.
                   Concrete
              Concrete  Conc
             Concrete Concre
              Concrete Concr
                Concrete Co
                ncrete Concr
                ete Concrete
                ncrete Concr
                 ete Concrete
                 Concrete Co
          Concrete      Concrete
      Concrete Con  cret e Concre
     teConcreteCon crete Concrete
       Concrete Con   crete Concre
            Concrete        Concrete

with absolute precision of word. perfe-
ction of knowledge, of understanding.
for comprehension of origination and
history likened to something close in
introduction to a new animal. lead-in
to the true worth of a lost train of
thought. with quality of commentary
rare to be made sense of, found pretty
spot on from earlier life. and train of
thought finds unison with subcons-
cious streaming. that, with dreaming
thought, have culminated in child of
analytical mind though allowed to pro-
lapse in priorities. and with such loss
of grip came suffering of progress,
suffering of forward learning. reaching
heights in a lower level of intellect. all-
owed to linger without mental challe
-nge. and contemplated premature, a formed
plan involving no furthuring of positive out-
come. contemplate primordial retaliation.
and left to achieve more than dead, left to be
found in a vacant lot. and more only conc-
erns that of Natural cessation. seen as option
after pinpoint of knowing failure, some
vacant and the rest left to carbon. to return to
the *****, return to the end of procreation
this physical being. and ‘.. fear not
the thorns or the sharp stones on Life’s path’
and both the brambles and shunts are Pride’s
drawing of blood for to deter wisdom from
either being sown or reaped. though being
sees life in spite of ends means with
continuous derangement and isolation of
night, carried through with lack of ful-
mination of soul. and only ******* is
truth in the comment on kindred soul or
shared. remembrance of scribbled table
lost to self-ful faults. ‘Please destroy me’
imbedded in faux veneered black.
and on this day, as in that summer of swea-
ting. time of wasted thought, trading
blood for a bill spot. wasted knowingly
with opinion of perpetual recreation, with
ignoring the scarred body left as image of
******. and heavy are our eyes with the
wine of ages, and ears prevail in under-
standing happenings we wish our
absolute evasion of. heavy in moments
of isolation, we lack self-deprecation in
movements forward without lust for
body or soul. and fifteen with hope to
be infinite of lifetime. with hope for
perfection unobtainable. with words of
‘here lie the remains of him who wrote on
heaven’s face in letters of fire’ echoed forth
man of truth. him beyond we, transcended
thru ages of changed thought. lightening
of the heart and five days out, and
his Prophet portrayed the sails of ships as
coming death. cyclical incarnate and we the
undeniable will to traverse a sea of the poly.
and we the paradisal will to be six days out.

like a "sickness" in the stomach *** 7am
    after only going to bed at 2(am) -
       and not from any considerable mention /
allusion to a "lack of sleep";
     in that "sickness" is more or less
    akin to a metaphor of a centipede wriggling
about on a hamster wheel /
   a rollercoaster of sorts...

   tough-chew of a fiddling with imitation
   walking...
             prized pins in the feet that have
turned to custard-hardening numbness...
immediately a towing of verbiage
seems more apparent than ever...
   perhaps an interlude of

   'and here's one i prepared earlier'...
          
//

  besides: no one really wants to write something
maxim esque every other sentence:
feeding a readership of
exasperation and sighs - from what i've
heard writing maxims and / or aphorisms
can be a rather tedious undertaking -
for all the times that: when should be forgotten /
'suppose i dreamt it?'
              - and any other offer than can
come with: working out a best lived towards
the amnesiac astral domain...

it just came out of a deep need for perhaps
conversation - then again i am too tired -
             a tiredness that probably sounds better
if i push for some eloquence and
technicality - a miasma is too strong a word -
i'm trying to focus on ancient "things" -
   a chimera variation of a turtle -
               a talking sequoia (but an oak would
do just as well)
                                        and a jellyfish...
  from centuries old... lethargy...
                            with this living:
                                        a tryst a harangue
a search for catharsis -
                                 if need be for a mystery:
loitering on the promise of -
                                    by the gallows on
                                         a Sunday -
                                            in a year were all
such days could be: literally read as being borrowed
from the benevolence of
that                                monstrous UV bulb;
and her copperskinned serpent
                          monstrosities of trickle a tease
of skin's to sizzle: undertones of
                 thrashing water against a window
in the ear reach(ing) a pitch higher...                
                                                                                    //

towing too much space: nudging forward
a shy rubric - an omni- litany (by any other
prefix, squalor)
            between a noun like shy
    and an adjective shyness - formality:
a word genus out of identifying it as such -
a technicality of teaching / learning
                                this (a) language...

- but it dawns on me that i have perhaps
eroded too much of origin and thought
and perhaps even an originality via
the cameo cinema of memory (fickle creature),
but it also dawns on me that
perhaps 10 years apart (circa

                                          ) is enough "time" /
the same sort of space that would allow
a rereading of a work that's
             either Herr Watt (ha    ah      ha)
or a Thin Geon  
                           Anne's Wake -
                    for what use to i have for any
more of that democratic endeavour -
   if only to reprise upon: from the catacombs,
the labyrinth, the ancient library,
the depth of sea upon sea of paragraph-congesting
a drawing-up a coming up for air
akin to (verbatim)

- ****, Nick & the Naggies / Glugg &
    the 3 riddles - Chuff etc. -

   in the house of breathings lies the word,
all fairness. the walls are of rubinen and the glittergates
of elfinbone. the roof hereof is of massicious
jasper and a canopy of Tyrian awning rises and
still descends to it. a grape cluster of lights
hangs therebeneath and al the house is filled
with the breathings of her fairness,
  the fairness of fondance and the fairness of milk
and rhubarb and the fairness of roasted
meats and uniomargrits and the fairness of
promise with catatonia and avowals...

that from out of nowhere and for reason
other than: in order to write proper  & "proper":
tossing and fidgeting the little oystertongue
like imitation(?) i.e. forget conversational
standards of languid, lingo, linguine -
in a frock of half down and in a tuxedo of
half up
                for none of this could possibly
make it into: it's a Thursday morning
   by now all the newspapers have,
                               have been printed...
                  perhaps i'll tender a pause to imply:
pounce-stealthily-hidden in
                                                         wait:
  trainspotting & *****-tickling itch-not-itchy...

now that would be a-happening of sorts:
beside all the bog-****-sodden autobiographical
miasma and fog...
beside all the fog-coup-nudging shadow
with elbow and prayer to a nuke-UV-bulb...
a heart a sparrow a ribcage:
                when farting into the wind
when throwing a stick against a tree
in a forest -
                        when the unbelievably
corrupt sense of self is content, pure,
             by pure i'm only aiming at:
                           uninterrupted -
                           or... without a conjunction
like                                            and...

                that's before: that's a before veering
toward:                          image - begin, again:
a chandelier made from champagne flutes...
       on a side:
i can stomach divulging and bulging in
                                   shackles and monkey's
cackling imitation giggles -
some existential angst (although not something
grandiose as a 20th century sort
or "European" / 19th century precursor)
  
       on the periphery of some "now" (a variation
of when, what if - how, what?)
       such that it is a beautiful lie:
this life...
              and my newly  found estimation
of revising esteem for: not wriggling
in worm-food and silly-ink:
a medium of tedium of being taken
seriously (even if as a "reverse psychology"
reversal of joke)
    
       a puncture a wound that "word-thing"
compilation of:
       well beside something as interesting
as: it's an essay by a lucy ives and
                 it's an essay but for me it's more
a shortcut a footnote parade for my own:

   would it ever (at all) be better
to cure an itch by a pinch
   or in(deed) by a scratch...
             gravestones and heads of matches:
possibly very itchy specimens
it's not hard to imagine
******* on a pebble: no, not imagining
it to be a toffee (landrynek)
              
but honest to god and all that's
Port & Geese (Frugal, Portent - i forgot
the attached -al in s.p.e.l.l.i.n.g)
                 i have nothing equivalent to:
beba babe caco (clot)...
in my own in nomine patris
            since: what is much dissimilar
besides... "******": baba implies
               old woman / peasant woman /
         or woman as harangue (of sorts)...
even though babka =
                        a sort of cake (elevated
sponge, elevation = more bite to it)...
   then comes the suffixation of
the diminutive (adjective)
                             to the word...
babeczka, babusia... babcia
                                              (grandmother):
no language policing here or alt.
   wizardry / frothing at the "salad" i.e.
         concretely (in conc.) a D. Pignatari ref.

but for me: unless not congested (at least
like so) then latin is: loophole it see-through
it's almost flimsy it's barely visual:
why-because-it's-so-******-pragmatic
& why-because-it's-so-utensil-where-none-required
& economically sound
& sieve & water & thirst &
it's hardly an M like Ⰿ
                     or Ⱄ as S
                                let alone an I (pronoun)
i.e. not vowel(,) which is a syllable compound
of Ⱑ   (let alone Я) -
                          perhaps via some distinction
between vowel and pronoun
                    and aye i.e. yes...
             i̊ must say if the pronoun is so bothersome
and more: cut the head elsewhere
sınce ıt's there by no real dıstınctıon
when compared to              får
                          when compared to fát...
                    unless that dıstınctıon be made:
also elsewhere - ȷust like so (Jettıson Bothersome
& Blues)
unless: bothersome camouflage like
a broccoli in a sea of cauliflower akin to
ınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınının
nnnnnnnnnnnnnınnnnnnn­nnnnnnnnn
when "oops" and Bob's your uncle
   i.e. ınınınınınınınınınıninınınınınınının

...never mind - i've been here before
but for the sake of convention (ctrl-c-ctrl-p)
     as clear as day:  
                                  i̊ might add...
       because it would not (otherwise)
  in any other way not suit me -
              thrice up ¡¡¡           thrice down !!!      

all in all: a leisure of an exercise in...
                              terms of waiting for such
pennies of a wording to drool off
a muse's heavenly gob.

It was midnight on a Sunday
Above the dark beautiful sky
Scattered bright sparling glasses
That shone beautifully from above

The moon's glow was so bold
Its rays penetrated smoothly in the forest
And the green leaves reflected the extra light
Making the scene more beautiful to the sight

At the far end of the forest
There appeared an urgly dark cloud
A huge red glow followed immediately
Things were happening so fast

Everything got worsened by the Swift blowing wind
Leaves were turned to black
The tree trunks were glowing red
And the environment was getting more hotter

It all started with a cigarette glow
Then came a conc dark smoke,
A huge flying red glow
And now we're counting losses of homes

the use of ritalin,
  and medicating childrens'
                                                 behaviour...

well...
      welcome to the circus!

i can tell you that
i was on an anti-psychotic
that made me
**** my bed, aged circa my 20s...

and **** me...
      i took up studying chemistry
at edinburgh university!

on the warmest day:
                 the coldest night...

certainly not part of
a dickens or a dumas archive...

   but i'm just knit-picking
the newly come... children...
    among, us,
  the 30+ veterans of
the socio-chemical experiment,
like playing
prank-call with
     a not-too-fidgety scarecrow...

and if i had clown make-up?
i'd put it on...
       since, evidently,
counter-human...
         being a drunk...
cats seem to be inclined...
to trust me...
         in sleeping in my bed...

and, what, filter the foul language
is suddenly the excuse
       to apply a plaster
             to a decapitated head?

oh, i have a thought:
   would you ask to lie on your
back before the guillotine
crescendo,
   or to lie on your stomach?

if you've ever peered into
the eye of a dying sparrow,
cradled in your arm...
    
you'd ask for being placed
on your back, rather than on your
stomach...

    because...
  well...
          a rare glimpse of god...
more a verb, than a noun...

send us your chemical-children...
apparently even i over-stepped
the barrier of "mis"-behaviour
by smoking marijuana...
               which... is now legal...

ha ha! granny needs a legal shift from
engaging mortality...

             because when i write?
there's always an invisible piano
in front of me...

                   ah... the people in their
restaurants...
              but these chemo-riddled
kids?
               it's not like they're into
being bound to a cure...
  more, a: dis-ease ingestion...

            that subsequently leads to
a hippocratic curation
                       of alleviation...      

poetic, isn't it?!

                  i've been at it for more than
10 years...
                send me your children,
hopefully i'll know how to teach
them to say: oops... or dough...

      never thought looking into
a down syndrome 40+ year old's
eyes could be so meaningful,
with him looking at me,
and me just buying an enigma
of the concept of groceries
would end up being...

   i'm guessing...
             why do these L'Oréal
companies selling skin-care products,
****** creams...
        not look into down syndrome
artefacts?
                  no wonder the down syndrome
40+ looked at me with
a curiosity...
          do people even know
why down syndromes do not
expose much, of the artefact,
of ageing?!

                ever looked at them?
                  they're immune to wrinkles!
who needs french ****** creams
to prop up faking mortality...
when you can imbed yourself
in the genes of down syndrome
ageing immunity?

came the **** joke
about making soap from jews:
highly relevant in
constructing the modern cracow
psyche...
              
   well... can't we extract some genetic
knowledge of why
down syndrome individuals
           show no sign of ageing?
and then posit
a selling point... in the mindset
of selling charlatan parisian
                         high conc. yogurt?

might as well smear butter
onto your face...
         an atypical observation
  coming from the shallows perspective;
elsewhere?
    knee deep in ****.