i have no name for this observation,
but it's there,
unique, like a prized marble bust
of some famous woodpecker...
pani (ms.), pan (mr.),
           pani (ms., is that yours?)
    panie (a number of mademoiselles),
pań (those umbrellas belong
to the mademoiselles) -
             but then there's also
this bilingual Ypres -
          trenches, miles and miles of
trenches...
              seemingly going nowhere...
a case of never being able to write
an onomatopoeia for touching
an atom... but there is:
Hiroshima... a history of a place,
like Chernobyl... and from the simple
bronze age artifact, poetically speaking,
into Heidegger's concept of dasein,
from a simple: knock knock...
into a unfathomable implosion
and never a knock knock...
but what's opposite of when we once met:
at the tower of babylon...
then from fear: we meet again
at Dubai, at the Shard, at Hanoi...
                    at Petronas...
a full circle... all a fake:
for we have congregated once again,
but not by architectural madness
to scale beyond Everest...
   within a grain of sand:
       at the abstract gain of sand:
at the atom... and from fear:
we reignited that ancient vanity...
to tobble trees with toothpicks...
as we have: tried: having toppled
mountains with buildings...
but still the new crux of our congregation,
the atom...
                    a new biblical
séance - these new endeavours are
not new, they are cloaks to hide the true
point of our congregation,
our new found "togetherness",
which is circumstanced as the evolved
version of Heidegger's "thereness"
(dasein).... and yes: apologies for
the ref., as such: either cite someone
and continue toward the artery,
or convene for Hamlet to gamble
over vine or vein...
                                     then toward
something beyond belittling:

mały (small)
      and subsequently: the worded
microscope, a process of endearing
something small, into something doubly
small, and perhaps even of chubby-cheek
physiogomy:

    malutki
                       maciupki
   maluteńki                    
                                  maleczki
                              (so where is the harshness
of synonyms? where is the stomping
        thesaurus rex now?),
                   maluszki (a kindergarten throng),
        the technical word is:
zdrobnienie -
      and if translated into English,
probably reveals more affection
toward the language than all the scientific
juggling away from atoms and into
sub-atomic                   quasi-atoms...
      has English really become
an anaesthetic? a desensitized medium
where the only nutrient is to tell a flimsy
joke as a role for invoking a comforting
suggestion? at least the Germans don't
feel awckward when telling a bad joke...
     the English feel ackward when telling
a good one!
                          nonetheless:
degrees... how small can a word become...
                 and by becoming even smaller
it becomes endearing,
          like a sparrow...
                          man could train
a hawk to sit on its arm and hunt...
but could man ever train a sparrow to sit:
in the palm of his hand?
           well: what a word, and a word
among so many: drobnica:
                              a tu Emeryk -
po roku, co rok, ziarnkiem maku drepta,
a raczej czolga: gniecie kolanem prawej
raz w roku, gniecie kolanem lewej
po raz drugi kolejnego rokue -
       asz po szczyt - jego małej: apokalipsy.

and 3 weeks among the natives will
do that for you...
             the tongue will tangle itself into
skorpion insomniac -
                          if only to rekindle
the labrador naiveness -
                               or from Golgotha
  without its eternal flame, to no other
Olympics...
               and who would have thought:
that there was no corner-stone
that would have been rejected from
the architecture...
        could anyone have predicted,
that two pieces of wood, nailed together
into an ornament of torture,
would shower-down upon this earth
the church, the cathedral, the altar and
the sanctified mastrubation of marble into
the cheek-bones of the ****** mary,
by some Italian drunkard, working on
the papist commision? mightly...
   one horseman be missing....
three horsemen, and one grand joke
riding a donkey...
                death yawns... and subsequently
eats up satan's laugh....
                                   from a crucifix:
st. peter's cathedral!
                   meanwhile in Japan...
origami.

there are three rings know to man,
the ring of courting,
            the ring of matrimony,
and what the prince of egypt
said was: an abomination -
                 the flesh riddle ring of
fore                         toward the obelisk's
shadow -
     she is but a child by comparison:
re-attired: when samael gave
Adam Isaac's ******* to eat...
and even he, with her,
in her pseudo-niqab attire,
the heart-throb dajjal -
            he went out to buy napkins,
she went out to buy Houdini -
       at the end of it: mini-skirts didn't really
matter whether it remained a liberation ditto -
worn-torn in Armani -
                      the Qatar and Kuwait of
Saddam: kto daje i odbiera:
ten sie w piekle poniewiera -
or: szemra...
          there's the point:
the tarantula bite: to disorientate
etymology....
     capircious copernicus said to
Columbus:
            vest Indies...
yet a violin's worth of the jade resounded,
or what was worth the envy...
and i did stand in the centre of
Warsaw, and i felt having stood
in a non designated spot,
even though the traffic was a stream...
then someone started sprinkling
the drums and snares with salt...
until i heard a legion of ants
march without god, or any
telepathic origins from man shaved
to ape in shavings attired,
to the cyst pool of gene and
abandoned limbs in siamese windmill clap -
i say word: you cannot identify a sound!
i write down a word, i say:
rektor of Bonne university,
you quickly say: quick-sand in Zurich!
if the Koran was a blessing
to the Arabs... oil is their downfall...
they don't see their downfall, just yet,
but it will come unto them,
like the slav be the Orc...
look at the shadow of the Germanic
peoples... Charlemagne...
saying that, some Slovene will prune
me as being too: Miloševič -
then we slobber and tell ***** *******
jokes... ye'ha!
   post-colonial stress disorder...
me? moi paysan,
moi manger un gross déjeuner: Antoinette!
cake... coca coca cola... and all those panda
nicotine jokes... macabre:
   she was never ***** by a man who
still practised ******* tennis solo!
                 p'ooh cha cha.
me writing nonsense is a bit like you
tickling mosquito's ******* while wearing
boxing gloves.... Beethoven became double deaf
when the Pope asked him how to translate
the heavenly choir's: ambiguous ******
saints of Auschwitz - Mel Brooks?
         only Jews tell good slapstick?
lazy lazy Pollack... ah cranberry jazz...
   vermin... bloated Pakistanis in Rotherham...
i never understood liberal leftists....
           not since what happened since Ełk...
and the LYNCH MOB...
             or after Charlie... and the arm-in-arm
*******:
   you buy a kebab: you assimilate an arab....
it's called racism after the fact...
kristalltag...     grafitti hereoism...
                      then ****** is relative to
talking a labrador ****** a flamingo
asphyxiating on helium...
    alo alo Berlin née Nice - or an uncle's buttock
blaze in claiming a stirrup for Hollywood...
    matchstick choking... sulphur: airborne:
slightly salty.
           well... the media is one propaganda machine...
and indeed: america isn't defending democracy...
it's defending nationalism, patriotism, primarily.
democracy is abstract, it didn't exactly exist
in ancient greece... america is being fed-back
the cold war i narrative, the paranoid scewer
    ambiance of a dying refigerator...
                                 please: extract a cough
from the "word" bzzz... and Danish ambiance -
ice ice baby.
     well... um... d'uh: buzz.
hey amigo! Alfons is doing the fidgety with
consquistador maracas! we'll get onto
     Abram "Biño'' Conejohaß -
and that film, cited: doctor? doctor doctor.
               three rings...
                                         cut the male bit off
and become too dependent on the female remains...
                    vice versus...
       and when neither are cut off?
almost dinosaur time frame...
                                             shoving a carrot
up my *** feels as good as shoving e = mc squared up
there too: for the ultimatum cinema
                                         as:
res ex re.                    who ever said being conscious of
thought was not a ref. to ''god''?
being conscious of thought = not being conscious of
                                    intuition.
                                      if ever man's revision
proved to be contrary to his eternal life,
the 2nd one to come?
      me too... a bit tight... i'm sized xl and i
need a loss of the excess skin...
god almighty... is that a question of
the river of abortions, or that of *******?
                             being bound to a woman
with two rings is enough... but being bound to
a woman with a ring of flesh?
   no wonder you buy sushi from Harrods -
the Cairo of the north, shoe-box's worth
of tourism... and still the persistent blitzkrieg of
confetti...
                     the observsations of *******
bound are beyond niqab...
            talk about revisionism...
at least Dobbermanns with their slit ears
and snipped tails look quicker evolved
into chimeras than man will ever be when
strapped to a shed and whipped to bark...
          i call man's secular organisation
a shed...
and man's religious organisation?
     a bone.
                        8:55...        8:55...
cut the *****! we need to cut the *****!
we need to cut the ***** of those in power!
    we need to cut the *****!
just cut the *****! make them come the Niagara Falls!
we can train with cauliflower...
                   (citing klemen slakonja yako
                  slavomiri ziewzek)
          8:59....                              08:00.

Recreation, re-creation and a
lease on lite harbor: O' sanity.


Suit of armor, don't give me drugs.
Give me an excuse for habitual
exhaustion.


My personality is too
seasonal/I
Believe in
the God of good dogs..!


go

                     fetch me something.

lay at my feet and watch me eat it
without tasting much of anything

at all.

it wouldn't hurt either of us if
I cut off an appendage or two

O dewy arachnid in
three halves
of a coconut.

At the end of the world –

the world is my comic book*

at the end of the world you are
a man.

a man with smooth black hair
and a pocket star,
chewing on a chunk of nerves
to calm his nerves.
nebula of strawberry fizzes and
irony backwash —

wait, no, don't touch my eyes..!

all milky and full of bright
visions of us on a sofa,
so intimately attached.

All eight of my legs caress
all seven of yours.

the coyote lies on a leather chaise.

it is raining in the mother ship.

you can't hurt me, phantom.
i'm too pretty.

i have none of your faith
in sensory perception, meaning

i'm not pretty enough.

i have eleven fantasies and you
swim alongside the third.

i pull the coyote under water.
i mean
i pull the coyote
under its dominant hand.

under its dominant hand
the planet is watered.

water for fantasy no.7 —

this is august. this is water hemlock
pulled from the coyote's pocket.*

i mean,

all depths are unexplored depths
until the girl

pulls off her sleeping mask.

ok chokehold.

i wish to go camping and build
my fire under your crows wing
attitude. i wish to have children
and hide them away from dust
in the cleanest vases. i wish to
explain to you the circumferential
crappiness, the why you will not
take me seriously on any other
than a rainy day. throwing is like
reverse grabbing, reverse grabbing
the chandelier. every word we
speak is crossing a line. a line that
is only my line, a line you never
knew existed. it is red. it is colored
somewhere
i want to be. it is the burgundy
of your mouth bending w/ speech,
it is the donation of O neg and
the blistered heels of your feet
stomping on my heart through
my vest of sequins. no, not stop
ing. morse code on my 3D love
poem, don't ya know?

coffee is done, suit is irony and my
jeans are cut into my favorite story
about a man
and a woman
and the lake they drained
when they became thirsty.

so that's how you do it?

yes.

this is me lying in the middle
of a road,

waiting for his headlights
to erupt with effervescence.
i bet he's great at casting
shadows in high definition.

weird, i know.

this,
my latest concussion,
rings like drowning.

i was a city boy b4 i was her.
i was a butterfly b4 there was a
warning sign.

this,

this precision, like that
word for wet earth smell
i hate.

don't say it, we're empty.
don't say it, let's talk about
your ****.

this is not
how the body withers on the vine.

talk about exonerating the body.
talk about abusing the body w/
electricity and sterling obituaries.

so this is how the body tells time?
asks the
alien of fortitude.

yes.

it plays euchre with dark haired men;
it turns seconds into months
revolving around
the mind bending neverness
that the body avoids at all costs.

it turns love into a stew of rabbit
and radish and dandelion stems.
the body turns stretch marks into
fishing nets, it
curls its own fingers inward
under the rib to feign being held.

so that's how you do it?*
asks the
alien of fortitude.

yes. you lay

your body in the middle of the
road and you pray like hell
it's the tall suit of armor that runs
you over, and
you pray that he recognizes you;

you pray that his glass of water
isn't empty yet.

stellar misquote cyborg

i'm really a
******* tool.

i get embarrassed when i see you

at the telescopes.
like ******* myself

whatever, though ———
nobody thinks i'm a loser. the

yellow smell of skunk is rabid
outside & i

am wrapped up in
the stranger's uniform of lowliness.

the sky opens up, the color of ****.

this is not a poem because this is a
reflection.

windows are never high enough

off the ground
that i feel comfortable with them.

half of my friends are vegetarians and
half of my friends

have had abortions.

i counted on this night

i feel supremely lonely.

in my loneliness i am less than dignified.

in my loneliness there is nothing
over the sound of my body

boiling itself into a mist of itself.

————
maybe
i am embarrassing
myself. i think

about air conditioning and
a set of blue eyes
hovering above my ******.

in my embarrassment i want
to be held.

hold me, it's the new word
for torture.
hold me, let's
practice
submersion.