toufé, i manké tranglé :

-Ki pawol a foumi fou ki la ? i taw ?

-i tan mwen. ban mwen lajan an mwen, man, ou alo, ranjé zafè aw byen pas dènyé vandrèdi aw rivé !

ou pé kriyéy jan ou vlé malaba, malaka, kwachimelon, otaheite, pomme d’amour, ponm tayti, manzana malaya, séw ki sav, ou pa papay

sé mwen ki mèt ay, ou tann ! Ou tann byen !? Pa fè mwen trapé dézod épiw

Pa fè mwen jiréw, avan ou ay pran zafè a moun prokiré sav ki moun ki mèt a kann la

mwen ja las jouwé domino épiw, kouté sa byen, wouvè gran zorey aw ! An ja diw sa, yo ka kriyé mwen an lot koté Jambo, Prensès Scisour Lanmè

mwen pa vlé sav si ou métodis si ou advantis si ou ka fè penti

si ou rosikrisyen si ou catolik ou si ou ka trasé lèt asi olivetti

si bon dyé aw vodou, endou, ou témwendjéova, fwa aw sé taw, tan mwen sé tan mwen,

Non an mwen pa Séza non an mwen pa Bondyé sé Jambo

ponm arak ta la sé tan mwen, sé awryè granpapa granpapa mwen ki té arawak

ki plantéy, si ou vlé sav, ban mwen diw on ti biten malgré vyé mannyé érétik ou ni dépi toupiti. ou ka ékri tout koté « In God we Troust » sé pousa ou dwèt ka vinn trousé mwen ! foutémwa likan, espèce de malélivé

manjé kénèt aw ou chenet aw ponmsitè aw fé sa ou vlé épi yo mé pa mannyé vyé pyé ponm arak an mwen

sa ja ka fè plis ki katvensètan ou ka fé la fèt asi pyé ponm arak ta la

Ou pa sa li fransé , chaben ? espèce en voie d’extinction! An ké diw li on lot fwa an nanglè si ou pa vlé tann fransé

Endangered species !

Mé Kompè Dodo pa té vlé tann march ! Kompè Dodo mété koy ri ! I pa té pé rété ! Telman i té ka ri i té ka pléré !

Ki jan i té kay péyé pou on ponm arak pou on vyé frégat malkadik, dapréy non ay té « Prinsès Scisour Lanmè »

Manzè Frégat ou ni on jan dapréw ou sé yen a dan lé trwa Moiw, on Manzé Atropos

Konsidiré séw ki mèt a bobiné é débobiné

Mé apa mwen ou ké kouyoné, sé pa jodi jou disèt mars pon vyé zonbi ké koupé filsèvolan mwen

Banw diw sa, Tiré gran zèl nwè aw anba la pli la é ay pozé kow anba on pyé kowosol

Demen samdi avan jou ouvè mwen ké vinn kué ti ponm arak an mwen

Manzè Fregat pa pèd tan, vitman i poté mannèv, i anki ouvè gran gèl ay, bèk ay té ka parèt sizo

I vorey i varéy i valéy, i wotéy – zyé a zwazo la té ka sanm on sèl fé dartifis woz fichyia –

A las siete y media de la mañana, eran las siete y media en punto de la mañana

Kompè Dodo bat dènyé ti domino ay, a las siete y media de la mañana

Manzè Frégat comansé ranjé tou dousman sé domino la an bwat a domino la

Epi rès a ponm arak la i préparé pouy on ponch ponm malaka.

Sé pa pou ayen ni on proverb ki ka i konsa:

Pa jen jouwé domino épi on frégat si ou ka dwouéy on biten.

Whoa.

See that yin?
Jist sittin there?
Ye ken how she’s sittin like that, don’t ye?
Well, whit’s she sittin oan?
Aye, her erse.
She’s only sittin like that
So ye ken she’s got an erse.
Gaggin fir it.

An whoa, check that yin!
Wearin claes!
Filthy cow!
Whit dae ye mean, “Whit dae ah mean”?
Claes!
Ye canny wear claes
If ye huvny got a boady, can ye?
That’s right –
Just screamin it, so she is –
“Check oot ma boady!”

Aye, ah wull an aw!
Don’t mind if ah dae!

Aw, mate – that yin!
That yin ower there!
Bendin her airm!
See her?
Bendin her airm like a mucky ****!
That’s so ye ken
She’s got elbows!
Phwoar, I ken your type hen –
you wi yir elbows an a’thin!
Desperate fur it, aren’t ye?

An man!  This yin,
walkin towards us!
Breathin in an oot!
Whit a slapper!
Breathin in an oot!
Aye, ye need a pair o lungs tae dae that,
I bet, eh, hen?
A pair o fine, functioning lungs!
Aye, you use them, doll –
dinny you be shy!
Ah’m no!

Aw pal, haud me back!
This yin!
This yin eatin a meat pie!
Shameless wee ****!
Aw yeah, baby,
I ken whit that means!
Mean’s ye’ve got yirsel
a **** wee digestive tract in there, no?
Ye dinny hae tae spell it oot tae me, love!
Probably got a pair o kidneys
tucked away in there too,
ye ***** wee *****!

Aw the same, ur they no?
Aw ae thum.
Gantin oan it.

Sew doudou pyé piman an mwen.
Sew doudou mèt kann a piman zwazo
Sew ki ka fè bonda manjak
Konsidiré I miel
Sew doudou piman miz an mwen
Sew ki ka soulajé ko mwen
Sew ki ka fè mwen lévé
Sew ki ka fè mwen soukwé soukwé adanw
Kolé séré
Sew ki ka fè mwen briyé kon letwal a lorian
O pipirit chantan
Man enmé bektew telman
Si ou té sav ki jan man enmé bektew
Man enmé bektew kon foufou
Man enmé voré asiw kon rakoun agoulou granfal
Piman miz an mwen
Pyé piman miz an mwen
Pyé la sa ka toujou poté
Piman aw ni mowdan kon pins a krab
Ban mwen on bon moso piman aw Pou nou mangé kon granmoun kalalu an nou doudou.
Piman aw woz woz woz doudou
Piman aw wouj wouj wouj
Piman aw nwè nwè nwè
Piman aw cho cho cho
Piman aw ka brenné
Piman miz aw ka chofé tout ko an mwen doudou
Ki sa ou mèté adan i pou I ka pike mwen konsa
On bon to piman doudou
I bon you bonnman doudou
I ni on ti gou mirtiy
Man pa Jin manje piman konsa doudou
Metey adan flakon
Pou mwen te parfumé mwen
Metey adan zakra jiwomon doudou
Pou man pe chofe ko mwen doudou
Piman miz
Piman miz
Se on ras piman ki telman Bon
Se on kalite piman
Ki ka dérayé moun ki pa save koman kuiziney
Piman miz piman miz
En Nou dansé doudou
On bel bolewo épi piman la sa ki ka voyé mizik asi nou doudou

Niadto ko, nibisita sa lugar
Kon asa mi una nagkita;
Mao ra japon,
Ang mga kahoy ug mga bulak
Nagasambit sa among gugma
Nga hain pa man dili gayod mawala.
Siya akong tunhay nga kalipay
Sa pagmata ko matag-buntag,
Tunhay nga kasingkasing
Sa iyaha, akong ginapamatyag.
Nikuha ko ug papel,
Aron magsulat ug balak para kaniya;
Maot man paminawon, apan
Akong buhaton nga patsyada.
Nitan-aw ko sa blanko nga papel,
Naghuna-huna,
Ug sa dihang nakahinumdum hinuon ko,
Unsaon man diay nako pagsulat sa balak;
Nga ang bolpen iya man diay’ng gidala,
Adtong minglakaw na siya ug una.

Pagsalig ang nagbugkos natong duha,
Hinungdan nganung kita nahimong managhigala,
Pero na unsa kini pagkahitabua?
Ania ang atong estorya.
Kung abrihan ko ang mga panid ug dahon sa kasaysayan,
Ug kung ako kini tuki-tuki-on sa makadaghan,
Dili ko mahikalimtan ang kagabin-on nga atong naagi-an.
Ana-a ako sa mangitngit na dapit,
Ug sa dehang dunay hubog nga sa akoa gihapit,
Naghilak ako sa daplin nga hilit,
Ug ikaw nga saksi, mitawag sa imong mama sa makalit.
Gelakag kini  sa imong mama ug walis tingting,
Ako nga nagluha ug katawa,
Kay siya naka tini-il ra.
Emu dayon akong gegakus,
Aron mawala ang akong kahadlok ug kaligutgot.
Sukad adto kita nagkahigala,
Ang panganod galantaw natung duha,
Malipayon kita nga nagtampisaw,
Sa tubig nga matin-aw.
Ug sa dehang kita manginhas na,
Pwerte natung lipaya
Sa matag kinasun nga makuha ta,
Asta natung bebuha
Ug sa dehang emu akong gedala sa kapilya,
Nadunggan nato ang kanta nga nag-uluhang, "Bato balani Sa Gugma".

Malipayon kita nga nagpunit sa mga kendi,
Kini gakahitabo kada gabii,
Sinugdanan sa atong pagtuo sa Balaang Rosaryo,
Ug kay Senior Santo Nino.

Abe-----abe kog kato dili matapos,
Apan pagka-ugma kita taman nalang sa pag gakus,
Naghilaka ta ug nagbangutan,
Nagdagayday ang mga luha sa atong dughan,
Samtang ikaw ug ang emung pamilya,
Naghatud namu sa pantalan,
Ang emung mga kamut emu dayun hinay-hinay nga gebuy-an.

Getan-aw ko ang layo nga mga barko,
Ug gi-ingon ako, " Goodbye Cebu mobalik ako!".

Walay adlaw ug kagabi-on,
Nga ako dili nimo padamguhon,
Nag-alindasa, nagsalimu-ang,
ang akong kasing-kasing ug dughan,
Kay gepangandoy kong kita magkita na.

Katorse katuig ang nilabay,
Abe nakug kita wala nay panag estoryahay,
Natingala na lang ko sa "text message" nemu bai.
Abe mo nga ikaw ako ng gekalimtan.

Salamat! kay gipili mo ang kurso natung duha,
Malipayon ako higala,
Hilabi na nagla-um ka ,
Nga ako mubalik pa.

Way sukod ang imong pagsalig sa akoa,
Wa jud ka nagbag-o,
Gasa ka nga gehatag kanako a Ginoo,
Abe! nakug sakit ang musalig dala ang pagla-um,
Pero luyo sa mga dag-um,
Nagpahipi ang kamatuoran ug paghandum.

Sakto ko! nga ang pitik sa akong kasing-kasing,
Mao sadang getinguha mo,
Samtang nadunggan ko ang tingog mo,
Wa jud kay pagbag-o,
Ngisi! todo-max ka detso.

Piso-piso para sa barko,
Akong paningkamut para nemu,
Aron dili masayang ang atong mga tenguha ug damgo.

Hulata ko sa pantalan,
Saksi kini sa atong pagluha,
Pero mu abot ang panahon
Nga kini mahimong saksi sa atong kasadya!

Salamat! tungod kay dagat man ang pagitan,
Dili kini mahimong babag sa atong padulngan,
Para magpadayon ang relasyon,
Nga nahimo nakung inspirasyon!



"LDR" tang duha!
Wala jud d.i forever,
Pero na-ay together.

call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn't any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn't rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren't built to carry off taht much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from roofs
and there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn't
STOP
and all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again.
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed up the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling,
and all the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were imprisoned in their houses with their
wives and children
and their
pets.
the pets refused to go out
and left their waste in
strange places.
the jobless men went mad
confined with
their once beautiful wives.
there were terrible arguments
as notices of foreclosure
fell into the mailbox.
rain and hail, cans of beans,
bread without butter;fried
eggs, boiled eggs, poached
eggs; peanut butter
sandwiches, and an invisible
chicken in every ***.
my father, never a good man
at best, beat my mother
when it rained
as I threw myself
between them,
the legs, the knees, the
screams
until they
seperated.
"I'll **** you," I screamed
at him. "You hit her again
and I'll **** you!"
"Get that son-of-a-*******
kid out of here!"
"no, Henry, you stay with
your mother!"
all the households were under
seige but I believe that ours
held more terror than the
average.
and at night
as we attempted to sleep
the rains still came down
and it was in bed
in the dark
watching the moon against
the scarred window
so bravely
holding out
most of the rain,
I thought of Noah and the
Ark
and I thought, it has come
again.
we all thought
that.
and then, at once, it would
stop.
and it always seemed to
stop
around 5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful then,
but not an exact silence
because things continued to
drip
  drip
    drip
  

and there was no smog then
and by 8 a.m.
there was a
blazing yellow sunlight,
Van Gogh yellow-
crazy, blinding!
and then
the roof drains
relieved of the rush of
water
began to expand in the warmth:
PANG!PANG!PANG!
and everybody got up and looked outside
and there were all the lawns
still soaked
greener than green will ever
be
and there were birds
on the lawn
CHIRPING like mad,
they hadn't eaten decently
for 7 days and 7 nights
and they were weary of
berries
and
they waited as the worms
rose to the top,
half drowned worms.
the birds plucked them
up
and gobbled them
down;there were
blackbirds and sparrows.
the blackbirds tried to
drive the sparrows off
but the sparrows,
maddened with hunger,
smaller and quicker,
got their
due.
the men stood on their porches
smoking cigarettes,
now knowing
they'd have to go out
there
to look for that job
that probably wasn't
there, to start that car
that probably wouldn't
start.
and the once beautiful
wives
stood in their bathrooms
combing their hair,
applying makeup,
trying to put their world back
together again,
trying to forget that
awful sadness that
gripped them,
wondering what they could
fix for
breakfast.
and on the radio
we were told that
school was now
open.
and
soon
there I was
on the way to school,
massive puddles in the
street,
the sun like a new
world,
my parents back in that
house,
I arrived at my classroom
on time.
Mrs. Sorenson greeted us
with, "we won't have our
usual recess, the grounds
are too wet."
"AW!" most of the boys
went.
"but we are going to do
something special at
recess," she went on,
"and it will be
fun!"
well, we all wondered
what that would
be
and the two hour wait
seemed a long time
as Mrs.Sorenson
went about
teaching her
lessons.
I looked at the little
girls, they looked so
pretty and clean and
alert,
they sat still and
straight
and their hair was
beautiful
in the California
sunshine.
the the recess bells rang
and we all waited for the
fun.
then Mrs. Sorenson told us:
"now, what we are going to
do is we are going to tell
each other what we did
during the rainstorm!
we'll begin in the front row
and go right around!
now, Michael, you're first!. . ."
well, we all began to tell
our stories, Michael began
and it went on and on,
and soon we realized that
we were all lying, not
exactly lying but mostly
lying and some of the boys
began to snicker and some
of the girls began to give
them ***** looks and
Mrs.Sorenson said,
"all right! I demand a
modicum of silence
here!
I am interested in what
you did
during the rainstorm
even if you
aren't!"
so we had to tell our
stories and they were
stories.
one girl said that
when the rainbow first
came
she saw God's face
at the end of it.
only she didn't say which end.
one boy said he stuck
his fishing pole
out the window
and caught a little
fish
and fed it to his
cat.
almost everybody told
a lie.
the truth was just
too awful and
embarassing to tell.
then the bell rang
and recess was
over.
"thank you," said Mrs.
Sorenson, "that was very
nice.
and tomorrow the grounds
will be dry
and we will put them
to use
again."
most of the boys
cheered
and the little girls
sat very straight and
still,
looking so pretty and
clean and
alert,
their hair beautiful in a sunshine that
the world might never see
again.
and

So aye
We wir watchin
that David Attenborough
or tryin tae -
fower weans tearin up the joint,
an she's like,
See if youse dinny shut it...!
an aw that, ken -
You no gonny tell thum?
So ah'm like,
"Aye.  
Wheesht, youse."

But it wis amazin, like.
These fish.
Years oot at sea.
Tiny wee at first,
dodgin sharks an jellyfish
an aw sorts,
awa oot, miles fae land.
(God!  Youse!  Take it up the stair!
Tell thum, you!
"Aye, boys.  Listen tae yir ma.")

Then wan day, like
they get the urge, ken?
Got tae go.
An in they come,
surgin fae the sea,
these sleek, silver bullets
fat wi feedin.
(I'll no tell yis again!)

Nothin, an ah mean nothing
is gonny stop them.
Waterfalls?  Nae bother.
Just pure hungry
fir the lassies, ken?
The boy Attenborough sais
they dinny even eat!
(That's it!  Ah tellt ye!
Here you!  Take some responsibility,
wull ye?
"Eh?  Oh, aye.
Away tae yir rooms, boys -
yir ma tellt ye.")

These pure ***** divils
will loup up sheer cliffs,
baws burstin, bi the look ay it.
Poetry in motion, ken?
Like, ah dinny ken, pure water
brought tae life, an that.
Jist pure savage.

An then, haw -
they find the lassies!
An it's jist, like,
'splurge'!
Done the deed.
Gemme ower,
job done,
deid.

An there's this shot.
Ripplin shallows,
just fill ay the twitchin bodies.
Craws an bears an that,
queuin up fir the bonanza.
Jist, like,
totally
spent.

An she's aw,
Here, is that no terrible?
Pair buggers!
Eifter aw that!
An ah'm like,
"Aye."

But see inside,
ah'm thinkin,
"Lucky,
lucky *******."

sample precursor: there are three binding directions of a chemical group (e.g. CH3) to the benzene ring - the ortho-, the meta- and the para-... but i'll ask a different question: what is copernican north what is copernican east a copernican west or a copernican west without a "flat-earth" / how else to read / navigate a 2D map going from point (a) via vector (c) to point (b) along the short-cut of the hypotenuse - which, isn't a short-cut, but the logical conclusion of walking neither the middle path nor the right path, but the logical path? we're no astronauts... we didn't see the proof... we can only entertain the "idea" of a 3D object we live on, but we're still strapped to a "flat earth" in order to navigate... endless stories of how GPS tech. fooled people off the edge of a cliff... "flat earth" is no reverse psychology ploy... i'm no ******* astronaut... i never stood left right or center on the moon to have the foggiest sense of admiration for that awe-balancing moment that leaves so many deluded in it being otherwise: first come first served, last come: what's there's to serve that last man if not merely the drudge-report of a commute? besides... trans- and cis-, why are people borrowing from chemistry and attaching gender to what is exlusive to chemical compounds? look at them... pop chemistry... cis-trans isomerism... fine, let these people have that... my new n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south): orthography, something clearly missing in the anglophone world (no diacritical markers, i and j do not count)... ergo? orthography = east... paranormal = west... since the west is obsessed with either aliens or hush-hush military projects... now... both north and south are meta- coordinates... on the basis, on the basis of what? two words really work well to establish a foundation: from ars poetica? metaphor (borrowed from a change of mind - meta- and -phren - mind, a change of mind, all mental illnesses are changes of the mind, alternatives to alleviate the stranglehold of the commune of the greater picture known as society)... but... there's also metaphysics... which is in the interest of philosophy... how else not to explain the obvious, how else to treat both the reader / audience as the well informed genius(es) but mistreat them as would be grander genius(es) if the socratic endeavour of "pretense ignorance" was not to be established? it's a hard juggle... east is already well established in orthography, west in paranomal... literally: metaphor - a change of mind, literally metaphysics - a change of groundwork physicality of things... a rock remains a rock in either "heaven" or in "hell"... metaphysically there seems to be a direct translation... this is why i'm terrible at crosswords, this whole puzzle structure of either working from a direct definition to the word itself, some random geographical posists, some historical posits, some outdated out-of-vogue words related to specified period idiosyncracy, a tinge of the therausus... my current crossword is an interchange: meta-phor, meta-physics, meta-phot, meta-physics and on and on it goes: even with the isolated prefix of meta-, if i return to the words: as they are... would: denoting a change of thinking (state of mind) or... denoting a change of physics, i'm met with metaphysics, i.e.: a branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles... sounds like a priori physics, yet all i can fathom if i wrestle this word to its casual use: isn't it a posteriori physics?! the what comes after physics? i should think that most people understand metaphysics on an a posteriori basis rather than an a priori basis... hence the question: what happens when we die? last time i checked: death happens last... birth happens first... any question-worthiness (according to heidegger) should begin at: the beginning rather than begin at the end, in the same way that all questions should be sought in a medium of predating the dates of events, rather than with a spirit of hindsight, hindsight belongs to the "what if" of history in that dynamism of expressed time... on the canvas of an infinitely expanding space: we seem to be riddled by a very cul de sac concept / expression of time: our quill - given that ****** didn't learn from napoleon when it came to russia... perhaps finding out what copernicus found out: "we" figured: get me off this ******* celestial carousel where i can't even feel the dizzy immediate of a ferris wheel! again: i'm terrible at crosswords, sudoku? no problem... but words: if not gushing out of me, waiting like a lizard predator for a linear narrative spew? count me out... i don't play with words, i use words... i'm a wordsmith, hence the ethnic origin denote: słowianin: slav - i don't know where these west-saxon punks derived their etymology from: słowo = word... *****-liquor juice teens thought it was: oh fo' sho' smart... still: metaphor, metaphysics... metaphor... metaphysics... disgruntled with the immediate compound readied for pop use... meta-physics... the vector is the prefix... why do philosophers push metaphysics so much, but in turn rely on the crutch of metaphor? to change their mind, if metaphysics is an abstract theory with no basis in reality, then the schizoid / metaphorical mind is an abstract in an abstracted theory of the mind - which has "no" knowledge of reality, or rather: "reality" excludes such a mind from ever absorbing an expression in it... a schizophrenic can't explain the reality of a person who can solve crossword puzzles... just as someone who solves crossword puzzles with a fear of alzheimer's: who treats the fatty tissue that's the brain as a muscle... given that the cells of alzheimer's disease are killer proteins... proteins as the antithesis of white blood-cells that feed of fat tissue... after all: what else could the brain be if not fat and water? slow burner... first the sugars, then the more complex carbohydrates, then the fat: last? the proteins... the process of starvation... you want up? you want down? again: metaphysics / metaphor... ta meta ta phusika... the things after the physics... so what's with the inverted: prior things? hence people associated a life after death... hence how philosophers have to escape into the poetic realm to quickly change their minds on the definition... a change of mind is much easier than a change of what physicality entails... most spew metaphors but keep on course... after all: given the genesis of the metaphor, a metaphor is just a tool, a humble stop-off pause... born from humble poetics: it's only a literary tool, it's not some grand pillar of morality associated metaphysics, which nonetheless dictates: first principles come last and last principles come first... here's my crossword puzzle: metaphor, metaphysics, meta-alpha, meta-beta, metaphor and the meta-alpha, metaphysics and the meta-beta... etc. etc., i will not solve this crossword puzzle, even though it doesn't look like a crossword puzzle... it's a narrative crossword puzzle, i'm just looking for the sort of fixed point people associate with prime words: red, left, blue, right, up, fox, dog... words of readied vocabulary, readied vocabulary dissociated from puzzled vocabulary... i want to established a fixed permanence of the dissociated close proximity grounded in the meta- prefix of the words meta-phor and, meta-physics... i'm starting to find this impossible, given how the words have dissociated themselves from the grounding in the meta- prefix... phor alias phren (mind) and the whole gush of isolated metaphysics of beginnings: meta a priori vs. meta a posteriori - and of course: meta a- apriori... hell if i can't solve crossword puzzles: since i already have a crossword puzzle in my head... what am i to do? try writing pop?! a dog does what his master orders, a jester tells a joke his king would find amusing... i'll just treat this enclave of an audience as a bunch of people subscribed to ulterior forms of voyeurism (dissociated from pain / pleasure gratification, esp. that of a ****** nature).

.you know like in latin you had the interchangeable tongue twisters æ and œ? well... english resurrected one more... au... oh stralia... auntie; ******* hell i've been speaking this since aged ate and i still can't get my tongue into that phonetic plughole... or what's that onomatopoeia for: it really hurts? awe... nah... aw... aw... well no cute kitten about to say aww.

well it began with the usual... i wish i didn’t...
sitting in the autumnal garden
drinking coffee and eating a nicotine croissant,
watching the fog recede into nothing
while the earth showed its naked cleavage
after what seems like centuries of arcane dryness
befitting a story of an egyptian idol...
then the panic set in...
what to cook?! what to cook?!
my mother is away visiting her parents in poland,
who celebrate the feast of all saints with the usual
tackle formidable in poland:
forget the paris fashion week, forget the london fashion week...
forget the next gucci advert...
all the action happens in poland’s annual all saints’ fashion week...
through the cemetery (ahem) cat walks
(more like death on rollerblades donning a tutu
and looking fatter than size 0 models)...
because that’s when the fur coats are worn,
the make-up is heavier and everyone comes
to discuss the materialistic jealousy of a small town...
it is a small town after all...
death knocks with all the nine cat’s lives just to prove
the point...
anyway, so i’m the head chef, and in panic
i search for a recipe... i’ve only got pork on the ready
in the recognisable frozen state...
but i also have shrimps... tiger prawns...
so i look through the usual suspects... thai green curry...
ah ****! no coconut milk!
what’s it going to be? prawn korma curry
(better mild than hot i say, with all this maple syrup
and honey colours about... talk about decay),
active ingredients? chilli powder (1/2 tsp), cinnamon
(1/2 tsp), turmeric (1/2 tsp) and ground almonds (2 tbsp),
there ready... looking suntanned my gorgeous twirls of seabed manure...
enough to spare my father making himself sandwiches (i always
disguised my “dyslexia” by associations... sandy witches...
the t broke the barriers and the floods entered)...
with toasted nannies / au pairs... relatives of some sort...
then onto writing my father’s invoices:
project plaistow hospital and some housing development near
the city airport... beckton we call it... backwards and forwards
stink crowned with drinkers regurgitating on the pave...
now that is a *******... recycling centre or horse manure?
then to tesco... for the nightcap...
oddly enough tesco has become a friend of mine once more,
i divorced the turkish shop, they added 10 pence to the polish beers,
now i’m on the sedative medication of this bottle bavaria beer
and whiskey... 1 quid for the former... 10 quid for the latter -
i’ve sold my soul! never mind...
then to the beacon that’s home... it’s night... it’s spooky...
it’s essex: that non-touristy place in england people with passports
never dare to visit, shambles.
well one thing came out true... none of the above though:
you ever consider the theory of the aeroplane syndrome in writers?
you know, like with rock stars you get the full package,
you get the aeroplane and the retrieved delay of the engine mushroom,
but with poetry (which is competing with music,
philosophers just wait in that queue for the cheese, wink, whine and wrinkle)
you only get the sound... that delayed mushroom...
you see the poet but never hear him...
it’s a typical delusion i’d call parallel or even adjacent to narcissism,
you walk down the street and the closest you come
to someone recognising you is a stranger uttering out: ‘hey richard!’
‘name’s matt mate.’
‘oh... sorry.’
it’s this aeroplane syndrome theory... it’s perfectly acceptable...
you have the image but don’t have the delayed sound...
you have the delayed sound... but you only get a photograph...
you have the english national health service mental health unit crisis...
and then you have people shunning intellectualism
trying to cure people by burning / not reading philosophical books;
the day ends with drinking and reading
an article about keith richard’s antics in the sunday times’ supplement
and the thought: well i gave her a stabbing chance
at feminism... she thought the active ingredient in anti-contraception
pills was placebo... she phoned and gave birth to me...
i said abort... you’re no post-teen mum at university, you won’t be...
******* was great but i’m not that much of a match from a cosmopolitan magazine quiz
(as duly taken on my way from st. pestersburg to moscow to see
metallica play), plus there are no roofing jobs in scotland...
the scots have mountains already... there’s no point building
scratched sky skylines with mountain ranges nearby...
so even though i went to a catholic school...
i did my first redemptive act by reading about gnostic heretics...
and not getting confirmed being the second...
i would have not taken first communion... but playing the xylophone
at the nativity play was too much fun...
plus it is the only salvador dali bit of the story...
after that you have st. sebastian...
plus you see where this is going... the greeks translated
the tetragrammaton into the gospels
of st. matthew, luke, mark and john...
and the romans were duped into the legality of
things... first name, second name, confirmation name...
surname.

By: Cedric McClester

Aw, he’s just being him!
He’s a creature of whim
But the diagnosis is grim
So he’ll either sink or swim
In a swamp of his own making
With the laws that he’s breaking
Don’t ask me what’s shaking
Just because I’m muckraking

Aw, he’s just being him!
If he’s chasing some trim
Exchanging letters with  Kim
Or, avoiding a gym
But he must be insane
Holding back from Ukraine
To cause an opponent pain
In a political vain

Aw, he’s just being him!
And this is just the prelim
Though impeachment is no  pseudonym
For convicting him
But it’s a show and prove
When you want to remove
Xcretement from your shoe
It’s what we have to do

Aw, he’s just being him!
So the fault must be with them
Cause they’re worse than phlegm
So we must condemn
What they do or say
In a negative way
Then pretend it’s okay
Both night and day







                Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

Sa imo ra nipitik ning akong dughan
Buntag, udto, ug gabieng tanan
Na bisan ug namalandong ko sa makadaghan
Dinasaysay gihapon niini ang imong ngalan.

Sa imo ra nitotok ang akong mga mata
Sa matag pilok niini, imong nawong ang makita.
Ug bisan paman ug motan-aw ko sa ubang dalaga
Ikaw raman jud akong makit-an na gwapa.

Sa imo ra nilupad ang akong hunahuna
Nagahandom na makauban ka sa matag takna
Nahigam ko, lisod jud ning mahigugma
Magpanikad sa adlaw na makaanha ko sa imoha

Ug sa imo ra iukit ang akong ugma
Hugot sa pagtoo na dili ko sa imo mawala
Ubanan teka sa kasakit, hilak, ug pagmaya
Hangtod kitang duha husgahan na niining kalibotana.

Sa imo ra.

In God we trust
In  God  we  trust
In   God   we   trust

I nuh Gaw duh wii tr uhst
Ein nuh GAHWD wiie TR UHST
EINUH GAHHWD WEIIIE TR UUHS T

EEEEEI NUH GUH AW DH
WUH EEIIIE TH RUH SS TH
EEEEEI  NUH  GUH  AW  DH  
WUH  EEIIIE  TH  RUH  SS  TH
­EEEEEI   NUH   GUH   AW   DH  
WUH   EEIIIE   TH   RUH   SS   TH
EEEEEI    NUH    GUH    AW    DH    
WUH   EEIIIE    TH    RUH    SS    TH