Their world is theirs, though it be theirs
and small.
Theirs by which to stand - perhaps to fall.
By shells of monarch buildings gaunt and dead,
gaily nervous and with turning head
and listening ears and watching hearts that beat,
they pass their hours in the home, the street;
and silently they **** a silent war,
who feel the present and have felt before.

The war goes on - there is no sound of guns.
Only the fierce friction of brains that are hissing;
the tense and savage barter of two for ones.
And all the while in the park,
there are lovers kissing.

you know what sweet sensation of
whiskey hitting the nervous system,
just after you've been awake for more
than 30 hours...
     and every gulp you start feeling up
a touch of cushion,
   like it might be your mother singing
a lullaby to you as a child?
****'s all... fuzzy...
                    fictoid...
  which is the alternative of a factoid:
an item of unreliable information
that is reported and repeated
so often that it becomes accepted as fact...
well borrowed from real life,
that's focused upon it (life,
or the narrative) being usurped from
being staged...
i still don't know how drunks manage
their quasi-epileptic
        space-oddities by climbing
7 stories of a building,
  to simply know on the balcony window
from the wife: refusing them
entry via the conventional route,
of utilising a front door...
               true story that,
****** managed to do the spider-man
up nearly... wait... circa two metres
per storey...
             sigma, circa: 20 metres
up in the air!
                 that's not exactly 100 metres
of comparison while holding
your breath in a jamaican sprint...
          blind wind playing the flute
of a pine forest...
                but there are certain sensations
you just can't suspect of
being the product of a Saturday night
revelry in Essex, England...
                some drunks do the Dante's
inferno expedition into:
       everything and anything -
   but only when embarked upon, solo.
my excesses of insomnia are
countered by my "excesses" of drinking,
       what could possibly be wrong
about a teddy bear among romanian
****** dreaming, awake,
  of a pillow?
                it's not even a comfortable
numbness,
      it's a mollusk encapsulated by
the safety of an oyster's shell mentality...
         i mean, there's only so much
much of the FIFA world cup you can stomach
before seeing a proper game...
   and when you do manage to receive
the spectacle of a 3 - 3 Spain vs. Portugal?
**** me... that's like receiving
the ******* eucharist!
                        RAMOS!
                       ­          ******* child of
            a one ******* ball-sack of Franco...
   and those Spanish eyes:
you know the ones...                    (    (
romance with a real tear-jerker...
             but what more entertaining
than the football is,
   the behind-the-scenes preservation
of the political narrative by minors,
minor-intellectuals, and:
                  behemoths of swaying the gamble
of history...
Iberian eyes?
        i'm starting to call them
                          siamese Shiva diamonds...
muguruza has them...
                           very idiosynratic...
in vino veritas?
    i find twice the amount of truth
in a dose of sleeplessness and whiskey...
       which usually ends with
a knock-out and: the great void eating
            all concern or, "need" to dream...
hell with a brain like a sponge that
requires quasi-x-ray
               to suit-up to the everyday
in the mythos timing ref. to boiling an egg
in real time...
         RAMOS!
          you already know of the extra
long football socks, and the rolled up sleeves,
   Puyol would be a proud
second-far-removed-claim-of-fatherhood...
not that's the case...
      beside the point...
                but there's no distraction from
my perspective,
              an appreciation of, sure,
               but you can't exactly forget
the premature ******* quasi-thrill
of listening to the bundestag match of:
left-to-right, right-to-left,
             and something in between
being plagued by a w. b. yeats quote about
all centres,
            apart from the gravity hard-on
of god, which, for reason for the four seasons:
always seems to hold,
   tight like a ******* mousetrap,
tiger pounce...
        very humane, in terms of a rodent
passing bypassing being a plaything
of some bonsai feline...
                ha ha! in vino, veritas?
every tried a dosage of sleeplessness,
   and something more, strict?
   a Dublin ****, or a Glaswegian
                                           apple juice?    
****, the mingling with sleeplessness...
you'll speak more truth than
the C.I.A. would mind giving
                two shoves to a shovel over...  
nudges? sure...
      nugget crisp and...
                  oh but i like the current
digression...
     the facade...
                      the momentary month of
blissfully forgeting the talk of politics,
and imagining the head
of Commodus being kicked about by
                          22 legionaires...
no greater cathedral to make man's
concern stupendous,
        than in a prayer-house of amnesia...
and, there isn't a reason as we'll somehow
forget for half an anno after the month?
circa, of course...
                                                     well?
by the sober judge i make my plea drunk...
and should the judge drink?
          first i nail him to a cross,
   and then: allow him to pass judgement...
who the hell doesn't pass
crucial judgement concerning sexuality,
on the throne of thrones,
without first doing the no. 1,
  and then doing the no. 2,
                   and then not doing the no. 3?
i should be all "hot-and-bothered",
   should i?
                          a case to say:
                                 don't date, on a diet;
because not on the cruel slab of
the altar of mammon are two naked
bodies suddenly: phantom?
         does eating, **** the butterflies?
what sort of contract for an hour,
require a prenup of eating,
      for a time constraint that's more than
            the actual: non-verbum flex,
                          which constitutes an hour?
RAMOS!
                    always the central defender
role...
              because... well...
              given the hard-on for the tournament...
you can somehow listen in on
political-football kicking-off simultaneously...
while the Tsar is found stark
naked, dressed in gloat, gluttony and glee,
the little people can take to tongue and chess...
little people, like the Warsaw pundits,
the staggering delayed pleasure Londoners...
and Berliners-***-Bavarians...
               and whoever the hell is left...          

ah, the quiet life: and it's little wonders...
   but a Tsar that appears so well attired in his
self-with-nation
                             goat-fat smile,
    like a Davvy Cameron prior:
      plump doughnut and plush well oiled
cheecks with missing bones...
                     plump little doughnut...
can't help but admire
   the arabian formal checkers pajamas...
sorry...
           i forgot it's high-fashion over
there too...
             houndstooth print
                                   coffee-table-cloths...

come to think of it, this western-union
euro and the post-nationalistic experiment?
**** the tongue, before claiming
a dead soul, to control the living thought...
i only allow english for reasons
that i can speak it, above a certain
framework of its native contraints,
   but if another Belgian is going to think
i'm going to let him perform a sujud
on me like i were some half-wit from Congo?!

the swiss still make milka...
                   so...
                                see you in Ypres?
and yes, truth is a form of audacity...
                               Benelux: Banalflux;
cite Forrest Gump to boot, if y'all wanna.

.it's almost akin to the germans, having experienced, discovered thought... strange, though, they "learned" to think, but were able, to write, prior. isn't that strange? they were made, illuminated by the sight, prior to hearing the runes, of, the, squabbling, ruined! ruined: rune bound. have the germans, ever thought? i gather: they never have; sie noch nie haben...

why wouldn't i believe in the existence
of the gods,
when i see so many people,
borrow, traits from them?
                        Loki:
             e.g. agent provocateur...
who am i to think of?
      to pledge allegiance to?
if ever: the death of god,
then the rebirth: of the gods.
         i would believe in the death of
gods, if i didn't see
iconoclasm of the mundane whipe
and whiff presence of my fellow
mortals...
                  fame and a god-riddled
status-presence...
        with my own,
                    augen zu sehen!
moimi okami: widzieć -
     oczem: niet oko...
                      not eye...
   oczem:
                        paraphrasing...
oczem: with an eye
  (oczyma - using eyes)
via                         o czym:
about what?
                czyn: deed.
                      
can't people even understand
personification in form?!
does it always require a conjuring
of some quasi-fictive altruism?

         no wonder i can't solve a single
kreuzwortpuzzle...
              the polacks,
and their perpetual noun
                   crisis...
                     kommen sie
von ein sprache
           das schwer leiht...
                woda / voda...
    wódka / *****....
                        oh, really? the soviets
were so bad in east Berlin?
you, you really want to know,
how the allies treated
the west berliners?
                 wir, kinder vom Bahnhof Zoo,
christine F.,
                              how did the allies
flood western Berlin with,
what speaks synonym-esque
tactic of the British Empire with
the ***** trade in China...
        i'm having to start to believe,
that the Germans? zee: Gyrmans?
sado-masochists...
                     1981...
         western berlin,
in western germany...
              it's not so bad,
in the east, living in chicken shacks...
at leat you were allowed
to live under a roof...
       western germany?
plagued by a ****** epidemic...
          what's not, to, "love"?
                    detlef R.,
                            lutz F.,
              catharina Sch.,
        andreas W.,
                            babette B.,
           werner H.,
                       michael S.,
            bärbel W.,
                             karin S.,
            livia S.,
                        rudl H.,
                              dirk L.,
                                detlef R.,
                  
this is how criminals are allocated their
media presence...
         ruf!
                     well, grand,
westsächsischjurisprudenz...
what do you call a deterrant?
   abschreckend?
                         ja?
                  when you have a jurisprudence,
that, works, as a, deterrant?
when you, actually, cage criminals?
rather than comedians,
who, are not caged, or sentenced,
and roam freely...
making the free people, a joke?

       one example: Tomasz Komenda...
i am a sick *******,
  but i'm thinking of...
those instances of ol' Jimmy S'ah-vil...
in the jurisprudent complex
of the saxon,
  the victim, sure, the victim is
allowed redemption and justice: death...
the accused is also given
redemption and justice: death...
              
   the philosophy of passing law,
incubated by: presumed innocent,
until, proven guilty,
over, guilty, until proven innocent...
i would think the latter,
to be a deterrent...
   if you have method of passing
judgement, against all favours...
            ascribed unto you...

            ich, mein herz:
                                          zu du.

i don't want to speak of justice no
more...
         simply because:
the justice i crave,
will not be served,
not with death, at least,
                    and whatever justice,
what comes with death,
i am, prone,
to at least mind
in making myself forget...
         if the reverse is true,
innocent until proven
guilty,
rather than guilty until
proven guilty...
  then... come my saving
mother, death,
             i wait for "giving" birth
to my ego...
detached from a body...
               i wait for the day,
when i am guilty,
akin to nibbling
on the fruit,
akin to the religiosity,
original sin,
   guilty until proven
innocent....
                                             ­      whatever.