philosopher says when he sees v: aha! a future parabola theory given that the romans chiseled v when they meant u!
poet says when he sees v: veer from w into saggy "missing the horizon attachment origin" with a u, could have been a ***** of B... we're here to make sounds... we're not here to make words into poster boys girlies french braiding their hair into ideas and lipgloss.*

but you had to face the 110m hurdles,
i had to become a don quixote, fencing with shadows,
shadow boxing as if simply training,
you could run from dyslexia and the abuse hurled at you,
you had to face an external battle,
i’m facing an internal battle... phantoms and imagery...
you had the external ahead of you, with a wife to be listened to,
i have... no body!
myself and only myself,
of course i am like an elevation of rat... i’m a carnivore
that trips to the supermarket for a 70cl of whiskey
every night, hunting my way to a state of sedatives used,
i know no other drug with or without a prescription...
**** saturday night... it can go to hell...
yes i will get a council flat ahead of the scamming ******
that are like ant queens on the reproductive conveyor belt
(believe me... write like a homosexual to get the g-spots!
have homosexual misogyny in your underwear!)
that’s a muslim donning niqab curtains seller 1.7 (seven being the children),
curse of the economy! get them politicised, angry self-believers
only self-believing by faked passports and fake health-wise ills
from the natural contenders to wear the boxing gloves...
who said things like trevor mc lure: you might remember me
from such existential paradoxes as:
punch my cancer into a liver, punch my cancer up,
liver me up paddy, scots ahoy... ah... what a tagline trendy,
i could almost become an adidas’ stripes of america or malaysia...
so there’s me buying my usual buddy... ‘no coke today?’
‘no, spare coke left, i’ll have this pint of bach to share with the bottle
of whiskey... mind your inquisitive whiskers of the tongue...’
she pretended suicidal tendencies all along...
started cutting veins en route arteries for a fake sing-along cry-along...
made no sense, i slept with my clothes on...
women are crafty bishops... they don’t do communion
but get to craft a second birth certificate of confirmation,
the womb that turned into a cross... we were all squeezed out from
that geometric that said oh oh zero o hay ‘oo;
first spot the letter u... then w... then h... the third letter i’m not familiar with...
too many papyrus scripts burning... can’t spot the latinised version,
i think i’ll need to brew and thus ferment a pint of whiskey to get this one...
just to get 1, 2, 3, 4 up in scales, should have been written as
1cm and exasperation(noun).
i had something originally... but then i decided to digress...
it was like a full house poker sequence... but without cards
and more humans than could be required for believability...
it’s almost... it’s almost like i was jealous feeding the sight
of a man in mid-life looping the thought of cool with the thought
of being cool when adorned with childish ambition to have it
as a child having only bought it as a semi-wrinkled naiveness
that worked its solipsistic magic of: gone are the days
of ***** magnet... come the days of a badger ******* it;
give way... here comes oral *** mummified - mum’s the word
filing is the action... testosterone does not equate itself as ****** *****...
down below australia did a roulette action and decided to
geographically spread its legs for the sire of cocksure ***** india...
enter... the mongolian harmonica trick of the index and lip motorboat:
baba hamza baba hamza ali ali contra v.!
so? i sharpened my u into a v... are you sure you
don't understand the question: vat iz veh vay?

My head is heavier than usual tonight
My hands occupied
But they're holding yours, and I appreciate the comfort
My back is strained by the unbearable weight of weightless ghosts
Who without asking, choose it to carry them, and their burdens additionally
And stealing strength to support my own

I have no other space available to store sustenance and life support
So I  mimic a tribeswoman, by making use of my head
-but, it's not water I balance-
No, instead it carries small tokens collected from friendly strangers
Who throw in their chips, to be later exchanged for currency of no value

My head is not the ideal surface
Being round and uneven, it leaves little option
I have to balance them, one on top of the other
Struggling to stack them evenly, and keep them in place

My steps create  turbulence
I feel as if I'm in a boat riding a raging sea
I feel the stack sway with my movements- as if being thrown around by ferocious waves
I yearn for this never ending storm to clear
To once again sail the calm tides

With an overflowing head, and overbearing load
Strength is spread and lessened in ability
Composure has to be forced, and my deceit shows in each step
This game of Jenga is hard to keep in play

Its a gamble, which, as all bets do, appears fair
But we know, the house always wins
With little birds watching your every move
Keeping their distance, their songs convincing ego to do the ***** work instead

The guards sit back behind closed doors,
Watching their screens and waiting for their plans to come into action
All the while, pushing thoughts of winning from daydream to an idea realistic
Unnaturally high paranoia is a fortunate misfortune
Encouraging natural instinct to flee, rather than fight

I abandon seat before it is even warmed
And move take whatever winnings I have
Not risking a double cross from Lady Luck, at my left
And be stripped of much more than the chips on the table

I walk to the wall of cashiers, my mind in sprint
The counters have gold ledged windows,  as if they are framing works of art
My playful mind and artistic eye envision paintings in their stead
And I find that the motionless figures inside add believability to my imagination

Keeping fingers tight on their gold has them hypnotised
The picture stilled from the concentration exerted
I know now to avoid these cashiers
And in honesty, it is fear not knowledge that keeps my distance

You never know what could happen if you disrupt the masterpiece

The singles game had the power to change,
all it requires is believability
and prosaic earrings with stories about Turkish exes,
welcome together in a taxi to Blackheath
home to Father's Anchor butter
and her  tireless Cat Stevens dreams
an open secret she's got an addictive habit.
Gin and on off days  
Tobacco for cultivating asthmatic lungs.
Could never understand was this an
altering cry for help.

oto historja z kantem, co podwójne ma dno, gdyby napisał ją dante, to nie tak by to szło.*

existentialism never caught on in england,
it was under the scalpel of an autopsy,
divided in the extremes,
i style magazines, or in the saturday newspaper
edition of gloss, ensuring the world knows
about modern gladiators' (footballers') antics
with boyfriends at home and the girlfriends
on the prowl - feminism's by-product - hmm -
there's a common saying in england:
'i have an existence, i don't have a life',
well... ex- (out of) every instance, it's a life,
i know the big words sound foreboding,
but let's not make it a life of any concern,
unless you're dressed like Mr. Portillo
traversing the American continent in yellow
chequered shirts and pink trousers and green blazers...
style... gotta have style walking in Wisconsin...
the pretty english 'have a nice day' air about
you without perfumes... yes, Mr. Portillo is
the epitome of dressing like an englishman
cursing Voltaire... lollipop goo to my liking, mm...
hey, i'm just a drunk with an itchy feel for
language... me poet, me poet de facto...
ever heard of midorexia? me neither, until today...
even the rich aren't immune...
tan-lines and short shorts aren't enough to
define this odd anorexia of lost youth...
it's supposedly defined by wearing sunglasses
anywhere than on holiday -
see... this is where french existentialism led
the english - it led them to an answer: itemisation,
overt itemisation - born from every believability -
born from every centric to the the european
continent measurement loss exporting flesh from
the ivory coast to the florida measurement -
a pint for above half a litre - the statue of liberty
had many ******* under her skirt...
including king john as one of the fathers...
they really didn't think about existentialism,
no thought invoked made the shopkeepers sigh
and say: excess itemisation is required -
we need cuff-links, orange juicers via ponce,
we need smartphones, we need leathered shoes
(18 carat-hark pig), and belts...
we need all these distractions to go against
the french suggestion of a 35 hour working week...
live to work, don't work to live...
it never caught on... they decided to protest
against Sartre... because he lived with his mother...
**** me... i should have asked for a surrogate too,
and two daddies... and I.V.F., i should have,
because suddenly everyone became neurotic
with Freudian misuse of the Oedipal theory -
Mr. Portillo and Alan Shearer just left the game early,
one's a backpacker with a camera
and the other is a football analyst - left the game
of chance political slander... wise guys; bravo! bravo! encore!

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what's know as systematisation in philosophy, or philosophical prose as such, is an endeavour to hide maxims... that only surface more like concepts than applicable truths to the everyday keen eye eager to anticipate them as laden with believability... philosophical prose hides maxims, it weaves them tightly like a spider creating a cocoon of a trapped fly in the web that philosophical prose is... it doesn't create a style of aphoristic waterfalls that leave the eyes darting: a moment here, a moment there... the spider required 8 dimensions (8 eyes) to adapt a structure adequate for the haphazard flight of flies, twirling in mini-tornadoes - the spider-web is hardly a chance by-product, but only 8 eyes could have crafted its weaving... and as said prior, the aphoristic style of writing philosophy is worthwhile, i can't deny that, but it's so eye-distracting... it can only be achieved by a life filled where much life takes place, so in the case of la rochefoucauld in the court of louis xiii, his queen anne of austria, and the infamous cardinal richelieu... this outburst of maxims / observations / aphorisms is only effectively produced in such circumstances... other works of philosophy are born in recluse, maxims hidden in thickly bulging tightly-knit prose... they're effectively not as tremendous, piquant... it's the entirety of the composition that loves to hide them, and create yet more prose on the zenith they are produced for... they can hardly be spotted as easily as the sole extraction of maxims... but maxims akin to la rochefoucauld can be easily extracted, esp. if one is placed in situations were the crème de la crème mingle, one can easily defraud situations according to: vanity, self-love, friendship bargains, the passions, fortune, chance, jealousy, envy, virtue, moderation, wisdom, foolery, morality, immorality, a woman's coquetry v. her flirtations... all these things, all these proper summations of the surroundings could never allow philosophical prose for the sole purpose of hiding maxims... such environments are screaming maxims out, layered over by a distant asylum of anguish, adorned with jewels and refinements of fabric... but with skull sockets filled with two coal nuggets.

Those cruppled  crisp bags
a quick fix saline rush
theres better in pepper.
There been a lack of colour since 1972
Females were more surreal,
a midnight stint was possible then,
more than their hard pressed  
sisters currently conveying
adroit skills text thumbing
for that unfinished message.
Men no longer compliantly gallant,
merely over worked alabaster relief
with no self belief,
yet trying to project
anything other than diminished.
We have lost our confidence
verge on cloisters,
romance too few
believability never the done deal.

The breath made you glad
the believability of feeling closer
as a stone I could never sink
you would be the ballast, the anchor,
the celestial guide
the giver.

My actions not taught, learnt
Choices of bliss blind to regret
Inhalation an act of betrayal
Exhalation succumbing a conscience
Unsupervised time; irresponsible beings.

Fear overcome, discipline disappeared
The second eased by the first
My body a temple, tarnished by a whiff
Remarks held true, fall to a lack of structure
Pride spoken, unknowingly.

Morals condemn my sight
Preach do I, with no bearing upon my own
A resonating voice that ably lies
A norm increasing believability
Forgiveness can not be asked until guilt is sequestered.

Precedent welcoming hazards  
The clearance of smoke; a lapse to wet my throat
A child who promised to never, seeing forever
Rebellious thrills, consuming potential
Age prepping an inescapable chamber.

Coordination of motions inhibited
Obscenities uttered, consideration discarded
Attention found, with reflectivity
Substances relieved of responsibility by a will
Upbringing questioned, a disappointment mentioned.

Such a lovely anticipation
hoping that my projection
will surpass my expectation
once my eyes rest upon your face.

Laugh at my plausibility
it wont deter my believability
I stand by my elation
to drink in the intoxication
of  my lips meeting yours.

If this is delirium
this state of feeling blithesome
I've no choice but to succumb
and trust in the rhythm
when by body should press against yours.

So let us revel in what we might become....
and stay the hell away from my ******.

i think i once had a broken heart...
i think i was in love once...

i guess it was more about
the great *** -
it's not like we talked much:
she "was" russian
and i "was" a ******...
she might as well have been
a german:

i can imagine how great
it would have been for
the in-laws to have met...
i can only imagine...
thankfully they didn't...

i was once told: if you can't
find a girlfriend in england:
go to india -
advice of a man who
did just that...

i did almost the same...
working with the greenwich meantime...
Novosibirsk...
a girlfriend from Novosibirsk -

glad girl who escaped that
hellhole and made her
way via st. petersburg to edinburgh
and settled...

me poor oddity: boy...
from a... ahem: haha... "village" -
once a pinnacle of metallurgy industry...
those pivotal poles of
the stade de france
were made in my town...
i know so because my grandfather
worked on them...

yes: i think i was in love once...
she was a real homely affair...
she cooked great food... NO!
the *** was bonkers...
one of those summer nights
in st. petersburg we ****** for hours...
i asked her how many times
she orgasmed in that frozen
snapshot of epilepsy...

   a truly materialistic affair of "love"...
she was on her period
that seemed to last a month...
i still managed to encourage
her to do it in the bath with
a ******... sure... flakes of skin...
anything to ease the cramps...

yes - the *** was everything:
as any boy fed *******:
this easily available "taboo" for so many
years prior to: a canvas to work
with: *** before a mirror...
the supposed conversations
we might have had:
i liked the unbearable lightness
of being -
she introduced me to bulgakov
and in extremo -

           i can't possibly write poetry:
i can't fake in instagram disguises:
i am burdened with prose:
listening to music doesn't help
this anti-lyricism -
there's this sludge monster of
a tongue and a hidden formality
that only works with sparkle
for a niche audience:

niche audience! i don't know what
you're doing here...
i frankly don't know what i'm
doing here either...
we're here... souring in memories...
but i want to forgive myself
for: not going down with the titanic...

imagine: i was sent a letter
from a charity that deals with
alcoholics... they asked me to donate
anything between a fiver or a 20 squid pop...
yes...
      greed of charities...
the same like that anglo-saxon
work ethic: when enough saturation
happens and there's only loitering
left...

skin's burning...
i'd like rhyming: i'd also like
a bouncing ball trapped in perpetual motion
of the bounce:
              bounce: pounce... donce...
i agree: i write very little of
what's already nothing...

     caged gargantuan brat i probably
could stand before a mirror
but i could stand before
a painting that distorts the complexity
of a whiteness of both
lie and magic...

"i" am the fisherman and from
the sea of thought i managed to hook
a tackle of a greasy emblem of what:
a hiding protagonist could fathom:
yet this also brings me into:
the great crushing wheel...
caligula smiles: metaphor caligula smiles...
to have to experience these
bouts of automated thinking:
that everything is this:
**** in machina - and to seek god
as the only way out:
superstitious of those not yet
having arrived at
a cosmopolitan sensibility
of packaging **** arguments of:
transcending this nail needs hammering:
this bacon would require frying...

the *** was great...
there was only ***...
      she liked how i became a chameleon
of diacritical marks:
she had an "accent" i couldn't
be pinned...
i noted that: she had that breath
and a tongue that was a bulging
soul...
               i didn't mind:
after all an ****** of "onomatopoeias"
during *******...

*** primo *** primo...
come to think of it:
i don't think i've had deeply concerning
conversations with my mother...
or with any woman...
well... not to reach the crux
of my being:
   lament?
                   all too easily available paper
and a freely agreeing audience...
thank god they do not find themselves
eagerly commenting on
my ball-and-trimmings-of-a-worth-of-trollop...

hyphen compounding of words:
a very anglo-saxon t'ing...
it's hardly german...
it's not like there's a precursor
story with... anglo-swabians...
or anglo-pomeranians...

         write this mediocrity: go to bed early...
no! how could i be this grieving lover...
i couldn't...
yes... i played the stalker for
the odd occasion -
   i couldn't possibly have fathomed
where she went...
i'm mundane matthew who
grew up with dogs:

youth is all about dogs...
started to hit the plateau with cats:
thankfully my home doesn't give off
whiffs of cat **** perfumery -
these cats lounge in a sterile environment...
but she went down a route
of serpents and spiders...

i am a clarity of arachnophobia -
i like this irrationality -
it's not so much an irrational fear: phobia...
as a reflex...
it's what wakes me up to encompass
the body... that can sometimes be lost
to automated thinking or the sometimes:
pensive reflection purpose of:
what thought arrived at when
it was not supposed to be lost
given the ****** summons
of: "work" - i.e. loitering as a security
guard in a supermarket...

i deserve this pseudo-flaubert fate...
madame bovary might be the book...
but anna karenina steals the opening
of all books...
how does it read, from memory:

all the happy families have the same
story: a generic clone...
but all the unhappy families are unique
in that their stories are:
tenured by misery being selective...
anti-verbatim... d'uh...

       someone once championed
the pickwick papers and encouraged me
to read it...
come chapters 30 - 32...
this book was serialised...
it's no don quixote... it might be
for some native...
but then again: i don't remember
anything about don quixote except
that... the windmills happened
prior to page 100...
you'd think that seeing the ludwig minkus
adaptation of ballet at the royal opera
house would jolt my memory...

hell: bolshoi or no bolshoi...
fickle memory...
i have a ceremony of about 10 permanent
memories -
some have arrived up to now
with a fire of permanence...
"memory" is a yet to fade out cliff...
time the sea and the wind...
i still have to challenge the prospect of:
what i want to remember...
well... what i probably must(ard)
in the arithmetic rubric as every child
must...

i know of the people who talk down
you rekindling a memory cinema...
how it drags for so long that you're unable
to dream... or make futurism a
possible quest: what do i have of
a future to bundle up:
stretched within the pressure of now:
                 nought-here...
    from the Omicron to the doughnut of 0...

give me a day where writing is
not necessary - when drink stands alone
and the bed is teasing...
no phantom body of feuds...
i couldn't have possibly moved furthest
to a shackle...

she became anachrophilic and that
was a tarantula in her hand...
it would have to become necessary
to feast on so much of:
well... i stood before a shelf of
the oeuvre of Dumas and... guess...
well... i was expecting
for people to not have read as much...

we're writing we're digging graves...
we're covered by the fact that
some come as journalists...
that thespians will not gradually belong
to the shadows alone:
that this has to be my lot:
i have to settle with
the mediocre: but what's
almost heartbreaking is that...
i didn't become the cost-efficient
purpose of a ceiling...
i supposed this body or this
mind would never have to fail...

      it's so unbecoming to be this:
collage of works best works least
works at all...
the *** was great but then
my arachnophobia would never allow
itself to be coupled with her
petting tarantulas...
so it's not much a broken heart...
it's the willow of whittle dangling
richards taking a bow from
pump action into a custard pit:
flowery itching: eeeeeee...
no coinage to make purpose
of buttering those floral
patterns of flesh...

            rhymes a' eternal:
closure for a meditation on the tetragrammaton:
apostrophe for each surd H -
hatching a "plan"...
come! come join me!
in this eternal furnace of mechanised
will;
well... there's no burden of freedom
in this already prescribed
papacy of guised choices:
a masquerade of: suppose
the serenity of the atmosphere of
the moons..

   a crushing free-fall...
motivational speakeasies -
                    i am sour... almost nostalgic -
there's a definite article of
a past... the past being deservedly so: the...
but there's also the indefinite article
of the future: the future being undeservedly
so...
it's just one of those prized
assets of a tongue:
a grammar and a nuance...

that it was the anglo-saxons...
but not the anglo-swabians...
            let's see how much of a muddle
of mine is deserving my egoistic ploy
to mind the "numbers"...
how much of a muddle i have made
to crave an itch from a stone's
scratching: to detail the whole lot!
for sale! for sale!

my... my my... how miserable this
least expecting consolidation
with mortality...
a freezing over with details
of understood biases...
               i want to call my **** clearly adow my dog...
then again i am reminded:
i like cats because there's no
believability of tokyo cosmopolitanism...
and there's no leash...
if ever i owned a dog i wouldn't
like to also own either a muzzle...
or a leash...

i therefore decline the need to own
dogs...
no... to no one to anyone...
               bark at an echo...
howl at "dutch wood"...
                 i will only don a white shirt
if i can be settle for a sensibility
with... grey creases come
the suggestion of noon.

Thoughts i want to crystallise
Dreamlike, i understand now
what people call a Fantasy.

a Phantasm appeared,
the Ghost's silhouette
vanished, an Apparition,

Imagination prohibits nothing
Believability? unnecessary
Truth? who can tell?

what a day! full of Activity,
gives your mind the best material
in your mind, your wildest Unrealities come true.
whether or not you want it to.

i cant's actually feel
my 4th knuckle  right on
my  orour right arms....
since in bulged...
        with me using against
a one punch
  crescendo on a
brick wall...
           that "should
have been your face...
       i almost feel
abadoned...
            being kept intact
with a ref. to a family...
there comes a grit,
and a believability...
  to ensure is kept:
                 sacrilegious....
like an obedience
to keep
  "prayer":
                   in nomine patris
              et filii et spiritus sancti...
and whatever your
little ******* asked "otherwise":
we sure as ****,
will, gauge your eyes out@;

death and justice is not,
a t.v. affair...
                   we do...
and what we do...
       is necessary...
             regarding what needs...
to be...
                     done....

savvy?

ever punch a brick-wall
so hard you felt your fourth
knuckle to a soft-pouch liver
synonym?

    course you 'aven't...
ya 'ucking ginger misfit "queer",
y'ah 'acking ginger brixton *****!
     queen calls it
a ******* moustache
   re-appropriation
             of the 19th / 18 century...
tells me:
    i just, i just might
play off fitting with
the suburbans...

            there's a *******
collective of "them"
involved?!
                  sign me up! queer sister!

can i play up
being a half decent
                  baker of goods?
oyu know...
         with a knuckle missing
cos of numbing via
punching a wall...
    sort of tailor,
i.e.       a: F'UCKING CHEF
AT YOUR LOCAL ROUNDABOUT
OUTLET... YES CHEF
HEIRARCHY *******?!
YES CHEF?!
              coooooooooooo
    -k minus the "-ing"(?)....
                      cook...
             well i mind to mind the intellect
of having to mind frying croissants...
    i love the motto
though:
                         i die...
         you die...
     i could do the "mundane"
jobs...
point beig:
                  why would i have
       to go to university for them?
         if there's an "alternative" univerese
for the explanation...
   why aren't you dead?
on the basis of a criminal focus
with, exchange, focusing on, "you"?
                  so why is there no cain-impetus
to "mind" "you", "minding", "me".  
come to think of it...
a bit of a waste of propagada
liastening to: send your kids to university
send your kids to university....
then again...
i die... i yawn...
               i suppose there's another day.

Upon exiting side door nearest
to our single bedroom
(a few dozen strides to access said way
out apartment - complex edifice),
I unexpectedly encountered
(on August 30th, 2021
~10:15 post meridian -
née namely heard but did not see),
a small screeching creature
whose anatomical features it did splay

yours truly raced (fast as greased lightning)
back to our unit (b44)
breathlessly describing
frightful scenario to spouse
her skeptical response equivalent to naysay
ying, nevertheless found me burrowing
under blankets temporarily, silently,
and roughly exalted hooray
to release pent up fear and allay
uneasiness that encompassed mine psyche.

Hence... all plans to travel exotic lands
across the seven seas
versus going to zoo
(to befriend endangered animals)
went out the window made of
carefully decorated, engraved
and finished (polished) yew,
which wooden frame father made (who
taught himself carpentry - his real job
mechanical engineer at General Electric,
but he much preferred to build true

lee awesome contraptions, I
(his prodigal son) can attest
when yours truly happily did passthrough
childhood whereby papa built us
(three progeny - two girls and one boy)
a playhouse with chimney and flue
(accoutered with modern conveniences)
actually futuristic trappings, thus
other neighborhood kids knew
where to head and eschew
conventional trendy artificially intelligent
toys – batteries not required.

Hyperbole ye may suspect at thee above
and consider absolute zero
believability, yet exaggeration
contains more'n kernel of truth - hello...
honest to dog complex edifice arrayed with stove
and similar appliances
(all General Electric brands) forsooth

plus attractions luring garden variety bugaboo
such as the critter
which crossed paths me yesterday
finding yours truly helpless regarding what to do
unfortunately creature not soft and cuddly,
nor the least bit similar to bunny foo foo,
thence (as notated in the first stanza) hitherto
fast as these spindle shanks of mine
could carry very liberal minded Jew,
(albeit non practicing)
made immediate headway to loo
derived from the French phrase
'guardez l'eau', which means

'watch out for the water,'
a much less severe dictate
versus potentially rabid little beast new
lee entranced with human beings,
who mostly think themselves superior
to other living entities even
abhorrent toward one
generic nonestablishmentarian parvenu
namely me, who ofttimes doth rue
foregone opportunities,
which ***** and pierce consciousness
namely getting a dragon tattoo.

writing poetry or relearning an agony -
an old agony but somehow
anew with an askance tying up:
and balloon fiddling
           unlike fiddling with a "scratching"
of stretching leather -

i have to forget the paragraph -
               but somehow have to remember
the beginning luck of an ******* -
like it might be: the thought-riddle-luck
of a physicist and a play of juxtaposing
interludes / punctuation
i.e. via: bang (the) big hole, black...
          
        somewhere in the distance
a pillar akin to charles olson -
            and like this: there's nothing to give
but always something to borrow -
some ref. point because:
my own new or old raw -
   or a fear like a shadow that is itching
beside a body -
   or a relentless architecture
of skeleton: esp. when piled into a heap
with that fine fine rubric of:
all is love togetherness: tough knotting -
some unbelievable chasm
that's 20th century historicity...
                       that's never what is
a journalism of metaphors and...
                     the essential stay for
children in the gorgon eyes of
                                            pedagogy...

some 15 years too late to have
an accomplished sentence to a trade
that is a believability of 100 thousand
nails but only one hammer -
          perhaps a ship to boast about...
i.e. a very tiny projection
of quantity: contradicting itself through
original intent: retaining a quality
of 100 brave souls - longing for a depth
of an unsinking...

           perhaps everyone in an utopia
is myopic -
              i wouldn't dare spell: b.l.i.n.d.
although now i'll think about the acronym
like it's (somehow) necessary -
it's not a heart-transplant;
         me-ode-you: a body of borrowed
limbs and limping emotions -
   basking (in the) limelight
(of an) indignant nuance (of) dread -
              i.e. there's no OF in that
otherwise famous acronym of a heavenly
descent of english...
unlike old-saxon cocktail...
                      far far away...

some two nights ago i lay in bed
anticipating sleep
thinking the impossible thought:
althought a quiet -
            no... a quite possible suicide:
of walking into the north sea
off the shore abiding by aberdeen
and swimming across
like a hardly between pretend of
whale toward the coast
of norway...

                 somehow not missing
the phobia of swimming in the sea
because of the archaic darkness
making forced lingo from
the depth below...

             or just listening to kenneth koch
reciting...
          perhaps i too could
recite... but because of my silence...
i'll take to nibble at braille...
or contest that...
           if morse could be written as braille -
who has such tender finger-tips
to read braille like a blind octopus
couldn't possibly play a finger-tip
numbing sacrifice to the guitar -

thus this notable comparison...
      see and hear

        ⠎ ⠑ ⠑      ⠁⠝ ⠙       ⠓ ⠑ ⠁⠗
   · · ·  · ·         · −  − ·  − · ·       · · · ·  · −  ·   · − · 

     from this the northern barbaric
(extended)... some greek...
                             θέα
                                          κουφός

such is the forever impossible...
the greeks still speak greek...
                 the hebrews still speak a 'brew...
the romans are the already
available letters -
   as i find... there's an italian
that's a negation of latin...
                          it's like for the remains
to ingest the crucifix...
there had to be a negation
         of latin: beside the cravate / apart
of strain...
    
                       it's that somehow...
beside the chiseled rocks and remains...
italian is a reinvention
of latin...
                    but the greeks speak
with a sort of insinuation you could
ascribe to the softness of the iberians...
i conflate the two...
                  so much for so little of
this.