die flüsse aus schatten
spenden den vergessenen
wasser

isoliert von allen
lebenden um zu
tanzen

ihre silhouetten hinter
vorhängen, aufflackerndem, eine
chance

für die lebenden:
schärfen und fokussieren des
blickes

gib mir alles zurück
meine fürsorge die umarmungen
denk

nicht du würdest mich verlassen
ein dickes seil würd' ich nehmen
doch

alles zählt jetzt: keine abneigung
zuneigung die flüsse aus schatten erreichen
uns

wir können ihn nicht entkommen sie
sie sind so nahe
zahlreiche

bebilderungen unendlicher schlupflöcher
kinder erwachsene treiben in flüssen aus
schatten

der letzte vorhang
das letzte kerzenflackern
die letzte silhouette

"wir entkommen ihnen nicht" rufst du
"keine bange" brülle ich durchs rauschen
flüsse

wir werden zu einer kreuzung aus
wolf & löwin eine einheit eine
flüssigkeit

letzte echos stimmen und schatten
die flüsse verbleiben
die flüsse verbleiben

i'll be the one fattening the nationalists like
they're worthy to inherit the swine skidding
kinds of talk of the famous winged Hussar toppling
mountain in stone as in grain of sand: avalanche -
and akin to a crows' kraken bellowing: gluttonous kra!
und tod! schatten överskuggar död:
and what yearn be dripped in acknowledged European -
loftier thought than done, kindred of what's called
the civilised / colonial world - toward the auburn horizontal -
and in due bereaving: left undone, and unduly asked for:
to be grasped as worshipped, quasi Lutheran,
mingling Calvinist and Catholic... but never the love affair
of Henry VIII. so much of modern English
history is bound to Las Vegas, and so much to the Hajj toward
Jerusalem no one cares about... then so few to mind
the invasion of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth by the Swedes... because this is England,
and Cockney speaks, usurper of the royal tongue, due to pride,
due to the elephant man, due to jack the ripper and
harry the stinker... and the joyous rhapsody coming
from the lonely mile in Irish slang; or said: Mamelukes -
because the Mongols were at one point defeated -
and thus grieved the Baghdad skull with tinges of Hamlet -
oh the grand  library, what was left of it, could remain
enshrined in Texan avoidance - not to be:
Chilcot Coke - Cooled Coca and later Koala - Bruise and White -
thugs' select - later respect'ah - bony g and later bonbon
and much later bony m - and much much
later Alfonso Jalfrezi - alias gaga: and all the culinary sagas,
the Forsytes of Malta... or the Forsytes of Málaga?
i'm sure that question is all about:
                   wherever the peppercorn blows
        and wherever the sneeze deposits a hunch
toward an itchy cartilage - from an itch and a scratch:
                            a butterfly! well, isn't this
the most beautiful of all possible worlds...
sorta makes you want to get up in the morning
and say good-morning to someone.

Scherben in nem eispalast -
Konserviert und eingefasst..
Labyinth aus Licht und Schatten,
Alpträume die sich verstecken
Träume die sie versteckt halten
Den Blick zu den sternen,
Weil nur dort oben keine Schatten sind
An ins Sternbild des Drachen
Weil ich nur dort zuhause bin
Und nicht auf dieser Erde

Nein ich muss aus einer dieser anderen Welten,
Da oben bei den sternen sein -
Kann mich nicht von natur aus um diese sonne drehen,
Keine Ahnung von wo da oben ich herkam -
Oder wohin ich dabei war zu gehen,
Doch Weiß ich das es nicht hier unten war,
Sonst würde sich nicht alles hier unten
Völlig falschrum für mich drehn,
Selbst Tag und Nacht sind verkehrt ,
Zu kurz ,zu schnell und kalt -
Wie alles andere auch ,
Viel zu schnell am vergehen


Es sind nur lichtblitze zwischen all den Schatten zu sehn,
Die die Bilder ein brennen die in diesen Schatten entstehen,
Wie blitze fotos in einen Film -
Jedes davon ein Beweis,
Das ich blos gestrandet bin,
Hier wo Dämonen wie sonst engel aussehn,
Wo alles sich gegenseitig frisst,
Und allein Wahnsinn fähig macht,
das alles lang genug zu überstehen,
Um auch nur lang genug das licht,
des wegs weit genug nach oben zu sehn,
Um überhaupt heraus zu finden
Das sterne an nem Himmel existiern -
Hoch genug oben um sich zu verstecken
Vor allem was nicht fliegen kann oder
verzweifelt genug davon ist,
in realen Horrorfilmen zu stehen,
‎um auf der Flucht vor all den Szenen
‎einfach blind nach oben zu gehn,
‎wo eine wand ist ,
beginnt zu klettern,
‎um nur nicht mehr in blut und Asche zu stehen

wieso es nicht gelang
wieso es gelang

als sie mich suchten zum liebemachen
als sie mich fanden zum liebemachen

wer von ihnen sang
wer von ihnen sang

sie kamen in scharen
mit freunden verwandten
all jene damen
all jene herren

ich weiß nicht wann
ich weiß nicht wo

doch ich weiß wie
ich weiß es wie

mir ist bewusst:
dichter und autoren werden
keine liebe füreinander hegen

(poet's note: my opinion on
the last three verses above has
fundamentally changed since i been
publishing here.)

liebe mich freund
liebe mich freundin

gib mir
schenk mir
suche mich
finde mich

ich habe mich auf der suche nämlich
versucht

kennst du, bruder, den weg?
den zugfahrplan?
die bedeutung der stahlstreben?

ich brauche eine antwort von
den damen
den herren

finde mich
suche mich
verschenke mich
vergib mir denn

ich schrieb über zivilisationen
von witterung und gier

witterung und gier
freunde sind zwischen dem glitzern
auf dem fluss versteckt wie perlen

sie aufzuspüren zwischen dem wittern
zwischen dem wittern
während des witterns

ich weiß nicht ob du weißt wovon
ich rede
ich rede

aber das ist in ordnung freund
aber das ist ok freundin

wir müssen bloß bruder
wir müssen bloß schwester
fragen

sie sitzen am gleis bei den zügen
sie sind immer da
wie der

“ICH-BIN-DA” aus der kinderbibel
meines sohnes

verstehst du das?
begreifst du das?
fühlst du mich?

viele afro-amerikaner fragen
“you feel me?” wenn sie
etwas ausdrücken und teilen wollen

ich liebe
diesen ausdruck
er zeugt von
etwas gutem, das manchen
menschen fehlt

auf der brust trage ich das tattoo
welches du abschriebst
in einer stunde aus

schatten
witterung
gier
ich wollte das
ich wollte dass

du zu mir kamst
zwischen den schatten
unter der gier
über der witterung

in einem augenblick des
“you feel me”

wie unsere häute glänzten
wie unsere augen glitzerten
wie unsere hände zitterten

wie wir…

ach komm!
was sage ich dir, freund
was sage ich dir, freundin

du weißt es doch dir
ist es bewusst denn du schriebst
mein tattoo ab in

ein buch mit perlweißen seiten
ein buch mit onyxschwarzen seiten

du bist perlweiß freund
du bist onyxschwarz freundin

du bist perlweiß freundin
du bist onyxschwarz freund

ich liebe habeshas
ich liebe äthiopien
ich liebe meine frau
ich liebe meinen sohn
ich liebe meine tochter

you feel me?

Weißer Tagesanbruch. Stille. Als das Kräuseln begann,
hielt ich es für Seewind, in unser Tal kommend mit Raunen
von Salz, von baumlosen Horizonten. Aber der weiße Nebel
bewegte sich nicht; das Laub meiner Brüder blieb ausgebreitet,
regungslos.
Doch das Kräuseln kam näher – und dann
begannen meine eigenen äußersten Zweige zu prickeln, fast als wäre
ein Feuer unter ihnen entfacht, zu nah, und ihre Spitzen
trockneten und rollten sich ein.
Doch ich fürchtete mich nicht, nur
wachsam war ich.
Ich sah ihn als erster, denn ich wuchs
draußen am Weidehang, jenseits des Waldes.
Er war ein Mann, so schien es: die zwei
beweglichen Stengel, der kurze Stamm, die zwei
Arm-Äste, biegsam, jeder mit fünf laublosen
Zweigen an ihrem Ende,
und der Kopf gekrönt mit braunem oder goldenem Gras,
ein Gesicht tragend, nicht wie das geschnäbelte Gesicht eines Vogels,
eher wie das einer Blume.
Er trug eine Bürde,
einen abgeschnittenen Ast, gebogen, als er noch grün war,
Strähnen einer Rebe quer darüber gespannt. Von dieser,
sobald er sie berührte, und von seiner Stimme,
die, unähnlich der Stimme des Windes, unser Laub und unsere
Äste nicht brauchte, um ihren Klang zu vollenden,
kam das Kräuseln.
Es war aber jetzt kein Kräuseln mehr (er war nahe herangekommen und
stand in meinem ersten Schatten), es war eine Welle, die mich umspülte,
als stiege Regen
empor von unten um mich herum,
anstatt zu fallen.
Und was ich spürte, war nicht mehr ein trockenes Prickeln:
Ich schien zu singen, während er sang, ich schien zu wissen,
was die Lerche weiß; mein ganzer Saft
stieg hinauf der Sonne entgegen, die nun
aufgegangen war, der Nebel hob sich, das Gras
wurde trocken, doch meine Wurzeln spürten, wie Musik sie tränkte
tief in der Erde.

Er kam noch näher, lehnte sich an meinen Stamm:
Die Rinde erschauerte wie ein noch gefaltetes Blatt.
Musik! Kein Zweig von mir, der nicht
erbebte vor Freude und Furcht.

Dann, als er sang,
waren es nicht mehr nur Klänge, aus denen die Musik entstand:
Er sprach, und wie kein Baum zuhört, hörte ich zu, und Sprache
kam in meine Wurzeln
aus der Erde,
in meine Rinde
aus der Luft,
in die Poren meiner grünsten Knospen
sanft wie Tau,
und er sang kein Wort, das ich nicht zu deuten wußte.
Er erzählte von Reisen,
davon, wo Sonne und Mond hingehen, während wir im Dunkeln stehen,
von einer Erden-Reise, von der er träumte, sie eines Tages zu tun
tiefer als Wurzeln…
Er erzählte von den Menschenträumen, von Krieg, Leidenschaften, Gram
und ich, ein Baum, verstand die Wörter – ach, es schien,
als ob meine dicke Rinde aufplatzen würde, wie die eines Schößlings,
der zu schnell wuchs im Frühling,
so daß später Frost ihn verwundete.

Feuer besang er,
das Bäume fürchten, und ich, ein Baum, erfreute mich seiner Flammen.
Neue Knospen brachen auf in mir, wenngleich es Hochsommer war.
Als ob seine Leier (nun wußte ich ihren Namen)
zugleich Frost und Feuer wäre, ihre Akkorde flammten
hinauf bis zu meiner Krone.
Ich war wieder Samen.
Ich war Farn im Sumpf.
Ich war Kohle.

how can the one be the same as the other, when one is humble, while the other is bombastic? where one is he, who seeks to cherish emotion, while the other, to feed off a touch of marble? where one seeks a "narcissism" of shadow, the other seeks the icarus-bound: self-inviting fade of light, and subequent downfall, which no shadow dare grasp, troll-akin; who dares to touch the sun, will find no secure net of shadow to catch him, might the falling star, usurp the patchwork of safety, bound to those glorifying schatten und schweigen (shadow & silence).*

if ever "legacy" media is to remain intact, worthwhile, can i suggest a very odd but all the ever more present concept? religious of course? why are sunday newspapers the worthwhile reading material? why couldn't be have a media sabbath, say, on a monday? what the hell happens on a monday? if it isn't stale-bread, and isn't a "historogical" case of the frame within the bounds of day-to-day journalism... what does happen, on a monday? nothing! between my fingers, monday newspapers are the anorexic by compariosn to friday, saturday, sunday....

can't these ******* feel a break? can't they just, stop,
for, one, day?
              i'm sure tolstoy took breaks in between
writing one of either of his mangum opus constructs...
why can't journalists just un-plug?
it only takes one day!
       i'm not here labouring to depose
"legacy"media, i'm trying to reform it -
please, guys, take one day off...
you're being over-worked with a 24h coverage,
the british empire is dead,
the sun can somehow and in whatever
"way you think is "sudden": can, set.
you can see the night through the perspective
of a dreaming mind,
   please: let go for that one day...
give yourself rest...
the jews invented the sabbath after they
finally completed the construction
of the pyramids... they were never
atheletes... but slavery taught them:
exhert the body for the worth of a pyramid...
guess what... the jews
are no longer the really attuned intellectuals...
their ideas? culmination point maxis:
i.e. communism? failed...
   time to shove these ******* into
the roman arena and make them sprint!
   they can't compete intellectually any more,
every intellectual jest, becomes a flaw...
the jews ought to know when a new pyramid
is being given shape...
            evidently they're intellectually stunted...
they should know who the original
athletes were... who's luaghing?!
     they're laughing?
                you seeing what i'm seeing?
can they please make these as pleasant as
possible? can they at least bargain with
the journalistic branch of humanity and
introduce a day (notably monday)
when people are not informed of a
dasein* on heidegger's terms?
      can we please have a journalistic sabbath,
a day off? do we really need to be
so "well informed" every single day?
look at it this way...
   a typical sunday edition of a newspaper
will take me about 2 days to fully digest...
         and i'm talking about 70 year olds...
no, i don't have a mobile phone, i don't use
dating apps...
              i believe in the truest form of
random potential, vs. natural selection...
random potential? revival of subjectivity...
natural selection? established objectivity...
   you take the random and compare
it to the "natural": do systems and rubrics really
get a girl wet? emm.... don't think so.
her favourite song was in flames' metaphor...
mine... i'll lie about this one...
i have too many... dry **** logic's goodnight?
more likely i was "dreaming"
of incubus': wish you were here,
     and hear this: as if no one said it to begin
with the first itchy finger on this horrid
      piano of spiders attempting echo.

there was a point...
   coming from a brief member of the ****
party...
   you know... i was actually having
a justin gatlin moment when he beat
usain bolt today...
      it was poetic... the "satan" bowing
before a "god", as a "poet", how would i never,
ever, rejoice in such moments,
akin to isaiah's words: oh lucifer,
how lowly fallen...
                                 there was so much
poetic justice in the event that only took
10 seconds to complete...
  how can you now suddenly break into
a framework of milton, and side with
the boogieman?
                              kinda makes all chemists
redundant: why not give all athletes
enchancing drugs? keep the plateau, invite
the fausts!
                guess what the biggest performance
enhancing drug was for justin gatlin?
the crowds boos...
            you can't, you can't find a bigger
drug, a better drug...
                 never undermine the underdog,
the fiend, the evil, the "enemy"...
       the crowd will always loose!
                          who befell, the crowd pleaser,
or the one who hushed the crowd -
the same crowd who stayed for
                   for the medal ceremony for farah...
who won? who won?!
           who won?!
                             it would have taken
the wiser of the two bolts to have bowed out,
than to become shackled into
   a shamrock of shame -
                no one will remember the victories:
everyone will only believe in
the overcoming of the underdog -
                         no matter the number
of medals, take to the ratio of 100 victories
and only 1 defeat... people still remember
the 1 defeat... or that's how history is taught...
commentators in the present may
cite the 100 victories, build statues...
   but people, people confined to history,
remember the 1 defeat... and the confines
of sand confined to an hour glass...
                                 the rise of the loser
is never celebrated, because it is paternal...
but the fall of the champion is only celebrated,
because there is no paternity,
  not maternity invoked, only the eager
hyennas waiting, only the condors, only the crows,
only the scavengers:
     flesh of flesh, torn off, till what remains
is only but what best resembles bone.

as heidegger said in aphorism 123 (V):
  then to totter in the great emptiness and shout
once hoarse.

    i "predicted" he wouldn't win...
                jealousy? do i look like i might be
jealous of an athelete of such competence
and decision to ****** rigour?
     unless you're talking about the ability to
write after a litre of ***...
  competition wise? i'm your man...
   cheap the *****, the more i'll write...
    cheap ***** within the ratio of: rich thought;
it was a "prediction"...
        you pick up nuances...
   generally speaking, when the mob anticipates
too much, too much fairy tale, you begin
to overshadow everything with: "pessimism" -
well... because there's the story of
                  sanctity - one of resurrection -
               one of the admonishing of sin...
my admonishing of the "sin" of childhood trust /
                          friendship?
become a hermit...
            and trust, not, one, ever, ever, again;
you can't call it a competition in terms
of trust and friendship...
     but i guess the ****** utopia of gay-talk
is just that, bwest-fwend... footie-fwend...
fwend... accompleesh... leash-buddy...
drinking-buddy...
                  associate... business-partner...
   lover...
surrogate-mother-*****-homosexual-*****;
****! test me! if this isn't the ridiculous
part of even attempting to engage in
ridicule... i fold! there's not worth in making
jokes out of this verbal amazon of:
  i eat a random berry, i hallucinate,
   i eat a random leaf, i stop hallucinating...

if i were you, i'd start with incubus'
album morning view... yeah, i know,
2001 may seem like far far away... esp.
with green day's slaughterhouse "rock" anthem
regarding september...

ask me again... how does the biblical narrative
become reincarnate in the day-to-day
lives of people ranging from dust-bin men
through to world-class athletes...
don't know...
             i'm stretching another second over
having to stretch heretical yoga-poses
attempting to doubly-inflate my bladder
and stopping myself from ******* my pants.

no single man was found to be delusional, having realised the sleeping public, being, just a tad bit: un-delusional; harder still to find a "madness" in a single man, when sanity was even harder to find among the general populace; this is beyond the observation of satisfying norms; there's the rationality of a "madman" and the predator tiger, but there's always the insanity of the herd and subsequent stampede; if there was no asylum notion, believe me, madmen do not congregate... only the sleepwalking masses do; always do.

you can only understand nietzsche by reading
heidegger,
  but at the same time you have to understand
heidegger's concept of pluralism -
in that you also have to take into
account an individualism borrowed from
nietzsche, and in that, you have to attempt
nietzsche's thought process as concrete in trying
to find a bilingual liberation never achieved.
then you have to achieve the potency of
bilingualism.
          saying this much the back bile in me
is boiling, surfacing...
  the idea of a superman is not
an idea of man overcoming man...
   it naturally leads toward the notion that
the *übermensch translates into
        übermenschen -
i didn't learn this language to be:
one of its people, i learned this language
to overcome these people,
i learned this language to overcome,
overpower, overtly reign as their
schatten könig, its schwarz papst...
          delusions ready -
but i'm not buying the ******* joke...
the only reality being conceded with
the übermensch idea is in a conceptualisation
of a plurality...
hence? heidegger's advancement
of nietzsche idea in heidegger's pluralism of
of - übermenschen -
nietzsche's failure was not that
it was a case to be above man -
the idea of his individuation process was
to be opposite: to be above dei volk: the people.
you can can only realise this as a bilingual
strategist...
                  do you think i learned
the english language to merely acquire it,
rather than not perfect it, and let the plebs gain
their common sense vocab without interference?
      the plebs require the tongue being
spoken, but do you think i learned
the language to speak the pleb?
      the idea of übermensch is only
realistic in a bilingual environment,
i.e. in the übermenschen environment of
being a man, having learned the language of
the people, and having the tenacity to
overcome their "natural" competence for it;
you can only overcome man,
when you first overcome a people,
  but overcoming a people means overcoming
the language of the people,
and this means overcoming
            one's nativity -
   in that one's nativity is kept,
  but submerged in a cloud of "required"
use...
                 from what i've learned,
these people do not deserve a native tongue,
                         what they do deserve is
a spanking, a remoulding,
a chance to appease regret,
                     a chance:
        to define the purpose of
                                      repentance;
singing that ailing "holy" anthem of
saving the queen, will buy them
                       nothing more than kippers
past the gates of st. peter;
this is past thank you, past i forgive you.
past sorry, tell me a second time...
                       ******* better squeak
and call it a rubber ducky...
  before the real shrapnel beckons blitz
and blisters 2.oh.

/i couldn't stomach the burden of a perfect german, hence this, algorithmusdeutsch... then again, like the Marovigian might have said: german is perfect, in making mistakes pretending to sound intellectual, barely clinging to a razorblade, suffice to say: when drowning... but at least german, a cushion, and a pristine canvas to dig trenches, blush a zeppelin warhead plop into London cement... and then mind the Bavarian whittle shittenholen... enz... must be enz, und plu- arable... namely remnants of a day, and an unfinished crossword puzzle...                  
        
           vorher narzissus,
   schattensuchende
    klatschen ein gla-ß-ee,
und entstehen
     ein gehockt krähe-
lauren,
          sheutod...
      carboxylic açid

and all things germanic...
slingshot into elder saxon
and back into
cosmopolitan *******,
a timid fungus like a tongue
hiding in a pyramid of
   signatures in bones from
within the grave;

   hard to imagine
that it took a ******* hog snout
to become a botanical
Sherlock 'olmes...

       as ever,
   the Cockney Surd...
namely 'aching,
   which translates itself
outside of the local 'appenings...
   odd: the laugh is yet
to be perfected.

- playing the xylophone
   at the nativity play -

       schatten, schatten
  werfen on ein(e) mauer...

occupational hazard,
  like the saxon N
    in between vowels to avoid
a tongue numbing spiral,
an eye rather than a eye...
gambled through two faces:
a 6 and a 2...

lost coordination with
the poly- prefix germanic
of: the the the (point),
id est -
post scriptum:
   I'll ensure that tongue of
theirs will become a *******
saxophone,
than a timid wrigglingua testimony
of a tapeworm...

   came the pillar of Atlas
and the Zeno talltale of
Achilles and the tortoise,
before the mile became a kilometer,
subsequently
       a metre, centi-, milli-...

and 0 = the perfect divisor
     "number":

  far cry from the Kantian negation
made compact, like
everything Kantian, per se,
compact packaging,
******* tourist he would have been,
if first he left the routine,
and then Königsberg...

          last time I checked though,
I have my A through to Z...
   0 isn't exactly a number if not
a doughnut tale of a squashed
omicron...

    pity they managed to undermine
words... funny...
from words came the icon...
    oddly enough painters are
in the confines of the same asylum
criteria of desperation...

colours are apparently a tier above
words... oddly enough...
words can conjure images,
colours... a look at them being
expressed, and they thought
cubism was bad....

    ******* are all other the place...
and if they are not contemplating
punctuation marks,  
they should be showing syllables,
and if they're not even doing that,
we'll,  my friend: diacritical
marks are the highest asking...
I'd love to see a truly punctuated
painting...

   a painting is one thing:
but the work in progess to accompany
the harsh censorship of
the artistic masochism,
    is quiet another...
a painting is hardly going to be
utilised into a chair...

          sollte ihre spiegelung
   verlassen du,
     als geieraustern: innereien...
schauen ihre schatten...

as ever, within each language,
at least a few letters spare,
namely the remnants
of a once great monopoly
and power broking priesthood,

that ****** aesthetic of
epsilon and eta...
      remains of the day and
the castrato singalong
     remnants of Greek in:
the sigh in dentistry...
   prior to the sleep and the wisdom
teeth being pulled out,
asking
       the anaesthetician: quo vadis?

- because they never actually tell
you, to take treat antidepressants
akin to amitryptyline as if they're
sleeping pills...
              just before bedtime...

    a ******* knockout to boot,
and my joy at a ***** popsicle...
because I would never think
about drinking with someone,
and that misery of conversation,
or the current, generic,
exasperating poetic maroons
   without a Defoe in sight...

and word that became flesh
that became an image...
           such the poverty of language,
but words, but words they bellow
like cretins who never
saw a cow being towed into
a slaughterhouse, bellowing
a torturous epiphany too late...

orange that didn't become an Ibizian
freshly squeezed hangover cure,
and more an O'Hara opinion,
     so more to the point:
words, just words they say...

   hope to high hell and the gates
of Tartarus that I never ask such
people for directions...
   namely they'd speak that
  right is "right"
    or the upper tier of
Copernican ronin...
       flimsy ******* luck,
coming across this cult
      of aluminum wrapped
  on their heads:
           humanity reboots.

i'll write my german like my father soap operas his english, mangled, and disturbed... i mean grossly misjudged.. i mean like: did anyone really understand him? they must have since he now has a house... but then i was too lazy to begin with... which is nice, to begin with... i mean: that nice: clap clap... clap clap... all i need is a hope for encore... it's Borat pseudo Kazakh nice... i mean, i can speak the most perfect assimilation tongue for my host nation and end up on the street... just like i might become the ****** argument in germany... where i actually left my docier... now i love to write a bit of dangling ******* in german, dunno, maybe the pole in me felt like it... thankfully no knows jackshit about Polish history, or Mongolian history after Genghis Khan, therefore i'm not prone to a phobia of repeating historical demands! i mean: who the **** remembers John Casimir in the anglophone world?! umm... no one?! hurrah! we get the blond penguin tuxedo quiff juggernaut into power... but allah'u akbar... it wasn't the playboys of Dubai!

nein!
du kann nicht eine
  zivilisiert brutus,
mit verschwendenvolk
führ hyänewirbeln....
ja... art sortieren kindsouffle
wie mehrsaga...
   hinweis papa-pauß?
deine ein sauer antlitz...
ein fuchs-hyäne: herablassend,
trocken- nordpol otto theodor,
                 ein! sú!

i basically write the broken limb tongue my father speaks
on a construction site...
          i mean he speaks out of time, and sometimes
out of place...
   and every time i write his invoice i am
left heart relieved, had i a romance: i've be broken.
                        but the funny thing is,
i write this ******* and i can't even own a coffee machine
having said it...
             he speaks pish-boor english and gets a house,
a t.v. and a car....
      i write this perfect assimilate english and get
a postcard from australia: thanks, move here.
                   i'd hate to imitate the jew and turn to be
a nomad...
               but globalisation evidently demands that of me...
   it just gets boring after a while,
with all these needs and Neds trying to compete,
i just want to end up failing with fireworks...
become god at the age of 33...
                     and **** the rest of it if i should live
to be 66...
                        ah, come on man,
show some veterinary bias...
            some cult, some basis and futurism without
a regressive attitude... give the dauch the scoop...
and the lady her pooch pouch of vogue!
                  ah, then you're like me
talking german, like my father talking english...
perfectly... via fuchs-hyäne: perfect to the laugh
defining night; or licken-icken:
          für deutsche! über alles: für deutsche!
do brody, byczo jest! und nichts est!
               nienen warschau mitteklasse!
schwarz zirkusegen schatten: krächzen!
                pirdolony or-zełek twy... hujnia i motywa
      na badziewie.... mówi: matka... a potym... kórwa.
ha ha ha ha ha ha!
a po co ty i ten cymbał azjatyk? ten czambo kazak
i  pierdolony cynamon?! huh?!
po jebaną plombe, kasztan, mogiła, figa i pflaume
            i śliwowice?!
Liban na odzew reszty oliwek?! pospolity ruch?
   wnikąt rzeszy! masz! masz marsz kurwa na stambuł po wnót!
Sobieski Sobieksi i na głowie szambo!
te pizdy znów ci zawrót i chęć i nadzieją dały z
          genezą na coś by początek nie smiały miał być?
   ale tak naprawde nie tu... rogiem of warszawe roku '44...
bo wszystkich zycek wybito gazem,
gina musztardowym *smrodem... senfstinken...
                    furzschreiten...
to wtedy tak naprawde to:
tak naprawde poza Warszawą to powstanie do głuchych
          oślą mową wzdycha wzbogaceniem zdobytą
                                 psim sumieniem i czekam na zdobycz
            to zwane honor i państwo... czyli
wszystko braku na uniwerku... póki braku ideału...
no ta... cerkwiew Piłsudskiego! ach ten wąs! niby Stalin!
ale brak tego romantyzmu z nad Litwy!
co ma ten sławny wąs z pod Gruzji!
już mi miód w portkach!
       na ten twój! w ochote i zamiar tchuża i
                             żacier w mgłe i proch!
jak i w papier i piasta mrok w paproć o zacier modlitw
                         i czarów!
       kłam ty oczekiwań mioteł i motyli takich fabryk
których... kochasz...  
oj oj... wmojym gardle hydra!...
                 na tyle narodów ile da sie pokrewni nadrobić
brata i siory... tak, dam te wojenke...by tańczył mi kozak!
a o tobie wspominał mnie jakiś tajny Romon zwany Wład,
Piłat ******!
             ksywa: wampir... nie wiem...
sporo drwena na maczugi... ale nie wiem po co on chciał
  tak na ostrzyć jak na ołówki... w dupy macać?

Ich suche das Licht im offenen Feld
Doch sehe nur den Schatten
Von Bäumen hinter meinen Rücken
Meine Füsse getauft in Erdscholle
Die Fragen in mir optisch dargestellt

Nicht, dass ich den Weg verloren habe
Oder ich meinen Geist schwer
Auf mein Leben drücke

Nein, es ist die Sucht
Nach Weisheit was treibt;
Klarheit in Worten
Die Wahrheit hinter Reden
Oder das Leben nach dem Tod

Kurz gesagt, was findet man
Wenn man sieht durch das Fenster
Einer verborgenen Pforte