Moonlight; just enough to illuminate the silhouettes creating the forest -
just enough to help the sky glow; a black ocean freckled with stars, so modest.
With tiny chimes in the distant wind of the flickering trees
signalling the beat of pure white galloping hooves heard over the silent breeze.
A myth? Perhaps. Or, more believably, the strength of the woodland?
She casts a playful spell upon us all with her charm easily, as if planned.
Wild and free, full of purity and innocence; she brings excitement  
and is a reminder to never grow up but stay full of enchantment.

happy and care free
the side of me waiting inside me that you'll probably never see
a "me" that can't stand the sight of myself outwardly that you'll probably always believe
the person that I want to become when I overcome my defeats

It's the way your eyes lie to me that makes me light up inside
I'm happy to have the chance to change my hold on pride
they draw us together like the sides of a satchel with strings pulled
oh how I love to be fooled

those eyes, that color, their light, your stare
they make me forget everyone else and forget myself and not care
they draw me in with a whisper that asks if I dare
they pull me in like a scream rushing at me through lust filled air

it's funny how eyes can deceive so believably

teach me how to lie
I want the same fake happiness you see as a prize
teach me how to lie
I want the same hollow affection that gets you by
teach me how to lie
show me how the honest heart's noose needs to be tied

teach me how to lie
because the truth is I can't survive my own life

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

I look up to the sky, cold and gray, leaving me reminiscing  of my mortal decay
Swollen with fear, I whisper comforting phrases into your ear,
Nothing but the stolid rain
Kissing away our mental bane
Leaves us empty, wandering like midnight, in a vacant train
So we stay teetering on the edge of reflection
Our minds give away to sicking deceptions.
We move in, to seize what so awkwardly keeps us dismayed
Closer
Wait we just may
I wrap my tongue tightly around the tips of your lips
Hoping never to lose my grip.
Your heart's tickled, spreading sunshine like ripples beaming beyond what is believably permissible
But so soon to pass the moment cannot last
Vanishing like tears in an ocean,
This moment,
Gone forever like a fleeting motion  
Soon to be a stale memory
Waiting to be filtered by time's relentless lapsing devotion
Now I wait for this thought to wash up one deary morning
Forever anticipating that beautiful, but distant emotion

The sterling stream that lines my sorrows
is never within stone's throw.
How many boulders away are you, my darling?
I yearn for you to grind my heart once more.
I need you to clip it's thoughtless wings,
for they're drooping and defeated by their lasting migration.

My heart is elephantine and my wings are hopeless
and they're abusing all of me for what is believably my eternity.  
My heart is dehydrated and cotton-mouthed,
It's tongue can not satisfy, for it's fangs are before it,
serrated by the bloodshed on our floor.
I could water my floral heart,
if someone put the watering-can in my hand,
but it doesn't know how to tread tears anymore anyway.

I am not satisfied.
Nor, can I satisfy
anymore.

I'm simply coasting through shapes and figures
to pass this paused time.
I have become a clown
that does not understand mortification any longer.
It's feelings have become hidden under a white face and red lips.

My tower of prospect has been thrown to the ground,
landing where my body was planted, stuck asleep.

They all say I deserve better.
I've been searching for better,
but it broke my wings and it broke my heart
and planted me at my own crime scene
******* me.

well..
                                                  with the English
being so: oh so
                        ******* welcoming
i'd rather be remembered
                                              as a full-throttle
                      wanking rather than
a raving-ape's worth
of ᛈ ᛁ < ᛏ ᛋ (kap c! kap c!
                Cierkiev uno bud!
i uno buda!
                                                        Rrrrrr'am!
                serpentine's clue)
   Chernobyl charcoal,
or as some like to keep the
entertainment checks:
             a loss...
the famous Krakow smog...
                          leftover chimneys
to blame...
                            i don't
need a paddy to teach me how to
behave among the Anglo...
                             the Anglo who
lost his way among Germans and the Norse...
                 when the Russian Empire fell...
because one cousin said to another cousin
cussing: to hell with you!
                                    i don't need
a paddy for that...
   the paddy can play chequers and
river-dance till the nymphs come home...
sure, the paddy can do that...
           on arable land the paddy can what
the paddy must... mustard tatties...
             believably edible...
                                you know,
every man has his limits...
             my limit was agitated,
the paddy ate k.f.c.,
          and i too said to him:
               well, it's a two way street...
               you empathise with me
i'll empathise with you...
      you don't empathise with me
                     i'll see you in the sewer
and call it: the rats' livelihood worth of nibbling
     a narrative of the black death
worth a Madam Tussaud's examination
for worth of anaesthetic... torturing wax...
                  of all the islander tribes,
the Welsh are docile, the Scots
are: who invented copper wire?
to Scotsmen arguing and pulling a copper
two pence coin apart,
                      North Irish is Yates -
    "south" or republican is
              Joyce in Paris... Dublin
        and the thought of dungarees...
                      why the **** did i ever become
    involved with these cousins conjuring
        fake birth certificates?! why?!
i don't belong here... my motto still stands:
          among the Faroe Islanders
and the Orca slaughter for the red sea!
              the English were humbled in Germany
and never to be seen in Sweden...
     with Germanic roots...
the English are an embarrassment in
Scandinavia...
                        better sun-tanned propped
in Iberia...
                            or the call:
Hindenburg! Hindenburg! Blitz! Blitz!
  drink till you fiddle with your ****!
               up d'er balcony and
         somersault like a whale in a belly-flop
pose into the swimming pool! ploooooop!
belly splash and the beetroot suntan pinch
                      of cancer (zodiac alias of crab);
forever brother v. brother,
               as ever... a civil war...
               i actually celebrate the
unwelcoming nature of the English...
                    because i know they're
what the Turks say of Saxons: pseudo...
           the English can be English in Iberia
and what the Greeks say to be:
a reason to think...
                                  but if ever they were
found in Scandinavia
                                 they'd be frowned at...
mind you the Americans are worse...
                      they deem it necessary
                    to talk of conquest to invoke jealousy -
               i'm as jealous as you are
readied to rear these *******...
                                     but since you're not...
i don't know why i need to know what
                      cubicle *** is like...
                                     i don't see the point...
          my narrative is complimentary
   to what most people shouldn't say
                          but feel obliged to do...
but since they talk about it... i'm writing an answer
to what they're supposedly not supposed to do...
         otherwise, why talk about it?
my ex-girlfriend's favourite motto? good for you!,
well, it's exactly the same...
            why do it, then speak of it,
why not just do it and keep it shut?
                               unless you're looking
for a confession booth and a priest...
i wouldn't be looking for a madman
                and jealousy... to be honest:
what could become: 20 hail Mary's penance,
could easily become 20 stab wounds to the throat;
                              just saying.

Losing credibility
like the film star,
kissed
too many times,
by too many,
to be ever again
believably
in love

enlighten me... what’s the point of schooling children in a language when upon leaving school you just censor their vocabulary with politics? how about... mutes (shows off a hollywood expanding square with a eureka expression).

my mother calls me greek, or that other word for greek,
what was it? oh right, now i remember:
tyrant.
this expensive *****, sorry, a russian psychologist in london
insinuated something about someone being a frequent dream-walker
for others and the police looking for a spartan or an athenian, likewise.
me? i was looking for a camel donning a fez from tripoli.
before i was learning the alphabet i was learning roman
bulimia with the finger and i too choked on swiss choc. frivolously
in the nursery room of my education at university:
it’s true what they say - the brightest student the biggest idiot -
but you get to say that’s true at university, if in school that’s
as true as you were gearing up to be a plumber;
second year? i went to no extra lessons in chemistry,
i had one hour of history on friday and i spent the rest of the day
listening to music and then grocery shopping in
cameron toll’s sainsbury’s looking like a witty tourist.
three ******* years up there and i didn’t even see the castle
nor the fringe festival; but i aced my mathematics a-level
because the scots never shortchanged but copper wired -
but that joke came from a glaswegian who said it:
how was copper wire invented? two scots pulling a penny apart;
not the gimp pedantic **** you might hear
in the edinburgh comedy club circuit -
i mean the best joke i heard in scotland was a sikh with a scottish accent
(got the kilt got the hair... bongo bongo mcberulscone).
but concerning my tyranny? not that i do anything spectacular
apart from living in democracy and not voting -
with me the bygone soldiers’ sweats and gunpowder (
that famous antidote to quote god - from gunpowder
you came, to gunpowder you shall return, buckle
in a fat *****’s *****) -
admiring democratic culture and double decker buses,
and saying things like: about as much intelligence
as a mallet with a mullet wig on it
and with as much confidence as a model attired in “believably”
cool shorts giving the comb over look of bewilderment.
i’m not abusive, my tyranny comes from too much love,
and that’s misunderstood, because, for once,
it’s a love from tyranny that’s not picky and scapegoating.
but you know you’re a tyrant when you start
fudge packing feelings into pop songs that get you all whimsically whizzy
to spur on a few tears with mention of love and loneliness;
or like the love affair with ryan adams' *stay with me
due to it being without a studio version.

Thankfully there are many days of the year I adore
that are gilded with flight and resplendent with soar,
even in the midst of supposed bleak mid winter frown
they’ll be a jive and a boogie at a dance in Town,
where it’s far from chilly in a huggy warming soothe
and all is fine in a January’s groove.
Any day in March could prove to be ace
with the appear of a friendly face,
as then chatting swirls with balletic gymnastic,
our rhetoric full of the pirouette of fantastic,
what was just another night of the 365
becomes made with the joy of being alive.
Spring usually blossoms with a sure run,
the unfurl of gentle, the know of hotter sun,
blooming naturally with the grace of the trequartista,
as well as the long weekend off for Easter.
Every morning gets brighter just a smidgen,
summer’s encroach feels fab to be lived in,
under verdant leaves clarities’s clear
and then tent is out because festival’s here;
“Hi my name’s Simon, what’s your name, how’s it going?”,
as music plays and vino is flowing,
“what you like Buffy too?  Ahh man it’s so great,
“yeah man it’s all about love and never leaving life too late!”.
And yeah when I get back I might be a comedown mess
but I love you festivals nevertheless!
Then September’s coming soon,
for fallen leaves the ground makes room,
what once was glistering in the green of the hour
curls to the gone of fading flower,
that’s okay though as that’s just the way it goes,
everything is transient, even great loves will someday part,
it all has an end, that amazing start,
it’s the bit in the middle that makes it serene,
the make of the moment believably supreme,
plus round the corner it’s Halloween;
where ghoulish attire can get “ohh, good call!” and a laugh
with a 31st deviation from the usual dress path.
Then in a few days booming lurks
in the here then disappear of fireworks,
as well, in November, there are frolics with friends
and those fireworks are yet to end.
Now as you can see all those other days of the year I marvel at their behest
but, if I had to say, I love you the best;
I start putting décor up in anticipation of your arrival
I feel festive butterflies begin to rise and spiral,
I get out the banners when I know you’re coming soon,
I throw tinsel all around my room,
as I want you to know that when you get here
my heart is full of splendid cheer,
you always make me smile with consummate ease
as welcome as July’s warming breeze;
as soon as my eyes open on your morning
I feel the effulgent skip of the dawning,
I rise to greet you with wide open arms,
“yeah, you got me, I fell for your charms!”,
every second with you is full of wondrous thrill,
you are top, you’re easily brill,
your magic tactility, the sing in your touch,
aww, I love you so much.
So yeah all the other days I don’t love you any less,
just you Christmas Day, you’re simply the best!

Be my beginning my beloved
Be my breath give me life
Beaming mystical shades of Beryl
Be my eyes shed your light
Beguiled by the mystery of your smile
Bestow my lips with a kiss
Bewitched mysteriously belonging only to you
Be my skin protect my heart
Beseeching myself to never betray
Be my betrothed a vow impart
Behold my love the fragrance of myrrh
Be the aroma of my delight
Beautifully mythical we can concur
Be my king for I am your queen
Believably mystifying this all may seem
Being my love defies everything
© 2/11/2019

drinks like this cold numb the fingers; many a times i leave the house
wishing for a poem like this one, culprit terse
and all me in the night on the greenbelt fearless
concerning death without seeking the sky;
i mean i love terse poems like these
with caterpillar sludge of the path
erected to teach mathematics like so:
god give me the shrubbery above
and nothing but worm below...
i want to be the imaginary blur of antagonism
where life dictates all life with me
being the continued tear jerker jack to abide
by bullying; no!
i want to etch twilights in
the hallucinations of the night,
dwarfing then expanding
the nightly roulette of routes
flamboyant with the shadow sharpening lost:
first the fox eager to tell the route as scout,
then i hooded with beer in hand
not asking for directions asking for the dry wooing
of his call.
there i stood in a field in a foreign land
and watched east darker than the west with the lighthouse
rotondo - i prefer to roundabout i have me say;
then sat on a pile of stone worth the blair witch project
with cinematic heart attacks, and sipped a quiet breath
to include carbon monoxide and the scenery of the blinking stiletto erections
for the trail of tailing off elephants into the night;
sooner the drunkard but sooner the pacific boa around the neck
or the black sea boa and the man drowning;
gays' gauge foremost loss of the piston in woman's favour
to trip up **** in hetero pleasures asking direction from athens to tripoli.
i was there, hoodless and armed with bare skin tattoos
invisible but seen by polaroid goosebumps exposing,
there, waiting to etch the bubbling
freshness of a secondary twitch into flex but not circumflex of prayer
or movement without motive other than prayer and abiding
by ***** and priest talk.
i took to the soil, i took to the grain,
i took to the tomb, i took to the skeletal vain!
i took to the soil, i took to the grain,
i took to the tomb, i took to the ceremony of
perfumed parting with a sneeze to make death laugh.
and by god i laughed, mortally into the eternal!
i bulged all life into the marrow
and called it an artefact to be worth a **** instead of a whistle
on that bony flute, with my breath believably less
accommodating turning the haemoglobin dolphin
into a champagne siren.

if words were actions i'd be dead
or, perhaps, living inside a bright yellow tulip
with an acorn for my cup and a walnut shell for my bed and a full heart in my chest
or, maybe, i'd be sailing the seas on a lily pad
with nothing to sustain myself but dreams of what each wave hides
or, possibly, i'd be sitting on an old front porch
nestled in a rocker and watching steam rise off my tea into the morning fog
or, perchance, i'd be weaving roses into the village girls' hair
while they sing to me of their dreams of love and i respond in kind
or, potentially, i'd be sitting in the nook of a high up cliff home
writing a book at the window seat while lightning storms outside
but, more believably, i'd be where i am.
because words are words, and actions are actions.
and i am me.

Cage affixed to my head
Needle stuck in my vein
You must not move an inch
My dear, you're still allowed to
Breathe.

Quiet, frantic heart.
You’re causing me to
Shake.
I know it’s strange and loud and dim
But listen. Hear that soft
Music

Dare you not sneeze
Or scratch that itch now
Rest your eyes, close your shutters
Lie still as a corpse, just one more half-hour

Bang. Crash. Wail.
Please stop, my skull aches
How cool the serum flows
Perhaps the music found my clothes
and ushered me on home

The doctor calls to me now -  mouth dry
Let us discuss your brain.
Inside a tumor lies, no surprise,
Allow me to explain
This lump, it sleeps, 'tis quite petite
And most believably benign.

It howls inside me like a frightened child
Waking from a nightmare and shaking
The fear, the failure, the darkened eyes
All crying as my mind is breaking

It screams at the stars, their majesty
Is godless and unforgiving
My petrified gaze another call for help;
A supplication to those still living

It whimpers in the early hours,
This emptiness – this unholy void
Of desperation within my skin,
The shell I have so carefully destroyed

Its frenzied cries echo from my mouth
My lips form its endless request
Aching and heavy, it sits divine
Rests in my throat and hollow chest

It weeps – a hellish caterwaul
Of desire and perceived deprivation
My ball and chain, my hair shirt,
Symbol of my long damnation

It grovels at the feet of greater demons
Satisfaction sought in a lost soul
It drives me mad and pushes me higher
Too weak alone to achieve its goals

It screeches that with one more push,
A little further, a little longer
I can find my nirvana and my
Shangri-la – denial making me stronger

It whispers so believably and so
Trustworthy is its feeble disguise
I fall for deceit and stars and tricks
I lose myself in cunning lies

It howls once more, a victory cry
On a throne made of my heart
It sits – I am lost
Once more back to the start.

*© Tara India

roses were not my thing
and somehow he already knew
from the very beginning,
because one September morning
as the sun arrived to greet me
“good morning”
so did he,
with an abundance of handpicked daisies
and a breathtaking “hello”
with that smile, seemingly genuine,
so believably true, like the daisies.

but he left the next month,
leaving me with a vase of shriveling sadness.

roses were not my thing
but somehow you never really knew
because one February morning
the morning sky blazing with a vibrant tangerine hue,
you arrived at my doorstep
with a bouquet of tired-looking roses
and i recall wondering why
so you insisted that they were
beautiful, like me.
but to me, they weren’t beautiful at all
just a cliché mess of mediocrity,
the furthest away from beautiful
and so was I.

but you never left my side,
and with time they grew out of their vase
                    and into my heart.

When I feel my hand
And the sensations feel
My world is real
Strange reality, love reality

Mother reality
This is the source of my fantasies.

To be, to this immense sensation
Knowledge
         and time and life’s
Uniqueness, displayed in every moment.

Daily, this is but one day.

The words I have not to say.
The world I have not to understand.
Moment to moment, stranger by the day.

How unique? How unique.
This unique! This. Uniqueness,
Displayed so believably.
But death is the truth, inconceivably.

That, is belief through ignorance.

We do not die. We do not live.
We love, we are nothing. Death in life.
Suspended in the air. Subjectively…

Doctor please fix me
Cure me from my misery
Help me with my recovery
Achieve my insanity
Something’s wrong with me
Doctor please fix me
Tell me a story to heal me
Make me strong believably
Doctor please fix me
Don’t tell me a lie
I’ll give you a smile
I’ll make it through
Please help me for a while
If nothing changes
I won’t blame you
You didn’t fail me
I only failed you
Doctor please fix me

Holding my headache in hands
Across the creek a bridge that spans
Desperately
Deliberately
Unselfishly

Caught a glimpse of the Apple's sigh
Holding a bag that's full of lies
Mockingly
Forensically
No pity me

Taken for a fool out back
Taken away what I even lack
Gonna find out where I live
Just to dig a grave that's big

Yup ! Yup !
There's going to be a party tonight
Invite your friends to my delight
Won't you step into the light
Party time , all the time

Casting the sun upon the moon
The night has come and the day be soon
Reality
Believably
Finality

Digital fingers on a pocket watch
Pulling the trigger back a single notch
Synical
Maniacal
Hold the call

Yup ! Yup !
There's gonna be a party tonight
Won't you come to my delight
I promise I will give you fright
Try me
Buy me
Don't deny me

The house is called none return
It's like a Hell that burns
There's no need for concern
Desperately
Deliberately
So selfishly

i'll be fine when it rains,

where im comfortably numb,

not believably drunk.

im without thrill in my stomach,

im not made of too much,

my twenties were rushed.

hurrying to the same horizon.

...the fewer that die: the more the chance to chirp-and-borrow... sparrows' crown... a grand avenue of image... some detail of narrative... no boarded-up thomas mann solipsism-esque: if i too had... a bedroom cork-lined... i'd post a request: in deviating from time, predictably "lost"... and keeping with a tradition of: space, less frequented - thereby not exactly harrowed with ownership... passed from one sentiment (ladder) to the next gluttonous serpent... as much as there was a "search" and a... "lost time"... missing the train... in search of that missed-timing and open spacing... a sober nuance... a drunk's circus... time regained: all that, which encompassed not reading the book - working from bribes... that narrative so compact... it would have to shame and shun an otherwise ideally eternal: stack of brick.

at a time when so few are dying in conflicts
of known iraq...
and... will this be one of those:
grandiosity statements that leaves
everyone exasperated?
yes... people seem to find their dog's tail
their tongue waggle so freely now:
when so much seems to have gone
so terribly wrong -
            compliance to: "the good of the people"...
when iraq was...
and what it was was also something
similar to libya -
           but i hardly think i need to
pepper my words with over-politicised
statements... i'd much prefer the use
of italics - if anything...
       yes... i am reading some horace i am
reading some ovid and i'm looking
for a memorable line - even a couplet
that's... d'uh... a couplet because it rhymes...
something akin to...
the basic categories of food:
sweet, sour, salty, bitter...
              umami...
                      i need some garnish...
i guess there might be: fudgy / doughy...
why dairy is not invoked?
  i hope to never know...
       i want to forget the point where
i find myself writing and not
eating -
i know i am missing a certain category -

i was in a park today... trying to walk off
a strained plantar fascia -
bench cigarette swedish cider...
a glory to the perfumes of autumn:
finally i can test my nose
on this fine fine palette...

       an old woman approached me
as i was gesticulating with my leg outstretched...
'i was almost assured to find you
being the owner of the dog
that ran across my path...
later the field... but then again: it was
a fox... i think...'
it wasn't a memorable conversation:
except for my reply...
'oh no... i wasn't the owner of this
said dog...
i have a shadow for a dog...'
and how politely she bid me farewell...

again: it's not bungee jumping...
it's this forever unspectacular everyday...
i like this unspectacular everyday
when one can exercise language
beyond mere formality / courtesy...

i have yet to crown myself with
relish with conversation -
that i always will staging an impromptu
that leaves the conversed with
either form of tornado or
butterfly -

            it's not a familiarity it's not
unlike a face that will be lost
under the random nature of memory
being too the erasure...
flaming 2 + 2 = 4 or some other
less mathematical and more
pronounced use of letters coming
to the fore: prominent...

my past time would be summed up
with looking approachable and
dwelling in the riddle of old age...
i know it will somehow catch up with me...
but not yet...
it's this sensibly non-oratory:
plagues of verbiage: how else
to fashion congesting the experiencce:
extracting the most of the essence
allowed...

                   like so... 'mein schatten
ist meine hund' -
   no evil cat ladies 'ere...
    no piquant scenting of feline ****...
i do admire the convenience
of having no purpose for
a leash or a muzzle...
                if i could pet a crow....
i wish i could...
but what good is (a) petting
of a crow: what good is a cage
or wings: for that matter?

       i have to return to a quasi-meditation:
to endear death with a personification:
even a consciousness where
i a *****: where i a foetus -
after all: mother dear...
       i will be born into a magic
act of mortality: i will cease to make
myself "relevant"...
perhaps that's how i musst see
death: come this faking of autumn drap...
autumn is probably...
no... nay... no... autumn is when
i arrive at: believably alife -
                                          livid: concern
with variation to the letter,
i leathered - worn and torn and
a *** life among bodies that
are amiable and dough-esque
and nothing of this tyranny of porcelain
beauty...
touched would: "someday"
decide upon... shattering into
a thousand little pieces...

        i like this testimony for
the marriage to the mediocre...
my little interlude on a bench
with a sore tendon... somehow has
to find graces among so much
abundance only a sniff's distance away...
i wish i invented the burning
colours of decay: i'd want
to bask in the colours of a dying light...
i'd want: to stand statue-esque
among the trees when
they start to imitate
forest vermin...
and begin their great adventure of
foraging....
                 such pristine economics
of nature such as these here presented:
i languish for a delight in summer...
the air is gushing with
  a thickness of indistinguishable allures:
most certainly the readily concerned
with footprints on a beach:
amnesia counter memory
counter all that pedagogy acid...

                 i open a can of synthetic
imitations of blackcurrant, raspberry...
it's swedish it's not...
accustomed to... an idea that...
synthetics' must! a pairing of apple
and mint... could be turned into a cider...
less a juggling act of two bold
statements of fully-bodied extracts...

well free lunch on me:
i can actually be somewhat poo-antic friendly
should drinking be invoked...
for the world to be this instilled -
i'd require... moi: imitation
araignée...
   the bench and its vicinity the web...
comfortably old passersby my
flies... out of no ill will:
dogs and the elders approach me:
i am yet to find myself having
said something formidable...
      
                but... if it isn't that...
i have to settle on creating something...
passable - pardonable - quirky to the point
of allowing the opposite party
no counter inclination:
there is no need to stipend an
obviousness / revoke-...

             i don't want to use a language
of either impetus or... categorical narratives...
oh look... shelter me from having
spent 3 years digesting... ah'ant(K)...
well... impetus or imperative...
jurisprudence is plagued / peppered
with synonym usage: through and thorough...

i'm still thinking: well... there's no colour
to this meagre body...
there is no shape for rummage among
dough of stone sorrow settled
for the eternity of rain: and rhyming...
a borrowed journalism of sort:
an extract at best... and that's what i must
settle for...

    it can't have accent of a certainty:
arrived at... it can't be a: denotation clarity:
hey! my name's a'bob!
no... but hardly a tactic to
exfoliate in pretentiousness -
i do have to stress that:
i somehow do... drift into this variant
of impromptu -
   i allow language its own ills
that are not befitting to a linear-ality of
topic...

                to think: this world so complex
would allow an individual to...
somehow not match it...
make synchronicity with it...
        that language has to borrow:
sharpened flints and all those base
equipment leverages to...
merely appease...
  it can't! it simply can't! be this...
celebration of: a language peacocked with
when thrown into the glorification
of tongue-tied of mediocracy...

    oddity... i am starting to grow fond
of... kæ tempest -
                  "europe is lost"...
                   unless looking for lithuania
unless looking for kosovo..
unless looking for poland ukraine
unless looking for moldova...
unless looking for: work ennobles...
work is the bone the drudgery...
unless looking for post-colonialism
unless having to make
******* tongue: poet the atlas...
the nugget treat of looking
through a microscope at society...
            unless you haven't...
woken up in a little ol' england
when having to settle for flee...
              
polar bears in poland? do these people
have access to sea?
the youth of england
come 1998 when i toyed with
the cheapest of cheap jokes...
but... there weren't any jokes:
just choking...
              i came here this tongue
is... i am arrival... an... arrival at...
bigger desires for
yet another picburger...
               пицбургэр
fake-burger... no not nothing-burger...
but most certainly not:
my tongue this: mine...
this will not belong to a zeitgeist...
this will not be scratched or later
sheltered with for:
a tongue that was used as shovel
to unearth the dead from:
the already sediment membrane
riddled clay o dough...
           custard blues no smart talking
from south london...
no need to shuffle to lay on
prompt...
              
to be this pulverised by word and image....
instilled in noir and summaging
whitey -
there's the same sterile prone to
state brick: beside those that crease
plumbing gifts and grit...
the in between us people that want
to itch with words and have
insomniac thinking -

          that i haven't stolen anything:
but acquired this tongue...
from no beside this little nostalgia for
an agony aunt...
      no... recantation from a hill-top
and a grave...
   i am not prone to speak an exhaustion
from a borrowed atlas pose...
  i have this little tongue o' me...
this little cravat sort of a pedantic
  detail...
                 i want to own the echo
and the footsteps...
              politicians have been saving
society with oratory-:
            at best: kept distance...
a byproduct of niche...
             a very local sort of extraction
process that hitched a ride on
the blues...
   and left the originators in a
stateless limbo-la-la-land...
               the thieves came and...
           by a vain-glory joke accumulation...
the readied smouldering
slab of pork... was left... untouched...
i beg to wonder:
         what was the intent
and the hunger...
                                it was oh so familiar
once upon a time.

you know, how i experience life?
i tease magnets...
i take negative thinking
and couple it with the talking
behind, subsequently,
watching from, "behind the scenes"...
to equate with
"nagatuve talking....
Lethal Weapon...
Mr. Joshua...
                the 1980s...
negative ends of the magnets...
more fascinating than
a ******* experience....
    or slobbering on oyster
****....
              magnetism in relation
to gravity...
            then i give a slight of
wonder...
but then *Leo Getz...
okay okay okay...
      ******* classic...

lest all be left is this love,
let this love be,
all that is to be lest
and least....:
believably become
into being
the quickened artifact
up-keeper...
and love, and loss,
and all those...
guarded hopes...
   hooded sight my shadow
will caste...
              to which comes the reply:
ego videre ignis...
all that i see...
is a fire donning a hood...
   est ignis adorno cucullio...
which implies...
   omni ego videre est,
est sui ipse...
       i'm just tired... just tired...
of having to kneel before
the mea culpa.

für poesie
seinen widerlichen
lebenszweck:
seine autobiographie /

    for poetry
      his disgusting
      purpose in life:
      his autobiography

    (to borrow from
ernst jandl)

lazily: a thought
experiment -
    the front drive:
more like a patio...

deweeding
trimming the shrubs
and most certainly
armed with a hook
working at
the miniature canyons
in between the
brick-o-slabs...

chaos at first...
before i actually managed
to relieve myself
of a self-conscious body
and the prospect
of the other making
inquiry: which did happen
at the beginning of
the task...

   an old man with a grandson
passed me...
inquiring with delight:
you'd get this chore done
with a iron bristle brush:
what joy emanated
from his face as if i had
a promethean rather than
a mediocre attempt
at: boulder upon a hill...

in all honesty i was chaotic...
i could have attempted
at a systematic:
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓

i did get there in the end,
but at first it was more
like

↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔ ↔ ↘ ↔ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓      ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↙
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↘ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔    ↓ ↓ ↓ ↘ ↕

i wish it was a thought
experiment -
                 but...
before reaching a ******
of automation and a variation
of pristine methodology concerning
such a base posit of: use...
no... not talent...
              if i were a bricklayer...
hell! if i were a surgeon!
not today: not this life...

    but once the hedge trimmer was
out and hanzel und gretyl
was blasting in my earphones...
well... a running theme as
if borrowed from: texas chainsaw
massacre:
        just the odd chore outside
the house in full view of
a public in transit turned
into a would be horror flick...
but not really:
i tamed the self-conscious
body with a borrowed mind
and some sponges and
some electric fishy-things
of the oceans -
    
               by god: so much easier
to borrow snippets of life
for life from these
"mediocre" underachievers...
i agree: one might appreciate
focusing on a pillar or two
from the yawning aeons
of literature:
   but oh god: the crushing
ambition to go against
more than a status quo...
      
                       just a life where
i can live with myself:
that's enough...
   just a life where thinking can
relapse into the old truth
of narration for the limbs
to move with... synchronise
themselves with:
   i hardly think about literary
ambition: once a hard-on
now a burn-out...
   thinking of those days:
a litre of whiskey a night...

now a strict diet of circa 500kcal
of whiskey...
and what is a litre in kcal?
    2000 kcal... one can almost be
envious for ******* models
and champagne socialists...

    anything to let me
live with myself:
                   perhaps a way
to imitate some 20th century
dictator and how they
managed that incredulous feat...
because in my little
world of mediocre and
only being above average
with my 6ft2 posture...
    which is still pretty average...
no lungs to be a olympic swimmer...
no springboard
ambitions for a basketball player...

at best: self-deprecating
humour to sanitize me with
a blameless insanity...
                
   because i can tow long
a funny tickle of a day when
i reach a ******:
cut down on the whiskey
to only compensate cutting
down with three cigarettes -
and... some talking heads on
the headphones...
           is it safe? is it copping out?
burning with a fade...
well: simmering then...
the chemistry of metaphors
when fame is in play...
    it's such a terrible rouse...
unlike a fame of a plumber:
practical fame...
                    implying:
by reputation by the intricacies
of perfecting a trade...
by recommendation:
by excellence...

          nothing's ever excellent
about starting at poetry
afresh...
           it's not like:
         don quixote was a lightbulb
in that if don quixote was:
not-expected -
                         some would
argue... the lightbulb was
intrinsically seeking status of:
awaited-ness...

one "thing" led to another...
and that... the argument follows...
if it wasn't Edison...
then someone else would have
conjured up a lightbulb...
like that first and last eureka!
i guess:
no one went looking for
don quixote...
                or leopold bloom...
or mr. pickwick for that matter...

   poetry and gems...
of note of late?
       well... if it wasn't that i chored
over finnegans wake:
then...
      i would spare myself
with something
like fliegen eintag polyglott
              (oskar pastior)...
which pretty much reminds me
of having cross the european
continent only a month prior...
passing france, belgium,
holland, germany and ending
up somewhere
that teases Ukraine...
       wow! english is spoken
by the english!
not everyone speaks english!
it was obvious that
the french speak french...
less so concerning
the belgians and the dutch...
but that... germans are not
bilingual?! imagine my shock...

well... it's not really a shock...
it was a fake superstition
of tourism: which i never really
held... i just wanted to stand-on-pretend...
notably in germany...
i would think this lie and find
myself awe-struck: not all germans
speak english...
like the 20th century never happened...
i hardly think it was naive:
it was an evil joke for
the entertainment of one -
notably when we were stopped
at the Germany-Poland border
by the guards...
and asked in german and broken
polish (but not english)
whether we were smuggling
guns or drugs...
   or foreign currency...

     aghast... the german border
guards thinking it was necessary
to even search my wallet
to see how much spare change i had...
true story...
   it just so happens after enough
time has passed and someone
might ask: formally or informally...
'so, what have you been up to?'
my atypical reply is always
the same: 'nothing' / 'nothing much'...

perhaps i am writing a book...
but i hardly think i am...
    i am riddling a concept of bed...
i'm getting ready to lick
a stamp with this worded
doodle before i send a postcard
from the life of the believably living
to the filing cabinet of either
the Land of Nod or Nox:
wherever grand-grand-grand-grand-etc.-
father Cain has become
the reformed archetype of -
   returning to keeping buggies and
other parrots... something:
that sort of -esque.

It was a waste
Adding in simply to agree
When anybody
Who disagreed
Would believably be
Claiming insanity
But I put two cents in
Seems too petty small
I wonder if the millions of two cents
Even add up
At all