you will only convert them by desecrating their alphabets, you will only convert them by plucking out their eyes, and inserting arabic Braille to touch... but given their alphabet created computerised encoding, programming, due to the many holes in their phonetic optometry recognition; you will only convert them by desecrating their alphabets - teaching them the odd protruding arabic word will not due... even those who claim the faith do not speak arabic fluently: thus endorse reaching to those who have protruding arabic in them, but speak with an east london bad boy boy'o wannabe gansta' style - recruit here your obedient servants.

only among the many can a real chance, chance fleeting
become noted to a lake turning into mirror for
Narcissus at night by the gleering bluish moon of winter -
as if my heart, a heart of a poet was to be entombed in Iran -
and indeed i ran and ran to that tomb of poets -
hence their protest at the Surah damning the poets
(ash-shu'ara),
a proud ***** of the poets that
Iran is... well... it says the many -
and indeed with the many
the few can truly protest for the many,
for the few must accept the
protest of the many as a sign
that there's a different route to be taken,
not the whimsical route of undoing
any chance practice of the skeleton
and the tendon strings attaching it
to godly muscular - a funnel of activity -
indeed the damnation of the poets
therein, and my identification as one,
brings the weight upon me as if
were to identify with all and defend all
who profess such an occupation -
minding that the profession bring
the rewards akin to banking, or cheap
smear novel writing - who would not
dare to think, in abode of their
comforts that - *one day poverty -
over the past year or so, i have not received
a single letter being pushed through my
door - it's as if already the ridiculing
violins are playing - and as of this being
a 2nd critique of the western practice of
writing haiku - they're too enshrined in
the everyday - no chance - no drunk chinese
sage receiving a haiku with tear or
laughter - and here the sense of impeding
criticism, as Ezra warned at the end of
LXXXI
            'what thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
             first came the seen, then thus the palpable
             the ant's a centaur in his dragon world.
             pull down thy vanity, it is not man made courage,
             or made order, or made grace, pull down thy vanity!'
and indeed, what of Iblees? is that not god in reverse?
who made the previous world, known to us now,
this quote in the Surah al-hijr, about a fire which
wished not to become prostrated before the new creation,
after having suddenly revolved around not crafting
an asteroid belt to prevent future mishaps -
that this quote in al-hijr is the intelligence of the elders,
the former inhabitants - who's descendent remnants
still haunt our world - the slithering abstract of limbs,
the lizard spine - the i remember when rock was young,
me and suzie had so much fun, holding hands and
skimming stones, had an old gold chevy and a place
of my own but the biggest kick i ever got
was doing a thing called the crocodile rock -
well at least he didn't do the blatant Liberace to elder
gems for a fur coat & chandelier - social mobility of
third party parenting laws came in - in france a law was
passed criminalising pundits of prostitutes...
the prostitutes came out in protest...
while the upper tier 9 month surrogate prostitutes
just laughed - so yeah... the inversion of some sort -
with that quote about the dinosaurs being the highest
creative product of god, the universe, whatever...
after all, life's just: one bunch of *******, telling another
bunch of ******* - 'we've got all the ***** and had
threesomes and ******' - my my, let's applaud
for our mutual embarrassment of the 2:1 ratio
of women to men living out a life of grizzly bear mothers
in little ****-holes on the English Riviera, like Clacton,
or Southend.

I was always told that
Angels fell to earth right out of the sky.
But I’ve just seen some plough through the street
In a soft-top GTI.
They wear no halos or feathered wings
Just low cut tops weighed down with bling.
They reach for offerings from higher powers
Whilst blurting out a verse so sour

From the radio distortions
Where the treble and bass don’t mix.
They fester in daddy’s fortunes
Refuelling on Marlborough kicks.
No reasons to care or give a ****.
No schedule. No curfew. No back up plans.
Because the coke’s *****, the merlot’s cheap
They dance until they dare to sleep.

They own the roads and highway code -
They drive however they like.
Be it a classic Sunday saunter
Or ripping up bends at ninety-five.
No care for  what’s wrong or morally right -
Not the subtle difference between concrete and ice.
Their fate is held by a suspect man
With a shrouded face and a scythe in hand.

His mercy waveringly alters
At the flick of a delicate switch.
He knocks it upwards violently
With the most convulsing of kicks.
No red alert! No alarm bells ring.
No saviour. No hero. No Prince Charming
From Clapham to Clacton to save their souls -
They’re at home watching rich boys banging in goals.

The lightest clouds from brighter skies
Can’t cushion them from their fall
The sight of a hematic sunset
Is the last thing they shall recall.
No blessing, swan songs or final words,
No final pleas to be willingly heard.
It’s up to Daddy if they get to relish
His delicacies – or the unspeakably hellish.

The other day I heard a noise,
an eeky squeaky tiny voice
And when I searched around the house
I apt to find a little mouse

And as he spoke he said to me
I come from Clacton by the Sea
My name is Pierre Lafayette
and I can play the clarinet

And as we sat there on the floor
he played me “Stranger On the Shore”
Each note he played was smooth as silk,
he sounded just like Acker Bilk

I sat there the whole afternoon
As I listened to each bewitching tune
A true master of the liquorice stick
This maestro rodent cleaver ****

Then in a flash the mouse departed,
but left a stink, I think he’d farted
And all he left was the smell of cheese
From his pungent odious **** breeze

So if you’re sat there in the house
and come across a little mouse
Don’t be scared and start to fret,
it could be Pierre Lafayette.

where do you go to when you're old,
like being at Clacton in November,
the swirl of the waves conjoure Shangri-la.
Quelle surprise.
As the months go by,
the whole lot is thrown to the winds,
lost your allotment!
the young always get what they want,
but never appreciate  the waiting game
nor can you count on health every day,
just like your Lazarus cat for a nifty vets fee.

no broken thread:
just telegram telepathic:
short:

don't keep looking
for the bogus
of self-belief:
the motto: of:
just believe in yourself
*******:

such a timid death
of god
no god no self
read about the Devil:
only two philosophers
danced with
him:

Spinoza and Kant:
and i adore these two men
like Hamlet
or is that Vader: Darth:
or is that: no:
no Macbeth...

find your: self-worth!
man!
find your: self-worth!

  forget about self-belief!
forget about self-belief!
don't believe in yourself:
no cogito ergo sum phantom
rolling inside your brain
thinking yourself
more than rock
sea god and mountain:

but reflect upon the face of you
in Poseidon:
the ancients might have believed
Titans ruled
like Autocrats
and...

              Quality: of one
rather than one: as a quantity of indefiniteness
pleasure: no pleasure
she became involved in my life
yet my life is still somehow public
but as i microdosaged
and was asked sober to exchange
money

and spent the weekend with father
and you talked about moving
Martin nearer to the sea
to Danzig by the Sea not Clackton
or Clacton:

                     i'm going to an AcDc
gig while she was having spaghetti
monsters of conversations
by a bonfire
a date night
longing out I know
Reyla wanted us to have a date night:
i need to pay my cats for
baby-sitting: i really do...

confusion creates enlightenment:
funny how:
i can't see a traffic cordon
in the fog
enlightened by concusion
and hitting a tonsure of blood on my head:
perhaps i need
to get out of this gig economy
people are not seeing human to human
interaction

QUALITY:
half a joint
and half a 70cl bottle of Welsh whiskey
talking about sport

that England vs Switzerland match
but then that
Netherlands match vs Turkey
and i'm about to talk Olympics:
tis the season to by ****** holy
and Japanese pederasty
like so got me involved...

kettle?
pan?
kettle-pan
cups-ahoy: one is for a lesbian: i'm sure:
let's get technical:

i was actually looking up the Architect
of the Third *****:
Third ***** history is so rich
in its mythology and genocide that
it's a fetish
that i only acquired having acquired
the English language first...

**** Architecture is still ALIVE...
just think of the hands that did
the work of laying brick on brick
and you can still see ghosts
like jazz hands applauding
those still living...
of those who constructed Wembley
to now those who work in Wembley:

what a disparity:
CONSTRUCTION ARMY > WARFARE ARMY
you only realize that
when working in the security industry:
the military personnel became demoted
while the construction army
became promoted to the status of ACTOR
poet...
SUPERVISOR...

today my father said that supervisor
in the construction industry:
but a supervisor in the security industry:
i demoted myself
wanted go back to the roots:
unhinge myself from the shackles
of a profession: no career
a job is money...

    if i were a rich man... phantom of the opera
and fiddler on the roof:
somehow mashed up mashed up mashed up mashed up!

of this world i only ask of three
things:
not the father the son and holy ghost:
as man to man and then
translating to woman:
tortured by a blockjob
kept this one ***** chick dear mummy
got a new fairstyle
and for all the Gardens of King Solomon
just my me and David and the Lute
and Swan Song: Monogamy of the ****
*** ***... donkey cure of carrots..

just seeing these ex military men
work in the security industry alongisde
ex construction men
and how there's work in work
there's absolutely work in work
i'm doing overtime
playing actor psychologist pingpong...

three things:

A GOOD WOMAN: WHOLESOME
               AGRARIAN:
                   PARADOXICAL:
        DOGMATIC:
                 (looking: looking: for
a word: working agrarian:
hubris: hunting blues...
                       tip to tongue
tip to tongue... RUSTIC!)
SOME GOOD WHISKEY
A SHERBET *****
& good music
that's the 4th goldfish:
for you to hide like
a dragon
and that's the 1st wish of my 3
and that's 4...

                  as a fan of football
of sport
how is England supposed to compete
with the national furor of
both Netherlands where interrogation
integration worked:
where Turkey there's integration
of *** apparent Turks looking more like
Europeans rather than Middle Easterners
and that's because i count the shift of Rome
and no longer the Ottoman claimant
of Byzantium:

best reading encyclopedia history
when watching a football match:
best thing to do!
best: thing! to: do!