. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-naked,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?

...

   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
repeat...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
beau-ti-ful!
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
           magic!
                    
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
delight...
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
so?
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
island-folk...
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...
but...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -


*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                  
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      0.666...
      well: to the given extent:
1.666666(7)....
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
          
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
her?
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
otherwise:
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
    
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
love...
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
preserved?

early on i left an imprint for me to remember,
kinda like 2 x 2, equating to 4,
not as simple with words:
i like this dialectic between Dionysian and
Apollonian attempts to express aye arr parley!
shake the pine trees to get the toothpicks
like you might get a mojito, onward! toward
El Dorado! transgressing 24 hour hours
and you get the flavour:
first beer in in from dieting, oh ****, it's bitter,
second beer, mm, sweeter... then the headline
of whiskey and coke... Kazakhstan nice... yok sh'eh mash?!

three movements working their way,
those conquered and exposed to direct roman rule,
presiding over the "charm" with roads, western europe,
now they're so pride to reach that far back,
mention Boudica, one, more, *******, time!
i'll give you Britain that made Louis XIV
the peasant king at Versailles, and Charles II
wise with a Guy Fawkes firecracker... mm, guess
it happened here! in the yeast of a baker's
reincarnation via Malachi's heresy:
Elijah coming soon? Elijah not coming any time
you blunt sword of monotheism excluding
the chance of many, democratic influences!
either the fish or the aquarium...
the aquarium... a billion of them plus Islam will
be anarchic China, people never wish for better,
they only wish to better themselves,
including the social strata stampede that's necessitated
in the process... scientific positivism of Enlightenment
died, the absolute necessity (god) / the absolutely
necessary thing became trapped in the Bermuda
or the Copernican triangle, no good for crossing
oceans, just ably whirling east to no east outside
the atmosphere, try me with two thing:
Copernican vectors with a stable point constantly moving,
rather than sunny, constantly expressed economically
as usurper against usurer and the university grant
of simony, although worthy of an actor to spread
charitable work and paedophilia in Asia dubbed
Portuguese Missionary - well i'm sure the apologetics will
come, my neighbour hugging her dog watching television,
closest kin of the genesis story having secondary reminders
determining whether the lie was white or instructive,
a joke or seriousness - indeed entombed in treating these
words as a holiness worth for all the present religious attire.
absolutely necessary Kant said,
he also said: you said omni- etc., indeed you're on a
roundabout of intellectual yawns, there's nothing new here!
i need god as a concept of vectors and cursors, mediating
more than the caging of man's affirmation of himself
with Freud... the sounds and equally shared optics
need to accommodate a oneness, god is a predicate
of essential function: a. the triple affirmative:
i, thought, existence... something to concern myself with,
b. the duo affirmative:
denial, thought, existence... the arithmetic goes further,
i am writing quickly hence i will not brood over,
except a comparison in cinema, the film *hostel (2005)
and pretty much all of Hollywood's 1970's grit output...
take for example Al Pacino in the panic in needle park,
you know what i see? modern american interpretation
of what eastern europe represents, the farts
leave flamboyant Amsterdam hopeful for Slavic ******,
they come to Slovakia, and it hits them,
the passive lack of jealousy and need to impress
building a chrysler building, the oddity like landing on mars...
but it's already been done with, New York in the 1970s,
the same slavic grit, even the way the cinematography looks
like the colours were shaded with a peppering of sand...
new york in the 1970s is like Eastern Europe in
the horror set in 2005 in Slovakia... globalisation's paranoia,
there are still people out there who we can't ascribe
metaphors to being exclusive: no iron lady lifted the
iron curtain, the iron lady had an iron skirt, and she
couldn't lift that up either... Churchill puffer a cigar
and a million bees emerged heralded by Edward the Confessor.
that's the relation though, Hollywood's 1970's urban grit
and what the tourists encountered in Slovakia in 2005,
a sleepy kingdom, 2nd Mongolia, second to none,
which i beg to differ with, given the Scots were tight
stretching 2 pence copper coin to invent copper wire
and the Swiss (also in hilly surroundings) have us
elaborate paedophilia via Nabokov catching butterflies...
hardly two mountain ranges and hardly two plateaus.
it's called exotica these days... yep... the dissection of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth and the emergence
of both Lach, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Latvian, Estonian
and White Russian is what the Czech say made them
speak both cesky and saksonski... tseba! holy roman
prague ****, disintegrated into the Austrian intervention...
very much as if: thank you for defending Vienna from
the Ottomans, Jan Sobieski.
but the Jews got reparations at the end of the ordeal,
and western Europe received the Marshall Plan...
eastern Europe received Marx... too proud they said,
it's not exactly Mama Russia surrogate,
it's Papa Khan also... moon gall! no news from Mongolia
i hear, sooner a tale from an American zoo
where a retired silver-back dragged a baby from
drowning in an inch of water, hero shot,
where were the parents? a four year old can hardly
sit on a kitchen stool let alone climb over zoological
fortifications... ah the blessing given unto man
by Iblis to ape ably a delay he has no chastity over:
if Iblis defended his pride, then man can but
defend his chastity - Iblis was given a longer time-frame,
man was given a shorter time-frame, Iblis'
choice expands furthest into myth, man's choice
implodes further into repetition - for Iblis' mistake
was but one, when knowing of man's aplenty;
it is said that when a man is to become a father,
he relives his childhood - legality i say would have
obliged me, but pride took no notice of symbols as signatures
of such love, especially given the expenses,
or as in the supermarket today, the cashier invested ?
into the one buying the goods:
- where is she? you're not together any more?
- oh, she's moving to York, it's her work, she has to.
- you're not moving with her?
- well, it's only for 2 years, and then she'll be back,
  training, it will take her 4 months...
na'h ah... bye bye...                       she ain't coming back...
tell you what mate, keep a cat, the most selfish animal,
bestia ex solipsism - no necessary petting by constantly
showering it signs of jealousy and ownership and upkeep,
as if having to punch a gorilla to hold hands.
i love feminism for one thing only:
it made sexism a branch of Darwinism, *** warfare...
in relation to me? two girls chatting away:
- *******! how could he leave you!
- but he did!
- what ***** made him do it!
- philosophy!
don't get me started on those who read very little
and can't allow philosophy a poetic form, and necessarily
have to plagiarise Aristotelian stylistics to be considered
philosophy (albeit only in scholarly musings).
i'm sure it was something about the fruits of our
presupposed wisdom that bore knowledge that individuated
us, to the point of extremes, as hardly scraps for
vultures, to no animal nobleness, parasitic amongst each other,
defining the 16th century or such desires to keep
afresh, minted and pampered for the next cohort of dupes...
some find the memory of dogs towards us keener
than our fellow men should wish to share...
the animal domesticated and not eaten is seemingly our
prefect to walk toward a seize-less craft of un-exhausted thought,
only un-exhausted because of missing interaction,
say there, is that Hegel's mirror (master) and narcissus (slave)?
the emergence of these belittled nations is clear in
western europe, the bombing of Libya,
the usurpers of Syria, the once conquered having a taste
for empire and colonial rule think they cherish
the biblical conundrum when the resurrection was inclined toward
the lands Sven and Mietek - toward the lands
of conquerors and the ones converted -
four movements thus (sketched):
a. sonata: βορας ηλιος - μακεδων να ινδια
b. adagio: βιργιλιος ως καντηνoν -
                  μεσoγειος: μαυρος (ex),
κoκκινος (ex), ειρηνικoς (ex),
ατλαντικoς (ex), βoρειος (ex), βαλτικη (ex),
south a poet, north a philosopher,
from only one sea came two oceans and many other seas
to sustain the thirst for seawater among men!    
c. scherzo: Casimir the 3rd welcoming the Jews.
d. sonata: an die mitternachtfreude - more like a calm
before taking up the arms.

This generation is the selfie nation,
Taking pictures of the dying, digitization,
This generation is the generic nation,
Cancelling history and subjects, Salvation,
This generation is the death nation,
Being overweight is healthy, becoming purgation,
This generation is the stronger nation,
Deeming everything offensive, becoming manipulation,
This generation is the hateful nation,
Hating the own agnations,
This gerenation is the end nation,
Pushing and pushing, damnation,
This generation is the promoting nation,
Gender Swap, ***, paedophilia, pushing all these, Arbitration.
This genernation is the activism nation,
Save the Earth, making change that still damages the Earth, ruination.
This generation is the we won't do this nation,
Won't go to war to fight for others, pure negation,
This generation is the nation,
The eldery generation regrets fighting for their foundation,
This generation is the Anti-Homosexuality nation,
That still disowns there child for there sexuaility, Affirmation,
This generation who is fighting LGBTQ Rights Nation,
Hating those who refuse to date the same *** hating religion, so **** condamnation.
This generation scream Black Lives Matter Nation,
Reducing Police Brutality, improving lot more crimes, congratulation,
This generation fighting for women right nation,
Taking away male rights, instead of alterations and collaborations.
This generation is the older nation,
Bullying, lies and caring nation, Allocation,
This generation is the end nation,
Death filtration of the world's creation.
This generation buid this nation,
They have to learn to live with the cermation.

When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.

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The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe


Explanatory Note:

I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading  Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:

The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation."  "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused.  It stinks.

Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.

Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site.  I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.

May God have mercy on us all.

there was a period in time,
when i focused on two words:
and made them relevant punching
bags...
using the definite article i called
them:
   the reflexive         /      the reflective...
strange "dichotomy" pivot to
conceive...
   but i managed...
        philosophy perhaps begins
with awe... but it sure as **** ends with
a vocab. fixation, vocab. being
the foundation...
  the reflexive / the reflective belong
to a quadratic foundation,
two words are missing...

       favorite gig? tool, glasgow...
could have been wolfmother in edinburgh...
but, see...
  tool, glasgow...
a german girl...
  she was thirsty, the maggot pit
was getting crowded...
plastic cups of water were being
passed...
   there was the crushing sensation...
of beta males...
i gave her some water
from the passed plastic cups...
i drank some myself,
i passed the cup behind me...
after a while we started mingling:
i.e. kissing...
         never miss an australian curly
haired afro from australia in
edinburgh: if you can help yourself...

after the gig she just stood there
like a mute madonna
waiting for me pick her up...
did i?
       the *** would have probably
been great... but the kiss...
in the moment?
   that's what kept the memory
alive...
       again...
there was a time when i:
why isn't squash an olympic sport...
why does baseball,
rugby... have precursor justification
of olympic sports status
over squash?
   i liked playing squash...
  fun sport...
               all you need is a cube canvas...
i still remember warming up
the rubber ball, till it became soft,
before you could play a game...
   managing hyper-geometry
while smashing the ball against
the side-walls...
     god... so much more fun worth
of a game compared to tennis...
it's... radical!                      3D!

so came the reflexive "contra" the reflective...
a case closure of:
react to it immediately (reflexive),
or?
   react to it by stalling, allowing the ontology
of man to "pleasure" of thinking:
i know that thought is regularly dissociated
from ontology,
gimp-strapped to pure empiricism:
no god: immediate reaction...
    with not god: all you can "eat" /
spreschen dynamics...
       if god doesn't exist...
speak whatever you want,
as much as you want...
     but, to me? god is the source
of thought... hard to find a thinking man
in a godless society...
thinking goes out of the "window"
including "a" god... or: the plural
variation of splintered ambitions,
ambitions and authority...

    mit meine liebhaber wie die
mund: ich leben alles dinge,
              drapiert in quecksilber,
   durch die licht sie umhüllt...

    i already had a narrative...
well that's lost... but with my love for
for the deutzschezunge:
   nein engländer kam
mein weg...
           außer etwas blöd
                    amerikanisch...
    geschätzt sack nase in überall...

deutsche: nutzen englischgrammatik...
   "hoppla"!
             ficker besser sprint!
              
   the quadratic still remains...
reflexive (oh oh, it begins....)
             readings books is a "b'ah b'ah"
sheepish: b'ah b'ah bad "thing"...
less worth of stutter...
safe compounds of the rich....
looking in, aren't you the lucky ones?
i guess you are...

             but then again: i guess
you're not part of the garden state
project... ******* fannies...
***** go ****?!
      **** offs....

   heideggeer...
                qabbalah...
                         20th century peoples,
associated with the reflexive
sentiment(s)...
             imitation...
what is imitation when lacking
intimidation?
                  ah....
the reflexive "aspect" is stimulation...
can't exactly stimulate upon
a "gratification" of: the algebra of x...

we live in times of contra-stimulation...
simulation prone...
when "once upon a time"
the reflexive,
  when "once upon a time"
the reflective....
when thinking was allowed...
and god was disavowed...

what thinking?!
              there's as much of god in
the "discussion" as there's thought...
atheism gave birth to the sophists...
    what would the rekindled
variation of the belief in the gods
revel in, sophistry contra solipsism?
bate nook and a boredom
affair of atheism...

              the reflexive: imitation /
intimidation... stimulation...
             the reflective: imagining /
         coerce...
                simulation...

these days people are not exactly
prone to 19th century into 20th century
translations of stimulation...
   stimulation: being a reflexive term...
these days?
   people are more prone to
the simulation, a: "reflective" term...
it doesn't have to be real to be "real"...
     people reject the "concept"
of reality like might react
to antibiotics...
   not exactly clarity borne...
       once upon a time...
  people were reflexive: stimulated...
these days?
people are reflective: simulated...
  and in the latter sense?
hardly... ever willing to be responsive...
  the crisis in england...
super-bugs... the antithesis of
antibiotics...

    hence? the missing T...
           reflexive "vs." reflective...
  stimulated "vs." simulated...
such puny thesaurus differences...

so now everything in  the deutsche
ist ****-isch?
             wow! wunderbar!
   mögen sie mögen mir!
        englischsprechendwelt vereinen!

    spät kommen

how many people can associate
this observation into their daily diet,
of the fact that
clenching your teeth,
relaxes your eyebrows,
                  from frowning?

maybe that rammstein song:
rosenrot,
     about paedophilia?
                       if you're 18,
and she's 14, and you're
                 dating her older sister your age,
but then: love at first sight
suffocates you...
    you're almost 33,
she's in her 20s...
             you kept that whole
"love at first sight" *******...
   came the weimar, berliner gay
troops...
      with their
regenbogenvorhang,
anti:
             starr,
anti:
                     streng
anti:
                 eisen, bügeln...

        kommt der zeppeline!
how many definite articles
does german please
allow to clarify? die contra der?
yes? well... that's a...
    lohnend anfang...

kommen sie,
   ich werden einst mehr....

how many people can associate
this observation into their daily diet,
of the fact that
clenching your teeth,
relaxes your eyebrows,
                  from frowning?

see... i have a fetish for german...
this english: a little bit of something,
"that", "other", "******"?
well... whatever frees me from
russian...
    i'll clearly succomb to speak
this language,
top escape the russians...
but, i just have to....
          schleppen diese deutschzunge;
ich unterlassen sie
                         mögen es...
i just became aware of the polacks...
favouring loan-words from
neighbouring canons of tongue...
i figured: the rest is history...
  to have to despair over
a sense of continuinity...
within the confines
of a biological reality,
when biological reality is currently
being undermined?
really?!
     i'm supposed to give a ****,
about that sort of *******?!
how about:
an idea transcends the confines
of biology,
what if the kantian
categorical imperative
also implies....
transcending ***,
the casual act of ***,
    the anti-darwinian aspect
of ***: *** for pleasure,
recreation, *******,
and not the origin impetus...
             what is the categorical
"imperative" of ***,
these days?
                      i'm the one who's
"****** up"?
        what about referencing cats...
reptiles in a mammalian disguise?
to bypass the misnomer...
to call red, red,
to call banana yellow,
   to call it: no black swan...
to call...
  how would one attempt
transcendence
of the categorical imperative?
misnomer, purposive,
or non-purposive,
loosely associated
with poetic freedoms to
"misnomer" /
   not address expression
of jurisprudnece,
too closely associated with
juggling a thesaurus...
                                       what now?
                  
    ich haben gelernt ihre englisch,
  jetzt ich suchen für eine flucht!
wenn nein an land,
      bei zuletzt: im mein kopf.

the ship is sinking,
the rats are bailing out first.

man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
                            or queen bee or queen ant china.

broken glass and christmas lights that don't light up anymore, i hung you about with glitter and gold, called you art, kissed your face. there were tattered things on our clothes, i spit words into the gutter and they ran down the stream into the ocean where the letters got tangled with a sting-ray, a clown fishes fins. tiny fawns painted themselves across your palms, they sung me to sleep at night, wandering down my back and across my nose when i couldn't breathe because there was something knotting my veins into pretty patterns, stopping the bloodflow and shutting down my liver slowly. ric-rac danced two-steps and alcohol-drenched cakes infiltrated tea parties where lace was all the rage and ladies always wore gloves, *** was a thing never spoken about. the fifth most dangerous city in the us took me under its wing, tucked me into train station corners while paedophilia took hold of the government and shook us soundly. people held candles into the night sky when the family was killed, when the police asked if they were involved with drugs, when tiny bodies littered the basement because they were old enough to identify the killer. notebooks and traced fingerprints hung on the walls like christmas decorations before thanksgiving, pictures of you taken in secrecy, dipped in fluid that looks black in the dark room.

i knit sweaters. they have rabbits and bears and deer on the front.

Jesus' immortal words:
"Suffer little children to come unto me"

sooner or later you get the grips of cherry-pop nudes
imagery instilled in pop music -
just because your heart
suddenly turns into
a candy-floss cloud
with a hard bit in between
the fluffy-puff - and
you'll realise your teenage idol
got laid by a cougar 40 year old:
and, h'eh, with your reality displaced
you'll be left with a choice of jugglers -
they're only entertainers,
and they have their expiry date;
i just don't see this age
of impeding concerns as the
generation that was bothered about
displacing care for politicians
with a shortened high of
being attentive to entertainers -
back when the entertainer was
a hobo, a gypsy traveller...
oh ****, art, mattered back then...
yeah, you're in my bedroom,
i'm not going anywhere,
i live in times of accepted thieving,
and exchanging music
records for the third mobile phone:
you could call it the
technological Paraolympics -
i've got legs built on stilts and
they're shock-absorbing titanium,
ever heard that Pistorius joke?
me neither... oh right: the righteousness
of the c.c.t.v. god and curbing the
total potential of human freedom?
sign me up to believe in a theocracy
in the mouth of man... comrade numero
uno! moi! omni non est uno!
moi!
          but ask a 50 year old listening
to pop music if it doesn't feel like
some sort of the 50 available shades
of paedophilia and marketing...
of the 50 asked, 49 would lie...
it's a different statement of youth...
not young punk...
      young pop: mostly feminine appellation:
because money was invented for women:
primarily. get the stranger to do the plumbing,
dream big, make a man elaborate on
a tree-house... turn into a Medusa in
social-shambles situations... dragon-lady
with patch-up *** later... or not so later...
insomnia's grand harvest of suicides...
well... within grounding of a stereotype:
money ended tribalism...
            not a negative... but it was primarily
invented by men to curate for woman's needs:
             prostitutes?
       male equivalents of billionaires-easy-buck,
    still that dream of the Hawaiian horizon
and the kiss - men? sure, shopaholics
with a mid-life crisis - women?
           centipedes on speed -
          40 pairs of shoes but only two legs.
if possible... pyjamas... a morning dress,
and afternoon dress, and evening dress...
a special occasion dress...
                      and comparably floral?
   one colour, one season, one sun,
    one repeated temperament to bloom.
well... who would have thought that
pop music was a bit like paedophilia...
god, i love shoving this fake guilt into the air...
but then again, pop has changed since
the days when someone wrote high fidelity
and ascribed the denotative status of the
13th floor elevators as akin to present-day
pop; poets, gangsters and chefs...
                   bodies and colours
in shadowy disguises: of the people from whom
dreams are born.