Hope and Sadness are evil twins,
Born out of the same egg.
Men undertake endeavours ,
Accompanied by the elder twin, Hope
Guiding men to explore more,
Seek more and sweat more.

Time pass by unnoticed,
And the burden of past starts hurting man's will.
To the blurry eyes goals become chimeral.
Disappearing hope leaves big scars,
To be filled by the younger twin, Sadness.

i. prelude in accordance with comparing the parting glass with auld lang syne.

aye, jingle jingle bell... jingle all ye may...
tis' the season to be jolly,
in times when elves are half-wits
without the graces of a Lord Elrond,
majestic, proud, here where little
hobbit-elves roam with pointy ears
and hairy nostrils... aye, jingle jingle bell...
jingle all the way...
   as you look east, and hear both the dove's
song of *silent night, to later hear
   the sombre mea culpa, and the creed
come easter... and upon the altar: get
your blames and your sins...
         for letting it happen! for letting it happen!
o heathens and o you gentiles!
    come while i scold my dog into having to
father me - aye...
       so frown too at the acronym prelude
with all that pandemonium glitter - presents,
crucifixes replaced by christmas trees:
and as is the clause of santa - reduced to burnt
smithereens of torture instruments standing
in Ka Ka poses - o hear the my new fatherland
waiting for me... while the cradle of my word
seemed but almost ready to finally to get rid of
me, i come back swiftly... and rid Europe
of harmony... nor was it that the Englishman foresaw
it... being a gemini-gentleman, he did what
any Pontius Pilate could do: he washed his
hands, then washed his feet - and assumed a moral
high-ground: in times when speaking German
or using German words parallels national socialism...
aye, and all good tidings to the many.

ii. interlude, beyond the 24th hour awake.

you know how they have these cautionary moments
on television during the news?
  they say something like: warning, this report contains
flash-photography...
     they should really have the same ****** cautionary
statement when you walk out on the streets these days:
caution! flashing christmas lights! santa's strobe disco
special... i'd be curious about those photosensitive
epileptics walking the streets these days...
and as they say: an englishman's home is his castle...
obviously that depends how many christmas lights
be dons in his windows... and how ****** annoying
their setting is... i blink less times in a minute
than these disco arrangements flash in 20 seconds...
but indeed, an englishman's home is his castle...
but put about twenty of such castles in a row
and you get the inkling... pray not call these
the abode of windsors... they look nothing like
castles... more like chicken-shacks...
      to live so close among each other, and for this
sole reason... despise each other so fervently
as to love one-another by simply: not even saying hello.
after a year so closely packed? what could
a hello ever do to me? ruin my day... that's what...
and you see these pseudo-hippies out there
on the television screen advertising mentos sweets
told by Ormond St. children in hospital to
hug people in the street,
          or 'wanna come round my house?'
that's a line out of Norman Bates' mouth, isn't it?
if we can't talk jolly over a drink,
    what do you think a conversation over a mentos
sweet would achieve? fresh breath...
  but certainly the still stone-cold heart of
              keeping up with mascaras and mortar.

iii. the best presents are the littlest of joys.

tiny, like the last babushka: a great psychological
schematic... hollowing out, hollowing out,
moving further apart... in the end it's not some
concrete ego-theory, or some self or some questionable
"self"... that last babushka (i was going to say egg,
added to babushka) - is but a pinch -
       pinch of salt, or a pinch of a little reality that's
that adequate spiderweb compliment toward each new day.
- and say, all grand things acquiring little idiosyncratic
words of these isles...
                            but inherently the baltic breathes into
us a different disposition: i too, upon waking
    see Sisyphus - but instead of utilising my body
i have to utilise my mind... i could remain a child
and think of pushing the stone telekinetically,
and become an engineer, and inventor, to ease the woes
of the daily toils, invent a mechanical drill rather than
use the old manual drill...
                         but i don't even contemplate
   telekinetic deviations... i just sit by the stone i'm supposed
to push up a non-existent hill...
    so unless i be ****** with some demon with a hot
poker to get mye lazy *** to the daily toils of the sweaty brow...
i'll finely sit and tell you this.

iv. and i told them.

i can stretch this soviet sleep experiment to two days,
sleep my twelve and wake to the twenty four and beyond
up to 36... but don't expect me to fear going
at night for my sedatives... even if I have to leave dear
McCormick behind on these travels, and travel east
and feed on ***** for a while, oh indeed the hiatus
and the family... even among my kinsmen i will walk
the night... and all I have to say: the worst has already
happened... the best that can happen would be
for Samael to kindly raise his *** from the cold marble throne
of graven idle - and finally make the clean scythe swoon
into my heart...
                            and that's how it began...
the †-word... the bilingual crossword -
       no, nothing like the original crossword game for
monolingual people...
          there are were no clues in the word scythe...
Scythians? that's Latin... meaning that etymology would
not help, but it was tested...
      and yes... he was crucified on the †-word,
on the basis that he gave no insight into hashem,
yes, the name, the y m c a, the y h w h... the acronym
of which was ironically †... or n.e.w.s. -
               that's why the scribes, the Pharisees pestered
him! they wanted some insight into their practices!
but what did he do? he scolded them!
         he insulted the scribes and the little scribblers of
Jerusalem long gone... and so with due irony:
got †-fied: defied... and by later jokes of the gentiles:
deified.             scimitar doesn't even help either...
then one word pops into my head, don't know
why, it's not even synonymous, and that makes it
even less antonymous - brzoza - birch tree...
also known as the pioneer tree... where the birch tree
settles, other trees may follow... palms?
palms are ******* dead end... the best you might
get from a palm tree... is a cactus.
        well... this is becoming a very horrible crossword,
i have scythe
                       Scythians... scimitar...
     sclera... dictionary...              but nothing leading
me to translate scythe into ol' ma'...
                                       no etymological congregation
to work from...
                  i'm not even going to cheat...
      i'll just make life a little bit more easier for myself
and enjoy the evening with my whiskey...
   KURVA JEGO PIERDOLONA MAĆ!
           now i know why i couldn't find the word,
it's too undisturbed by Greek or Latin,
        it goes to the ancient roots of when languages
didn't exactly borrow from each other...
scythe? in western slavic?       kosa.
      it's a basic word going back back to syllables...
and given that Latin is an alphabet of syllables
rather than nouns like Greek (a and alpha? different,
aren't they, obviously).

v. a chimeral opposite.

so fill to me the starting glass
good morning and misery be with you all,
as the years pass,
with each new year, i don't know what
i'm expected to be celebrating or seeing others celebrate.

The psycological effects
of the rewired mind
infused with the 'Green Fairy'
are learned the easy way

As he - that is I
strides the late night town
ten foot tall
with a sixteen year old

on his arm
in the town
as the gargoyles
watch from heaven

A night spent trying
to climb a moving Vesuvius
a chimeral dreamscape
of unreal reality

As he - that is I
strides the late night town
ten foot tall
with a sixteen year old

on his arm
in the town
as the gargoyles
watch from heaven

The west seems impossible
Domestic country foreign
Left and right, up and down
Meet and aspect feint
As the universe turns miles fast
Beneath the laborless turn of the wrist,
A calm smile on my face belied by the whites
Of knuckles, eyes trained toward stars and dust betwixt.
I, a mote of solar stuff,
Hurtle past the known outstretched edge
Toward the center of my solar system.
It’s a challenge, a race, a pledge,
To outrun the dark recess
Too heavy for Apollo’s light,
In that impossible west—
Yes, far too massive
Far too massive
Far too massive.
Every move has reached its apex
Bourne tired on the fabric
Heavy lies its form
As I flex
Spreading over pillows, over sheets
And to the navy dour
Of home’s familiar door
Those moments shared by all,
Soft illuming like torches,
Move closer to the center
Where each affect glows like mothlight
On neighbor’s porches.
It gave me pause
For I thought nothing could escape
A blackhole
Once crossed that threshold reach.
Upon that event horizon I gave pause
And forced a humble laugh
To let what’s still
Lay besieged.
Lest it be him
Lest it be me
Looking back
Looking in
Over the veil where one as I cannot observe
Spreads sly reminders from the other end
That has inward turned:
The product will emerge rife
With absurd cosmic alchemy
Formed but missing name and birthright—
What shall we name him?
What shall we name him?
It’s clear these twisted do-overs
That one can only watch
Are responsibilities of life
O’er event horizon crossed
Despite the warnings shouted
The wishes to him I can’t observe,
To him standing, running still become
At best, vicious reforming features—
These turn to doubtful lines of reasoning
By childhood’s chimeral creatures
One can feel its phantom limb
One can hear the pseudonym
Left with little to identify:
So, what shall we name him?
What shall we name him?
Only fools, the crowd of past selves,
Headlong cross the event horizon
And follow north
The stone covered in moss
Till a once around the globe,
All upsides and down, sufficed,
Brings them to the river
They never cross twice,
Brings them to the river
They never cross twice,
Yet somehow repeats the past
As though it follows in tow
Renewed and dilated
In matter, in style forever cast.
No, this can never be, this dark flow
Looks back from impossible east
And returns to the future
With words of warning or of comfort
And all too hesitant,
The future is the memory
Of the past
Lived in the present.