upon the universal statement:
once upon a time...
and subsequently to end with a universal
statement: they lived happily ever after.

well poet ought to shatter the narrator,
he should never allow the narrator
a narrative so well consistent
as to remember a character's standstill
psychology from one writing session
to the next, in between living his very
eventful life (i don't know how irony
is noted, italics or en-dittoed?),
but moving words about is high treason
against materialism, encapsulated by
the merchants' motto: move a stone
make a penny, move a mountain,
make a fortune. so beautifying language
is so horrid? really? we are all going
to be satiated by a dull numbed expression
like adding numbers, while the birds sing?
poetry is just hushed opera, to appreciate
the birds, and on the odd chance,
a raised human verse sung;
so when i give you examples, i wonder,
will you agree or wilt beside me,
from the italicised introduction,
four examples to invoke particularity / chirality
rather than universalism / parallelism:
a. *breakfast at tiffany's (truman capote)
    'i am always drawn back to places where i have lived,
     the houses and their neighbourhoods.
    "african hut or whatever, i hope holly has, too.
b. the catcher in the rye (j. d. salinger)
     'if you really want to hear about it, the first thing
      you'll probably want to know is where i was born,
      and what my lousy childhood was like, and how
      my parents were occupied and all before they had me,
      and all that david copperfield kind of crap, but i don't
      feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
     "don't ever tell anybody anything; if you do, you
       start missing everybody.
c. steppenwolf (hermann hesse)
     'this book contains the records left us by a man whom
      we called the steppenwolf, an expression he often used
      himself.
     "pablo was waiting for me, and mozart too.
d. don quixote (cervantes)
      'somewhere in la mancha, in a place whose name
       i do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago,
       one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on
       a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.
       "vale.
the ninth gate is truly a film about bibliophiles,
and the alley where i popped open a beer bottle
while two lovers kissed waiting for me to
craft a scene as if a forbidden love was revealed to me,
and indeed it was: no dread of jealousy at not
being coupled, but all the same, hatred
invokes apathy, it cannot claim platonic pathologies
of lovers (first), poets (second) and sibyls / prophets
(third)... hatred is tiresome, it walks no thirteenth mile
the same day, and when hatred exposes apathy
it is assured: apathy breeds no pathology,
love on the other hand breeds a lacerated maggot pit
of pathology; whereas atheism just breeds factual
reevaluation and constant reinterpretation
without proofs, theism plagiarises, and wants
to prove... really really prove... and get *******,
or at least roman catholic castrato songs to boot...
pure narration? just now, you spotted it?
poetic digression is the only way a poet can
become akin to a narrator in the medium of fiction,
poets digress... fictional narrators are all bound
to the titanic... on course for unchangeable history...
poets digress to create their own narrative.
so to begin with (need to ***, need to ***, will
i survive the wording to the end?)...
the generic and easily analogous once upon
a time is akin to an open field... many directions,
much open space, many congregational opportunities...
in the end few books of fiction are finished,
too much inanimate details and symbols,
not enough images, books without pictures
are stupid, as alice would have said...
slowly but surely the readers drop off,
a bound book with a thread of silk that acts
as a bookmark end halfway through the thickening:
undercooked pasta, raw tomatoes...
but the process from the beginning to the end
makes the acre of gold-simmering wheat
turn into a pinhead...
writers forget the element they're writing
parallel to is claustrophobia, i know,
how can a phobia become elemental?
people get killed, that's the foremost proof for me...
narration in grand novels is a bit like
a growing bulging claustrophobia...
the acre of a wheat field becomes a box-room...
and as this happens the paradox emerges:
we all wish to embark upon a and they
lived happily ever after, but we're given
a once upon a time, in reality we begin
with they lived happily once,
and end with it was once the case...
i figured i did the worded arithmetic better
in my head a few minutes prior...
but then i became bothered by julien torma's
words. who was julien torma,
he was a would-be-poet on the fringes of the Dada
movement: Dada being like black panthers
and big lebowski movements against the war in
vietnam, although more to do with world war i,
let me cite him just so you get a feel...
lyricism: a venereal disease.
             a poet who is preoccupied with
poetry is a shopkeeper.
on the second point... i think he's more of an antique
dealer, but never mind that,
i get the point, and i don't mind what he minds,
i find any if all poetic endeavours a futility,
but i rather write a poem to be discrete and actually
read fully / contently / due course to express
the way a poem is written with ensō fluid
spontaneity: than oblige myself to write a novel:
better a stack of stones dismantled from a pyramid
shape than a mountain never climbed;
as i told you, poets can't narrate, they can digress,
and poets aren't like writers of fiction,
they can't latch themselves to the narrowing
from acre of field to a box, or a room,
they can't grasp claustrophobia as the drive
for that perfected the end, it's impossible...
they're always shrapnel narrators, a free moment,
a guess; as the paradox of writing dramas,
they're written because they're intended
for what the populace expresses: an uneventful
life to the limit of the total of all predictability:
death - dare not tire of boredom, keep it
like a constantly stretching rubber band, and then
death comes... SNAP! cushion cosy on that morphine
are we?

I remember a certain cold
Cold like a scalpel
I remember your face

Illuminated by a Ferris wheel
The aquiline nose and glint in the eyes
Asymmetrical ivory in the mouth

We were bibliophiles
Expounding upon the potency of the written word
Enthralled by each other's soliloquies.

I remember
The moisture, texture, warmth of your lips
Comforting, numbing, exhilarating

The ****** effect of your flesh
Delirium in my bloodstream
The hushed tenor of your voice

Temperate breath tickling the whorls of my ear
Known to me only in a dream.

i have an ongoing
love affair
with words
that roll around your
mouth

luscious, langourous
lilliputitian letters

sensual syllables
slick- sliding off
the tongue

ecstatic explosions,
erupting, erogenously
exciting, eager exclaimations,
of enraptured exualtations

organic, original orientations
of teeth and tongue
producing oodles,
of apogeic anomolies

my affair
accomplishes much
for little

it is you see
just a not so secret love
of letter, line, jot and tittle.

a casting eye upon a word
and i am set rushing
down a path
reserved for those
with terms, descriptive,
and names.
that in themselves,
decry
wordlove.

lexicographers and bibliophiles
phoneologists, linguists, polygots,
jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes
poets.

all possess this
heartstringed
tangled knot,
spiderwebbed
feeling,
for words.
which, we then,
endevour to spin,
into inkstained beauty,
to ensare
ourselves ...and others.

i was going to fold the sunday newspaper many times...
just to get a postcard sized output...
or whatever you'd like to call it...
   i was taught that creasing pages of books
or folding edges of pages in book
was very much a blasphemy...
     call that weird, i call living to reach
atheism and vomitting scientific facts
   a bit like creating a Frankenstein monster...
  to be honest, i feel like a frankenstein monster...
    i have absolutely no care for allegiance...
i'm in free-fall mode...
     i feel nor care to feed some patriotic
adventure into a war...
  i was folding a sunday newspaper
remembering that fetish i had for
three newspapers being opulent and about
men imitating women by folding them
akin to knitting... the guardian,
the daily telegraph and the times...
   only one of the three remained true to its roots...
i loved watching people fiddle with these
titans... folding them like taking a scrap
of a toilet-paper bite and folding it several
times before taking another fold...
and wiping for the **** that could just as well
be a mouth...
        we also call it playing cards...
that game where your *** speaks more reason
than your mouth, and how
     the three top layers of cards, king queen
and jack are doubled to have a mouth
either side of the mouth-**** copernicus...
    so you can't tell the two apart...
**** or talk? dunno... it sounds very much alike.
  but these co-op people are bothering me....
they're asking me about my age
every time i buy a beer...
   is that some sort of pick-up line?
          ok ok, i get the acne and it's not comfortable
for me either, i guess my *** could make it
into a fashion magazine quicker than my face...
   what's this?
             i get the acne, i have a beard...
do babies have beards?
       it's a beer... it's not a bomb...
    this has to be some sort of fetish...
                       it's a bit like finding your second
loss of virginity... apparently it's called 25...
  it's not even murky waters of 16 / 18...
do i look over 25?
    ha ha... yeah mate... 30...
     i feel like chewing on some chicken bones,
or biting into a human cheek, to bite past the cheek
and eat the tongue in cheek...
     why do people become so annoying that
you retaliate thinking about cannibalism?
   what's with them being so primmed into
the role of supermarket cashiers?
     they're gagging for violence, aren't they?
they are... they must be...
           oh right... oscar night...
  this sunday times magazine... kept folding it
and folding it... until it was comfortable to read,
hardly a reason to do the same with a hardback book....
oh wait... the heresy, and the need to respect the book
as if every book was a koran,
bookmarks... but no no to folding
the edges of pages having arrived at...
you want to know a secret?
  Poles have a tendency to mummify flowers
  by putting them in books... true story...
Poles mummify flowers by storing them in books...
if you really want to understand the true
bibliophiles... as the Poles what they do with them...
   i mean, it would be hard to mummify a cactus in a book,
or that glutton that's the autumn thistle...
      they really do mummify flowers in books,
the Poles... which is why they come up with
the need to use bookmarks, and the religion
of never folding edges of books to replace bookmarks,
or what a suit has, and the cravat suddenly missing...
     now i kinda get why there has been no
islamic attack in poland, this etiquette of
respecting books, translated into how i
might treat a newspaper... folding it...
     jaw for jaw... manidble, cheap, cheap and
everyday... about to be deemed fake...
      i get that, like i know you take off the sleeve
of a hardback edition and then put it back
on once you handled the didlo fabric...
                and some women might
call charming the limp phallus like man might
charm a white rabbit from a top-hat...
    or what the madonna-***** complex explains...
had it been better approved for the care to
explain today... or vhy whittle kaiser wilhelm
was the  original oedipus prototype / the freudian muse...
what was my original concern to fill
the void of defeat that's: making war using a blank canvas?
oh right... la la land... the actress...
    emma stone... it's like i almost recognised her face...
i was thinking ethan hawke...
but i was thinking of a different red-head...
i was thinking the film predestination...
and... she almost looks like both a shadow and a face
thief at the same time, to define the case of
doppelganger...
   but it really wasn't her... it was sarah snook...
another redhead...
or maybe it was this private conversation that
had me started... or how: predestination
can be replaced by a concept that's even more
shock-awe... coincidence?
    i make history happen in the private
sphere of counter ego-tripping
by making newspapers into origami,
        folding them to make digesting them more
realistic, and also opportunist...
                 sometimes i do make the odd punctuation error,
but then again... look at all this space









                                                  ­                 .
just one of the reasons people write poetry,
or at least what later becomes non-orthodox
avoiding of rhyme...
  rhyme used to be the original punctuation
in poetry, people used to
   eat and
                 sleep...
   but then writing poetry became an uncertainity
concerning the paragraph,
it was eaiser to punctuate a paragraph
knowing if; or: and esp., to say something more...
   which is one of the reasons for the "improvement"
of punctuation, the dot dot dot of poets
and the ditto enclosure of existentialist philosophers.
poetry to me is a deviation from punctuation,
it requires the cascade mechanism to allow it
expression with bravado, and the zenith of
arrogance...
                         to me poets are
punctuation-phobes....
                                  here me... imitating the two
figures in the Salmaan Rushdie novel, d i.e.,
  what was it? two people falling off a plane...
one drops like a tombstone stiff...
                the other is all panicky pretending to
invoke the capacity of being a pigeon...
what was that book?
              still.... i was just buying a beer and i get
asked for my age...
                i sometimes love when people
can be as annoying as that...
                        if i were a woman i'd be saying
that it was a compliment;
so i am... writing this "poem".

the point is: i don't want to write in the style of j. joyce's finnegans wake; but i am, and i feel terrible for doing it... so... m'eh?

you listen to these talks, like you might watch
a football match...
   the art of rhetoric - ars rhetoric(æ):
that isolation of the grapheme stresses the point
that homosexuals are better at talking
than men who consecrate themselves
on the bias that will probably lead to a widow.
they're better at it, and there's no argument
for it: it's a bit like passing the olympic torch
from ****-to-****-to-mouth-to-tongue-to-head-to-ego;
i'll come to the modern notation of that unit
in a minute...
  but oh so rare, walking from the supermarket
and finding a book propped on a... thing?
it's situated in essex, england, and in these parts
you can have this "garden" in-front of
your house, and there's this "hadrian's" wall
isolating this patch of green:
   that's why i said thing: because it's not a fence
in the traditional sense...
    so you're walking back from the supermarket
with a bottle of becks beer and a litre of *****
and mixer in your rucksack (5pence duty stamp
on using plastic bags, remember that)
  and you see a book propped on "hadrian's" wall
(because it is just that: a joke),
well not in this instance, this is a case of a semi-detached
outer-suburban household... and there's
  this book propped on a "fence"... and it's dark...
am i going to nick it / "steal" it?
last time i checked, i didn't believe in *hegel,
last time i checked: if i'm in a public place, i.e. a road,
i'm going to use the advantage of someone's mistake
(or intention?) and take possession of the thing;
a bit like... you find a 20quid banknote in a puddle...
are you going to wave it about and shout:
who does it belong to?     would you?
         well... hegel can go **** himself and his
philosophy of right... i can't believe that mere lecture
notes inspired communism, i simply can't believe it,
i mean: it's astouding that it ever occured,
but still... it's so rare to find books on the streets...
i've heard plenty about disowned dogs and that dog
shelter in Battersea... i ought to know, i was bound
to paving slabs on one of their roof extensions...
my grandfather told me this story about how he was
walking through a forest with my uncle (his son)
and found a hanged dog... someone thought it real
funny to tie the noose so the dog was tiptoeing
toward death while suffocating on the noose...
i've had worse trauma... like when walking my doberman
and he bit into **** and what was revealed was
a nest of parasites, at best described: wriggling...
clearly you can build-up a natural aversion to this world,
which is by no surprise the original source of
the concept of god... you start from there, and work
your way down.
    now i'm seriously digressing, ars rhetoric(æ)...
like ha ha crow's ca ca? or is that ka ka ka?
ku klux clan... mortal kombat... whatever.
                just about as much sense when listening
to classic.fm and hearing an "oohbow" concerto
in some minor or major key (i don't remember which
one it was)... but like a blind-man fiddling
with an elephant (the modern day version of
the male grææ... as seen in homer, as seen in macbeth...
but those were 3... i'm talking 5)...
  i also thought about fiddling with the "orthography"
(that term usually denotes the aesthetic practice
of adding diacritical marks, which english doesn't:
otherwise known as the **** of ιota)...
   i could see a clarinet perfectly, clear distinctions (i mean);
but an oh-bow?                    oboe?
    how can these two variations not yield the same
pronunciation if not via the tetragrammaton?
            clarinet in jazz     horns in ska-punk,
ladies to the left, gents to the right...
                     clearly my idea of **** schizoi creates
more competent understandings of a human,
who is insapiens...
                   ****, talk about libido, but to this extent?
hmm... so the ιota was ***** by a diacritical mark
that's practically disjoined from an umlaut...
   see the arithmetic ι i ï? otherwise known as the ee
in: i need to take a ****... or the boo-boo word of ***.
   the same thought approached me when
i contemplated the acute version of N (en) - ń,
variations include: close approximates of knee,
then vary through to: me me me expressed in a nagging
way...
                   oh right... words that have this acute:
     day... dzień...
then they'll call it cultural appropriation, and i'll
call it: cultural integration.
                  but ń did something, it revealed the **** of
ιota...  it's this enforced diacritical mark on the greek
letter (and j) that doesn't exist on other letters
as it sometimes should...
       but it all depends on the following rule

                            ae  i  ou
                     ­             x

x is treated as a consonant for it's own sake, i could have
inserted some other consonant, but the stress
is how and when you apply diacritical marks,
given the stated example of the diacritical mark hovering
over n.
               and really? the **** of ιota is involved, which
probably invoked the complexity of the anglo sprechen
to such an extent that it spread for far and wide...
    why would i even put a diacritical dot over s?
what would that represent, for ****'s sake?
                                                           ­               i!
in polish you'd say that as         e! oddly or not so
oddly enough.
           but there is a collision happening
   given the predestination concept of i (what culture
would appropriate that, if not the most hostile /
successive one?) -
                 the acute diacritical mark on the n
disappears depending where the (enforced half umlaut of)
i is placed...
     for example in the word        no....     nie...
that dot above the iota just ate the acute over the n...
    then back to the word for day           dzień....
it's at the back, so the aesthetic twists into an σς scenario...
(sigma sigma)...
                  nudzi (he bores people)...
        nagi (he's naked)...
                            i could really do with a macron on that a,
who knows, maybe language encoding really is
worth symphony complexity: or is that why i'm
jealous of music composers?
               i'm just trying to look for a word
that encompasses my concept of ń....
     a real kinder sprechen example as simple as 1 + 1 = 2,
evidently i will not find it and only come up with
something as "simple" as 1 + 1 = 3.
on one side the sensual beast,
on the other a reasoning ***** -
as you age the less you sense, but at the same time
the more you reason; in my case it happened exponentially
thanks to Chernobyll (it did begin with one of
the scandinavian countries being able to record
radiation... in poland you had a park, in a small town...
and half the trees were in summer and half
were in autumn):
   because if you **** things up on an atomic scale
you're not going to exactly see a tornado, in a specified
location for adrenaline junkies to go and film it!
then there was this idea that i had
               about certain layers of language,
   braille, sign-language, covert talk and open talk,
basically boiling down to honesty, and the latter to
dishonesty...
    so this book i found yesterday... about as rare as finding
a 20quid banknote...
             now i seriously believe this book is a pillar
to language... right up there with the dictionary and
the thesaurus...
            published by c collins (obviously)...
and its sole author: nigel rees (couldn't be bothered with
italics, so i used the colon)...
          ah **** it, it's only descriptions of the cover,
the book is paperback so it doesn't matter...
although what does is...
   the entry (to be) in the same boat (page 347)...
that's why i was sniffing the book up yesterday
(bibliophiles' prime fetish, after ******* the books)...
    the entry originated from cicero
in 53bc... in the original latin     in eadem es navi,
later used in 1941ad after pearl harbor
(funny u, look: harbour)    - of consequences
                                     roosevelt said, churchill quote(d).

Tripping with funeral stars
Random friends in random bars
Prowling bibliophiles
Nature of caskets in the wild
Can you feel the shaman’s rage?
Advice from the poor man’s sage
The summer sun and the winter moon
The eclipsing gloom of noon
This strange life of indifference
Echoing athwart the earth

Wading thru the sun
Waiting to come undone
Wading thru the sun
Waiting for you to come

Wading, Waiting

For our funeral stars
Our random friends
In our random bars

The basement compound is full of stacks.
Six thousand plus books in alpha order.

Welcome, bibliophiles and novice poets.
The lighting is courtesy of a three-bulb tree.

A balanced diet of tomes, sonnets &
Limericks, prose poems in tongues.

A cheval glass mirror sees Wendell Berry.
The room under the stairs has anthologies.

Each volume is part of a collective whole.
Vendler on Dickinson & New York Haiku.

This one-time coal-bin has a dehumidifier
To keep it alive & free of mold.

The poets are unaware of the visits of
A baby raccoon who almost ate Auden.

They are sleeping soundly, immune to
Dog-eared magazines in the reject corner.

Lorca himself rests just above the sump
Pump & Yeats across from the water heater.

The furnace keeps Frost warm in winter
& The Lady of the Lake dry.

Come & check out the underground home
Of Thomas’ and Plath’s villanelles.

No photo ID card needed here, just a
Healthy, insatiable appetite for metaphor.

There is one requirement:  patrons must
Leave cell phones at the top of the stairs.

& they must have a love-affair with the real
Thing, a desire to touch a book.

Yes, all six thousand plus volumes are, or
Were, in print – made of paper and glue.


©  Lewis Bosworth, 4-2017

Bibliophiles have there libraries
***** feeders have there dens
Vincent had his paint brushes
while authors feed their pens
Churches have there story tellers
To them it's about good and bad
Asylums holding straight jackets
For people who are totally mad
The armies train people to ****
politicians yearn to become a Lord
Tower of London has it guards
My chess set has lost its board.
Doctor Jekyll  needed mr Hyde
While ice  bergs feel the cold
My poor old grandad needed a wig
Cause he was completly bald

this would be considered a "world salad", by people who's ambitions are to write books, but who barely lack the ambition to read a newspaper thoroughly, let alone a novel... or like those a.a. gill dyslexics, who "write", well, write by talking, having slaves to write for them... if these ***** are "writers", then i'm a ******* "orator"!

i've mentioned this faux pas once:
to read a hardback copy of a book
with the sleeve on, is a rare faux pas.
you only read hardback books
with the sleeve off,
because there are actually two
the ends* when reading a hardback
edition...
(a) the end of actually finish to read
a book, and
(b) putting the sleeve back on...
any bibliophiles erotica manages to
invoke this "minor" detail.

brooding, brooding,
asking for a balancing act: ah!

it's not the essence of thought to
think about thinking,
babushka dolls and all...

the cognitive equivalent of
the taj mahal before me...

     tibet is the vatican of the orient...

the displaced eskimo and the white
buffer reef of the northerners...

to think is not to un-think
thinking & "meditate"...

                within the realm of void-creation
nature answers: vacuum does not
belong to nature,
            all holes must be filled,
from each unto each other:
  an extract of worth, however small,
however big... from each
an extract of worth.

act!

ah! that's it!

    there's the "correct" cogito ante actum,
as there's the "incorrect"
        definition of those, who have been
morally satisfied...
      the cogito circa cogitans -
the former school:
though before an action,
            but that is as abstract as nothing
compared to the second tier,
only with a fathomable morality can
there be a cogitans = narratio parallel,
semblance, equilibrium -
   not before this point can you have
the leisure of making thought
narration...

         to think about the existence of
thought is more profound than
the cognitive escapism of an existence of god...
sorry, but that's how the cookie crumbles..
to de-fetish the existence of thought
to be below god, is:
   (a) an excuse for argue the existence of
a god, and (b)
that's an open suggestion.

but you can't exactly enjoy thought
as narration when you overcome the ought-process
of having established an ethical model
for not thinking about ethical conundrums...

    cogito is a unit that replaces the
psychological unit basin / basis of ego -
there is no ego to be spoken of,
only **** sigma - which is identified by
thinking...
           in the rationality of identifying
with thinking, the ego has no
storage fathomability to store memorable
scenarios...
                   if thought it order,
then ego is chaos...
       there is no ego totality -
  but sure as **** there's a totality of thought...
ego: incisor point in
psychiatric anatomy.
      
to think about the existence of thought
is to move beyond an "ought" dimension of
thought, the θ question -
              is debating the existence of
a god, moral, or immoral,
since...
       well... since, inquiring beyond
   self-knowledge, i.e. acknowledging
a second tier of consciousness, i.e.:
thinking about thought...
        cogitans circa cogitatio
      is the foundation into theological
inquiry, from this basis: furthered;
why?
         the circa contra the ergo...
           when did thinking,
verb /  non-verb process ever extend into
a ghost limb?
when did thinking ever arrive at realising
a posit of "self" or "consciousness"?
         never in my reading has thought
managed to extract it's own identity without
an indicative unit of ego...
           thought always paralleled the body,
it never imploded into a per se of a "self"...
to which it furthered itself to consume
by exhumation.
                        there was never a
thought conscious of thinking -
          since the preoccupation of this
investigation was always shrouded,
if not merely preoccupied by a theory of, ego...
of agency...
                or else, a self-cannibalising
entity of good, fed by man's belief
  to satiate a vengeful hope to be mastered
into a genuflection.
                           i, oddly enough,
establish my existence from the standpoint of
cogito circa cogitans -
think about thinking -
         since i no longer desire thought
to mark me as a student of ethics...
i've obliterated the θ-debate by making myself
parallel: in a shady guise of solipsistic interaction...
since i have arrived at this point,
i have no freudian three tier theory,
of affix subs- or obs-,
              to parallel their straitjacket unit
of incompetence...
   nor a super- to a sub- or an un-...
                 i am, the Minotaur,
                and thought, is my labyrinth.

M: You so petty like Tom be
Roaming around the earf like a zombie

P: You so petty like Tom be,
Roaming round the earth like a zombie clad in Abercrombie
Shut up, Fitch.
Pitchin a fit like a tone-deaf finch singin out of pitch, lickin a wack *** riff
Lost in space, trippin tha rift
Ya'll won't dig what I spit, but you could at least sift through the remnants

M: Here's your penance for the Cubs winning the pennant
Shut up man, you're no John Lennon
If you was a car, I'ma say you'd be a Lemon.
Here's my lime, it's a rhyme that I wrote in no time
About how crime can pay well if you do it right

P: It's time to plunder and plight, I'm full of blunder and spite
The Boy Wonder, I'm a robbin and I'm about to take flight
The crowd be clappin thunder all night
I'm slinging lightning, that's right
I'm Zeus, you're Hades and we'll be warring for the spotlight.
I may be a hater, but you're my hatee and the boss' order is:
Don't quit your day job, just keep on workin your nine to five.

M:I'm deep in the slime call me a Muck raker,
**** taker, but I never really give em though
Not a nice dude, but I've never really hit a ***
Kinda wonder why I ever really spit a flow in the first
Flow is absurd, crow is a bird, and they're murderous.

P:The rhyme is evolutionary, **** man, but what's a Muk to a Grimer?
Ya'll amateur rappers are just slappin paint on the canvas without a primer
There's no substance to your "art", I'll see your Trap and raise you a Hip Hop, cross the streams and blow up like Slimer.

Ya'll just some nickel and dimers tryin to hold up a dime store so you can pick up that dime sack that you're trying to afford.

The kind of fools ain't nobody got time for.
I've ascended Mt. Olympus, you ******* need to learn how to climb more.

M: Climb up, climb down, or don't climb at all
Don't listen to those try-hards,
Watch Die Hard again and then give me my vengeance.
You ever do penance? If not that'll cost ya six pence
And I need that **** quick since I already spent it.
Rap Game Tom Selleck.

Tom Hanks is a real person
Celebrities are real people.
I wish everyone would just feel people
Not like corporeally, but emotionally worth it.
Sober immaculate cut the tension with a hatchet.

Black people hate me cause I say I'm not racist
So I guess they just hate cause they faithless

P: Do not mistake the faithless with the tasteless,
But before I screech all my beliefs, let's just sink back into the cool relief of giving praise tot he great King Nostalgia.

Welcome to Good Burger, hey remember Hans Gruber, let's watch re-runs of Law & Order?

Your girl gobblin up my junk, call her **** Wolf.
More sinister than any Stallone villain, call me Mister Dolf Lundgren
Nerdier than any dragon or dungeon.
Dirtier than any old man askin his waitress for more sugar packets so he can drop em on the floor and watch her bend over.

Red Rover, Red Rover, this verse should already be over, but I cant stop reading this Buzzfeed article telling me the 5 best lines from Crimson and Clover


M: Prolly skips like a *****.
Worth the risk.
It's curious, facts
When all I spit are spurious raps
I'm furious, Jack
Like I am jacks unbridled sound of fury since my patience is tried but with nobody on the jury
It's hard to define if I should be
Calm or Worried

P: My destiny is sittin right next to me, but I can't pick it up cuz it's too **** heavy.
I get a grip, my muscles rip, it's stuck tot he ground because I am Unworthy
How unfortunate that I made it all the way here, just to find out I can't lift up Mjolnir.

Or maybe it's a trick of the mind, I'm a victim of fear.
Maybe it's time to let my senses unwind and focus only on what is near.
It's time to make a profit off of what my prophet holds dear in his lockett, instead of settling for a Stepford Career.

Gouda is good, and Cheddah is bettah, but I'm to to make some of that Gruyere.

M: Gruyere, Camembert
List the cheeses til you're Jesus man,
Talking like you even know a lil piece of the Jesus man's plan.
I think if any of us knew it wouldn't even really please us fam,
Cause absolute knowledge is pain,
Actually growing is lame, and all we are is ever in between two planes of existence
So find the path with little resistance.

P: My prophet ain't Jesus, do you capiche this?
God's plan ain't nothin but a back-up like a clogged drain, or where the food came
that hadn't been chewed enough by the backward's spelling of the man himself.

D-O-G

Lookin for his bounty, but I'm a gatherer not a hunter
So you best expect that I'll be laid to rest in peace while you're still suffering from the disease of lying through your teeth.
Best BELIEVE!
Of my Philosophy, you can not conceive.
Whether or not you've thrown away your virginity doesn't decide whether you're imprisoned or free.

To be free costs a fee, but the sinnin is free.
It don't make no sense to me, so I consult my sensei who says to **** down a sasparilla, smoke some sensimillia, and tuck my head between my knees
Until the atomic wind has passed and I'm left to enjoy the cool breeze.
*******! Literally.
What if God was one of us?
He'd probably sob because of what he's done.
But with no consequence his reign will run.
Check the mic, make sure it's not a gun

M: Nuclear winter is chill boss
As your lawyer I need to tell you to lay off the pills boss put them ***** back in the pill box dude
all theology is toxic really and western ideology is very jesus-centric even though dude was basically just a fasting eccentric

Oops the mics been a glock this whole time and the safety broke long ago prolly round the time the patriarchy spoke up and plotted the embargos

P: Oh, well, I guess we gotta ditch the stolen cargo
Form something new and see hor far it goed
Don't be distracted by the hard blows, I mean, the blowhards
Look no further than your own hand to see if your success is in the cards.

**** WE NEED TO DO THIS EVERY DAY
WE'LL BE UNSTOpPABLE

I mean you're alread nine million miles ahead of my ***,
I've been cruisin in coach and blah blah first class
Similies and poetry are base to me
I want to talk about philosophy in non-interpretable terms make the common people squirm in their nikes
Only a capitalist society can bring true revoltion, but the truth is no one really wants it even the revolutionaries are scared of what change do they want enough trainers so they can change shoes and listen to the blues to feel like feeling is real when it's really just a memory of something unlearnable.

P: Hey Nike, he likes it
Oops, I blew it,
I meant Just Dew The Dew it.
Obey the corporate propaganda, don't see through to the blue skin dudes n ****.
Throw them Locs on

M: Someone ******* **** me already cause I can't do it by myself
Cause I don't do illegal ****, I keep my trophies on a shef
In the basement in a house that nobody but the bank owns
Let me get some dank loans so I can open up a bank, holmes

Don't burn me, I'm tryin earnestly to fix ****
I don't believe in magic but I believe in possibility
which I guess is really just the same thing as magic when you get down to it
I'm trying to draw a circle on a chalkboard and jump right through it
I went t the school of truant bibliophiles the curriculum:
wild the teachers were posters of feral beasts with logos and copyright laws
I bet Gandhi quotes are trademarked, you dumb Marxist

P: Holmes, like the detective, but people never give enough respect to the perspective of the Watson.
Just give me that watch son, and keep on walkin
Betta hope I got all that I want, son, and don't decide to shoot you in the back and split you open like a sidewalk crack that'll give your mom a spinal tap when you cross it.

All you hear is a cocked back gat and then a BOOM BOOM BAP like the bass drum got brought back to like 2011
While your soul decides if heaven is really worth it,
Then your spirit will snap back into your body like nothing ever hurt it.
Rebirth it.

M: Like D.C did that
I'm post P.C. syntax
I bet I'd be a great dad screaming **** WHITEY cause white people hate that.
But that was actually a bad move making white folks uncomfortable
Cause more than half them reverted back to their most basest racist tendencies like two fold
Like who really holds the reigns really,
The work force is the horse and I'm a philly
Green is the universal race. Do you feel me?

Greed is the color of your mother's eyes while she hears the news on the phone of how your brother died cause otherwise it's your corpse of course you knew this already.

Anyways whatever man it's all pretty whatever man
Just be nice to people cause it's just better man.

/your political ideology, shares its concern with my sumnmary of the "lesser" ideology, i.e. pedagogy... no matter what, i'll still have itchy fingers, might not write a monotone book worthy of a sleeping-pill excuse... but i'll still fathom an antithesis of claustrophobia, whenever looking at a paragraph; because you never disrespect a book by folding the page edges, when you should be applying the fathom, of using a book-mark... aged bibliophiles... what a horrid sight./

so much of music is
guaranteed
by a necessity for
rhythm,
   as it is due
to an explosion
                   of solo;
fiddly fingers,
                   you see.
with the only basis for law,
that's man's law
of authority above
everything by mere speech...
that gullible hydra
of circumstance...
and fakied superiority...
  came back,
once-so-in-high-esteem,
a begging shadow
of what was once
clearly
          a body...
            **** the man
and his body to will,
being nothing more than
what all came to reside with:
a servitude
          to an unobliging
                 stipend;
death comes,
         liberator,
      the only fathomable expression
of ease.

different spirits agree with me:
others don't:
we can agree to disagree as the clitche goes...

today i was supposed to finish
at 9pm
i finished at 8:10pm
in the car park with the away coatches
all the way from
2nd London:
that is Manchester
in terms of spirit...
not in terms of numbers: not so dearest
Brimingham:
let the cities talk as if they were
free from the state!
let Manchester become a city-state!
let it build up its walls
let it become the Troy i want to have
when i leave:
London can burn
but i want my heart to be burried in Manchester...

coincidenses...
no such thing: enough coincidences and you
get Cambodian: MA-GIC!

i switched temperaments i switched humors
i switched from whiskey
to *****
and everything became i'm high: REAL
i got a real pusher of the American finest "tobacoo"
and i as:
Ken: totem: shove that stinker in there:
in some wood:
keep the **** in scented wood
thje doctors are becoming suspicious
nervous
having a *******
about Oedipus Schizophrenic-Android-Altruism
of... off.. Atheist: the Lombard
Crusader Simple tonne of Simples:
Ar'Gs...
  Argentinians:                       (atheism, solipsism,
                                  autism...)

civil army: i work with armny veterans
i'm not a Charles HARLEM HAREM
Bukowski:
the grin reaper of lonely women
whos loves didn't come back from the beaches
of Normandy:
like the women prior
whos men didn't come back from the trenches...
i don't work in a prison:
just a civilian army...
and this ******* pencil-sharpener of a "doctor"
from Poland
had the audacity to play the "doctor"
and the DWP pencil pusher:
i watched the Green Mile
because i wanted to see...
not the execution of the repentant Cain
but the Prideful Abel:
finally resurrected and so vicious resurrected
as a woman...
and men as portraying women
on the screen: but not in theatre of opera:
the world is intact there:
i rewatched the Green Mile
because of Mr Jingles...
oh the ghosts and the spiritless that live among
you and crab bucket you into darkness

Coronation Street
before my time apparently:
oh: grandpa knows the world: WOKE!
his is ich spreschen detuszche
stationed on the Falklands:
made redundant now drives Manchester
Stewards...
so the Bennies...
wha?! the Falklnaders were always there?
did i fear correctly?
painting colours on penguins the ones
that fall over
go back to the nest
and you get aces and the races
British soliders passing time
if i were there: passing time...

MAnchester incoming LOndon answered:
there is a cohesion to mind:
state cities:
there are many citities within the confines
of the Christia-Jewry-n of the City of London
that the Arabs are infiltrating
because i see the perishing god of money
that's where Mammon was crucified
in Islam...
because Islam doesn't believe in usury...
and Ezra my Essex of the Pound
5 books is difficult:
10... i need 10 books...
at least two that i haven't read in English
and at least one in Polish
but i'm finishing at least five books at once...
i found the bibliophiles asset of parasite
in worms...
i moved beyond snakes
i only believe in the stelar symbiosis
between man and worms
i am armed with wormed about to stage
fright fights with serpents
and streets and dragons
and ladders...

Dad's Army: motto: let us disperse the world!
we travelled almost everywhere:
let us be the beacon and the baton
this New Greece
that's England...
let us become ground zero:
let us accept Rome thrived... preserved itself...
like Greece...
let us free ourselves:
the Celts the ******* Romans
then the Saxons then the Danes?

the Finns are weird
the Norwegians discovered Iceland
and America
the Danes sailed west to find England
the Swedes went east and found
Byzantine: dropping ***** as they went...
Goths and Vandlas...
the ******* children that invaded Rome:
it can happen again...
if you wish it...
there are plenty of *** starved young men out
there:
i don't care to have a persuasion...
to deal in these matters...

my cat woke me up at4:30am
couldn't go back to sleep:
music? what music?!
SMNR: whatever that acronym stands for:
i would rather listen to the sound
of rain against a tent:
then rain hilt: on a tin roof...
then rain and thunder
then the sound of crashing waves...
i don't care for music
i already know not to care for sport
i was working with one  WAGWAN
woman... and some African gremlin (sized)
one...

i still care about music
the Green Mile:
but i was there for the Percy Wetmore
transformation:
such a simple Christ
picture...
no more agonizing paradoxes
O: oculus per oculus...
no: you first: thirst: turn the other cheek!
burying naked feet...

i wasn't there for the graces, and god...:

Braille: came the "despots": i need a library
if i'll be moving to Kauiai...
i need a library...

i pay my dew with dues:
should my doctor be my ogliest
U... huel: bananna flavor...
400kcal... but the amount of protein...
then this evening:
because by now the night:
a bunch of children walking against
me
until one voice made
Dasein: there's concern to be had
about being conscious, mortal, alive...

because i was pushed to the side:
but i understood:
the necessary ****
of crowd of *****
and one only one of a billion
experiencing the burden and pardon
of atomized consciousness...
as ***** then ape then man
wow!
what closet of history to be having
to have to keep...

i switched from whiskey to *****...
my temperament is stricter: wiser:
more prone to acknowledging self-mistaking
self-propeller with self-block-blockage-also-alias-a-self.

new *****: artsian spelling my-stakes:
mistakes...
away from rye and whiskers, mrs.:
party boy drinks only *****
alone...
prayer boy drinks whiskey straight: at a party:
please don't confuse or conflate
my CIS-HUBRIS
         ooh: the 007 chills!