Which takes us on a direct path to:
THE  INCIDENT.
Say you are a normal man—whatever that means—
But say it’s late June of 1993 and you’re laying on the couch,
Scratching your *****, trying to intuit your LDL level
Based on the two bowls of the Old Lady’s Cholesterol Chowder.
The Old Lady-- you can call her Peg or Mrs. Bundy—
Served it up in her special legacy china,
An assortment of recycled tin foil casserole dishes &
Vintage melmac handed down by your mother-in-law.
You are on the couch giving digestion your best shot,
Still scratching your agates when Peg comes
In from the kitchen with your second glass of
Two-buck chuck and a smoking fatty she’s just ignited,
Miraculously without burning the house down.
The TV is on—the TV is always on because
The TV has had no off button since 1984
You are tuned to the CNN evening news &
A report comes on that makes you sit up,
Snap to attention, straight up and take notice:
"WOMAN CUTS OFF HUSBAND'S *****!"
The media shrikes in Atlanta have your attention now,
Your complete attention;
Your eyes are riveted to the telescreen &
Your blood pressure spiking at 240 over 140.
During the previous night of June 23, 1993,
John Wayne Bobbitt arrives at the
Couple's apartment in Manassas, Virginia,
Highly intoxicated after a night of partying.
According to testimony given by Lorena Bobbitt
In a 1994 court hearing, he then rapes her.
Afterwards, Lorena Bobbitt gets out of bed,
Goes to the kitchen for a drink of water.
According to a journal article in the
National Women's Justice & Defense
League of Psychotic Castrating *******,
While in the kitchen she notices,
A carving knife on the counter & "memories of
Past domestic abuse races through her head."
Grabbing the knife, Lorena Bobbitt enters the bedroom
Where John is sleeping & proceeds to
Cut off nearly half his *****,
Half his Johnson,
In this instance aptly named.
So you have some schnook who’s named
After the iconic Hollywood superstar John Wayne . . .
Now understand something, John Wayne—
The ******* Duke of Earl--
Personifies everything alpha male:
Physique, animal magnetism & a pair of
Huge ***** swinging in his chaps as
He sashays across the screen.
In real life he’s a bullfight & cigar aficionado,
A big game hunter and sport fisherman, &
A hard drinking Hemingway hero
Who spends most of his time aboard
A customized WWII U.S. mine sweeper
******* to a pier behind his house in
Newport Harbor, California.
He’s the proverbial man’s man, &
There’s no one like him in America
Until maybe Eastwood or Willis comes along.
There’s a statue of him out in front of
The Orange County Airport that bears his name.
I have a photograph of him hanging in my garage
Next to a Mad-Dog 20-20 poster.
But I digress.
We return to the Bobbitt story because
It gets better, keeps getting crazier.
After assaulting her husband,
Lorena leaves the apartment with the severed *****,
Drives around aimlessly for a short while,
Then rolls down the car window &
Throws the ***** into a field.
Only then does the loony ***** realize
The severity of the incident.
She stops and calls 911.
After an exhaustive search by
Volunteers from the local Humane Society,
The ***** is located, packed in the ice-slurry of
A banana-flavored 7/11 Slurpee, &
Taken to the hospital where half-**** John Bobbitt
Gets a short-arm inspection and treated,
Mostly for shock and awe.
His ***** is later reattached by Drs. James T. Sehn &
David Berman during a nine-and-a-half-hour surgery
Filmed by Ken Burns and broadcast in its entirety by
WGBH Boston, a stunning illustration of
Your tax dollars hard at work
At the National Endowment for the Arts.
An abridged version later becomes the season premier of
"Girls Gone ******* ******, Manassas!"
Lorena goes on Oprah to explain herself.

Lorena Bobbitt ((née Gallo) was born in Ecuador.
Her maiden name, ironically,
Means **** in English.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Phoenix had this to say:
“Deport the *****. She may have an INS green card
But there’s no way she had a government permit to
Go around lopping ***** off in Virginia or any other state.
Who does she think she is, Janet Napolitano?”
Napolitano could not be reached for comment.
Shortly after the incident, episodes of "Bobbittmania,"
Or copycat crimes, were reported.
The name Lorena Bobbitt eventually became
Synonymous with ***** removal.
The terms "Bobbitt Punishment" and "Bobbitt Procedure" gained
Social cache with a radical break-away sect of N.O.W.
COPYCAT Catherine Kieu Becker, 48 (Garden Grove P.D.)  
Woman Accused of Cutting Off Husband's *****
Pleads Not Guilty/ VIDEO: Watch Jennifer Gould's Report
KTLA News   10:40 a.m. PST, February 3, 2012 /SANTA ANA, Calif.
"A 48-year-old woman accused of cutting off
Her husband's ***** and putting it
In the garbage disposal has pleaded
Not guilty to all the charges against her.
Catherine Kieu, of Garden Grove,
Was indicted earlier this month on
One felony count of torture &
One felony count of aggravated mayhem.
She also faces a sentencing enhancement for
Practicing surgical medicine without a license."
Sign up for KTLA 5 Breaking News Email Alerts
Comments (130) Add / View comments | Discussion FAQ
Happy627 at 10:35 PM January 18, 2012
"So my x-wife is a violent drunken *****?
Never once did I ever think of hurting her
But now I see I was wrong.
Vengeance's is the true answer & payback is hell.
So basically I should put an M-40
In her *** and light the fuse.
I should be acquitted from any wrong doing
Because she was a violent drunken *****.
Maybe all men should do this to their
Violent wives/girlfriends & teach them a lesson.
Cyanmanta at 1:10 AM January 11, 2012
In response to Doreen Meyer:
"So you're assuming that because he was the victim
He must have done something to deserve it
In some small way?
Typical of convenient feminism:
Assume all female victims are innocent &
Pure as driven snow,
While dismissing all male victims
With the idea that 'he had it coming.'
I wish I could pander shamelessly
To the media for preferential treatment,
But sadly, I am male (or as feminists would say)
The Evil Gender."
Westfield at 5:47 PM Jan.09, 2012
She should get her own show on the ***** channel.
(Bravo). KABC radio's John Phillips & his girlfriend
Nathan Baker would love to watch it."
Sluff it off, take a load off, baby.
Take a load off?
“Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, and
Bom bom bom bom
Bom be bom— & Dddddddddd,
You can put the load right on me.”
Send “The Weight” Ringtone to Your Cell

. . . Snipped, fixed, neutered, gelded,
Emasculated, eunuchized, or castrated?
(Castrating Forceps  (www.alibaba.com/
Showroom/castration-tool.html).
Bobbittized!

Man life know just set eyes way like young world soul day hunger space mouth earth thoughts ignorance blind things mind knew final moment human creation kind creatures souls high forgotten dream love spoke self existence face holy deep bound think home void say surrender ear forever called held ephemeral red state end shall heed hope edge living waking fall sea wake garden need February thought past wanderer got men page colored tepid terrible **** proudly untitled features point painted faceless box forgot render wild spring splendor  handfuls looking half brain lost torn ancestral  unseen vision inner summer honor mister owned banner save today fear groans wasn't smoke  street fable strange year contrast black years  able pain body spoken word known motion  palpitate reeling nature culture disclaimers  cancer beg attentive frames ****** base profound double remember wholly finger death token  cries continue folk oh fishing form broken true  divides spread ah twas away breathe wait warning hallowed wish closer lens turn eye live  constant current author hung theory dangle  bramble chemical new force changes adderall  anymore giving beneath possess pardon commentaries eternity internal walk reason  long change does idea glimpse consciousness  wandering simply wonder physical dreams war  sleep told rest benign prior begging truth little  2012 born tale crow bowels allegory animal rule  exasperate making horse curse hands ones read  rearrange capture doing command fail awake  aperture seedlings shift steely sir nap spead ****** demons slits clever telling loud spits la-la-di-dah killing slip game reflected nameless ask  lovers rabid bear salivate plunder shameless  famously savior mint rides menthol bully fate traded melodies play misunderstand mammals gentle witless fine utterly savage silt tongue-less  dirt dilutes pure non-sensory taste briefly ravage dismember it''ll shedding ruined curtain  knots offers plot fulfills munificent two-act  relegates boxz bug altruistic wintergreen tossing  callously guise grovels one's singers treachery ashes mid-life mutter fashion parading  ambiguity separatist liars staple steeping neath  guidelines scoffing stitch moans civil wrote  Fictitious undoing fables table effigies serve  sonnets staged remark psalm swoll praise harken  beggar verse bread lines heavily electricity detection snow sack-happy preaching credit  spotted wicked best gravity gun campaign owe  barge choir revelry celebratory satiated sinking  headline pack hound persistently propaganda  gentlemen excluding diminished ******* run idles  occupied levies wolfishly honestly misinformation cuba vehemently dumb grace spectator erasing  toned sage crowded secrets inter-connectivity  loaned prayer hymns grave mistaken magnified  vandals selective jump leak escapes says minister  buckle mass honesty shut tar children's hats  monument doping long-lived electrical ladle  exaggerated cartoons address seconds cool cradle bleak yang's mind-framed hypnotic  walker caps folly treble claim streaks mixtures  swelled interstate elapse teasing spoon mobile  succulent witchcraft borderline fatal 99 temple stacks sups plastics creeps neurotic ills tossed  meek sipping old crack interlock wax alleyway  coughing blown freak clock birthdays societies  slow flashing viscous candy argument toothless  pills cerebral rapt wall bisect lives wheezing  photo kid starter foiled pair saturated self-castrating pre-packed naked uncertainly pill  used came chaos coated reprisal fells wrack  irreverent mirth sickly disinherited proudest  collate wheeze appearance palette disharmony  discontented bastardized emotive bio inhale diction beat spoiled reclamation loudest tempo  totally disembodied matte imperfect shells flat  struck sounding imparts flak origin severance remarked bone walls snared leaflets mocking  hot scripting adjective noun agape seemingly  resistant gawk calamity passage paintings wind  trashcans signings sits cheap makers poetry persist scrap slipping individual talk wonders  leaving questions fold actor fancy parchment  fates engenders flown jaws stripped longer music  sacrifice fakers book boldly frown sigh atop patient hang trade occupation blows spectacular  whispers worthy backward waving certainty danced suppose needn't ‘drawkcab’ second-guessing  boys forget marched motto heads tightly lies two-tone earthbound harp twice turns goodnight  lying ***** internally indiscriminate nickname  drunk convictions myth steep  in-consumption  fitting artist **** universal sick expressions bad  du spell melody big siphon proud learn sprawls song spastic something temperaments utter check  fissures stomp totality blend definitely thrall sing rug voice shade pestilence ties commiserate round devil steady brains emotional certain gate  suckling gates dearth decay weight bounce pound  carrier pangs glass startle contest earthen web  tug pressed air patience flush amassed guest gone apprehension staring empathize captain believe fading in-perceivable deathbed guarder makes surrounds scatter drooling ebb blink cob tome  venom near door lair derision draws host stairs scent parts curiosities spider webbing surprise wares tips stepping ascetics starkness realize picture surroundings dictations grand pillars  deaf limited comparisons greet visual residents  personal settings dismiss alien law stability common earthly shiftless places prelude  understanding mosaic keen trifling embodiments  geared inception whisper visible jowls kiss murky  puddle rank dawn dichotomy single faithful fraying pays tailor veil climb mores pence whim  breath wellspring samara god stony pear  shadows fruiting forebodes moonlit looming  shown passed bog gold wracked faint tongues  noble preachers mirror shifting layered depth  threads jungle narcissus bemused seamstress self-worshiping architect's wore slumber anomalous  opened barren seam lip caustic scene coupled brick gardener's clenches -with forms idle breed  embodied lore starving empathy design illusion  tree coat fabricate lucid mason scatter-all  narrative seeking imbued 16th shivering chemicals 17th 15thrisk improperly dare  deliberate plan purge try brought chapter speed  aide utmost spirit leading intervention felt  recall recent advent sincerity times diary  lackluster piously lasting happy holding hear  stem tasteless whimpers wet spine monstrosity  dripping causes position quite softly claws pallet  answer digging tearing beast satiating circle breaks skips redwoods beckoning rotted hushed  gray lapsing monoliths deities creborus  imbuement hand stroll paradigm rendered chorus shy whispering forest residual tension  surrenders tolerance lull anew sentenced  bearing tide birds dirge divergent rim joined  cogs wood hesitant mist emergent towering offer  awareness confinement inverted faultier stowed  plane sanctified blanketing trusting memory fossil flash twists laden self-indulgent fleeting invitation agony grip shore impetus lingering  crows promise gift union swallowing endless floor supposed ecstasy sensory intent  psychotropic cradling placement interned  jagged connectivity exchange congenial begun  summons singular spiral assumes ambient reciprocates re-entry fruition reached aggregate lifetime limbs birthed instinct  frightening tarry proper entire light  boundaries innocence pursuit ago discover left  youth's unknowing sacred time place meager  simple fact cast ceaseless wide-eyed literal  apparent coincidence create boldness morphed  crooked kempt mere stumble buried shutter fairy  pivotal definitive months worth shear ambition sound required journeyed self-reflections title  facets vague restless intimation gut wanderer's  leap motivate path account boy soon bears faith  question tripped reasons uproot awaited confronted days step heal provocations wisps crushing transcend chronicles instance  directness raw drove occurrence objective-less  real enters slightest confident nondescript  typify  foreshortened interment paradox bitter heart  devoid jeopardy angry sensation confidential guilty arrogance mercy compliance reprieve  vincent deadening factual sign emotion awe  inhibition shackled butterflies absence actual sciences acknowledgement violent stagnant  spiritual American doors roots lack matted fore  gestures society cause streams intensity hair impossible discord lonely hearts resounding  jest  what's flavored pains closed toxic contented  happenstance scientific knowledge yeah  wizardry shaking stifled withdrawn bloom  jitter dreads settle asocial hulton make  predisposed figurative reflections demeanors  wondered affect hulton's projected sense  morning industry arrays ghosts feeling  certainly endomorphic where's partially wrath  passer mornings jovial unease advertized asking  trash onward wished tempers media mentality connect pasts sharp-toothed scramble great colours trial test salvation continually lent  degree secretly subjection social waned  disconnected colors grimly intellectual civilization cash trading baffling particular  digest myths monumental ending seasons winter  repetition introducing agent everlasting  shoulders delivered honestly-- possession funny  continence history unsightly function suffering propulsion profession divulge familiar tugs era  importance capability perpetuation spite inventory words entirety leveling fray insight  date record continues writer getting evermore fellow tongue possessions identical proof accuracy education similar sack admittance  favor unravel conveyance guilt gives beginnings  predicting audacity definition bobby heady eaters frameless learned release stone grandeur sang  speak molds sleeps split built seats people folded  sheer pour evoked playhouse liquid boring  tellers frayed stark walked reality pleas doth  preformed shows beak pride squawks opinions  greatest bold stunning sightings he'd loudly slain  sunk watch legend precipice theater deeper compound commentator civility justly silly sin  reverent seen prophetic moral confounds notion  lacking explain attempt prolific viral estrange proclivity scorn hide blur pious strung eden's  horror cut skin arch cruel twig mother vile  pass lend woods peach shrunken trail man's canopy worn 434 eat warm limb familiar father delete.

You are what your reading lady. Now would you hold this gun?

Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.

Sloane swallows.
***** is ****!
I execrate extraterrestrial.

We are all kaput to conk out.

Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.

If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing *******.
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.

We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.

I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****,
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***.
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id.  Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******,
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.  
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.

i

It took three of us to pull her out
onto steel-float-finished concrete —
where her mother; BNNZ-0031U
fell from GXA339605 —
a little black Limousin heifer
later to be Christened
IE18576-0426.
Shortened to Patch.

Like my nephew Jamie
he’ll never know dial-up.
Imagine … I lived 27 years B.FB.
(Before Facebook.)


ii

If a cow calves down successfully —
that’s no guarantee you’ll end up with a cheque —
they’re moved to the postnatal paddock.
Almost the furthest field back,
gives junior a peak at the future fields
they’ll someday graze.
Provided they live long enough.

One year, the tour had entered the 3rd Hill Field
which has 8 gates, the cow knew which one.
I was only here to open and close the gates.
So she checked her mirrors
then indicated left. Migratory.
Junior, on-the-other-hand
didn’t quite know what to do
so floored it; head-on
into un-suspecting gate.

It was like in the cartoons,
something would fall on someone’s head,
they’d walk away like an accordion.

I nearly died laughing
5000 times funnier than castrating lambs
I swear to God.


iii

They came into my world and leave
from the shed

I like to think that there word for the shed,
when translated would mean pain —
between being de-horned; castrated;
belted with sticks; stobbed with needles
and yucky medicine rammed down their throats.  
Then weaned: no more mommy from now on.

Let back out, having weathered their 1st winter.
Yearlings; grazing different field.
Their 2nd summer at grass — according to the book —
is where they’ll experience Compensatory Growth.
When the gate up to the Rock is closed,
that’s the end of the road for them.
We finish the cattle here.
Well used to gates by then.

That’s all it is really; a series of galvanised gates
opening and closing in conjunction
with a selected grazing rotation.
One cycle around 62.4 hectares.


iv

There’s only one reason
cows are moved in with the cattle —
well, yea there’s the other reason too,
but primarily —
to keep Romeo away from Juliet.

At this age, there elders are generally knackered,
probably mastitis in more than one ***.

In the Beef Book in college,
cull cows are referred to as ‘canners’
as that’s where most of them end up —
in tins of dog food.


v

It was 17 years ago, Patch ran into that gate.
I’ve seen her go from bullied springer to bully.
She’s taking a trip with the cattle today.

I wonder did she know
that IE18576-0851 was hers
from last year. I like to think so.
And everyone of her offspring,
all lived to be killed.
Only space for that in my notebook.

Mart starts at 10, it’s 8.30am
waiting for Lynsky.
All my years loading cattle,
it’s never once been raining.

And calves in fields over
contently ****.

the shadow cabinet of a cultural marxist
                 government is filled with them,
   these spewing neuro-science pop
       zeitgeist, whatever you want to call them,
these culutral darwinists: annoying
   as either gnat or ****, depends...
        depends if there's an evangelical member
of the lord of mosquitos cult,
   you know the one... based in the vatican;

p.s. nope... i just got bored of the ****** argument,
these cultural darwinists are like theologians,
sneaky *******, they're just like
theologians: they use the lion and the pigeon
in terms of competing for animals,
   like the theologians use the spider and
the spiderweb for their "creator"...
             the only problem with this comparison
of man to animal...
   well... there's that problem of domesticated
animals... castrating pedigree breeds of cats...
   and then the harem of pigs and cows...
how young bulls are slaughtered,
  and only one is left to breed with the other
*******...
                see where cultural darwinism is
heading?
                      why would i compete for sloppy
seconds... when i ******* like
a woman menstrautes... once a month?
      
p.p.s. i'm not too good at hebrew,
but if there's anyone out there to provide
the new name for jesus "christ",
please make him the ******* brother of
            beelzebub, i.e. the lord of mosquitos.

p.p.p.s. does fine art equal ****?
     i mean... i ****** off looking at
  agnolo bronzino's
    venus, cupid, folly & time... um...
                           maybe i just have refined tastes.

1

The Clowns in Brussels Sprouts
have sent me a notebook. Tossers.
The latest thrilling instalment from ******* Creek.

The Animal Events Recording Notebook —
fits in your pocket,
if it happens to be a school bag.
A little picture on the cover
Jack, the farmer, a cow and her calf.
Equally gay as it is oxymoronically inaccurate.

No sign of a tag on either the cow or calf.
The cow has a pair of horns
that would **** any animal, never mind the farmer,
statistically dead. Plus,
the calf’s a bit too healthy looking
and the cow ain’t trying to **** the farmer either.

Between the covers coloured-coded sections
chronicling the animal’s progress
from Foetus to Fork.


2

Though, I do thoroughly enjoy filling out those
additional comment columns.


De-horning

Next to castrating lambs,
I love this job —
all-the-more if there’s a gang.
The first has no idea what coming
and the last wishes they weren’t.
But seriously, I’d say it hurts.
A lot.


Castration

See Revival, issue 6 P.14 —
revised in Inheritance P.26


Weaning

Always good for poem.
I laugh from the comfort of my bed.
Ye’re only halfway lads

And how far along are you?
They inquire back.


3

Ok, I get it. Seriously.
Stop depleting the rainforests please …  
I have my own notebook thanks.

I understand their dilemma.  
They fear mindsets will be inherited
form the old flock, the old stock —
the canners and brass tags —
who never converted.

It’s like auld women and the church
engrained since birth
and no amount of jibber-jabber will sway.
So they concentrate, groom us
weanling growing up
in the Age of A.I.M
on BETTER Farms


4

Regardless, the second you tag a calf,
the ****’ll croak. So wink, wink:
so not to jinx yourself
and have to write a cheque;
adjust your Balance Sheet,
invariably affecting your Gross Margin.

I know … I know
S.M.R 6, 7 and all that $*@#
But it’s so cold the frost is complaining.
Plus, they said on the radio: be kind
leave food out for the birds.
I’m just thinking of the foxes.
And, if anyone asks —
she never came in calf

How well I know this force
that draws fast upon my brain
wages all the energies there retained
Till surging fills each life filled cell
to the roaring torment
and blessed state.

Beyond the horizon
It gathers upon the breath of those Gods
Thor riding the triumphant clouds
bellows into the night's air his charge
Of thickened, dense filled pockets of space
Edgeing upon the fringe of life.

I stand *****, arms out stretched
Like an ancient shaman invoking his god
gathering within my lungs this breath of charged air
and vibrating it out,  I call the gales drifting winds
To sweep and engulf this soul of mine
Into the depths of that tormented breeze.

Hear O ancient one's my haunting cry
That steps out from the Soul and dreams of mine
Awaken again that sacred form and bliss
of natures wrath and constant kiss
To journey but the essence of life.

Thor roars in distant rumbles that gathers
pleads and romps the air and valleys
hammer flung, the metal strikes
and splinters it's flashing rods to earth
Castrating the nights air to its engulfed state.

The winds rush and cross the Firths great stance
Arran haunted to the raging sky
Lightning strikes amongst her giant peaks
Goat fell rages but to the demented storm
Like blasts from battles deep.

The seas roar the triumphant entry
Of the Viking God yet but once again
Upon theses ancient fields of time and place
charging upon the gales ravenous winds and tossed tides
The lordship of Thor upon the planes of Ayr.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Things we used to be
Or rather that which we are still
We as in I
I as in you
You as in me

Just a pair of eyes
Disembodied, disinherited
Then a word or two
Spoken uncertainly, with imperfect diction
Next came a body coated matte
Appearance totally flat
A reprisal of the reeling mind
Discontented, self remarked
Struck like fells of flak shells
Wrack

Emotive motion to inhale pain pill smoke
Foiled
Spoiled through imparts of ignorance
Palette saturated, severance pre-packed
Wheeze ever
A bio beat box, palpitate off tempo
Disharmony collate
Chaos culture, we the cancer self-castrating earth
Bastardized with sickly sounding mirth
Loudest, proudest, irreverent
Disclaimers
Naked
Reclamation
The origin known as nature

i hope to vacate a corner of some room,
spider-architect
           who's intrinsic basis is to craft
a spiderweb...
     yawn poetry...
   usualy the kind that's not worth a whole
lot of grit, and is ah, ah... all sighs...
well, hence the intended vulgarity...
  but i know that even that doesn't work
all the time, unless i'd be used to
listening to a waterfall playing the drums...
   and at best: i can only theorise language,
or that's what i think is my adequate role...
the rest of my life is fiction anyway,
a fiction where i don't actually write
a book, but live it... and only invoke
"poetry" to be used as a reference to how:
    nothing happens in philosophy books happens...
the only "adventure", the only "plot"
      is solely thinking...
      and isn't that something to be depressed about?
aparently that's not the case...
    apparently there's a layer of humanity
that prefers a thinking adeventure, to a, say:
   a cruise-ship holiday in the Mediterranean -
nothing happens...
    the only action is the stressor: thought:
or as i like to call it: the ought,
   and the subsequent cascade of choices...
         i can't believe there's a complexity in
thinking, other than making choices...
           making choices and then nostalgia,
euphoria, blessings, regrets...
        it can't be as complicated as it sounds
to the numerous adherents
       of practising the so called art-science that
philosophy deems itself to be...
   i don't know what sort of person you have
to be to read Heidegger over Dumas...
   when i was younger i only tickled myself
with fiction...
                when life became unnecessarily complicated
i decided to read a philosophy book...
     i don't know why, but that's how it happened
and my final bid worth descriptive
        analogies: philosophy books teach
you nothing but lethargy...
     i don't know whether you just dumb-down
and fall into posing a pretesence...
but at the same time... it would be nice to read
a feminine-ego in philosophy that has no origin
based in a "movement" / revolution
currently known as feminism...
   it would be nice to see a woman writing,
hermit like, branching off into a solo expedition...
   it's not that i'm ignorant,
the only female examples in my library are
pop... virginia woolf / ophelia..
   anna kavan and sylvia plath...
      evidently writing breaks women...
      when man came ******* and writing
  with a book... she had a *****...
    well... that too, and castrating men
for the purpose of creating the most perfect
choir-boys of the Vatican...
            i'd like to read what a woman actually thinks
(on the basis of the title, i.e. the two incidents in
the night involving women)...
  but i know i will never come across a naked
woman in writing...
      completely devoid of technique
  aspiring to poetry fakes, fiction fakes,
   always running away: having "fun"...
    i mean: something written by a woman that
could be equivalent of handling beef, or pork,
at a butcher's...
                 but that's not exactly based upon
a care to moan...
        i write on the basis of having a "leisure"
activity... well... i write on the basis of
   having the capacity to forget myself...
    i treat writing as a mode of anti-memory,
writing is anti memory...
              and it can become a sort of forbidden fruit,
given economics and how more bricks are sold
than books and how books can sometimes become
akin to bricks...
        i don't write because i want to,
    i write because: i also have to take a ****
  sometime in the night...
    so out with poetry's ah ah and sighs...
         it's not happening...
       say you watch either romeo + juliet
or tristan + isolde...
    now i use a language that has these myths...
the only polish myths i know are those
concerning the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth,
the Wawel dragon, the mongols...
  world war ii...
                     i have nothing, not even a puddle's
worth of depth, i use language as i do:
only because i have no soul:
  and that doesn't mean i sold it for private islands
in the Caribbean -
   or fame...
         i literally having one attachment point to
consider:
     to play on theoretics of language akin to linguistics,
but less so, i.e. with "identity",
    best summarised by verb language...
i just use a language...
        i don't necessarily care to have an identity in it...
  perhaps if i was akin to an octopus
with the so many wriggling limbs...
                    ah yes,
life underwater... so much more spectacular than
in the air...
                    and space exploration,
   akin to us with our space projects...
  and in the depths of the seas, life akin beyond
the vacuum of space: humpback anglerfish...
       or what ridley scott depicted...
        funny, that inquiry, that curiosity killed the cat
scenario...
          but being so warm-blooded wasn't enough
for us... i can't help it if i say that i'm not that lazy
in my observation...
    so back into a theoretics of language...
   using the necessary tools a (indefinite article)
     and the (definite article)
   or using the prefix rule a-      and the
         i.e. without a point.... atheism...
                 so just add the suffix -ism to that...
   otherwise known as vogue at certain times in history,
most notably started by either biiologists or
physicists... guess who brought the fireworks? chemists
with Faust and the devil at the fore!
  added fact: no one in the medical profession
    (they're the actually useful "biologists") don't
disregard that it becomes pointless
   to leverage the universe on the basis of
a single theory, a single mind, that's based on
both abstract ideas, and ******* genitals...
well d'uh... well done! clap clap clap clap clap...
       whether that's as a priori / instrinsic / genetic
       / predestination orientation
     as a spider and a spider-web...
                  i like to see that my ego is like
a spider's **** (or whatever you call it... sure,
gland... like a thyroid gland / sweetbreads)
                       that just produces these
god / no god arguments... and the reason is perhaps
obscure... it could be just that,
that i have this artificial intelligence implant in my head
that thinks if not believes in god (i'm not that keen
on the rituals, not a big fan of flagellation)...
      and so saying that: even a vacuum is something...
so you could say: i won't engage in religious Bar Mitzvahs,
but i'll argue for the non-existence of...
                  then back into the theory of language...
   a-          +         -th   (indirect article / direct article rules)...
articles in the pronoun category...
   what could possibly be the perfect e.g.?
   mein kampf...
            we have two examples already,
the obvious one, and the Norwegian one...
        what i want to consider
   is the alternative: ich kampf...
       as odd as it might sound: i consider
  i struggle to be an indefinite expression,
       and my struggle to be a definite expression...
   i.e. it's mine, i am the possessor of the struggle...
   ich kampf can very literally be an airy-fairy approach,
a pinata, hanging off a fishing-rod while sitting
on a scythe / crescent moon...
or: against the taboo of scientists feeling,
admiring art, reading novels...
    i can not not see the taboo against scientists not being
fully "human"...
       completely detached from art, from humanism,
never mind philosophy being the mediator
not really helping, that strand of it attacking
poetry...
                   but given a and the are the primodial
tools: say, hammer and scissors...
   and applying them to migrate from their
original grammatical boundary,
   it is necessary that they first experience pronouns...
    which is counter to what you might have
considered the pronoun i to be stressing...
given we're of the mortal caste,
   neither thinking nor being, or however argued
by Heidegger as being there / here allows...
given the numbers of us: it's still a case of indefinite
notation... or a Simon says / Solomon notes type of game...
    it's all vast, and empty,
    man's quest to be akin to a god's footprint
or a fingerprint...
                 with his copper statues of world war ii
heroes, or mentions of Achilles...
               but that's how it works,
there are theoretical physicists and there are men who
build actual atomb bombs, and that thing beneath
Switzerland...
                      it was in my belief to suggest that
black holes are 2 dimensional objects in 3 dimensional
space... a bit like those ferns in the Lara Croft video games,
the first types... from the 1990s...
    i believe that black holes are actually two-dimensional
objects, enclosed in a hyper-dynamic
           surrounded by three-dimensional space...
i haven't seen one up-close, sure... but i've never seen
jupiter either...
   so you guess is as good as mine...
i mean: how to transcend the harrowing experience
of writing poetry and fiction and write theory...
   to become a linguist without
              having to be burdened with a linguistic
alphabet...
   i.e. [flaj-uh-ley-shuh n] / (flāj'ə-lā'shən) /
flagellation doesn't really do it for me...
   can't feel a hard-on with that crap...
                        flaj? jammy ******* dodger...
   dodge ball more like...
                  i'm bilingual, i get the picture,
   and given the close proximity and the evident difference
i can have my little chemistry set, and a shed...
   evidently if i was bilingual from Hong Kong
i'd be a a yarn ball enclosing a silver tea-spoon,
that i'd later shove up my *** to question whether that's
a privilege...
    a bit like that mad lady with 20 cats...
  or thereabouts...
           so it has to be a case of ich kampf categorising
the pronoun as indefinite...
    there's me tomorrow, the struggle might not be...
my, as a definite article:
    say: keeping grudges... count de monte cristo's
zeal...
         in the same vein:
    they / them are usually noted into ditto /
ambiguity... hence they are indefinite pronouns
(working from the base of article)...
                    such as we / us being likewise noted
but based on an enclosure, endorsment,
a definiteness...
   thus said: how can a grapheme be the smallest
unit, when it encloses two vowels?
   aren't vowels and consonants the smallest units
of encoded sound?
         well... evidently not...
so why read books where nothing, absolutely nothing
happens...
   well... the last time i checked books were
not invented to compete with movies,
there's a clear dichotomy in that "∞",
   what at best i can ditto to invoke: relationship...
O 0, ∞ 8... look who's the fatty...
                      hard to see why the only
books worth appreciating are the books translated
into a movie, kinda makes the original books
a tad bit pointless, what, with the abandoned
mental effort of actually having read them
   (past tense of reading can't be grounded
within the colour red...
   keeping the grapheme as become more and
more bewildering)...
   reed, read, read.... no Persian is coming near this
soil, no Iranian is going to blow himself up,
by the looks of it... the Shiite Muslims
are the only sensible ones these days:
     you need to allow for a schism...
i also note that, Christianity has become
   omni-schismatic, and, well... that's just
ridiculous...    
                                  it's too much pick-and-choose,
buy and sell for 99 pence...
                    it's hardly as romantic as
r.e.m.'s losing my religion,
i pledge nothing to the cross, nor
   the shadow of the cross,
                  i have no allegience
to it, or the crescent moon,
in scientific terms: i'm a free radical.
     but what i really wanted to "talk" about were
my two incidents in the night concerning women,
i must have probed the right buttons on this thing called
universe to get this sort of reply...
the 2nd example (stated first) was just weird...
walking down the street with a beer and cigarette in hand...
a Mazda MX-5 pulls onto the pavement...
i walk past it...
    30 metres down the road
this blonde runs up to be with a rollie cigarette
   and asks for a lighter...
i notice all the power-cursors of a ring on
her right hand... the car she owns...
            i'm really the pauper and she's really
the queen bee...
            the weird aspect is that she ran 30 metres from
her car to ask me for a cigarette lighter...
    the first incident is even more demanding
a written absolution...
    in a pharmacy...
                  asking for my sleeping pills...
ordered in the afternoon... most likely arrive in
  3 rather than 2 days... 2 days if ordered in the morning...
   and there she is, the brunette deer,
  i swear to you, English girls have deer eyes,
  not dumb-like, wild ready for unknown...
i should know... i spent 22 years in this ****** country,
drank the local milk, ate the local beef,
   never had a local girl to bed...
                     boo, hoo... which just makes them
all the more fascinating...
        it was one of those: love at first sight moments...
there she was, pristine milken skinned anglo rose...
    with braids either side of her cranium...
   a very slavic accent...
              she moved from beyond the far-away counter
to a counter near me
while i asked for my prescription...
             and waited, and she looked at me,
or rather: eat me with a nearing claustrophobia i
felt in my chest...
           this really does sometimes happen...
this realisation of love at first sight, the love:
without a fight...
             those eyes can cannibalise you in an instant,
esp. in the locket of an english girl's cranium...
      my **** and ***** shrivelled up,
my heart imploded
     and could only fathom a fear in my head
that didn't arouse a single, god-identifying word
of sanity and action, or adventure,
and the whole nine-yards of marital contract...
      just this girl in the pharmacy...
      how she moved, how she eyed me...
   well... my face isn't exactly a da Vinci...
but it isn't exactly a Picasso's impression
of a pig's buttock...
            i can only stress a hypnotic moment,
as if impregnated by her...
        i was only there asking for my insomnia
pills... and i left that place thought-******
       and emotionally ***** by those daring eyes...
as if the whole point of woman was
to ascribe a man to her delving in utilising a womb,
meaning i was almost inside a stomach,
        meaning i was no ego, meaning
i was foetus...
                oh sure sure... Helen didn't send a postcard
to 1000 Ships

i don't which part of me is more confused than
the other -
  you can sense something being "up"
when you spend a good's worth of a month
in your native land...
  having lived in england from the majority
of my life (20+ years) - i go back to these distant
pasts - these ferus terra of old -
these feral lands - and sit there for about a week,
and become obliterated by the dichotomy -
everyone's white! this homogeneity is bewildering,
it's like walking through a zombie apocalypse:
unharmed...
    as a first generation migrant i didn't have
to deal with ethnic disparages -
   given the school rhyme murzynek bambo
by the pole-jew poet by the name of
juliusz tuwim -
  it's nice, when a language is clearly syllabled,
like polish, unlike french or english,
and not so pedantic in treating every word
like a chemist might...
     by simply making pangrams,
   or thereabouts;
as there is rife diminutive suffix endearing
in the language, rather than plain
outright offensives - english doesn't really
have the endearing diminutive suffix,
last time i checked,
           mały malutki, maciupki would
be a feast for parasites had it fallen from
the nest...  true art-form,
        the microscopic point being made,
doubly endearing.
        beside the point? you've never landed
in a feral land, have you, esp. at night,
in a cold december night in warsaw?
   **** me, i'm the native here, and i feel
like i've just landed on the, ******* moon!
you know how white my town of birth is?
as white as: the memory of that mulatto girl,
back in the 90s...
               which only means one thing:
weird... i mean weird in a neutral sense,
   it seems weird to says this but:
every time i return to england...
   it's almost a relief seeing an asian,
      or an african (of stated descent) -
  i'm pretty **** sure people in western countries
couldn't stomach a return to ethno-homogenous
societies...
     i can't stomach it, and i'm the first generation
to make this observation,
   how the hell do you think i'd stomach
having my native tongue suffocated when
i'd like to speak it to my children?
         i'd probably have random outbursts
using it at night, drunk, with people thinking
i was schizophrenic...
   with the reply: i'm not schizoid!
no one speaks slavic to me! so i'll speak it to myself!
mind you, these lands are so feral,
so tightly knit that it will be hard for
an insurrection -
      and when i say it would be hard:
i know it would be hard...
   take for example the dialects -
modern day prussians? they're known as
kashubians...
          and the germans that didn't move
after the revision of borders? silesians.
  a bit like the scots and welsh on these isles;
how many africans can you spot
in warsaw? out of a 1000 people?
perhaps 1, and that's a generous perhaps.
      the whole atmosphere feeds the already
ingenious brainwashing i've experienced in
england: is everyone ****** or something?
that's what you get! and you cannot suddenly
rid yourself of the indoctrination you experienced
when succumbing to the educational system...
i watch my ethnic natives, and i can clearly
see: a great wall of china...
    they're swarming, like water, filling all
the crevices, all the gaps...
  and they seem so, so oh so ****** impregnatable,
i'm pretty sure that if any woman
steps out of line, like the french women with
the nazis: i've already seen castrating /
ostracizing looks by by fellow commuters on
a bus...
               you even know what mob rule looks
like when a muslim murders a stupid
kid that stole two bottles of soda from a kebab
shop? the kebab show isn't there anymore...
no... hello! i'm pretty sure the kebab shop
owner isn't around with us anymore, either!
hello! mob rule is mob rule...
           the last time i heard
   when this moroccan was taken into police
custody, and then marched into the prison:
he was found ******* & ******* himself...
hello!? i was born in these parts of the world:
these people have buckled up,
       it's not a land akin to a pit of serpents
(lying festering cannibalising - like england):
it's a valley of ravenous wolves.

I'm sick of all the wanting, waiting
Of this life,its frustrating
Thoughts of death,self masticating
Emotions I shall be castrating

Have no form of self worth
To myself I am furth
Where is choice to unbirth?
Leave behind wretched earth

The bold cupola at his summit reflects
neon lights from bulbs above, crowned
by precious thin silver hair, barely cascading
over a wide and wrinkled forehead.

Two dense detached bushy arches linger
to their original dark brown tone, only a few
white brow hairs are longer, magnified by opaque
thick lenses of plastic orange glasses,

resting on a disproportionately big red nose,
outshining round green eyes in venous sclera.
Falling cheeks of sad old dogs, Dumbo ears
hearing only through pale hi-tech gadgets.

Rotten teeth, some lost to empty spaces,
concealed by infolded arid purple lips,
in the midst of an unshaved beard tobacco
stains, where arch crumbs hide in disguise.

A bloated stomach denotes long lasting
faithfulness to a wife married ages before,
a ring castrating a swollen left annular
as he speaks on an archaic phone.

Dressed in an azure shirt meticulously
ironed, beige corduroy trousers, a maroon
jacket on his forearm, a worn out bowler hat
on the counter. I stare at his hunchback.

He stirs his coffee for much longer
than necessary in search of eye contact,
someone physical to talk to, furtively
swallowing a tablet or two gulping water.

Bringing his handkerchief to the mouth to be
proper, he drinks the boiling hot Italian brew,
with an air of surrender as drops inevitably fall
on his nice and shiny polished burgundy shoes.

why even attack,
slyly creep under
or even parasitical nibble
at a figurine
that in 100 years will                 (
gain impetus akin
to an Alexander the Great...                ?
a joke of a surname...                                      )
when you have
all the grey
areas of an erwin lambert
to mind...
    the joke that was ******
that became the mythological
romance akin to Attila...
   the congested mouth of
human history,
lacerated, cancerous,
tooth-rot
and a tongue of gangrene,
nothing, but theatre,
surviving;
give it 100 years...
  and no sooner the moths
that might agitate the flame...
but all they grey-mass-in-between...
ihre vater,  die "wenigscherz"...
how these children
sum up the evil
in one but man...
     peddlestooled into the lime
from the cameo...
    dictator helpless before
dictatorial mass of bureucrats...
hier! hier ihre eisenvorhang!
        break the rank
of the patron of bureucrats
(herr Kant)...
                      and place
the sztylet of Brutus,
with a semi-patricide scorn into...
a nail within
the hanging frame of
           a dandy crux...
  a feeling akin to:
    castrating a pedegree Alsatian:
shining teeth...
   pumped teeth...
impersonal the gnashing...
most of the time i imagine
myself reincarnated
in a theatre of a castrated
rottweiler...
    making stretched-clown-masks
from strangers' skins
of childrens' faces...
just for kicks...
   mind you...
   apparently the N.S.A.
  has all the personal data briefing
whether or not...
i'm jihadi material...
           or just a fantasist /
fetishist...
     good to know that even I,
do not have knowledge,
of a minority report;
    must have whisked passed me
on a feline whim of
teasing a whisker before
a fetish for: leisuring a Mexican
in cleaning a dilemma's worth
of a paw;
prepare th mince...
an obese exhibit with
Alzheimer's...
      during warfare,
war dogs & dogs require
the most contaminated meats,
to add to their expected
ferociousness...
      ha ha...
         the Nazis didn't insaminate
their subjects with
feline *****?
              why is Frankenstein
so pale...
    and transgenderism, so, norm?

i always find that one can still find a worthwhile bit of verse at night, provided one dips into daytime writing, as i also find not having written anything during the day, makes verses conjured in the night: a slightly (to be ironically mild) desperate endeavour.

to begin from where i left off...
   why do i make such large portions when cooking?
ah... the fact that my breakfast consists of
two glasses of milk, and that i only eat once
a day, it's nonetheless inexcusable -
   which ends up with me feeling like a boa
with about two weeks worth digestion and sleeping
like a cat,
     although i'm starting to think,
given that serpents do not have eyelids
(which in reality a much more evil curse upon
the serpent of eden who was told to slither) -
but saying that, i think that once the serpents
have feasted, they are allowed to sleep,
even if they don't have eyelids,
     perhaps as perfectly adapted as bears in
hibernation, but i'm suspicious of the notion
that once a serpent has began digesting its food
it falls asleep for two or however many weeks
it takes to digest a prey...
me and my giant homemade hamburgers
and homemade chips?
     i asked myself the question:
how do you actually cut up a potato to make
the perfect chip? sideways first, about the thickness
of a pinky finger, and then horizontally,
the ol' chippie down the road can't beat these
mean spuds, sprinkled with paprika and
cajun pepper, salted and... booyakasha!
oh, and they have to be cooked slowly, i mean,
slowly...  obviously adding a bit of olive oil...
but after eating this meal i felt bloated,
so i had to come up with an answer to ensure
i could feel a slight tickle of ms. amber in
my stomach, so i walked it off for an hour,
easing out farts, which was a good sign...
made it through the english suburban maze
of windy streets, and found myself:
  perfectly sound...
     in the hamburgers? beef, gouda cheese,
lettuce, fresh tahmahtees, pickled cucumbers,
pickled chillies, fresh spanish onions,
    slightly toasted buns, and two sauces:
a hamburger sauce + sweet mustard...
   brilliant combo;
but that's the boring, i guess the interesting
bit is that the sky is murky rather than overcast
and there's a full moon visible as if
addressing you from behind a hookah pipe...
if ever there was a night for strolling along
not looking for a caterpillar, it was tonight;
the obvious religious sudoku,
   and no, i don't buy the ******* that you can
call no. 9354 (in the times supplement)
   difficult, or mild, as it sometimes happens,
not with 1/9 of the squares being completely
blank! that **** is fiendish, i just proved
the point solving no. 9359 (difficult) -
only aided by killing a few brain-cells during
interludes of watching pop vlog videos,
some static music videos,
     and the more i drank the more i became
impressed with the effort,
  at one point inserting an obvious 7 into a square
making a face of a ****** exclaiming:
better get a pair of glasses you dummy!
so that's what i found: blind-spots in sudoku,
sure there's some logic behind it,
   but in the blind-spots just frustrate,
and frustrate, and irritate.
          the whole:

   either 1 or 7 | 2 5 8 4 9 | either 3 or 6
                             1, 3, 6, 7

didn't help, but ms. amber sharpshooter
later, and some youtube vlog video about
drunk advice or how to do make up,  
   and i finished the **** puzzle feeling
like someone injected me with steroids;

while some famous rich dummy complained
about the perils of mixing ******* with
alcohol... how about i teach you about
the not so perilous adventure of nicotine &
alcohol, high enough for just a tiny bit,
making hitting the "low": a smirking endeavour,
self-satisfying, if not self-congratulating:
to the last sip.

obvious some sort of bookish reference culminated...
yeah... the hebrew *sefirot diagram...
  i looked at it, started swaying for a bit
and then came with an answer...
   fool be he who aims at the keter (crown)
in this entire schematic, for the sefirot
is a schematic (apologies for the paraphrasing
away from diagram, but sometimes
you just have to sharpen the tools) -
    
the most famous e.g.?
    look who's hanging at golgotha...
      he who claims a crown over but one of
the other elements of the schematic,
has not understood the dynamism between
keter & malkhut (kingship) -
crowns are put on both kings and fools,
   notably alan ginsberg in prague in the 1960s...
see how the two relate?

  the real trinity embedded in the sefirot
is based, primarily, upon wisely disregarding
both keter & malkhut in terms of:
i'm aiming for that,
   no! always with a genesis always with a beginning
and always revising that beginning,
only at one's peril desire the ultimate crown
and the ultimate kingship, which belongs
to death alone...

          the sefirot can only be understood on
the base of yesod, i.e. foundation...

after all, you have: binah (understanding),
chokhmah (wisdom), gevurah (strength),
   chesed (love), tiferet (beauty),
hod (splendor) & netzach (victory) to choose
from, or if not by choice,
  then by the slow realisation of
not known the yesod (foundation) endeavoured
upon, to have gained

either the prize (keter) of said attributes,
or the authority (malkhut) of said attributes...
and this could be best described in secular
terms as the formulation of unconscious drives...

me? i crafted the combination
  based on yesod -
  i made it my foundation to stress my capacity for
gevurah (strength)... and it would have
been just that, but my efforts in verse
were acknowledged with the compliment of
tiferet (beauty) from the least of expected
of places... the mouth of a former lover:
god give peace unto her turbulent soul;

for i known i can't be king of wisdom,
  nor of understanding,
    nor all other attributes...

hence the foolishness, in kantian terms,
and the sefirot has kantian elements in it,
i can already see
   that keter is an a priori term -
  and that malkhut is an a posteriori term...
first comes the crown, then comes
the kingship...

                         i can't see how
it can be sensible any more to reverse that,
i.e. malkhut is an a posteriori term,
   while keter is an a priori term...
it's illogical to think the latter, since we already
known what sort of crown,
  and what sort of throne precipitated into
history...

               and why is it that these self-lacerating
attacks akin to christianity do indeed dare
to mention the men as "mentally unwell" -
do you even know how castrating that terminology
is? they're crusaders of the wake-up call...
because if you call the other group by
the term jihad "warrior" the moral boost it gives
them? no one calls them mentally ill,
   but suddenly someone comes along and
is included in the "mentally deranged category"
grouped with anxiety-prone teens,
  depressed teenage girls, socially-shy schizophrenics,
and the rest of the psychotic brady bunch?
i look at these cases and think of vanilla ice...
these other guys, these crusaders?
               you can't call one the jihad martyrs
and the other: enigmas of the fruition
       of the castrato complex "losers"...
        losers? losers work part time jobs or
whatever category of existence might tick
all the boxes of the criteria...
            there's still no proper term for it,
  but this self-mutilating culture of christianity
began with a man riding into jerusalem
on a donkey... so donkey's years...
   the more the media smears them as that,
the more secular "identities" are attributed
to certain instances of their emergence,
   the more it agitates the next psychotic wasp
hive of swarming thoughts in an another "loser"...

when behring breivik did what he did,
   the russian nationalists encored him as a hero...
and i still don't know why the message
he sent was such an "enigma"...
          pay up for your decadence or your
children (of the ruling class) get it...
         sometimes these real world commentaries
of events that have happened are
so unnecessary in my part of the world,
they are there because these events happened...

even though we bypassed the publishing
authorities,
   it has just become a case of
                   **** vitro in domus vitro -
which is why i never intended to make any
internet profiling based upon the faux pas of façade.

No its not a play - upon a play
No words will I have assayed
To be beyond the mental test
Forth then would I be the rube
A clip then found upon Utube


Putin binaries upon the Hilliaries
Castrating the will of the majorities
Big Mac's and chicken in bed
The Fox dictates his next move
While he's contemplating his
next groove

Well America better wake up soon
They're bowing down to a baboon
But I get the feeling it's now to late
Better learn to bend over now
He's coming for the sacred cow

i was working in greenwich once, never mind what
i was doing: the view was great -
the bursts of air and i had myself imagining being
strapped to a longboat all the way to harvest
knowledge of iceland and greenland...
and bring back a vision of a snowman...
   but at the greenwich waterstones i came across
a rare find...
i still don't know why i didn't buy the whole
trilogy... it was there for the taking...
why i didn't buy the whole lot i will never know...
unless there's some alternative universe for me
to visit after i tot this one...
j.-k. huysmans' Durtal trilogy...
then again... perhaps là-bas is not the en route,
the cathedral, the oblate...
what did i pick up?
something better than a hardback edition...
an aubrey beardsley's 'of neophyte and how
the black Black Art was revealed to him by the fiend
Asomuel' (from the Pall Mall magazine...
june 1893) - so much for... Urotsukidōji:
legend of the overfiend...
that... castrating ***** anime from
the depths of the bedroom tax from
                   soy-sauce-tokyo...
but a Durtal will never become a Julien Sorel...
the first love, that of Stendhal's the scarlet & the black
when it was only a movie...
with rachel weisz and ewan mcgreggor...
no... Durtal would never become a Sorel...
but i had the entire trilogy in my hands...
whether là-bas is called en route...
it's a dream... come to think of it... there's a...
thinning of a 10 year gap...
the day when memories start behaving like
dreams: on the current day...
so i didn't have the trilogy in my hands...
i can remember the covers just as well:
                               la cathédrale and l'oblat;
perhaps en route wasn't included...
on the shelf... i wouldn't dare mingle
jean des esseintes from À rebours into...
salt mine comparison of... what Durtal...
                      what Julien Sorel would never...
this quest for the hafiz...
perhaps i did see four books next to each
other... in the greenwich waterstones...
no... come to think of it...
there's no need to it as such...
whether there were four books or three...
À rebours wasn't on the list...
i've heard of comradery in the world war one
trenches near Ypres...
i hardly need to hear of it in a marriage...
****-wit hard-on of a would be "dictator":
just like me... with a personal library...
and some music stashed in 80s quicksilver
discoball disks...
and some liquorice vinyl: mostly jazz...
for the love of books:
roman polanski's: the ninth gate...
it's a book it's not a mirror: nor is it a puddle
or a lake... but most importantly...
it is the ever present cat...
how will i ever sleep in a bed...
that isn't... that isn't prior to me sleeping in it:
warmed by a *****?
oh that's bad... as i was in love was:
which was oh so terrible as...
god... to have to fall asleep on my worst side
of the body... till it was numb...
how it was necessary to siamese ourselves
to sleep... the slit neck and the breaking
of the cucifix under a... heavier burden
than after the passing... it started to rain...
that apparent: no **** sherlock moment...
of glass eating mirror... how...
but narcissus only saw a ghost being reflected
in the primitive mirror -
he would have to wait until night to see
a reflection in glass... or at least banish his shadow
from the confines of noon to peer at his face
within the ripe hours of his testament...
prior to the mirror prior to the mirror...
there was only the ***** and:
let's pretend i look my best...
just pretend... there was no "divination"
of the visage... i sometimes forget that i can look
at myself, in these vampiric insults of a reflection...
what i crave is for someone to objectify me...
will a cat ever caste an "evil eye" into your scrutiny...
extend the hand... show the cat all your fingers...
to express the bounty, the gift,
the emptiness in the chore of the mandible thumb...
and will it not look elsewhere?
darting squint to and fro...
as much as i could love women...
there was only one...  ms. amber that kept me...
toe-tied but at the same time dancing
to an exhausting effort to... clinging to:
the death shall resound with praise...
and this body of mine...
should my shadow accept it...
stand in the orchestrated hall of a kitchen...
candle-lit whereby a rose will tun from
red to purple when enough candle flame
is looted for the purpose...
as all... not all: but me... grit their teeth...
grit their teeth until a shrapnel bite is gritted of
with a sublime fashion to conclude
a wake...
*****: that pensive spirit added to
a lemonade... which is such a burden that...
i almost wish to have written a chapter of
a scandinavian harlequins novel...
what good is a mirror...
when the only good ever came from how
others perceived me...
this... acrid slab of bone and flesh...
this blood this flush of quasi-flesh and blood
in the confines of marrow...
to borrow but also to break
the rims and the canvas skeleton...
to lord over mr. sponge-brains...
and all these, other... details...
piquant palettes of taste...
a cat doesn't know that:
one doesn't eat where one take a ****?
perhaps from the same gob...
one doesn't ****... but sure as *****...
one eats with...
peculiar wormholes into what's best
advanced as: well a cat is not equivalent
to keeping a turnip lucky...
as a cat is not a dog...
i always welcome forgetting the leash...
and if it was an alsatian... i keep forgetting
the muzzle...
cats... solipsistic bonsai tigers...
no: but every other mercury rising...
it's hard to come across an immediate affection...
notably among animals...
once i tried it with a herd of horses...
pretending to be holding a sugar cube
in my hand... i was almost hoofed in the head
dead... the moon was singing...
while the horse retorted:
there's no sugar cube, or apple in your hand...
i'm merely nibbling on your fingertips!
hoof! just missed my 'ed...
perhaps i was lying...
but what isn't a lie when walking through
a forest at night?
the moon has to be a lie...
your shadow has to be a lie...
i might have dared to take a mirror with
me on my nocturnal promenades into the forest...
but then again...
that would be akin to...
taking a candle-lit into a market square come
noon... when no shadow is ever made
available...
for the love of books...
it's hard to want animals to like you...
let alone love you so that they are necessarily
inclined to sleep in the bed you're about
to sleep in, interrupt you while you're typing for
some tickles and giggles...
cat's life...

as i was most "pressured" to peer at...
taking a shower while pouring water on the back
of my cranium for a simulated
******... at the moment / point where
the neck ends and the skull begins...
the crux of the occipital bone: less protruding -
or so i'm told...
i tend to forget the genitals or *******
at this point of extracting pleasure...

who is to be loved,
who is unloved, who is better loved...
who's just a ******* fern, with a bias,
to begin with? isn't that the usual poetic
rat-fest of this and every other current
output / outpouring?
who's love is the madman's love?

i write: and then i recoil...
i wish that i might always recoil
into braille: ⠞⠕
                                          ⠎⠑⠑

oh but i am bothersome... if china explored...
every other one child state policy...
i would always be at odds
come the measured sentiments...
otherwise the cats...
without the leash or the muzzle...
left to their own device...
sleeping in the bed i will
sleep in twists and turns
of... snow white and the sulking dwarfs...
of which there was a count to mind:
notably a 7 fold...

when drinking is a "problem"
while you're too preoccupied with writing...
then there's no point
of making a Friday night an adventure
with a limping boast for:
how much anyone might,
at any time... ever... drink...

i call it a sharpened syringe intake
of both violins and harps...
when the time comes:
there's that... breaking of glass
crescendo... the shock & awe
biltzkrieg "innuendo"...
there's that high pitch...
hanging knot of the noose vowel
"sigh"... elongating itself into
a measure of: the length of a serpent...
  
i fall asleep listening to horror movie soundtracks...
that cats are exposed to seeing ghost
from behind, having to peer at walls...
perhaps cats do not see shadows:
they only see ghosts...
bonsai tigers and demigod sphinxes...
blind-dating Artemis with
the bunnyman...

               a lazy hook: no advice...
refining the "concept" or a rock...
even if equipped with a chisel...
come, frankly, a rock is still not a mountain...

"one" calls it an escape from both darwinism
and feminism...
in the same one defines a piano:
it's not a pineapple...
it's not an apple... it's not a pear
or an afghani altar of the dowry...
some feudal **** load and *******...
it's not quite a lobotomy...
it's a safe haven of tax + a niqab...
because riddled brian is the half-cheese
chess piece soup steward and...
the bus links need to be left open...

a potato ≠ a bottle of *****...
oh but it does... it does it does...
i forget the moment i drink...
when i start to drink...
solo does the soul best...
      so little or so much of the unnecessary "talk"
surrounding alcoholics anonymous...
i will grieve the bibliophile woo woo
clan...
they take a photograph...
but then they might just stand
before your body beside
a coffin...
and... "eureka"!...
                   john wayne wins an oscar
for: true grit...
he finally made it!
- way say loan'g gone Sally! way why with
tht spaghetti drool of y'ers!

i dare you: to daft punk me...
i watch a cloud with as many
instructions as must be assembled
for.... the cloud will **** rain...
and i... shaman primo...
will juggle knee-caps
and rubber-***** and... the better fold
of an elbow waiting for a riddle...
otherwise:
it's called a sour-cherry tree /
seasonal dieting... honey bear
poo'k ch'oop... luvvie bit by two bears
honey dew... ms. housewife 1950s...
selling compliments
as household burdens...

of which none are to be "had"...
the love of books...
otherwise known as the chopin nocturnes...
the better "half" of islam
was written by... khadijah **** khuwaylid...
first wife surahs...
the rest is... camle jockeys rummaging
in the hill-top confines of spain...
bruising french cargo ego...

i love cats, i love books...
god please me to endear a love for dogs
when not having to use both
leash and muzzle... to pet a dobberman...
is enough: most enough...
i will love a book more than a woman...
beside some "added on"...
some romanian folklore...
a mongol invasion will set you back
200 years...
who were the mamluks...
who were the janissaries...
the brain-washed few...
what's best: is what has to be borrowed...
enslaved...
otherwise i call "her": timid Timothy...

the best of my life is a tomb...
the books and the stale air of flicking through pages...
the interludes of a harpsichord...
being played... becauae i know the difference...
if it is a piano... but it isn't...
there's a demand for citing Venice...
and the manufacture of glass...
and...
            
a bottle of ***** is an unbaked potatoe...
while ms. amber is a squared mile of
timid autumnal green... in that it's something
extracted from concentrated wheat...
and barley and rye...
and... this... figment of my imagination...
the hungarian tokaj -
i could almost, most assured... cry...
after each and every other single word
i write...

the violin shrill coupled with the escaping
vocals beside having to stratum guise themselves
into an opera: opera least welcome!
let us entertain the circus primo!

for the love of books...
the lesser case scenario of:
what does it take to barrage oneself
with a to mistake a cushion for a goose...
most certainly not the post-mortem
of the 72 virgins as promised...

why wouldn't i call
muhammad the little solomon?
i'll reiterate...
muhammad is the quasi
small ibn solomon...

queasy: first comes first...
muhammad whittle solomon....
not so great...
not akin loitering... surrounding
average shlomo greeting his dues...
his davish'am... psalms are not
to be questioned by sonnets
or jazz improv.
            
                    the gargoyles: novem portis...
dead-blank stares of
stone on wilting welcome, via hubris...
borrowed from the confines
of swedish cinema...

begotten by berries...
the Bergman in all of us...
it's time to make ammends...
bid the readers goodnight..
than the all-encompassing compact...
a mother due,
a grandmother due...
and say...
i arrived... but i am most certain:
to leave without any darwinistic burdens...
because: as much as i loved women
as ******...
women would never adorn the stale
perfumery...
that's better "lisped" by,
by books;
a clarinet of suspense is...
always the bounty of an escaped presence
to mind.
in the old narrative:
to love a ***** is to able to love all
women...
look toward a book... toward a piano!
better you sift through dust
and shadows! lick a gravestone:
if you're lucky!

I.

i sometimes sit down and wish a poem could write itself...
i've recently inspected the output of a.i. writing
systems...
    there were three examples...
                           i must say: i felt unimpressed...
                               i hardly think that computer can substitute
the careless ingenuity of man in the realm of writing:
careless? i hardly take myself seriously...
                                  i would sooner be found dead than
rewriting anything i write....
                    i've become so good at it that: even when drunk...
i make very little spelling mistakes: if any? on purpose...
as a joke... and typos are never apparent...
but i sometimes sit down and wish a poem could write itself...
i'm just too comfortable: strapped to the memory-cinema
i'm watching in my head...
   like that one movie where i was a supervisor at an Ed Sheeran
concert... had 16 stewards under me:
had a "problem" with only one...
               how i fed them free burgers and because i fed
them they managed to follow my rules: which i didn't even
have to dictate... because i was constantly vigilant of them...
constantly walking my stretch of the stadium
and peeping in... no one was on their phones...
no one... no one was out of position... no one...
                thank you grandpa Joseph for teaching me
how to be human with humans and not to allow
authority and power to go and start ego-tripping...
because: at the end of the day? as a supervisor?
                you're beneath the stewards... you need to...
keep them in check by following a humbled demeanor...
they're supposed to be in positions...
toilet breaks: don't be silly... this is not prison...
you don't ask for one: you just go...
     but... you want water? you want coffee?
sure... let me know... and i'll bring it for you...
obviously i can't go to the toilet for you...

     ever the eternal anti-****: ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
if that slogan was not scribbled as a sign before
the entrance to Auschwitz... but since it was...
                             i'm sticking to it... **** it... i'm stealing it...
says someone who was out of work /
in and out of work... but constantly writing for 10 years
dealing with psychiatrists... it's... refreshing...
i'm perhaps the most sane individual out there:
and i've come across a few crazies and oddities of man
as example and woman as example:
the neurotic types are easily spotted:
guys like me? diagnosed as having a psychotic complex:
we're harder to spot...
Polacks are like the Irish and what Freud said
about the Irish: almost impossible to psychoanalyse...
the psychiatrists i was working with:
about three at one time... and several medical
students too... gave up on me when i started
telling them: i'm arming myself with reading Kant,
Heidegger and Kierkegaard...
        and Jung and R. D. Laing...
                        what can you offer me?
             back in circa 2016 they let me out into
society... free as a bird... to... perhaps wreck havoc...

mind you... if a former supervisor worked with
some unruly girls... these unruly girls?
working with me? became subservient...
perhaps girls don't like other girls telling them what
to do... perhaps it takes a male approach...
oh sure... the unruly girls were attractive...
i almost think they fancied me too...
this one Somali plump blessing with extended
eyelashes just smiled her idiotically sweet smile
at me whenever i approached her and asked
her if she was happy...
    
she was annoyed by this other girl
  who kept criticising her for taking toilet breaks...
blah blah... in the end i asked her:
do you want to be moved?
yes... so i moved her... switched her around...
check-mate move... since moving her
coupling her with a very astute young gent
ambitious... i had management come up to me
and tell me that the two of them were
doing a great job getting people to pitch-side...

now... i find this to be mediocre writing...
i appreciate the fact that this is mediocre writing...
there's no fictional escapism...
all these words like supervisor... steward...
crowd safety... but as i once suggested:
we're trying to prevent another Manchester Arena
Bombing... aren't we?
     writing this i'm trying to stress...
some of us have to be vigilant... it's not a terribly
technical job... dealing with people: with crowds...
i think it's a joke-job... compared to roofing
or compared to landscaping... working on the aesthetics
of the garden... i treat it as a joke-job...

sure... i stole once... or twice... the most memorable theft
was... a Queens of the Stone Age c.d. from
W. H. Smiths... Songs for the Deaf...
i just took out the c.d. casually... i wanted the thrill...
i just took out the c.d. out of the case
and stashed it in a book i was then reading...
walked out... burned it... oddly enough returned
it at some other W. H. Smiths outlet
at Liverpool St.

do i think of myself as a good person?
   oh no, no no... i rather start with: i'm vile...
then work my way up...
                  i like the idea that i'm short-tempered
and that i need to keep that in check...
i might be 6ft2... but my temper is a midge-***
i let ride my shoulders coming in at 4ft1...
it's almost like... i age... but having a memory of myself
as a child... i'm dragging the me as a child
to the grave with me...
i'm only 36 now... at the zenith...
it's going to become ugly from now...

hence the memory-cinema i'm re-watching...
perhaps my life has become more interesting for any need
for movies... movies have started to bore me...
music is being stretched...
it's still my "protein"... but...
the search results are coming back blank...
i.e. i've heard this song before...

i tried to stop myself going crazy over this one
mixed-race girl... pristine... pale tinged by brown
skin... but... CURLY... CURLES of hair like
waves of an ocean of twists and turns of a river...
doe: pale brown eyes...
            young... oh... much younger than me...
again: once fed... very much content...
                                              which made my life all
the more easier...

II.

there are moments like this, they're hard to find...
but they're there...
i sometimes abhor man's pretenses for hoarding
past artifacts... but... sometimes i have to praise them...
what? the artifacts or the tactic of being so mortally
dead that one requires elements from the past
to be shoved into the immortal future?!
probably both...

an amalgamation of poem 10 from Ovid's book I
of the ****** poems... smoking... drinking...
while listening to KORTEZ's stare drzewa
   (old trees)...
                           some people have children and create
families and have beautiful moments...
as families...
  some people...
i thought about it... perhaps India is the Mecca
of cooking... with all her spices...
but... what are the pillars of the culinary endeavour?

fire...
            water...
                        ­      salt...
                                           hmm...
                                                          time..­.
yeast?! no really...
   you can make flat breads...

fire: water: salt: time: there must be something else
that's essential to cook food...
i need a refill... i'll take a 10 minute break and think
about it...

sooner than that!
   i just walked down the stairs to refill my cup with
ice-cubes... blitzkrieg!
breaking away from English looking for
a word in my mother's tongue:

tɫuszcz!  tɫuщ!   fat!
        tɫo! (canvas)

what are the culinary pillars?!
fire, water, salt, time & fat!

ogień, woda, sól, czas i tɫuszcz

doesn't it take 5 minutes to boil an egg for a soft-boil?!
you need water... to boil it... ergo... you need fire...
to boil it...
you want to fry an egg? you need fire...
and fat... to fry it in... since... you can't fry an egg
in water...
and with salt? osmosis... you want excess water
to be drawn out of foods that have no sweet juices
to be drawn out for a concentrate of taste
to be leftover... you don't put salt on fruits...
because... they are juicy...
but you put salt on vegetables because...
they are without juice...
but adding salt to them tenders their flesh...
so that they... become sweeter...
               i'm not a scientist... i was born yesterday...
i don't need arithmetically correct explanations
when i'm digging for awe...

but these are the five pillars of the art of cooking:
water, fire, salt, time & fat...

III.

and do think... the Roman equivalent of 3 (III)
is oh so similar to the Cyrillic Ш
either an "W" or a lying, lazy E....
while the shch (szcz) Щ is only a -sh-
  with an addition of a comma...
as a diacritical detail Щ = Ш + ,
   (makeshift Hebrew Yod)...
pause or interruption?!
                                 but "my" people don't say
SHA... they just utter -SH-...
               i wish i could ask St. Cyril and St. Methodius
about the "other" Щ -
the common excavated -ść
via examples like: dość (enough!)
świt: sunrise...
                    words escape me...
          in my mind:
they're escaping my mind like birds:
like sparrows in their highest flight...

     kość - bone...

hmm... there was something here i was
supposed to excavate... not this... this is but a side-note...
let me unravel my "thinking"...
this spaghetti entanglement...
ah! now i know... i need to keep it fresh
in my mind... sometimes it happens...
a poems lies dormant for centuries...
then a reader happens to read the poem while
listening to some piece of music...
and his life... coincides with the poem...
and the music gives up its double emphasis...
hey presto! a perfect storm...

what am i talking about?
poem X from Ovid's book I of the ****** poems...
mixed with KORTEZ; stare drzewa... old trees...
i will not recite the entire poem...
i don't want to...
as i'm drinking i'm not even bound
to an anchor of wallowing...
some people have these beautiful moments
having had children...
i too have "children"... moments like these...

but i'm seemingly unburdened by having any
"responsibility"...
just these artistic details to mind...
the song is playing... while i'm rereading...
you'll hardly hear anything verbatim...
just what i will ease my heart to pick and choose...

i too have my biases...
having broken the chains of love with
the simplicity on the altar of prostitution...

let's recite...

     i had all the parallels for you...
                 the cause of war...
                      i got nervous at bulls and eagles...
your profile leaves me cold...
because you keep nagging for presents...
that's what turns me off...
                 at first your were guileless...
  but now now this inner's flaw's eclipsed your looks...
neither mother nor son are military experts...
soldiers' pay: is not for unwarlike gods..
            
tonight's not the night to finish this musing
off of on some "briefly"... "some other night"...
this life is too spectacular to begin with...
     hungry-man thinks nothing else
beside thinking about food...
                         there's this cheese on toast...
and some marmite...
what am i thinking?!
          
it's being asked i detest...
                    quit wanting: and i'll give...
            close encounters...
what's supposed and what's inhibited...
these third encounters of a morally reprehensible:
nudge... some of the details of "thought"...
counter to... thought is no wedding with
nakedness.... you can't...
attire yourself with thoughts...

with the death of the governing body:
i subject myself: subdue with a wilt... the hiding
of a garden or roses...
and rosemary.. thyme...
          and all the celestial scents
so bothersome...
   to make monks arrogant...
                        i clasp my hands together:
whisper for sparrows...
and the morning sun for song...
and wait...
               for someone to speak
Deutsche...
                                    me: sooner...
                               you: the latter source...
jetzt! lassen uns tanz!
            tanz! tanz! mutterfucker!
tanz!
                     sie besser tanz: ficker...
tanz: vor ich trimmen ihre
     waffen und beine aus...
                                            von dein karosserie!
under Lex Cincia...
              
III.

oh man oh boy oh god oh perhaps woman...
how i'm trying to find yesterday:
in relation to not having finished the poem -
by "chapter" three i'm walking through an abandoned
house... my self has split into multiple selves
as squat-ers...

    i'm trying to relive that special moment in time
when i read 1.10 from Ovid's ****** poems
(book one. poem ten)
   and found a suitable song to go along with it...
KORTEZ's stare drzewa... old trees...
but the moment is gone...
         i wish i had finished and fallen asleep happily...

today i was painting the fence with obstructions
from within myself... because watching the tennis
became more important...
          
i'm trying to get back into some sort of mood...
switching between Natalie Merchant... song?
Carnival from the album Tigerlily...
                i'm mixing that with Tales under the Oak -
the Toad King...
          Dungeon Synth?! seriously?! well... only from
Germany... that must be said...

after my bicycle accident i took to the road once more...
i have to admit... i felt shaky...
a headache came back... i could feel all the once
apparent wounds not almost fully healed
re-bruise my body... but i cycled on...
i was never going to give up my first love...
i sometimes wish swimming was my first love...

but no...
cycling is my first love...
    walking my second
  and swimming my third...
   i never cared much for running: because it was usually
running for a bus or a train...
and i will never own a driving license...
never... i like buses... i don't like cars...
the best i could do is own a motorcycle...
and given my bicycle accident...
swerve: pothole... get nudged by a car...
oh man... that falling across my handlebars
must have looked impressive...
like when Walter Sickert influenced Francis Bacon...
my face scraping the tarmac...
i was slightly tipsy... though...
so... first lesson: is usually the last lesson...
never attempt to cycle tipsy...

   2nd lesson: overcome fear by cycling tipsy...
as i was today... a few beers in...
but i thought: wow... not this bicycle is truly mine...
it's truly mine because i just had an accident on it...
i own this bicycle... we're entwined...
i even left several signatures of blood on it...
but... i'll wash the off tomorrow:
i need to finish painting the fence...
the artificial grass is almost done...
the slabbing completed...
   i need to change the handlebar tape and change
the breaks... i seriously managed to erode so much
rubber that no wonder i feel the need to squeeze
harder... eh... London traffic, what do you expect?!

also? a rat infestation... because?
my new Nigerian neighbours... well... just the old guy...
thought it was a good idea to leave
bread and trimmings in the garden
for his "beloved" pigeons... ******* beloved pigeons...
no rats in Africa?!
the kitchen is a mess... but i have one...
scuttling... rats are not mice...
                they're ingenious buggers...
the cheese is gone... the mouse-trap snapped...
i hate those things... i once had a mice problem
in the attic... bad timing... the poor thing died
from a broken jaw... it bled out like...
that Ukrainian butcher of Rostov...
                                       through the a shot in the head...
it must have taken about two weeks
for him to die when he was dragged into a cell
and shot in the back of the head...
same with this mouse... death by a broken jaw...
horrible stuff...

i mean: i had a mouse problem once when in Ediniburgh,
if you could get hold of Ilona...
she would tell you... the pretty defenceless thing
hid in my wardrobe...
i created this maze... with a trap at the end...
caught it... trapped it... held it up by its tail...
Ilona was all giggly...
       i went out with it to the tenement landing...
let it loose onto the stairs...
memories of childhood...
   what memories? i once had a hamster...
took it outside... this sadistic boy encouraged me
to drop my hamster down the stairs:
saying: it would survive the fall...
so i dropped my hamster...
it fell and its nose starting bleeding...
i took it home crying...
  parachute! there was supposed to be a parachute!
right... but with this mouse?
full circle... i atoned for my naiveness...
i placed the mouse on the landing...
the mouse jumped one stair down... and then?!
a... a... *******: LEAP OF FAITH...

well... that was much easier...
i walked back into the bedroom and Ilona asked:
what did you do with the mouse?!
oh... it committed suicide...
that's revenge for that ******* who said my hamster
would survive the fall...
children should not own critters...
animals smaller than them...
dogs?! cats?! fine... but hamsters... rabbits?!
no no no...definitely not hamsters!
some ******* Jeffrey Dahmer types might just be
spawning... i remember that kid...
thick glasses... freckles...
i'd love to castrate him: right now...
curly hair... hell... forget castrating him...
i'd love to head-**** him and break his nose...
in such a way that he might lose his sense of smell...

that's when i realised... when that mouse i wanted
to let go decided to jump off...
i was atoning... i made a full circle
with a past grief... that's when i became a father
unto myself... of course i still had a father
to dictate rules to me concerning a work ethic
and ambition... but that was the moment
i became a father to the child of memory i once was...
no silly idiot was whispering in my ear
about how a hamster could survive a fall...
from the time i "purposively" dropped it...
i just let the mouse go... and it decided....
suicide was the better option: the only option...

i only feel relief from both memories...
15 years down the line...
how? i'm not going to use the standard mouse-trap
procedure... not after seeing this one
mouse i found in the attic bleeding
to death from a broken jaw...
       it broke my heart...
               and... hardly being in love...
         there's no other option: i wouldn't mind
if a cat killed it... at least there would be a hierarchy...
of consequences...
i wouldn't mind if the rat was simply nibbling
on dry lasagne sheets...
but when it comes to biting into plastic...
and cables... i don't want to replace my dishwasher
or my washing machine...
the next best option? poison... like sugar for humans...
i don't need to see another rodent dead
from crushed teeth... it's snout mutilated...
give me a clean ****...

i think Ilona sensed something was changing
in me... when i casually said: oh, it committed, suicide...
it was casual then:
but given enough time: there was nothing
casual about it...

IV.

i believe it's not patois if i insert some Cyrillic into
the Latin script of the Western Slavic zunge of
******:
              щur!       too many consonants, no?
i.e. szczur... i.e. rat?! ergo? щur!
we're still communication on an even level playing
field...
what was i listening to and what was i reading
that made me feel so... "nostalgic"?
i need to sample some snippets of Ovid...

1. because you keep nagging for presents...
2. that's what turns me off...
3. what's 3?

    i can't over-quote him... people need to forrage
themselves... i'm not going to be either lasso
or gatekeeper...
          
some "questioning" about the pocketing
of bribes...
    so "here", or "there"... or "other"...
                toward the "Arctic" one in spun
in some petty defiance...
this sinking ship of this last thought...
this one last gasp of air
before the final tombstone riddle of
a breath that drons the lungs
with salty waters..

             i will not cite any more Ovid:
i'll keep him to myself...
not as a gatekeeper... more akin to:
if you were to love him as much as i do...
you'd follow your sorry-*** to engage
with his outpourings than simply sit
idle assed: not asked: never asked!

V.

the moon started blinking through his crescent
spetacle...
i almost felt to be in love in love..
****... i can't be any longer...
burn the ribbons, the tiers....
the ribbons and the kites...
             burn all things hybrid into the fuckinng
ground;
yes... this is enough.

/                                          it's noon, july,
              and i find myself
         in possession of the shortest shadow -

so eager,
to anticipate die nacht:
and become...

schatten im selbst -

  or perhaps that's what
a whiskey and indian tonic
water does to you,

   having allowed
almost half
a year to read heidegger's
ponderings VII...

now having arrived at
aphorism III of ponderings
VIII:
              actually
suckling on some sort of
philosophical-poetics!

                i'm the drunk,
  there's no actual poet
to mind,
  and he's a necromantic
reading into the living...
he was the sober peasant,
i'm still the drunk
peasant...

          airy-fairy
and the *****-nilly americanism...
it's still a whiskey
mixer with indian tonic water...

throw the american out
with the coffee from the window...
  
   a whirlwind!
  of conjunction mingling with
interjections -
   always the abrupt...
                        hyphen or a colon?

rules?
                borrowed...
   we'd like to call colon the boss
of both lists (hyper inflating
comma usage) /
                       not using italics,
and...
             what the hell happened
to the origin and upkeep
            of the apostrophe?!

russians?!
   russians are a limited diacritical
application types of a people -
russians are like the english:
   they have no origins in language
encoding,
  in thinking:
                sure, they "think",
but in fact they:                        thing.

this does that this does who,
who does what, what does this.

they "think"... but instead they...
   thing...
                     like any technocracy -
if it works, it works:
   so we don't need the dumb peasant
having been given the instruction
manual...

    top rubric genesis:
bottom rubric exodus...
   hope it works out...

           and since i'm drunk:
and you're probably sober...
                      where's the boxing match
taking place...
  because i was having this
conversation with an english lady
showing off her tattoos to me,
and this guy with a dog
started spewing words like
  filfth, filfth! over
our conversation...

    he can bring the dog...
   i'll bring my belt...

       'cos' at this point i'm:
  ******* frothing at the mouth!
and if i wasn't drinking my usual
suspects of sedatives of
count jameson, and baron daniels,
and king absolute of shveeden...
                      you know what
biting down on your teeth
does to you?
                          ***** parade...
seriously!
     pusshy parade!

                    it's like they're there,
those sort of people, but you're like:
so where's the goliath?

         i want the goliath...
                      i don't want someone who's
dog i'd rather wrestle...
          
katie:
    i'd rather fight his dog, throw myself
into a bush of nettles like
an ancient roman
         than smack that gobshite!

call me, and the night:
   i'll still be frothing at the mouth
like a mad infestation of cattle...
which probably originated from
castrating the bulls.

i remember when we broke up...

          chasm of melodies or something along
those lines:

a leftover of a roach
come 2pm
and the Ladies final at Wimbledon
is just happening:

as is the Tour de France
so i too did my little tour the Havering:
halfpenny would be nice
just to stand a bit taller

well: rarely does it happen but apparently
it sometimes does:
a blind-spot poem from last evening
left me waking up thinking:
what the hell happened last night?
autopilot on: apparently...

i first came to England as a semi-legal
but technically an illegal immigrant
back in 1994 when you still had a high street
in Ilford on Cranbrook Rd
with Blockbusters and Quick Save
and the likes
and it was nothing like Bangladesh
but oh well:
by 1997 we were visited by two Home Office
officers and about five police officers
i remember that burning sensation
even now:
grandfather was visiting on a visa
the previous day we went to a fanfare
and i won a massive cuddly toy for mum
by sliding ***** into holes
while the camel atop was running ahead
i remember i was on fire that day
i just started year 7 at Canon Palmer Catholic School
and was ready to make new friends
so my father jumped the fences of
the garden
i recently bought a cat and was mingling
getting to know him
1960s Batman movie was on t.v.
and we were eating breakfast
and as my father said:
the Home Office makes raids on Sundays
when no one really works
even the illegal immigrants
so when these two shadows were waiting
outside the house:
it was about a day or a week shy
of the Law
   since by 1997 my father was living up
to 7 years there
and by Law if he made it that far
he couldn't have been DEPORTED...

clue: i found it hard to support the English
football team... ever... ever: like never ever:
but 2nd time coming:
i'm becoming slowly converted:
never say never, ever...
i found it hard to support the English football
team three lions on the shirt:
yes: and three cheetahs on a tree...
so...   but i always had been a fan of English Values:
especially the stance on anti-racism
being a part-time question of authority
before finding my own ontology aligned with:
well i work with blacks Muslims and kinks
so we have racist banter from time to time
between the guys
like one Somali chuckling with:
'i'm a confused racist...'
whenever the same Indian Brigade would come
along and cluck cluck Bengal but but
Muhammad jihad...

1997 we were asked politely to leave
rather than being deported but it was a sort of:
deported at your own discretion:
i don't think they expected a child to be present
so we had about 2 weeks to pack our ****
but you couldn't explain to a boy
of 11 about politics of geography and ethnicity
or whatever
maybe they shouldn't have allowed
the Polish War Government residence in London
but only yesterday i learned
and i honestly didn't know
that it was: **** Germany, Soviet Russia
and the ******* Slovaks who also invaded:

das ist neu! das is neu!

                  ha ha Alfred Tennyson's charge
of the light brigade:
Iron Maiden with The Trooper...
   ha ha: Charge of the Krojanty...
or: like: ever:       the Winged Hussars at Vienna:

as much as i am a contemporary by being
a fan of sport... not particular about factions:
i leave that to the primal man:
funny sort of giggly not funny as in sneering
and devilish but funny-giggly
i'm also a fan of history:

    no i wasn't there but i can still ride a horse
i first learned to bicycle:
peddle: not push: what the ****'s a push-bicycle?
peddling is now pushing?
the **** am i pushing?!
this counter-intuitive working with and against
gravity to capture motion...

well for Bruce Springsteen and at least two
Taylor Swift shifts
i asked to be demoted...
**** the authority and **** the climbing ladders
of "career":
i was like: once upon a time: here:
i'll be there:
like LESTER BURNHAM:
who was actually my Julien Sorel of the screen:
hero... anti-hero...
my two major influences that captivated
the youth and half-beauty in me
were LESTER BURNHAM on screen
and Julien Sorel in books...

           but seriously: i woke up to some unsavory sounds
coming from the garden:
circa 8:30am...
i looked at my phone: did i really call Edie
drunk around 2am?
maybe: looks like it... did i even talk or pretend
to talk?
not unusual:
then i peered from behind the blinds:
Alphonso (Alfons denotes
****, the cat brute of the area:
i'm starting to think about getting an air rifle
and start shooting at the ******)
was there getting nervy:
Quarus in the background trying to
pacify the situation...
but then i see Veroniya
all geared up: seconds later i just see this
Tasmanian devil whirling tornado of needles
of teeth and claws and a pillow emerging
from the roughing up:

Alphonso starts to do cat-wrestling with
my Veroniya...
boy vs girl: this is not play-fighting:
this is going to be:
i think that castration creates very aggresive
female cats
and pacified male cats...
i think the castrated male cats are rather
content
while there's something evil about castrating
female cats:
they, become, vile... tender and vile...
but i wasn't having none of it!

o.k.: when i was younger i tried to intervene
in nature
mostly when i heard a woman
talk about the beauty of a lion hunting blah
blah and oh: so so cruel
the poor Bambi:
yeah: same ******* "Bambi" could knock
your lights out with the buckle of the hoofs
and give you a second brain plum proof
of: itchy-itchy signature oof! terrible headache
i did a skim reading of that scenario
once with seven horses lining up on a hill
in a field at night...
as once i spared a dying bee the agony:
i poured some honey into my palm
picked up the poor ******
and let him O.D. from the honey:
watched the ****** pull out it's long mouth-tongue
and start drinking the pure nectar...
a peaceful death: of a bee...
         by honey O.D.

            i had to run out: i stormed out:
i embodied fury:
naked apart from a bathrobe...
O TY SKURWYSYNIE!
SPIERDALAJ! WĄT!                  WĄT!
chased the ****** away with Veroniya chasing
after him...
Quarus distraught later crawled into my bed:
he's still there while i typo and make promises
to not typo:

               that sort of human intervention
in nature:
yes: with petted animals...
in the wild?
                well: i once caught a mosquito
and held it up to a spiderweb...
hey presto: mummification: because that's
how the Egyptians were inspired:
no?
but there is no homage to Spiders in Ancient
Egyptian culture: is there?
are there no spiders in Africa? not even in the desert?
but spiders are the gods of mummification:
not jackals... spiders are architects
like bees are architects hexagon:
hmm: lineage borrowed from Giant's Causeway?
maybe the scarab: rabbi scarab rabbi:
i'm just curious about spiders and mummification
in this instant...
                i mean: see it in nature then see it
in culture... so...

            but i'm slowly becoming a convert to
supporting the English football team:
because i have no affinity with the Spanish: unlike
Germany...
even this whole 1997 debacle and how:
it was so much easier to deport people not something
***** nilly: i can't complain:
i was about to lose my bilingualism
i was about to speak broken Polish...
it was nice to be reminded
of my heritage
for that year when "we" sorted our legality
and the job was done proper a second time
with lawyers etc
obviously a change of name
but first time my father was young and he was
hoping for the 7 year benefit
but obviously if i didn't go back to Poland:
i was home schooled: or rather i taught myself:
upon return i was in the top tier of mathematics
but obviously the education system
was ******* because they thought i spoke
bad english perhaps my written wasn't all good
but speaking:
not like the first time of hiding in toilets
strapped to a **** unable to speak
because i literally couldn't speak the language
and then that moment
i remember running up to my teacher
at St Augustine's (Barkingside)
                   with a book and exclaiming: eureka!
i can't understand what i'm reading!

which is weird listening to all the Banana boats
and 400 in one day in 6 of them
and no one has the ***** to deport...
but it was so much easier
perhaps white on white made more sense
but then why bother starting a war
against Germany just because Poland was invaded?
shouldn't have bothered:
so i don't understand why somehow
the Implosion of the Empire made it fair game
for the former Empire to come back
and haunt half Tory but never again
merry Tudor England...
                      and from a perspective of the continental
European: neighbor of the Germanic
and Turkic people somewhere slowly southernly
the weirdness that is the Italians
with the ancient Romans sort of ghostly Dasein
a there of a still standing and replica practicality
of the Coliseum... poet of the Coliseum:
sure: because i think that the work i do now
is kind of faking it, acting:
it's not like construction where you're producing
something a house, say...
which is why i don't understand ex-military
working in this industry:
getting all serious and trigger happy
demoted to a high viz otherwise standing pretty
in uniform doing my "work"
at Wimbledon...

             such became self-evident that with
Brexit in 2016 there would be a second
surge immigration to England
like that of 1997 with the Kosovo crew who
would sit all pretty in cafes outside
of Ilford train station
like now we have Albanians sitting pretty
and doing legal jurisdiction extensions of
"human rights" affairs in cafes not
100 meters from my house
and i get that people need to move in
semi-nomadic sporadic outburts

apparently the "eastern Europeans" were
too keen workers:
great! now we have sub-continent of India
lazy-pants working broken English
and fidgety on their smartphones
because the traffic and stench of Bombay
is lost
and even the Pakistani girls are like:
**** get me away get me away
that's the last thirst of Islam to conquer
India but alas: not, to, be...
those polytheists and their: AU NATUREL
ways of passing on water
better to throw ashes into the river:
maybe my body is ash
and my blood is rye
maybe that's my body: my blood...
some ash flicked off the end of a cigarette
into a shot of bourbon! yes! indeed: that's it!

i admit: not as prolific as the antics of
the Cosmopolitan Messiah:
not Moses the army tactician turned
plagiarist of Assyrians
i'm pretty sure he was too busy to have
bothered writing anything
and back when people wrote into stone
i hardly think
there's any concern for the relevance
of: by the spoken stubborn of Judaic
the Covenant of Journalistic writing on the wind
and speaking on paper...
but i can't exactly do one better
than Jose of Jerusalem: but i might have
implored him:
you can't lift the sins of the world:
alone...
you coming back with short-circuit the entire
logic of monotheism:
by a Second Coming you will actually destroy
the concept of: one life one death one god
that is my trinity:
one life one death one god

the Hebrews always faulted themselves
by imploring the second coming of Elijah...
this is a logical profanity of
the supposed superiority of monotheism
toward polytheism and within
the confines of polytheism there are many
universes and alternative routes
and only the Elect number of Souls
of authentic approach toward life
moving like ghost parasites in the composite
body of zombie-people...
sometimes taming the ego sometimes
not taming the ego
given a different status to say:
the former realization of being leprosy afflicted
or too rich or too crazy to handle
Damocles' and the Sphinx's authority
of the riddle...

   but mythology is never part of the Hebrew
history:
there are myths in other cultures
but the Hebrews just don't stand for mythology:
mythology is just like histriology:
there's the logic of: and how much time has
elapsed since we've seen something spectacular?
enough? well then:
we have to re-categorize our approach
to this story being kept in the collective consciousness:
no, not like the collective consciousness
of ants:
but one person alive, living next to another person:
also alive...
can attest that there doesn't have to be
any cryptic Jungian collective well-being spring
of COME FORTH the aliens demonic
humanoid angelic archetypes anti-plagiarism
unlike teens trying to compete for attention under
the guidance of peer-pressure...

reincarnation has not toast of clarification
in monotheism:
únus vita únus mortem únus deus!
depends how you punctuate:
****...
         U R AN OOSE
  goose: para- ditto: Dodd... instead of Tod...

              time to have fun in language and with it
and given no paper
is a carrier of: enough to bypass gatekeeping
with enough spacing
and hot bagels off right off off the bat
and who cares about money
i have Martin "Schumacher" Batuk in the background
half brain not dead
about to be airlifted from Poland
to a nursing home in England
since his calamity occurred doesn't mean
that he'll remain there:
and the ***** and giggles of my grandmother's
dementia is like: a cherry a cherry a cherry smiling
like my lover's buttocks:
i had to get a wake up call
took to smoking a cigarette with coffee
then did two angry masturbations
trying to find female ******* kinks of the teacher
and student... but once that was over
and i did my 3 times the *****
had a shower
and cycled to: African Christian Ladies
opening up a stall and singing and blasting bad
Nigerian Reggae at Collier Row
just outside the Tesco where i came in for
a supply of bourbon...

jeez: that Travis Scott demographic... hmm?
i was not expecting it...
we were all gearing up for the **** Kid
demographic from last year
where African Power and quasi-nationalism
was espoused and it was like a Malcolm X
rally:
but it's still funny watching the dynamic
of black on black
the former slaves: as caught and sold
to European merchants:
the idiots of the tribe...
       and it's not like slavery meant
that no Africans remained in Africa, right?
   it's not like every single African was enslaved:
there were those that stayed behind:
and it's not like picking cotton was:
compared to what the European *******
did coming from the east
and the Irish in the coalmines and construction?
oh: ugh! backbreaking work: picking cotton...
the sun so awful all that brain freeze
and suntan and: i had it once... what's the word...
sunstroke... yes...
not enough Afro curls on me heed to go ahead
and... somehow not sigh?

don't know what the constipation is all about:
politically:
the moment i started laughing at the President
of the United States
introducing Zelensky as Putin...
                      so i'm supposed to go and live
among these people?
hardly:
Hawaiian implores me to mingle with the Polynesians
and it's almost done:
getting those ******* out with enough
golf, golf-tourism and tourism...
but not quiet: quite:
ha ha... funny words... not so far apart:
a Dyslexic funfair that's like the opposite of Islam
but not much better
supposedly we're all literate but
evidently no: so if i can but try to come across
as intimidating:
it would very much coincide with one
observation from a Bengali arch-English anti-Bengali:
'why is it that when you talk
people listen to you?'
you know, fwend: i never really had enough
of an undermining ego-narrative in my head
to be bothered by that: or as Heidegger proposed:
beside the hammer...
i.e. laborers talking about philosophy on the job
rather than exchanging *** banter and banter:
Heidegger's Q: or: the proposed:
question-worthiness...

         there is such a "thing" as: question-worthiness...
i question sparingly:
myself? hardly: but not never...
if Socrates utilized: "nothing"...
then Heidegger utilized: question:
hence, from: all i know is that i know nothing
came:
well... Heidegger didn't actually put up a formulaic
simplification away from an aphorism...
he didn't suggest a succinct approach...
i'll try...

           what is best known is what
           is question-worthy...

best? or "best"? to the highest degree:
aesthetically... maybe...
ethically: definitely...
for the generalization of well-being: being well...
good... ergo best:
yes...

       what is best known is what
       is question-worthy...

if someone doesn't prompt a question:
it is best dissolved, absolved from one's concern...
it's mostly ego mash up and consciousness
debates...
but... find me a single thing in existence
and tell me it doesn't have the following expression(s):

                     ?               !
                             . .
                         .__.

look at the face... it's a pretty face: isn't it?!
i think that's my face:
the mountain screams with the eye of exclamation
while also withdraws with
the eye of questioning:
no smile no frown:
two nostrils i gather and two pairs of ears
funny how ears are unimportant in
the language of emoticons...

                    question-worthiness...
i'm so happy i wasted my 20s and early 30s
on reading philosophy
on being scrutinized by psychiatric professionals
being pilled
bloating up to 115kg
                 being ****** and whatnot
ah: the tyranny as espoused by Plato went away
so quickly and never came back
and i started to look at people in 3D...
i started reading people...
people slowly started to open up to me
from seeing a psychiatrist (not by choice)
to somehow being a psychiatrist not qualified
to dish out pharma cocktails of debilitating
side-effects:

          but that i learned from the private imperfections
of R. D. Laing...
a good portion of my literary diet was
orientated in the scared trinity
of philosophy, psychology and poetry...
that is a ******* juggernaut... a perfect cocktail:
and you have to sometimes juggle multiple
readings: the simultaneous approach
coincidences approach:
life feels eerie from not being or feeling
special: crab bucket mentality is sure to follow:
but just being alive:
somehow curtaining and curtailing
and even censoring
a need-to-have consciousness-as-narrative:
ego: flaky...
i have one but it's un-uniqueness
in that "we" share the commonality of someone
says Monday,
another someone says September 1st 1939 anno domini
dough-mini: instead: piquant:
scale: the backward version of
joy to the world the lord has come
not music in the slightest:
so thought inter-personal transit of ideas
like who discovered gravity
was Newton but not Newton's ego
that became recycled:
and only as such... "reincarnation" of the ego
happens all the time:
timeless plagiarism of being of a species
and having a tongue and relating to the same exemplum
gratis of a fellow man...

but i will not have a 20th century itch
of having to keep Shakespeare as a crutch
for verification stratification
of authority of the penned-whip:
i will lose no sensibility being under-appreciative
of Shakespeare:
besides... well... the movie adaptation
of Macbeth...the Justin Kurzel version...
primarily because of how hauntingly the language
was approached: perfectly fitting:
esp with the score Jed... oh! right! brothers at work!
lucky *******...
they had it with the Merchant of Venice:
up to a point but that's only thanks to Al Pacino
and Jeremy Irons...
the Romeo+Juliet adaptation was just
******* wonky: the language too obviously
sterile beyond everyday usage...
the music gave the adaptation of Macbeth the perfect
haunting eerie-.

I was a black man by the name
of, Frank Embree, crying endless
oceans of hope and freedom
from my enemies, wishing that they
could find peace and love within
their existence, to stop the oppression
and ongoing sessions of vast
lynching's as the white mob
ceased me, accused me of ******
a 14-year-old girl.  Then savagely
attacking me, castrating me,
forcing me to eat my shriveled *****
and ***** like a bloodthirsty dog,
cursing my name, driving me
insane, handcuffed, stripped naked,
whipped 103 times with a bullwhip
without no remorse, 50 more times
just for the hell of it.  Epic explosions
were erupting, my skin sinking,
extremely bleeding, frustrating
sensations ******* with my subconscious
cutthroat verbs circling me, crazed
consonants swirling in the air
as I stared all around me, taking
in the amplified hatred, the color
of my flesh a scorching story shot up,
blazed in flames, rising smoke fogging
up my soul.