. she was 19, i was 21, and i guess i was the first boy who treated her decently, allowed her to slap me in the face and stood like a copper statue before her... she wouldn't have made it at university among all the English yuppies, being pregnant... turns out, she might have opted for the Juno (the movie) route... all i know is that she graduated with a masters in anthropology... she was up in Edinburgh, i was back in London, roofing with my father doing the Scottish Widows HQ and then some other project, trying to weave myself into a managerial position in some roofing company... but then? the psychosis spiral... oddly enough - no hammers, no hearing voices wielding a hammer running down the street naked... contained... walked into a church near King's Cross st., lay on beside a the side altar, pulled the cloth from the altar, and wrapped myself in it... then heard singing, had my iPod with me... turned it off... turned it on again, turned it off... the singing still echoed the church... got up, put the cloth back onto the altar and started running around the church aisles... then a great wind dispersed the singing... what kept my sanity? well... given that i was smoking marijuana and fasting? one word... sátān... the whole 40 days in the desert? cut short... in a concrete desert... i phoned my then ex-girlfriend to meet me at this spot outside the church - right across from a royal mail HQ - and i remember the words: can you bring me bread, and water? nothing... on my own then... no... that sort of experience is no cause for jubilation, there is no ******* euphoria: you're talking about ******* it - in my case? thankfully that's only metaphorical... and i'm not buying the psychiatric *******, the easy way out answer: ooh... but youz ver in a church... what?! what the **** are these people talking about? sober people are allowed to have these experiences? well, really?! so why so many of them are negating or doubting intellectuals?! negation is the new doubt... somehow i managed to fend off the atypical munchies routine while smoking marijuana while walking in public... never bothered me... i was a reggae ***** at the time... notably Israel Vibration, Stephen Marley, Damian & Culture... & ***** and the Maytals... cliche, i know... but **** and rap?! seriously? gangster whatever the hell that means... i've just read an article about cultural appropriation... so what has the Jamaican Rastafarian culture have to do with Old Testament prophets?! JAH... they're always singing about JAH... it's a ******* yak! yah! a german YA! cultural appropriation my ***! it's Jamie Oliver's **** sauce! ****'s sake! yeah, right, Bambi on Jamaica smoking a silly one doing the reinvention of king David's psalms... no cultural appropriation there... nope... none... nothing... nothing wrong with Alpha Blondy singing about Yerushalem... nope... no cultural appropriation.... nope... none... nothing! i mentioned these bands to my Jamaican **** seller... big on the Illuminati conspiracy theories, i liked to listen to him ramble... hardly a Charlie Temple paranoid... loved his ox tail broth, his grandma made it for him... and a pretty daughter, but no mother... eh? his Thai ****? i'd prefer the shorter span of a tobacco high... where? near my old high school, Canon Palmer R.C. - now a ******* academy! whoop! whoop! sound the klaxon! you don't experience what i've experienced and start a cult with *** ****** in mind... like **** if you think you do... you... lay low... you puncture the existentialist exodus from Cartesian doubt - namely outright negation - and you wait for the revitalization of doubt, namely the pop culture variant of belief... doubt is, oddly enough, a variant of belief... and belief? be a leaf... just remember you were once attached to a branch of a tree.

yeah...

        a catholic school isn't
exactly a Jesuit school...

but being asked questions
about abortion
and euthanasia

   aged 15 or 16?

in real life?
  you short-circuit, glitch,
become ronin -

    the personal life, details?
too messy...
   she tells you she's taking
contraceptives,
   she's ends up self-harming...
she says she was abducted
and held for ransom,
she's a russian citizen,
her ex-boyfriend is still
hanging around,
  a son of some Russian oligarch...
you've only dated for a
bunch of months that do not
even make it half a year...
you don't mind condoms,
because... hell...
you'd love to see her wearing
latex...

     you know, the usual bits & bobs...

voodoo...
    for some strange reason i woke
up, and the ring finger blister
on my left hand, made by burning
out a cigarette on it
started bleeding:
  close to the bone -
and look! you get a slot motion
of your body recovering!
  no disclaimer concerning
the pros to what sharp objects
women do, by cutting...

but you know...
      asking a 15 / 16 year old
about his opinion
  about either abortion
or euthanasia?
  bad ******* move...
           at this point i'm thinking:
thank ****...

what does it even mean,
when a woman says it,
she's not exactly point-break
on Cartesian logic...

'matt, i think i'm pregnant'
'well, you know what you should
do, get an abortion.'

mind you... i am a citizen of a country
where abortion is legal...
hell, it might have worked,
*** was good, she could
reciprocate that sentiment...

oh, but if there is a kid at the end
of the tunnel?
i **** sure hope he doesn't
contact me, like a kid from
a ***** donor clinic...
      there's something malicious
waiting for him for me
to add about his mamma -

   aligned?
oh you know... *****, Henny,
  Diana and the Egyptian...
   go Charlie go!

                  please please keep
your name... we need a Charles trinity!

so yeah... Roman Catholic school...
****! oh right, outer east end of London...
Paddy central...
               i wonder...
                  but i'll never know...
the Polish Catholics are leaving...
               good on 'em...
          (yadda yadda, yeah yeah, for them)...

i'll never know...
   am i angry?
               i listen to Byzantine and Templar
chants and drink to a well earned
excess...
               sometimes the odd Bulgarian
******* to hug...
    
oh right... that one last time?
i didn't forget my genitals...
   i did an uncourteous lax of etiquette...
****!
           now it makes sense!
i forgot to trim my ***** hair!
(mumbling out) ******* eureka.

My mom sleeps early.
She isn't a night owl.
She lives in the day.
And everything around when
the sky is bright.
the streets are loud.
She leaves the house at 9pm. sharp
And went off in her snores.

My dad stays up late.
Until twelve.
And when the last 60 seconds
ended the day.
He'd turn off the TV
"Has been a long day"
he'd say.
Yawn.
And he'd go to bed.

And me.
I'm no bubbly girl.
or pretty.
cheesy blondy.
Maybe just a good nerd.
But I know the night.
And I love it.
1a.m. is free.
My private afternoon.
with cookies and tea.
And I'd turn on the lights.
Walk with my ankles light
off the ground.

Turtle hasn't sleep.
no he's like me!
He'd wiggle his tail and
swim
towards my face.
As if to say,
"heya buddie"
he should have eaten but
he knows.
he knows.
I feed my Turtle at
one
in the morning.
And he never says no.

Go find for me in all of botany;
The rarest green amidst the sweetest mire.
That blooms of petals white like cottony,
Of growth 'twas serenaded by a lyre.
Replant with gentle skill by window's sill
Repose the eye that sunlight does not steal.
The blondy gaze, so fixed herein and still,
Unless the breezes kiss corona's seal.
Then flowered dance shall sway to hymns of bay
And whom shall follow trance'd with steady eyes;
Be titled botanist, of beauty's play.
Degree that yields each morn' when sun does rise.

Find that and glimpsed what fair does lay this bed,
But 'pare her side the flower, flower's dead!

when i started to smoke marijuana aged 20
with this russian cupcake of falling asleep in a seashell entwined
i took to listening to: ***** & the maytals, culture,
israel vibration, damian marley, stephen marley, ziggy,
basil daley, brenton dowe, bunny wailer,
burning spear, cornel & the brentford rockers,
earl zero, freddie mckay, jackie mittoo,
keith hudson, king tubby, lloyd robinson & brentford disco,
lone ranger, peter tosh, soul vendors, sound dimension,
the heptones, the new establishment, wailing souls,
willie & the brentford rockers,
winston & the new establishment...
i sometimes wish i went into the stoner rock direction
to experience that side of the ethnic cultural exploitation
of a certain intoxication... anyway, whatever...
i forget to mention barrington levy, gregory isaac,
alpha blondy and sort of classify collie buddz as reggae’s eminem.

i can still look into the velvet depths of the night,
whether in forest or perched on a windowsill grazing
my eyes into the night, and still see nothing except myself;
or you should see me walking down for a refill
of ice-cubes listening to ***** & the maytals' 54-46
that's my number - i know whitey boy albino given
an injection of rhythm, well at least you were given
a creative outlet under the stiff-upper lips of the redcoats,
the jews weren't even told to build the pyramids under ******,
you gave us the blues, jazz, and pirate reggae,
what could the ******* jews offer us to compensate the atrocities?
**** all apart from memorable guilt and autobiographies!
oh yeah, and german industrial music, what fun!
ha ha... robo- -boy with alias Kraftwerk.
in my long gone list of artists i forgot to mention
Alpha Blondy & Barrington Levy - high fidelity poetry
by someone not called nick hornby.

some words, really do require a chance
to un-english the englishness
of them...
                   my, how the english beam
with a stiffness of their tongue -
i actually lament the lost trill of the R -
that drum-roll moment -
       how some letters ought to be changed
in calligraphic terms -
            notably the R -
no longer rotating, rolling, robust or
for that matter: readied for the rattling of
a snake's maracas bulb...
          the english R is a swollen tongue,
a tongue gluttonous: stung by a bee -
      it's not as bad as the harking french R,
but it's not exactly satisfying -
when it started its numbing journey to lick
off some of W - or rather: hollow itself out.
on the altar of sacrificed runes -
   edh, ð... similarly the R ought to be placed
for a sacrifice of revision to enable
the knowledge of: the lost trill...
                           poise the R with the leg
making the step forward as curved inward...
      bend it...
                      the sound is numbed anyway,
let it settle for a foetal position -
      who is to say that calligraphy cannot be
changed?
                 if a letter no longer represents
the sound, there is no need to keep it...
       or at least: that's what makes sense.
i further have to acknowledge -
           the fury and the passions ascribed to
word, allah is a particularly intoxicating word...
     i can actually shed a tear listening to
an adhan...
                    but by simply listening to
alpha blondy's song sebe allah y'e -
    for some reason: there are ever present
emotional connotations within words -
i hate to approach language where words
have been undermine by secularism -
unsung, unsaid, vogue or not vogue -
riddled with prefixes and other greco-roman
abominations of science -
                      if you can grasp a passion -
not say, nor sing: but vow to feed the depth
of a howling wind and taunt with
a word, that's admirable -
           i give islam that, the word allah is
quiet agreeable in song...
   i will curse **** ***** **** dog-dung sheep-*******
my way through two stories in pop
that reveal the adam & even of YHWH -
sauron & voldemort -
a foul tongue ensure a pure body...
but a foul tongue also ensure: a clearer
  perspective for the mind to lap up -
a ****** is just short of a squid's mouth
or a venus flower -
a pair of ******* just short of
              a cow's ******* sack...
                 that's the puritanical objective
stance... miracle be made from a *******'s
ability to turn this objectivity into
the subject of: an ***** phallus,
prostitutes always seem to succeed where
liberated females, always, seem to fail to
arrive in bed with the man completely enslaved
by arousal;
       freud was right about something,
after all.
                        maybe it's the lack of
***** talk by prostitutes?
                    the whole: what would my
father think during *******,
or doing it under the membrane of bed sheets
or with closed eyes (except when climaxing)?
          besides the R...
  to turn the J into a Y -
           yerúshalem -
                            yields more emotion than
jotting down jerusalem (dz grapheme in polish) -
jot, dzik (boar) -
                      mind you,
the Maltese word for god, is actually allah,
you can sing that word so well -
       shame christianity is riddled with
the deathly gong of the 11pm bells -
once they gonged for a call to prayer -
now they're just a medieval version of a Rolex.
            if words cannot turn into
goosebumps and a tectonic shivers infused
with electric tingling across the face and spine -
   if they cannot make stakes with cool tears
evaporating on a flushed face oozing
sickly heat -
          if god remains outside the realm ****** -
we're talking language equivalent of
                a flat soufflé...
          passsable, instructional,
  tinged with a mathematical vector focus -
get's you from (a) to (b) -
  but language is not a ******* map!
    with language, if you're not lost,
   you're using said instructions -
           you're going through the plateau
of the nauseating flat Belgium...
            where the horizon is not
obstructed by a mountain range,
but merely by the distance of the unchanging
perversity of the people who write
instruction manuals for Ikea on how to
put a chair together.
                       who the **** finds these
comatose perverts, or have they actually
started to liberate people,
  and "employed" lit-bots to write this
crap out?
     - i always wanted to meet the people
who write the small print and
    the terms & conditions sections of any
agreement / contract;
            cold corpses sniffing tulips
  from the roots up, doesn't even cut it.

i've heard of women rereading works of fiction, entire books, rereading them up to 3 to 4 times... me? i can only muster the effort for a single reading, and the rest of "rereading" becomes a game of memory; but this "ideal" evaporates, as soon as i pick up a philosophy book, notably? heidegger's ponderings vi, aphorism vii; why? well, to pay a closer attention, to expand on attention, to solve a "puzzle", evidently this is true for both the medium of prose philosophy - yes, i agree, a tedious take on narrative, since these narratives have "characters" that amount to nothing more than nomen in relatio, namely? no notion of playing god, or, to be exact, a puppeteer. no, i agree, the narrative is plague with tedium, but so it samuel beckett's play not i; mind you, there's calm to counter beckett's feminine embodiment of ego-******; titillating as it already is: insinuating phelatio.

and what can a man best do, being scorned,
by an unfortunate short-term relationship,
that might have only lasted for a breadth of
encompassing only two seasons?
   having no knowledge of came about in rural
areas, during winter times, and how
people kept warm? body chess?
it would seem, that the shorter the love affair,
the more memorable it becomes...
     and that's all the more true (universal) -
when there's the topic of a summer fling;
mine? stretched from spring through to summer,
but the thing is: i have no regrets,
in that, as any solipsist might state:
                 i regret losing a part of my self;
didn't you know? i thought people would have
picked it up, that solipsism is the new "atheism",
and to be honest, i like that label... why?
well, it invites the mythology of kinship
of that of *thanatos & hypnos...
   who do you think can be conjured to share
common thread of thought with a solipsist?
narcissus! hence? narcissus & his brother
    solipssus - as any single child will tell you,
esp. in china: i really wished for a twin...
children of many siblings do not share this
   sentiment, of leveraging on wishing for a twin;
and mind you:
        in the zodiac, taurus is just shy of gemini.
oh, right, this aphorism in ponderings vi...
actually... i don't know if i should verbatim extracts
from it, or just compare it to an atheist talking...
i'm side tracking, because i started thinking
about susanna hoff...
             as any man might, with half a fishing net's
worth of
fiddling-with-a-knitting-competence-worth-of-"wit";
what? a woman's beauty is a welcome distraction,
esp. the 80s... and i don't know why,
but i remember being implanted
the archetypal beauty of a woman dressed in the sun,
i.e. blonde... and, luckily enough, i received
my first kiss when i was 5, 6, or 7...
  can't remember her name,
but i know her surname - kot i.e. cat,
and she had twin sisters younger than her,
her father used to drive a truck...
             and drunk ***** like a skunk.
you know what, since i've entered the rambling
stage of narrative, i will not mention heidegger's
aphorism, i'll just let you buy the **** book
(30 quid a pop second hand,
  good luck)
               i'll just mention an offshoot of a thought
that came from it, being reread several times...
ah! the monotheistic trinity!
  step 1. you do know that in maltese,
   the word for god is, allah?
step 2. there is no more beautiful name
    for god than allah, namely?
   listen to alpha blondy's song sebe allah ye...
step 3. jews are really **** at singing,
    the name of their god reside in the cognitive realm,
and in the cognitive realm alone,
   hence: do not take my name in vain...
step 4. say jesus christ about 40+ times,
             great vanity project...
step 5. i seriously recommend this to you,
  go to a polish catholic mass, in poland,
  and wait for the believers reciting the creed
  p.s. tell me if you see any comparison with
a satanic mass murmur...
step 6. my thought belongs to elohim,
  my singing & esp. drumming to as sami (26) -
  (you ever think the arabs are all too
glottal, in their pronunciation?
   like glug glug: pucker, gug?);
and the "father"?
                  silence,
               and if not silence, then the most
mundane talk... and a respect for even the most
dumbest of possible carpenters,
   and let me tell you, the biggest *******
of them all, surname? griffin... t(h)omas...
hardly a θought in him...
          but hey, he got all the girls,
i got an empty pint glasses, and a shamed walk
home...
  come english... show us yer surd letters!
   what's v'eh θinking behind it all, eh, tomas?
sure it's not θomas?
                             whatever;
it's not like you're going to get another stab at
producing a shakespeare.

Should twenty more of yours and all the same
Proclaim that they are you and you for me:
What tells could tell wherein my love became-
And where my love by one shall ever be?
Yes, eyes be all of blue and whitish snow
When met with mine hue even more azure,
And blondy lush of hair; do summers' show
By sway that gold commands and winds allure,
With equal tones may all review my write,
Ah! whom most moved, aware that she's my muse;
With hand to voice bare not the read's recite;
Then turn and run to me with love's enthuse!

Yes beauty plays it's part in lovers' choice
But heart reveals your love's the greater voice.

there's nothing specific about the horror
movie mandy...
except for... the neu-horror
akin to the neon demon flick...
there's no real prosthetic concept
such the platitude of a b.d.s.m. afternoon...
the use of colour strictly blatant
like a ferocious fuchsia...
            neon dotting...
              come to "think" of it...
       i don't have the capacity to write
a harlequin novel... i'd rather sketch...
intelligent music... meditation duels...
very much akin to king crimson...
i dearly underappreciated the album red...
i watched the movie in the zenith
of the sun...
   but unlike carnage park...
                the aura of suspect & suspence...
horror without the night
is very much a custard pie and
excess fudge of bass with ghostly drums
in the background...
king crimson: in the court and...
    
horror movies that do not use
the night protagonist...
                       or that there ever will
be a concerning shadow...
i can't escape a mere generosity
of the genre...
   there's a need to incubate half-a-heart...
herr fripp is forever
and understudy of...
            convenient pop...
read a book for an hour...
or listen to some king crimson for...
the same amount of time...
this brief interlude between
jazz and classical..
               it's not bayren: brahms...
or stiletto miles...
               it's this hybrid sentence...
alpha blondy: jerusalem...
    culture: iron sharpening iron...

i'm alive yet quiet dead:
in the court of...
red... larks' tongue in aspic...
     but not... discipline...
      not in the wake of poseidon...
islands... a cello for a bass guitar...
so much of me is alive
as to associate the virility concept
to a cucumber...
and penic envy to a watermelon...

i pass the care for i.q. as
a buffer zone of bluffs...
                there's no horror movie without
music...
                 the music must overpover
the anaesthetic of images thus... presented...
the tartar steak... some sushi...
      may i have listened a thorough-through...
of some band... but...
it's a *****-count gymnastic...
years later...
   only years later...
some archeological dimension...
whereas those that write...
for the prizes of the literally mortal...

                with variation: it's music...
but it's also gesticulation at music...
there's only one redeeming aspect of the b.b.c.:
radio 3...
i can spend 2 hours lying in bed...
there's no at the hour news revival...
i dip into copernican south...
Galileo's west...
         no adverts... i press the snooze button...
10 minutes becomes 2 hours on
a sunday...
for all the critique of the b.b.c.:
any critique of radio 3 is... unwelcome...
honest to: god or no god...

interlude: exercise in grammar as
a guitar... what did fripp contribute...
beside... the early death envy of
a hendrix...
                         governing body:
mr. clapton...
          well yes... nice... a solipsistic adventure
of taking a ****...
              smart is about to
be disgraced as:
the capacity to merely sit in awe at
the music being presented...
that's it!

              nothing more!
             i.e. why are intelligent people
such complete and utter morons!
testing cushion fabric!
testing cushion fabric!
breaking a tooth on an umbrella!
painting rain!
painting sunrise: an edward hopper
altar sacrifice too!
painting sunset with a golden serpent
and some Turner...

my words are a crease in
this borrowed fabric...
           for a loft pretence guiding
a shakespeare...
to amend: what man made of man...
it's impossible...
the same grief is thorough
throughout:
that man... did unto man...
what has to be...
exacted within the confines
of: pressing history...
that there is no advantageous period...
of time lost memorial toward
a nostalgia... my nostalgia my...
ancient my zenith of primed
personal golgotha...

               no nearing progress with
a suffocating bias / excuse:
because the 20th century was...
i might have read don quixote:
but did it leave a living imprint
on my mind:
at what point will / can...
thinking become a claustrophobia...
while the ego a brick:

borrowed lyrics:
impaled on the nails of eyes...
some pseudo-dated prelude...
   with quill and silver... creasing...
impaled on the nails of eyes...
guess no borrowed lyrics
after all...
new york... 1970s cement and grit
as borrowed from swansea's
best:

impaled with the nails of eyes...
          i am either deaf
or half pretending a dislike
of Penderecki...
  
my zookeeper's question of
zebra stripes... these desired less...
question of...
beef as some honeycomb...
the served intestines within the confines
of hexagon questioning pentagon...

my dear fat lady and fat saxophone...
squeeze... my dear mr. fripp...
my echo in the beatles...
the grand technician that could
be... punk floyd and wet
   tobacco readied to be chewed and posited
in a chequers' game from
borrowed best: Shawshank and...
    pork choppy shackles!
to the bone for the bone for the...
youth of a Michael Cain!

              we once played two archetypical
wishes of a game without competition:
a hide & seek...
   and that... somehow...
clouds were to be impregnable castles
or widow swans...
myriads of syllables...
akin to mandarin sorrow-keepers...
that the consonants were to
be world renowned...
while the vowels: mere punctuation
reminders...

      all this... with a concept of 5pm tea
and a sunset... and something...
beside englishness...
like a rhetorical question
and a mud quest of a ancient roman:
germania...

such extremes: but no belittling jazz...
obviously it's all too complex:
a xeno- is not... but is... charcoal...
                 chisel and chaser...
having the bewildering complexity
of a brain-drain immigration
and the totality fluke of a globalist
glue... like... the old-blah-blah...
like no new: ha-ha...
                     because england has already
desired financing... tame ireland...
and... that solipsistic endeavour
post hong kong...
to seal the envelopes and all minor,
bogus... details...

my best english somewhere akin
to australia...
                   nowhere near quiz and aussie land...
this everyday anglo-spandex:
towing the moon beside...
the riddling antithesis
of old broke russia a soviet:
caricature...
because kazakh borat heb' sayo says so...
                
weathered stones and complete mountains...
futurist seas...
and some complexity of
red beside a shading and noun
to grip a culture of the best weathered moon
attire of: punctuation with
meteors and acne...

such pristine 18 minutes past midnight:
drinking because shadows are neglected
and that's all because bohren club der gore...
and there's a city in germany akin
to Essen...
                and Dortmund...
and a football team like Schalke...

besides... believe me: there's a Jupiter...
and that Jupiter is also Polyphemus
by the grief of the storm...
               that all the saints reside on Saturn...
and however unfathomable...
this can alone stand to make
the universal testament...
           i am but a clay fish of clingy sorrow...
i breathe the unfathomable...
i digest the lesser things of
incompetence: dandy...
          
               i worship anatomy like i might:
make an adventure of myself
within the confines of... tailoring...
suiting... pristine perfecting...
what a not-magic: this grammar spectacular!

- is this the requiring a language
of the ordeal of formality...
the advent of an evening dress attire to cope...
my language my language lost...
it's hardly first beginning english...
it's not this... my i play tourist
and fashion all the details of
professional cricket?

               my god! the white wooly
cardigan with cut sleeves!
           there's also that ambition...
to abide in a shelter from
the wind and rain...
whereby the ratio of:
books:bricks...
is in favour of the former...

yes... because it's impossible in english...
to even question shakespeare...
i believe the one true counter is
a dickens binding experiment...
          a near impossible...
dabbling in sour apples...
in ****** rhymes... into existence...
island dwelling folkish and a people...
some critique of the continent...
beside that far far away in an africa that
never became: mongolian siberia: ah! ha ha!

ladies on the road: the beatles...
giggles... true and truant laughter...
the clash and beatlemania...
beside the concern for the thames...
a river squeezing the torrents
of postcard haven: some beside
a Tokyo...
no... lucky for me...
before that dire drop... some months
and miles away...
i guess i best go ******* up
and broke blind on the hint of history...
last reserved...
glittering dumplings best sold:
by the beast... sober, armed
with a ferocious violin... and a glittering
compensation  McQueen...
tiger found ferocious nearing...
boing-boing: and some... quizz
of "future": yes... borrowed mongol...
bistro Jing-Xing.

. well... apparently a slice of lime in a ms. amber
(whiskey) and pepsi is not a profanity,
not an abomination,
                       clearly a touch of zing
does the trick...
                          as is that other "profanity"
of the ms. amber: twins...
   or a double amber...
                                      scotch with ginger ale...
my god, that works like...
    i guess that the gods don't have a chance
                                to drink their own ****!

that's thing about drinking,
   you might say i came across poetry
by chance, or as an attache composite
of my drinking,
   or the other way round...
whichever way it was:
    it's not exactly sodium pentothal
but it works...
  or at least: if you're honest with yourself...
i still don't have the foggiest
about what ***** styron was talking
about...
    oh... he drank and listened to music,
he didn't drink and write...
that figures...
              who the hell drinks for "fun"
these days?
           if there's one thing i know,
is that:     if i truly lied throughout my,
rather, uneventful life,
    this sort of diarrhoea spew would come by...
as... rather... problematic...
lying takes up too much of the mental
faculty that's imagination...
  much simpler just to tell the truth...
alcohol just enchances by ability to do so...
like, take this example...
i was thinking of a rammstein song...
while listening to slaughterhouse music
  (feindflug...
   don't worry... i'll be listening to
some ke$a later...
   i'm a sucker for pop music,
once i, crawl out from the outlier music
types)
  and this, really is, a pedantic fetish...
maybe it's an east german "thing"...
ich will...
                point being...
  where's the harking sound of ICH
in that song?
    no... i'm pretty sure it's not there...
what is in there is...
        isch will...
           or at least that's how the schwabs
speak and write it...
   which doesn't imply
         it's even a case of the caron,
hiding the H in an english word like:
  šatter - no, not a *******,
                                  to, shatter...
no wonder: being neighbours...
   but it still must be an east german
"thing"...
                  given that ich becomes isch
and... that pretty much sounds
acute...
                 namely?
                                 ś -
   yś will...
               ergo? ich / isch = yś ~ iš
because there are two languages within
each of the european languages,
sure, i'd love to compliment
on the ******* phonetic encoding
               of the chinese ideogram method...
phonetic results? chow mein,
pretty ******* meagre if you ask me...
like... do we really need the wall,
             or, isn't our language enough?
i see some latin encoding and i'm like:
should i sing or should i hum?
   two languages, in one,
most notably with french,
  that masterful brainchild of loose
syllables...
               and gulping down suffixes...
english? eh... so so...
         point being:
                well you have accents,
don't you... i've never heard a chinese
person talk about some foreigner's accent...
but we write one way,
  and then speak another...
              so i just sit, and listen...
and with a fluency in two languages,
i come across, pedantic observations,
which for me are: narrative cues.
when sang: it's either an operatic
    bowl of spaghetti...
      where the vowels are exaggerated
and the consonant "somehow" disappear...
or... like a rammstein song...
it's written ich, it's sung isch...
   and then... if i were to bypass
   the convention of literacy...
and write everything: purely phonetically...
ich would become isch would become yś...
obviously writing from hearing
is not appealing to the aesthetic of
writing per se...
     even with the use of orthography...
"short-cuts" akin to borrowing
     from the semitic vowel hide & seek...
oh **** they're smart,
isn't it obvious?
         have you looked at the language?
even now: encoding quill
  idiosyncracy...
      you have two "vowels" acting
as consonants (א & ע - ayin and aleph)
you have hidden vowels...
kametz (a), tzere (e), chirek (i), cholem (o)
and shurek (u) -
vowels... that are more like orthographical
markers in a latin script...
oh, but they're not written into
a standard text, like a street sign...
the arabs didn't figure out
a way to hide these markers...
the hebrews did...
     reading their language is sometimes
like solving a crossword...
   one example:

ירושלים
            that would be a street sign...
not    יְרוּשָׁלַיִם
     yod, resh,
             problem...
                  shin,
                          lamed, yod,
           mem...
    yeah...  wait... (ו) vav...
    there's a vav in Jerusalem?
   what the **** is wikipedia "selling"?

in the meantime: some alpha blondy...
but a street sign would
           read          ירשלים
and that's all consonants...
    see what i mean? now fit in the vowels...
sneaky *******,
   this is simply ingenius...
        in latin that would read as
YRSHLM....
                    unless you know
the word prior... a ******* vowel roulette
or something?

well yeah,
    (א & ע - ayin and aleph)
are the new cain and abel for me...
because of the prefix rule...
  what do you get when you
cut off the prefix  
    of theta? θ - f,
   and what do you get when you
get when you cut off the prefix
of phi? φ - f...
               AFFA...
two Fs in Greek, Ayin and Aleph in Hebrew...
oh no no...
the new testament was never
a greco-hebrew collaboration project
to topple the romans...
   no... oh no... forget about it...
b-eta
            e-ta
              e-psilon
                          z-eta
                                         o(o)-mega.