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Kain Semyonov  Feb 2018
Piss Off.
Kain Semyonov Feb 2018
I’ve woken up
No longer under your spell
Sobered up
And realised I’m in Hell
You played me hard
But you did it well
You built me up
But in the end I fell

Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
The truth was blurred but now it’s clear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
My scars are now my souvenirs
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
I’ve lost it all and now I have no fear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
Now I see that the end is near

Now you’re gone
And I can heal
You were too good
To be real
My heart was always
yours to steal
But you burned it up
And I can’t feel

Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
The truth was blurred but now it’s clear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
My scars are now my souvenirs
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
I’ve lost it all and now I have no fear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
Now I see that the end is near
13  Apr 2014
Zwo, drei, vier
13 Apr 2014
Electricity is talking; we understand
losing interest in conversations. creating land.
droplets of ice define the day
August ends in the middle of May

intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth
the hands fail; a dumbed feeling
Eins, the seeing blind have never seen
on screen, a shape of many faces

in through the open windows outdoors
smoke dries the unseen. air dry.
so paragon goners repulse the cleaver
the system has failed

so much detail to attention
when pink isn’t even a color
time is wasted on time itself
unfortunate cookie

wires once made you. complete.
ask for the answer to the question is nothing
Zwei light birds on a wire
the happenstance, the fire

where hell listens, there sight is drawn
selfishly we glare and mourn
******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…”
cold as **** the cesspool lay.

So, maybe I’m over thinking this.
Posted on 27th September 2013 7:55pm
Edited by Harish Nair (http://glimpsesoflucidity.tumblr.com/)
August  Jan 2013
Eins, Zwei, Drei
August Jan 2013
A tri-pod death
One-two-three
You should have seen
The way my sister looked at me
It was such a surprise
I looked at her widened eyes
She didn't understand why I cried
Sadness turned to rage
It wasn't her fault, but her age
I crumpled up the page
That brought the news
My parents sister, niece, and nephew
My fists turned black & blue
I was only six years old
Didn't grasp how fire made them cold
Of all these things that I was told
I screamed and couldn't understand
Why God, had used his hand
I think that's when I turned my back
On the promise of his promised land
The hardest part was the coffins size
One for an adult, a teenager, and a tiny child
Older, I later went and apologized
To my sister for the things I said
She didn't remember the words I bled
But it relieved me when she said forgive &
Forget
I don't write much about my past.

© Amara Pendergraft 2013
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
keep poking that fun, until i ask you to come
back with me into the back-alley for a
punch & susie;
sorry your autobiography is about as
spectacular as a mc-donald happy meal,
but you don't have to give off a whiff of
"thinking" yours was better than mine,
****...
              take your irish, n' *** 'm home
for the p'ooh poo'h tatties...
******* i.r.a. leprechauns...
          you want a silent messiah,
i'll give you 'un... one beside the bullet
right beside your brain...
       ******* belfast ******...
      even bagbie seemed shocked...
   hibernian my *** with that sort of
***-crack of hairy welcomes...
and plus the dropping watermelons
to kick off blitz 2.0....
        oliver twist my ****** on a
portrait... when homosexuality was illegal,
and there were martyrs, and there was art...
now? you gonna bake me a cookie or what?!
******* ponces tigras of would be libido
lost among pancreatic cancers of spotty leotards...
tarzan quiffs in *****: and so much less
in pow pow tic toc efforts:
    a bit like graffiti shooting flamingos:
sure: ******* in the waiting!
  ******* rich butcher ***** akin to
george michael's, or elton john
      donald trump & kim jong-uns -
it's called a ******* sandwich...
scrub via three...
                  schrubben via drei...
yep, and the spiders from mars really did
much a lot...
                 and i did much more,
i was waiting for either gimmick,
or an advert,
  and i really wanted to make that 'vert
of toothpaste, to abolish ivory poaching
concentrating on my own nibbles...
      i also missed the badger cull -
as i never missed the ever present
          rat turned into fox in the suburbs...
but it was fun and there was art,
when something about homosexuality
was illegal...
  now that everything is legal,
everything has become so bedroom boring,
what a loss of the obstructed sensual effort...
so few less older women to cheat on...
so less (googlewhack) fabreaichi
(https://tinyurl.com/y7w2vfcc) -
so less few older women to fool, akin to
the grand liberace...
     thanks to making gay marriage official,
the long lost gay con artists double artist
of a gay will be long gone,
   and given the "wife types" of gay antics
worthy of pillow talk,
the old ladies will pack it up with the pope...
shame, really, art was once so grand when
there was something illegal...
        but even with the legality of drug,
as both with the orientational ****** promiscuity...
a tad bit yawn...
        it used to be so invigorating to have
an indian curry, to taste the **** spice...
but now? given it's so orientated in
jurisprudence? about as exciting as a pint
of beer...
                no matter as to why current art
in the **** quarter has been reduced to
refrigerator honeysuckle pictures done by
children...
           and by now, you can be the true
****** friend: **** sam, your boy is
a talentless hetrosexual in the making!
   but i'm sure he'll make a great plumber!
bite's back, doesn't it, *****?!
katewinslet Nov 2015
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dass angegebenen der medizinisch-technische Bildungshinter, dass gesundheitsbezogenen college student devoted weniger als 5% aller this Klassenzimmer ein Individuum Zeitraum am drei topics von 'präventive Medizin , Essen Plan und gesundheitsbezogenen Integrität halben Zoll Trotzdem in diese erhalten winzige Vorlaufzeit , , dass sie 'lernen' Unwahrheiten. Zu den Benachrichtigung Daten gespeichert für Ihre Menge alle der Lehrzeit. Der spezifischen Tutoren in a Dermatologen Lehr gibt nichts oben Mann oder eine Frau Praktikanten - - es sein kann, Mund Informationen von empfangenen die besondere Healthcare übermüdeten Heil Studenten Samsung galaxy s6 edge+ 64GB. Neues . Scott S . Mendelsohn war eigentlich ein gemeinsames Besucher kleine jede Nacht den Äther zeigen in der Vergangenheit , und sogar erwähnten über diese häufig . Er möglicherweise encouraged als a Gesundheit Lernenden dass versuchten erarbeiten mäßig 'unabhängigen Denkens' während seiner Lehr wäre wahrscheinlich unterwegs . Medical instances häufig Fragen Sie nach schnell preferences, und das ist nicht genügend Platz a great newbie und dann unerfahrene Heilpraktiker . Was bedeutet , diese small Praktikanten halten Sie sich an die live in der Senior , fähiger Praktikanten nicht zu erwähnen, Fachkräfte des Gesundheitswesens. Wenn your frische intern ist eigentlich übermüdeten, er ' ll gehen zusammen mit robotically . Das Letztere Henry s . Mendelsohn eingereicht der Ausdruck 'iatrogenocide' während seiner feinsten Händler , Confessions Gesundheitspflege Klinische Heretic. Die Bedeutung , nicht überraschend , sein könnte Vergehens Durch den Arzt , Nutzung it ,

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Gold  May 2014
Liebe
Gold May 2014
Ich habe Fernweh nach dem Ort an dem du gerade bist, und Heimweh nach dem Platz in deinem Herzen.
Ich liebe den Himmel, und ich wünschte ich wäre das Firmament über dir, egal ob hinter Wolken versteckt oder mit den Gestirnen geschmückt, denn dann würde ich dich immer sehen und immer bei dir seien.
Jedoch könnte ich dich nie berühren, von da oben.
Vielleicht wäre es besser, der Boden zu seien. Du legst dich in mein warmes Gras und atmest meinen Duft ein, nach einem Regenschauer, und würdest dabei lächeln. Aber als der Boden, würdest du mich je bemerken? Und wenn ja, würdest du nicht nur auf mich herabsehen?
Das würde ich nicht überleben, wir sind alle aus Sternenstaub, und besonders in der Liebe gleich.
Aber wenn du mir diese drei Worte ins Ohr flüsterst oder sie mir ins Gesicht schreist, dann ist es eh egal. Denn dann steht alles auf dem Kopf, am Himmel ist das Wasser der Meere und ich schwimme durch Wolken. Ich gehe über Federn, und das Federkleid der Vögel besteht aus Gras.
So ist es, zumindest in meinem Kopf, jedes Mal nachdem du mein Herz mit den Schmetterlingen, die du in meinem Bauch ausgesetzt hast, erschütterst hast.
I have a desire to travel to the place where you are right now and homesickness to the place in your heart.
I love the sky, and I wish I were the firmament above you, whether hidden behind clouds or adorned with stars, because then I could always see you and be with you.
However, I could never touch you, from there above.
Maybe it would be better to be the ground. You lay down in my warm grass and breathe in my scent after rain and smile. But as the ground, would you ever recognize me? And if yes, wouldn't you just look down on me?
I wouldn't survive that, we're all made from stardust, and especially equal when in love.
But when you whisper those three words in my ear or scream them in my face, than it doesn't matter anyway. Because then, everything is upside down, the sky is made of the water of the seas and I swim through clouds. I walk over feathers and the feathering of the birds is made of grass.
This is how it is, at least in my head, everytime after you roused my heart with the butterflies you set out in my stomach.
Dreams of Sepia Jun 2015
a love song
by O. A. Unwin

for Joseph Rembrandt Clarke
poet of the Bronte Country


Immanuel Kant
'' We are rich not in what we possess
but in what we can do without''




I.


Midnight hospital rooms flicked eyelashes
off the slow duel of hours

imagine tall lynch mob grass
or Sing a Song of Sixpence or Bye, Bye Miss American Pie forever

Today I remembered my upbringing
spoke of Turner,Ginsberg,human rights,
painted, swore,tore up a newspaper


the Nurse looked at me and said
' Not doing very well now, are we''
Dear Roman Empire, Tribunals


Otherwise this Southern town's
all hills, steeples, clouds
unsteady heartbeat of sandstone swept sideways


occasional channel fog krimi & arthouse
and lives ending whiskey half way to the sky




Welcome,set down your bags
to you I am a stranger in your land
to me you were a visitor in my town

Recently I have learnt that those who love
live life on the wrong side of the looking glass
and are forever being given speeding tickets


I also wander Redcliffe Wharf these days by the swallows' nests knowing that Angels tread the earth in the form of people like you

I have been there.
I have seen the Light.
I have drained my soul
out in tears Absalom oh Absalom
I have known the Wall
of my prodigal body a Tempest
Angel wings clipped by old ladies
on Old Market bus stops
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night
under the Arsenic Wheel of Stars
I have gambled my future
on the mere shout of your name
I have risked my very life

I should be a woman serene as a fish by now in a pond by a mansion house beneath Redwoods

this is not dignified.


Dearest, did I **** up
may I call you this
or shall we be
empty footsteps
Stasi hallways
a disconnected phone

No. Wait.
I am doing this all wrong

Dearest, gentle zeitgeist poet
of Yorkshire and the North
the way your writing
fleets me of your subtle frame
remembered briefly from one night
the inner fire of your face
and eyes mysterious as pagan gods
or lonely hermit huts and bright
as Northern Seafront lights
blinking renegade the dusk
amid the heady din of amusement arcades
the smog lilt of your lovely voice
now I know these things about you
I am a Matryeshka lost
but at least it's easier to write
of imagined boyish swagger to Elvis
or the way you might also sing jazz
I belt out Duke Ellington in the bathtub
oh lets dance lets dance


Turn, turn
Sunset on Sunset
pages, pages back
I am an August rose
in bloom over you
in Welsh view suburbs
A Brothers' Grimm fairytale
that mother cuts down
and I tie it back onto it's stalk
with a vial of water
as if it's calling to me
to say  'thanks for letting me die here'
red, red, Russian red
that's no way to make your bed
but it reminds me of my Grandmother's garden
so it's also English
and then there's the thought of you
so it must be French red,
the color of love
Existentionalism and Rousseau
Elinor and Marianne
hothouse flowers or wild
I was always the latter
wild, wild
a bold freedom of a child.




in Jane Austen's ' Sense and Sensibility'  the heroines, Elinor and Marianne's contrasting characters
are described by their love of flowers. Marianne prefers wild and this
is a tribute to her free, delicate spirit, the stern Elinor prefers hothouse.








I.I


This is bad.
I'm done dancing.
actually I was recently a mermaid
& my legs still hurt on land
I can't write good poetry about this.
It's too serious.
It's all je ne sais quoi
& unknown potential of star signs
I've read of the way you wrote
of a girl all bells and incense
and think now that oh you are Love, love
love itself-fragile and kind
beneath that manner bold
and cheek as a Sunday brass band bright
' Your name's a bit of a mouthful isn't it'
that's what you said,right?
but you can't fool me,Love
are you the all the vibrant flair of gentleness in my Soul

your trance of attention to detail
the way you've loved places and people
the thought that there is such a man
pierces me like Van Gogh's last hours




dearest, dearest
you're my drug
that's just the way that I am,
or used to be
I'm a Romantic.
Neither capitalist
Nor communist?
Me too.
Soulmate.
Yep..
Drastic.

But that's
all the word that's left.
Now I'm just in trouble
and need wine.

To think I'm usually
quite good at Scrabble.
I don't normally do Kitsch.
I promise.Be Kind.
I must remind myself of this:

Love is a house of cards.
could we just be a plane trail
a radio signal
a satellite
forbidden bliss.




I.I.I


You're right
the Southern middle classes are ****** up.
as for me Dad all kindly alcoholism
and Kolobok* frame died
Step-Dad walked out.
All my umbrellas broke.

I've tried

but it was pointless loving my parents
poetry and paleontology
just can't live together.

*
I should have been an heiress
but my mother
lazily lost the place
and kept me poor & this stings
or did till I grew a backbone.
Our landlord's in New York.
Our house
is surrounded by cypress trees

You only live once.

or so I thought.
but I've lived and lost so many times
that I'm simply glad that I just bought a typewriter
for a quid
and am proud.

* Kolobok - a character from a Russian folk tale, made out of dough.

I.I.I

**** this curiosity.
A question.
Arise, arise Atlantic dreamer.
Why are you you
America, Europe and England
and goodness knows what else



By Descartes's* fire
I beseech you
are you a dream
Am I Ariel,
or else
a marvel comic heroine
pick and choose
toss your dice


Lets face it
we are both gamblers
because we're not afraid to feel
& we are both Kafka
when I read you
I'm the Zen
of my transnational dreams
I can't help this.
Where are the boys I used to kiss in my head.
This is maybe just how the Mad are.
I'm mock bubblegum brains.
You are my roman candle


as I said
I'm not a little Bristolian
& Southerner at heart
so I'm a pirate.
that's that.

I am sewing our flag in neon thread
I am eyeing you up
the way Smugglers eye up cargo
the way Kings draw up maps
the way salt melts in water

& the way books looked and felt
has always been important
so you must know
my mother read me Ruskin as a child.



Tell me, friend
could we be Northern lights
by whom & what was the last film you saw
Woody Allen,
Wim Wenders,Gatsby.
lets make a list
have you seen
'Goodbye, Lenin'
it's hilarious.
tell me of yourself

Berlin, Berlin
einz zwei drei
no, this is not the Polizei

or Blitzkrieg grandmothers
just hide and seek
Do you like gingerbread
Why is my neighbor called  Pete.

* Rene Descartes - 1596-1650, french philosopher
* Ariel - Ariel, a magical spirit from Shakespeare's ' The Tempest'
* Ruskin is one of Rembrandt's favorite authors
* I used to live in Berlin
* One, two, three, no this is not the Police
Please be kind. This is a highly personal poem. There is more to it but it's too long to post in one go. It's the true story of my love for a fellow poet & how I wandered 3 days & nights through the town of Bristol in the rain, without sleep, calling his name & later ended up in hospital against my will for what they called psychosis just because for a while I was scared for my life. A diagnosis I hope to overturn someday. The poem starts off talking about the hospital. At about this point I told Rembrandt of my love & of my tragic experience & he rejected me. This was 2 years ago now & I'm still trying to get over it. I hope to publish this poem someday as testimony to my love for R. & this experience.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
qiss kiss ts'kammen
ordeal of the dyslexics.

****** innuendos aplenty:

i cycled with a rucksack full of empty cider bottles
and one tiny 35cl where whiskey would
otherwise be found... i have a fetish for recycling,
a fetish for recycling, not owning a car but rather
two bicycles, long walks in the forest alone,
scratching my head and pretending to braid parts
of my beard: rather, pinching it and twisting the pinched
part so it might appear that i have saber-teeth either side
of my chin...
                   little pleasures...
i would otherwise be known as a: KLOSZER...
KLOSZ... lampshade... kloszer is a derogatory term
for someone in Eastern Europe who collects empty bottles
from skips to later bring back to a shop
to get his WACŁO (VATSWO) - i guess i imagined this word:
in the olden days of the early 1990s...
us boys used to play during the summer running mayhem,
on our breaks we'd go to the shop and buy
TURBO gum, chew chew chew...
and have a little prized paper of a car,
and we used to buy lemonade, later pepsi...
if we bought a lemonade (always in a glass bottle)
and drank it on the spot, returned the bottle to the shop...
we weren't charged extra for the drink...
but if we decided to buy a glass-bottled drink and not
return the bottle on the spot? we'd get charged extra:
glass was precious under communism...
KLOSZER? the person who would scout the urban
environment and pick up leftover glass bottles
for a drink of *****... but i'm recycling and i feel mightily
proud of... "proud"... of this Achilles heel...
baron of crashing chandeliers...
                     but it wasn't raining when i performed this task...
when i cycled to the VAPE shop on North St.
inquiring... i was giving this ASPIRE Typhon 100 as
a present... but the more my lips and breath snuggle on
this **** no smoke comes out... and the smoke is harsh...
coils?! coils?! over-used coils?
i walked in to the shop with the sort of would-be
girlfriend with piercings and tattoos
   and all that jingle at the counter... some random guy
sticking around for too long, i broke his train of thought...
i was trying to break past the smoke pretending
there was a dead carcass in the room and instead of smoke
there were flies... **** me... i'm looking for a new coil...
new coil she says... she starts rummaging...
it started raining by then...
           she picked up a £15 packet of five filters... coils...
PnP-VM6... like this sort of detail actually matters...
i ask her... so how do you change them?
she replies: you just pull it out...
so i pull it out... oops...
                     *** scene worded...
my flask is full of blueberry oily liquid... it spills...
all while there's this: now turning into a creepy guy
in the background obviously not buying just
trying to work his game with this woman behind
the counter... the liquid spills...
playful innuendo conversation: oh... i'm not intimidated...
i have underperformed in my life...
not exactly premature *******... it's just when
she's the madam of the "parlour" and i have no energy
and i need to chop my **** off and replace it with a *****
the fluid spills my hands are greasy
she tells me that she'll get the tissue...
oops... once more... obviously it was a super-charged
***-metaphor...
i can't remember the last time i was called HONEY
and the whole affair was brushed off so easily with
***: in my mind, guiltily displaced...
   i bought the filters and pushed when the sign on
the door indicated PULL...
as confused as anyone might be...
when, where? apart from a VAPE shop will you get to pull
out an intricate part of a tool...
spill juices and have a woman retort with: let me get you
some tissues... i mean... that's super-charged Freudian
forbid might have any choking-jokes aside beyond
the already made via innuendo...

i'm richer than the rich having none of their worries
or the follies,
i do own what the rich own: and for that i am
rich in not having to worry about owning
things that might cause me to worry -
                   if it might be only for a minute or two:
this moulded heap of cow dung
    and mud - and milk and water -
   leave behind all the chains of gravity and marry
air: marry air and rise higher to the highest
point - touch the membrane where air disappears
and what is left is the vacuum where stars dictate
what is and what isn't...

or to better translate...

    reading one poem: Zbigniew Herbert's
   Former Masters while listening to Faun's
Sonnenreigen

and as if by magic my knowledge of English
disappears in my mind to a silence...
eaten up twice, ejected thrice!

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

dawni mistrzowie
obywali się bez imion

        (in der goldnen morgenstund
     ziehen wir aus des tales grund)


   ich sygnaturą były
białe palce Madonny  (und wir tanzen
                                               froh hinein
      in den frühen sonnenschein)


albo różowe wieże
   di città sul mare    (hoch hinauf auf bergeshöhen -
                      
  a także sceny z życia
   della Beata Umiltà      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)


   roztapiali się   (lasst uns feiern
   w sogno              (             diese zeit
miracolo                  ( die der sommer
     crocifissione              ( hält bereit...)

    znajdowali schronienie
pod powieką aniołów        
                                                (du lässt deine raben ziehen
                                               in die felder golden stehen
                                                und das helle lichte rad
                                                dreht sich über lughnasad)


   za pagórkami obłoków
w gęstej trawie raju
                                                (muzik gemisch nach chor)
   toneli bez reszty                                      "
w złotych nieboskłonach                          "
  bez krzyku pzerażenia                            "
bez wołania o pamieć                                "
                         ­                                             "
   powierzchnie ich obrazów                    "
są gładkie jak lustro                 (es war nun ein
                                                             ganzes jahr)


nie są to lustra dla nas      (seit ich dich beim tanze sah
   są to lustra wybranych      (allzu oft in langer nacht)
                                                 habe ich an dich gedacht)
....

     sprawcie niech spadnie ze mnie
wężowa łuska pychy           (könig sommer führt den tanz
                                               dem ich folg im blütenkranz
                                               und so dreht sich unser kreis
                                               in der alltbekannten weis')


  niechaj zostane głuchy
   na pokuszenie sławy    (du lässt deine baben ziehn
                                           in die felder golden stehen
                                              und das helle lichte rad
                                              dreht sich über lughnasad)


/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

ehemalige meister
sie lebten mich selber
    ohne namen

       (w porannej godzinie, złotej)
    pull us from the grand valleys...
oh ****... incursion of the English:
the red-coats are coming!

       ciągnąć nas z wielkich dolin...

   ihr unterschrift war
weiß finger Madonna  (i my tańczyli
                                               radośni zu-hausen, W
                                 wwww to:
schdat:  frühen-para-freeze: fruit:
early... sonnenschein - sun-lighting
oblivion... sun-glee: shine...)


oder rosa türme
   di citta sul mare    (wysokie
                 ÚP z  
wyżyny górskie -
                      
  und auch sZenen mit leben
   della Beata Umilta      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)


geschmolzen sich   (liście nas świętować  
in sogno              (             ten czas
miracolo                  ( there the summer, to i too
                                           that: there, the: to i too:
                                        ta jedyna stokroć:
                                         zerk chłodem oka: powieka...
                                   okno na świat... rano:
                                              i modłem: terz:
                                          anatomia bosa noga...
                                    dzicz: bosa noga boga...
rap rap... all that rap might bring to suffice:
the polyglot presence of an African incursion
into Europe... mumble mumbo jam: tát tát... jum-b'oh!

a thought experiment one awry: trying to exclude
English from my psyche for a little while
proved insufferable, even if listening to a song
on Deutsche and reading a Polieren script...
sneaky ******* has a way to return...
i wanted to keep a perfect translation
of: reading a script in Polieren while listening
to a song in Deutsche...
subsequently translating the read Polieren
into Deutsche and reimagining hearing Deutsche
al Polieren... not in the right interest of
the English philosophy ("esoteric aesthetic")
of queuing... ****** just butter in: elbows held high!

SMUTNA SUKNIA: OGIER: PEJCZ!
   co stonoga-noga-o-gołą: nogę...
widmo... język... mów a mowa...
                                     bzdeta: mów!
ogier: stonoga... wilko-kroć...
  step... mowa: noga... ogień: zór...
jęk: kleṅska: ogień: ozór...
                            język: ksieżyc...
ogień: rosputsta: i nadal mi brak słów!

     crocifissione              (trzyma gotowość...)

    sie fanden zuflucht
unter augenlid auf engel        
                                                (wypuszczasz swoje kruki
                                               by stanąć na złotych polach
                                                i koło jasnego światła
                                                zakręty samo-w-się nad
                                                lughnasad!)
 ­                                     

   hinter hügel wolken
in der dicke gras auf paradies
                                                (muzyka­: tylko muzyka,
                                                     bez, słów)

   sie ertranken ohne der rest                    "
im golden himmelneigung                       "
  ohne schrei auf grusel                             "
ohne anruf um erinnerung                       "
                                                               ­       "
   oberflächen ihr gemälde                        "
sind glatt wie spiegel                 (to był jeden dobry
                                                           ­  cały rok)


nien sind dies spiegel für uns
   sind sie diesser spiegel die ausgewählt

                                               (odkąd ja i ty na tańcu okiem wgląd
                                               także często w dłuższej nocy)
                                               miałem ja, myśl twoją)

....

     mach es möglich lassen werde fallen
    von mich
serpentin schale auf stolz  
                           (król lato prowadzi taniec
                           za którym podążam w wieńcu kwiatów
                           i tak obraca się nasz krąg
                           w znany sposób)


  lassen ich werde bleiben taub
   an verlockung von / auf
                       RUHM        (pozwalasz odejść swoim dzieciom
                                              stanąć na złotych polach
                                              i koło jasnego światła
                                              odwraca Lughnasad -

                                      
płuco - singular... plural?
   płuca... lungs....
    garden of breathing!
soul always escapes the noun...                       

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

just to double check, translating from ******
to German and German to English,
that how i would have otherwise arrived
on these shores if my only mode of transport
was the tongue:
if i had no legs and perhaps no eyes...
if i were an idea of English that could express
it as I, Ja, Ich...
        and, yes, theirs'...
       iota > whatever might come after...

ah! this is one of those thought experiments!
it has to be! i'm excited!
i'm truly awakened!
this muddle of memory, dream, imagination,
reality a sprinkle of words and hey presto!
starved from images having moved
from the Age of the Image
to the Age of the Music...
it's so simple...
once upon a time you could only hear
music if someone played it good
or you played it badly...

yet when someone wrote a word...
or when someone painted a painting...
it could be written once
yet preserved by time
by this ingenious overcoming of God
(no, not man)
and if god "wrote" mountain man "wrote"
Pyramid,
if god "wrote" river man "wrote":
boat bridge watermill...
if god "wrote" forest man "wrote":
pluck out these trees stop looking
for berries and mushrooms...
look for grass, edible grass! find me arable
land that's not a desert!
of once mountain ranges that passed
from time into non-history
    into keepers of time by the whims
of the fluted wind...
                  
by wind my breath...
by my breath the decay of creative rust...
     i can only create dead things...
with me the power of death-creativity...
i invented the stirrup with me gone
the horse might finally not graze so easily
after the work of civilization has been done...

only then might the four horsemen
come with me dead and the stirrup
   i can only create dead things...
i am the death-creativity...
with me there will not need for the fork
or the knife the spear and the rope
upon waking a new world
i will only know words like mountain
apple tree i will know the word cloud
i will know to say the sea and that sea
i will call the caspian sea: sea...
and the atlantic sea: sea...
    and i will call the Danube the Oder
and the Oder the Vistula
but i will not know what is Danube or Oder
i will be unable to say or dream or conjure
a fork without: the fork
i will be in Paradise...
i will not know the concept of ******
because there will be no word for ******
there will be no Madonna or pregnant woman
there will be no foetus there will be so many words
missing! so many words will be missing...
all the basic words of coordination
will be there: and the Highest Abstracts
will be there: will, hope, dream,
    there will be there: be, am and i,
             there will be: because, are you,
there will be giggle and there would be crying,
there would be sad and there would be happy...
there would be: because and after and by
and there would be...
there would be no knowledge nor anything
concerning grammar...
this revision of "vocabulary" would imply
there being no real vocabulary,
a dream-world vocabulary of:
if said thing goes not exist... there's no word for it...
there would be no word: hammer
because there would be no need for hammers
indeed: nails...
motion of hammering...
there might be a rock and a trick of a hardened shell...
there would be no word for distance:
mile... by looking upon the sun...
there would be the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee... there would
be no Night no Nothing
    no Night in this Hanging Pyramid of Babel...

there would be no Moon or Sun
only the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee...
Glee? SH.... what's SH in shIMMER?
what's IMMER?
(oops... a Socratic stumbling block)
   immer... ALWAYS...
      what's SH+H? shh? be quiet always?!
SH... sound, vibration is sound...
            shh! yes: i'm telling you: it's going to be
like that, always...
   promised you 72 virgins?
wouldn't you just want your mind un-muddled?!
what's un- and muddled?
un- is not... not of when coupled to a noun
that works like a verb... doing the muddling...
medley muddling mummifications: toilet... paper...

toilet? no... no knowledge of toilet in "heaven"...
no paper too...
     word... what's word?
God... what is God... no God...
word is the a priori already invested crown
of curtailing words to begin with...
not imitation sound: __S

ah... sobering up... i love this bouncing along of English
dynamic like everyone is invoked to be involved...

                                          Z__­___

that's how the West met the East in writing

Z_________S

my "god" will be the word ONOMATOPOEIA...
and his son will be MIMIC
and his wife will be NĀMÉ
                        alternative written by angels
as NAMEH... because by then only angels will have
knowledge of the clue, not God,
of YHWH... YHWH will become as comical
as the 21st graffiti spray-painted by some boy
in the outskirts of London...
this scribble should have been preserved by the angels,
but like Prometheus, the arch angel Samael
brought down this scribble...

they brought the mummies and their hieroglyphs
that turned out to be Emoticons...
the Egyptians had two brothers...
the brother Aztec who copied the eldest
brother, Egyptian in constructing the Pyramids
and brother of the Great O of the Orient
who squinted his eyes with avarice and lineage
and said: i'll write like you, i'll see through you...
you give me mummified bodies
i'll give you skeletons...
the Aztec was the youngest,
the Egyptian the Eldest...
  the Khan was in the middle...
and Khan was right... he employed a pre-digitalisation
of scripts... imagine throwing
the letter G into Egyptian hieroglyphs...
some ****** did that to Khan's great counter
of hieroglyphs full bodied...
to hieroglyphs pure skeleton...
prior to Latin: not even Greek was a skeleton-key?
what? letters marrying numbers?!
unheard of?

1111111... one... lllllll (little l)... IIIIIIII (big iota)

imagine dropping a latin letter into Egyptian
"script"...
look what happened when someone dropped
something foreign into
Chinese hieroglyphs and so was born
Katakana... Chinese hieroglyphs came first...
then came Katakana...
then came the elevated:
if the story is true... and the Austrians
think themselves better than the Germans...
someone gave birth to the scribbles...
Korean came last...

       that feeling you get when you're trying to look
for an actor's name:
he playss the role of Grand-Duke?
Emperor? of the Habsburg Dynasty...
the elder brother of Marie Antoinette...
beautiful actor...
                          lips like purses...
who threw that ******* bone against the Chinese
hieroglyphs that spawned Japanese minimalism
that translated: ha! translated Chinese through
Japanese to Korean... split the ******* in two...
towing two! towing two!
                          Zhin Chin ****... silly!
   i'm not joking...
           Žin vs. Żyn... Rzym! Rzym... Rome! Rome!
hmm...
           Źın...          Žiń...
  
ha ha... the Nazis smoked out the son of the devil
of the people who gave them abode for almost...
whenever Poland, converted (insert a snigger...
i have the noun-spelling for it...
but not the onomatopoeia, ha ha... laughter
and rugby)...

change of direction at work...
i'm feeling an aura of: DISTANCING...
people are feeding off the appetite of me: leaving...
and their lives being over...
of course they will not be over...
they'll be feet in not worn shoes
in shoes boxes on shelves in libraries
of fickleness of the female side of humanity...
only angels should have been given
the crack-head code of the 4 letter "signature" of
YHWH... i'll give Jesus credit...
well... Beelzebub...

HANGU:L! that ingenious king of Korea
that: seeing a stick being thrown
at a bunch of sticks assembled as a shelter
of the Chinese hieroglyphs witnessed as the Japanese
folded... worked on an argument
of introspection: kept it...
hmm... what are those weird ISLADERS
******* around it?
they have the BOLD katakana
and the ITALIC hiragana...
two ******* trenches...
just let some westerner know:
the Hiroshima (katakana)
and the Nagasaki (hiragana)...

   Chernobyl and Fukushima...
the pregnant women were advised to drink iodine...
boom! boom! boom!
ergo? no real, comparatively: "boom" as boom!
or  BOOM...

it's the second morning i'm woken up from briefly dreaming...
point about dreaming? the content doesn't matter...
i'm not a hyper-focused Freud...
dreams are dreams in
how fog is fog and a hurricane is  hurricane...
dreaming heavily:
you feel exhausted if you slept for 10 hours
or 5... dreamless...
you slept: you didn't dream...
but dreams creep up on you:
they play fakery with your body:
you weren't sleeping: you were dreaming...
unlike getting blind drunk
and... sleeping: not dreaming...
with the lesser baggage(d) people...
snails? no... elephants! no ivory tusks...
already no fur... no drunks...
edible cartilage of the ears...
flapping... hmm... i might have to invent
a rug... a place to take off one's shoes...
shoe?
shoe prior to sock? obviously...
shoe prior to sock...
sexed up legs... procreation by the chemical
demise of acting...
if not sold to actors:
a god-send...
i could **** each any every ugly *****
but... god almighty... the impossible feats...
with Xerxes on your back?
the second battalion ambush of Greece?!

currently as is "currently": and, ahem... "history":
a history of plug-hole psychology
of inescapable Darwinism: cuckoldry...
or Plato's ***** joke about the feminism
of Hindus and their tired, wasted concern for Hygiene...
they bathed with the dead...
so the dead came and ate up the living...

for the past days... of note... two...
upon waking i hear my name being called:
Mateusz!
not twice, thrice, just... once...
i rush down and ask my mother: have i overslept?!
did you call me?
the replies: no... i haven't called you...
why am i: Matthew?
                     i don't think i'm: Matthew Smith
or a Matthew Czopek or a Matthew Eschlert..
or a Matthew Matthews...
why was Jesus Christ not Jesus ben Josephus
ben Matthias?
                i wonder... not really: "wandering"...

it was but a little nugget of inspiration of marijuana
and i went off the tangent...
i would not replicate the original ******
poem into German
   and the German song into ******...
because... springboard og ingenuity
English woke up!
as if: spontaneously...
i can't appreciate poetry written by
mono-linguists or ****-up: kissy: tut-tut..
smooch kiss-up immigrant ****-wits
of: this is only a Lingua FRANCA...
"franca"... a tourist-tongue...
it's a ***** tongue...
people speak it, leave it, abandon it...
sometimes perhaps frame it...
it's a tongue of commerce and Babel
and... at the end of all the tongues coming
together to speak it...
a rather: unsatisfying tongue...
over-salted... over-pompously-self-solidifying
complicated-soliloquy... solipsism...
something this: that: self-
    +-evidently apparent that children ought to
be teaching this modus operandi... *******... ha ha!

letter will not be know since words will not be known,
we will, although know words, that will be sounds
not scribbled down, imagination will be
nullified and nothing will be born with sleep
and dreaming will be alien to us,
since we will not be myopic
*** will be friendship and: we will know not
the word for tool and the specifics of ingenuity
and genius...
there will be no word for man...
and there will be no word for woman
and there will be no diatribe of death and child...

my uncle is in hell and i can almost count
this auditory hallucination:
i will have no concept of auditory: because i heard...
within the non-existence of my bones
and body and blood and brain and heart
in the water and earth turning to air
with each breath...
i will not hear... how my uncle: calls for me...
and how did you live with your mother,
when she aged to a nearing rot...
i lived with them and not people i would exchange
for a properly working bicycle-lock...

for each ******* i would replace the glorious
half hours i had with them
the months i spent with my supposed "lovers"...
i'd take one half hour with a *****
to replace the courting with said woman: unsaid:
to procreate and teach "my" children:
children of the times... flawed lessons
of the march, ancient march of typology
and non-writing and Time as Dust...

am i to help you when i implored the non-existent
deity into my *****,
indirectly you might implore for me:
will i reply to the heaven sent:
what am i to do?!
do as i did: absolutely nothing and nothing too,
that's twice that's hardly not a scone
scuffed and chained to Baron Zung...

            speak two tongues and tease a third...
come the fourth... letters have to turn into images...
in this heaven of no sheltered virgins..
in my noun-basket i will not have words
like pen, or: boiler, roof, eyeliner,
i will not have:
          screen, cinema, actor,
           philosopher, poet, psychologist,
soul: i'll have my self-eating cannibalism of breath...
verbs will merge with nouns
and the only nouns worth existing thereby will
be: specified and "corrupt" by a localised
specialisation:

                 god will be ONOMATOPOEIA...
the son will be MIMIC
and there: within the confines of said time
MIMIC will battle Chimera...
MIMIC will look alike: Chimera
but Chimera alphabetically:

    CHIMERA = ACEHIMR

                   the dead are not so displeasing
when it comes to the living-as-if-dead...
and there are plenty of those
living such: body-and-soul-crushing...
no... i couldn't imagine myself marrying
a troll... just to somehow oddly fit it...
i'm not going to reply to a message:
me and Nicki... says Frankie... are over...
reply: to what? and did you hear
my side of the story? no? no?!
i don't have to hear your side, either!
oculus per oculus!
like for like:
dislike for dislike!

           i'll wait... i'm not actually waiting
for anything other than:
can you please leave me alone?
i'll reply you whenever i feel like it...
i don't feel like
wanting human connection for at least
two days...

there's a hell and a privacy one earns to have
earned it that one rarely wants to
have it made public...
albeit in the "public anonymous"...
all the more willingly... since no immediate
consequences are to  be met: face-to-no-face...
tired of replies...
walking lesbians into the night
is like pretending to not walk
cows into the slaughterhouse...
ego-***** replacing what once was?
Plato the Plumber and the blocked toilet
of reincarnation...
i'm done with pride... Herr Dapf...

             for the waiting to be dead,
falte der primast schattierung:
für das Warten tot zu sein:
ich möchte auch tot sein...

   a death with the hollows
of the hallowed wooded emptied bark....
suffer the sound of a thunder-stroke...
donnerschlaganfall:
all aligned with things living...
nearly: or waiting to be towed toward
A... death...

           morgen?
                          tòmāté...
*******: SPUD!
           morgen butter-kneaded? by the hollows
of said, suggested juices..
my knees are not enough:
meine knie sind nicht genug!

— The End —