Set of cave genes If you could read... pluri freedoms of the dark light of ignorance teach understand that breathe under the Naturality Natural Nature is not necessary to have an understanding heart and store on their empty heads of knowing ancient rain where wisdom possess. If dance on every grain of chickpea for each foot plant what could a plant obey; foot, Plant, and Plantation...

Resulting in kingdoms on my animals, fungi, plants, and protists, media freedom as a seed to reach our evolutionary lack of ceased hopeness...

First  Ellipsis Angle loneliness"God felt Chained"

Chained down by dragging the last link of its multiple arcane freedom in which transfigured recent swings where he collapsed with the latter being of himself whose life lies lifeless alive but lost. The latter that child not to know and deprived of nascent freedom that will never be born and come knowledge in our genome of Independence.

When the caveman thought to be a complement to the world is enslaved by the mystery of lost in himself... The born and born, never dies, that's so naive and innocent... is still full unaware of their free will, rather it is he who must re-literate and be a living part of the ancestral genome Cavernario component. Oh Heavenly Lord of the steppes I look because more of you today without having lived what you lived, as he would have played with my gaze to succor and keep you had fallen into the fangs of an animal, or you had fallen on the glacier cliff where he has separated you from your Clan Cave.

Emancipation means to be always innocent, my blood runs through yours,
I read and understand any phenomenon of deprivation exist without you lack wisdom satiate if all your generations crushed by the ignorance of falling subject will be well, me and my being I take my precognitions as a tormented child's worst nightmare before about sleeping. Sixth Papal almost, almost kneel before the creation of memorizes creation. This prerogative Lord lives Bread’s God Minor remaining....of whose iconography will not leave this fifth fraternal dimension will not come, if not more will enter the latter end of absolute solitude... and shorter than the last thousand years of Neandertal.


Cavernary Political and Ellipsis:

On a day of gentle wind and tense rain proclaiming Clan joined, they all shouted running, the ground shook and the children slept in terror... the 10 infants who were talking about the Sign from above, but the nines they crossed his arms remaining to create solidarity roof that protects the man in your imagination...
The eighth child of the clan ran quickly into the arms of his mother and she imagined how far, how far would never come... uncharacteristically who came with his brother seventh had in their hands the word of entertainment of Being, to be a plaintiff political all of braiding them together with lines enabling the hermit may decide that creation is a mass of lines of certain fashions together, everything sings like the slightest cyclamen dew on the line pointy rough fallen fungus. All arms folded on the upper porch of the Vatican Macario in Franconia, saying that many who unite in their fevered requests large modern man ceased to be autonomous when it came out of their caves and charnel pit.

Ran all she enjoyed doing that almost without knowing whether or not they fall...
Ran because of every day the sun ahead of them a lesson for a man of the future...
They are running to be released the day of his birth chained to stars of light, to carry him to his mother and father, sneaking to his brothers.

Brother worn eleventh birth to her existence as another being evolved Eukaryotic: Surely those provided beings of cell membranes rhizomes reflected in higher liberty lives purged of ectoplasm walk without a discounted subsidiary. Shakespeare in Helsingor appeared immune to a blood brother to all that limits the Draconian feel in the pinnacles drawn 700 greened steeds. From the deepest swoon in the underworld subway Helsingor, follow the prevailing souls presided over by the great ear of the hard sandcastle, stressed hard Ghosts of Stratford upon Avon.

Freedom plague spits words of pancreatic poisoned exordium, spits verses of confusion disorders without permission, without solid bass sound without liquid sea that resists mad edges followed by solid sound...
But smaller stones give priority to conjugate final sentence and noble verses Guardian
to mission how important would Liberation:

Maybe it's a synonymy of Astral Solar...
It is not Solitude, is a free nation that has its own kind prosecutor's office for even when Euthanasia closes your eyes to the astral, will run the stones of the Sea of joy believing that neither you dare if there is no healthy grass to clarify the rainy day terror.


Reverse walk creeks aggravated birds feet, walking great playful ruse.
Reverse run my comrades preparing festivity meals with chandeliers and singing lay plenary., Singing Avenue pine port Firenze, Second run subtracting minutes and hours the minute is enough for me with your face in my arms to recognize your longevity anathema times oblique faces for lip-smacking hailstones Templars.

In 1297 in northern Italy nearby rural families migrate to chalky Venice, Perugia came the exiles walked to find their independence south of the Iberian Peninsula. They were so atoned as in the echoing flutes, harps, zithers, and harpsichords field temperate; They invited the blunting of intemperate monocordio.

Golden Chariot Carrenio

The golden carriage carrying them came without a single space rather than inheritances acquired goldsmiths of ancient noble and chaste solid shine. Carrenio; the coachman wore on his left arm bracelet thousand mobile travel without stopping to drink more water and to feed their horses. After revamping its gold pieces bartered by a slave who was getting Carrenio Christians fleeing the Romans. Well, they fled as far as the plains of great earthly squandered his memory and that end of the end should come.

How am away from my land more I learn it's back to her,
There is no ground for the first time, but that which is foreign
Carrenio of Perugia and sensed that ****** was Jewish ashes,
Luther King black paste of burnt forest,
Mandela and Biko Ogre garage from Victorian Empire,
Gandhi in his humility is always put behind the Sun
to figure out the small
Tagore trashed my heart caressing the entire universe uncorrupted
Hölderlin together in the cabin waiting for his mother at Zimmerman,
That my beloved Borker forest should shine gold teeth with black resin,
Theresa of Calcutta was eaten and swallowed all diseases lepers knowing good taste proverbial dessert psalm,
Jose Miguel Carrera was more than a trench, clay bullets in each of his temples where he received
To be doubly Lonco is to be halved, lacerated by lay his head on his land, not galloping on his back throngs of wit and hope out Nazareth trembles when an F-16 diluted ***** covering landless caravans Heritage continues to lead the people killed but the mosque wall has been Fe Erecta.
Helena plenipotentiary Kowalska at Vilnius, Faustina Divine Mercy Diadema
The agonizing deprivation of millions of people with cancer in every continent of private well-being analgesic, weighed down by increased pain, almost as strong as the Master Hammered Golgotha, so it was that Joshua has cancer always to slow it down on us. Benigno whether metastasis, malignant albeit benign finance.
The death of an innocent little angel devoured by the beast remains as a fluff hairless sardine in the jaws of a shark baron.
Khalil Gibran writes that with both hands to support the reviewer behind in Bicharri and bohemian Paris,

Salvador Allende Gossens was born since he was deceived by his parents who would heal politics, would rather dig their ancestors in their brains scattered in the currency in face seal or tail of.

Frei Montalva that today has to receive the Macro Augusto Heaven their arms, their sorrows, and regrets, although his worst military executioner.

Legion is an offshoot of liquid central gray material, which defers well done becoming but not defeated, it is the decree of the divine threshold space Living or ceases to live, that failure does not exist, it is the postponement of success - success.

The Genocide September 11 in New York was a ritual, who produced was a small wrath strength of the Rotary world, as the camshaft is upset in the history of trying to make more alphabet in schools where the flag hoisting and found scholars in West and East, so they can learn more than reading of both unlettered, lip and water to possess it to write with it. The worst disaster is read with the memory that will never happen... I write my greatest need with lipstick and my greatest need I write eagerly to participate. Yesterday I passed by a boutique and buy lipsticks that are closer to the language, written with the mouth and not the hand. !

Freedom, debauchery, libration, drawer, Bookstores..! Carrenio..: he said see I'm right! Raise and educate has a great synonymy with autonomy because the ancestors wrote everything that deprived them and made them fear, but do not have to eat the autumn gives me to dress the return of spring, bread orchid, and cineraria. Hence by that inner syllabic singing hunger sated that sought sheet to sheet rid of everything until the end of the book as the encounter between night and day without considering oblivious to anything or anyone on the track window swing wind, wind seeping.


It was old Zeus or Hera of Antique,
Cavern to house geometric polyphonic, angular seeds to create fashions kiss kissed everything that any vertical plane does not fit with the closed horizon
For hands and angels, Hebrews the inner soul of every carpenter and stonemason shrunk, wash their eyes and cheeks with songs of vibration and idyllic comfort,
Everything resembled and sounded Bethlehem 2.0 deities choirs sweeping grasslands,
The similarity of this clairvoyant child is born in a cave...
Rising motherly free Soliloquy Papini sitting to the right of ruminant cattle,
So archaic that to be born is not born in a clinic mega Cristus but hundreds of kilometers and hundreds who are born with the undergirding whispers and servitude being.
Where the multi gray impetuous born star is a healthy gauze story in the present tense... this angelic child grows by Miriam washes his feet in a belligerent abolished stone. His father must wash their hands on a stone which is where measured his ecclesiastical mystical stature, stone Madonna to heal his feet where he leaves to free himself, to free us... Marble gamete fémina vault, where he sleeps without knowing whether it is due, the ***** fell from the sky.
How wise is the Wise, it makes permissible for much more than two thousand years we stone quarry wheel and wheel, homily, and blessing to not wake at night to sleep startle middle and uphill.

Me of the referent of antiquity is not me of today is polished cobble stone,
Useful weapon quarry road there and backtrack to have blisters stone and soft thoughts under my pillow soft stone as a whole.

If you're ****** private living and have a free soul choosing coexist, then you are low in the cemetery on a tombstone of heresies.

Neolithic early 4500 after Hildegard von Bingen and his entourage and prowled full and channeled, swooning in her swoon with flowers in his hands and his followers planting forests on top of Stonehenge.

Carrenio says...: you see I'm right, we coexist, I die like the worst ****** cancer and then put a tombstone Stonehenge conspire in my honor black pain prayers of Salisbury. It blooms in vibrant red rubies that detonate in chromaticity and life. The stream itself is exceeded the aquatic plant Macarenia.

Call us and civilize us, outdated as far as my tired feet though I come not ashamed to see my new tracks.

Carrenio says...; see I'm right Joshua has traces of gold from other Caterpillar shod feet. Antique everything is prescribed according to their legacy today is Lent Pro that came before it was Lent vestige Pentecost came to be a nickname of the mystery of the passion in less than a rooster crows.

Beside it is the mystery of the disappointment of stubborn demon, which helps you all carry the cross, but not the entire load. Fire and Light at dawns where the splendor born...


Genome Freedom, even today every centimeter of my witness of each component, if the basic origin of the signs of the primitive world, is that we have lost the bark of the lexicon, which does not allow us to understand the meditations to ask for something, not You need to ask something. Today genome is requesting something because thousands of people who asked for millions of years, now it's time to cater to them. They were wrapped in cloth shroud of spiritual sacredness, today cemeteries mega dance their souls leave no sleepers both much grass on their heads not yet sullied by the puppet Azrael.


Impossible not to decorate the rocks forged empires that fall into the rubble, they bring 476 d. C., a new opening Middle age freedom of travel both in history thousands of years begins a new axis Golden Carrenio’s Chariot.

Carrenio Wagon

This great colossal ship Carrenio time is a timber that holds the sky, a beam that does not faint or distended thousands a. C, and the old age of King's large musings that were forgotten. It is astride ship millennium, their history of oppression has seen in the wheel, instrument wise rolling like a wheel before 5, 000 years ago, here  We fought and prostrated to distant lands millennium after millennium him away.

Golden Chariot is the structure that freedman us to enforce a new life on earth, even the Gods prided themselves move the stars to constellations called her noble Auriga sailing in full the Universes and Cartwheel Galaxy or cart Wheel. As if to say that when the Universe and its own mythology, were visited between them inch by inch by wherever they shine.

Carrenio mask and frame used had strength, temper, and tittle. When the first libertarian squall of antiquity came closer, Rome was already small and nobles populate what is a quote, Piccola. The executioner always frightened and starts out of his own wickedness. Markos Botsaris as did in Greece, and surrounding towns Messologhi remote, they were free more than tuned in massif Arankithos high wind. He was riding to Kanti once again with the golden rider Etrestles of Kalavrita. According to the Chronicle that came from distant millennia has envisioning promote its neighbor's heroic to free Messolonghi of ****** wars. All this I saw with his own eyes Carrenio, every thousand years styling with Etrestles, cleaned their nostrils so that new breed of horses to thrive,

Avignon, in the necropolis, witnessed as Azrael was cleaning his wings Jade antipopes, another story begins... even he seeks to candela who can read this story, and who can provide it from hand to hand cutting semicolons who disclosed.


Second  Ellipsis Angle  New Era:

Ara released the ropes throwing a big ship, History makes a man is at the center of the world. Revolutions, thinking, communication, and especially vindicate man in his right-libertarian. artists with their creations flowing all over the world, mutating classic Renaissance to abstract overlook. Family appearing welfare and needs. A ramble and so many broken laws. Mankind is distracted l film and theater artist of tradition. Art now has sound and movement, then social and political revolutions are industrial that unite everyone behind the pivot deployment of social classes.


Everything evolves until we get tired of doing so. It rests and then continues. This is modern reality, we wrote about the history of events on facts that have never been told. The world has tired all the Eras, but each pause time that has happened has been recharged, nothing finished if not started again. After so many wise lawyers, clergy plunged into great towers bound books. Is evident again can not read or understand. Our realities are missing valid without knowing I close and then open another door. human and civil rights, fair wages, so excessive autocracy monarchy. Freeman can walk along the paths, even if they were trenches.

Zephyr soft murmur which clutters in the Irises by Van Gogh, the painter is the biggest star trek, called with his feet images and colors that would make his own liberty to live naturally insane. And many others Brueghel "Triumph of Death" that roam the countryside, perhaps a medieval piece of Tarskovski; Andrei Rublev in futile painters decorating steps in the fontano chignon Androniko Monastery Moscow, extinct Rublev 70 years, Tarkovsky 54.

Early ellipsis - Campo dei Fiori in Rome to see die at the stake Giordano Bruno by order of the Holy Inquisition. The irruption of the Inquisition, but their feet are touching the flowers, the seasoned cassock continues to haunt the universe of Faith Dominica Trastevere, it is seen to lectures on how to be bold with the informers and the Whistle Blower dies without shade in spring, you resist the star on the asphalt on the magical island of holiness.

Carrenio says: Come I'm right, we can not read, because the brutality of the Cosmos is manure per ton weathered in the backyard of the aristocracy. I will continue with respect and crosed in Crete. Lila Kedrova means the fear of bunk bed tied to her bed and is free in foreign lands leg. Queen insular matriarchy, she lives more than any Greek Goddess, waiting for his Adonis, to fill out honors. Win an Oscar but lost to Zorba, he loses his house but won a Tony Awards. How many women teach us that to win you have to give everything to lose his brains, and thus count as the lost number remains to be retained. Zorba whines in her arms, she moans in the arms of her husband Zeus Steve, proof of a new era. Onyx for his tomb, plate of this great tragedy.

On the evening of December 14, 1964, attended the premiere. Soul of Carrenio was with them but was denied his attendance at the banquet, finally running out and watching the glasses lips and stoles spent his neck.

                                          
          ­                      Numbered Mysterious Death
                                                  Mané

If I have to feel floe on my feet and cold in my prayers will be the Dark Glory. What is slimming rays of the day, everything smelled of silence, maybe it was Kennedy, or better was The Mané.

Closure of my glory suffers the wind...
Flowers lying silence my soul alight,
Thick square displays the song of my voice...
When they speak Quadratils one to one order their
Spirituous voice.

And the spirit singing fiber of my heart told me:
Never you say I Exist ¡ not exist because they do not exist!
Only face daily the different reflection of your body
In front of yourself with another face and another body...

I want to talk with the thought
And this same subtract my little silhouette,
Lavishes wingless bird that flies only in their theology...
That is the duty and melt with my look,
Solid colors components
Crunching the altars of heaven retaining its pale warmth of anorexia.

Yellow Glory hair good event...
If you receive yellow lights, plus I do not sing my own game here in my empty veins,
Yellow my heart...
Yellow my heart
Yellow my collective heart.

They are run by large green and sunny meadows, children who had Mane in this major milestone in its last gasp. Now she is the mother of his children; it up and them in the last temptation of the mystery of death.

Carrenio keeps rolling, the brightness offered his Golden wagon to the ground. Gold grooves ago, and looking at where it realizes that it's landmass light mud. Since he felt whispers from the confines of time he had never felt as if you were finishing your journey or the world. It raining years and years and continues because nobody mends the mysterious death Numbered.

Heaven and Earth did not hold, the bottom fell precipitously pocket Lord and denied several times uncontained. She shivered in the World and the rooster crowed several times to never be heard or the Pentagon.

He is walking and knees bent,
we embraced by the golden chariot and oxen nor held
we bent us all lying on his knees,
up shoulders not hear from where came the bad grace of his departure,
numbered all the time of complaints of how then she would come,
It is unknown who would be but brought wine in his hand on the crispy mask
We ran from side to side and nothing was real

Everything seemed to sing in the chapel on a sad day,
But I hear loudly like Latin and watchfulness,
Those who know his mystery is no stranger to them
They all look but transgress the sin of silence.

Carrenio still absorbed in the hallway,
Angulo ellipsis she comes winged like a star burning tar,
A high speed to give us the new
No garden can deprive greet in speed visit
Dome comes, it comes on the eve of the new moon.

Numbered Widow mysterious,
Mané is a land of golden color and no celestial whoever wants in his cell,
A breath test, and feeding the Toffy and his henchmen
That sustaining more lively detail, there is no one that can not be targeted

It was modern, it was night, it was his torn life as an accomplice of his exile abandonment in his allegory of tender dismissal. Carrenio achieved so say goodbye to the beams of light that told him of the mysterious death Numbered. He sat on the roadside and drank some wine. Then dry with his handkerchief his neck, and have never wanted to experience such an event in a toast ever drunk.

Third Ellipsis Angle  of  New Era

Independence of Chile, it concerns Mapuche atingent case. Araucania pound, then 1818 central Chile. In Brief, Earth makes free an entire nation. His naive and primitive braves inhabitants emancipated themselves from all sides, they came to save a people who were just following where nobody can reach. Independence of the United States separates us for approximately 42 years, breaking up owners of nowhere. Industrial Abolitionist and South Slaver and Agraria. The biggest event that more than 640, 000 men and fallen activists planted safely from repression fields.

In Chile all rule resembled this secession in today's Araucano man prays for his fallen by almost more than 3 centuries in Chilean lands of Araucanía’s men. Lautaro genius and his supporters the heart of Pedro de Valdivia ate; Map ever made to your battle mapping Tucapel. "Initiation and final symbol occurred after 282 years of fierce war" and Mapuche land forever their independence from the Spanish Empire Captain-General important in foreign lands never subjected to foreign rule would eat.

The Machis and Loncos make supplications in native forests falling on them pollen on its back as if nothing out 10 times better...

To Libertas strengthen in the west is necessary to push the limits of the earth beneath his tongue and penance for the greedy entangled in the lines of bloodied sky, rebellions Chieftains death-defying all together at the edge of a cliff. 1769 The Pehuenches led by Lebian Cacique, joined the Mapuches razing Yumbel and Laja, the most peaceful Huilliches also joined mass alerting perhaps innocent people land blood-stained war and the Mackay Luchsinger.

No doubt portals military rebellion trigger blood, where they opened a tip and swords in the past. Here's reading concern is that the succession is timeless time, a sword without a sword, but on the tip of her blood is seen where there were herds and warriors crushed by their own footsteps. Here the phenomenon of freedom begins; Humanity runs treading his own footsteps, to save his family from a threat, but not strange forces that force you to use your defenses, because in the groves populate many helpless souls with his sword unused at the expense of being forced to use.

Freedom genome; It aims to reach where it has not come without looking back,
Chalices pour out is where the troubadours do not cuddle her close looks like time, singing while watching the changes are not of a new life


Heaven star,
Come to me,
I ask a sign to see them arrive,
Because I want to thus been dragged
Being together Eager to feel...
Those respites without being comforted
going to the mouth of the serpent.

About the Garden,
My home is to put my love,
He has to put the days imagining close...
To enjoy yourself is nonexistent...

Oh, my house tormenting me...!
Because in it I feel your smell
They are alone lights
Where I would wait for me to be in the dark...

In the coming future,
You will not see or hear my anger...
Perhaps my happiness nor peace praying
As the spear in the hands of the perpetrator.

You know a storm of whispers
I do sow your name in the wilderness,
It's because my judgments of hope
They mount up arable land deposited in my frenzy
Misled by a love which is my love.

But you never understand,
Because time has invaded my dwelling,
Invading my brain to give
It has invaded my choosing to love...

On the grass path,
Every time I move away from you,
I turn to see if you have not been...

Love came,
And I think that leaves us alone to avail ourselves
Ranging in our time...


But I can not resist his silence,
For my house want the noise of its action,
Why keys to the gates that serve my understanding.

Tramples my heart the fragmenting oddities into smaller pieces,
Your answer that call.

Tur love be like if I had created...
As if only you had appreciated your beautiful creation.

Do not destroy your work expresses in his mystery give life to your dreams!
Man aiming better earth, ask some of you to join your dreams...

! Your wife of this land does not procrastinate your misfortune,
I discover far peaceful landscapes like an echo in the spring,
As large and deep as your forgiveness for loving me more


It tells the Earth to the Sun in its perky tear benefactress of new opportunities as good and healthy smile rainbow on the back of Oviedo sheep valleys of freedom of Pietrelcina life.

To be continued…

.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.

what's the difference
between
    garbage - #1 crush -
wumpscut - torn skin
and...
guns 'n' roses:
        rocket queen?
different hard-on
for the subsequently
variant day?
you'll have
to talk to me
   in more synch...
  i look at paintings,
i then look
   at a blank canvas,
one that i'm about
to emplopy phonetic
encoding onto...
and i'm like...
    pol ***'s mountain
of ash
   and ink, yes?
i just want
the screwdriver's worth
of pain
to ***** in -
          schmerz:
sh-mer-zzzz
  you can buzz that
end, can't you not?
let's leave listening
to conspiracy aside...
let's focus on...
  why did they march
andrei chikatilo...
into a cell...
and shot him
in the back of the head?
so... no firing squad...
done-in
in a prison cell...
so...
this is the part where
you tell me
about the urban myth
of the marie antoinette
cockroach:
   as to how it can
live without a head
for two weeks,
before it dies from
starvation...

the execution of
andrei chikatilo,
in that cold cell
in Ukraine...
**** me... take me there,
that's my Disneyland...
i want to experience
the trapped
groaning and moaning,
relieved by
the silence,
of the execution space.

feeling electricity?
you know...
they don't tell you...
the pain?
the pain from
being electrocuted?
it's, numbing...
electrocution numbs
you,
via Zeno...
  since it's paradoxical...
in that it numbs
you...
but also excites you...
ever been
electrocuted
on the sly?
mildly?
   it's like...
      
            like...
       teasing two magnets
apart,
or together,
the pain is so...
piquant...
it's so rare...

  after watching so much
******* as i have...
you start to revel
in "forbidden" pleasures,
rarities...
something less -esque
lucian freud...
and more francis bacon...

while you grow a beard
to only deal with
a tic -
of an inability:
to not scratch the protruding
*****
growing on your face...

i grew up having
to experience ******
examples...
   sorry... petting a dog
was always going to be
more fun...
  see... i don't get it...
you can have a perfectly
suited ******...
   spending, all day,
licking pieces of paper,
then pretending
to do the scissors...
on the "cut" mark...
all day...

   and then he'd see you,
and hug you like
he was about to squeeze
all of the life out of you...
hug you in
a "burleqsue" variant
of love...
  'can i return to
hugging my shadow,
"petting" a cat,
or grieving
  owning both a dog,
       and a leash?'

  no, when the fact being:
this ****** came from
a family,
whereby the original
"god-the-father"
   had an ******-riddle
relationship
with two sisters...
so... i'm supposed
to feel bad, anti-critical,
orthodox,
the be the sacfred ground
type of anathema?

       the same ****** could
walk the dog,
but all he ever did,
was pretend to be a pair
of scissors...
he could cut up
a newspaper,
with not sharp objects
available...
like a ******* guillotine!

- but not when
human perfection is
relegated...
   and human degeneracy
is given prime agency...

- i'll only entertain
owning a dog...
if i don't have to employ
using a leash...
or a (kaganiec): muzzle...
that's why i don't
like petting cats...
there are no obstructions...
sure...
one will snuckle into
my chair, for about an hour...
but once i've drunk enough,
and take out a cigarette...
she's ready to be rid of me...

petting a dog?
that would be fun,
to train it to be equipped
with a freedom,
that would not force
me to employ a leash,
or a muzzle...

that's like...
better than stating
a frivolity for the need
of a girlfriend...
hands down:
  if i could own a dog,
and not employ
   either a leash
or a muzzle...
that would be like...
owning an exotic bird...
in an environment
of crows...
  but no birdcage...
by then,
that would be... ******* magic.

- i stopped going
to martial arts classes...
when some disciple,
managed to kick me in the groin,
after i refused
   to HA with every movement...
kicked in the *****...
folded into a foetal position...
i heard no sorry...

so here's me...
comparing
   garbage - #1 crush -
wumpscut - torn skin
and...
guns 'n' roses:
        rocket queen...
"thinking" as to why
the Ukranian
police shot
   andrei chikatilo
in the back of the head,
in a prison cell...
   and...
  the urban myth
of a decapitated
cockroach living
for a further 2 weeks...
after the stated fact...

i was only prompted
by the christine chubbuck
scenario...
  it's not like
this happend via
the hollywood edit process
of: shot in the head,
immediately dead...

what happened
to christine chubbuck
gave me access
to the execution
of andrei chikatilo ...
after that,
it was easy...
              wunderbar!
now i know...
that being shot in the head,
does not serve you
an immediacy of death...

christine chubbuck -
andrei chikatilo:
why was he shot
in the back of the head,
in a prison cell?

with events like this...
who the hell needs
to visit disneyland?

« Des Hommes prophétiques en face de leurs époques face à la souffrance causée par les périodes de réaction et de reflux »

(Relation d’une conférence donnée le 13 janvier 1940 à Toulouse par Silvio Trentin sur le principal Poète romantique Italien Giacomo Leopardi)

Prélude à une commémoration

C'est à la bibliothèque interuniversitaire de l’Université de Toulouse-Capitole alors que je me plongeais avec ferveur dans la lecture des ouvrages sur les « fuorusciti » (appellation donnée aux exilés politiques Italiens) que je découvris un opuscule de 118 pages, issue d'une conférence prononcée à Toulouse, le 13 janvier 1940 devant le « Cercle des intellectuels Républicains espagnols » par Silvio Trentin. Cette conférence fut prononcée avec la gorge nouée, devant un public d'intellectuels espagnols et catalans, la plupart exilés depuis 1939, et quelques-uns de leurs amis toulousains non mobilisés.
L'intense gravité du moment ne les empêchait pas de partager une ferveur commune ce haut moment de culture la culture Européenne intitulée par Silvio Trentin : « D’un poète qui nous permettra de retrouver l'Italie Giacomo Leopardi »
L'émotion fut grande pour moi car cet ouvrage me parut comme le frêle esquif rescapé d'un temps de défaites, de souffrances, rendu perceptible par le crépitement des balles de mitrailleuses, des explosions d’obus s'abattant sur des soldats républicains écrasés par la supériorité des armes et condamnés à la défaite par le mol et lâche abandon des diplomaties. Silvio Trentin avait gravé dans sa mémoire des images récentes qui n'avaient rien à envier aux tableaux grimaçants de nouveaux Goya. Il avait tant vu d'images d'avions larguant leurs bombes sur les populations terrifiées et embraser les charniers de Guernica. Il venait de voir passer les longues files de civils, toujours harassés, souvent blessés, emportant leurs rares biens ainsi que les soldats vaincus mais fiers de «la Retirada ». Il venait de visiter ces soldats dont parmi eux bon nombre de ses amis de combat, parqués sommairement dans des camps d'infortune.
Ces Catalans et Espagnols, qui s'étaient battus jusqu'au bout des privations et des souffrances endurées, étaient comme écrasés par le sentiment d'avoir été laissés presque seuls à lutter contre les fascismes, unis et comme pétrifiés par un destin d'injustice et d'amertume.
Mais ces premiers déchainements impunis d'injustices et de violences avaient comme ouverts la porte aux «trois furies» de la mythologie grecque et une semaine exactement après la conclusion du pacte de non-agression germano-soviétique, signé le 23 août 1939, par Molotov et Ribbentrop, les troupes allemandes se jetaient, dès le 1er septembre, sur la Pologne qu'elles écrasaient sous le nombre des stukas et des chars, en raison ce que le Général de Gaulle nomma ultérieurement « une force mécanique supérieure».
Une armée héroïque, mais bien moins puissante, était défaite. Et il ne nous en reste en guise de témoignage dérisoire que les images du cinéaste Andrei Wajda, nous montrant de jeunes cavaliers munis de lances se rendant au combat, à cheval, à la fin de cet été 1939, images d'une fallacieuse et vénéneuse beauté. Staline rendu avide par ce festin de peuples attaqua la Finlande, un mois après, le 30 septembre 1940, après s'être partagé, avec l'Allemagne hitlérienne, une partie de la Pologne. Depuis lors la « drôle de guerre » semblait en suspension, attendant pétrifiée dans rien faire les actes suivants de la tragédie européenne.

- Qu'est ce qui pouvait amener Silvio Trentin en ces jours de tragédie, à sacrifier à l'exercice d'une conférence donnée sur un poète italien né en 1798, plus d'un siècle avant ce nouvel embrasement de l'Europe qui mourut, si jeune, à trente-neuf ans ?
- Comment se fait-il que le juriste antifasciste exilé et le libraire militant devenu toulousain d'adoption, plus habitué à porter son éloquence reconnue dans les meetings organisés à Toulouse en soutien au Front à s'exprimer devant un cercle prestigieux de lettrés, comme pour magnifier la poésie même parmi ses sœurs et frères d'armes et de malheurs partagés ?
I °) L’opposition de tempéraments de Silvio Trentin et Giacomo Leopardi
L'intérêt porté par Silvio Trentin aux textes de Percy Shelley et au geste héroïco-romantique du poète Lauro de Bosis qui dépeignit dans son dernier texte le choix de sa mort héroïque pourrait nous laisser penser que le choix, en 1940, de Giacomo Leopardi comme sujet de médiation, s'inscrivait aussi dans une filiation romantique. Certes il y a bien entre ces deux personnalités si différentes que sont Giacomo Leopardi et Silvio Trentin une même imprégnation romantique. Le critique littéraire hors pair que fut Sainte-Beuve ne s'y est pourtant pas trompé. Dans l'un des premiers portraits faits en France de Leopardi, en 1844, dans la ***** des deux Mondes, Sainte-Beuve considère comme Leopardi comme un « Ancien » : (...) Brutus comme le dernier des anciens, mais c'est bien lui qui l'est. Il est triste comme un Ancien venu trop **** (...) Leopardi était né pour être positivement un Ancien, un homme de la Grèce héroïque ou de la Rome libre. »
Giacomo Leopardi vit au moment du plein essor du romantisme qui apparaît comme une réaction contre le formalisme de la pâle copie de l'Antique, de la sécheresse de la seule raison et de l'occultation de la sensibilité frémissante de la nature et des êtres. Mais s'il partage pleinement les obsessions des écrivains et poètes contemporains romantiques pour les héros solitaires, les lieux déserts, les femmes inaccessibles et la mort, Leopardi, rejette l'idée du salut par la religion et tout ce qui lui apparaît comme lié à l'esprit de réaction en se plaignant amèrement du caractère étroitement provincial et borné de ce qu'il nomme « l’aborrito e inabitabile Recanati ». En fait, la synthèse de Giacomo Leopardi est bien différente des conceptions d'un moyen âge idéalisé des romantiques. Elle s'efforce de dépasser le simple rationalisme à l'optimisme naïf, mais ne renie jamais l'aspiration aux « Lumières » qui correspond pour lui à sa passion tumultueuse pour les sciences. Il s'efforce, toutefois, comme par deux ponts dressés au travers de l'abime qui séparent les cultures et les passions de siècles si différents, de relier les idéaux des Antiques que sont le courage civique et la vertu avec les feux de la connaissance que viennent d'attiser les encyclopédistes. A cet effort de confluence des vertus des langues antiques et des sciences nouvelles se mêle une recherche constante de la lucidité qui le tient toujours comme oscillant sur les chemins escarpés de désillusions et aussi du rejet des espoirs fallacieux dans de nouvelles espérances d'un salut terrestre.
De même Silvio Trentin, de par sa haute formation juridique et son engagement constant dans les tragédies et péripéties quotidienne du militantisme, est **** du secours de la religion et de toute forme d'idéalisation du passé. Silvio Trentin reste pleinement un homme de progrès et d'idéal socialiste fortement teinté d'esprit libertaire pris à revers par la barbarie d'un siècle qui s'ouvre par la première guerre mondiale et la lutte inexpiable engagée entre la réaction des fascismes contre l'esprit des Lumières.
Mais, au-delà d'un parcours de vie très éloigné et d'un pessimisme historique premier et presque fondateur chez Leopardi qui l'oppose à l'obstination civique et démocratique de Silvio Trentin qui va jusqu'à prôner une utopie sociétale fondée sur l'autonomie, deux sentiments forts et des aspirations communes les font se rejoindre.

II °) Le même partage des désillusions et de la douleur :
Ce qui relie les existences si différentes de Giacomo Leopardi et de Silvio Trentin c'est une même expérience existentielle de la désillusion et de la douleur. Elle plonge ses racines chez Giacomo Leopardi dans une vie tronquée et comme recroquevillée par la maladie et un sentiment d'enfermement. Chez Silvio Trentin, c'est l'expérience historique même de la première moitié du vingtième siècle dont il est un des acteurs engagés qui provoque, non pas la désillusion, mais le constat lucide d'un terrible reflux historique qui culmine jusqu'à la chute de Mussolini et d'Hilter. A partir de retour dans sa patrie, le 4 septembre 1943, Silvio Trentin débute une période de cinq jours de vie intense et fiévreuse emplie de liberté et de bonheur, avant de devoir replonger dans la clandestinité, en raison de la prise de contrôle du Nord et du centre de l'Italie par l'armée allemande et ses alliés fascistes. Bien entendu il n'y a rien de comparable en horreur entre le sentiment d'un reflux des illusions causé par l'échec historique de la Révolution française et de son héritier infidèle l'Empire et le climat de réaction qui suit le congrès de Vienne et la violence implacable qui se déchaine en Europe en réaction à la tragédie de la première mondiale et à la Révolution bolchevique.


III °) Le partage de la souffrance par deux Esprits dissemblables :
Silvio Trentin retrace bien le climat commun des deux périodes : « Son œuvre se situe bien (...) dans cette Europe de la deuxième décade du XIXe siècle qui voit s'éteindre les dernières flammèches de la Grand Révolution et s'écrouler, dans un fracas de ruines, la folle aventure tentée par Bonaparte et se dresser impitoyablement sur son corps, à l'aide des baïonnettes et des potences, les solides piliers que la Sainte Alliance vient d'établir à Vienne. »
C'est donc durant deux périodes de reflux qu'ont vécu Giacomo Leopardi et Silvio Trentin avec pour effet d'entrainer la diffusion d'un grand pessimisme historique surtout parmi celles et ceux dont le tempérament et le métier est de penser et de décrire leur époque. Silvio Trentin a vu démocratie être progressivement étouffée, de 1922 à 1924, puis à partir de 1926, être brutalement écrasée en Italie. En 1933, il assisté à l'accession au gouvernement d'****** et à l'installation rapide d'un pouvoir impitoyable ouvrant des camps de concentration pour ses opposants et mettant en œuvre un antisémitisme d'Etat qui va basculer dans l'horreur. Il a personnellement observé, puis secouru, les républicains espagnols et catalans si peu aidés qu'ils ont fini par ployer sous les armes des dictatures fascistes, lesquelles ne ménagèrent jamais leurs appuis, argent, et armes et à leur allié Franco et à la « vieille Espagne ». Il a dû assurer personnellement la pénible tâche d'honorer ses amis tués, comme l'avocat républicain, Mario Angeloni, le socialiste Fernando de Rosa, son camarade de « Giustizia e Libertà », Libero Battistelli. Il a assisté à l'assassinat en France même de l'économiste Carlo Rosselli qui était son ami et qu'il estimait entre tous.

IV °) Sur le caractère de refuge ultime de la Poésie :
Silvio Trentin laisse percer la sensibilité et l'esprit d'un être sensible face aux inévitables limites des arts et techniques mises au service de l'émancipation humaine. A chaque époque pèsent sur les êtres humains les plus généreux les limites inévitables de toute création bridée par les préjugés, les égoïsmes et les peurs. Alors la poésie vient offrir à celles et ceux qui en souffrent le plus, une consolation et leur offre un univers largement ouvert à la magie créatrice des mots ou il n'est d'autres bornes que celles de la liberté et la créativité. C'est ce qui nous permet de comprendre qu'au temps où l'Espagne brulait et ou l'Europe se préparait à vivre l'une des époques les plus sombres de l'humanité, la fragile cohorte des poètes, tels Rafael Alberti, Juan Ramon Jiménez, Federico Garcia Lorca et Antonio Machado s'engagea comme les ruisseaux vont à la mer, aux côtés des peuples et des classes opprimées. Parmi les plus nobles et les plus valeureux des politiques, ceux qui ne se satisfont pas des effets de tribune ou des honneurs précaires, la poésie leur devient parfois indispensable ainsi que formule Silvio Trentin :
« [...] si la poésie est utile aux peuples libres, [...] elle est, en quelque sorte, indispensable — ainsi que l'oxygène aux êtres que menace l'asphyxie — aux peuples pour qui la liberté est encore un bien à conquérir] « [...] La poésie s'adresse aussi "à ceux parmi les hommes [...] qui ont fait l'expérience cruelle de la déception et de la douleur».
Le 16 03 2017 écrit par Paul Arrighi

there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.

the sea is sighing like a woman
and I can hear its breath
of a hunted man
nearby yellow flowers
wild stones
salt drops stinging my arms
two seagulls dart out of my eyes
and fly side by side
speaking to each other over water
like human beings
in the absence of love

Carmen Firan
translated by Andrei Bantas

it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -

    i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -

    they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -

   working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
  and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
    genesis of unoriginality...

yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
    plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
   it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...

      just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
   allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
    the segregating process of
techno. advancement...  
         toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
   cultural loaning...
      "plagiarism"...
       perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...

now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...

             but as my continued fascination
continues with
    andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:

  why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!  

ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
              vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.

-
as my grandfather said: hand of a stone, heart the size of a peanut, and the "individuals" will be yours hiding behind a wall... as i replied: sooner man will hide behind a people, than he will expose himself to be one, of the people; i know who i belong to! albus & rubrum... sink, azure... sink.

because the poor girl christine chubbuck
died in a hospital bed,
under narcosis
while the fiend
andrei romanovich chikatilo,
died, in an ukrainian cold
prison cell floor,
  without any painkillers...
            which he probably didn't mind...
ever so often, only half fraction
of the brain is affect,
the rest? explores...
                perhaps pain became
his ally...
                how long do you
think they kept him caged like
that, with a shot in the back of the head?
well...
you show me a movie like
   christine i will naturally become
curious...
      he survived his brain damage
until he starved?
          but what pains might have
been spawned that will, always,
make, ******, a pop culture icon,
                  and never, the horror...
you trying to find only nazis as
the zenith of horror?
           ha ha!
                   you never read anything
about the ukraine, have you?
               those remnants of
mongolia...
           ha ha... i like american
*******, they're funny...
             fear is always: wide-eyed!
         the part where the internet
trolls start bragging: uh, uh,
their women...
             what women?
           "my" women?
                       these aren't "my" women...
hey, a study of h. h. holmes...
            past the "fantasy" and
back into reality i don't know
what the bragging it about...
      better ask the advert
   #greet-the-saudi-prince...
     with what? a hatchet or a knife?
   personally the whole primitive
aspect of burning national flags
lacks all the humour of:
******* on them...
          must be a pakistani "thing"...
these people could do one
better and not plagiarise nazis...
how about a game:
          ******* on books you
want to burn?
                           well, if you really
want to insult...
burning books just insults
the publishers, and printers...
        burning books ensures
ideas of those opposing you become
beacons and are doubly
defended...
        but the act of ******* on a book?
well... the work of publishers and
printers is still there...
   but the work within?
      you ****** on it,
                why burn the artefact?
just say the paper was rough
and you needed soft paper
to wipe your *** with;
                                         problem?
oh, right... niqab...
                her mouth for your eyes only...
and your genitals for her mouth only...
i see...
        easier to start a fire...
               fair enough:
           but now we can have an honest
dilema as to what constitutes
                    an authentic protest.
i'll count the book burning
authentic,
       when you allow yourself
to show your genitals in public,
          as she might her face,
   and you might actually protest
by playing the afghan-*******-game
on a flag, rather than digging for
coal, or chopping trees for
a fireplace...
                   don't burn it!
**** on it!
                       ah... so i thought...
a throng of castratos.
                can shackle men in curtains,
have no stomach for how
bulgarian prostitutes dress
in a brothel in officer-manly grey
attire...
                big tease...
                no more...
                        thong for what?
  linger-ray for what?
         arousal?
                    ma-ma-madonna
       ***-***-***** complex...
                we're not exactly here,
together bound to pulverising body
heat to keep 16 year olds free from
the metaphors of eating ice cream...
and the courosel if intimidating
insinuation..
                     ***** please,
110 quid an hour,
                   i can leave without
a single *******...
                    that's not the bit i mind...
i mind walking back into
the labyrinth
            with an echo of you
giggling while i transgressed
the ******* ethos of:
   no lips touch these lips with
their lips...
                      oh...                   oops...
my bad...
           and how many times i
walked among with a knife and
a bottle of whiskey suffocating in
asking them: **** me...
                                 too many times.
- but honestly though:
if you're going to seriously
protest... start ******* on the flag
you concentrated your protest
on, rather than doing the ali-g
of burning it...
            makes me look bad in
this generational sphere of
                "identification politics"...
   no... second time
               the 2nd democratic convention
that's the "academy"
             happens seeing it
the second time...
                       a brewing fourth wave...
because when does an actor not act?!
         when can an actor
ever make an oath an antithesis
to grasp authenticity?
           ****...
           throw these magicians
             onto a stage and tell them
to play anything other than
a helpless foetus...
          matthew mcconaughey can
rub his nose all he wants...
                      line them up!
            just... throw them onto
an actual theatre stage...
                       and lets count
the magic tricks of the art of editing
to mind them then.

in all fairness, it was one of of those simple overcast,
English sort of days...
i love such days, the sun's lazily hiding
behind the clouds: no chance to implement green
energy via solar panels...
very English... very islander...
     hell, chances are these might just be the Faroe Isles...
it'll do...
weather like this makes me: miserably happy...
or, rather... happily miserable...
   you spot a crow paired up: why do crows in England
tend to fly in pairs?
over on the continent crows congregate...
they antagonise the sky with a presence equivalent
to a Messerschmitt raiding party... horde...
black crosses casting shadows from high up...
in England... the mythological kingdom of crows...
they pair up as if... Odin himself is peering on this land...
what's it like in Scandinavia?
i woke up with a thought, though,
i put it to the back of my head until the day's chores
were over...
what the hell happened to women?
where are the women a boy or man would put
up on the wall on a poster?
what the hell happened to...
women like Joan Jett...
Rachel Weisz (notably for playing a role in
a Stendhal adaptation with Ewan McGregor)
my hot... the archetypical blonde
for me was not Marilyn Monroe...
it was Cameron Diaz after seeing her in The Mask...
**** me, do i have to mention Morgan Weaver...
what's that other one
the really: fit as hell brunette...
oh... right... Alex Morgan...
                   Olga Smirnova... Diana Vishneva...
don't even get me started on
the tennis...
Eugenie Bouchard or... Garbiñe Muguruza
those Spanish "sad eyes" when
smiling... horiziontally:

   (
               )
   (

odd... isn't it... if you pair up two ( ( brackets like
that... and associate them with eyes...
while doing the opposite...

    )
                (
    )

) ) those down-cast eyes... but i guess it all comes
down to... a variation of rereading hieroglyphs...
hell... even further! it's archetypical...

who else is on my list... Paula Badosa...
Monica Puig...
i don't even know why i like the actress
that played the incel Christine Chubbuck...
point being: never shoot yourself in the head...
if you have to... stab yourself in the heart:
as Kafka prescribed... unless you have
a shot-gun available to get rid of the whole head...

i saw it in the movie... and... since i have eclectic tastes...
Christine Chubbuck shot herself in the head...
films make you want to think that she
died... instantly...
ever hear that urban myth about a decapitated
cockroach... it apparently died 2 weeks later...
no... not from missing head:
from a missing mouth... the cockroach's body
continued to live on, even though the head was...
ahem... "missing"...

i think i've touched upon this once already,
the infamous Ukrainian serial killer:
Andrei Chikatilo... it's very much that quote
from Batman... Resurrected... the one with Tom Hardy
playing Bane...
the quote, verbatim:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane!
from the film about Christine Chubbuck's attempted
suicide on air: agony of an incel...
she didn't die, immediately... from the head injury...
she died later down the line:
on life support machines...

so i'll re-quote, concerning the execution of
Andrei Chikatilo...
why would he be marched into an empty prison
cell and be shot in the back of the head...
oh... now it makes senses...
he didn't die immediately...
he was brain-damaged...
he didn't bleed out from this head wound...
it must have taken him about... 2 weeks to die...
from either dehydration or from lack of food...
but the movies will never tell you that...
some do, thought...

why would you take a serial killer into an empty
prison cell and shoot him in the back
of the head: if you weren't expecting him
to pretend to be dead for... a little while, longer?
would the Ukrainian prison guards subsequently
**** him with arrogantly looking
objects?
******* ****** and what not?
i expect they might have...
i like entertaining myself with such scenarios...

but like Kafka said: aim at the heart...
you're not going to die from a head-injury...
your might not be aware of it...
it would be otherwise pointless to make a film
surrounding poor, un-****** Christine...
leeching off support-machinery...
kept alive...
ergo? ol' Andrei was shot in the back
of the head, in an empty cell...
left to partially rot away...
probably getting ****** on, ******* on...
well... did he deserve any better?!

yet i woke up thinking...
why do all the pretty girls... become prostitutes?
the most beautiful ones i ever caressed:
prior to scratching my fingertips on some pavement /
brick before touching their bodies were always
the prettiest of the whole lot of them...
but in general... with the advent of post-brothel
simping... paying for nudes directly
rather than ascribing oneself to:
i'm *****... i'll take the 3rd person ****-show...
fair enough...
but i'm not paying directly for: directly nothing...

they could have been football players,
nurses, ballerinas, actresses...
they turned to ***...
sure... of the 3 or 4 Ps...
poets, priests, psychiatrists or prostitutes...
they're in line...
perhaps it's for the best...
every, single, time...
of the times i visited a psychiatrist,
psychologist... after all: a psychologist has no
power to prescribe you the required pharmacology...
i have my own reading list...
so...
to hell with a priest...
i can't be a god-fearing man when i am supposed
to churn out a regurgitation of a:
benevolent all loving god... not in my part
of the woods...
so, prostitutes!
less talk, more touchy-feely...

yet so many women have decided to take up
this route... hardly professionally...
only via the easy way out...
it's not like most of these girls are capable to touch my
own body... i go to the source...
Turkish... plain in sight... Romanian...
i'm not paying for a ******* video of her
*******, body on body contact...
better assurance to what a date might provoke...

but it's not like they're aiming to be ballerinas,
the minority always will...
sure: and i'm also not a car mechanic...
****** poet, events steward...
a few clues to a upper IQ also missing...
not right up there with the opera singers... either...
i like the middle ground, though...

like today... i was walking to Collier Row to buy some
spiced ***, some orange peel,
some currants, for a Christmas cake...
beard's all bushy... the moustache has taken charge...
i have a date on Monday...
one sip of coffee and i pick up extra foam...
this ****** jungle needs to be trimmed...
so i went to the Turk...
now... if i really love a piece of clothing...
i'll repeatedly wear it...
a Fat Face brown shirt... thick enough for winter
to only wear a dark brown t-shirt underneath...
crock-coloured material trousers...
cotton? brown leather shoes... ankle high...
and... a new addition... a brown-green...
baker-boy cap...
maybe the bushy beard readied for a trim...
or the baker-boy cap...
a green & grey shawl...
one female, two female, three females down...
smiling, giggly... the: oh i love the pretend
curiosity / nervousness... excitement...
best i love myself: the last loved-up curiosity
left me... with too much nostalgia...
in as quickly & out as quickly as a ******* allows...
i'm out...

KORA: the lead-singer from this ******
band Manam... where are these women gone to,
all went to *******?
impossible... given can compete... compliment
men's addition to civilisation
they reduce themselves to the meat-market?
seems like a waste...
while they could aspire to sing,
to dance ballet... fair enough...
a ******* does the work of a psychiatrist...
yeah, sure, watch me complain...
but i'm not going to pay for frivolous expenses...
i need the touch: i'll get the touch...
no ******* free-rides...
people that talk during ***...
people that aren't mute or onomatopoeia prone...
can't understand them: i don't wnat to
understand them...

a more complex schematic i had in mind...
on the 14th of December my mother booked in
this pedicurist...
i hope she comes with her 1 year old daughter...
it was most fun the last time she came,
my little Frankenstein...

last time i clucked, she clucked back...
she implored me with the knowledge
that she was hungry, she also had cold feet...
i took her up in my arms and cuddle her...
i was being scrutinised...
this pedicurist had a friend in tow...
apparently i had all the advantages of a Scandinavian
physiognomy...
a darkened beard, a darkened brow...
yet illuminating moustache / soul patch:
blonde...
   the leftover of my childhood colour of hair...
i wish she brings this little... critter back into my arms...

it's not mine: less heartache from a perspective of
ownership... this little babe... i own bonsai tigers...
coming into staged ownership of a baby girl...
not my own... how fun it becomes...
i out on some vinyl record for her...
she tries to memorise me...
she puts a finger into my mouth...
she tugs at my beard...
i wink, she winks...
             i give her an onomatopoeia...
she gives me one back...

little Frankenstein...
that's why i should have children, they'd be too experimental...
following the schematic:
i'd ask the little critter:

  e  i
a  M o
    u        (y)

English alone... Y... why... alias of "iota"...
            
Y: to... także samogłoska, nie?
i guess there are more vowels in ******
than in Anglo-Saxon...

  ą   e  ę
a  M  o
   i y u/ó

in anglo-saxon Y is not considered a vowel,
it's considered  a consonant:
a... spółgłoski...

i lent this pedicurist some albums:
pablopavo - telefon
wooden shjips - west
vomito nergo - fall of an empire
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles
biran jonestown massacre - aufheben
dead skeletons - dead magic
electric wizard - dopethrone
spirit - 12 dreams
ryan adams - s.t.
u.n.c.le. - war stories
om - adviatic songs
trentemoller - lost
the soft moon - s.t.
allah-las - s.t.
uncle acid & the deadbeats ,
naam,
chromatic - will for love
in extremo - verehrt und...
tame impala - innerspeaker...

just bring me your little Frankenstein!

tending to a babe, via keeping a makeshift...
listening stream of...
Masquerade, oh beloved little kitty:
of a would be Frankentsein...
speak me some assurance!

Midnight Confession to Stingray  III  

And suddenly awake. i think i heard the phone ring, but long ago that no stingray called me; it would be absurd. who call a forgotten man, yearny of themselves?. And suddenly awake and crying i wonder what i have done to live this. why i can not die? what's stopping me? god kills for pleasure, i would do it out of necessity. i end with my life and the importance of being earnest.
    
Outside roars the sea. the waves claim my life, my life claim it and head on a silver platter the almighty, responsible to no justice. ha! justice. Consign it everything to god is to add an extra shadow existence. whenever i get depressed i confirmed the existence of nowhere. already said my old friend Andrei, "the soul craves harmony, while the world, reality, life, are full of dissonance".
    god! i do not want any harm to feed my humor. and i tell you because i know that fate is but the unilateral decision of a supreme being, without the intervention of the creature that falls. you and your **** decisions!
  
I must then settle the illusory permanence of my bad steps taken. after all, the man has not been done to exemplify rebelliousness.
Insert - cans carrier some catching film and rolls a finger cuts / , looking at his finger and begins to move circularly, leaving his palace versailles topic decorated, full of blood stigma. then  an arm and his shadow the succor envelops faucet cracked.

insert final -
you always give back things to their original order, no matter what man does or does not do. when the world ends, will only continue the deserted streets where consummating the drama of solitude, loneliness of man. solitude, that awe you feel your son, more powerful even than the fear of death. loneliness, ontophanicus element of childhood fears and unrecognized face of the adult human animal.


Insert - Snifp    opens window, moist your hands with rain, seals his hands, making a drinking vessel of your hands. someone you back then close was noting his eyelids his old love visiting him - Snifp shudders take turns and trafficking in their eyes hands that image. followed gets humming a ditty ... continuing with your thought the song of your song - only the first two lines sing, the rest is with musical pacing phraseology showing on time images:

  "  maybe everything is reduced to ideas. the great wars and the huge advances in the history of mankind are due to them... what is most important for the soul to believe in change? the flowering of ideas! proclaim them the wind and see how they are trampled, but when they die, they will be remembered by them.
    yes, i know, when my turn comes, or not taking into account what you have said, i must kneel before you. "

Insert - Snifp - in your room like versailles, kneeling before the accompanying idol behind his cabin. it was a huge torrent cans with film rolls. some were leaving your movies its packaging. on the upper part of torrent was an eye that turn that also glinted colors and eye on pared scenes showed pictures romance film and expressionist cinema.

  " something happened with spring and winter, only took one night to erase my life. everything i've done, everything i am has been solely because of my insecurity even look at my letter, is confused, irregular, insecure, unfinished, unfinished, ugly to my way of translating the letters on paper it is unsafe. That's why i am where i am. it may not be the best, but it's comfortable. i should not deal with anyone but my ghosts. "

Composition: the whole song - this song in passive voice - before each pause they call Snipf, her father, her mother, she the same calling it self doing choir with letter of the song telling you enter is late and that not early to work everyday continuing - voice feels off, but the darkness appears immensity of arms in clothes ragged and *****, treating him to speak. every aspect of song be supported by allusive as a documentary imagine.

[insert images]: Mr Snifp. this in a paramo isolated, everything smells rancid stink and essence with her mouth glottis churned a finger as mayor, the three items that were deposited in calderon reddened by flare. Their beards 90 cm, crisscrossed end of pointed shape. mr. Snipf it took out glottis your hands together his cross to remove the book and the lenses pipe. While he continued impetuously making this movement of his arms, lashed out on the top step your home room your nearest death, and if it was confused casket 60 cm or a 2 mts. such was the fan accession that uttering which carried from the limbo of house untouchable pantheon, but it was not, all the servants threw it out of doors sliding down the cobblestones, while Snifp kicking as if to take revenge until the last priest perpetuity oblation gave to your existence non tyranny.Still getting off cobblestones, planters keep falling, cornices. carnations falling on follow your body wood caged.

Removing Snifp appears in Calderon lenses, pipe and the book, but this time he has in his hand left the book, and pipe right. but when child, walk the avenue where would buy tidbits, seeing through the showcase  the owner of the commercial always had in his right hand a book and left a pipe.

Snifp lying on his altar Calderon churned with thousands of books, lenses and pipes, falling to tiring and suddenly the ground with his right hand possessing a book of phrenology and left a pipe smoky reddish. it was so faint Snipf and only with boiling essences smelly around.

[insert end].

Zooantropomorphic Basic Kinetic Theory:

In the room, three and a hommo sapiens stingrays. Located facing each other. how to illustrate and in between them appearance with animals, and acting daily activities.

Every stingray, is an object and subject to time, the eyes of Snifp, but more remarkable is that each of them can auto refer, as having instincts and feelings, which alternately men intimidate and used in a extended range of possessions and physical, and electromagnetic powers psychic. "

Snipf in the room seemed feeling redeemed, because they came to help him, came to the town of his abode. A hold a escape. but to think and think and read what rugs you wrote on the wall concerning this theory, he reminded inescapably on fatigue years of thinking, to nearly multiply your ideas on every beat of your heart as an avalanche in your own heart

And they continued typing:

... Thousands of years sail the seas for fixing without ours where our dreams console conditions. we have seen many events, births islands, shipwrecks _ at that time Snifp, he takes the head and can not believe what you tell manta rays, being very shock and sorrow.

He told ...: as you, enjoyed the freedom to grow and believe in my labors happiness. up next to toasted you hiding the sun my skin. trying to follow them confine of the seas as well wishing one day be as you but i saw growing up and that my gaps growth . interrupts writing one of them on the wall:

... Birds and we seem confused in the sky and the sea. its movement is a great similar  infinitely ours. by instance. for reproduce places and we are in very favorable temperatures. Our food to go for a  tractile  movements resort in places, where our hunger and thirst unite to hunt our prey. There are certain movements, seemed birds river near the sea; with love that in a small ball enjoying our offspring thousands of kilometers from hunting place chosen.

My father strand a day in the pacific sea rivera, seeing some odd birds in groups, moving choreography of side to side, changing their appearance or disordering composition, rare birds when they reached another species, but enough with birds are you were visiting for them with their move to, they give the spectator the camouflage invisibility, violated them to be your space.

Snifp: but the move with air allays tour and return either in any direction. and when i feel abandoned by my wishes of faith or of love, which will be the right move?. One of them says: the movement may not porte nothing, or also something ruined, importantly possessing energy for all be alive call the highest levels rising to pay for that move your body energy; something like love for fuel survive, perhaps not frustrating not to have to turn disoriented when we storms at sea with boats and we want trap, without relying on a moment to pray, to save our destinations. Snifp, think that as you suffer, it happens to us. the blankets impassive, floating on the piece and brought them to Snifp the miles genealogies and exhausted by origins of existence.The cornerstone of movement, time division yours and mine, separated by both affected synchronicity things for immense currents.

Snifp replY: if, if you !!. but both to animals we  vanished others because you have eyes for men only see your interests. Snifp as if you are thinking _ ourselves the told, what confusion ... not !!.

Then  in men, animals are invisible visible and motion forms. But yes, each generation of movements different article, since each margin regarding your drive specific functions  changing the man, what you plenty of activity what to generate be blinded  no recalling the advancement finally  to not to repeat their mistakes. Snipf words in good men living in a house of fears caused by collective and not totally bad habits subjugations evolved animals. An animal, a being who owned and self contained and do nothing  not self  supply materiality.

We do not pray to  God, just keep your policy creation and preservation, just keep your commands as a whole to vibrate, knowing and ignoring sometimes. This is our Creator. Stingrays sailing in my Mind  and in  the spreading architectural dreaming.

...and that i own a bed.., but rather sleep on the floor... make-up an Ibiza from a Beirut... i rather **** the fathoming of a fizzle... to somehow compensate the tirade... this most unwelcome clue and loss... this gravity toward a... copper skin... and spit of biting totoises toying: limbo years... leftover... come... cushioning brief: fudge-packaged "thought"... this limbo-slant... as somewhat crude work-around... kiev a... "scheme"...

vielen dank zu gott! many thanks to god!

my greatest fear is that of homelessness...
who's to fear... to fear and "what"?

to be at home is some synoynmous
with something:
beside a being: and a home!

loitering in the quasi lane...
i'm about to travel across
europe with three rotten
teeth and i'm to suspect:
myself toying with some
variation of journalism...

       i see no end to the cold,
or war... the warm or
the shrapnel excavation
project...
when communism
was beast established
among the slavs
as your: yours one and truly...
antagonistic
warsaw pact whistling
and lobotomy...

even if i were the evil genius
of descartes...
i wouldn't be so...
fine detailed: ****...
      so... pristine... so...
otherwise... lobotomy blues...

exactly! what's scary is not
the laws being implemented...
but how... easily they are...
talk about climbing a tree...
talk about learning to ride
a bike... achieving a pass
with a bruised knee...

              a scrap: heaping...
lost teeth and... what of the jihad...
for the lost fraction of the ummah...
what of the jihad...
expected... in the chinese...

where is the ummah to be
summed to salvage...
and save the...
frolic over...
              the detail... in hair...
when hair is being shipped
away to "elsewhere"...
for ****-holes awaiting...
xinjiang... hair from...
would be... hibernating bear farts...

the jihad! the jihad!
i'm guessing the arab elites
are in on the "gimmick" with
the choke ***** men...
because... jihad only behaves
like a jihad on former
cursader territory...
south of france...
herr tao is somehow immune...

calls for being debility funny...
calls for...
bonfires of the turban of the sikhs...
orientating...
the house of gondor with
the house of rohan...

                 we'z needz 'air!
atypical confused jihadi saladin would-be...
we must all thank...
vielen dank zu gott!
                   but i still wait...
for the jihad to save the... project islam inc.
of the ummah...

sloth-riddles of the islamic project...
clearly they want to stamp on
the face of a man beaten down by...
a non-resurrected christianity...
too scared to face off with...
chinese atheism...

      *****-soldiers... where the ummah
where the... oh... wait...
the bangladeshi being paid
in "reperations" having
a chance to relieve themselves
with a game of cricket...
i'd sooner send... the locust
to abu dhabi than allow a foot
of mine to set...
on a worse idea beside the already
ailing reality of venice...

once upon a time...
was the fortune of settling on the basin
of the river...
all that oil must have shot those
arabs to the head...
the egyptians started screaming
at the camel-jockeys:
you never listened to the sand-*******...
did you?

all that black gold in one's pocket...
all that... yacht ambition...
all that and that...
all that frivolity... prized pride of
the... ahem... "ummah"...
looks like the chinese muslims are
forever and the will of the dubai classics...
fern fusions readied for...
the wigs!

       ****** readied they are...
some mongols would dear strap a horse
to their grave than excavate a hair plough
from...
eh... slaving prior to genocide...
it's like... they are... "allies"...
               it's a genocide mingling
with a joke... of slavery...
but the slaves did work that...
oh no... the germans didn't trust...
the hebrews with anything...
they performed genocide like a "failure"...
or rather a joke...
  
ask the serbs...
ask someone in rwanda...
you never perform a genocide...
by way of... imitating slavery...
by... stalling... by making people perform
menial tasks...
hello horror...
hello the sleeping ummah of islam...
to outright **** a people...
you wouldn't want them...
being teased...
a god teasing and his precursor for
having a 2000 year old wait
to establish: re- ishrael...

         the outliers of rome...
alaos pagan... converted to
the judeo-greco project of: three rotten teeth...

"toxic masculinity"... problem?
not enough of it is going around...
enough for it to be shared...
likewise...
my retreating toward...
japanese insinuation ****...
gravure idols...
   hell... absolute "toxic femininity"...
porcelain white girls...
all... lemon *******... peanuts dead...
while their... glob-trotting...
glutton sized up 66s...
   have forgotten the concept of:
insinuation ****...
foreplay...
all readied for...
extract ******* woman...
****... bred for... **** like a piston...
****** readied...
   blah "blah"...

       it doesn't translate... plain jane...
the sort of toxic you seek...
in man... revels in a deity lady madonna...
i **** myself over all second come...
blessings! blessings they calls them...
yeah... the best dates i've ever had...
concerning the "middle path"
of buddha is bound to the clarity
of a transation in a brothel...

so much for a justified jihad in xinjiang
to... save the people of the ummah...
pseudo malcom X consricpt... 0...
negation... not going to happen...
    japanese porcelein ****...
but they'll wait for the hyprocrisy...
they'll come for the arabs first...
when they finally engineer a man...
that will be better than all
the supposed doping advances of western man
allowed...
  
i'm starting to like *******
from the perspective of a japanese hard-on...
insinuation...
    i'm less the ****** and i'm more...
about to sniff a stinking dog's bowl
of processed meat of a ****'s oyster behalf...
i like that...
less *****... more hard-on...
     n'ah... i never did buy into the whole:
sorry loser ******* in amsterdam
cinema sessions...
    i liked... the tease of a tier...
more imaginative... more human...
than... a tease of a harem via a niqab...

so... no jihad come xinjiang?
should we suppose the mongols also invested
in a conversion and it wasn't the grand
imitation buddha kahn?
the wrath subsided: god was proven...
time for meditation...
    what's a jihad...
when you could entertain...
the... tsunami of the horde of...
the fall of angels.... fully-workable replica
metaphor...
what's the ****-poor islam "spread"
by comparison?
                
no real ummah then...
   unless...
that's diesel of a lamborghini burning
rubber on a tarmac in knightsbirdge
for a faking 'ard on...
    
  two days from now...
i'll be passing through germany...
        i'll be retiring 2 weeks to that land
of paradoxes that's my land of birth...
the aristocratic democracy brothel
of crown and... *******...
foreign hands foreign lands...
all the ready to retreat into their habsburg cul de sacs
of prior to: asserted powers...

no... there's just that...
"we" forgot a healthy ground for
doubt... the plethora of emotion...
the rollercoaster of it...
there's just now... the yoyo-denial cringe
lobotomy...
the best best cringe...
slav soviet communist...
Teddy! Teddy! sell 'em spleen
and iron grips!
no good Warsaw Tadeusz!
Beijin new bwest fwend!

            t-eee-sted...
                  new zealand: tee-st...
not station: tested... but...
t-eee-sted **** the rats and retards...
the philonthropes...
because...
   the noise made by bwah bwah...
  the misathrope...
it's like an accent from...
that last best reserved concept
of growing figs... otherwise a...
goof-ball and course for ralph...

now for the self-congratulatory letter
of championing the dodo project:
well thank **** for not solving this brain-drain
spaghetti puzzle and not exactly buying into
the d.n.a. project ugly pass...
with all that..... bewildering...
"consciousness" debate...
michael myers' "consciousness" debate...
one... 'em... those sudoku nuggets
of... "sober"?!

best resolved...
i drink alcohol to keep calm...
after i forgot to... take my ****** pills...
my... i came late to the party...
21 was illegal to smoke marijuana...
amitriptyline... 25mg...
how many times do i think
about a slaughterhouse?
i think of all the boys with:
chemical soup for brains aged
16 and under...
i was lucky...
they only got to me aged 21...
i was still allowed to retain
a labyrinth of wording(s) to shelter my anger with...
surprise? what surprise?

toxic masculinity = not enough james bonds
running amok for...
oh... weight... *****-whipping...
there's all that... i forgot what...
period drama this was all about...

drink drink drink...
i'll sooner kick my liver dead than...
allow society to sober my half-wit frankenstein
brain of theirs...
    i'll die with:
i don't scare myself with drowning...
i don't scare myself with falling...
flat into a pancake...
i shouldn't be afraid of homelessness...
but i am because...
this avenue of the freely available stars...
and those... made rebel...
that will answer to me...

                  the butterfly... waiting...
for the most pristine... prized... first...
insecurity of... h'america about to be exported...
and it's a... oh my! a zephyr...
tornado... one of those: flush 'em...
when you 'ave 'em...
sort of... scenarios...

hegel: improtune... the will of the thinking man...
thought is a butterfly...
it's hardly... a well-knitted-marx-beard-and-sweater
of consolidations...
  
honest to the god i don't believe in...
i'd shadow **** that crucifix if it
had a japanese gravure model hanging on it...
******* as insinuation...
they did catch me...
libido pressed...
aged 21...
they would have got to me aged 16 and prior...
with ****** and former brain:
the chemical soup...

          i want to smash **** up... then i remind
myself: wait... and giggle...
   the extract... mikhail popkov...
                 albert fish... fan boy for every:
groupie of history...
            is that... like... a somewhat missing:
oops?
        CHRISTINE CHUBBUCK...
               INCEL...
       wouldn't it be... just.. oh so strange...
to... drag a man into a prison cell...
and shoot them... obviously retaining leaving
them there to rot...
   andrei chikatilo...
                              the urban myth of cockroaches
being subjected to the guillotine...

sure... whizz vite boyz aged...
napoleon dynamite... jeffrey dahmer...
      16 is the right time to call brainz...
chem. soup...
bubbly...
me comez 21... me's perfecto...
   me no cain signature idiot primo...
                 i like me horror story...
i get to play the... plot line of
the anaesthetic...
                      
who is to be surprised by: who's who...
of anyone's who of...
the currency of... this... surf...
lost... a "somehow"...
a "somewhat"...
oh... this is... for... today?
                                this has to be...
the advent of the pontius pilate metaphor...
no... not me...
dies ist alles sie:
   scheiße!     es ist mich?
              verwesendtrauben....

kommen, sehen... der welt...
                           verstopfungselbst.

poetry
a blue snake
stretches from one to the other
it breaks the shop window
it coils insiduously
around those driven
from the street into the house

it binds hands and learns to cry
the utterance at the service of power
don't throw the mantle of clouds
off my shoulders
remember
in the beginning was the word
in the last night
distorted

eventually
there remains poetry insinuated
like a blue snake
into the cup full of tears

Carmen Firan
*translated by Andrei Bantas

good to hear from the finns.

at least poetry has the decency to allow me a mirror
into a heart, rather than all this **** reasoning
that decided: like i ******* care
to hear your narrative.
for 20 odd years i enjoyed my narration
that didn't transcribe itself into
a "poem" or (god forbid)
a youtube video;
people in the west have this profanity
in them, they always cite beginning
something aged eight, or nine...
which precursors to them saying: i'm a genius!
i started wanking aged 7,
because i found a prono mag in the catacombs
of a church that was being built...
that's genius? ever ponder the consideration
that you can become sexually aroused
prior to producing *****? and teaching it
to someone? so where do abortion rules
for pro-life come in, into that game?
and believe me, it was the most beautiful and at
the same time ******-up relationship that lasted
for about two seasons of a year...
i went to st. petersburg and met her parents,
although she called her mother her sister,
and she called her grandmother her mother...
i was given a silver spoon to shove up my ***
as a symbol for the consecration of vows...
to be honest? figuring out god was by far
easier to understand than that woman of teasing
teens... i was 21 she was 19... pushing onto *******
infinity... added to the fact that i thankfully haven't
lived anything past that...
    9 going onto 10 years spent in an imaginary
prison of my room and collecting books...
     but what's really sad is that i had most of my
knuckles used up in childhood,
   i remember chasing *bioły around a "skip"
with rafał kicking the **** out of him,
then bioły's older brother kicking me in the ***,
then my neighbours, twins grzesiek & krzysiek
turning bioły's older brother's car (a fiat 126p)
upside down...
      i swear yesterday i heard that the c.i.a. was using
samsung televisions to spy on people
by turning them into audio-related devices...
            it's still a bit foggy for me, to be honest,
i'm in the cinema of memory...
it's beautiful, not a lot of people in the theatre,
just me the memory of being a kid
and a dog trying to **** my ankle...
             it's weird, the highest quality of my memory
comes from being born elsewhere,
there, where i didn't have to use this tongue...
  phoo! foreign *******... look at me now:
a complete mongrel of soul: so much so that i have
to listen to songs in finnish...
              what's it like reading yesterday's newspaper?
daffodils!                                   daffodils!
it's scented candles in a spa!
                                  i forget you don't keep ****
but instead flush it down the toilet...
                       i got to page 8 and read about autism
and something about the lack of the flush button
for the brain (fat) processing protein...
   i have this skin condition whereby i process white-blood
cells (protein) so efficiently that i have to store
it the pores of my skin... which probably allows me
to drink a litre of 40% alcohol a day and worry
whether the day is gone and the night arrived...  
                                                                ­      oh the wonder!
i once heard that solipsism is a mental illness
by some ****... to be frank, isn't it a coping mechanism
when reading the newspaper?
              how much of the dasein do you actually
want to keep to live your life?
         everything and nothing is happening
north west east south and centre...
               prior to page 8 of yesterday's newspaper
i have an american president looking flash
like he just walked out of a prada "bookstore",
          (people do read you, rather than judge you,
and it does come from donning tracksuit bottoms
and walking into a supermarket, and then selling
your poetry book to a cashier)...
  so yes, existentialism and the "technique" is all
but the summary given by the older technique of metaphor,
since homer came before socrates.
              i do remember my first kiss,
i was very young and her surname was kot
and she was the elder sister and she had twin sisters
and her father drank a lot and operated a truck...
why are my most sacred memories reserved to
8 years spent in poland?
                   i have to abide that 8 is a sacred number
of memory content, after that it just disappears
into grey, mundane;
and how hard did the french think up ∞ working
from 8... so O and 0... the concepts of
       rhombus or a game of squash, which is
so much better than tennis;
       the best part of this is that someone might
misunderstand me as if i was a toff...
    toff? toffee? english middle class? no? never heard
of it? i'm sure.
             english kings go to st. andrews,
                            hostile immigrants go to edinburgh.
my original intention though, for this prompt...
what was it?
            it's not even a case of amnesia,
it must have been that autism article and how
the brain (fat, it's wholly fat) degenerates by a protein
invasion... and the journalistic populism of science
in england: this consciousness coordination
of flexing muscle equivalent to the brain being protein
based... or "brain power"...
                    that ***** is equivalent to a buttock...
it's not going anywhere...
       they did shoot andrei chikatilo in the back
of the head, and kept him in a cell for about two
weeks before his body gave up...
back of the head, yep, shot him dead,
like that theory of cockroaches, they can survive
for 2 weeks without their heads before they die
from starvation; and this is ukraine we're talking about;
i do feel sorry for kurt cobain and hemmingway...
kafka's concept made more sense,
     attacking the heart, rather than the head...
but obviously not translated into a rhetorical debate;
could this be untrue?
                    how are we celebrating history
and cunningly hiding death?
              i was once interviewed by a psychiatrist,
she gave up on me while i called her field of medicine
a facade, and i mentioned reading kierkegaard,
so she gave up on me... but in this one particular
room i was talking to this woman...
- and some people fear death.
- i like you.
- that's strange, we only just met.
                       i prefer this encoding of dialouge,
it's rampant in poland, and also in ireland...
     you think adding milk to tea is an english thing?
it's called a bavarka, and it was typical
of giving it to pregnant women in siberia...
  adding milk to tea isn't an original practice,
it originated in siberia... serving tea with milk...
it's a bavarka.

August is One of Countless Chapters of the Past. Everything Else is just,
 
A Reverie

 
   It was as startling to me as it was to Mikayla. We had not seen each other since August when she had dragged me across the coals, twice, after it came to her attention, I was showing pictures of her at our local bar. No, not nudes... nor anything remotely suggesting foul play in my mind. They were just selfies that she herself took. On my phone.

   Nadya seemed to still be learning the many customs of America since moving here from Moscow. That and possibly all too embracing of how to live more like an American which is why she didn't notice how thick the air got when she was introducing me to Mikayla,

   “Mikayla, this is Ahnd-REY. He's whom I've been telling you about this whole time.”

    Nadya’s accent made me weak in the beginning. I remember when we started dating every now and then a halfway confused look came across her face during conversations. She expected an American man would never let her get a word in but found it rightfully so as frustrating as could be to get me to talk. I wanted nothing more than to sit and listen to her voice, her stories, and her thoughts. She carried herself so unlike almost every other girl I’ve met.

   There was what I would describe a deftness in her stride. Over time I got the impression it may have been due to where she grew up in Moscow. Not the worst part of the city, but it wasn’t the greatest either. It wasn’t that she was timid by any stretch when she walked by me the first time. She just wasn’t going to put up with anyone’s crass remarks or actions. Her sure-footed steps came to an abrupt stop just passed me realizing I had stopped walking gawking at what was walking by me. She was ready to give me a verbal, possibly physical, lashing as soon as I tried anything to provoke her. But I didn’t.  I just stood there with these ‘poor orphaned puppy dog eyes’ as Nadya put it. Like I was behind a big window, paws pressed against the glass, and no wag in my tail.

   The hardness in her eyes dissipated as mine maintained a child-like awe. This Russian beauty, not sure what to do next, just asked me if I was lost. I couldn’t remember my answer, but whatever I said made her smile. She had what I think of as that calloused mind having dealt with undesirable interactions from her home country growing up.

   Right now, I was weak for another reason. Mikayla. I was hoping I could easily avoid running into her for the rest of my life after she shamed the absolute hell out of me the last time I was here. My eyes focused on Nadya while she kept introducing me, and I could see from my periphery Mikayla’s eyes, the size of silver dollars, staring boldly at me. Her mouth just managed to gape enough for me to notice.
With a less than heartfelt tone Mikayla politely greeted me
after Nadya finished talking.

   “Hello Drew. I haven't seen you here in a while.”

   Nadya was too excited for me to reach for any words of my own. Thank the Moon.

   “Oh! So, you know each other already! That's good to know. Also, you'll have to excuse me if I keep calling him by his Russian name. It fits him so much better!” Nadya continued.

   From what I could gather after that first minute of shock had worn off it seems Nadya just befriended the first girl she found who didn't look like she was an avid fan of fireball. God, I couldn't stand the taste of that cheap ****. I told Nadya fireball was a drink of choice for far too many ****** southern girls to be considered a drink worth any consideration.
  
   Mikayla was dressed as I remember her doing so, very beautifully. This time it was a fun black dress that reached to her knees. Her dark brown hair was hung down and she was wearing shiny black heels. That must mean she hasn't been out drinking for too long then. Somewhere in her car were most likely a pair of wedges she keeps when she has had enough attention and wanted to feel comfortable.

   Nadya was working on a Russian Mule. A drink she was so
elated to find out I knew how to make and not just simply heard of it. Mikayla had what looked like a Long Island iced tea. Her glass was about to spill over in her hand until she noticed me noticing it. A little bit of pink started to flood her cheeks immediately. As Nadya continued her conversation before I arrived Natalie, the bartender, rushed up to me,

    “Drewww! Where have you been, man? It's been ages!”

   I greeted Natalie warmly with a big enough smile I could put on and handed her some silly excuse for my absence,

   “Chasing that paper, if that's still a saying anymore.”

   “I feel you. Want something to drink?”

   Once I returned my attention back to the girls Nadya mouthed the word 'paper’ with clear confusion. I chuckled and wrapped my arm around her to bring her close. Even though I was churning on the inside seeing Mikayla again it wasn't going to overshadow how adorably out of place Nadya could be. I tenderly kissed the front of Nadya’s head after explaining I meant money and tried to ignore the little rain cloud that started to grow above Mikayla's head.
  
 

.....Last August....
 
   I don't want to make it seem as if alcohol was to blame for what happened, but I had drunk more than my usual amount. A friend offered me some shot that smelled too much like one of those ****** cakes you find in gas station bathrooms, but it tasted very much like Hawaiian Punch. The blue kind. It didn't help I hit the ground running enjoying a high gravity beer by some obscure brewery. That was a gift, and a curse, being such good friends with the bartenders. They would always have something for me to try, and refused to charge me the full price of my tab. I was always conscientious of never having more than three, possibly four, beers when drinking though.

   That night there was a real turn out of fresh faces, and girls. Marty, a beer-bellied bar acquaintance of mine, was standing next to me while we carried on light conversion -while we both were glancing back and forth at the girls playing pool. It became painfully clear one of the girls wasn't wearing a bra under her boyish size tank top as she leaned in for her shot.  

   “Lordy, there's some pretty ones here tonight. Isn't there?” He declared.

   I couldn't hold back the smirk stretching across my face.
   “Oh yeah.” was all I needed to say.
          
   “Gonna talk to any of them?”

   Marty must have been wondering who I fancied. Very
respectable guy. Probably didn't want us to have a conflict of interest in the same girl. Lucky for him.

   “Honestly Marty my interests have been taken by one girl in
particular tonight. Unfortunately, I can't really talk to her.”

   His face, as expected, showed me he was more than interested in what I had next to say. I spent a minute going over these feelings I had over time developed for Mikayla, and how I eventually broke the cardinal rule by telling her how I felt. Eventually pulling out my phone showing him the selfies that told me she was interested in me as much as I was in her.

   The month before at the bar I was having small talk with Mikayla as a band was playing loudly across the room. Given that it was hard to hear each other I thought why not use my phones note app and talk that way? So, for a small window of time that was how we carried our small talk. I had no expectations that Mikayla would take it as the opportune time to snap pictures of herself with my phone with various faces. I was included in some of these pictures. It was such a surprise and I hate to say it, but I coveted such a moment with her.
 
   Marty's reaction was that of amusement and awe it seemed. His only words of comment were,

   “Give it some time. Eventually she will find her way to you.”
   At least that is the gist of what he said. Now one of two possibilities had occurred immediately after we spoke. Marty may have gone directly to Jared, Mikayla’s boyfriend, and unloaded everything he had just heard from me. If that were true, I don't blame him. He was simply looking after his friend. I get it, and I harbor no ill will towards the guy. I do believe, however, that someone else must have walked by and heard or saw what I had hoped to keep between me and Marty. That seems more plausible.

   I felt so ashamed when it came to a head that August night.
Mikayla sat down next to me while I was in the middle of Mario Kart, and I was halfway waiting for something interesting to be said by her. I remember my heart was already climbing a ladder to my throat when she walked my way. 
          
   “What's going on?” Was all she said in a very forward manner without looking at me.
  Hands in her lap with eyes looking down at them.
 
   “...Sorry?”
   It was more than curiosity that devoted my attention to her when she sat down. Didn't even notice the solemnness in her face.
       
   “You need to delete those pictures you have of me on your phone.”

   ...And without protest, or questioning anything, I straightaway pulled my phone out and proceeded to carry out her command. Looking back, it still seems odd over the degree of compliance I carried her command out with. Seemed as though the galaxy was struck by that blue shell covered in spikes from the game and my whole world was thrown upside down.

   “This is not funny. This is not a joke…”
   Her tone stung while I was deleting the photos not just from a photo album but from my trash to make it permanent. Those butterflies you get when your excited about something? Well, they were lit on fire and falling into an ever-bottomless pit which came to be inside of me. I started having trouble hearing by then.

   “Deleted.” was my only word to her.

   The voice dripping out of my mouth didn't sound like me at all. As soon as Mikayla heard my response she promptly disappeared out of my view. I tried to resume playing Mario Kart. Not a few seconds passed by and I was looking at my boots with some unfathomable guilt hanging around my neck. I decided to walk away into a corner of the bar and find a happy place, believe it or not. There was what felt like eyes looking at me from everywhere. I felt much too vulnerable out in the open.

   Strangely enough, and what relief it was, I found solace in the form of a new email from my pen pal. Haven’t heard from them in some time so I was happy to read their message. Mikayla must not have liked the smile genuinely smacked across my face. Because she re-a-*******-ppeared in front of me.

   “Why are you trying to ruin my life?” She asked coldly.

   Aaand that happy place of mine just vanished into thin air.
 
   ... ****... I was suddenly so confused and internally screaming to be invisible.

   “-I'm not trying anything Mikayla!”

   My throat felt like it was drying up as the verbal wasp nest was being pushed into my face. I tore my eyes from her gaze momentarily as I desperately forced a swallow against my dry throat. Mikayla was at least open to talking for what little moment there was. It's hard to remember all the details when that fight or flight **** kicks in. I do remember her eyes were too intense for me to keep looking at as she told me,

   “Word travels fast in a small town like this, and now because of you running your mouth, I'm made out to be the town *****.”

   Devastated was an understatement as to what kind of emotion tsumani’d the **** out of me when I heard her. I thought I was speaking in confidence to Marty earlier, but my drinking for the night must have betrayed me. It wasn't long before Mikayla snapped me out of my near stupor,

   “Don't you dare start crying.”

   I could feel it coming, and I must have floundered at keeping the tears from pushing through.

   “If you start crying then I'll start crying.”

   I honestly wasn't expecting that and couldn't have been anymore perplexed for the night. Mikayla continued,

   “You are a nice guy Drew, and if things weren't the way they are I would date you… But I share a house and a dog with Jared, and I can't have **** like this happening. We can be cordial and say hello whenever we see each other, but that's it. From here on out I need you to stop talking about me. No more 'if the stars were aligned differently' *******. I don't ever want to catch my name coming out of your mouth again. Understand?”

   How much of my conversation made it her way?



..... Back to the Present....
  
   I came back to the present when Nadya declared,
   “Oh, we must get together sometime, Mikayla! I have no one to talk to when I go to the nail salon. And as much as I enjoy Andrei shopping with me, he has a difficult time not imagining every outfit I try on laying at the foot of his bed.”

   Mikayla smiled too politely but cleared her throat and said of course she would. But something was amiss and Nadya noticed. She wasn't sure if she was insulting with her halfway worried glance back at me. Her feeling was firmly planted seeing my eyes were directed to the ground briefly before meeting hers.

   Natalie broke the air in the conversation by serving me a
cold beer and chatted briefly with the girls. I took a sharp swig and welcomed the citrus hops biting at my tongue. Think it will be the only drink for the night. Before Natalie could hurry off, I discreetly asked her for Nadya's tab and mine. Nadya, refusing to let the conversation fizzle changed gears hoping to salvage the conversation… but it was for the worst,

   “Andrei, I'm so happy you finally decided to show me your friends bar. It's full of friendly faces.” Smiling right at Mikayla she continued, “He says he hasn't been back here since October-”

   “-August.” ****, did I really just correct Nadya? In front of them both? Am I autistic? Mikayla's eyes were quickly returning to the state they were in that same **** August night.
   “August?” Inquired Mikayla.

   “Oh, that's right.” Nadya continued, “Andrei hasn't said much about it. All he would tell me was some horrible ***** ‘dragged him across the coals.’ Isn’t that what you said darling?”

   The last word was closely followed by her hand tenderly caressing my face as if there were a smarting wound that hadn’t healed this whole time. Raw heat erupted deep down within me for two very different reasons.

   “He says it's his fault and he deserved it, but I know that’s not true. He won't tell me anything else.” Nadya resumed.

   I need to get some air. The room was starting to feel like a vacuum. My voice entered the conversation,

   “I never said she was anything, Nadya.” One pair of eyes looked curiously at me, and another was piercing into my skull. If I so much as crossed my sight in Mikayla’s direction, I felt certain I’d turn to stone, or be slapped very hard across the face.
  
   “She was nothing but sweet to me, and unfortunately I made a poor choice in expressing my interests to her from the start. Her hands were tied and to this day I feel so terrible for jeopardizing someone else’s relationship.”
           
   Not sure if Nadya was entirely satisfied with my explanation, however, the snakes writhing around Mikayla’s head were clearly retreating from whence they can. I hope what she heard was enough because I really want to take Nadya away from here before all those puzzle pieces fell into place.

   The bartender Natalie answered my unspoken prayer and handed me the bill. Nadya looked like she was purring at the sight of her date taking care of the bill even when she didn’t
ask of it. Her first few dates on American soil were seemingly haphazard at best, and I still manage to catch her off guard over random small nothings. Like simply holding the door for her; something she missed about Russian dates.

   Nadya was enjoying the fact she found herself an American gentleman who didn’t drink his meals and expected her to pay for herself. Though she quickly held protest upon realizing I was ready to leave, but obliged when the worry started to creep forth from my eyes,

   “Mikayla it was so very nice to meet you. Maybe we can all go on a double date soon.” Then Nadya gave her an unexpected hug.

   Nadya’s back was to me as she went in for a hug. Wasn’t sure if I saw a snake flicking its tongue from behind Mikayla’s head or not. I just stared off into nothingness for a few seconds. Reality quickly resumed when Nadya crooned,

   “Ready Darling?”

   Just breathe... We’re walking out now.

   “It was nice to see you again Drew. Take care.”

   Mikayla’s voice made my body stiffen just slightly. It was the calmest it had been the entire night, but it didn’t mask the anguish that lingered. It must have looked like smiling back at her was painful for me as I held the door open for Nadya.
Because Nadya didn’t walk through.

   As if she was watching a sunrise for the first time, she looked at me with her head tilted, then at Mikayla, … at me, and Mikayla again. And it dawned on her.

   Time must have forgot it never takes a break... for those few seconds dragged on for far too long. Only after she tenderly took me by the hand and we were out the door did Nadya conclude,

   “We need to find a new place to share a drink, my love.”

forests remain, farther and farther away from us.

only streets, houses
accompany me
like a fingernail on an exhausted hand
wherever i might stop, everywhere,
pain is my compass

always, along this way

forever unwalked
given back to me

the scent of roses in the garden
the waters flooded long ago, belated
tenderness, time
besieged by
time

everything goes by so easily.
life. so easily
was i
forgotten

Andrei Zanca  from *My Cup of Light

ever drink coffee on an empty stomach?
no, i mean, two, three...
      and ever get this ******* sensation
in your stomach,
            this grandiose perv ******* at
you telling you: feed feed feed me!
             might be a sadistic answer,
but at least not as sadistic keeping
  a skeleton on a medical drip,
                       i.e. an anorexic girl
'coffee is the natural diueretic'
    reads one quote: diuretic shmaturetic
laxative bogus...
            if you haven't eating anything:
what the **** are you going to **** out?
  your intestines or a ******* tapeworm?
3 coffees in and i get this humongous
appetite... but never mind that,
          had me a thought,
         while in movies: they always aim
for the head, as if that's the "easy"
            solution,
            . + . = ...        1 + 1 = 2...
quote (a): well perhaps he's wondering
someone would shoot a man,
    before throwing him out of a plane...
  quote (b): well,
                 perhaps he's wondering why
you would put a man in a prison cell,
         before shooting him in the back
of the head - well, wondering why
you would put a man in a prison cell
and then shooting him, subsequently
closing the door...
                            you get the picture...
it's that cockroach "myth"
        that a cockroach without a head
can survive for two weeks
  (enter andrei romanovich chikatilo)...
and i watched this criminology channel
once... no one said a word about
what really happened...
      oh hell, they'll document all of his
evil deeds... but what happened in
that cell, after he was shot in the head?
zilch! took me a while to imagine it,
i have to admit;
             because sure as **** that bullet
in the head was not going to be spending
two weeks in a coma.

-
if people can't understand morbid, why the tourist attraction equivalent to the london dungeon? macabre means: a body with a shadow.

roulette:

            one of the free was "lucky",

in that one of them

  did it with a shotgun...

         the remaining two?

           cockroach mumbling
in an Ukranian death cell,
      brain dead, but body alive
shot in the back of the head
probably alive for two more weeks
after the execution
of a single shot, in the back
of the head...

while the other,
  the ****** on life support machines
until, finally! the pity!

because some things are never
really managed in total,
only partial...
           or as i might add:
    
        kafka minded:
             the stab in the heart,
                    a death apparently
countless times "slower",
        but yet mindful of
               the spaceless "time".

or?
          fly icarus!
                                  fly!

I roll a marble down Market Street
from the hillside
looking over the dusty city
while the sun sets.
It finds a central channel in the cobbled street
and rolls beyond my seeing

past the Kurdish boy on the curb
plucking a tick from his stiff
homespun trousers.
The boy chews a sliver of wild onion grass
he has picked from the feral garden
behind the abandoned mosque

my marble passes now.  Across the street Kastorides
stamps the tin lids on liter cans of olive oil
bearing his name.
From the corner of his eye, he sees the flash of my marble
like a wet pea, wonders when they will pave over Market Street
in macadam.  He shouts for Andrei,  
out of earshot,

marking cards in the alley behind the coffee shop
downstairs from the flat of the student
who glances from the yellowed wall clock
to the Swatch watch on his wrist, then tenderly
lifts the flap of his haversack to peer inside.
He has smoked his last cigarette,
is poking through the butts in the ashtray for a long one
when the phone rings — only once.
The student pulls a sweatshirt
over his bare torso, grabs the haversack

and dashes out.  In the street he sees my marble,
almost slips on it in fact, and stops to watch it
running down its course toward the fountain in the square.
The driver of the truck, distracted by fears of his wife
and blinded in one eye
by a speck of dust which was once a dog’s skin,
takes the corner too hard,
the left front tire giving imperceptibly
over the rolling marble.

rarely do you spend a night stumbling
around a town
       drunk, figuring out a fortune of
a face, a luck of a smile,
          decisievely:
                          never much cared
for language other than for thinking with
it, lucky some, who actually use
it like they might use a hammer...
      what then, came first?
                               the hammer, or the nail?
god, i had to escape the chicken-shack...
and... looks like i almost did.
            if ever: the exhausted language,
and then there's the hidden
linguist, somewhere, probably in
          Posen... lumbering away at
a second language, that is apparently a tier
just shy of: making competent
users.
        - and i did forgot drinking
with a mirror...
                        instead took photographs,
of a snail... a snail...
         point being:
    i don't even remember how i brought
it home...
                                         bribe?
unlike hallucinogenics...
           drinking... yeah...
                                   yesterday is vague...
i drank less, walked more,
and brought home a snail...
   a ******* snail...
         once i brought back a hedgehog...
once i brought back a frog...
      next day?
          that has to be some sort of
hallucinogenic drug teasing me to remember...
i don't know who that person
is in the photograph,
   he claimed that breathing alcohol
filled breath on a snail
                   was appealing to the snail...
he even claimed that the snail
had dermatological properties of
healing: slight, discomforts...
             hardly a wart, just a skin hardening,
so this guy placed the snail on
the skin hardening and started to
feel the cosmis ****** of feeling
        the snail eat up the "concern" with
its under-belly...
            my first girlfriend told me
of the time, as a kid, when she used to pour
salt on snails...
   i remember seeing two boys
play with frogs...
            ******* used to smear lipstick
on the poor prince charming
                         and then set it alight...
YOU, CAN'T, THINK THIS **** UP...
i too wish for such a depraved imagination...
come to think of it,
   on a completely different topic...
public intellectualism is only a western
concept...
               a bit like religion...
good in private,
                        but out in the public, open?
the public intellectual who has given up
his private intellect:
      god... the scrutiny that comes with it...
there is such a thing as a privacy
of intellect?
                     just asking:
      because even poetry isn't an open
and closed scenario of a seagull
regurgitating in order to feed the chicks...
and yes, chickens are natural
cannibals... if you've ever seen a chicken
on a stump of wood right and just after
the axe-chop...
                  you'd see the remaining
nervous system after death...
                 and how other chickens will
jump on the stump... and drink the blood
of the Antoinette...
   with Antoinette's head still, partially moving...
unless of course you're thinking
about Hollywood and...
   christine chubbuck:
                 and that one shot to the head
that Hollywood couldn't make: instantaneous...
   like Kafka, i'd go for the stab at
              the dark, namely the heart...
because why would you even
think it was a mild execution...
             with andrei chikatilo:
          back of the head, left in a prison cell...
god, i can't stop to imagine the marvels
of this cockroach urban myth of surviving
               in a limbo of succumbing to a diet...
say all you want,
  but i'm pretty sure there's enough
reason to contemplate the inverted niqab
of hollywood...
             groove the shades, though...
can't **** for a hundred metres though...
              the Veil of Thespian...
oh hell, it's real...
              not as ****** obvious as
a ninja trying to look slim in a desert
wearing a velvet bin-bag...
         but i'm pretty sure there is a Veil
of Thespian...
             Louis XIV even said it:
                            the seemingly holds
the sway of power, before the jury,
           to appear...
                     rather than be...
        qua (as being) in antonym form
must give birth to: quiff (as if)...
        frivolity and cotton candy smiles...
people are beginning to make
   the assumption that poetry will save
         them from the tyranny of acting...
besides the point,
  given the example...
          if only there was an instantaneous
death like depicted with:
heavy editing, and no thespian involvement...
i can't help but see a movie
and not see a piece of paper
                    and a pair of scissors...
odd... because i wouldn't make
the same connection
               with a pear and a magnet...
               moth and macaroons?
appears i wasn't even "forced"
       to wear this veil...
                    acting should have really
been left to neglect in
   a theatre...
                      on behalf of
    democracy... why not speak of
                           the thespian tyranny?  
all the other forms of art are
starving...
                 why even bother wondering
why moden "art" (painting)
                is a bit off, trying to escape
                             plagiarising geometry?    
it's not healthy...
                       modern painting is
starved for the benefit of one medium...
that can't even fathom itself
           as member of the same family...    
yeah...
                    well, i guess i could
throw in the minstrels...
        but then i passed a busker on
                                  the street last night...  
poetry in public?
                  unless you're competing
                   with a mad christian preacher...    
but acting is both mainstream and
subversive...
                               (it) doesn't necessarily
require a stage: to find an actor...
           but if i'm not living
under a thespian tyranny...
             then i'm no more a poet than
one: requiring to write in orthodox rhyme.

the current heat-wave that has gripped England
is not doing anyone any favours...
two days running: i wake up like a turtle...
first day was great sticking to the wooden floor...
but today even listening to podcasts
became too much...
                          i woke up dry as a turtle:
then turned into a jellyfish...
    i have to admit: nights are bit more peaceful
once i managed to catch that rat...
and it was a rat... not a mouse...
                   because mousetraps didn't work
on him... the ******* cheese was gone...
  and the mousetrap...
                what was this genius rat doing?
taking the traps to where he spent the day
behind the cupboard: figuring them out?
and then coming back out during the night?
i sort of wished he would have went
for the trap with the poison cubes he could have
chewed... i really hope he would have went
for that option... instead...
            he went down the classical route...
problem being... the mousetrap guillotine didn't
break his neck...
    like back in the day the execution via hanging
seemed almost humane: provided the neck broke...
sort of like a guillotine...
   i hate it when it doesn't...
                   when it finally caught him i listened
for about ten minutes trying to wriggle out from
the trap... i took a knife and one of my cats
and... i started scratching the knife against the cupboard
holding my cat between my legs...
i was just about to open the cupboard door
when he started to fight too much...
             well? it's not like he could bite his head
off and do a runner with another mousetrap...
so i just left him like an Andrei Chikatilo...
               these are two of my favourite "urban myths":
a quote from Bane in one of the Batman movies:
or perhaps he's wondering, why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane...
who the hell said that a shot to the head will
**** you?
                 it sure as **** didn't **** Christine Chubbuck...
in the movie she's moved into a hospital:
sure... in a vegetative state... but alive...
brain dead so i'm guessing in LIMBO land...
but why did they take ol' Andrei the butcher...
the guy who was actually married and i'm guessing
had children... they took him into a cell...
and... shot him in the back of the head...
                          i'm guessing they did that because...
then they left him in that cell for a while...
oh... he wasn't dead for some time...
bleeding out your head? it must take some time...
that's why i never understood why people
in movies shoot themselves in the head...
so idiotic... Kafka knew all about it:
                           i too think stabbing the heart
is a more humane way to go...
         because that's when the brain shuts off last
and is not shut off first...
   imagine it like: you walk into a room
into the middle of the night - the room is lit
because someone forgot to turn the light off...
and you're there to look for something you
misplaced... and what do you do?
  you turn off the light and then start looking
for the misplaced thing...

- i mean: i'm pedantic about cleanliness...
there's some discipline in keeping a house clean...
but how did a rat manage to find its way
into my house...
               perhaps rats abhor the warmth of
Africa... but my Nigerian neighbour thought it
was a good idea to leave food around in
his garden... for his ******* love of "pigeons"...
yeah... i love pigeons too... but i'd feed
them in the park: not my ******* garden...
my cat already managed to **** about three before
one commando managed to get into my house...
vague "voodoo" practices... sorry...
sometimes when you're given a rodent problem
there's no politeness to be had...
i was rising having my washing machine /
dishwasher cables chewed through...

hell... i once petted a fox like i might have petted
a dog... for about month...
but he wasn't a rat... he used to come at a specific
time... and whatever leftover food from dinner
wasn't eaten... i'd leave a tray of it for him...
happy customer... i think i documented
it in one of my social-media albums under the name:
Brody... after that ginger actor from Homeland...
that as a fun experience... he used to walk after
me watching where i'd place the food...
and how he gobbled on it...
beside a cat... probably the next best pest deterrent...

but i've had enough... waking up tired
from the heat-wave...
               i've decided to sleep in the garden...
thank "god" my cat is still in the garden:
i left my window open when he finally decided
to come home... but... i don't blame him...
i'm too seeking out the cold...
         i don't know why some people adore themselves
and life with all this camel-jockey heat...
i hate summer... when i was a child
it was all fun and games... but as i've grown older
i have more respect for autumn and winter...

i went cycling from the hours 11:30 through to 1am...
i needed to cool off and i needed
to find some whiskey...
                      the heat also implies i prefer
liquids more than actual chew-chews...
my appetite disappears...
                            my new favourite shaky-shaky?
Greek yoghurt... some water... ice-cubes...
pumpkin seeds... sunflower seeds...
cranberries... fresh strawberries...
   it's the only "thing" that stays down...

while cycling i stopped off to buy the whiskey
and a strawberry cider:
i knew something was wrong because
my head was pulsating with a bulge that wasn't
exactly a headache...
my brain was trying to do a runner...
my jaw was stiffening...
i felt i was growing a third eye:
which usually happens when i know that
not having finished ******* = i still have to ****
some more... irritable bowels / not-exactly...

cycling in the night ought to have irritated
my ******* enough... and it did...
i'm waiting for the cooler months to rekindled
my love for eating ******...
yeah... anyways...
got home and did what was necessary...
but it took me two Sol beers with that
much appreciated lime slice...
                                  
   i hate heat-waves...
     i don't know how many rats are still roaming
the vicinity... thankfully i kept the cat
in the garden... well... being a Maine ****:
i'm sort of compassionate...
like i might be with a Huskie...
i'm going to join him in a "minute or two"...
i'm going to sleep in the garden:
to hell with the furnace of my bedroom!
but i need him to scout out for any potential
rats that might be audacious to nibble on me...

sure... a spider might crawl into my nostril
or my ear... hell... i'm not waking up in this furnace...
but this heat-wave rekindled a memory
for me... when i was younger i used to be
very much into black metal...
death metal... yada yada...
   esp. the band SATYRICON -
  sign of the trident, the wolfpack...
listening to them after so many years i'm reminded
of certain things...
nothing important...

although...
              this is important to me...
Serbian Cyrillic does use the Roman J...
A, E, K, O...

               me? i'm thinking of adding one letter
to the ****** script...
living among the English i tend to think
on lazy terms...
don't vs. do not...
                    would not vs. wouldn't...
letter eating... "cannibalising" expressions...
i heard the argument a long time ago...
the "too many vowels"...

i would introduce no real improvement...
just... particular words...
e.g.? rat... szczur...
                  i just need a Russian letter...
щur...         mein gott! it doesn't even look that bad...
because there are several words in ******
that have the щ- / szccz- prefix...
i will not touch the suffix -ść...

                i just don't want to conflate the H & Z...
i can't do anything about dość (enough)
i thought about the caron S & C...
    but... there are plenty of words that begin
with SZCH (SHCH)... in the Slavic tongue...

and... let's face it... if you already have
     dość...  you don't want ščur...
imagine if the caron prefixes and the acute suffixes
ever met in a single word:
i know the language works in its current
dictates... but i'm lazy...

                      щur:   originally:

szczerość: ščerość vs. щerość....
                                if i can make SZCZ disappear?
hell... i'd make rz disappear into ř...
                            je: suis...
                                          but still keep the ż...
just ideas... when i leave notes
to people... don't you think i don't invoke
from Cyrillic usage?!
   i can't be bothered with the SZCZ... SHCH...
there are plenty of words that could use the щ
instead...

**** me... for a black metal band...
SATYRICON are still pretty decent.

perhaps it's not so much: as one might be...
supposed to live up to the names one is baptised with...
in the catholic manor of bureucracy - bureaucracy -
phonetics! bew-rh'oh-cracy...
           beau-row-cracy...
               ***-for-tat... pedantic details only
less feeding feeling creature establish... most probably
men...
   there are two one is given at baptism...
                   i guess... that's in line with...
the catholic 'abracadarba' matching each host
to the tetragrammaton: two names at birth...
      a surname... that's three names...
       and a fourth name when one is to be confirmed...
i had all the chances to be confirmed...
open-end apostasy... i have no confirmation name...
but that would equal the quenching
of the tetragrammaton "farce": four names...
four names...
                 what was once a brave act of kneeling...
colin kaepernick kneeling at the anthem...
before the game...
                  derek chauvin is also kneeling...
crude comparison: what's impressed in my mind
is the act of kneeling...
          i once kneeled on a bee...
that i was hoping to mummify in some mud
as a child... the bee managed to sting me from
within the slush-puppy and i cried and i cried...
and... that was that...
               to be given names at birth...
the surname is non-essential: unless i be born
a windsor or a churchill...
                 or a Radziwiłł - h'american socialites:
ha ha: socialists... lite...
                       or a Wiśniowiecki: Yerema!
i once had a friend by the name of... al-ex-an-der...
and he did mention that as a name:
he'd borrow his name from a figure in history...
a one... macedonian: encrypted into greek...
and that inverted mongol empire...
that lasted just as long...
                     i never asked what his second name
was...
i sometimes used my baptism names
interchangeably...
and my choice of historical characters...
matthew the levi...
            conrad... well... i was always going
to have more fun with that...
either konrad of masovia
.........................................................­.................
                       or konrad wallenrod...
back in 2007 it was still an unpopular name...
a would be girlfriend... half persian
half scottish... laura... a date night:
me falling asleep when watching a roman
holiday... etc. etc.,
     i very much like to see ghosts of these memories
when i tow them to the depth of the sea
my mortal self and this the anchor that
will give me... the sinking sip... sipping snorkle...
i guess konrad is no common name these
days or a muhammad...
that... a joseph comes along and says:
call me that...
yes... this is very much... a vanity project...
because i don't like the sound of my own voice...
i can take a photograph of myself...
as long as... i see a labyrinth my ****** expression...
and i contort my face to: no known
recognition...
         too bad for the girls who have been
given names... as common as... peaches...
pearl... if only your surnames were...
    Waldorff-Preyß - a salad of little consequence:
to ever not mind... appetites hidden...
no... i couldn't do it...
   i have my mother to testify...
       all in order to... rear children...
  to have one's intellectual adventure stunted...
all for the rearing of children...
the anti-dodo-project gehenna of sharpening
the 7 tiers of silences and... patience...
i have no patience... i have a short-temper...
i'm sporadic... i'm not passionate like some
Iberian host... i'm spontaneous...
quick to respond... short on giving...
elaborate humour: wit...
                           i can... fathom a grandmother...
i can... fathom a mother:
       but the irrational "misunderstanding":
the head... dark fathoms of the most belittling
of places that thought enters...
the narrative is lost... because of... fudge-esque
packaging of a constipation of breath...
trial by errors: agitated soul...
          and this... failure to ignite...
a figment... the lost concern for imagination:
more... the myopia of pickling furniture...
a table of torso...
   a chair of an arm's worth...
                     all these rubrics settled with ghosts
and how... post-mortem telepathy works
to ***** grey-hounds of inquiry...
at these moments... i just want to scream...
i want to YARL... but... i know the limits...
of these walls having any understanding for such
words to be: let alone thought, then heard...
yet alone spoken to be later screeched out with
a gluttony of barritone!
    i'd need to feed the forest...
which would imply... walking a good mile...
to venture into the awe-seeing forest...
the owl the deer the fox the badger...
to scream without sense: but to reach...
an audible near echo conclusion without a cave!
to feed the woods!
not... some... near abandoned bedroom...
   and... if i can't entertain a conflict...
when talking about the three partions of
polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
     which part were we from...
the prussian... the russian or the habsburg...
and you're met with ridicule
and a cul de sac of conversation...
when ingiting it with...
                even the germans thought
the prussians were *******...
because of... vectors x, y and z...
                     well... because the prussians
were pagans...
- what?!
- yeah... the prussians were pagans...
isn't it strange how they would later
encompass the whole of the german people?
- the prussians were pagans?!
- yes... the prussians were pagans
and somewhat germanic... more lithuanian...

and all you'd get it a shock-awe look
of suspence... a gamer meets a girl who'd only
buy shoes...
she might be a mother...
a tedium a baron of shadows...
a venture tranquility...
                  the melodramatic cuff... cross:
burden... heel! an imaginarty dog
in reverse... the sanctity that could
never translate itself into either my son
or daughter...
and how... my future wife would only
be seen as a *****...
su-ka...
                        the tyranny of mothers:
even without... the absenteeism of fathers...
i imagine a world...
           which... by the end of it...
there's a valhalla...
             rather than a jannah...
    where you drink and you fight...
chimeras...
   and you are... indeed... served by...
the valkyrie...
   drinks... but ******* them...
would imply: getting **** from
that h. p. lovecraft pederast sulk /
ocotpus godhead...
                
would it matter that... i had... some chances...
but that the one chance i had...
it would be less of an emotional wheelchair
if i decided to... "inconvene" myself
with a ******* for a bride...

tsu-tsu: to have a heart with
the geometric study worth of thrown...
into a lake... ploop! mirror of echoes...
and a sinking into a depth:
and time... at what point...
can man face time as the horror of space?
at what point does space become less
awe riddled... at what point does
time prop its head up and sober
everyone peering into a postcard
from saturn with a sobering fearful-glee-of-fear?!

oh yes... that space and time are relative...
time: awed at... collectively...
nostalgia for ancient rome...
      space: awed at: collectively...
pictures of saturn...
  time... m'eh... claustrophobic...
individually... nostalgia for youth...
when in old age...
space: feared...
                     die cast...
         your next door neighbour...
muffled... irritating... living... drone...
next door... and you... have...
not a single artifact of shared experience...
beside: up & death!

sally challen is a name synonymous...
              with...
              and andrei chikatilo was also a father...
because there's a need to look for
aliens: not enough to peer at luxury
in a fly under a microscope?
grand newton ego! for all and every!
the common man!  

the prussians were the forever old germans?
those people romancing etymology:
and any ethnicity for a romace:
come the thirdf *****: with sveedish:
dished out loot corp..
that the prussians are to be "questioned"
with the pomeranians?
what gate of sea...
the baltic is the beggars' mediterranean...
nothing but Helvig & Helva and...
quanrantine hammock: lining...
herrings: eaten raw...
like bistro maidens of sushi:
baltic sushi: mango squash sort
of *******...
so... so... so happy...
for the british imp-yre have imploded...
postcards from everywhere...
race bating inter-racial:
hard-ons...

              it's best served:
mongol ***** a mongol:
a new mongol is born...
instead?
an "orc" zulu ***** a porcelain
parisian...
a quasi arab is spawned...
because... all hell would break loose
should ****** be deemed:
too light for the arab...
and too... towing the non-agreed
to suntan "mishap"...

****'s the conundrum...
warsaw! warsaw pact!
can anyone think of a better name
for a capital: name...
war-saw...
            and whenever i visit my
grandparents... ****...
i didn't "integrate": fully...
because i retained my...
         einheimischsprechen:
                     und: milz und knochen...
                                        X:
hen... 'ause... not:
         cheat-the-parrot-with-chuckles...
******* cockney chuckles bullet proof:
y'ah... change two tow a spare?
bindi a lingo loot off of a turban?
salvo! this 'un: makes it clarified:
a clarifying lawrence romance piece
of mecca...
very much akin to:
the minor croat project for yugoslavia...
the serbs...
and... those... janissaries...
the new brit the old ottoman...
    from the "old... very old"...
borrowed from... yugoslavia...
                  that france works...
that austria works...
that england: england was always
going to work... except in h'america...
and the battle for vienna... 1683...
oh... wait... why is it that
i don't want to...
that paris... circa 2004 is best
kept as a memory...
          
                                 i have a mother is still a parody...
here's to... grieving the subconscious
history project... paint of ed gain
onto the canvas of blanche...
h'america is better than cool: project:
you you too!

hybrid of congestion...
that old fabble of the islamabad of conquests...
beside the mongols...
the 4.5 crusade of the baltic states...
because barbarossa was being
pickled and the major volume of army
were... withering into a scoop
of... a waiting for: reinvigorated waking...

my history is no history is my history
is no history...
    lots to share: dog **** to boot too...
the arcade of: gesticulating...
being solved with a snippet of
the ******* sack: and a chance
to salvo in the vatican choir...
               a past...
   there's a past that also invites me to
cocktail the: presently at hand...
england... minus...
wales... scotland... irritating tip
of ireland: north-eastern collide...
the quill with a peacock strutting?

        this is "my".... "past"...
the journalistic event of now...
      the old lady is singing...
   it was never began... but... it's all over...
forever and: the now.

Andrei,

I was a child
when I read
a piece of paper
& you died.

You were a telegram
falling from the air,
a moth, a stray dog,
a liner note passing
through my hands.

I pressed play
& Chopin unwound
like a serpent,
the mood shifting
like the rainbow
that feeds on oil's skin.

I went out
& found more.
Rachmaninov attacked,
a chess game
where the pieces moved
ten at a time.

& the Prokofiev,
followed me
around the house.

I was a child
when I saved you
with my ears.
Let me save you again.

Come, revenge
yourself a little while
in my old records.

i woke up with a fever... obviously i was drinking heavily last night... i was thinking about Caroline Aherne... from the Royle Family... that sit-com that's unlike any soap-opera and the instigator for the current channel 4 google... goggle-box... trash... i'm ******* feverish... i need to sweat some of this alcohol out... i have glue-eyes... things look fuzzy... or, rather... glued together too much... but i woke up and just remembered those Somali beauties on my last shift... how nervous they looked... licking their lips... i was just thinking: ****, ****... ****... like most Muslim didn't think  having a blast in Cologne... in Rotherham... i'm pretty open to foreign cuisine... i'll eat anything that doesn't move... like i'll **** anything that does... ****... did i message Khedra last night? i must have... like my current fetish for ginger haired women... freckles no freckles... whatever... i'm still "coy" when it comes to ol' raven Caucasian hair... well... Turk or Mongol? they're one and the same... but i woke up with a dream... a 2nd Islamic implosion... a second schism... spearheaded by the Turks... like the first one was spearheaded by the proud Persians because they were like: no ******* camel-jockey... no sand-****** is going to dictate to us... i swear i borrowed those slang terms from a Sri Lankan... honest to god... or allah: in Maltese... but i woke up... remembered that a ******* was inquiring about me... babe... i'm just not longing... i've had a ginger spell put over me... give me a few days... i'll exercise like mad... drink more white wine... let me just get ***** a little... i don't want to come to you with a limp: whimp of a whittle 'ichard... right... now i know what this fever was about... western culture... a load of *******... the Islamic attire for women... the niqab... the suppossed oppression of women... OR... excatly... OR... the salvaging of the male libido... seriously... why would i want to desire what's left plainly in the open... readily avaliable... why would i want to put up with so much *******: tease?! cucks-galore... i switch off... put on a pair of sunglasses: the night's too bright... i see the logic now... just now... oh no no... i'm not akin to the western narrative... at best i'm a subverter... i just can't follow the narrative that: men's fault... for not getting a hard-on... pop some pills because... that's what women did back in the day of being liberated by dropping those anti-contraceptive pills... no... no ******* MEA CULPA... no! i'm always just ******* dandy with prostitutes... and... randomly... a Thai girl... a black girl... after enough suspense and alcohol for both of us... white girls have become Victorian-times Irish nuns for some of us... i literally don't think they're Madonnas... ****** up girls: sure... but holy? you have to be kidding me... i'm actually kidding myself... but the niqb actually makes sense... personally? in my Islam... those niqabs would be white... if there is to be a second schism in Islam... they would be white... or linen prone... a material that would allow some breathing room... but it truly is a salvaging of the male libido... i mean: except for perverts and all the other outliers... men can quickly switch off... from any ****** activity once they reach a certain age... concentrate on something abstract... wed themselves to Sophia... while watching idiots go through their motions of hard-ons and juiced up oysters worth of ****.

vultu mutabilis albus et ater...
        of changeful countenance, both white and black...

that quote alone...
        from the book: answer to Job... by C. G. Jung...
i can make peace with Herr Jung...
       i'm very familiar with his... good nature in writing...

i'm feeling good... best day ever...
made my father some meatball spaghetti for lunch
for work tomorrow: i'm ******* working
and all... stewarding... loitering...
it's not working... not when you're herding people...
it would be work if i had 20 cows under
my supervision...
            the "work" is a joke...
**** easy... just put on a facade like you're about
to count how many teeth they have
with your knuckles... inside or outside
their mouth? erm?!            both...
just pretend... it's a "job" of pretending...

but at the same time: play the game of FWENDS...
that's important...
   also... tend to your fellow coworkers...
   make sure they get the breaks...
   be firm with others...

West Ham vs. Frankfurt... love it!
         going to brush up on some of my Deutsche!
grr... obviously spoken with an English grammar
logic...
          ar du haben ein güt zeit?
              alles (ist) güt?
    
in China, himmel ist runden und die erde quadrat...

yeah... that should work...
English grammar is pretty much German grammar...
we'll: sehen... we'll spiegel...
bounce back and forwards...
             after all... post-apocalyptic Sächsisch
that broke their own rules when invading these isles
and mingled with the Celtic and Welsh tribes...
well... maybe not so much the Welsh...
               finally! some other German breeds...
i'm starting to think... Saxons... Pomeranians...
Swabs... oh... Frankfurt... that's Hessen territory...
oi oi! we're going to get a bunch of Hess!
        i look at the Germans and immediately think:
dog-breeders!
            rot! Russ! rot! Russ! viler! viler! raf! rough!
r'ah!

        its truly amazing watching these two old rivalries
take centre stage...
it's never ever pretty when it comes to Polacks vs.
the Russians... let alone Ukrainians...
but it's like: when it come to the Ing-leash
those proud post-Saxony Saxons: i'm pretty *******
sure some Saxons were like: we're going to stay...
oh... wait... why didn't that migrating horde
of fighter come back?

ah ah... i see... i've seen it already...
when i was young... a blonde was the archetype of
beauty for me...
as i've aged... red heads... Celtic red heads...
i'm going absolutely ballistic over them...
freckles... no freckles... whatever...
skin... complexion that could compete with milk...
i'm driven nuts by these red heads...
******* cuckoo... ****** Tunes: wolf whistling
in my head...
i don't care... the lighter tinge... the darker crossing
into auburn territory ginger...
*****... **** me: she could even grow a beard
and i'd still doggy-****-her...

             that's why those invading Saxons didn't
come back... because of the ginger ***** and *** galore...
same... i would have stayed...
no questions...

   so a few sentences in Deutsche... sorted...
   i'll practice tomorrow whenever i come across those
few that come up to me and ask in that
goot... achtung achtung accenting:
  mein goot Bwi-dish ascent... ya?
    oh... ya ya... das ist goot...

                                   h'eh h'eh...

but it's so different... i have absolutely no animosity
for the Germans...
they became mesmerized by an Austrian...
and... come to think of it... an Austrian is not
a German and a German is not Swiss...
i think it's that simple...
           it's fun... over 'ere in Europe...
it's so unlike H'america... we're juggling ethnicity
rather than race... race is so boring:
so H'american...

                        but i close my eyes... i've had enough
to drink... like clockwork...
my body just jumps into a drum-beat...
the best i could find... it's insatiable...
i can't resist grooving to it...
using both of my hands to tap out the Morse Code
of the rhythm...

   the Brian Jonestown Massacre's: Panic in Babylon

i seriously had a terrible day in the kitchen...
i was working with premade beef tartar meat...
what's this?! i ask my mother...
it's mush! it's mince!
             i couldn't eat a steak tartar with this!
i like my steak tartar finely diced...
yeah yeah: capers, gherkins the whole shebang...
raw egg yolk blah blah... i don't do raw mince...
that's baby food... i need a bite...
so she replies... make some meat *****...
fair enough...
             but i make the mistake of adding some bacon
into the mixture... and a pinch of salt...
oh **** me... that's salty... i thought it said:
unsmoked bacon...

****... not even the breadcrumbs and the yolk helped...
what to do... what to do...
or the paprika... what to do, what to do...
i need to salvage the meat...

right... make enough tomato sauce...
but don't season it with salt...
pepper... Italian herbs... Kashmiri chilly...
    o.k., o.k., no salt... that should balance out just right...

and there's me grooving to Panic in Babylon...
tapping away with the beat...
while at the same time... closing my eyes and thinking
i'm stirring a *** of freshly brought sinners
in hell... don't ask me why...
if i were to rewrite Dante's inferno...
a completely different affair...
i wouldn't take Virgil with me...
and we wouldn't even descend into hell...
i'd take him around London... but i wouldn't be taking
Virgil... i'd be taking Horace...

              klar als tag!

where's that quote i was looking for... it has to be in here
somewhere...
i knew i had it somewhere...
no... not under Lucifer... under Aquarius...
ah... there it is!

          Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres:
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

and as i typed this... QWERTY...
Christopher Latham Sholes... in on par in my books
with the Sejong the Great...
the story goes... Marquis de Sade's uncle...
Abbé de Sade of Ebreuil... had a library of books
you would read with only one hand...
ergo? you'd *******...
personally? yeah... the ol' Marquis gave me a hard-on
in the past...
the QWERTY model though...
it's beside a concept of a piano...
after all... there are so many combinations
of lettering that erode your memory:
but you rarely have to look down to look
at what your hands are doing...
depending on the size of the keyboard...
you just peep down and reposition your hands...
but that's why you have two SHIFT buttons...
why wouldn't you?
esp. if you're trying to type out a quote verbatim...
you're holding a book in one hand...
you're crow-pecking at each digit of a letter
with your index... because you're transcribing...
you do need... you do need two shift buttons
for the upper-case... you can't just switch-on
and switch-off CAPS LOCK... pointless...

now i have an urge of biting into some raw garlic...
or... onion... no... not pickled...
i need some adhesive that's also a repellent...
i have too many spiders in my bedroom...
i'm afraid that i'll eat some in my sleep...

i'm still vehemently adamant when saying:
i'd shoot Freud in the back of the head...
like an Andrei Chikatilo.... why?
i just feel like it... terrible ideas...
or, rather... too simple... it's not even the horrors
of cubism of modernism...
do i have to race bait the ******?!
all of the Hebrews that entertained Europe
aas their home for over 2000 years lost
their Mediterranean sun-tan anyways...

oh right... that's how it works?! they get settled back...
the Yids... the Hebs... and what do they flood
Europe with? their enemies...
the invading Islam falafel...
       cool cool... good to know...
       i'm on the receiving end... well... i'm not...
the western "powers" might have capitulated...
try that same **** in Russia...
as much as i want to love the Germans...
at least the Russians are sensible...

     because what?! "on the right side of history"
sort of happened with Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya...
Syria? did it?!

that quote... about Aquarius and Lucifer...
plenty of delusion people where i'm at...
why should i be any worse...
i'm only joking when pretending to be the devil...

ich bin teil aus das macht, welche immer wille
     böse und immer arbeiten güt...

  i am part of that power which eternally wills evil
and eternally works good...

well... we're... "we're" sort of waiting to pounce...
seeing how Western Europe has been left to
the power hungry cucks of society...
           i'm siding with the Russians:
because as a ******,,, Ukrainians?!
undermined the stability of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth... they ******* sided
with the remnants of the Mongols that didn't
******* back to Mongolia but occupied
Crimea... ******* lemon *******
squint copper-skins... what?!

                i love depitcing our differences...
is... is that... a "problem"?
you know what proverb...

  jeśli wejdziesz między wrony, musisz krakać jak i one:
when you come among the crows...
you must croak like them...
Rome... blah blah...
  there's this animosity building up in
me that's becoming unhealthy...
  i don't have the stomach...
   but in the near future... i see...
someone...
                     someone who will erase
this Islamic curse from the face of Europe...
it's simple Newtonian logic...
  it's simple... i don't have the voice...
i don't have the ambition(s)...
                 i prefer to drink... draw circles...
scribble my little laments...
shout from the heights of the Bastille like.... de Sade...
i drink: i don't dance...
   there's plenty... we're readied...
       i want Saudi Arabia to burn...
             i want a second Islamic schism...
this one? spearheaded by the the Turks...
   i want Jesus t be known as...
the Lord of Mosquitos...
               that's enough... this ****** is going
to fall back into line with hell's democracy:
or else!
           he has had too many years of ownership
of time!
hell's rebelling! ich besagt: hölle ist rebellieren!
genug! das ist es!

he's no son of god... he's one of us...
         he's the Lord of Mosquitos...
                why, though... this waiting game...
keeping it a secret?!
well... no wonder... god is a... ahem...
            marry ****** with Elizabeth Bathory...
you get?! no no... not a bloodbath...
                      because?! nature is benevolent...
oh sure it is... it's so nice to men that will never get
a chance to hear a moan...

what prompted me?
a message from my "girlfriend"... a Turkish beauty...
raven hair... i wish it was ginger...
whatever...

seriously... that's how this world works?
i'm getting a message from my *******: "girlfriend",
hey, how are you... telling her...
i'm good... your lips are like ******* mangos...
mush mush... see you soon...
while the women i work with are single mums
in their 30s... thinking they're hot stuff and i'm
like... i'd be sooner seen ******* a camel... toe...
whatever... how oblivious to you have to be
to the whole situation?!
i'm calling prostitutes my girlfriends because:
well... at least they like to ****...
and these supposed "free" women...
"free" as in... entangled with raising children...
why, would, i, even, *******, bother?!
they're not mine...
            where does it say that i need to "man up"
to raise someone else's *****-sprank?!
if there's an authentic war... not waged
as proxy by H'americans... sign me up...
but... raising some else's chiuldren?! *******...
not via dating... via being a surrogate father...
but even then... nein...
                 niet...                         nie....       no!

nature has a cruel habit of being... raving revealing
in what's considered to be fair...
didn't the anglophone world popularise Darwinism?!
so... what's the ******* problem?!

i just texted my Turkish "girlfriend" ******* back...
we're good... i'm getting paid... tomorrow?!
obviously i'm gagging for it...
but i'll need to... exercise... get my mojo back...
harsh cardiovascular... white wine... etc.
i want to perform... i just can't imagine ***
on a regular basis... in a relationship...
regressing into... having to watch t.v. together...
tell you what... my mother made this discovery
today...
the t.v. show: the Royle Ramily... ****... Family...
and... Googlebox...
  it's like a precursor... although...
the former is funnier...
       no... because it's not a soap opera...
        it's not predictably blind to people's expectations...
now that she text me i'm sort of getting a hard-on...
now that i text her back i'm...
oh... right... she wants me...
           it's better when it's that ******* obvious...
i.e. between men and women...
you want her... she wants you...
        she had about a dozen bad *****...
now she's texting you: come back... Lassie! come home!
Caroline Aherne... i always... always...
what a lass... i can't stress it enough:
give me Tuesday... i could become lazy with her
in front of a... an aquarium... i hate the t.v.:
how about somewhere in Scotland...
with a fireplace?!
                        i'm happy with this Turkish *******
messaging me: where are you?! are you o.k.?!
why not... any woman is enough treasure...
i'm not going to tell a ******* from a nurse
apart... i can't: i don't want to...
      even though there are supposedly more
women in the world than men...
  n'ah... that's never going to be an armchair
in my mind... that "armchair" is going to remain...
"being" an armchair outside of my mind...
"somewhere" in a living room: as a ******* armchair...
not... some... abstract... safety-net...
in the... "back of my head" quiz...
      i don't have a ****** fetish... a niqab: skunk
oomph...
            as Khedra said...
just because you don't have unprotected ***...
sorry... sorry... just because you have protected ***...
doesn't mean that you will not catch STDs...
oh man... that's harsh...
***** *******... they probably don't wash their
hands after they've eaten or taken a ****...
  well... that's me done... i can have unprotected ***
with a ******* and no worry about catching...
Syphilis...
                    tested, proven, done... if i get a wring-worm
puking up a mushroom steering wheel for my
monkey brain to facilitate: i'll let you know...
but even at work...
  around women... this one gives me the most dirtiest
looks... why? she hasn't figured me out...
she tries the intimidation tactics... hugs me...
keeps clinging to me mishearing her say DARLING
while i thought she said DADDY...
****** insinuations... blah blah... blah... blah...
i'm not a gangster... i'm not part of some
criminal underworld...
             but brothels aren't exactly hotels...

prostitutes aren't exactly your next door neighbour
sort of
gals... are they?
so if one messages you: with  a longing?
winged Hussar... she has a mouth...
a mouth that could melt....
a  **** of butter...                    tiresome irk.

if i were to pray to god... i don't think i'd would
tease his boredom -
     in islam the adhan: the call to prayer is
heard in the heavens... but the prayers aren't...
the church bells are heard...
perhaps even when a choir of castratos sings...
but never that ******* of credo mumbling
and "confessions"... it's not teasing the vanity...

well... yes... god... nothing too personal...
       it's hard to imagine anything of nothing...
the sober, scientific, objective: ex nihil...
        out of nothing - i'd wish...
then we'd all have the properties of stones and trees
and a that sort of adapted consciousness
of: never born with legs... with will...

to me: something from nothing...
      the sober, mature, scientific approach...
yes... but i don't think about a higher power...
i think about an invigorating force...
                    something to propose momentum...
something that concerns us to debate
whether free will exists... but enough of that...

there's still work to be done in the garden...
all the stumps are out...
          had to come the day where i'd heal
the earth by letting her breathe...
    which involved digging her up...
doing a pancake with her... then getting a fork
and twisting her into little pieces...
about half a meter of decent earth...
before the clay would appear...
in clay... you won't be finding any earthworms
at these depths... half to a meter in...

well... who needs to go to the gym...
when you can garden...
it's a bit like... if you ever ****** wearing
a ******... and when you haven't...
the only real ****** comes when...
    you send some mail of would-be sputniks...
shame though... if...
she is lying about taking contraceptives...
for that "one and only" moment of life's tick
list...
                   fizzle fizzle out past...
but a few hours spent wearing gloves...
and it's numbing... when working with earth...
sure... you're using a shovel
a fork etc. -
but when you can't feel the earth...
it's a bit like that ****** sensation...
         should it matter to a man not circumcised?
hardly... it's enough of a bother to pull
the **** thing back and choke
whittle richard's heard into a proud plum...

but then to feed the naked hand to the earth...
one of those many other substitutions
for the hide & seek zenith of ***...
   in a shower... pouring water...
onto the neck and just above the occipital bone...
a less protruding occipital bone...
well... designation?! ******!
wow... just like that... i can whip-up
a venom... it's carboxylic acid mingling
with some ebola leftovers...
                                                    ­      em...
preferred temp. of the water...
approx. 4 - 5 degrees celcius beneath room temperature...
not cold cold...

"not enough ***"... or no *** at all...
         learning from the octopus...
                               8 things planned...
           i planned that trip to the brothel...
a little bit too late...
now there's the garden...
                   and there's that period of evening...
can it just be as simple as...
a glass of scotch... some pepsi max...
some jazz: but not too much - i don't really want
to think... blues would be great...
but it has become a period piece...
              like a jane austen adaptation...
a belgravia... something from charles dickens...
something simple like:
alice in chains - man in a box
down - stone the crow
danzig - 1000 devils reign...
                            
                 so yeah... god... prayers...
i still like to attach thought to what would...
better be a tongue for a brain
or a brain for a tongue and at least 7 aeons
of silence...
                    prayer or mumble...
i can't see no advantage...
  i'd pray by crying when finding something
beautiful...
i'd pray by dancing and screaming
when finding something more than the sort
of beauty that'd mobilise my heart to
quench its thirst... needing my sweat...
more than my tears...
and i'd pray... by walking into a dark forest
at night... strip half naked and scream
and growl and return the beast to the father
of the night... force my mouth into
fallen leaves and turn this mouth of mine
into a snout to forrage for mushrooms...
once... near Harlow - Essex...
i did just that... upon the break of dawn...
took a bottle of bourbon with me
and ate... a lilac coloured mushroom...

    how did i end up walking from Romford
through to Harlow in the night?
i remember i had about 6 beers...

prayer... yes...
       well i was "praying"... for an unusually cold
April...
my fridge is broken and it's not making
any more ice-cubes...
it would be super handy for me to be able
to leave a bottle of scotch and a bottle
of p' max or c' zero on the roof just
outside of my window...
   walking up and down the stairs come
the ungodly hours of 2am: i really don't want
to rouse the cats...

cabbage - plastic - playdough -
       some flour an egg a tbs of oil and water -
to live without... a categorical impetus -
other that: in times of the most dire needs...
to explore the endless avenues
of what can come from:
an absolute informality of language -
a metaphor and apostrophe
followed by a colon -
                            
      a fusion of impetus - this current climate
of gardening and what's... probably
the justifying what is happening:
not much... besides...
        
                               i wouldn't be thinking
of *** being on the menu -
wordsworth's celibacy -
                       japanese girls attired
in mannequin bodies with porcelain eyes
and... that skin of unblemished tinge...
something had to be forever uninviting...
or better still...
              it had to be leveraged...
other outlets had to be fathomed...
                    nothing of what might be bemoaned
should the crux of dragging ghosts
and regrets all chained up: into
dreamworld and some other circus frenzy...

to rub ones hands ferociously against
bricks before the luxury of touching a body
was revelled in.... it had to be...
*** and disney...
                          then the distillation process
of culmination could homage me...
as... allowing a flow of water...
or whiskey turned into lemonade when
the erotica of taking a ****
was like all the genital parts included
for her treating the unshelled oyster to queen's
cringe...

a... oddly weird cooling... a very... cool april...
anything to stop this...
it always sounds more **** when it's
an epidemic...
pandemic is hardly something to get all
hot and bothered about...
                                 god's sneeze...
                          and all that omni-
                                            prefix litany...
it's truly the most secured claustrophobia to
think of: gifting to later be grieving...
when at best: the magical finger tripped
up schumacher when skiing...

     or... some other spontaneity...
                              if ever some hegel...
i hardly think i'll live to read the phenomenology
of spirit...
   i've skimmed through the lecture notes
that inspired marx: the philosophy of right...
lecture notes... not even aphorisms...
not even maxims... lecture notes *******
a marx and...
     i'm not even going to bother...
claustrophobia...
dealing with both the marxist ideologues
as is the case with dealing with darwinist ideologues...

no god for a sense of:
no imagination... as long ast the facts can be
distributed and well regurgitated...
does it matter?

all that i can pour into "its" existence is my thought...
humble i, bring a stone before the altar
of the pyramid...
that i know of the "other" pronoun...
in greek... that's: θ(ought) i?!

by then it's already too late... the key has already
been inserted into the lock...
and has been turned...

                    margaret cirko, 35...
               $35,000 dollars worth of fresh food...
gone to waste... in pennsylvania...
and here they are... keeping me on a schizophrenic
leash!
i guess it's true then:
the madmen will lead the blind...
perhaps i only have one eye left in me...
i just watched a morse code wander the sky
that had to be feeding something my
unconscious could desipher...
the facade of consciousness that bears
the burden of the foetus and the stone stood
ground... my eyes didn't melt from
the exalted...

                    but i'm starting to think...
really? the crucifixion is... the epitome exit?
for a demigod? what about...
left hanging on a meathook...
                     for days... with the insertion
under the chin...
or with hands tied... having ultra-******
performed between the coccyx and the ****
when pretending to be the candle imitation
while the hands are tied: screaming the toll...
for the entry into gamorrah...
cherbu honey cherub honey for the old man
magritte: charon... das ist ein kamin!

no?             the treachery of images...
hold me stochholm syndrome prone when it comes
to... the treachery of words...
outside of the realm of nuance, ridicule...
and the thesaurus...
outside the realm of those that
will not clear the way for etymology
to replace archeology...
and of those who will not worship slang!
slang the... not the emoji hierogylphic statures
of: to escape the skeletons of
within and the past...
to turn the O(micron) into a ******* smiley :)!

hegel: master and servant...
    well... anti-hegel...
the parasite... and the host...
          the master is the parasite...
call it the fruition of 1960s intellectuals dabbling
in buddhism...
or... who is the master?
the master is apparent right now...
the middle-men... of work that can be done
from home... so...
what's the need to... commute... to subsequently
and "somehow"... "work"?
arbeit macht frei... "this" and "that"...
that's... work?!

   if you can work from home...
now... currently... how much of work is exacted
to pretend to be the architectural imprints
of power dynamics - verbiage:
and verbiage is all you're going to get!
i know the peacocks when i see them...
peacocks will verbiage tinge this sort
of "logic" as they'd call it...

macht frei... arbeit...

       a terrible slogan for the people who will
nonetheless butcher the meat...
skin it, prep it...
            but then we have...
i don't even know a windowlicker or a ******...
stupid or just evil...
        perhaps just a ****** frustration
"oops"...
             or one of those never to happen
celebrated abortions...
a margaret... cirko... 35...
honestly... the crucifix?
   i'm thinking... meat-hooks and pikes...
less worth for a worth of emblem when supposedly
left hanging...
more like: a dangling tooth...

that what i think of when and otherwise
schizophrenics are blamed...
for when everyone takes it: supposedly:
more easily...
                                       this is not something
a psychotic person would do...
nor a windowlicker ******...
    dumb evil...
                        woman evil...
           you almost wish to lacerate that sort
of behaviour... to the point where...
she wouldn't be able to squat to take a ****...
no... seriously... we should take better care
of your down syndrome retards...
given what the: glorious free spirited man
has to offer: anti-government blah blah!

she should be put in a cage... for
baboons to spit and **** at...
   and she should be given a diet of...
how's that caugh?
     good? phelgmatic? roughage?
good... eat your cough then!
             and locked up... like the myth
of the beheaded cockroach living for up
to two weeks and finally dying of starvation...
i'm guessing the genesis came with...
andrei chikatilo... or that batman quote:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man... after putting him in a prison cell?
brain head: tick tick...
  but the old ticker is still working...
this atheistic mr. ape grand finale of...
                                christine chubbuck...

brain dead ≠ the body is dead...
Kafka: stab at the heart...
what idiot took pride in hollywood when
distancing himself from suicide with
brain injuries...
oh sure... the brain dies... so much for all those
cucumber people of the comatose worldview...
all those... on life support...
looks like the "last clue":
the "labyrinth" can exist in a pickle jar...
switched on... and off...
at long as that... butchers' meat retains
it's... rhythm...

retards... widnwolickers...
does someone with down syndrome "suffer"?
personally... i think they're very much oblivious
to their afflication...
it's not about burning witches...
it's about... stamping out an egoism
that would hardly think about...
retaining the last dripping of water...
the last crumb of bread...

          if i were a ******...
i'd be keeping a down syndrome hulk...
like in mad max: master blaster...
hell: keeping a leech as... pretending it to be a tatoo
seems more worthwhile than...
all those save africa hunger ******* worth
whacking slogans...
   did margaret cirko work for some sort of...
save africa and hunger...
                                          charity?!

if­ my words aren't trivial... compared to what she did?
then money: does indeed grow on treets...
let's pluck some and cough into a bundled
up ball of $1 banknotes!

and... keep it rollin'! rarely will i lose my temper...
but some things are worth forgiving...
repenting over...
hell... at this point every other albert fish...
and every jeffrey dunham jr.
sounds more appealing to talk to...
at least either of them... wouldn't be found...
a marathon distance's length of having
just wasted $35,000 worth of food...
in hell: keep to having cain's offspring
as your company...

i really don't know what... "it"...
of any sensibility of man...
provided the ***** and the vacuum of body
for a surrogate: clearly there was no mother involved...
perhaps she's the first child of
that wunderbarpakt
of der: zweivati?!
                     she's the first child of "surrogates"...
she is the first child of two *******
homosexual partenting schemes?!
makes you wonder...

again: lasso an oops of the cut-off where...
this becomes... virus isolation wasn't enough...
people had to designate themselves
into making politics out of everything;
again...

police! police! the thought! oh god!
the words! oh mein gott!
  police! police! ****! he's gauging out mein augen!
he borrows some german! natz-tee!
i used kinder words governing wood...
i did make-up a replacement to
the ritual surrounding tequilla drinking...
i called him a black cracovite...

slick lick of lemon? you sure...
you're smoking a cigarette...
you're agitate... some ash lands on your hand...
you lick it off... that's your new salt...
you're in galicia... which is not silesia...
you don't have tequilla you have *****...
you lick the ash off your hand...
down the *****...
oh ****... where's the bite?
you're not familiar with lemons...
but you are familiar with peppercorns...
so you bite 3 to 4 down...

there you go... a translation of the ritual
associated with tequilla...
the black cracovite... *** lesson number one...
or no *** lesson number two...
they have their precious israel...
don't they?
i best give my... incantations...
again: is that a transliterate chasm...
of finding enough syllable pauses
to read some deutsche?
perhaps... when translated into
english... and retaining their chemical
names...

                hyphen as conjunction...
to better read: ol' wolf says...
carbo-xylic...                     de-...
               of many more deeds to come...

Solomon will not arrive in time...
and there was no sort of David in your time
of reign: since the last one...
to begin with... but you do have...
clarification as being the inspiration
for the creation of the Mosad and the ***...
so... cuddos... bravo!
let's hear a ******* encore!

sorry... i can't have them "jumbled" up...
the dead sea scrolls refer to the end of the old testament...
the fate of isiah... the courtesan prophet...
disembolwed... cut in two...
that's one...
the dead sea scrolls are not...
the nag hammadi library... that's two...
josephus ben matthias... the false prophet...
egypt... and from egypt...

this wound is most certainly bleeding...
put more pressure on it...
the more chances of negation...
esp. from the scientific couldron of the society...
the dead sea scrolls are not
the nag hammadi library...

it echoes in the claudron...
of but a single eye shared among...
6 plucked out...
to deafen the wind that combs the woods...
and the branches that find flutes
in their hollowing out worth... of...
rattle...

                   i always wondered...
gloryhole *******...
         the imitation *****... beig soiled in
all that.. would be sponge-leeches
and liquidated butter?
        the **** of all worth of ****
with the extending umbrella *****...
and... the business of ******* was not
to sell the frolicking ambitions of...
merely a 0.01% of the... base attentions
and wants of... the nymphomaniacs?

look at us... lowly... poorly equipped peasants...
bowing before a Elizabeth Bathory...
how feeble our needs to attain
to merely warmth... to counter the cold...
to merely hunger... to counter crumbs...
how feeble our wants...
oh my pardon oh my rotting mind...

               what sort of theatre would allow...
what we digest in private?
i'd love to see ***** be made more... public...
it doesn't need to be this solitary endeavour...
just like...
this revision of grammar by the transgender
lobby... gender neutral pronouns...
what about fwench? where nouns
cannot be: gender neutral?!
what... then?!
    a chair is a male...
whether or not a chair is male when a man
speaks about it...
or whether or not a chair is a female when
a woman speaks about it...

this... transgender communism or attempting
to revise grammar...
sorry... no... can you revise
1 + 1 = 2 instead?
i'd gladfly give up my prowess in arithmetic...
i... won't be, though...
so easily swayed off the throne
of grammar...

  this isn't even my ****** ingrained
language... it's acquired! why should i care what
the natives and their...
sacred siblings of the holocaust of sanctity
do with it?!
   watch me...

                here's me... gladly giving away
the reins!

             of the people: for... the people!
a true democracy... one voice lost among the many...
and the many... voices...
somehow focused upon that one...
lost in the wilderness... somehow...
for no reason... being heard...
i'd call 20+ a class dismissed...
which is what Pythagoras had...
hey-zeus' devil's dozen of 12: him included...

thinking big is beside the point
with what's apparent... when starting small...
i dismiss the value of large congregations
of people...
outright... nothing is ever said...
while everything else is merely overheard...
i want to measure the size of my foot:
i'm told to weigh my liver
and my moral quest!

even among poetry...
this language is so... formal...
there is null of a concern for a cipher...
everything is just so... "required"...
ignoble and numb...

it's hardly a rhomus: darlin'...
nor a pola dotted bohemia ****...
so what's it; dear honey ****-squeech-p'ooh?
oh... one of those...
daddy issues?
i have mommy issues:
never stopped me ******* ******
like a trojan cohort...
or the devil... with vampirism h.i.v. worms...

or a bit of the smiths calling me deaf...
whenever you started plasyinf 65days of static...
because... me and you and the romance
of radiohead's kid a...
anything: the bends... and the chissick wonderkid...
o.k. computer with windows '98...
but not... vanilla sky and kid alzheimer's...
type 0 negative...
                    
         i'll ask again: what's 70cl of whiskey
to a juggernaut?
                       a sly slip of the tongue...
a lick of this sort of concentration
of a waiting ice-cube... brother:
it better start melting!

                    in my head: there is a god...
but there's also an iron maiden...
i can't can't... oh yes i can...
make them into a matrimony!
   there's reaching the clasy of London
beneath half a meter of revised soil...
there are... these earthworms...
these phoneic brides akin to...
you cut one in half...
it pretends to be the dead:
the brain and the Brian that's all mouth...
to think... the digestion of sand breeds
the oesophagus that's waiting to be
blopd tinged...

       retards recovered: come treefingers...
or hugging... a birch tree...
as suggested by a... later than usual...
self-employed cabby... all from radiohead's kid A...
no... not from 65 days of static...
that sort of pristine retardation is
reserved for aliens and angels...

we do have to make it inclusive that...
margaret... cirko (35... pennsylvania)
is one of "us"... good god that sort of a "riddle"
with people having made it necessary to..
"opt out"...
god forbid living among such retardations
to be claiming the stature of faking
normies...

               waking: optimistic...
                here's to me later on bound
to limbo... and shy conversations about...
what's not to have shy conversastions of...
kept... cushioned and proud and...
sly and: workaholic.... insomiac...
but never... alcoholic enough to spawn...
the lost remains of the brute of silence...
the truth-sayer of the toothache...

this... best kept in german...
     diese taubheit...
           diese schattenlos mondlicht...
diese: gebet auf mitternacht!
                                      all this... under a shroud of english...
for... a... toothpick of german...
the zeppelin... and the blitz...
all... for the made thespian... pristine...
to sharpen the edges of hollywood...

      für einz! ich war auf zweck!

"misplaced" german... always the first...
even citing it...
fiddles with details of leather...
and boots, and belts...
and all those unconscious b.d.s.m. fetishes...
and long live evita... and argentina...
and fascists in brazil...
israel: the wall: palestine...
      
i love it! what's to be expected?!
a cosmopilitan... that's what!
*** and the city feminism...
pride on oats regret!
if i see anything less...
i won't be listening to ststic x's
black & white...

once a ***** habit...
     now a guilty pleasure...
                         i don't even think it's
about the taste coming back:
i could season just fine when i was
smoking 20 cigarettes a day...
it's not about that...
      when you're cycling and you're
not coughing up any phlegm...
and as you start breathing... it's like
you're breathing lactic acid and menthol
while walking in high altitudes...
i remember that sensation...
    before i met my downfall and she "introduced"
me to cigarettes... since... she used to lace
the marijuana we smoked with probably
too much tobacco...
    i know: Garden of Eden deja-vu...
                 where's your mea culpa?! you might
rightfully ask...
and i'd reply... she was a huge metal
freak back then... probably still is...
          she even got those lip piercings done
like the lead singer from hed(PE) -
scabby lips... dreads trimmed...
she even chose a song for me... i was her
herr mannelig and she was the troll living
under the bridge...
    i had to persuade her to take those rings
out: the scabs were an issue
but not a blatant issue (yeah, right...
every now and then rushing into the bathroom
to scrub my mouth...
would i go as far as dipping my lips
in some bleach? probably)
   i just told her... hard to kiss with three rings
in your lips...
i think she was hitting rock bottom...
so she had to convince herself that even
at her most unappealing... she could still
swing by a man's house and some love
and obviously if she kept her ***-antics intact...
the guy would not mind...
by the time i turned up in St. Petersburg...
nice... girly hair... short... but i liked short
anyway: since i had long hair at the time...
and she would be wearing make-up...
she would be cooking (i did all the cooking
in Edinburgh) - and she would wear this amazing
summer-time dress...
while i was wearing all linen: trousers, shirts...
brown leather sandals...

    regrets?! yeah... i wish i told that *****
to get out of my house in Edinburgh sooner!
before she dangled that carrot of visiting Russia...
if i only threw her back out of my privately rented
apartment on Montague St.
back into her student accommodation...
back into her cess-pit of Cow-Gate drag-queens
and hybrid-goths... i would have been so relieved...

well... this is not the first time i'm "kicking" the "habbit"
of smoking cigarettes...
i've done it already...
   but since my grandfather's... sorry: my best friend's
death... i sort of started the choo-choo train
once again... but i recently figured...
can't just let this June cold onslaught not be used...
my throat was killing me...
i can't smoke... well then...
              but... but... it's not fun if you just let go
of smoking...
i already mentioned:
what was once a ***** habit has now become
a guilty pleasure...

or like me studying the incel phenomenon...
studying: yeah, "studying" - i'm sort of testing the grounds...
dating apps are out of the question...
what prompted me?
last time i was in the brothel
and waiting for Khedira i started to this one
lucky Irish lad with a name that sounded feminine...
jacked-up with a bottle of laughing
gas and a balloon...

   yeah... i'd say so too... hard to place my accent...
the English are father suspicious of my accent...
and that too: depends where...
but ask an Irishman and he'll think he's talking
to an undercover journalist...
that's the aura i give... some Oxbridge ****....
but not exfoliating in your atypical class
hierarchies blah blah...

well... incels... should we mention Christine Chubbuck?
and the urban myth of: you know what
happens to a cockroach that is decapitated?
it dies of starvation two weeks later...
i swear this urban myth comes from the execution
of andrei chikatilo...
i never get bored of this quote from Bane
in the Batman movies...

'well: perhaps he's wondering why someone would: shot a man!
before throwing him outside of a plane???'
that's me... with the execution of the Ukrainian
serial killer... why would you drag someone
into a cell and shoot them in the back of the head?

anyone see the movie about Christine's suicide...
oh... when a woman does it... it's a cautionary tale...
but when a man does it: it's somehow "immediate":
the death: the bullet in the head...
Kafka: for ****'s sake... foretold!
aim at, the, *******, heart, like, you're, a vampire...

because sure... sure... and who isn't brain dead
at the best of times?! zombie ******* lovers...
idiotic trespassers of traffic... ******* ninjas!
making bad parking decisions stretching from Ilford
through to Stratford...

i'm sorry... what were we... talking about?
quitting smoking... me... i like...
this return to my teenage self...
when i wasn't interested in smoking anything...
just drinking... ah... this old taste of alcohol...
it's like sherbert pop-pop-pops!
  hmm mmm...

                yeah... i'm sort of worried...
thank god i don't have any children...
so she tells me she loves me after i returned
oral *** favours on her... listen... my tongue was
probably the 2nd tongue that ventured that far
while i'm not even going to imagine a tally...
deer... female deer? doe(s): does?! doe...
it's not: d'AZ... English... pretentious language...
keen on spelling one way...
speaking another... no wonder dyslexia is
so rampant in your people...
"my" people just have a terrible orthography...
i'm sorry... Charles Dickens  an ******* with
that elevated term for a spelling term...
notably?
morze "vs." może (a sea... vs. maybe) -
you can discount the worth of dots above
i and j immediately... **** it... revise the language...
drop those hovering dots... it's not like you
use any diacritical markers of: proper distinction...

well then... hmm... incels...
i was all for categorising them as terrorists...
why? are actual terrorists treated like... zombified
psychiatric big pharmacological zombie-inverted-thought:
no thought experiments?!
i think i argued the right point...
i've been on a rainbow of medications...
i gained around 50kg from one string...
well... roughly... i was a colt...
i used to weigh circa 72kg...
    came up to 120kg...
                         oh now i'm drinking excessive...
i need the momentum...
and i believe most of them...
you're a terrorist...
                   that's your ******* card...
"your": their...
                       who the hell wasn't to spend the rest
of their... constipated: interrogated by iron
bars of a "life" doubly subdued by
having no access to their mind?
  
   it's my inherent Slavic distrust of the: science...
ah ha ha ha... "science": the art of psychiatry...
the art of? creating monsters...
            the only "science" that... cuts corners with
the employment of pharmacological pinks and violets!
thankfully in England a psychologist can't
prescribe you any drugs...
but... psychiatrists reverse that boundary by
prescribing you all the sweets... but no conversation...
get the idea?

it's not fair that frustrated white boys
are deemed mad while all the terrorists are these *******
grand architectural logisticians of the exploration
of Islam into the decaying mind of the West!
well **** me! bring me more eggs!
let's make this omelette the size of an al fresco sized
paella!

maybe that's what's bothering me...
but i'm not bothered... i've went through it all...
at least that's how you test your sanity against
the backdrop of women...
you go to a *******... 3 / 4 times...
you escalate each time...
one hour... half an hour...
first three encounters you feel selfish and make
her give pleasure to you...
by the 4th time... i'm tired of watching you
give me a blow-job while we look at each
other in the mirrors...
so... from a *******
to slurping on a bucket out oysters of ****...
wow!
        at no extra cost?!
well then... bilingual that i am... let me just ask
my second tongue to come out...

i love you...
    waiting for two days... getting "sick": the clarity of
transaction ... i knew it was coming...
i was gearing up to it...
i was going to have two days and two nights
of cold-turkey...
i was going to subdue my drinking...
and i was going to quit smoking...
          
                     today's tonne of sand was a grand
exercise... i even had to take a break
to sweat off the sweat i was sweating
from carrying the nibbles of the tonne from
the access road into the garden to even up the down
*****... by cycling...

personally... i just wish some of these guys
could have reached out to some ****-wit
of a mentor... i re-watched Good Will Hunting today:
wow... only men could write such *******
about women... it's like: it almost felt like...
reading Madame Bovary wasn't a waste of time...
it's like... the only book every written by a woman
about women: wasn't written about  woman
after all... but by a disambiguation of Darwin (ism & co.)

so no mystery left... the nunnery project
of man's former investment... fizzy: into the ever
thinning air...
but if the walking ****** are to be imported
from Africa... can i import walking trouser pockets
from Asia?!
i could probably fit two in my suitcase...
unwrap them with some LEGO gravitas...
good as new...

             no... i think this goes deeper...
the freaky girl freaked! maybe! ooh! she found one of
my profiles on the internet...

it's troublesome though: but at least
these either best get shot: dead...
or don't plea the: i'm white therefore i'm insane...
no! you're a terrorist, mate!
you don't need some extra pharmacological cocktails
in your diet... i ingested those...
and i was apparently the one allowed
to safely walk the streets of this society
i watched crumbled circa 2007...
i still think the genesis 2007 and my own personal
memory are the best two movies in town...
ah ha... ha ha...

it's ******* snowballs and snowmen!
and it was only until i was 35 that i first tried
******* and i was left unimpressed...
since?! i managed to balance the intake of caffeine
with nicotine and ethanol...
the higher tier drugs disappoint...
                                 time... longing... hmm...

let me reiterate in another way...
put on the following song...
TERMINAL SERIOUS - GIFT FOR YOU...
and then start looking for
Walter Sickert's: Off to the Pub (1912)...
i do own the glossy art-book: i attended
the exhibition...
now tell me... the archetypical study
of the: hiding the Greek intellectual genius
coupled with older men ******* young boys?
well... terrible... the girls might be involved....

oh right! right! hello Freddy... Mc'fckn'Kruger...
really? that bad?
it's like watching a circus with have lemonade stashed
in plastic bags... your grandfather leaving you
with an umbrella in a circus freak show...
somewhat calm...

i hate commuting through Warsaw... i'm always
on edge... i always feel like needing to bite into someone's
aorta... and leave them to bleed out...
but once in London i sort of calm down...
i love the efficiency of London traffic...
     i'm a spider and London is my spider-web...
although... i'm jokingly arachnophobic....
what could cure me?
a girlfriend who'd want to own a tarantula....

so much for a girl that loves snakes...
a girl that loves lizards...
but she still doesn't love spiders...
what?!
              i want to cure my idiotic phobia
of spiders... somehow... i'm supposed
to find some godly Lilith with a snake
wrapped around her neck?
how about less the apple: how about
you hold a spider in your hand...
and let it crawl onto my shoulder and whisper...
what the crows did wrong...

because... after a while...
it's no longer about either truth or (lies)...
funny: how the English language disintegrates
from its casualness...
like so... good "and" evil... when people recite:
the definite article prefix of good...
pure evil? no?
    by now language disintegrates for me form
all conversational practicality...

the more imaginative lie is...
   the plagiarised scare of a reimagined lie...
that is not the frustrated truth...
which in jurisprudence is unlike an unshakeable
scientific fact...
man could celebrate science...
but it's "habit" of law... it's jurisprudence
is still a subjective-objective "shcizophrenic"
of nostalgia and will to reform...
         at least the study of history leaves one
able to write fictional historical novels...
what does law do? it fakes judgement...
it serves wrong judgement... when...
            ah ha...
   what a backward area of human "evolution"...
jurisprudence = paleontology...

   that's why i think that the supposed "mystery"
of "lawlessness" actually implies?
avoid the courts at all costs...
by then it's not a mystery... law is behind science...
as much as man tried to free himself
from the ******* subjectivity of hierarchies of
other men... exploring science...
nope! he still was dragged into the subjectivity
of jurisprudence... ahem... the "philosophy" of "law"...
the mystery of lawlessness?
  avoid making contact with your peers...
in a show-of-force...
   nostalgia passes... history estsblishes...

the mystery of lawlessness...
   what you live... with the ability to never entertain
a courts' summons for...
hmm... placebo-solipsism...
it's not a thought experiment...
it's an anti-thespian DE-MAND...
           the more cameo experiences you can
muster... oh really... the actor?
no longer need... the stage...
the rotten fruit an veg thrown at them?
well then... let's dig trenches... i'm good at waiting...
i don't need to be a lunatic reciting my
words on the street...
i'm good at waiting...
                    i'll wait... for what?! ah ha! beside death?!
my shadow... detaching itself from my body
and coming back with an extended index
telling me: follow "i"...

             oh, but now i'm ******* bored...
of this "exceptional" journalism, this false-safe mechanism
that spin-doctors used to rely on...
there was only one spin-doctor to my knowledge...
Alastair Campbell... that's before...
1990s England was sort of recognisable
before i was deported back to Slavic lands
and made my comeback in 1998...
what?! ooh... oh don't worry... i have my grievances
with England... but they're...
post-colonial grievances with England...
a bit like... John Inman / Michael Crawford...

well you never truly... know...
you need some dislodged limbs from time to time
to test your anti-racism propaganda...
don't you?
   does it? bulb... doesn't it? bulb...
then my sort of: lack of sympathy for Ukraine
because i don't give a **** learning from the past...
ah you know... tea-two-crumbs-a-penny...
if she's going to be the daughter of Michael... Owen...
******* toes off the readied off the plantation
gimmick...
hmm... looks like i'm peeping into Mongolian tribe
music...
   this... interracial... croack-load of ****...
it was once a cuck-hard-on that... disappeared
after a second ****...

            now i'm thinking: hmm...
9" proud... shame you can only fit 2" into her ****...
and about 1" into her mouth...
ha ha! better start find you a elephant ****'s worth
your type of "*******-egoic"... eh? heroism?!

this spells out  DANGER for me...
but what... do i know....
social engineering is more important
than actual engineering...
social engineering is a bit like...
once you build up a taste for psychiatry...
what?! talk?!
you're just going to prescribe me some
more medication to subdue my libido in
favour or a poor white girls... diabetic ****...
surprises?!

i like writing... what most people can't convert
their thinking into writing...
the whole idea of res vanus contra res cogitans...
the continuum ..
people spew ******* all the time...
no one thinks par insomnia...
beside intellect...
by mere principle of ad continuum...
any and each narrative can be exhausted...

Islam used to interest me...
Rumi... Sufism... Omar Khayyam...
Christianity used to interest me...
the Gnostic heretics...
after a while... find me a lion!
i'll start hunting for a yawn among the hyenas!
let's trade!
eh?! what do you mean what we're trading for?!
you find me a lion's growl...
i'll find you a hyenas' laughter...
we'll swap... by the concern of the crow's croak...
marbles... we'll swap marbles...

yes no yes no yes no: yes?! no?!
ah... the same...

after watching half an hour's worth of
a, "debate" between
                tucker carlson vs.
                 cenk uygur
i start to experience: custard head...
like i some Scottish ******* working
on a Royal Mile in Edinburgh
candy-shop...
it's not exactly a headache,
but it's something...
                           jeez... what is this ****?
was i reborn while drowning?
blah blah blah... blah blah blah...
blah blah blah... and blah blah blah some more...
paradigm shifts...
yet still the pompous unmovable
status quo...
                what a load of crock-****...
i just can't believe i wasted half an hour
listening to these guys...
dialectics...
  back in the olden days, of Ancient Greece...
the only mediator between two
contesting sides was...
a ******* bench...
           why do you need a mediator?
why not... something you can share,
and subsequently, sit on?!
that's how i talk to old men in parks...
bicycles (Raleigh - green, military green,
pristine *******), grandchildren,
the ethics of drinking in public...
you know, the usual with old men...
**** into the wind, **** against it...
headache... all this political *******...
it's like having to do the alex
in clockwork orange...
           eyes wide open, reformed...
or on my way... while watching a *******
snooker match...
please! but they won't shoot you...
no... like that line i wrote a while ago...
concerning andrei chikatilo...
  his execution and
bane: or perhaps he's wondering why
someone would shoot a man before
throwing him out of a plane?!
so why would the Ukrainian authorities
require... a prison cell,
to shoot a man?
             oh... that's right...
the movies lied to you...
the only death that's "instantaneous"?
in your sleep...
   just look up christine chubbuck,
sure as **** she didn't die on the spot...
it's like people orientate themselves
with or without a soul around
the brain...
  like: you **** that first: up to heaven
in a matter of milliseconds...
that urban myth: a cockroach can live
up to 2 weeks without its head,
before it dies from starvation,
                                     is that true?
i don't know why i keep coming back
to this scene... a single shot through the back
of the head...
              i'm crouching, somehow
attached to like a spider to the Y point
of a cell... curious...
          just curious at how long...
well... the heart can turn off the brain...
but the brain can't turn off the heart...
                   what a fascinating style of execution...
too bad for Curt Kobain...
    Kafka wrote about it spot on:
first the heart... last the brain...
           i can't even begin to fathom...
how slowly that poor schmuck had to take
to bleed out through his head...
i always return to: how long do you think
it would take...
   being brain dead, with the body still
functioning... like...
oh you know... a brain in a pickle jar,
but rather... a damaged brain...
   and a slowly decomposing body from
a lack of nutrients?
you think that after several days
they plugged him into a hospital drip,
and kept him in the cell for years?
well... one's mind sometimes drifts...
ha ha... to unexpected scenarios...
on a lighter not... i went wild today...
two bottles, one a standard whiskey,
the other? wild turkey...
Kentucky bourbon...
****... there's a story...
        expertly crafted by Kentucky bourbon
hall of Famer Eddie Russell...
we age our bourbon longer -
    up to five or eight years -
in number four "alligator char"
     H'american oak barrels...
**** me...
         with notes of sweet vanilla,
  pear, and hints of spice:

so the Irish have Boston,
while the Polacks have Chicago
over there?
   just wondering...
             it's not like i ever want to visit
America...
           my dream...
hmm...                  the Faroe Islands.

are they waiting for you to say something,
are they waiting for you to write something,
is there some st. patron parole
for you to be later be found as somehow
waiting?
can they ever be you teased by an echo
of calypso...
or is that still the echo of a deafening...
shot in the back of head in a cell...
                    the one he was supposed to be
dragged out from... rather than dragged
into...
       the affairs of christine chubbuck incel
status... and the seemingly long and
forever "lost" myth of the cockroach...
akin to a... andrei chikatilo or a kurt cobain...
who could possibly remember the affairs
of a women being dragged from a cobweb
of the most... grim enterprises...
this be... a cadillac... an automatic...
so... no manual... gear change?!
          do i look like someone about to tire
himself by donning clown-make-up?!
sooner me on a bicycle calling it a beijing tuesday...
on a gants hill roundabout...
come the peak hour traffic...
than... for all that safety *******...
doing the same sort of replica on a sunday
with all those ****** donning stranded
strange stephen smiths...
**** 'em... here's to a ******* through that lost
worth of outlets...
the shotgun credentials...
                      the one time listening to the eagles
made sense over listening to
creedance clearwater.... revival of what?
the eagles makes sense... if all that's the spider
and the spiderweb is... a christine chubbock
as a madame of a cain harem.