Martin's New Words 3:1:13

Thursday, April 10th, 2014

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample                                                                                                                                            





February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

fondant -

gumdrop - noun. a firm, jellylike, translucent candy made with gelatin or gum arabic

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles



Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

blue lupine - noun. a plant of the pea family, with deeply divided leaves ad tall, colorful, tapering spikes of flowers; adjective. of, like, or relating to a wolf or wolves

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.


January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

November 20, 2013

flout - verb. openly disregard (a rule, law, or convention); intrans. archaic. mock; scoff ORIGIN: mid 16th cent.: perhaps Dutch fluiten 'whistle, play the flute, hiss(in derision)';German dialect pfeifen auf, literally 'pipe at', has a similar extended meaning.

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

exequy - noun. plural ex-e-quies. usually, exequies. Funeral rites or ceremonies; obsequies. 2. a funeral procession.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art  students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

obsequy - noun. plural ob-se-quies. a funeral rite or ceremony.

arval - noun. A funeral feast ORIGIN: W. arwy funeral; ar over + wylo, 'to weep' or cf. arf["o]; Icelandic arfr: inheritance + Sw. ["o]i ale. Cf. Bridal.

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

coronach - noun. (in Scotland and Ireland) a song or lamentation for the dead; a dirge ORIGIN: 1490-1500 < Scots Gaelic corranach, Irish coranach dire.

epicedium - noun. plural epicedia. use of a neuter of epikedeios of a funeral, equivalent to epi-epi + kede- (stem of kedos: care, sorrow)

funerate - verb. to bury with funeral rites

inhumation - verb(used with an object). to bury

nenia - noun. a funeral song; an elegy

pibroch - noun. (in the Scottish Highlands) a piece of music for the bagpipe, consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a dirge

pollinctor - noun. one who prepared corpses for the funeral

saulie - noun. a hired mourner at a funeral

thanatousia - noun. funeral rites

ullagone - noun. a cry of lamentation; funeral lament. also, a cry of sorrow ORIGIN: Irish-Gaelic

ulmaceous - of or like elms

uloid - noun. a scar

flagon - noun. a large bottle for drinks such as wine or cide

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

bossuet - noun. Jacques Benigne. (b. 1627-1704) French bishop, writer, and orator.

wyla -

rostrum -

aaron's rod -

common mullein -

verbascum thapsus -

peignoir -

pledget -

vestiary -

bushhamer -

beneficiation -

keeve -

frisure -

castigation -

slaw -

strickle -

vestry -

iodoform -

moslings -

bedizenment -

pomatum -

velure -

apodyterium -

macasser oil -

equipage -

tendance -

bierbalk -

joss paper -

lichgate -

parentation -

prink -

bedizen -

allogamy -

matin -

dizen -

disappendency -

photonosus -

spanopnoea -

abulia -

sequela -

lagophthalmos -

cataplexy -

xerasia -

anophelosis -

chloralism -

chyluria -

infarct -

tubercle -

pyuria -

dyscrasia -

ochlesis -

cachexy -

abulic -

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

psychopannychism -

restoril -

temazepam -

catafalque -

obit -

pollinctor -

ullagone -

thanatousia -

buckram -

tatterdemalion - noun. a person in tattered clothing; a shabby person. 2. adjective. ragged; unkempt or dilapidated

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

guimpe -

ip

i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover.*

i still don’t know how a cat managed
to knock on my bedroom door
while slayer’s seasons in the abyss
stopped me munching on violins and cellos:
i got paranoid being the only person in the house
with that eerie sound of knock knock...
but i guess greeting him in the morning
with a head-**** utilised his head for the ‘being human’
initiation... only yesterday he managed to open
the door to the kitchen using the handle -
and like any man with his ******* outstretched
in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb.

p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common,
as does poetry and music, i still don't know
why philosophy started the fight, poetry has
nothing in common with philosophy to be
even remotely related for a boxing match,
it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances
of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete;
i guess someone had to point that out and side
with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add
one blatant innovation i'm working on,
no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs
of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry,
i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering,
spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted
picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper
articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same,
writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family
enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl
done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours
with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol -
yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in
a repetitive loop.

when i was born within the Chernobyl aftermath, and the nurse tried to **** me, in that she almost choked me, enlarging my heart, and when that didn't **** me, and they attempted to befriend me, and gave me a brain haemorrhage... and that didn't **** me... i started to think: what will? i can't say i'm in hell, i can only assert limbo: i'm not a monster, just yet... it's only later that i became *******, when they wrapped me in a blanket of denials, to ensure their society was a beacon of false hope and even more false love... that last bit is the cherry on the top... i once hated ridicule: now i started to loath playground like games of lies... i just started thinking: these people are a bit worthless... how could people i once respected become so... so... pointless? it's not a case of: oh poor me... i'm laughing... asking for the next quickened allotment of epitaph in marble... i prefer the pain rather than this kiddy game of denying something being true... that sort of **** just makes up for being thought about too much... it exhaust my mental capacity... limbo is quiet fine, i'm apprehensive where these people think they live... utopia isn't exactly a best-described vicinity... but when did people start to become so ugly? it's slow down here, the big bang just happened, or as i say: with the kettle boiling water... biology's darwinism timescale for a reaction, and physics's timescale of the big bang theory are not exactly fascinating for me, boiling my water to make a cup of tea... i am literally split-mind concerning these two "barometres"... it's just hard juggling these two (0, 0) coordinates... to stress a beginning... evidently juggling these two narratives leaves us living our lives on amphetamines... insect like... it's hard to even make time or emotional investment in: a death in a village... it's doubly hard to make adjustments for a tomorrow, giving our input in beginning: no one knows, billions and billions... years... and then back toward the befitting cranium... it really is man with an omni-characteristic, well... at least one of them... which clarifies itself in a way: given that we're no longer exploring this orb, globalisation ensured the tribe died... we can go in circles: round and round... there's never a clear vector in sight... no real unknown land to challenge... it's all been tamed... once the savannah, now the zoo... as one german noted: the melancholy of the completed house... all the work gone into constructing it, the thrills, all gone... it just stands as perfect, as it is already derelict... hard to keep track of a two-beginnings system... it's hard to find awe these days, i mean awe that might allow an Aristotle, rather than just looking stupid... i think that England really does require an invasion to shake it up a little bit, it looks so docile in its arguments... so certain: "poised" to conquer... i can get (0, 0) of the big bang, a big blank... my brain just became scrambled eggs... i store that **** in my head: i'll see forever-never-tomorrow... i store the monkey-suit in my head (the other (0, 0) beginning) - i'll begin to wonder: but the monkeys have it so easy! me panda! me and bamboo! darwinism has either killed of history that we made in the centuries a.d. / a few centuries b.c., or what they're prescribing us really can't fit into one head, or into a few, to make it into a crowd... because when a few ditto-heads ingest one wise monkey talking over another monkey... the atheistic crowd is the quickest to disperse... as with the constant banging on about the number of stars in the universe... i like to look at the number of carbon dioxide bubbles in a glass of Perrier water.

well, maybe because they aren't
my contemporaries... but i despise Chopin
like despise Liszt... the fact that the latter
smoked cigars is just asking
for me to abhor him... and that a poet
   succumbed to his virtuoso skills
with dire tears of
       a jealous thread (matt arnold)...
for me Liszt and Chopin battered the piano,
literally, battered the piano...
     could have slaughtered a cow also...
but then again there's a part of my that says:
well, if the god argument is infantile,
how about the nation argument, is that infantile also?
are we to be bleached entities,
or merely abstract pronoun users? you see,
   they stole Copernicus from the Poles,
and Mickiewicz, and evidently Chopin is no Pole...
but a prize nonetheless... so they keep him
as that rare thing: something born into an almost
inescapable state prone to disintegration...
   what with the monarchy being
     one of import, either a Swedish electer ruler,
or a Hungarian, or a Russian, or a German (e.g.
house of Sas) - a monarchical brothel,
   otherwise known as an aristocratic "democracy"...
    it's just a good thing i don't like him... i don't see how
a piano can be ***** as it has been by either Liszt or
Chopin, sure enough, nimple fingers,
joseph ii hapsburg, mozart, the film amadeus citation:
                                                               too many notes...
    a bit like me... for its worth, the piano is so delicate,
    so so delicate... how it becomes an instrument that
requires competitors, how you need more virtuosos
who can play the **** music than original from-scratch
composers... piano: it just asks for gliding hands,
it's not asking for these megalomanic
tunes that might leave you with a wish from an audience
memember: to break your fingers...
evidently nothing more than a death / ******* stare...
or why the true resting place
of Chopin is Japan... as odd as it might seem...
           plays the piano great... plays a woman
  like a bagpipe...
                  aren't the two related?
     and when i first heard *ola gjeilo on the radio
i was a woman watching a romcom...
                              the whole northern lights album...
my: a feast!
         just one of the few contemporary composers
that i can invoke...
     so coming back to the piano:
   me more of a Debussy and Eric Satie palette...
they just glide... i can only imagine
       a flight of migrating swans,
   or ice-skating...
    Chopin and Liszt is a mathematical headache...
        solo piano and the gentleness of approach...
    and only today,
   a lesbian couple travelling to manchester...
one of them phoned the radio station
and asked for a request...
      i've been dying to note this song / composer
down for a year or so... always heard the song:
never the composer's name...
                   ludovico einaudi,
much to my taste: the piano still remains
   a wardrobe item of the orchestral architecture,
rather than a door of your fridge...
constantly yapping for: more, more, more.
you glide across it,
tease it, rather than taste it,
  or subject it to a rubric of quickened calculation,
it stuff the room,
the best you can do is make it sound airy,
    make diacritical echoes from it,
than actual letters...
           say: the acute above the o, rather than
the o and acute in ó....
such a delicate thing: the piano:
which is why i never understood Chopin,
or felt a need for a national argument
       needing him, propping him on a peddlestool...
having him as a national treasure...
                  i always remained true to
those who settled for gliding over the alphabet...
    rather than immersing themselves in it...
that kind of composition, that simply fakes lazy...
     they are the ones i admire...
     and yes, given that dialectics has been
completely forsaken,
   the best we can do is give an indulgence
in an opinion, and make comments of
diacritic...
   women, chocolates,
men: dialectics...
                    or at least that's how i find myself,
making diacritic comments...
   akin to piano (contra chess,
    white notes consonants,
black notes vowels,
or should i say: any letter with a diacritical
distinction is the black note,
vowels and consonants are uniform in white)...

with the onslaught of a.i., and what television represents:
a couple watching shy arts on a saturday, because the urban
environment tells them so, make Chopin or Liszt accessible,
make it Parkinson's Debussy,  Yogi too and Satie - slooooooo
riddles the wheel that does, makes it a carry on as if Bagpipe Ben,
Benjamin's pharma ***** arose at Zion - never had naked flesh
felt so crass imitable African: cow ****  and Masai tick-tock -
thomas newman and the levellers cradled punk into
middle-age, just before the overdose
and headlines about Los Angeles and
everyone equipped with wings,
a harnessing of William Wallace -
anointed son in woad is half-a-baker's
challenge to burn London Town down...
and made market to the kept profiteering postcard
of lullaby ****... page 3 argument
equal vote share concerning fox hunting...
red coats... **** me! red coats!
you can almost shelter insanity with them having
a nostalgic trip rather than an urban narcissistic
trip of mono est genus - a Venus embedded in plant
like Narcissus - what is said beyond Olympians...
three brothers, a singleton fathering,
what be worth eaten is worth being given to eat...
scientific humanism already assures a billionth
parameter which we are to make schematics of off
a Friday night, endeared by a billionth of a second
tamed, later expressed by a second in multiple of billions
with re- of Friday and 0 as necessarily denied prior
faults, readily repeated as cause of revising a / the
default(s) - what pluralism leads to the continuum without
relapse barriers of safety? with the former article
it's an endurance of focusing of the geometric expression
of: oh, oh oh, oh... delayed matrimony with morals....
with the latter article as its endurance of focusing on
the anti-geometric of what's eerie: linear standards and
tri-geometric evaluations of three-dimensional space
and three-dimensional time;
so where keep the riddle fluctuating permanently and
with frequent consistency, for us to keep
kilometre and millimetre,
                                  centimetre    and the metre,
second                  and the hour....
all these divisible extractions from the entirety
that could be left intact as a safari trip and heroism...
well, higher than Mt. Everest, and cheaper than
Gucci & Gabbana - insurance brokers tempted
to file lawsuits against man's contrast of genes
overpowering: and napkins and nappies with
the minor hailstorms - or why the West fears
nuclear Holocaust, having prompted the fear by
the atomic twins Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
******* are spreading the fear, no one mentions
this war crime, because Minato Pāru is mentioned
first... hell, the boys conscripted... what's your point?!
Bruce Springsteen... huh? 50 years of a cultural influence
is enough, now i'm fed nostalgia and the new
crap sound just like the acronym J.V.C.

islam is really buying into an ideological
warfare
       of creating a historiogical narrative
for former crusader nations...
           the history? it's way gone, past,
in the dust... but islam is probing
        this need to settle old qualms in a modern
narrative...
    i can't actually add to a history
           these days, but i can take up a banner
of historiology, or so i am told...
   and yes, certain words aren't exactly
the standard bearers of who easily you can
rap them...
            you really need to pause and catch
the nuance... or the naiveness in which they're use...
   when i use the word historiological
i think of the past as having necessarily happened,
and in need to happen again, on the basis
of someone else telling me: you have to
inherit this.
            it's no wonder that islam attacks former
crusader nations... france esp.,
          what with adhemar, bishop of le puy,
urban ii grand speech lauching the ***** into
a tight spot... tancred de hauteville...
                 bohemond...
        radulph of caen merely annotated the deeds done
and the words said...
      robert, duke of normandy, and his daughter
adela, quick to **** at Urban's tongue... the truth...
   Islam is really reassigning us with
a historiology, not a history we might be prone
to forget, or be ashamed by...
   it's not doing what the word histiorology is defined by,
not this unearthing of graves, and their deseceration...
you really want to wake up the Nazgûl?!
seriously?
   sure, i can be your necromancer... we can have
total obliteration... just speak enough ****** constriction
to germans, and then point them at the target,
and you'll get a crossbow shock of the event...
     Islam really is warming us up for something,
they're nibbling at us, they're trying to
  really give us the "spark", it's not a case whether i'm
correct in thinking this... it's only that i feel it...
i can taste it... i can stomach it...
     such lovely names, those old crusaders...
Tancred...
                     mind you: peter the hermit's child
crusade...
                       if they came from north of Persia
they'd be drafted as Mameluks...
       le throng! if only there were always
the french incission to state that...
   le throng! you just can't leave youth culture
settle into the urban environment,
you really seem to want that... get pockets
of culture coming from the youth...
     it can't ever be grime from east or south london...
    me? i'm trapped in a library, i actually
built of myself... apparent;y 1 in 10 people don't
own a single book in england...
         the brothers Godfrey, Eustace & Baldwin...
   oh lookie lookie... you're tickling the beast
so just, any minute now and it will awake once more...
    and be cited as having said:
   walking up to me knee in blood and
slaughtered corpse... Harod looks pale the minute
past...
               Tancred... dubbed te Panzer sulphur snout...
are there more gentlemen of my stature on
their way?
        that's me: don't know who's the possessor
of a ***** and who of a juiced up ****...
   but i can bet the niqab does wonders...
   so much anonymity, you don't even need
  internet pseudonym names, no jackx666
or rogerxtra... you just don the ninja and, ooh!
ooh! everything's so flimsy! so airy! flutters
of a butterfly!
               that ***** king in the kingdom of heaven
movie did have a name: baldwin iv...
   and he was a *****...
         you'd accidently sneeze into his face
and his nose would fall off...
   true story, or i'm drunk...
           but my: this wine i made, this homemade
wine? it does the trick!
                 baldwin iv died aged twenty four...
lucky sod, kurt cobain of the medieval ages...
    oi oi... wait wait... ZENGI!
  zengi the heavy drinker! buddy!
fully name? imad ed-din zengi. ah, zengi zengi,
zengi... what tales i have for you...
      i'd tell them, and you'd turn out to be in full
disclosure trying to fake sober...
                        ibn al-athir also wrote something,
does it deserve more a toast or mere chronicler?
the latter will know.
fatimids and sunni caliphs...
              Balak, the dream-inspiration for
Fulcher of Chartres...
Antioch, Tyre, Edessa...
  and that old feverish fox known as the lesser
Barbarossa: Reynald de Châtillon...
         don't know...
   as an ethnic bias, i am of the people that remained
bound to a home near the Baltic sea...
  we also fought crusaders...
the knights templar, die ritter von deutsche haus
beispiel sankte mariam in yerusalem...
       which makes my history a bit different
to the current history...
i have other myths... with
Jagiello... and grand-komtur Brzęczyszczykiewicz...
but you know... hmm... let's go crazy
and pop a pill or two... blues for the upper
and reds for the downer...
what a unique occasion! are you sure
we're not sailing on a gondola in the water-alleys
of Venice singing some obscure folk-song, hmm?!
by now i look like the stańczyk (grand court
jester) in one of jan matejko's paintings,
laughing my *** off as to denote: that i am,
quiet righly: the most amused. ha ha.
Sioux! sioux! pruss! pruss!
     and the crucifix really is a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, that came back,
morphed, as if touching a philosophers stone,
and turned out to be an acronym n.e.w.s.:
north, east, west... south...
   the minute the tetragrammaton touched
the ✝ it came back as n.e.w.s.
      and that really is the most dignifying
Balaam equal compliment i can give...
      but you know, just seeing how Islam is really
inviting former crusader nations to have a fight...
   and i'm spotting this, coming from a region
that also had crusades riddle it...
    but it's true... the crusades around the Baltic coast
never get any coverage these days...
  i guess you can't really make momentum
from a reigion where it's natural resource hidden
in the ground is salt... rather than oil...
    then again, lying about,
reading the book crusades by terry jones
& alan ereira... didn't really make me think much...
   when it comes to the two splinters off
res in: res cogitans,
  i can only think of re-       i.e. reflex
   and re-    i.e. reflection...
     and the tongue these days is so ******* saggy....
i'd take more pleasure eating a bagpipe of haggis
than listen to current rhetoric...
    it's a sickness though, this demand Islam
is making, that once Israel has been established
we forget our cosmopolitan cocktails and engage in
a holy war...
                  but it is the narrative, we're almost expected
to feed into a crusader culture...
      but once again, i'm using a tongue that once
did wield crusading pomp, and i have an
underlining perspective of being on the receiving end
of crusades of the baltic states...
     i really should be jumping for joy right now...
   but given the schooling system in england,
or i suppose the whole of western europe,
i'm part of the schattenvolk...
                how the Lithuanians were so and so...
how the Poles were so and so...
    how i could almost try to seek out the same
linguistic pride of modern Silesians in ancient yore
of Pruß, but come against nothing but the Kashubian
denote...
**** me! so it really was worthwhile keeping
my native tongue, and exploring my ethnicity
and history like a ****-pants 16 year old girl
on a trip in the guise of tourism?!
  oh applause! this is better than milking old ladies
like Liberache might for a fur coat
or a gold-plated toilet!
     ooh... you rascal you...
                 can i please not sound gay now?
i hate how the concept of personnae can creep into
your psyche and give you, the most obliterating
narrative techniques imaginable...
                        but if you ask me...
Islam will not wage war against nationas that did not
succumb to the rhetoric of pope Urban Deux...
        i mean... can you really imagine a terrorist
attack in Poland?
             given that Poland experienced it's own taste
of crusades?
                 well... if it does happen... that really will
wake up something... it certainly won't be multiculturalism....
perhaps this really is merely a **** into the wind...
         my, all this can come out sleep-walking by
simply lying in bed and reading a history book?
             it's a good thing i assimilated on the basis
of merely using the tongue, rather than tapping into
past history of the people, past grievances, past prides,
past symbolism... i just use the language...
    i don't expect to really revolve around being an
adamant west ham supporter...
i just know that i'm Polish in the english language...
   and Islam doesn't really attack
      those who've have the better share of grievances...
whether in the 20th century context,
of going way back, when Israel was about...
             and reading a history book...
   wriggling toward a status of fame is absurd...
     i like the idea of: gently passing by like foam on
top of a cup of cappuccino...
                      someone said froth:
i'm exfoliating with this that and the other guess work
of vocab...
               well... that's that...
        worth noting the many more easily impressionable
young men out there...
                that would rather chop a head
of a person of their assimilated culture, and subsequently
not retain their native tongue,
   and then not play: smack the ******!
    layering over what their ethnicity clearly speaks,
although with a borrowed tongue...
       which is why a slang variation of language
has to emerge...
                it's not a case of slang representing
prior footing, and current footing, but cleansing
prior footing, as current footing, with only
a melting *** to be sure of...
         on the objective basis that's the right thing
to do... you really want to eat a good curry
at the end of the day...
  but sometimes you need someone to say:
me a shallot prior a carrot in that melting *** of spice...
        the feeling is not mutual...
    would i ever eat sand to sharpen my teeth
for a cannibalistic grin?
                         i'm quiet content with merely
dabbling in poached lamb... but if another mein teil
scenario arises... it'll probably come west of the Odra
river.

so here we are beneath the pallid ray
of summer noontime seeking to escape
for just one moment from the normal shape
of discreet instance so that we might play
a different sort of role where one could say
the angry words to those with mouth agape
that tell apart the angel from the ape
but those are for another cooler day
instead we look to work a better will
in places where the choice is not so bright
as underneath the growing midday roar
of silver needles passing by the hill
each flashing clearly in the brilliant light
so bidding us to join with them and soar

"In Heaven
The Water
is Shiny Gold"

In approach of a clearing /
Vernal-Volcanic-Bagpipe-Intimidation-Collapse-Arise-/
empty hopscotches fade with rain, remembrances of my foiled return
lent to after-rather haze mingling line by line
with eyeglasses fogged up

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)

This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all it's various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -
I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.

We curate and amend – understand
each other's impossible profundities

(Shh! lights go out unexpectedly ! Your remainder hovers by the door for just a few secret and sacred seconds/ gone...)

These poems have been as much for you as they were for me - But I must exit this vacated place of only peering into the beyondness of things that have outgrown their form
open, step - deliver myself to:

Lost in Lisbon,
just me and my addictions,
and when I say addictions,
I mostly mean my addiction to women,

caught in the same cliche,
but I can’t seem to get away,
like a dream that keeps repeating,
same place same case just a different day,

thinking that somehow *** can replace,
the actual act of acceptance,
thinking that regret can somehow set,
the pace for some sort of repentance,

but nothing changes,
except the weather and sometimes the faces,
found I’m still lost,
I’m a great shot but what’s the worth of a great shot that’s aimless?

No target,
no goals,
just a free market,
that’s completely uncontrolled.

There are no rules,
there’s no reality on which to base this face it,
we are all lost that is for sure,
only difference is most of us don’t want to admit it.

Addicted,
to the chaos it’s such a turn on,
even when I feel sick,
and my heart’s gone cold I’m still burnin’,

she’s turning,
her back on me,
says she doesn’t want to have ***,
and I understand her exactly,

sometimes I wish I wasn’t a man,
sometimes I wish we were all brilliant light,
want to leave my dull bland body so bad,
that if someone came to take my life I wouldn’t even fight.

I don’t fight her,
she says no so I sit up and ask her to leave,
it’s almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon already,
and she’s got a flight to catch that’s leaving for Italy,

and it is then that I see that she’s leaving me,
both figurative and literally,
which I guess I accept because one fact,
we all leave everyone and everything eventually,

even ourselves,
the cards we were dealt,
were bizarre as a guitar played like like a bagpipe by a Celt,
and even though we feel no more well hell at least there was a time we felt,

oh well,
I understand now that you’re timeless and your love is priceless,
fairwell,
we win some and we lose some I guess that’s what this Game of Life is,

blameless and shameless in Lisbon having a midlife crisis.

Living in cities of sin singing songs of wrong still trying to be righteous,
lost as a lark trying to parrot a song to carry us along and guide us,
flying through this civic blueprint climbing high we deny lies and define all aliveness,
and even though your iris is sublime and so is mine we can’t seem to see through our own blindness,
  
like trying to adjust to the distrust that we feel when we’re told that someone loves us,
and the ironic thing is that in your strangeness I see a similar likeness.

We lost us.

We lost us and our fondness for any sort of conscious conscience,
so now we’re in love with fervid thugs and hooligans that are heartless,
and when we’re asked why we’re in love with this life we say because we are artist,
which partially explains why I’m in Portugal in pain with a beauty that’s stunningly monstrous.

Lost in this,
constant concoction of consciousness,
lost in this,
city by the ocean caught in the North Atlantic drifts,

lost in Lisbon,
just me and my addictions,
and when I say addictions,
I mostly mean my addiction to women…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

20/08/16

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure *****
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skift
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breahing and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!
Of the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.

Im back! and front as well!
here I am incarnated in the living flesh!
tapping one fingered at my brand new keyboard.
Writing strings of meaningful associated fine sounding words
with the sole aim of lifting you and you and you out of Mind
and its operating system ,the Multiple Conditioned Identities
that have plagued you all in every lifetime you've ever had so far--and taking you into temporary Union with the Isness of the Universe.
Let me tell you one aspect about how it feels to be incarnated in this body--charging around soft machine--this walking running distinctly stunning ATV.
Seeing the world around me through the organic mini-cams
mounted on either side of the nose that I,the individual Isness,
use to smell through--chikkens a fuming in the oven--sage and onion stuffing is on the table.
Hearing the world through the shell like sound collectors
mounted on either side of the head I am seated in--Amber the sheppie grunting at the thought of bones to come--plates to lick.
I know that we,my companion and I, can take you out of Mind and MCIs--Ive been taking people higher since I first blew Alto Sax at Jimis shoulder in 1967.
I know that we can lift you if we play our horns for you live--
but we are here and you are there--time zones and distances away--
so maybe not today-- who knows what the future will bring.
Last night--(9pm our time in the UK)-we played an absolute blinder --
of Mull of Kintyre--you would have floated free--we walked upside down on the ceiling--we flew in and out and through each others bodies.
We could guarantee that youd float free of Mind..
She played very close to the melody but with twiddly bits
making it sound as if she was composing it as she played it,
as if she were so far away by a lonely lake listening to waterfowl honk and chatter.
When she opens up on her Mike Tobias 4 string Elec Bass
even the Isness of the Universe stops what its doing and listens!!
Through her Fender Frontman the 60 Watts of resonant sounds
become like the sighing of the midnight winds--elegiac and haunting--
like so many Causerina trees swaying in the warm breezes.
Me?.
I blew my brains out,as usual,
on my Selmer Paris Alto Clarinet--
hand made in 1967 in Paris France(as the yanks say)-
fabricated out of African Blackwood--
lugubrious and burbling---keening and bagpipe like.
I played it backwards--sideways--upside down --in and out--from the middle to the edges--and yet?--and yet?.
When we blended we merged!!.
When we separated we talked in tongues.
We became two instruments played by one Isness--
playing for the Isness of the Universe because no one else was there
to hear--to listen.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

I am a deep green 'L' with traces of gold and red.
I sound like a babbling brook or, better, a book
Because books sound like smiles and tears,
Which taste like snowshowers and chocolate kisses.
Chocolate reminds me of the number eight,
Which feels warm and spicy and rather yellow,
Like the song "Somewhere Over The Rainbow".
Rainbows feel misty like the edge of the universe,
Which definitely is a hue of blue, much like you,
Because blue sounds cheerful and solemn
Like a bagpipe or the Mona Lisa,
But with a smidgen of whistling in the rain mixed in,
Just to make you smell even better.

I think that you and I have always met.
Wherever there's a world big enough for two people to get lost.
And wherever the lost lay their heads down too low to see.
Right when we both get tired of the pain filling the lamps in our eyes.
But right before the bags start blowing in the wind
or the dust dances in the corners,
Or the blade hits bone.

I think that I always hear you first.
And your voice is a bagpipe war cry.
And the hand on the top of my head is removed all at once.
And I break the plane of the ice water fast.
And as we rise we lock eyes.
And we smile.
And our smiles explode open to syphon as much life as we can inside.
And we pour our pain into each others lamps.
And our lips will light the wicks.
And we dive back down.

And this time we choose the floor.
The coral bouquets.
The hotbeds.
The shipwrecks.
We are the bright lights moving in the dark now.
We are the ones we were afraid of.
And we are not together.
But we don't get lost so easy anymore.

left cup runneth over/

right cup half empty/

if I add my left cup size to my right cup size what will I get/ DD + D = DDD/I've never been great at math/but this is no/miscalculation/

I am 36 DD confined to a 36 D bra/

(D)Disgorges over the underwire/

D--you flaccid beach ball/I wish I could reinflate you/part my mouth around your ******/and/
breathe/

no one can tell/unless I wear a tight bodice/then/you are/obnoxiously evident/

I am afraid of introducing you to my future boyfriend/will he still want to undress me/will he still want to make love to me/

will he still want to touch you/

you/

sea urch/in/the palm of my hand/

even I am hesitant to hold you close to me/

you/

strangulated bagpipe/

moulting pompom/ B-O-O-B/
what's that spell/
what's that spel/
what's that spe/
what's that sp/
what's that s/
what's that/

what is that/

what/

who are you/

you/

waning gibbous/

my metaphors wane, also/it turns out there are only so many euphemisms that can be assigned to an/ill-proportioned breast/

itsy bitsy titsy/

you make me/

sad/

you/

teardrop defying the laws of gravity/

or/
is it the laws of gravity that defy the teardrop/so that it never falls into/
place/

I've noticed only/beautiful/things/
fall/

shooting stars/

autumn/

my left *****

what i find with western societies
is that they overly assert the worth of
psychology, without ever having read
a book of philosophy; meaning that
too many are treated as psychiatric
imbeciles, when in fact the culprit is
hard-worn and readied to re-enact the execution,
ready the plumber and forget the library banger;
with all that might hang, Charlie would
have asked Cromwell: did i have the power
or are you jeopardising in the extreme?
Calcutta o.k., hunches and surf's up!
surf's up... biggie bagpipe wave! hoo! hay!
a transvestite hooray! i too a
Thailand lady-boy, translated: north korea
in jitters and Japanese worth of shoo shy flips
of Kentucky Solomon... or some other slang
glued to cool.

this is how women should spend time with men...
she's lying in a *******...
and she's telling you: with eyes closed...
i'm dancing...
you what?!
you're dancing?! **** me... if you're dancing...
i'm riding a ****** horse to the next Mongolian horde
conquest!
that's how nights should look like...
i get th8s plump ***-*****:
i tell her... i think i dreamed of you...
does it matter?
the one time i tried *******...
i wanted one of the girls to not be there...
this first time i tried getting a *** replacement of
****** i was like: fair ******* enough...
we're both moaning without taking...
i'm talking to the night and constellations...
my shadow: i am the shadow... i have no shadow...
this how men should be allowed to live their lives...
i love the scent of a woman on my body...
she might have ****** a thousand ***** before me...
but?! she's the most eager to kiss me!
she even showcased her legs.. barely shaven...
to me... sure... girl... you might require a shave or too...
i don't mind... your lips are candy-sweet to me...
that's why i perfumed my beard for her...
i wanted her sickly sweet dreaming...
my god.. i love a fattened girl!

the more fat on a girl the more... allowance...
pouches of kisses and disagreeable hands
touching pouches that ought not exist!
the excesses of thighs! my god!
i rub my beard i grind my teeth...
these women are alive!
i need more of them! i need them fattened-up!
more hip frenzy and less school-girl no thigh
ick...
i need them fat... i love a fat girls...
with bulging brown eyes...

thank god i washed myself before the encounter...
i spread enough aftershave onto my beard...
i love the scent of a woman on my body...
it's like the Cologne of Cologne...
i love the scent of unwashed hair...
raven... ****... i would rather sleep with 100 women
than encounter an exploration of consciousness
with a hallucinogenic drug...

**** me... before she ****** off to Romania:
i'm the "BIGGIE"...
great... now i have a nickname in the brothel...
light-*******-fantastic...
i'm "BIGGIE"...
     she closes her eyes and plays the "violin" with
my ******* and chest hair...
****'s sake... "BIGGIE"...
call me BAGPIPE from now on in...
BIGGIE...
                   o.k.: i can stomach that...
i'm BIGGIE.. fair enough... if you want to love as many
as you want to love but not marry: which actually
implies more than one... i can be BIGGIE...
i don't mind... i love prostitutes too much!

I think you revel in my fear
I think you bathe in it
Like you were Elizabeth
And it was blood
And by some ******* of logic
It kept you young

I think you want me
Like a fish in a bowl
Swimming circles
In the space you rent to me
I am the tenant of your uncertainty
Forever taxed, and begging for the scraps
You’d leave

I think you smile
When I fall for your snares
With lustful eyes that raises both suspicion
And hairs
As I gnaw my leg, through bone and vanity
To run away, to be free

As you yell from behind,
“you’ll be mine for eternity
I am the entrance and the exit
You will see, oh, you will see”

I think every word you’d speak
Was just to show the point
of your teeth
and tongue
still sharp enough
to puncture my bagpipe lungs

mournfully humming along
“let me be, oh, let me be”

Guilt is a one way street
It’s as heavy as the cross he keeps
Chained to his neck
So it won’t leave him, not even
When death comes to collect

Ever since I could remember I been trying to dismember
This member I endeavor that seems to bond me to my mistakes forever
I will feel the butterflies where my stomachs gutters lies
the nerves causing bleeding ulcers to symbolize my gut implies

That my guilt can't be killed
its got a bagpipe and a kilt
A Plutonium powered monster guilt that turns profit til a church was built

And I know guilt in small doses only exposes what closes in the truth
And its noted but I know this

Would be loaded until I was bloated
And eventually it exploded,
Misogynistic? homophobic?
Maybe the bibles misquoted

And that's only a part, before we start on the hypocritically dark
Holy priests who's frozen heart
Let's him say homosexuality is stark

Sin, and then take part
Helping to alter a boys life
after his faltered toy of an alter boy substitutes for the wife

The church deprives him of despite The history, so Im left feeling low like a low life Grinning while I'm sinning, like Charlie winning til karma bites

My *** With spite, but when I speak to the light wanting to do right
My confessions of guilt woe were not only guilt full but blatantly willful

So when I confess my common told, sins, like common Colds
appetizers and often flow, almost comical, kept falling like dominoes

Or added as if it was an abocist
Counting&Accountin; each which are
causing an apology to sound bizarre that now folds like a house of cards

So I find myself in doubt surrounded
by myths in fables told
To give solace without knowledge,
facts or evolution,just how to scold

Bur I do not blame them.
I too have sought refuge in the eyes of a stranger.

But this place does not feel holy guilt
echoes and hangs from the walls, the choir voices, rejoices, but
Guilt whispers to the mass and calls

For them to empty their wallets in collection baskets for sin
&fre;; the incarceration built by guilt
to fester like tumors under the skin

Like a disease of brainwash passed down for generations
since the dawn of mankind.

I do not know what forgiveness is
But I know it is not to be found in the book from which he is reading.

There is nothing sacred here
Every belief that climbs the rafters is tainted.....
Even the windows are stained.

And I swear one day
I will crawl under these floor boards
And dig a hole as deep as my guilt
And bury myself alive.

but nowhere is the sun more poignant
than in october drizzle
with downcast grey limits of the sky expanding
with a diaphragm placed inside the lungs of clouds evaporating
but the same clouds merely scouting,
to fake masculinity to fake femininity
and abide by the embryo’s chance of oinked blossom,
where a man sits in the earthenware of thought
kissing a book’s page of the last line he didn’t write but spoke,
and says that man resides in the hemisphere above
the churning metalloid chisel and the howling winded bagpipe,
that a whiskey at 10am allows all the fun but no company,
that each word although not exactly onomatopoeia is just that,
a sound in echo without a cavern solitude of exfoliating shadow,
that it’s just that, a sound abbreviated by concentrated strain on the eye
in “pure” reading of verse,
but then the smooch on the page of previous sounds resounds highest, cherished,
because man is so easily lullabied in the numbers to his own frankenstein
of machine upon machine upon machine:
his tractor broke but the nonetheless the wheat was scythed,
that’s the fate of man,
resound man to the gong of your chiral chimera in kantian residue of thought!
resound to be fated as the abducted by numbers - by those first
parameters of thoughts - resound i say, resound! echo ageless
and steer that buckling ship into the hoof echoes of the waves
braving the endless night! resound i tell you! let no coward no rat
off the guillotine!
ah but i too stand removed from moving an inch further into
a blossoming digression that might allow me a sense,
perhaps sight, perhaps hearing, perhaps tongue in tongs
be the next snippet of sound that i might be an usher to,
but whatever fates await us, i too will have said more than the hammer
and the revered horse’s snout in gallop, i too will have added to
the synchronisation of all things apparent,
and with these symbols i have aided a complication for the chinese,
who’s own phonetic symbolism master crafted
the mathematical genius in them,
to have no coupling like the post-roman dogs did zeros with
omicrons and omegas,
so that they peered into the parentage of one begot two
two begot three three begot four etc.
with more ease than we could never envision
unless starring into our western mandarin of: ♪, ♫.
never will you debase these symbols to write an onomatopoeia
of a dog's bark! you'll call it what it is, and then write me
a symphony in due course to erase the clamour
of rusty metal sounds kept as the heartbeat of refrigerators.

O Patricius Magnus! Patrick, bold apostle
Who ran courageous back towards slavery’s chains
Unwilling to disappoint your Master, rather
Seeking, striving, with great sorrows and countless pains
To see a new song sung unto Him in a strange
Land, to offer Him a sacrifice pure, a gift
New and unblemished. You won the victory and
Did the bless’d Cross in the Emerald Isle uplift!

Behold, O Christ, timpan and feadan together
Raise a hymn of joy to Thee; see, bagpipe and horn
Sound Thy glory echoing through valleys and fields
Where once druidic festival laughed and poured scorn
Upon the Gospel! Behold! A people once wrapped
In pagan ways now wrapt in monk’s habit with chant
Gregorian offer praise to Thy name, and tribes
Once lost shall ne’er the apostolic creed recant!

See Thy brave Apostle, clover-armed, advances
Fruitful at the head of a mighty, saintly throng,
Together with fair Brigid, Thy bride, and countless
Woolen-mantled saints who to Thee alone belong!
Receive, O Christ, from Patrick Thy ****** Ireland
While her children dance for Thee a jig, and they sing
Psalms of faeries and hedgehogs and badgers to make
The Kingdom of Heaven with Irish magic ring!

Look at this Moor,
with his dolphin
held like a bagpipe
splitting with water,

while beside him
tourists stack three deep
grabbing at their beer,
pretending to ponder

the veiled Nile,
while their eyes slant
towards the open seats
at the cafe and the Aperol

that issues so freely
you'd think Neptune
was pouring it out, too.
The sun is wincing citrus

above the high windows
that overlook the plaza,
laughter cresting above
the tourist scrum, and

children scream with gelato
strung between their fingers.
People like to be close
to history, but not too close.

If the old stones spit water
pleasantly, so much the better.
Browse the pamphlet,
tell the wife it's Bernini,

not knowing that Bernini
once paid a servant
to take a razor to the face
of his mistress because

she slept with his brother,
because history's scrawled
as much in blood as in marble,
and the colossal Pantheons

of the world are easier
understood with a dizzy
laugh and eyes shining
with afternoon wine.

Clucking sounds of clicking glasses of
      red wine cups.
Toast to the celebrator.
Journey of a half a decennary
Donning the toga of feast.
Pipers honing the trumpet of joy
From the bagpipe of celebration,
Announcing the dawn of a new epoch.

Spiral sounds of joyride of joy
Spittering new life.
Blissfulness chanting countless joy.

Count your blessings.
Winds of veneration blowing life.
Winds of honour fanning life.

We chant
Blessings of life.
We chorus
Blessings of longevity.
Count more years.
Yearn for more decennium,
On the walkways to greater strata

i tend to kiss books, before i open them...

and i'm sure those words are enough,
but then there's always'shakespeare's
macbeth* to kiss, with and upon
every word read, uttered,
or thought of, within the confines
of the designated composition...

those three years in scotland:
are no pity...
   but a herald for what could become
dante's underworld...
   with bagpipe sung,
stormy and jokingly entombed,
half of which was a word danced,
and half of which was a word unsaid;

to pity, to cry, to remember: is to die.

the thane of cawdor lives!
why do you dress me in borrow'd robes?!

and if the koran be so noble,
where are those who kiss that "noble" effort
prior to recitation?
   i have heard no talk of kissing
a book before it being read...
             as i might
kiss and open a cassell & co. ltd.
of shakespeare...
to kiss a book, and with eyes closed,
imagine it an anchor,
                is to levitate,
is to swim among sharks,
   its to find buoyancy akin to einstein
finding the space-time dip in
the earth bound to the "liquid"
of a vacuum...

i enclose my spirit to
the enclosure of a shadow that
burdens the sun from ever challenging
a presense, in the confines
of the last remaining abode of romance,
that is edinburgh...
may my soul rest there,
while watching the sunrise
and the elongation of shadows
from the cranium of arthur's seat;

oh the most loving, are places,
where we once were,
where we wished to belong,
but belong only in the longing,
to erase the once lived,
now remembered:
     toils of a death wish
that only comes with a sigma mort...
it is one thing for man to
be alive,
but another for a man of youth
to awaken an old man
in a deceptive attire of joking flesh...
and say:
   to memory of gravitas' worth of
a son, and a son of a son,
   i count these finite observations
their adequate culmination,
that odd and hardly practised gesture
of kissing books,
prior to opening them,
        and thus delving into
    the hardships of every future's unknown
   come apparent, now.

hardly a critique of a beer,
or as they might tell the next young
girl about a shoe fetishism
stemming from Cindarella's glass slipper,
shoes shoes, and more shoes,
          thankfully some practices are
still legal, because what would
the feminists have them do?
cashiers at a supermarket,
dinner ladies in a primary school,
cleaning ladies of office blocks?
      how nature abhors a vacuum,
        because oh a year in this concrete
desert is nothing when it comes
to a concentrated hour in that
bourbon brothel perfumery,
           he'll,  she'll even slop on some
cream to allow herself the comfort,
which is reciprocal, considering
i remember this instance, a date,
with a boarding school teacher,
      who... ahem... aged 20 something
seemed to have hit dry-**** menopause...
which should make **** a deterrent,
somehow not ever phallus becomes
a strict standing corporal ready to march...
more like a madonna-cindarella-jezabel
complex... while all i have to worry
about is fucling my mother
and plucking my eyes out... no biggie...
but **** me, what a bagpipe,
    came the mad Scot with Odysseys
and when the sirens sang their drowning
song... came the mad Scot with the baggie...
if sirens had ovulas made of porcelain
to hell with them, shattered...
               to begin drinking and to rather
be, in good humour...
    na zdrowie! sláinte mhaith...
  me lord me health... to hell with health...
watch the spiral and the dervish Dante
in it...           na humor!
     to humour!
     came the Ukrainian train of legs first,
face hidden in musk...
    ever see a really really pretty girl
walk down these western streets?
    res extensa, after all the niqab can
extend far beyond the freedom claustrophobia
attire... an apartment, a chauffer,
    yoga class... you name it...
       a ******* tiara and a beauty pageant,
not to mention the television screen cage...
at least a *******'s beauty is her mandible
body, unlike those Japanese prim(s),
       those porcelain beauties,
               tiresome of those virgins lying
stiff imitating acting out in reverse
  a necrophilia...
             with a ******* it's a bit like
Roding with a piece of clay...
          mandible... he'll,  teeth missing,
in her late 40s, chubby, whatever...
              *** in good humour,
perhaps sloppy, obviously not tantric,
but then I'm not blue skinned let alone
blue blooded to mind what needs to be filled
in an hour, which makes waiting for
a bus the best VR set of glasses... well,
I'm rich in having invested in memories...
ah, right, the odd beer:
here we have a replacement
    of the famous Belgian pale "ale",
    hoegaarten...
        pszeniczniak
   is it really a cas of too many consonants
    if i told you what a little sparrow told me?
pshe'(k)nee'chñıak.... a canvas of corn
titillated by subtle hints of bananas and cloves...
**** me, what a stunner...
    time for a different beer.

being from the perspective of:
  entwurzeln
   ent-wur-zeln...
         i.e. uprooting...

   if i drop a name of a dead
person does the vocabulary
of the living gravitate to sizzle?

i don't know...
bold word: no word...
at best just a sound...
some archeological finders keepers...

it would be hard
to make a giraffe less:
   whatever a giraffe is...
   mute... elongated neck... 2nd...
too many factions have
come across a pretty pie of
dull... trans-grammatical
mayhem and i'm not going
to sing the lyrics of an
r.e.m. song about the end...

never mind: an end of the world...
all the existentialists:
with but one exception are
firm: rooted...
by the one nomadic presence...

a little experiment
i'd like to retract one maxim
of nietzsche - life without music
would be unbearable...
i've aged... apparently...
so much so that i'll listen to
music for a fraction of what
i esteem myself as:
capable of walking...

"tomorrow" is a mythical
creature: so in this... "tomorrow"
i'll travel via tube to south Kensington
to buy a bicycle...
then i'll cycle through 20+ miles to
my starting point
of "adventure" and find myself:
android...
a body with extensions
that might make a Beijing plum
sour from the blush of excitement
a 33... ****... a nearing thirty-five year old
might...

i have only missing aspirations
of envy... if someone were
to make evil-eye jealousy enough
of a thief more of a kleptomaniac
should i own a copy
of charles olson's maximus of Glouchester
poems... available...

it would be my same told...
"anecdote" of when
i found dr. faustus by thomas mann
in the public library...
otherwise: and thank **** i don't
write pop... vogue...
or regurgitate rhyme...

if i'll have to revise my autobiographical
tirades i will...
i'll walk some nouns into a square
and tell the peacock to flush out
all the pretty ones...

is green "prettier" than green itself:
or staged as a plethora of green:
i.e. hues come... something decidedly
apparent like... a lineage of perspective
within the confine of trees:

by way... claustrophobia is a fear
of closed spaces...
what of a fear of constrained time?
which, life, evidently has to by first degree
solely promise...
death my second mother
i wait for the day when my libido
shrinks, my hard-on too...
and the idea of jerking off to flowers
is as alien as it already is
when there are two **** two *******
and a bouquette:

i was experiencing an alien sensitivity
that might have
to include the cow's bagpipe
of an assortment of *******
for a craftier ******* lubricant...

all those floral patterns of genital flesh
is one thing...
the kaleidoscope of
***** as genocide
and... ******* gloryhole extravaganza...
hey... what about all that
liquorice latex fetish glee...
term me another for golden: fleeces...

i'll tell you... you're not donning
skinned pig for the use of either
shoe or belt...
however kosher or halal that's
sounding: clean tummy...
******* doss of a Saudi ripple..
but that you are...

   for better or for worse:
halal rubber shoes: laces -
only "somehow" and a "now"...

so many voices at this democratic
trough
might make a schizoid want
a circumference of relapse...

by the exasperated: of some vanguard
that's too Pompeii and also
too old... to be versed like...
what's Rome without the coliseum...
what's "proper" bread
without the "vulgarity" of yeast...
antics of yeast that's
what's ripe for the juicing of some:
somehow true begot experiment:

when they canned laughter
they had to experiment
with tubing faking a crowd & entourage...
saving us from ourselves:
acting... apparently...
or... shadow thieving ferrets of
the highest exemplar...

by bypassing the glow of mother
hoot and geese strutting: Wehrmacht
superiority: no complex
i.e. by the technology thus bestowed...
little slingshot Zeus tucked away
an eye of the titan: Grogerous...

because the zeppelins were
on fire and i found my tongue
in a heap of **** and skulls
and it was never supposed to be
or appear to be pretty

or like i'll forever find sleep
and night with the same sunrise / sunset
rendition of the Hellraiser
soundtrack by a christopher young
and beethoven can... fizzle *******
till... i find...
enough of what i don't want...
ambiance... fridge-sensory-séance...
a ******* overload at first...
last: my parrot imitation
of... how hammering a nail
sounds like... when making
comparisons with chopping
tree for it to fall...

and a forest and a sound...
and someone pretending there's
a third person's worth of a riddle
for: "if there"...
a gnome of nowhere....
        always a "somewhere".

. ha ha... they said that there were, "too many consonants in slavic surnames... just the surnames... clearly... they never read a word in welsh: ymysg y cymraeg: among the welsh.

                                       well,
we came,
we saw...
and then replied...

so, why, don't,
you,
   *******,
to, your,
glorious,
judeo-christian,
heritage lands?

h'america...
auf-auf! australia?
no?
   hesitant?

     north of england
the bed-rock
of the world, eh?

oh... i see...
just like my people
were displaced
by the sloth war
of economics?
that... "kind of, thing"?

i see...
you know...
right now...
i'm be called lucky...
if i were
a fisherman...
from these english isles...
if you get my drift...

i read some shakespeare
and then i start to confuse
hamlet with macbeth...
and the rest,
akin to a roman heritage...
i forget...
   if i were a body
sent ****** into this language
and subsequent usage...
i'd be tattooed from forehead
to the toes and heel
with artifacts of,
"concern"...

   no roman stood in these
hinter-lands...
but a norseman did,
many years after
the postponing
of the myth of Arthur...

this ****** war,
between a saxon
and a swabian,
or rather,
between a saxon and
a prussian...
prussian...
the pomerian kind...
they're not even,
exactly confiscate of
the categorical
agglomerate of german...

   i said!
    german on one hand,
on these isles...
no... there is no "there"...
alles hier!
         jetzt!
      
welsh: ymabod (here-being)
irish: anseobheith
cornish:
          obma-dos-ha-bos...
pict:
                       an-seo-a-bhith -
such, veracity of the already
given variety...
   coch-gwyn...
                                      ac glas...

of all the people
       among these isles...
only the welsh...
gwraidd-a-coeden
    (root and tree)...

        lwc-a-llewyrch...

see... i respect that...
who are the scots to moan...
forgetting their gaelic...
the dutch speak the lingua franca
of the english...
but they still, retain...
their native spreschen...
like the welsh...

   oh i'm pretty sure i can
say those words...
i'm used to...
   'there are too many consonants
in slavic surnames
from paul-land' -
ever think about looking
at welsh?!

   sheep-shaggers,
or...
bagpipe *******...
take your pick...

   this is going to be my future
hobby...
drink... and...
speak welsh words...
like a slav, i know what a "hollowed"
Y sounds like,
with no help of crutch vowel...
"sim"-r(a)eg...
          
the **** was i doing
in Edinburgh?!
i could have spent a well earned
time in Caerdydd
   - k(a/e)rd(Y)d "dyd" /
                             not 'did'.

well...
if the vikings didn't get rid
of these sax leeches...
i'll give it a shot...
   all i have to lose is...
a worth of an hour,
to sober up to.

well... i have one solution...
can taking a ****
be deemed as an addiction?
only on laxatives...
so i pull one off while
taking a ****...
   i'd only feel guilty
about doing it
if i didn't actually take
a ****...
   i'm probably one
of the last men to buy
a ***** mag,
face to face with someone
in a shop...
****! belgium newsagents
were so cool about it,
there was nothing
about english puritanical
about it...
          so...
you'd rather ******* to
  watching cow dangles?
i'm wearing health orientated
testosterone spectacles...
insert the mongolian
idiot harmonica...
    i take a **** and do it
and i'm beating
     the "king of kings",
while sitting on:
the throne of thrones.
    it's no biggie,
no bagpipe either...
mind you, i mind ease out a ****
that sounds like
the pict instrument...
   but i must be one
of the last lads...
buying a ***** mag,
under-age in a newsagent...
i guess i had the ***** before
the trojan horse virus
stopped attacking
***** sites...
lucky me, i get to don
the rose cheeks of "shame",
thank **** i was under-age
when buying these mags...
the youth end of the
bell-curve of a certain generational
gap...
          what?
***** don't give, dog don't take.
do one on the *******,
and you'll be like:
do i really need to do one
with scented candles and a
comfortable chair?
                    do i need
an aura of ambitious
pretenses?
           do your no. 1,
then do your no. 2,
   and then do your no. 3...
   it's not a jig-saw puzzle,
in all honesty...
       wash your hands twice...
i find it the most perfect
3-in-1 combo-rambo...
      having a tennis partner is
already like doing no. 1 and a
no. 2...
      what's the problem?

printing 20 copies of a cirriculum vitae...
tomorrow's london job convention,
and i'm...
                    criticism of one's writing,
writing per se,
              i never actually like anything
i write,
   on the odd occassion:
the process of doing it...
                                                  mid-30s...
regrets?
     don't know...
                 is there anything worth
the attention of regret?
                     i have the c.v. in my face...
and i'm thinking...
          half a nurture of lies,
half a nurture of truth...
     tomorrow i'll play the inquisitive child
with it...
    i just figured...
if only a job as a trash collector...
or...
      an executioner...
    something that requires
    eager,                            itchy hands...
of the latter?
   not from a perspective of pleasure,
derived from sadism...
   i just had to pick up a posthumous
bukowski publication
   and think to myself:
    when it comes to novels,
i will never reread them...
   i don't know how people manage
to reread books,
   then again:
   i can be found rewatching movies...
but...
i guess that's why i gravitated
toward poetry...
   like painting,
   like blinking...
   a poem? oh a poem i can
reread, over and over again...
until... i'm still staging an
anti-pedagogy practice of memorißing
poems -
that famous memory
  errosive substance...
   no... i won't memoriße
a poem...
   for the simple fact that,
i'll sooner return to it,
reread it,
   and experience a pondering
tool...
       who doesn't like poems
                          like strait-jackets?
oh, they're "out-there"...
they usually rhyme...
   or they make the application
of poetic technique
                              overtly known...
sometimes i'm less
a "poet" and more: a butcher...
   i'm given raw language,
i reply with raw, language:
pork chops, chicken thighs,
you name it...
          as ever:
   metaphor is no release,
  but a constricting glutton blob
of exhausted patience
   when it should serve one,
   to speak directly,
on matters of no transcendent potential.
- but i guess that's why
poetry appeals to me...
   like painting, like anything,
suddenly the gargantuan
blocked-toilet
    of human traffic under democratic
conditions...
where is the authenticity of fame
when...
   the only "authenticity" of fame
  is best served by a posthumous revelation...
otherwise?
  the current selfie of
                  a isa longwell...
**** me, i was looking for
what can be best described as
the "hollowed-out" Y in english...
i couldn't find it...
   ply, dry... it wasn't there...
i had to look up something in welsh...
there! there! the ******'s there!
     ddu meddwl yn
                                ngoleuni

sorrow: tristwch
     pride: balchder -

you know what helps with
the welsh W?   the ****** Ł...
   and you know what
helps with the welsh CH?
       no... it's not chitty chitty bang bang...
it's not chatter...
   it's... akin to the ****** CH...
hem... hem... hem...
not a hark...
              a dried out ha-sound...

chwerthin (h'łer'θin)
                θ / φ / F...
            to θink about θou(gh)t per se...
is a lessening of the awe construct /
motivation,
within the confines
of the genesis of φilosoφy.
          
           llawenydd (joy)...
oh sure, sure...
   all the ****** surnames are bad...
they have, "too many"
consonants...
   i'm reading a few words
in Welsh and i'm thinking...
great sparring partners...

        i could actually pull of
a decent Welsh
                  pronunciation...
      well...
they're hardly what the English
joke is about:
about pushing a sheep off a cliff...
and...
     sheep-*******
         (ddafad-rhyw)...
        (rył - masculine
   past participle of
           of: ryć -
                      to burrow;
  ryła? feminine
past participle of... ryć:
    which is gender neutral);

finally,
   my phonetic counterpart...
at what point was making
an insult the terms
of agreement for expressing
being endearing?
   right about now...
   as with the picts being...
                             bagpipe *******...

   this sort of language?
                   i'll need to find something
akin to being a *******
lumberjack...
     or something that can allow me
to not...
                  bump into people...
i could very much do
away with being a warden in
a lighthouse...
             to do something,
that is absolutely necessary...
   but doesn't entertain
  the debilitating circumstances
     of some variation of hierarchy...
safety pin commandos,
paperclip generals...
      whatever you call them...
at this point?
  who the who would want
to be an α-male...
    when... all that opposite ***
attention, also implies
                           a β-male drag?
imagine a job...
where...
you're as indispensable as a *******
hammer... in a sea of nails,
and countless canvases of
planks of wood.

i don't remember the last time,
forgetting doing the drunken tango,
i.e. "forgetting" to walk the straight line
on the way to the supermarket for more...
ahem... licorice..
   when did i drink so much,
in the afternoon,
that my legs into spaghetti?!
  i looked my feet, thinking:
are there shoelaces attached to these things?!
there are?
so why i constantly trying to tie them?!
biggie bagpipe problem...
  i had to entertain the testimony
of arithmetic for half an hour
to dance the Argentinian tango
with my shadow, simply walking...
last time i bought ***** this drunk...
i wasn't buying ***** to begin with...
but some cashier took pity on me...
plump... blonde... english...
           dunno...
size 16 or 16 stones?
       i didn't care... beer with
the added whiskey goggles...
       like... wha-?!
    the song jurek mech kept me
going... i picked up the pablopavo
album in Krakow...
in a book / music shop,
being sneered at by some snowflake teenagers...
laughed at...
among those nearing 40...
not exactly laughing
when the motor-scooter gangs
thieve your phones off your phones...
are you?
oh... well... ha ha!
*******, like i was about
to under-appreciate the music...
and instead... buy myself a ******* violin!
then find a bridge...
and circulate around
the Godfather or Schindler's List
themes...
to gain a copper bunch,
to later suckle a sock with,
and then swing it,
into someone's face!
- i too was raised in a catholic school,
but i guess the argument comes
across as: but it was Irish Catholic...
huh... funny...
from what i've heard:
******* is littered with men...
but all the phobias?
   esp. claustrophobia?
mostly women...
then again...
  i find that pedophiles are not
exactly fans of either drinking
or smoking...
          never mind...
        yes, i went to a catholic school...
was i given a second baptism /
i.e. i was confirmed?
no... i wasn't...
in legal terms...
i can't take part in a church
wedding.... but perhaps a funeral...

  and was i indoctrinated in ensuring
that even teenage girls go through
a childbirth?
ask my ex-russian orthodox girlfriend,
aged 19, i implored her:
get an abortion if you're not
going to put on the ******
extension of a latex suit!

no...
               11 years later, i'm thinking:
that was funny...
me originating from a catholic
school education, with such n early
indoctrination process?
       it wasn't even fun rebelling from it...
i just know their line of argument,
their most popular being:

but what if one of these aborted children
could have been a genius,
an Einstein, a Mozart?!

well...
i'm pretty sure the simple counter
argument goes along the lines of:
nature vs. nurture...

                   weren't these supposed geniuses
the by-product of utterly
dysfunctional family environments?!
replica people, sane people,
are never the cited oddities,
the never to be: ****** loners...
   never... ever...
          and if they are?
they're like Hegel...
       with their useful leftist idiots...
who... have the necessary "originality"
in them to, procreate themselves
furthest... via the method of post-mortem
cloning;

hell... even someone at some point
requires a jailor and a tonne of
lead, to encompass the geographic
study of a prison cell.