RECORD: FRONTIER PSYCHIATRIST?
FROGMAN: THE AVALANCHES

{. . There was a thrilled, tarried cry from behind him,
and hEarths suddenly threw themselves open.
Stings lunged. The fear was sprung.
Brads in Gjeanes and Brads in mismatched souipts.
Janets in cracks and in Jaded info attire.
Even little wild stings, tagging after their origins.
And in every mind there was a chunk of Ruler or a Toe.

Brad's and Janet's: THRILL THE INGKTROFSPLECTOR!

[ . You do not hear with your mouth.
She who hears with his mouth has forgotten the cage of her self.
You hear with your ears. .]

His reaction was automatic,
instantaneous,
Instinct.
He whirled on his heels
while his hands pulled the Colt Number 5's from their hoearlsters,
their conclusions heavy and sure in his hands.

It was Suzy,
and of course it had to be Suzy,
coming at him with her case imported.
mirroring like a fellish clown in the lowering light...
Brad peered over her shoulder like a Tackman's familiar.

"Thrill me, Johnny, Thrill me! I Heard The Word,
Ninetbeen, I heard,
and they stung me…
I can't bear it!”

The Instruments beat theire heavy,
Comic-tonal music onto the air.
Her hears flapped and she cragged
and the instruments laughed again.

The last impression on her face might've been of freedom.

Brad's and Janet's mind snapped back.
They throth fell into the data.

[ . . You do not think with your ears.
  He who thinks with her ears has forgotten the cage of his self.
  You think with your mind. .]

They've gone to the land of Ninetbeen,
he thought.
When-ever is there.

BRACHE RECORD: FOURTH-TIER PSYCHONAUTIST

you mature when petting cats... oddly enough, dogs only teach you more routine; owning a cat can make you forget that you even own a cat... it's like misplacing your house keys, and they boomerang back into your concern for them when they need something... namely you... it's completely quantum physics... do i even own a cat? don't know... next times i hear a meow, or sniff a bit of cat-****, i'll let you know.

i also like to call it: in imitation of the crow..
those black shapes perched on t.v. antennas...
just so it feels like i'm an arch,
a shadow... to toy with feeling
being *brooding... or... let's just say listening
to pop was never as difficult,
as it is now and to feel no shame...
people are more eager to discuss doing
*****-strap-on **** than say
they can succumb to the anaesthetic of
certain pop songs... so...
perched on a windowsill
in turkish akimbo -
part of me was always going to
be mamluk in how i approached
islam.... was there a bias to begin with?
perched and hooded and partially drunk
in a void-thought stupor, "acting" -
as a crow might, looking for romance...
typing at a pace that outpaces
a doctor... pecking at a keyboard...
index, peck, index, peck, index, left hand peck...
plenty of breadcrumbs where that **** came from?
in england they call paracetamol the
universal drug... cures all ills...
babe, i spent over 20 years in england
and i had to rent out a bulgar's
*****... you ain't the only delicacy
worth buying oysters for... ugh, i hate this type
of language, it reminds me of things
i should have forgotten...
   too many celts about... anyway...
but it was a fine balancing act
on the windowsill...
drunk, void, listening to pop...
   and there are soundtracks for
the afternoon, beginning with adelle...
you sort of turn into marble...
and then the odd "nervous" twitch
when you forget consciousness
   perched as you are, like a crow aching
for the opera singers to get flowers thrown at them
and, finally bow... to applause...
                  and you exit the statue pose...
   even i get as finicky as animals
wanting to say so much less:
like the animals in want of saying so much more...
i know a cat meows and wants
so much more to be said, but doesn't...
while i say too much, when in fact i want
to say only as much as the σ meow...
           and it's almost a game of intuition
when investigating animals
and that constant eye-contact to open
doors: we're almost dealing with the concept
of royalty!
or what you do with flints... sharpen them!
and i know how i'm **** schizoi that way,
and rarely but sometimes seeing a lucid
future of a **** sapiens that i like
looking into and try figuring out at becoming...
             natural divisions...
they say...
say: naturally we are math proof
to exceed in practicing it... and then dumb-look lockdown
with the word toward the heavens with head askew: huh?
no honey, tangens... a firm **** take on tragedy.
   i see them all the time, sometimes
a kestrel perches on my fence, sometimes i see crows
staging their right for authority
by picking on: search engine insert:
  bird knuckled neck perch pond...
how i remember...
****! that baking butter! stork!
yep, i can be the one witnessing the fact
that crows can attack storks!
   i just meant bent neck...
so, hum... huh huh... elvis ready...
hmph... thrill seeking, or what the french
called: finally the english, without
a stiff upper lip...
   try elvis, or how democracy is only
democracy with a history,
and quiet a lot of dead examples...
that need more resuscitation than
reincarnation... funny thing with english:
i never seem to hear it "correctly"...
american english is too nasal,
they're knitting spaghetti like wool into socks...
kluściaże...
**** me! heaven descends!
just with that, heaven made it apparent...
distinct syllables!
no games, no enligsh,
if nasal american, then overly glottal english
in the original,
   like talking with your mouth full of food...
if i'm being intimidating,
please forget me,
i once talked with a ******* addict
and she kept me interested by talking
about a lighbulb... and how to not fake
a vitamin D deficiency... like that russian girl
who said: a true sign of aristocracy is to
not ever engage in taking to sun-tans...
so all the essex suntan palours will go bankrupt
and we'll have to import oranges,
and then scrape off the zest
  and scrub it into our skin so we can look
proper Hindi, given our diet... of vindalu...
****-smearing, and gaff... those chillies in..
oh the agony, to think that the turks
pickle them and serve them in kebabs...
the agony!
          comedy and horror... the two should
never meet... thankfully they do...
                  poetry as imitation of tranquiliser...
         as a language:
english and it's ****** shrapnel of conjunctions
and pronoun disputes...
             kinda like thinking about how easily
english can become idiosyncratic
and slang, and slurr...
      it's the equivalent of a ******* drug...
i.e. an existential **** expression...
                              ah, hence the colonialism history...
well.. if i had distinct syllable indicators
that other european languages use (i.e. diacritics):
i wouldn't be speaking all acronym...
finally! the internet proved that talk is cheap...
'cos' everyone just keeps talking!
    and thankfully i just like looking at this crap
than have the throth to take it to and speak it
at a market-place, when i should have been selling bananas.

An agony of a war
Within the family,
Twelve, we were
born, the first not
I am and, the first
just I am

A bigamy,
sometimes is
raw deal and,
outrageous is always
planting, on the
farm yard of a family
tree and it's branches,
there is hatred between
brethren of the same
parental map, the
youngish feel to
count out the unyoung
for no reason but, to
take the rag coiled
the head of the
Kingdom, where all
they lives and dwell,
I am more than pliable
and I am in the plight
mode like I plight to
someone throth having
no wealth, my heart feet
plod and trudge, they
Positioned my life as
plonker through all
the ploy and manoeuvre
seeded, downgraded own
talent and light of my pen
work, I will not be pride
on myself but, so many
did with the negation
of my family,
Everyone's hatred on
some like me, so why?

Because, I am bestowed
not with laziness but a
gift to learn and understand
easily, and I Wasn't gifted with
more wealth like mansa moussa

higher!
  raise him! higher!
to the status of imbecile
and usurper! him!
  hang him higher!
octopii head death tool
exacting...
death.. persons short?
then unto the death of a ship...
what can but will have to
wither as the octopii head...
feed the itch,
what was written?
       death said: what i regained!
   are we here to act...
or to live?! if we are here to actt
then someone ought to have warned
us!
       we are merely to act as human?!
we are here to merely act!?
  we are to act?!
       you take your ****** sister with
you when you wipe your feet on the
way out!
           now i'm supposed to act...
wait a minute...
     it goes like this:
octopus klappemann und wen
herr ear no klappen: der kraken.
i didn't learn this language
to be a *****,
  that's the scaffold... and that's
  the egyptian... guillotine!
as man would say to another man,
had he ever heart for a mother!
       death does equalise to an unforgiving
stated underwater.
           are we then ready
to seek a remedy?
                                   i have transgressed
a care for help... music...
                  all that could be aiding
i self-prescribed, and it was only music...
      first they call you *******:
then you reply: you have a ******* sister... ha... ha;
you gonna penny-pinch me to argue otherwise?
you moved the mark a bit higher mate,
that high-jump of calypso...
you were asking, i just gave you an answer:
go throth: with a tissue... and let it eat it up
the tissue... goo mouth...
                   you make me ******* i make you
doubly *******... better-still... a carer...
                or irish...
                                taking to hanging is a long
*****, believe me, i'll need to hear the better song...
         the point is: i can really get off on this
****... and you'll be half as shocked
   when reality chews you.

.perhaps that's how the majority of the anglophonic world responds to absurdity, via comedy, via that shlogan: keep calm... worry later, laugh nervously... but given that the 20th century saw the french and the germans, attempt grappling with existentialism, and the absurd... to now see the anglophone world jump the train, late, as ever... and somehow catch-up with mainstreaming the absurd, or existentialism, as if it were a subject matter for: dummies... absurd literature... contemplated in silence, counter the absurd reality... staged, via comedy, with an immediacy of reaction? whereby the desired reflex is laughter... but where there's no canned laughter "compensation"? oh... i'm sure you'll find it hard to translate the absurd from a french mind, into an english gob, via the medium of comedy... given that comedy is absurdity per se... something without a need for focus... and now... ascribing it a focus of attention / address (of "concerns")? you're kidding me, right? some jokes aren't funny... like the best comedy is the sort without a premeditated script? spontaneity being the mother of slap-stick? in situ and (in) quo tempus? the anglophone world partied for most of the 20th century, now they're playing catch-up with 20th century continental thought... obviously allowing themselves the chance to side-track the whole "game" of "catching-up" via the medium of comedy... if that were true... we'd have to ******* "ditto" out, every single ******* word in the lexicon, and put a comma in-between all the words... to allow a fathomability of an unfathomable canvas of nuance.

while watching the gavin mcinnes
interview for 1791...
     ah... pedantic pet peeve...
as someone who comes with
a full-bodied array of accented
parents, 1st migrants...
            oh... look... ****... so am i!
thai...
                lady-boy ******* thrill...
tirade vs. tirade...
h'americans, all sounds the same...
there was no actual distinction
being made...
             from poland to england,
from england it was supposed
to follow: argentina then u.s.a.,
to find out what happened to
my maternal grand-father
who disappeared in a suicide attempt
at the Niagara Falls,
or at least that's where
   we sent his last postcard from,
polyglot, spoke 7 languages...
apparently...
   you wanna know the proper,
old continent variation?
      tyrad: no, not "i tire of trade" -
tire-aid,
              if you want lessons in
elocution... you've come to the right
place...
   i'm entrenched in england,
looking out at no-man's land...
**** on me... the ******* Atlantic!
no: not tire-aid,
ty-rad...
    it's written tirade...
but you can also speak it as follows:
tyrad(e)...
  english, mandible...
like a jaw...
                       like you want more
hyphens, intra-verbum,
to ease off the syllable puncture
wounds from the already
sharpnel post-deutsche of
anglican ßaß?
            how about i cite a magyar
psychiatirst, a dr szasz...
now we're talking!
     i asked one barmaid...
is the S or the Z the surd,
or is it equivalent to the ******
version of sharp objects?
   **** it, let's go full zeppelin and
just write the interchange grapheme...
ßaß...
    the house of ßaß of Poland...
Poland, the brothel of monarchs...
foreign rulers came in,
ruled,
   then with fickle brains
decided to carve the territory up...
no wonder...
  the current "rulers" of Poland?
like allowing the Eire to rule Iceland...
paradoxical complications
of sorts, never to be resolved...
thai-raid...
       thai-rad.,
                    inject an aspect of
the tetragrammaton into the equation...
and you'll find yourself
in the company of latin gnostics,
not the greek sort,
        hey, if every letter in this phonetic
script is a pair of *******
and a waggling tongue of
invitation within the protruding *****...
the arabs are all high-minded
with their scribbly lines...
and the necessary open orthography
in road signs,
at least the jews managed,
somehow,
   to hide their vowels,
as diacritical marks...
   on street signs?
         a ******* vowel roulette...
good luck spotting the wheel of

                            a (kametz)

        
i (chirek)                                           o (cholem)





              u (shurek)                   e (tzere)      

mind you: that's an anti-thesis of
the Zen concept of en-sō           -
you can't exactly draw a perfect
hexagram...
     but you can... when drawing
a pentagram... the eastern circle,
is the western pentagram...

   same **** with h'americans teaching
the english to spell out
and speak: spaghetti -
   pierdolone kluściaże...
oh look...
    another googlewhack!
kluściaże
   http ://tiny   url.
                  com/y5p    n745c...
that wasn't me,
                was it? 'throth'?

it's almost like discovering a cymry Y
(sim-roo)
             we can play this game,
day in, day out...
become very pedantic about
all those, many, many, many english
idiosyncratic variations of:
where diacritical markers should
be placed,
where a phonetic writing
of an otherwise orthodox speaking
of the word,
    and all the lack
of orthography, beside the base
of spelling...
   reading one language,
speaking the same language
differentiate...
   and how english just allows
a plethora of accents...
                       you name it...

this is my avenue,
i get off right about, now...
       staring too long at
the mendeleev table...
   i'm seeing cut-and-fix "problems"
that require explaining...

    the time is ripe,
    i can't just leave Ezra *****-nilly
on the fence...
should i ever visit h'america?
   two places i want to visit,
the fly-over states,
   and little town h'america...

      no... nothing else...
not the grand monstrosities of
the urban enclaves...
not exactly the pompous north-east...
or the detached north-west...
            as that some askance-neu -
perhaps texas...
           i'd love to see
little-****-town-h'america...
          the outliers...
        where the gąsienica
     of the czołg...      
   (caterpillar of the tank)
    has made pâté of the mount of pol ***:
as much bone as brains...
   a porky-porky fetish
                         of imagination -

nope...
      a place i could mesh myself into...
"disappear"...
        
      tie-raid...
    ty-rad...
 ­                  poe-tay-toe...
                             p'oh-t'ah-t'oh      

sure, sure, same language...
cricket, baseball.

   p.s. wanna see the phonetic tongue
on a word such as, fade?
sure you do:
                               fay'd.