Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at ***.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!

i keep looking at people become serious diarists, like Paulo Coelho writing the alchemist, which can be an odd experience... i've got ants in my pants and i'm a dog's bone away from playing dead, sitting in mantra of: load off visiting Singapore and never getting the hangover joke of Bangkok... sinus gaping pore? it's all ******* feathery anyway... flusters of rouge should fantasy come to life.

learn to cackle, thus said: invoke a magpie, to learn laugher -
ha ha (etc.), as can easily be turned into a cackle,
only magpies cackle and even funnier,
applicability of diacritical markings,
as if stealing letters of silver spoons...
Scōtlānd: meiné skoot,
overt
           lá                           -nd...
spacing for the macron -
          and hence the acute without spacing...
                          truth to the tooth
and elsewhere bone-shattering governing the rattle
of the ribs... a canary's song least that of worth
with a woad's pigmentation...
               or said ivory to turqouise...
azure, and vented in lavender...
           but the cackle came
with *Scōtlānd: learn the linguistic
arithmetic! the macron und umlaut
synonym... if applying it learn it,
if not applying it: learn Bulgarian,
Oristice the peacocking accents...
        turquoise though:
Eurydice... Orestes... synonym of acne...
so few do, in that the diacritical indication
is a higher-tier arithmetic...
            such that the less implied is
governed by the impeding peacock variation
that suggests Da, in all prevailing -isms,
                   as saying raw, to a Tartar
over a horse limb steak galloping toward Ukraine...
         but here we are: adorning tartan
of chequers and navy that mingles blue & purple...
                       and here we are abiding to
the Faroe Isle recluse...   spelled aisle    said
i'll...      and that i dare not wallow in it much further...
haggis neeps and tatties... wanking over
a cow's testicular dangly... truant to all truth...
        and all truth to the truant rodins....
  thus to laugh excessively is to cackle like a magpie,
   and hark a phlegmish soar with the raven...
                and end all tragedies without
a Hebraic definition of ha as
      the: direct article... for good manners suggest
that no clue be justified in cradling the sigma
of either the zenith of the Babylonian tower
or the spiral of condescending might twirling into
an imploding tornado over Egypt and all things
                  extravagantly Pythagorean...
  or as Balaam said: i rode a donkey out of Yerusalem:
sprechen yiddish.            
               three years among them...
  and i can say with much demand: Scōtlānd...
scootlaand...     if i ever learned to cleanse,
i also learned to adapt... a circumstance of thinking
myself adequately counter-inept to share
   the Baltic with Lapland skiers, as synonymous
and congregational in being translated into Ęglish
          for what already is: a truancy when cultural
criticism isn't enough... because the culture makes
one truant from engaging with it... because there
is no culture to be critical of...
                   a hermit foretold and with clasped hands
   gave alms, and later: with a slow clapping
          made hands orate what the tongue made shoelace-
                                                       ­         (op+. -spaghetti)       .

the west rid itself from the plague of doubt that cradled the concept of theology subscript submergence in philosophy or philology, it now expects to be cool with outright denial, but as Sartre pointed out: denial is representative of bad faith... hence in doubt i sit firm as if in a roller coaster and experience good faith... doubt so never appealing even with Pascal's wager, Pascal would have no wager as he had with doubt should such strict obedience of the 20th century teaching of denial had been his contemporary - both sides would hardly embark on the metaphor of a gamble.

after finishing the book reviews
from the saturday magazine
(typical, no review of poetry books,
all you get is a review of a poem - not a book -
in the sunday's news review section...
was Shakespeare born in England?
are you sure?! i'm starting to believe
he was born in Prague.)
i ended up reading the first few lines of
the weekend magazine,
about 50 year old women getting their libido
back prior to menopause
and 60 year old stallions...
i read the male perspective and threw the ****
newspaper into the gutter of my imagination,
then i started gesticulating at my bookshelf,
oi! Ezra! come 'ere! i've three cantos to finish
you off! come 'ere! i rather read you than this
filth... and the goats go, and the sheep
b'ah b'ah (there's no point writing an
onomatopoeia for a reference of goats)
in this Orwellian farm that once belonged to
McDonald Trump; where western society is
i don't know, 60 year old capitalist journalists
and diarists blame lack of ****** enthusiasm
of the young reciprocating pleasures on an
over exposure to ****... I BLAME THESE
DINOSAURS AND OUR PLIGHT ON CENSORING
A ******* LETTER! PAPA DON'T MIND
GIMP MASKS AND WHIPS... PAPA MINDS IT
IN FCK OFF! i guess i better start learning
sign-language... actually i have one sequence
in sign language: why don't you *******,
bear with me, it goes like this:
a. index + ******* of the right hand slapped
   on the palm of the left hand (why)...
b. index + ******* of the right hand slapped
    on the palm of the left hand reversely / inside out (don't)
c. index + ******* in a V shape longed into
    the side of the left hand (you)
d. right arm made into a fist smashed against the palm
     of the left hand (****)
e. right hand with thumb ***** attempting to cure
    the ailment of spilled salt in an off direction
    from d., i.e. the fist slapping the palm (off).

We sang a dirge
But no tears to bid farewell.
We dug a grave
But no place to place a casket.
We erected a cenotaph
But no place to lay a wreath.

Sorrow clapped with one hand.
Rays of tragedy raced with one leg

To unlock the gate of tomb.
Town Crier's gong rendered
      sounds of sadness
To inform the confounded cenacle.

Will your pen still pen a farewell?
Will your ink speaks for itself?
Will the diarists still hear your voice?

You slumber till eternity.
But you will not die again.