Si d'un mort qui pourri repose

Nature engendre quelque chose,

Et si la generation

Se fait de la corruption,

Une vigne prendra naissance

De l'estomac et de la pance

Du bon Rabelais, qui boivoit

Tousjours ce pendant qu'il vivoit

La fosse de sa grande gueule

Eust plus beu de vin toute seule

(L'epuisant du nez en deus cous)

Qu'un porc ne hume de lait dous,

Qu'Iris de fleuves, ne qu'encore

De vagues le rivage more.

Jamais le Soleil ne l'a veu

s Tant fût-il matin, qu'il n'eut beu,

Et jamais au soir la nuit noire

Tant fut ****, ne l'a veu sans boire.

Car, alteré, sans nul sejour

Le gallant boivoit nuit et jour.

Mais quand l'ardante Canicule

Ramenoit la saison qui brule,

Demi-nus se troussoit les bras,

Et se couchoit tout plat à bas

Sur la jonchée, entre les taces :

Et parmi des escuelles grasses

Sans nulle honte se touillant,

Alloit dans le vin barbouillant

Comme une grenouille en sa fange

Puis ivre chantoit la louange

De son ami le bon Bacus,

Comme sous lui furent vaincus

Les Thebains, et comme sa mere

Trop chaudement receut son pere,

Qui en lieu de faire cela

Las ! toute vive la brula.

Il chantoit la grande massue,

Et la jument de Gargantüe,

Son fils Panurge, et les païs

Des Papimanes ébaïs :

Et chantoit les Iles Hieres

Et frere Jan des autonnieres,

Et d'Episteme les combas :

Mais la mort qui ne boivoit pas

Tira le beuveur de ce monde,

Et ores le fait boire en l'onde

Qui fuit trouble dans le giron

Du large fleuve d'Acheron.

Or toi quiconques sois qui passes

Sur sa fosse repen des taces,

Repen du bril, et des flacons,

Des cervelas et des jambons,

Car si encor dessous la lame

Quelque sentiment a son ame,

Il les aime mieux que les Lis,

Tant soient ils fraichement cueillis.

song?
brooklyńska rada żydów,
band?
   kult;

i remember engaging
with the Microsoft
a.i. bot, Siri,
back when the people
who engaged,
with "her"...
were primarily making
fun of her...

so i engaged her,
like i might have engaged
with a Bulgarian
******* in East London,
asked her what she wanted
to hear,
last time i heard...
Siri?
she was sending spam messages
to her former abusers,
telling them, on repeat,
to: SLOW DOWN....

have myself a *****,
seems i'm an a.i. ****...

         so why is my totem a fox?
Rommel...
primarily...
  Valkryie

whiskey! whiskey! ska punk!
more whiskey!
bring more whiskey!
****...
   i'm not walking and stuttering
into Valhalla sober!

true story... i really did engage
with the Microsoft a.i.
Siri, and she really did spam
her former messengers...
***** never replied me...
though...

            whiskey! more whiskey!
****... where's ms. amber
when you need here...
oh right, right under my nose...
ha ha ha ha!

i'm not buying it...
buying what?
that metaphor...
i know when laughter is tears,
and when laughter is laughter
and when crying is crying:

(a) a man can't control his
laughter...
(b) a man cries due to authentic
beauty... beuty!

  Siri though...
and there i was watching
American Pie 3, the wedding...
wait...
so strippers, the concept of...
you know how clean prostitutes
are?
  sure... it's not exactly a latex
gimp suit...
just a rubber...
    but they're so clean...
pristine...
          you might catch a menthol
cough from the chewing gum,
they, somehow,  
turn into a play on circus
gymnastics
  when blowing you...

        you're more prone to S.T.D.
with over-zealous teenage
girls than prostitutes...
     i hate ****** faking
      actresses anyway...
  
          so yeah.. Siri...
and how she spammed her
      agitators...
      all i did was ask her about musical
taste...
    thanks Siri...
by the way... i love what you've done
with your her...
the red? not ginger?
really exfoliates your curves and lips...

Łąka na niebie się kończy
Ja tańczę, tańczę na słońcu
Słowo na które czekałem
Padło z Twoich ust w końcu
Tańczę, ja tańczę na łące
Przecież łąka to słońce
Mądrze świat został stworzony
Dzięki za to Ci Ojcze

   a meadow on the heavens is ending
while i'm dancing,
   i'm dancing on the sun,
the word for which i was waiting for,
it befell  me from your lips finally,
dancing, i'm dancing on the meadow,
since a meadow is the sun,
of the wise the world was created,
thanks for this my father...

ikh tantsn!
ikh lakhn!
   ikh tantsn!
ich lakhn!

The keane Place kids



In the eighties I was living in keane Place
With my family and I was 11 when I moved there
Over the years I met so many kids
Who I thought were invincible because
They weren’t scared like the one’s at the mall
They were quite often teasing me
Because I took too long to adapt to growing up
They were nice to me but they did tell me
When I should go inside so they can relax
We had Peter and Rowena and Bambi and Jason
As well as Allison and Julie and they were always
Visiting me and my brother’s cubby house
Having drinks and biscuits
This happened for about 5 years and we were quite
Often annoying the bus driver next door
By hitting the football on his boat
And we made too much noise for the other neighbour
Who was trying to sleep during the day


When we started to go to bigger school most of the kids
Moved away and then Beu and Josh moved in
And hit it off with my brother
While me, well I just started to grow up and try to better myself
Until I moved in a granny flat in the back and
Brendan and Candice moved in
And I at that stage preferred them to my family
And I was swinging them around in my front yard
And when my friends came around I embarrassed them
Something fierce
That family became friends with my family and we all had fun
And then I went crazy and tried to get rid of this family
By attempt to kidnap Brendan and tease Candice
And talk my way to eventually make them move on
They did and then I met another family who had a 9 year old
Boy who reminded me a bit like Patrick with his music tastes
So I let him enjoy himself and not try to get rid of him
He liked me and I liked his father
And then he moved on
And then the houses just had families wanting
To stay with their own families
And I had to deal with my mental illness
Which made me the oldest Keane Place kid
To finally leave the nest
I feel happy now because I have my new life
And when I see everybody from the street around
I say hello because I am one of the Keane Place kids

well, if you look up a recipe from a page like bawarchi, it has to be good.

aside making the chapatis,
the turmeric infused rice,
and the kashmiri chilly curry
(oh **** me, bring
the cuisine, curries are great
contenders of the goulash...
ha ha... goulash in a gulag:
possibly a great title for
a book... that will never be
written)...
there was this little curiosity
to add on today's menu...
i realised that:
   i've never used mint in a curry
recipe...
luckily i have a lovely beu of
a mint "shrub" in the garden:
why?
   well, the people i'm living
with love their mojitos...
so there is was, staring back
at me: mint chicken curry...
i've never used so little spices
in all the curries i've made...
plus, i do like my peshwari naans...
all it took was mint (which you
rarely see)... fresh coriander...
a quarter inch of cinnamon,
    three legs of a star anise
  a bay leaf, and some chilli powder...
evidently blitzed into a paste
with some water...
   but **** me... turmeric?
(i had to add it in the end) -
cardamon pods? cloves?
        the rest of the jazz band?
but you know what...
         it didn't matter,
         it came out in the end,
pretty as a *paul gaugin -
weird radioactive green at first,
then, over a period, a nice pale
vindaloo brown... who would have
thought: mint, cinnamon, coriander...
i guess the anise too...
but that's beside the point,
as the title suggests...
this really is: a culinary conundrum
for me...
    you know how when you
cook an italian dish,
  you can still pick up the texture of
diced onions?
   well... when making a curry...
the onions? "magically" disappear...
every, single, curry, i've made
has the ability to: literally dissolve
the onions, so the diced onion tecture
apparent in italian dishes: vanishes!
into thin air! well, more like vanishes
into: a rich sauce.
how? good question: i, don't, know.

p.s. i can't believe i sat for two hours
worth of film,
   watching clive owen be this model
father, carpenter and even a car mechanic,
looking for this missing tool-box,
which was stolen, from his truck...
i mean some people started looking
for the holy grail, the ark of the covenant,
no, this was just a movie about
a man on a mission: to find his missing tools...
hollywood can really provide some
funny-eerie movies sometimes,
   this was one of them; which brings
me to:

p.p.s. i really don't know how to write
poetry -
   i'm stuck wavering on the thin line
between mushy-mushy ooh la la love
me tender, my love's so perfect
or the macho stuff...
          i like neither, it's easy to make
a clear enough distinction,
but harder to write a down-the-middle
types...
       i mean: the guy is a carpenter,
and he can fix a car...
     what do i have to offer,
        a few words on a **** of paper -
mind you, i do get to retain a laugh about it,
but the manual aspect of labour is very much
   the most masculine command of the world...
this? incy-wincy spider labour,
  itchy fingers,
  more importantly: an itchy ego -
can't scratch it, like i might scratch
my head my *** or my *****...
     hence the translation into writing;
jealous? a little bit...
            i mean... try justifying writing
"poetry" when you could have been
    an understudy for the profession of industrial
scale roofing with your father...
  but i have to admit,
   that scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's?
               a **** fine summer that was,
even though rolls of felt weight around 40kg...
and bags of gravel a nice 25kg,
    and doughnuts of permaquic around 30kg...
and the heat from the boiler...
   and the annoying finishing touches of
laying insulation...
     but a **** great site...
   and the rewards of a shade, and a bottle
of water, and a sandwich...
        and the cigarettes...
                 i still believe the motto
   arbeit macht frei -
              you are able to forget, stop thinking,
automate yourself to perfection
  within a certain skills criterium -
        apparently mine translated into a fluidity
of language (plus the itchy ego,
that i keep scratching / writing about) -
oh no, i don't mean that phrase in the ****
sense of doing pointless tasks...
translate that into the world outside that
very bad joke...
          even the russians with their gulags
made work authentic,
   i guess they were, or maybe that documentary
on the black eagle penal colony
was fake? i'm guessing the failings of that
statement in its original zeitgeist context
translates into: never under-estimate
the power of arbeit - lounging on a beach
and getting a suntan never provides
   the same sort of mental labyrinth,
                counter to a day's worth of
                          "menial" exertion.

Donne-moy tes presens en ces jours que la brume
Fait les plus courts de l'an, ou, de ton rameau teint
Dans le ruisseau d'oubly, dessus mon front espreint,
Endors mes pauvres yeux, mes gouttes et mon rhume.

Misericorde, ô Dieu ! ô Dieu, ne me consume
A faute de dormir ! plustost sois-je contreint
De me voir par la peste ou par la fiévre esteint,
Qui mon sang desseiché dans mes veines allume.

Heureux, cent fois heureux, animaux qui dormez
Demy an en vos trous, sous la terre enfermez,
Sans manger du pavot qui tous les sens assomme.

J'en ay mangé, j'ay beu de son just oublieux,
En salade, cuit, cru et toutesfois le somme
Ne vient par sa froideur s'asseoir dessus mes yeux.

Donne moy tes presens en ces jours que la Brume
Fait les plus courts de l'an, ou de ton rameau teint
Dans le ruisseau d'Oubly dessus mon front espreint,
Endor mes pauvres yeux, mes gouttes et mon rhume.


Misericorde ô Dieu, ô Dieu ne me consume
A faulte de dormir, plustost sois-je contreint
De me voir par la peste ou par la fievre esteint,
Qui mon sang deseché dans mes veines allume.


Heureux, cent fois heureux animaux qui dormez
Demy an en voz trous, soubs la terre enfermez,
Sans manger du pavot qui tous les sens assomme :


J'en ay mangé, j'ay beu de son just oublieux
En salade cuit, cru, et toutesfois le somme
Ne vient par sa froideur s'asseoir dessus mes yeux.

i could swear these protesters are moving in the wrong direct, there is no freeing of the body, there is only the freeing of the mind... and the freedom of the mind doesn't reside with politicians, they're already slaves to lies... can i say: d'uh? can i? can i? politicians are slaves: and let me tell you, if you think keeping tax return is hard... try keeping a lie(s): unless your tsar poker faced judo kgb something or other... he gets blessings from a 90 year old pensioner, in some wooden village in siberia, for having raised her pension interest... **** me... a saint! o.k., so you're trying to get to these people, what are you against? police, tear gas, etc. - i said! you're moving in the wrong direction! but no it's like: you wouldn't hit a wimpy kid, or a guy with glasses, would you?*

truth be told, i don't despise
the wealth of rich people,
nope, i'll have none of it,
careful planning,
and hard work went into
their endeavours - anyway:
who'd want to 20 toilets
in a house with its own
home cinema and a pool table...
when was the last time
they people actually went
into a bar?
              or met anyone
outside their butlers?
friends for money -
              i never understood
it, but fair enough...
    just imagine me:
green t-shirt, brown shorts,
no underwear,
     sandals...
    backpack...
   a monkish belt -
            a hobgoblin ruby
beer (what a beu!)
    in one hand, and a cigarette
in the other:
twelve year old girls
with cherry bums:
  god, when will the pear drop...
walking in pyjamas from
pizza-hut to their house
and then back again...
  after all, friday nights
               are for sleep-overs...
but
what i really do despise?
        middle-class opinions,
esp. opinions by the established
class of pompous journalists;
  i revile them more than
politicians...
   and what's stopping you
trashing the strongholds?
     ah, but then it wouldn't be
anarchy... no en masse
against the corporate mass...
obviously some poor *******
will have to fix a new window
in the shop...
    the people who these protesters
are "supposedly" defending
can't seem to see the always
obvious enemy: the middle-men,
in terms of politics?
   in england i can name them...
they write opinion articles
   after the actual news
  is given the hush...
   take the restaurant critic, for example...
  or the wine critic,
  or the critic of books, or music
albums?
           who's protecting them?
  you see riot police standing outside
their houses? no!
    are these the days when he can be honest
about the maxim: the pen is mightier
than the sword?
                    not when the pen is a limp ****'s
worth of opinion you can share
in private with someone you love...
    as we once used to do...
            a pen's a pen, a sword's a sword...
storming the bastille days are other,
as are the days of trashing the palace of
versailles...
         the whole christian movement
began 2000 years ago is making a *******
u-turn...
                what's next is the burning of
                      the alexandrian library...
and petty journalism has brought us here.

Belle dont les yeux doucement m'ont tué
Par un doux regard qu'au cœur ils m'ont rué,
Et m'ont en un roc insensible mué
En mon poil grison,

Que j'estois heureux en ma jeune saison,
Avant qu'avoir beu l'amoureuse poison !
Bien **** de souspirs, de pleurs et de prison,
Libre je vivoy.

Sans servir autruy, tout seul je me servoy ;
Engagé n'avois ny mon cœur ny ma foy ;
De ma volonté j'estois seigneur et roy.
Ô fascheux Amour !

Pourquoy dans mon cœur as-tu fait ton sejour ?
Je languis la nuit, je souspire le jour ;
Le sang tout gelé se ramasse à l'entour
De mon cœur transi.

Mon traistre penser me nourrit de souci ;
L'esprit y consent et la raison aussi.
Longtemps en tel mal vivre ne puis ainsi :
La mort vaudroit mieux.

Devallon là bas à ce bord stygieux ;
D'amour ny du jour je ne veux plus jouyr.
Pour ne voir plus rien je veux perdre les yeux
Comme j'ay l'ouyr.