We pick up words, and love them
Pennies from a wishing fountain, picked up by hobos
Crafted into beauty, like a sun set on a summer day
Words bleed, You know
They leak feelings,
Dripping love, hate, anger
All things real,
Yet not real at all
"Unreality",
Dreams, hopes, fears
Crafted from discarded thoughts,
Discarded people
Loved by the "no ones"
By crafters of the unseen
Only felt,
read
Misunderstood by the masses
Understood by the few who see
Crafters of the unseen
Ringing the feelings out of words,
Like water, out of a rag
Seeing things, unseen

On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.

At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.

There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.

And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.

On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Where echos bound off cavern walls
Thundering, spacious water falls
Giving power to the ember furnace
Crafters work with full earnest

Our clang of metal forming metal
Our  laughter around the stew-filled kettle
Lacboring long into the night
Carrying lanterns for our light

A golden tint in the arenose air
A rich man's delight, deep in this lair
A cornucopia of jewels and stone
Picks and axes spark on the hone

Melted metals with tools of the trade
Upon the anvil are ceremoniously laid
To be shaped and formed into desires
By light of the blazing, crimson fires

Where we find sweat and danger as one
And rarely journey out into the sun
Have amity with our fellow men
And all write to loved ones with one pen

The cavern echos, the rays of gold
This ancient house of tales untold
To find this place, a costly fee
For a way of  escape will never be

infinitely flexible, malleable
in every way imaginable;
sprinkled in magic with a taste that can

2. complicatesimplifyconfuseand
clarify;

3. a compass with which castle crafters
map their masterpieces, built from layers of
similes and metaphors and symphonies of sound,
of memories and apologies and everything bound;

4. a reel of delicate threads which
fervently await a seamstress of words to
weave them together;


*impressionable when you don’t mean it,
fleeting when you do.

Expectation....
As you draw in the warmth from the blistering ember
you will travel a road that I know you'll remember.
Make sure you're comfy in your night-time attire
as you open the book beside this open fire.

You sit here alone reading by candle's glow
your design on this journey that these pages will show.
You flick through the prologue so ready to start
Unknown roads stand before me, so now I depart.

I relish, these words that are so well designed.
Passing such crafted visions into embracing mind
and so were away, as I follow the text,
full of anticipation at what to expect.

Onward....
What is it I cannot see, it hovers vaguely up ahead, shadow stalk, lingering round, vanishing with words un-said.
Uncertain, I do forge ahead, my passage-way remains un-blocked
a beating heart is all I hear and fear is certainly unlocked.

Expeditions must proceed as I try hard not to sway.
With words un-aired but swiftly told with handful gesture as I pray.
I want so much not to be afraid, such horrors keeps my mind engrossed
Reluctantly I turn the page, clinging to this paper host.

Continuing through this written course, what must I cater for ahead,
from words that I cannot divorce. Is Shelley's monster still un-dead.
Standing just outside the grasp of shadows moving through the night
with Frankenstein will I relapse? Shall Dracula cause early flight.

Has Jeckyll change into his Hyde? The only way to surely know,
Is carry on till journeys end, continue forth and watch the show.
Should I force this cover shut or should I just continue on.
My fear maybe sounds absurd as I escape from Chapter one?

How can I be afraid to read?
They're merely words from someone's mind.
Fictitious lines from crafters pen,
why then am I in this bind?

This fear I have is very real
as images do start to brew.
So curious I have no choice,
my course is clear- Chapter two

Painful Endurance....
It seems so long ago to me since first I opened this
Cover up and looked inside to see things I don't want to miss.
I've travelled through such horrors in the Chapters I have delved.
If foresight was ahead of me this novel would be shelved.
This truly was not on my mind when this work I did desire
but I worry that I shan't get back home to sit beside my fire.

I know how to party,
On Friday nights,
I have crocheting, you see,
A stash of yarn, and coffee,
I'd say that's quite a party,
Hope all the crafters agree!

Waddley bimbely
Nothing is new.
Sometimes I don’t know
What I should do.
Walkily talkily
Human kazoo.
I have learned better
Than trusting in you.

Whiffily sniffley
Embezzle and lie
Authority snority
Let it go by.
Cheatum and beatum
If they complain
Skim from the top
Buy a new plane.

Hoppity boppity
Games of chance
Always let poor people
Pay for the dance.
Scrappity snappity
Selling their wares
***** about usury
Nobody dares.

Slippity slidery
Constant rendition.
Use public money
To buy politicians.
Graftery crafters
Buy media too.
Make some more billions
To see their way through.

pear leaves strum the high wire
fern roots claw a sun drenched bank
creep vines mount the hedgerow
sow bugs jump a grated worn step

picket wall stain on cedar
mountain stream brisk at lush green pass
four legs down the foot path
biscuit brown trailers fill the pipe

spiders march on dew web
knots and rivets cut hard at the seam
maples cover the forest floor
sap ***** ping the front gate

dandelions drift on west breeze
blue berries plump at shepherds grove
wood sill holds a stained glass
letter box lined above the scrub

delft ware on the mantle
(with petals and script for a promised guest!)
junior poised with mouth agape
birds and squirrels whistle jovial tunes

goldfinch darts the sea ranch
tabby cat rests in a white wicker chair
a crafters window in the alpine
follies await the summer task!

queen bee on the flutter
airedale set on a woven grey mat
watchmen of the hollow (+ earwig and mite!)
scurry, under rustled moist leaves

frogs leap at trickle creek
shutter bugs mount on gryphons lair
still water ripples in the shaded pool
folding fingers on corner bridge

foragers cut the high shelf
silver fish come to life
whiskey jack sings on indian green
elijah and xavier pause...
at a long days end

Sleeping hearts
And dormant souls
Beauty hibernates
Many years fold

Shattered reflections
Eras unseen
Generation: Perfection
Of them, are you keen?

Undiscovered peoples
Obscured luminescence
Shadowed by life’s steeples
Hidden is its presence

Great- their advances
Ignored- their passion
Will cause today’s trances
Lost- intelligence enough to ration

Underground spirits
Nightlife astounding
Colors like parrots
Such a city, hear the pounding

Learn to listen with your hands
And feel with your eyes
The masters of oneness can
All connected are their lives

Together, in unison
Sleeping and knowing
Waiting to show their Sun
And love that is flowing

Wisdom consuming people
Swallowed in thought
Outpouring in emotion
And flawed they are not

Crafters of the stars
And admirers of Animalis
Networking nature afar
That family of causes

Protectors of innocence
Harboring lovers
Defense for our weakness
Strength shared like brothers

Who are these creatures
Forgotten and lost?
Crazy, awe worthy features
And what is their cost?

Who sings this song
Of grace and ability?
Who could play to this music
And not feel so guilty?

As crafters craft and artists art
all things Beautiful were once apart.
Brought together by Work and Pain,
Perfection is sought again and again.

But it is only through Agony and a convoluted sense of Direction
that Man and the Universe can create Perfection.
Accidental masterpieces brought daily into being,
Beauty is not only Seen through seeing.

Tears that cloud our jaded sight
make that once unclear terribly bright.
One view of the World is never enough,
it is the Visions of others that make our Works tough.

All labours of Love, do not always Love find,
but that is because to Love we are blind.
Love is an ability that colours our emotion,
thus, a single man can move an ocean.

A river, an ocean, a dam of time
each human is given his Voice to rhyme.
A wave, a ripple, a tsunami effect
that changes in magnitude only in what we expect.

These clashes and crashes, shatter and break.
It is not our Strength that determines how much we can take.
It is our Determination and Perserverance alone
that distinguishes a boulder, a pebble, a stone.

The cracks and tears,
the pleasures and cares,
mean that Beauty through Perfection sought
with Tragedy and Imperfection is wrought.

It is a world of wonder and delight
because of this love we call poetry

With sisters and brothers
and friends and lovers
and novice and poets to see

There are poems to be crafted
and humor to be laughed at
but sadness is not to be spared

With nightmares to be spoken
as they are put out in the open
and hopes and dreams are shared

We all gather together
to put down with letters
that, which makes us who we are

From near or from far
this is what we are
the crafters of poetry

mkt

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


Rambolina is the driving force within. She lives in that place deep in the spirit of me is the driving force that has kept me alive, with conscience, and with love, and with the understanding I have only recently begun to develop inside myself. I am developing an understanding that I am not made only of myself,but I am of him, and of you, and of them, and of all the bits of life that have been accumulating inside this soul and body through years of bewilderment, abandonment, and a life led astray.
she is, and always has been the driving force behind my very survival.
my objective in writing of her is to reach within, to come to terms with, and to share the hardships and happiness that this life has brought me. As well as to give testimony of the blessings I've received, while God in all his glory,has tried in every way known to him, to bring me out of the torment and tears I've relentlessly inflicted upon myself ever since the very first breath granted to me. In saying those words "the first breath granted to me", I am only now, I mean right now, with the very next breath I take, realizing and appreciating that I have so selfishly taken each of those breaths for granted in a way that no one could ever imagine. Stolen by me like a thief in the night, like stealing a child sleeping safe in its bed. Stolen from me, by me. Gone are those breathes , never to be recovered, wasted away, in a mad dash. Running as fast as I could. Through a life spared so many times. Why? I ask. Why am I running? I'm passing it by, this life of mine. I'm passing it by while running......running as fast as I can.
Stop! I say. It is time to breath normal. It is time to give thanks,to give thanks to life, thanks to death, thanks to good, thanks to evil. Its just time for thanks to God, to life and for having been given the chance to finally live it. To cherish it. And it is time to appreciate the gifts of life that have been so graciously laid at my feet like jewels before a princess in some fairy kingdom. In my life I ve not been lavished with jewels of men, though I have been lavished by the jewels of god.
for I have learned, if nothing else, that life is a mere jewel. Its' magnificence depends on not only on the crafters art, but on the contents of the gem with which he is working .the lesson of life is as hard or as easy as one makes it.

And I heard a sound that called me down to a pretty painted town.
Where all the people make the rounds to cover the hounds

And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep

And I wondered what could break them of this spell
What truth was there that I could tell
These certain master crafters
Who shout the sound of breaking
And abuse the holy laughter
only to bounce it back from the rafters

And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep

I don't want to stand and watch any more
I've fought the battle. They want the war
With no solution but silent desperation
This hollow sanity is not breaking
The masks seeking to swallow adoration
Leaving only the cruel imitation
Of what once was truth

And they say, if it looks good, it must be
If it seems holy, it must be.
We all know holy's on the outside anyway
If they don't see it, it won't be true
So smile again and turn on cue
And until tomorrow when we press repeat let's find some solace in our sleep

If

wish

and simple as that,

a twist...

even a poet could not resist

an orange peel

with their

iced tea...

the smoke from a hundred chimneys

and the rain from a thousand storm-clouds,

a city made of iron and brick

were we fooling ourselves to begin with?

If wish,

if only

and what's to be done next?  

simple as that,

and this twist?

(an elevator that goes to the moon

is even more irrisitable

to a fainted heart novelist)

ahh, a crafters fortune and vision

a grip on a tether ball, a step on a tight rope walker

falling forever into city

There was an old man who was a crafter.
He had a son with a dream,
The son wanted to FLY.
So his dad made him wings out of bird feathers and wax.
And warned him not to fly to close to the sun.
The sun never listened and when he was by the sun,
The wax burned and the wings came off.
So he fell to his death!



What was the crafters name and what was the son's name?

Do you remember pulling your blanket over your head as a child?
When your thoughts were running wild. Even in a perfect world our fears couldn't wage a preset war with reality.
So when you've fallen asleep in a cage built by just you, by just you to protect you, don't forget that we build shelters around what we care most. We're careful crafters of shields to protect them from what's outside.
I'm sitting in the rain, locked out, rain pouring, washing away my imagination, a shield to what's real, and I can feel it in my bones, the safety constraints
I'm breaking the shackles of my spine until I feel faint, my backbone shattering.
My teeth chattering over the truth cutting the thoughts into a million pieces, and I'm worried that I forgot that from the fetal position we all can grow.
I'm falling to the ground, i can feel it in my bones.
Straightening my synapses to organize my muscles and bones, pick me up from the ground, but I can't make that climb.
I can feel it in my bones, the past love and deafening woes.  
My heart aches, beating into my rib cage , rattling against the bars like a prisoner. Banging my head into the only survivor in death.
I can feel it in my bones
My lungs collapsing into my hips gasping to the top of my body for a grasp of air.
How is it that, I can feel it in my bones, suffocation only hurts for a moment or two.
My knees covering my eyes, even though there are things I want to see.
My hands busy beating at the translucent thoughts batting around my head
and this is it, I can feel it in my bones.

i've always been tempted with the monastery... ever since visiting the Taizé community... then again: always concerning somewhere prior... the monastery where mummified remains of monks who died from cholera were exhibited... revising my romance with the Teutonic knights... the northern crusades... oh that the world has so much to offer... but i'm a terrible actor... and... if you're a terrible actor... and more... the worst imaginable liar... drama and life... don't exactly... mingle well... let the people have their sway and their freedom(s)... let them become... gluttonous with their desires and their thirst for the "lived experience"... let them abandon all manner of thought with purpose of transcending the ought-i-ought-i-not narratives... please let them... scramble for memory when it suddenly evaporates and there's that escapist tactic focusing on imaginings... don't let me use a language teasing moral overtones... let people... this... glistening prospect of... the ******* riddle with a fiddle... but... let these same people allow me to return to my abode of placebo solipsism... of where i put my finger for prospect of accountability... lavo manibus meum (vide cor meum)... but sure as ****... no mea culpa...

while doing some household chores...
a thought: one after another...
all deviation from ought-i
     ought-i-not(?)

            do i despise my own fellow countrymen?
the question posed by
those on the right regarding the politics
of the left...
um manibus
among the English and the Irish of
beyond merely the east end of London:
past the A406... once upon a time...
a space occupied by... mostly Irish
and 'ebrews...

3 years among the Scots...
but always, somehow... withdrawing from
contact with fellow Polacks...
out of spite?
or completely willing to integrate
to the point of "incognito"...
nothing good ever happened when
Polacks congregated on foreign soil...
let alone in Poland itself...
well... once upon a time...

     always among foreigners...
                   one Somali two Ethiopian
three a party with a Pakistani...
citizen of the world...
it's not even an original take on...
ancient Greek cosmopolitanism...
or the city-state...
beyond which: feral creatures roam...
****** jokes...

but i've been living in this cauldron for so
long that... upon returning to...
via commuting through Warsaw...
a great... nausea... a feeling of debilitating unease
of being thrown back into
a homogenous blob of sinew and sweat...
as if given marching orders...

that i speak more of the native than write it...
well... if i had a keyboard
that allowed me to shortcut all the relevant
diacritical marks...
e.g. miód & miot...

    honey...        litter: i.e. what a ***** gives
birth to... puppies...
of course the D & T can be sometimes
conflated depending on how they're / how they're
not stressed...

citing oath words like a cobbler...
****'s sake with Charlie Dickens and his
"orthography"...
what "orthography" in the English zung(é)?
there are no diacritical markers...
two options: "too many" vowels...
or... just an extra consonant...

litter... bitter... bite down on something: lite...
then again... third option...
plenty of surds...      light... no?
those are the three most poignant
characteristics of the tongue...

onomatopoeia: not an english word...
could.... would... gargantuan...
"too many" vowels... sometimes the odd extra
consonant in the vein of:
litter: literally... a manner of distinction
between: manna and mana (maori mana)...

and what appears to be... beyond a mere surd...
that vowel catcher that's H
that's half of the 'ebrew deity's name...
or a rugby post...

say AH... a request in dentistry...
or cite the alphabet: A: aye... A: aye...
    E:                eh?!
                    shotgun language shrapnel...
but to call anything orthographic in English...
or just plain: mistake...

e.g. miód "vs." miud...
                 hell... let's stretch it: mjud...
or even further... since... mjɵd...
no... this is not me attempting: smarter than you...
it's a ******* headache, while we're at it...
i'm thinking about this
because no one is thinking about this
and like hell these 26 pearls and a slug
of a tongue will ever manage to decipher, proper(ly)
the sound of a croaking crow...
at best... an approximation...

               where language goes to die...
in the beak of birds...
when in England: always the romance with
crows...
in Poland? it's either the romance with storks
or sparrows...

oh god... taking to grooming cats...
cutting the nails... brushing their hind...
one male one female maine ****...
i'm not into many fetishes apart from...
attempting to speak english grammar: german...
shoot me... before i speak a word of russia...

harasho?

         grooming a female cat and she's all
geared up... raising her hind legs...
*****... i'm here to comb you and cut your nails...
a ******* ugly scene: pinning her down...

then of course making the most sublime
tomato soup...
obviously adding parsley root...
a carrot... some leak, some celery...
if a celeriac was available...
two stock cubes... one chicken... the other vegetable...
approx. 250g of butter...
two cans of plum tomatoes...
a drizzle of ketchup... tomato purée...
a squeeze of sriracha... a whittle red chilli...
blitzed up and most certainly pushed
through a sieve...
served with some sour cream and...
as with any decent soup... that's not...
******* creamy-thick-splodge-custard-goo...
just eager for some croutons...
some vermicelli...

       but that... surprise of... some brandy
and zero sugar dr. pepper...
now i'm paying... bloated...
i drank two bottles of beer
puked one out...
ol' jack had to save my indigestion...
it's always a bad idea to eat and drink...
or drink prior to eating...
fine if you're drinking afterwards...
excesses of drinking and eating don't mix...

hardly a perverted stance...
but when a she-cat is gearing herself up to
you about to **** her...
while combing her and cutting her nails...
oh sure... on a regular Sunday
i **** headless chickens
with that pencil-**** of mine...
point of hilarity...

     and all "they" have is... egoism... attached to
an oversized phallus...
i'm guessing the sort that women use to
ready themselves for childbirth...
piston pump kicks...
once a tool: always a tool...
even the ancient Greeks minded the thought:
a large phallus is a sign of barbarism...
here you have... attempts at ennobling
savagery... while at the same time...
savaging  the citizenry...

    perfect combination, n'est c'est pas?
what could possibly be wrong with undertaking
the cesarean section?
if i were to **** out a head of a hippo...
and someone suggested... we might have to...
give your ****... some "exfoliation" revision, ahem..
details...
oh **** me: sign me up for that constipation
carousel! of... i'm guessing...
sexually gratified imps...

base topic... and you know this cat is gearing up
for *******...
well... i'd love to own a dog...
but then again: i wouldn't want to own
a muzzle or a leash...
the depictions of Hades and Cerberus...
no muzzle... no leash...
which is why i prefer cats...
that i was raised in an environment of dog ownership...
ah... Bella... that half-breed of an Alsatian...
Axel the dobberman...

no siblings...
     but to "own", sorry... to be with a woman?
and... all that... headache...
the game of jealousy...
i don't want to play it! sooner you find me
knitting socks as evidence that i have
**** instead of a protruding chimney
someone else started calling: whittle Wichard...
Ar Ar Arable land of lost phrases...

a dog's love is unconditional...
hence my revision of that celestial harem
promised to the invigorators of Islam...
give me 72 rottweilers...
i swear to god and no god...
we're dealing with fantasy land "details"...
or if you're going to stretch that fantasy
furthest... 72 of the most inexperienced... Lo...
    Lo               - but that's supposedly
the original promise... and you wonder why...
a ******* with only one woman
feels pointless...
why? well... there's that one unused crux
of a potential event...

      if i conjured up these parameters of belief...
guilty as charged...
but given that i'm only regurgitating these
pillars of: what amounted to the will of the idea...

- and if we still going to continue a discussion
on English... just recently... about 20 minutes ago...
FAUCI...
one commentator cited that spelling as...
FAU-SHE...
that's another thing that English does...
almost like it's... borrowing Fwench rules
of see-one-speak-another...
gobble up some suffixes... blah blah...
at worst: FOWL-KEY...
or... Cincinnati...

       oi oi: ms. cedilla!

mein gott: "they" were brought over,
probably sold by their chieftains for
(probably) being the biggest, most docile...
agreeable Nimrods of their tribe...
or weren't exactly puncture proof or quick...
oh! oh the lament of picking cotton...
so... not coalmining then?
- and for their invention of jazz...
to do away with the stiffness of Mahler...
etc. and forever celebrated for their
athleticism... although:
not their swimming...
well... you'd hardly find the 'ebrew celebrated
for this intellect... although: he probably
must be:
then again... the 'ebrew diaspora
and the Israeli... two different kettles
of about to be poached herring...

any herring that's not raw... Baltic-sushi is...
inedible... period!
so "they" weren't coalminers, yes?
no?
big ******* deal... i'm beetroot raw in
the face with blood being drained from
my tongue and fingertips!
i feel like doing some stomach crunches...
push-ups...
and it's... 20 minutes past... midnight!

misnomer-phraseology:
"hurt emotions"... completely misunderstood...
if you'd like to conceive the following argument:
i've jsut had my emotion stirred...
i have just woken up from apathy:
once i had the maxim:
apathy breeds no pathology...
it's great to feel...
to be woken up from the slumber of
objectivity and scientific rigidity... safety...
i like this... it's almost adrenaline inducing...

******-Goliath... i look at him now
like some sacred cow and think...
these petty gingerbread men managed to tame
these celebrated specimens...
and now... they have to... forget they gave us
jazz, the blues?

cuckoldry of the white girls teasing...
a few Bulgarian ****** tried the same...
telling me that black boy'os have the foetus sized
***** that might satisfy an elephant's ****...
while i have... to the dissatisfaction
of karma sutra coupling:
rabbit **** plucking petals from
a mare's ****...
because: the phallus is... important akin
to... to have ice requires freezing...
a temp. of below zero?

funny... that... looks like an ego boots from
where i'm perched...
this one *****'s surprise...
****** her and she moaned and she finished it off
with an ****** and the words:
the word... awe: but it was more of an ouch...
'it's only the second time it has happened to me'...
to my surprise...
i wasn't expecting to be a metaphor
of a Trojan cohort, either...
me and my supposedly pencil-**** with not
praise-songs...
of... readily-available: readily-pleasing...
i guess bulging on points of character...
with this other one...
kissing her eyelids...
suckling at her tears...
teasing the elbow... the knee...
the grooves of the collarbone...
her knuckles...

it's perfect... so serene when i'm paying for salt...
it's so pristinely primed to pay
for clearly-founded boundaries of:
me towing woman...

- i too have my boundaries... shifting like
tectonic pancakes...
the glorified amorality of women...
once every four years...
that's enough...
i don't need insect-esque gratifications...
there's plenty...

- which is why i adore advertisements more than
journalism per se...
let's pair them together:
advertisers and journalists...
expand... journalists are not historians...
nor... myth-crafters...
perhaps... if one might be amnesia prone...
but i love advertisers for the simple reason that:
i, don't. have... the... money... to... spend...
on... their... worthwhile...
it is worthwhile... *******...

       if you don't have the money to spend...
cue some advertisement slogan:
it's unbelievably encouraging to
continue: however the hopelessness
of bachelorhood is deemed by...
well... if a woman masturbates with the use
of a *****...
i imitate a **** with a boney hand...
and probably perform one genocide after another...

it's not like i hate Polacks...
fellow people...
i don't live among you...
and i'm not going to satisfy a diaspora "get together"...
either...
i'll take the romance of history...
some variation of journalism...
some Cornish clotted cream...
                 it's not like i had some relevancy that
might translate a point of...
because one might be from Warsaw...

and under the Nazis and the overtly ambitious
Bolsheviks...
as a ******... you think i can't brush this
Vestern... voke... brigading: "anti-fascist" *****...
ahem... aside?
you need to come full-swinging...
******* hammer & sickle...
you know... it took two superpowers,
longer... to conquer Lachistan...
than it took herr H to overpower... France...

the worst that might happen... mob rule...
i become cancelled... 2nd, 3rd... 4th time i'm so tired
of this same-old *******-riddling a **** that
i might as well attempt to rub my genitalia in
sand or... shattered glass...
no matter... no one to beg the "difference"...

the Sarmatians... no wonder i would base...
favouritism for the Shiah branch of Islam...
Iran and Islam would never pair up, proper...
after all... what excuse has a proud Iranian to do with...
a bunch of camel-jockeys?!
true religion... i'm so abounding in thanks
for seeing how early a schism took place...
thank you...

bad grammar: i'm so abounding in thanks for how early
a schism took place... see / sought what?!

i don't hate my fellow... ethnic... countrymen...
i just live among them...
and not living among them makes my
thinking: dissonant: dissociative...
i'd allow the union jack get tattooed on my ***
if i were guaranteed a *******
by some english ****...

just saying... *** isn't pwetty...
pour me a proper glug of bourbon and let's forget
the "matter" even existed...

oh i'll find: hounding reasons to keep this
language is some variation of a check...
the clarity of pronunciation....
beside the letters as surds...
and those... no entirely... used?

to love a people most foreig...
it's not like England was expected to declare war
just because... "my" country was invaded by...
two superpowers...
it's not like Brussels mud...
Polish "aviators" in dog fights over Dover...
but no... English soldier on... ****** soil...
so... so?
journalism kills of history:
day by day... each day...
give 'em enough murk and muck
enough smoke... enough mirrors...
and some bread to tow... stale...
hell... reinvent the point of the coliseum!

the modern Italians aren't the ancient Romans...
why?
the orthodox liberal: implied: satisfaction
with the word...
and the men were such grand... surrogates...
the women were allowed to be children throughout...
unaccountable...
***** bank-loads...
           avenues-for-future...
but the ancient roman men were so...
libertine...
in their take on being, the aliases of...
surrogate fathers...
when all other ancient peoples demanded...
pyramids and authentic lineages...
these people came along and...
gay giraffes...
******* gay giraffes...
o.k. gay giraffes...
                  
ancient Rome never achieved clausure
of "my" people...
we weren't.. Afghani... lingering GREAT
Britannia...
the supposed arguments only came after...
beside Philip Augustus...
who, who else?
          
by the passing of waters...
the trivial feud of the tides...
and the counting of grains of sand...
the viking celebration of poetry...
and the current conundrum of...
all that's a misgiving of aimed at... practicing...

Ecgberht!
     Ecgberht!
                             Ecgberht!

now let me enjoy a drinking-repose...
i've said enough:
in that... i've said too little or nothing at all...
time will teach...
space will pulverise with newly established
standards of science...
time will teach...
      break the Runes apart...
open a grieving momentum for...
reading Glagolitic...

                   revive: Eck-bert for me...
i have some cringe question.s.. to ask...
mein: brecht... Xa Xa... not Aguera's Ja...
Greek... although spoken Greek does sound
a bit too much like Spinning-the Leotard...

bit-the-knuckle...
               baited-the-nail;
hammers' for some: schpoons!

Day-appetizers
Art-publishers
Wild-believers

Mind-talkers
Music-­chimers
Self-cheerleaders
Desperate-dreamers

Dream-crafters
Natu­ral-disasters
Love-enforcers
Cake-feasters

Irreplacable throughout time,
My Friends.

We are crafters, I know,
We do things, row by row,
We''ll do housework at the end of this row,
We said that several hours ago!

Tiny ideas link us to the political world of laws to prevent
the plugging of *******, but once

when I was younger,
I attempted to **** a future Congressional page, in a rage.

Temper tantrums twisting in
memes of me used to sew my shadow to my soul
with
Super strings of things, actually,

matter
of fact, from Higgs's boson \ piercing our skulls and groins

we rest on Sagan's pale. blue dot
and learn
to tune our thought filters to muses

intended to stretch reality for the hope of the blind,
and deaf, and
for the hope of the sane who suffer
the boistroous entertainment of the educated,
mad hatter
crafters apprenticed
in the city

to be properly ensourceled with trade secret confidence
builders by professors and doctors who sell cheat sheets,
cribbed from the "How to win friends and influence people"
final exam  that the real Norman Vincent Peale

used to make the dance card at the white house,
when no Baptists were invited,
it worked you see,
this way,

these best of the best educated

were taught the reason to dance
for the needful lie's
traditional prom-
enade long
before the test to make
the quest to rise to the level of advisors of the most
mortal
powerfull poser posers,

to stand,
smiling on the Capital steppes
under the grin of bronzed freedom,
Lady Liberty's wild cousin who works for the bread
and circus division of the military dust trials,

basking in irradiating poise and power from
the alu-minion pinnacle of our founders ******* reminder,

full of fashinonical statements and promises to consume

only the best
of the boys and girls offered in alliegiance, under God,
the one on the money, whom
we trust.

--- old men, chatting, as they say on the internet, the net

cast in the sight of free birds, flocking
under the god trusted by Solomon Chase, whose long range

economic perception
placed the trust phrase on Yankee Green Backs

back in the day.

We were born for times like these. These times need old
fish stories.
Old men, like me, owe our survival to the story
that ties us to  reason, per se,
as knots
to hold the cargo safe,
until that distant shore signaling us, go around the rocks,
I feel a tug,

I got a thread that led to me,
past state of read is read,
the key is coded,
a riddle. Color coded, no joke,

scarlet, blood-red thread of twisted Hopf fibrational
eventualities
vying for per-
fect ex-ceptional stability on a scale our minds call

infinite.
Infinitely measurable, imagine never having known
the measurable fact that
the light is the leave behind, our seeing made
the waves drop each photon you noticed
bounce off objections subjected to peer review
when, then,
after our meetings of the mind, our bubbles of being
filled

to over flowing
inform
conformation to the plan, the balancing of everything.

1/10 to the Seventy-nine Thousandth power,
is the tip. Cluesus Gratiatus Pension Tension , tighten,
lest we perish,
on the rocks,

ages roll by, I age and see you missed the curve,
too bad. We could have mad sweet music,
but for a missing e making mad
my intended point, piercing posers lieing in the dark.