This place was once God’s pious station.
Humanity is the song we sing to him.
The leaves praise him with peaceful African breeze, the breeze of our God.
The children of our mother earth were not left out of the feeling that planted oneness in the minds of the *******. Stone, that was what their minds were known for.

Life was then a simple sphere but now complicated and shapeless.
Life was then soft like unwithered breast but now a
granite. Then hearts was glaring but now, Africa and their black hearts.

See them,
They are crucifying humanity in the house of our God.
They are crucifying humanity in the court of law.
They are crucifying humanity on the matrimonial beds.
They are crucifying humanity on the aisle of power.
They are crucifying humanity for legal tenders.
They are crucifying humanity to be a god.
They are crucifying humanity in the struggle of religion.
They are crucifying humanity to calm the raging stomach.
They are crucifying humanity for thrones.
They are crucifying humanity in front of humanity.
They are crucifying humanity everywhere.
Now humanity is on the verge of death.
See them as they are whipping him.
See his skin as it swell to burst.
They are punching him, they want to punch him to
death.
Can you see those barbarian as they merry with the melody of crucifixion. Humanity is their scape goat.

Humanity is dead in theirs
but it is still alive in your heart,
It is still alive in your words.
Humanity must be alive in our home.
Let humanity live in Africa as free citizen.
If you are guilty of his death what do you gain?

I am trying to pick up a thin unforgiving object
with my over-sized,
disjointed creaking hands- again.
Plastered smooth,
flatly white and plain,
sharply contrasting the oaken ornate table beneath.
A pointed creation - filled from within by an impossibly pulled pin
n' covered simply
in slim thinly soft skin.
I want to tear it off
but my hands ache and cry out- soundless.
Time hasn't meaning anymore,
when you are gone and I am old.
Twice folded around inside,
the cocoon is layers of pressed arrested rough hewn life,
wanton against my finger tips,
that are bloated and gnarled with corroded bone
all angles
and absurdity.
Aged pages will be riffled raw by my papery epidermis,
squirming in earnest and fear of your leering senile words.
I want to tear it off but it holds like glue
And-
as I remember, you are beautiful
sold into sleep, bought in too deep
with twitching, itching delicious skin,
between golden strands that at times stand stiff with tension
caught hot underneath our bodies.

I choose not to remember as you are now
alone
in a crone crowded home.

Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.

Why’d you get locked up then lad?
Oh. I’m locked up?
I know you. You won’t escape lad
Escape from where?

(Jackie Wilson at her majesties pleasure 1884, West Denton, Newcastle)

The sweat rolled off Dominic’s nose.

Its ‘movement’

movement

movement

Uniting.

Meditation takes a person out
from themselves
so far out, without any need
for any additional charge, toll, or need, that when you come back,
even if it’s within
the same body,
you feel

and the glow comes back
on-coming traffic smiles, dead less grace
the worst, and 7am

chess
without a game.
a drool.
an intricacy within
mirage.
hope in the sorry soft gas explosions
and death was heavy enough to fly and give
But not in the normal way
one second, and even joy spills
and the cabbies have begun to scream and break down at each other
even though it’s not a full moon
too many people squashed on a tight balcony
drinking us all away
too many hands
not dancing
it all away


Slugs emigrate across concrete when the soil is wet.
When you wonder why they’ve left.
Its pouring
and you think you recognise a name scrawled in the wet trail.

Single, intimate, observations.

And reasons for the evening to be near.
It will be worth it! – I’LL SEE YOU! –
And now we are allowed to be glorious without price.
And now it’s sad as hell.
And the trees know that.
But the squirrels never do.
And now those words don’t matter.
And now we are allowed.
And now we go.

And the laminate floor
has the weight of a cross.
And the thing is,
you know

(It’s all softly bombed)
Not in a horrific
or knowable
way.

But in God’s good loving
loving
loving
******* for ya.

We’re finally rubbed out.

Crucifying.
And uncrucifying.

Eyes are useless here.

Blackness first.
THEN that soft
‘soft’

dripping.

easy blackness.

Meditating, sat middle
the pentagram of a small flat.
blue white board marker, on ‘easy wipe’ wood flooring.

And if I wake, I can wipe all the lines out.

SO, it went the same.
blue colour of cityscape coming-black light flashing always
across the distance from balcony
a beautiful stillness.
Waves first. Sea. The complete sea. Swimming.
ego. Ego swimming. Ego going down. Hello! And ha!
And no more jokes.
And isolation.
And no more months.
But there were gushes.
Gushes of experiences in, and outside, with individual breathes
and the proximity of love, coming closer
like a germinating hand
guiding you down
into the oceans private concert

Not too close to the expensive parts, or the bad parts,
or anywhere too pristine.
Christ, that’d be
a joke. It’d be funny
and then the surgeon would come and operate
on you;
lifting you out whilst you’re asleep

And it would go like this:

Cancer: Hey! What’s going on?!
Get off! I’ve paid my
rent and don’t wet the bed
anymore,

Surgeon: Don’t care.
Come here...
Oh for **** sake you’re making my day long.
I don’t get paid
for this.
Cancer: Oh yes you do handsome.
Surgeon: Oh yeah!

rest on the long side of your bed.
‘What’d you do at the weekend?’
Where’d you go?

...

banter broke down into spider web
substance
before fading completely, as thoughts begin
to disappear and fly down
into heavier states
from outside you saw a man still dressed
in formal office attire
tie hanging undone around a white shirt, shoes kicked off
beside strange markings on a polished floor. From in,
the understandings
are quite different
fly gently, like a loved one retiring from life
as the single light bulb watches from your ceiling
tensing one last second time in hesitation
then blowing you out with a blink.  

looked into the well where life is buried
and reached down
arms lengthened like dusty pieces of ham down a hole
touching the foetus as it crawls back up,
and up through the highway lines of his veins,
like a rabbit hunts wolves,
like the peach reacts to your bite.

We smoked and ate apple pie as the autumn tattooed
We snapped small pieces off
then ate the mites.

And then when the well filled we made our arms lassoes;
that churned the grain,
turning the quietness into storm,
and back to parts of spring.

You hesitate, touching the ape
like a clown who’s just tossed his life into the air, and juggles it,
like dead poems and hot boiling yeast.
you looked further into the well and found the figments of the ‘Narwhal’
the sea creature with a prominent horn
that shoots from its head-

Early sea farers
used to think the horned mammal was a type of
magical being
it birthed the idea of unicorns
you let the water well mix and join
as we drink coffee today, and the night is less silent
than that of star of apples and gloom
each tarantula that scatters in the red stars of sand is welcome;
and the honey man and honey woman flicker,
through numberless bank checks and bills as knocks arrive
knock after knock after knock
into long vibrational hum

All that remains
is the bursting punch
near the bottom
of oceanic well

As it tightens your grip into the follicle hibernating bears
that speak eloquent words whilst we eat;
the deep groan of munching hands
in the well helps our arms
pull up the glowing carcass as it turns back
into us within our hands, it speaks easily and slow, telling each
servant surrounding
the hole that they should:

‘Dance casually, dance inside my red eyes’.

Some take advantage of melody, as a trust that funds satellites of globe,
as if no one ever dreamed or broke the yoke of more pleasurable things;
one of your arms
is like the way that a crab crawls past over my nose and into our future home

another asks that you aren’t so violent in February
and that the month is a counting mouth that multiplies zero
beside the arms reaching for a pyramidic beauty
under the ***** shell; aborting its children like blood in the snow,
without humanistic style, more in tune with time
than the army of water lifting your throat up,
spits- that poke at us with antlers, undeterred, no legged, mating in the sand

After a while, otherness takes over, and will comes.
And emotion is long shattered,
easing out,
playing skin game and dissipating need, where all will and human comes back
it takes a while.

And our gender has nothing to do with just lust
We are the almost completely blind, as the cliché remembers
Gender is
the lack of gender and the freedom of paradigm
whilst hands are upon love,
And more night(s) turn within us.
dream like bright black stars.

Weekends. Week. Work. Corporations dancing like butterflies on fire. Gone.
Gone
Gone
Gorgeous

nothingness
apart from its face and voice
speaking

“Heyy, how’s it going?”
Projection
No
“Yes... Lover,
Yes yes yes!”
“No.”
skull now linked to the lips of a home
“Correct, correct, correct...” The intangible
darkness, over and over

a rushing
and uncontrollable
heaviness of fire.

foxes in back alleys salute
the black sky with a mongrel scream
and all the animals of the world are linked for a split minutiae,
recognising and respecting the breach;

“You’re hurting... mmmmuh-” Dominic tried to say
in the onslaught.

Converging planes that came from the lips of the spirit crowning his mind.

“You’re not Juuu, Juh Juah Juh.”

He tried to say for the next few hours, as the sun spread down
on the city
and felt a deep
empathy for another one
of its children
attempting to free
itself.

“No.”

how right you are...” The spirit said
as Dominic’s head slumped from exertion.

“You see...” The spirit said seeping into his bones
and killing him;
paramedics zip
the bag
over his face.

“You see...” The voice says again
knocking the lights off
and flinging you
by your throat

Each one letting you
go

landscape sick in multiple elements of confused colour,
parts of buildings, art: growing up in the horizon, new structures
made by thoughts, old flowers inside limbs,
smoking.

“What...” The spirit
said.

sigh at the strange place,
without looking around.
blossoms of mind and traffic
circulated
characters
on a schizophrenic island

two flies ****** invisibly
and grow from the unseen smallness of their passion
and become an instant world
in the Red Mountains.

“What’s up?” Dominic say gloomily,
laugh a little.

“You’re meant to be screaming...
And yes...
Yet another ******* month
without hitting
target.” The nightmare says,

No incorporeal speech
no anger
anymore.

She might have been about twenty five,
dressed in a shade of grey
change
that covered her genitalia
and ******* from ankle up to neck

get used to it all.
raise your chin to the sky and try to blink away from the constant lick
of the beast growing
from yourself, or lover, or day

And grow the chimera
throughout numberless
stages
like a beautiful clay
that cant decide

Finally the meer-hawk looked like a Dickensian peasant
with an intricate smile, dressed all in jail rags
stinking of sweat, *****, and time.
And then we change
again

And her black hair scooped down
into the blackening sand
where the grains accepted her slim weight
through out itself

She was tired and fed up of the back-world today
She left her contract looking around upstairs
and accepted the hit
on her targets

A transference of types in the quaking room.
A quick drop of laughter flys
into the lil bear or a lot; and a snap and a lot of hunger
for us all...

The master of the basement was mostly machine.

The front of his face that we run towards
is a centred and hovering engine
at the far end of the shadow
room
and the stench
from its thought.

a farce and enough
to turn you away
from a really good
steak.

no walls

no matter

a car mouth approaches naked.

dead cats know this, as they lay purring still, licking their paws still,
misery knows,forgetting, and the coldness of the street gave birth

to numberless seedy neon lights
flickering away from the wall less walls
once more

and you know, we
all
have a prayer
that comes
out
here was
mine:

might as well let you know
whilst we’re at it
that this one comes
out, in some accent~~
but is how it’s meant to go

“...as if to prae
inside the rain
as if to move
the moon with small hands
ah cross the yard
and lucky sky

I live in that playce me lass
with ya quiet weiyht
upon me own
of ya li’l voice
that taeks it away

Ya-renuf ta bring
al me Gods back
an pin ‘em te tha walls

Enough ta mayke
al’ me angels breathe
heavy
for even an ounce
of ya grace

Ave begged at tha hands
of jesus Christ
for that tayste
of yeh
me sweet bonny lass
an ya the only lass
‘ahve evva met
that mayde us feel
like ah cuhd heal
without bein less

An I’m lookin at ya now
with al me luv
an ah divent need
ney where to ruhn
as am ah freed dog

and in ya charms

An ‘av ney-where left to luk
but I’ll kip alreet the neet pet
cos ya by me side

an in me arms.”

But now it is rather late my friend, and
we all know how long old accents last,
mine, I cherish, I will say it when cursing
and gone
when lit among friends and when
impressing
new jobs, that I shall leave, such is
my
way
and
i may
see you
again.

i.

O' mine asawa, mine novel put away for millennia,
Brute man hast hidden thee from view, thou hast been burdened by men's crucifying, thy fear's art of lonesomeness; as many hast left thee, As I've known thine tears. I've seen and watched thy fear's, over the year's thine heart was bleeding.

ii.

Though whilst thou was leaking from thine wound's, I was keeping track on high, from the moon, and universal sky, from the nebula they calleth God's eye; I made plan's to cometh near. Thither below where I hadst none purpose, other than thee; I asked ourn maker to pusheth me into the sea of the great Pacific ocean, I hadst come with mine love, and incorporeal potion's.

iii.

Afore thine nativity, I hadst known thee a whilst, though as an angel thy falling to the atmosphere madeth thee forget thy memory; and divine self. Though I remembered thou, as thy soulmate from ages passed: I waited, with the great originator, I hadst beseeched him to seeing thee again; mine beloved, mine consort of other realm related. As Elohim kneweth thou was mine Filipino rose, mine all, and best friend: he granted me back heaven, as I landed into thy hand's.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-Filipino rose dedicated

I intently studied this nauseating flirtatious jive
shared badger from you to me of our relationship already framed and fitted
we never fell asleep at decent hours, ****** dry
we were just another product of society
we questioned the reality of a world never belonging to one
so to be swayed in the music cold, taking it upon ourselves to never hold our heads too low
we connected the tissues past pure plentiful parking spaces
I saw it happen to us, taken over by fixation
letting words fall from my *** into the world where you stood bewildered, courageous lark it was, you made me into girlish shrieks
expecting a slight coldness from you I decided to sulk eating the dust
I attracted my own thoughts remaining unhappy as you were oblivious our chosen concrete pathways: the negative.
Child, as we were envisioning snow angel memories
hallucination, love, courting to a distant yield.
Child, a rush of adulterate naked plea
who wandered busy streets grasping mace and typewriter keys
make fun with your water bottles I'll dedicate a song to you
Child, salting your French tongue we shall fall apart only once we lie beneath the ground curtaining our once frenzy shell
Child, who put her ******* to the air as she wrapped her ******* with bandage
wearing those skinny jeans a hipster queen lenses in front of her face never did a thing
Child, make away with a masculine feverish clean your witch hands do graze his bare skin
Child, who broke glass bottles on her head to prove she was real, grew lady ***** as they were called
in an effort to uncover what happened to the corners in a circular prism
bid farewell your worrisome thoughts of homicidal suicide
Child, scare the stop signs, the fragility of your former state has asthmatically fallen
do not break me in half though your capable eyes do trace the outline of my body and feel my bone hidden beneath thin skin and weak muscle, veins of blue
Child, who tore out the steeping cool of a farfetched acid tripped visionary iconic lie crucifying their  dirt stained bare feet to welcome pain, a hello name,
Child, who blasted **** yo couch into their ****** distilment we have nothing to lose let poured
down CO2 fill my lungs as I readily lie hiding from herb grace o’Sundays
oxytocin expelled from our uteri we turned our back on the slight touch of pale skinned parts
skipped meals skipped beats my heart weak fluttering grows strong with the running of my fingers in
your fresh cut hair
they questioned my appetite, whispered missing, she never met the standard, they had forgotten
we let ourselves become our own nonconformists but we never admitted to it
we yelled Bullocks at those who threw us into a status quo social movements mainstream.
craving to be old fashioned, we lowered the skirts in our mind and forgot to swat the message that
our ******* made us inferior
Futures of Singularity we were scared of an age of machinery
tossing our new cameras flat screens cellular devices iproducts we read books and intelligence floated above us.

I cannot fathom the scribbling in my brain into poetic queues as of now. I am in excruciating pain but I am liberated. I am dying on the inside but somewhere behind my rib cage is a thump. Less of a thump, more like a knock. The love of my life is tearing me to shreds and the universe is softly tapping its knuckles on the door. Through an addictive relationship I have discovered my origin.
I am a healer. I am an angel and I can do no true harm to a soul; I heal even those who are the radial balance of my suffering and bleeding. I have an expendable heart; it has been squeezed, sliced, punctured, chewed, stepped on, scraped, pulverized, shattered, cracked, drained, dried, bitten, and hungrily ****** on by the mightiest of leeches. I stand before myself scarred but glowing like the chest of a newborn child. Once again my pain has given birth to me. I am new, the world has not made me an *******. I refuse. I will love. I will care. I will heal and I will push through my crucifying pains of being leeched. I will continue to give what cannot be returned to me.

the boy enters when he knows
others will not be there
in prayer--their silent entreaties
to a god he is not sure
listens or cares

morning after mass is best;
the bouquets are fresh
he can smell them once
the scent of the early
worshipers fades:

the pipe smoke from the old man's
coat
the widow's perfume which lingers longer than the ammonia stench
of the holy homeless who is there
every day

Christ watches over this:
a white marble man bolted
to a cross, witnessing
this spectacle for millennia

long before this cold statue
was placed in this cathedral,
he was there, the slaughtered lamb
cursed to die again and again

that is how the boy sees it;
not a promised life eternal,
but the same death anon,
anon

the pounding of the stakes,
the blood offering: the old man, the woman, the mendicant
all crucifying him again with
each plaintive prayer

once their odors fade,
the funeral sprays, the bouquets
remain--cut, dying flowers,
a fragrant impermanence
with no expectation for life
beyond their time in the
vase--no imploring a godhead
for forgiveness

no demand for blood
and perpetual death

only a little water for their brief journey
in fragile glass

Enlighten Me-
I’m always underestimating self-master bating-
Graduated-
At the top of fund frustration-
My motivation needs money relations-
The contemplation of money making has my mind at a constant hating-
My breaking patience-
Has my mind like a **** relating-
Regulations of all my banking-
See my bank account disintegrating-
I’m suffocating-making payments-Late fee statements-
Debit-Credit-Cash-oking
Debit-Credit-Cash-oking
Racki­ng bills my back is breaking-my nerves are shaking-
Shaking more than I anticipated-
Now I’m here with a life to fear-
Writing till my mind is clear-
Writing till I feel what’s real-
Writing till I seal a deal-
Multiplying-
Adding-Subtracting-and dividing-
Signing more checks than providing-
It’s suicide I’m not denying-Rhyming trying its crucifying-
Clocking in before the sun is rising Grinding flying hoping griming-living life nine to fiving-
Its re-revising-Re-defining-Rectifying-
More so that I think I’m hiding-
Killing with finical violence-Violating my banks alliance-
Maxing plastic so fantastic now I need some re-advising-interest rates have a grown man crying-Million dollars seem so un-winding-
Now I’m whining-
Constant buying-
Gas rates got me into biking-riding-fighting-
Just surviving-any discount seems so delighting-winning lotto seems o-so-righteous-buy one get one is so exciting-
Boot leg buying I ain’t lying-
Being broke is constant rewinding-It’s reminding-so relying-over drawing is my new binding-it’s confining-so I’m finding-Making takings of my disliking-Making takings that are so dang freighting-dollar scratchers are so inviting-
But this realization is so enlightening-
Moving as fast as a bolt of lighting-
I’m asking you G-d to help me like this-
I’m feeling the pain and I think I might just-
ROB ME A BANK-
BY:
RICHARD ITSKOVICH

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

fingertips trace the
splintered podium.

clear my throat,
once,
twice.

"We shoulduh' seen this coming."

great opener.

"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.

Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.

Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.

Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,

and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.

We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.

We all got divorced.

We all got into politics.

Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.

Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.

We shoulduh' seen this coming.

But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.

The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.

Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.

they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.

"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.

Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.

Get stoked for the funeral pyre."

all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.

no one even got a chance to applaud.

Sometimes I wish I was the kid in the corner,
blending in
but looking outside the lines
and if I ever strayed from
what's normal
I'd just disappear in
the blink of an eye
because
all we want is
to lay our hands on something real
and all I want is
to bare my soul to not conceal
looking-out, never looking in
Who I am,
Who I've always been.
Sometimes I wish I was the girl
everybody dreamed of
standing out not sticking in
and if I ever got sick of
what they wanted
I'd be just like a chrysalis
and shed this skin I've flaunted
for so many years
because all we want is
to lay our hands on something real
and all I want is
to be comfortable enough to heal
the scars,
this pain,
this cross around my neck
crucifying
all that I am
always looking out, never looking in
I know who you are
and who I've always been.
So, watch me as my walls
come caving in
I'm safe inside
I think I'll make it out alive
This time
I'm not perpendicular
I'm outside but
we're pretty similar
I've always known
Who you are
and who I really am
Inside, outside
I think I'll make it out....

how can I be drunk
round and a round and a round i go
the looking glass reflects
I have waited all my life

You say you are bonafide
lay your law down on me love.

if you don’t treat me better,
baby i’ll just run away.
i don’t know what drives you
to play these silly games.

I have done what I’ve done,
and it has the ultimate consequence.
in my temple boy, be warned, violence doesn’t have a home.
Then a voice calls me back, “this is not business,
no, it’s more like spiritual.”

I am possessed.
You strike with dry poison.
When will you wake up?
I want you more than the stars and the sun

we could buy an airplane
build a home in the sand
you could tell your secrets
i could understand.
seems we got a cheaper feel now.

Smacked upside of the head,
he lit you up,
fixed you up real good
til I don’t know you anymore.

there’s not a lot of me left anymore— just leave it alone.
you gave it up.

Do you think just like that
you can divide this:
you as yours, me as mine
to before we were us.

No need to push me again.
I know it’s your day in the sun.
What is left?
What is right?
I left the right man.
i let him wake me but decided not to stay.

By the time you’re twenty-five, they will say
“you’ve gone and blown it.”
By the time you’re thirty-five, I must confide,
you will have blown them all.

Touch my banquet
it's possible crucifying pleasure
Instinct inspires whispers
of tormenting embrace
Confess your need
to fragment my illusions
Speak!
I can be found in all of this!

Leave & let me
believe in fragile reasons
Burn kisses
into my naked hidden world
Embrace secret rythms
that lie here poisoned
But meet me on your side
of the drunken universe!

Laugh cruel petals
my hour is haunting....
lavish your fancy dress
I exist only in solitude

....but the fever is in the living......

what stefan zweig mentioned -
of the 19th century’s inability of being
fond of its youth including robespierre responsively
in the revision invoking the polar dialectics of reconsideration -
i too can claim of similar recount
from the 21st century a fated twinning -
even though i lived in the last years of the twentieth
i allow myself very crude comparisons
to ease ageing.
sure stefan knew a thing or two about hölderlin
in the descriptive localisation, given that hölderlin:
being of those disfavoured remnants of engagement with eugenics
revived very little hope of a bored aristocracy, so that
nietzsche came along and militarised the priesthood
leaving the pope on a pulpit of celebrity power
in a pyramid scheme of posing queues kissing the foreheads of babies
with duran duran in the background shooting the video: toddlers on film.
but that’s how it all appears,
that the 21st century lost the care for the cares of the young
and gave them unto the gnashing teeth of the psychiatric
machine, diagnosing them too early with too much so that
when the poetic version of don mc’lean’s american pie
came with the opening: a long long time ago,
how that music used to make me smile,
and i knew that if i had my chance... but something
touched me deep inside the day the poetry died - it
was simply vowels in refrigerators and consonants in d.j. uplifts
for the aura of a monetary capitalistic saturday
of neons contorting mascara into afterglow of the oomph oomph
sick ‘em slick ‘em drumkit snare galoshes in puddles in electronic repeat on the dancefloor, added with
boom boom baby celluloid - flowers in hula hoops of disco sound  
and aversions with b & w western depictions of lassoed bulls convened
to remember corrida de toros (no one lassos an animal one milks) -
by then it really just turned into very apathetic mandarin on the count of two billion and the six billion english accents with the martians included in the 3 : 1 fraction, as if it was supposed to be
the final stance of the crucified & crucifying iconoclasts resolved
like with the neanderthals.
what we need... what we need... is a little bit of horror!
imagine me, doing the cricket dance in cobwebs as: bone daddy -
although fatter and therefore funnier, like it was worth picking the boogies
as if counting bones before kissing a hopeless idealism entombed in your heart.

His hands secured around her head for support
It's her crown
Significant to the bi-weekly ritual of
crucifying her like Jesus.
His body connects to hers, collapsing like the twin towers
it's her gown.
She wears it every now and then,
When the eulogy is written for the peacekeeper.
His tongue moves against her collarbones like it's on a ledge
trying to commit
suicide.
What a beautiful death .

a Jew (unlikely) or a Muslim (most likely) might ask me... do you believe in God... and all the Norsemen will answer... do you believe i exist?!  a happily ever-after ought to ensue. that crucifix of yours worthy of worship is nothing compared to the blood-eagle... unless he actually hanged, and the nails impaled him on his wrist-bones rather than the palms, so that if done properly, he wouldn't be able to move them.

and do you know why the holocaust happened?
monotheism once conquered the tribes
associated with Beelzebub - it ate them -
monotheism the strong-arm out of Egypt
ate up the deities of the middle-eastern tribes
when Israel descended like the 11th plague -
some would say -
but when Judaism cut Isaiah in half
and crucified Jesus and beheaded John it weakened -
the Roman never took a Jew for a slave labourer,
hence the Zealots and the Pharisee and the Sadducee
flourished - students as ascribed with their
rabbinical pimps - because the Jews would never
be enslaved to build something as spectacularly
democratic as a coliseum - for the people, by the people -
that really bugged them -
why are we given intellectual freedoms and aren't tasked
to construct a pyramid or the madness of the hanging gardens
of Babylon? something's wrong! awry indeed -
they weren't asked to build such feats -
they thought that coming from Egypt into the promised land
they might plagiarise their foot when heading north
beyond Roman authority -
their Hebraic came against Runic - they lost, given
the Holocaust - they just couldn't, couldn't
erase an ethnicity - the ᛋᛋ tribe revived -
**** me they already erased the Slavic polytheism
and the symbolic phallus with their ******* circumcision -
the ᛋᛋ tribe was revived - little shlomo only goes
north so far... beyond that he gets gas chambered -
and he does - you can practice you belittling monotheism
in that olive garden, we keep our souls less mongrel-like -
the Nordic tribalism an polytheism you will not
erase unless speaking to a sadistic German -
Islam will plagiarise you, and fail, spectacularly -
plagiarise you as in: yes, Judaism in question -
you had your ploys with eating up polytheism in tribal affairs -
imagine a non-warring polytheism (India)
or a non warring atheism (China), before news reached
the individual - the holocaust happened because you
tried to conquer the one polytheism that captured
the Germanic imagination - with runic came the Hebraic -
and one could not erase the other;
i bemoan, of course i will - i have a ****** on a crucifix
when i should be thinking of a spirit in the woodland -
it's no wonder i'd turn to the Scandinavian encoding of sounds
for a heart - the Holocaust happened because the Jews
thought they could conquer all polytheism with the phonetic
encoding erased subsequently - LATIN HEBRAI EVICTUS FALSUS,
so crucifying the son of god with kept alphabet
of the enemy and later computer programming? how strange,
you could tame the Samaritans and the Philistines together!
but ahead of Austria and Hungary the Norse fables -
the gas chambers - as once erasing the fables of Slavs,
your own cognitive ethnic cleansing -
came the *gas kammer - aren't we all indolent sheep
readied for the kosher season of slaughter? aren't we all!
nase kamienice, a wase ulice! ours the
tenement houses! yours the streets! every jew prior
to world war 2 in Poland... you want some *******
Spielberg sympathy or something? a Mitzvah cupcake
with that milkshake? oh don't worry - the Jews tried
to conquer the north once... the Muslims will
doubly fail in their ethnic cleansing... i have my Eskimo
brother telling me so - halfway bound to Mongolia, i am,
to wake up Genghis Khan.

my day  
begins
at 3:00am
with hip-hop
thundering,
rain splattering
my window pane.
the witching hour:
my own, private
Galgotha. i forsook
god, now i'm ******
to hum the dirge
of doom, hushed
and out of tune.

this week in the news,
Sean Spicer swore
****** didn't gas
the Jews. apparently,
the irony of Passover
was lost on the fool.
if Pepsi truly held the key
to ending police
brutality, i'd be the first
to shake the Invisible Hand,
but that spectral fist
is too busy choking
the life out of refugees
to make time for a paltry
teacher like me.

as gas prices
sky-rocketed
and approval ratings
plummeted,
the *******
of all bombs
fell in Afghanistan
while tomahawk missiles
pummeled Syria
and predator drones
zoomed over
Yemen and Pakistan.

where do we stand, hands
stained red with the blood
of those we've martyred?
will we idly abide
an Empire crucifying
its imaginary enemy
on this insane crusade
of endless war?
our silent compliance
rings louder than the hammer
nailing our victims' limbs
to the cross of our indifference.

if there's one thing
i know for sure,
it's that art
makes this whole *******
joke a bit more bearable.
but how could we portend
to outlast this tragedy
when even ****.
and the Last Jedi
are only temporary reprieves
from suffering perpetually?

what's so good
about this Friday
anyway?

As if obeying an unwritten law of doom,
I slowly raise my head from its stupor,
as if somehow my eyes might meet yours,
the weight of raising it saps all strength,
making weary the bones,
so here I sit in my quilted chair,
reciting dark verse and listening to the single chords
of a disenchanted violin,
trying to fit together the wrong shaped parts
of a cataclysmic jigsaw puzzle,
yearning for the light and shadows of my waning moon
as it drifts across the darkened shape of my window,
the cross shaped frame crucifying my soul,
yet within this sanctuary of mind,
all does seem calm and contented.

The seesawing sun of solipsy,
A satrapy of soliloquy,
Sol was once but now is she,
Sailed off into a darkened sea,
Sith some solitary soiree,
Goodbye my Sirius from Wi!

Oh solely solar solemn stigmata!
Sun’s sobriquet solitaire staccato!
And sonorous salute sonata!
Sing past swaddling clouds of terracotta!
A crucifying crescendo armada!
And endless stars in space of Satá!

Insatiable story of a Son’s redemption,
Who stole away the sins of man’s convention,
A cross and form at right ascension!
The astronomy and mythology of the aforementioned,
Whom but was pierced for our transgression,
The tale that lead to man’s discretion.

so please excuse me, i have no history going back as a roman invasion... unfortunately i came from the Atilla throng... i utilise your phonetic encoding like any barbarian might.... more in love with it, than with the women who use it casually in everyday talk; i'm so sorry that i can't use your phonetic encoding as peacefuly as i might to start a family, and keep the fading ritual...  i am prone to the mongol practice akin to: invade and quickly fade... which is also akin to: not invade, build an empire, quicken a false fire... and sadly never fade away; e.g. russia, america.

you have a basis of crucifying a man
who has no (a) history of a roman past
(b) a roman  phonetic / optometric
encoding, with a slight deviation
of (ć) - who am i? the wave from Siberia,
neither Mongol, nor Vandal,
of what tribe, am i? collectively known as Slav,
it is said my women
   were harrowed from their
nests like birds akin to the cuckoo....
  and where my national pride: you ask?
me know either.. if there were any.
    poetry is something
you call: trying to be an artist
while, at the same time,
          not becoming a plumber,
or a painter.
oh dear, painters are worst,
unless they paint a cubic-mono-chromatic
i have na value for them shoud
they be an example
of a categorical imperative....
there bartablondine roamed in thought:
  and bemoaned:
        higher the cabbage-head
rise above the caulifloiwer...
as said name:
            a saxon knife with writ...
on a blade:
        fay-far-goron!
                        poets never hear
of mention under banner, or worth a
weilded sword...
  to no defeat, as there is one assured:
but to engaging with a memory in thought
as needing statue...
           or said the one bound to betray
either thinking from doing,
  or memory and imagination from doing less
and thus doing thrice,
    such be the communal tongue...
  that the females go unto a searching...
and i be the last remaining seagull...
so unto the conglomorate of man...
              all our peace with individuals,
personalities and the likes be gone....
    they are dust, broken bricks, rust
and rabble...
                             i have no flavour for them...
or in different rhymes of war:
the women precede the auxiliaries -
we claim of woman once the need for axe,
but hardly her need to blood-thirst her genitals...
   lions lax...
            and watch the vulture-democracy
unfold:
   scower fools! scower!
                   led by bribe and death-threats alone!
i see but the ghosts of the pentagon *Krzyżtopór:
what bone, what marrow,
there too laid a cement, a ceiling,
                a brick as bone...
                       to keep both hope of skeleton
and if not skeleton: a castle... a cruxifix-axe,
so in italics named... crux alias ascia:
or said compound...
           Krzyżtopór - Krzysztof...
christopher... some might have said:
a loved one, circa 1392 a.d.
       but not here, not now.
anything but Mongol,
    and i am here, and i am but a figment
of ink in a pond of bleach...
        i am Sting:
a Pole in a London...
               you toast, i roast...
       well... it might just be not exactly London,
the smog got me...
                  when a Greek idea
of city-state explores too much ethnic ground,
  London might have grown to be that,
but Berlin, Tokyo nor Mehico City didn't...
      now no farmer in me either...
so.... come the rotten apples and maggoty
potatoes...
                     and if it wasn't for being
a kid having moved to england
and seen my parents reach their status...
i don't know where i would have lived...
just watching these perfectly smug poles
come to university killed off my idea of
struggle...
                        and i never got it back...
the worst decision in my life came
packaged, an idea of a suitcase...
   came with the words: get educated...
   no... learn to make money...
  learn to turn mountains into pebbles,
learn to make pebbles into sand...
learn to make sand into dust...
            i love how the English fake being
immigrants in America...
lazy buggers never care to learn a new tongue...
or how Americans settling in Italy
call themselves as expat...
         because they really love to drink
that espresso 25ml.
                   me? where do i belong?
given my posture and care to speak very little?
on the Faroe Isles.
               Poland feels more obscure these days
esp. when i speak the tongue without an accent...
now i wish i lived in England and had
an accent... maybe with an accent i could
make it...
             there's actually no point in me trying...
     if there ever was:
              it was when it was me being human...
    now that i'm considered to be nothing
more than: the death of death...
                i have all the sentences i write
from scratch, as if prompt, to ensure i am
the last reigning magician.

Here is where I lie
Palms up
Bed crucifying
Heavy is it

I feel the weight
Of the atmosphere

I feel my chest struggle
Rises and falls

They said I was destined
To be as such

Crucified in my bed

Fingernail clippings
Crown of crumbs

First world cross
Metal box spring

Born to die

Wasting my
Morality away

Your halo starts to fizzle
Like a vampire in the sun
We’re sitting in the darkness
And no one’s having fun
Up ahead the ceiling’s
Closing in upon our heads
Just like all the angels
Who flew from heaven’s bed
We try to pretend that
We can’t see their eyes
All the coward rebels
And their sheepskin disguise
Our souls begin to hitchhike
Without a help or guide
Along the holy road
That leaves us dumb and blind
******* cigarettes
Bodies languid
Laughing like idiots
Crucifying language

That was it
the **** bit
where love ends
where promises are broken
where kisses freeze
on cheeks or lips.

That was it
the tough bit
where cancer creeps
spider like
or slithers through limbs
as snakes through grass
and you die.

That was it
the hard bit
where suffering outweighs
the scales of prayers
and the child cries
for a loss
up the tall stairs.

That was it
the crucifying bit
the nails hammered in
the cross of flesh and bones
the heart plundered
for feelings and sense
the last farewell
no recompense.

A second, minute, moment, a while
To get this **** into your thick head.

Nothing matters, besides status and wealth
it's all been done, it's all been said

The weak, the poor are used as stepping stones
We are examples of living, breathing, ***** drones

Only one motive; to move to the top of the ladder pyramid
To use the ones who are so dumb founded
For not a second think of the disabled or them flaccid
**** it! Do you not see what a vulture you are?

You abuse the the gift of GOD
don't think near, think real far

You forget to look down and see what's crawling under you
Asking, begging, pleading, crying, crucifying in front of you

You look the other way when you see a crippled or disabled cartoon
Who asks nothing, but an identity too

A cry for humanity, an outburst that lingers
Stop racing, or at least take off the **** blinkers

To see your place in life, and help the needy
Please your Lord, by not being so greedy

Take a moment, re-evaluate your life
Be thankful, be giving, be loving, and caring

Appreciate it all for all what's it's worth
In the end we are all going back to the Sands and pits of the earth

Recognize your wealth of healthy status
And Realize of those who suffer from this prestige
Do not get irritated, this is not just another speech!

Take this as an enlightenment, or even as a wake up call
When God questions you, your judgement would not try to low ball

So take away from this a lesson learned
Where your tombstone will repeat of your deeds well earned!

   by MaQ

if you're so adamant about speaking
of love by your standards,
can i speak of crucifying you
by mine? a stick has two ends...
you think i can't wrench the stick
from your hands and hit you back
with it? *****. go on,
keep your window shopping escapade
in knightsbridge...
get me a falafel wrap while you're at it!

the virus is raging: or so we're told -
i don't really mind whether we're told anything
anymore - i can finally come to grips
with the male version of the niqab:
just fine...

                              but once the virus impregnated:
whether our actual bodies or...
whether this: that be the detached from the herd
mind - whatever cull word: or choice of....

but... islam stopped: doing its business of
a revival... a revival... mind you...
that only involved the sunnis...
  it's like: the ******* would rather sweep their
whole schism under the magic carpet...
no... they wouldn't: they: sunnis...
wouldn't attack the sh'ites... the persians:
yeah... good luck with that...
the persians would bow before...
a bunch of camel jockeys:
  the library of baghdad...
              and: a library with only one book...
quasi-poetry: that damns poetry...

but i guess a book that takes hold of the heart
is much more than a book
that agitates the mind...
the bible: agitates the mind...
**** knows what it does to the heart...
but i'm sure to know that...
a proper adhan...
   can leave me in tears...
like...

but when i hear: da pacem domine...
or anything! anything resembling teuotnic songs
of the conquest of the baltic states:
too bad for merry ol' german...
having converted the prussians...
the prussians...
well: the revenge of the pagans over
their christian overlords...
or some **** like that: otherwise a different cover...
so much so that...
the polacks stood a chance with the kashubians...
and the silesians...
mongrel tongue they are much at home
than if ruled over by prussians...

jihad: a war of reclaiming land...
never a war of intrusion...
you reclaim all you have lost:
but you do not claim new land...
it's not a holy war beside:
what has to occur naturally: the growth of
an idea: that the enzyme is a sword...
well: no one's perfect...

but given there's a break from
fetish fashisto islamism...
     turban afghan / saudi sunni **** flinging
pajamas... well...
what about the hugo boss uniforms you
promised with all that oil money you ******
away on yachts and ****** that:
those ****** were waiting for you in jannah?!

of course i'm teasing the mamluk and
the janissary...
if you fed me... adhans... poetry...
and then: speeding to modern times...
played me as this egyptian stranger...
in amsterdam: architecture student... genius doodler...
an afternoon with him... beers and some jojo-and-mary...
in amsterdam... or... the previous afternoon
and these two slobs: germans...
and he gave me a song to listen to...
how the world dwarfed...
le trio joubran - masar...

i have nothing in christianity: a headache...
i tried judaism: too complicated...
linguistic avenues: herr zensor ha-shem:
the name of: kether: keter -
crown... you can only be so smart...
before: ehyeh asher ehyeh just because the same
bogus "trip" of pickled intellect you
have with that trinity and: fraction...

da pacem domine...
            muhammad can start wearing a niqab
at this moment... i don't even know whether
a proselyte status is teasing me:
i can't tame a heart: esp. my own...
but seeing the clear reduction of islamic
intrusion into christian affairs of:
yawn... usury? iconoclasm?
                        contra: the former...

you sold me on the romance of mamluk and
jannisary... because i'm fat from being tired
from what christianity has to offer...
honestly... even if there was a nag hammadi
library revival of the gnostic section...
or... 100 years from now...
there was news about the fate of isaiah
and the dead-sea-scrolls...

                 the muslims are not attacking...
by the grace of god...
some authoritarian mouthpiece from their shitpile
of clueless stopped talking...
and the adhan could be listened to: again...
and rumi minimalism could be read:
sufism! could be digested...

my mind can wander calendars... days and decades...
dreams and deja vus...
it can cross boundaries inanimate object
territory and turn to all things fuzzy
in the realm of hallucinations:
denial, doubt, conviction
in one way or another...
fractions of synonyms...

i cherish the one libra... the heart's:
yes....           or...                      no...
then there's the christianity that borrows too much
from its: "cultured" / cultivated paganism...
whether greek or trojan (alias latin)...
i'm tired of these arguments...
they're either claustrophobic (without any
evidence of clarifying workable space)....
trash: recycling matter... per-haps...

                      hoarder peoples of the world
"unite"... no... i'm "bored" and just exhausted
by the secular arguments or how
the trinity fraction ingenuity should work...
when islam is stsarting to turn lazy...
i figured: the romance associated with
the mamluk and the janissary is open, yes?

sufism and the indivisible one?
the vector: the north: point north vector -
the frankenstein moster clue: that's still open?
will i meet the drawfish turks along the way...
and they'll come up with...
canons for ****-open the walls
of constantinople?

      ever convert someone by way of
shrivelling up their testicles or crucifying their
mind on the altar of phobias?
if you don't have the heart...
you might as well be gagging for an achilles' heel...
if that!
christianity and pop cult. secularism...
i'm bored of worshipping
a static demigod...

        how many demigods came...
preceding? but this demigod is the fraction
celebration: the intellectual *******
of people who: cared not for...
the ferris wheel, etc.
                    
         rome is no more!
holy rome is no more: the "*****" achieved its purpose...
citing Casimir III also helped...
the nomads moved: jumped over the pond...
spider patience as released into
the city-scape: well of course... well done!
applause!

the question "question" is never asked...
given... hasn't christianity become a quasi-polytheism?
how many denominations?
too little gods: and the one...
as a fraction... can just keep on giving:
yet another preceding 0 of: the divided fraction
booth...

         the schism within islam was hardly
an intellectual:
all these "byzantine" precursor details...
such a bothersome spectacle for all:
that mind the bureucratic shoo! shoo!
              an intellectual affair:
                       worldly affairs... Ali was promised x...
the caliphs decided on project y...
the integrity of "the prophets" word:
while aging... senile yet still *******
a fresh cherub-and-orange akin to...
                 Khadija **** Khuwaylid still on my mind...
in praise of older women...

according to malcolm X and: cassius clay...
islam knows no race...
since... christian fwench... catholic...
spaniard catholic: later christian...
german retro: swiss...
anglican fudge-packers...
             yes... islam is not a nationality:
nor is it a race...
then again: what is croat... former yuogoslav...
or greek...
when... ahem... all that matters is...
h'american patriotism?!
if only the h'americans can be patriotic...
only the 50 shingles and twin barons
of stripes is on the ready...
the h'americans are: patriotic!
the rest of us are being nationalistic:
cousin-******-******!
can't islam come via Sarajevo and...
become... an escape plan?

   Ezra Pound might have cited:
the former proud stance of christianity against
usury... and now...
loan-sharks...
   i could be a slave to islam because
i could finally escape the "lost" e in
a ethnic grouping that has me locked in with...
the st. petersburg crowd...
the slavs...         and the germans: are... germs...
east a vowel - prefix at the wrong moment...
thank god that islam is not a people
but an idea...
and i'm burning with it...
without need to make or meet
proper formalities of conversion...
by heart's analogy of the mind's banquet
of the thesaurus...
when will the simple yes...
or the simple no arrive?
i don't know...
                i don't want to know...

after all: will you frequently hear...
of a *** / 'ebrew convert?
no! of course not! it's a... v.i.p. club...
you being a jew is more than an "idea"...
yep... it's exactly "also" a race...
you don't get to bypass all the cousin *******
cousin inbreeding on a whim...
you don't get to be given a "choice"...
while islam readily converts...
new blood...
islam readily converts because...
you were never a chosen within the confines
of the distinct few:
which is nice...
islam readily converts: while christianity willingly
abandons...
why am i looking into a mamluk /
janissary romance novel genre?
will i write one?
do i look like someone to turn a silver
spoon into a ***** and fake
a sigh?

dare i: dare not i: "not i"...
back into the basic structure of words:
back into syllables...
words like: da-je (it's giving)
                           i forget all the other mamas' and
papas'... "lyrics"...
i'm just bored of the exclusivity and
inclusivity of peoples...
mind you: i mind more...
what's that: fidgeting me... irritating me...
such the atom: like the letter abounding
around them...
it's nothing special... it's just: fudge...
and a simple metaphor of concrete and
indigestion to have to... endure...
gorge... digest...

                i'm bored of christianity
because of the ruling "christianity" of h'america...
back to basics: son of sam...
thank god for the atlantic ocean...
some distance... some perspective...
evangelical: denominations of old world
protestantism...
no... all the basics of:
looking at women with "fun" prospects...
joy... what about the joy of a bicycle...
it's like ******* retards claiming:
casper the friendly ghosts and
spiderman were touch-up buddies to sooth...

thank you h'america... send me back
to afghanistan... and pashtun womens' poetry...
too many minutes spent on this insomnia footprint
of the web: i still believe a t.v. and a computer
and internet access should be akin
to resembling a fireplace... fixed locations...
no?
i don't actually mind:
eating a burger and getting a blockjob
like driving a car...
on a smooth motorway...
try the same... and giggling... on horseback...

if i could gonvern myself to establish a matrix
of prayer - rummagings of a lacklustre
of schiphrenia - perhaps...
for all the freedoms "imposed":
and not imposed - shimmy shimmy -
and all that isn't received as: to pass...
restrictions galore...
the smooth shake-me-up...
secular: testicular clean shaven *******
tip of luck when licked: etc.

           yeah... yeah: sign me up for that...
pedestrian safehaven!
the promises of science...
                  the christian day to day...
and the... straitjacket of islam...
or... or... prop-er... PWOPH-EER "judeo-christian":
and some salty Cicero...
and some pepper stiff 'istotle!
                  
   love is... love is: pseudo-echo: his eyes...
and all the little idiosyncracies still alive in me:
that makes me focus on me:
and not on... the expendable you...
     all i want is to focus on these details
without having to infringe on: detailing you...
to what...
                impaled... which has to be
more insufferable than a crucifixion...
but... let's not mind that...

              the detail comes around with:
the civic world is a world that the ancient
romans laid a claim on...
the rest? that the romans didn't lay...
a claim on? fifth partition of poland...
a ****** job over the "question" of iraq...
i'm not this "white" ****-boy's boor...
but that i am: since i'm not his baron.

- all that bob woodward & carl bernstein
achieved... deep-throat alias
of that ninja in m.g.s. PSI...
but what i included... but what jonathan landay
and warren strobel couldn't...
it breaks, the "heart"...
or at least the mind... capable of...

- honestly... i never much appreciated
rembrandt...
but... what wouldn't... otherwise...
a sobering-up sessions of sitting on the edge
of the bed do... otherwise:
better good... than the thus presented...
than... hang-over... looking at prints
of the aging rembrandt...
no... not the zenith... the impeding
nadir...

          would it still be necessary for me
to ingest from l.s.d.?
the lazy strokes of grace-
any other adjective of pompous
sycophancy is open: though... to be added...
no... not because his a well known name...
but because: i never found the sort of
raw beef: or the sort of stomach...

the question of the "question"...
within the realms of the diaspora...
that's a hard "question"...
given the diaspora is... a status quo that...
look at the orthodox yids / hebs
of brooklyn...
they're not leaving and brooklyn isn't...
either... the question of a people
without a diaspora...
is still only a "question"...
like that: MADE IN CHINA... "question"...
i still haved things in my possession that have...
MADE IN HOLLAND...
MADE IN INDIA... MADE IN IRELAND...
hell... even MADE IN BANGLADESH
makes you believe in a higher quality than...
all that CHeap CHequers ***** from
the land of BING JING... and the squirming
dwagon...

ask any thai or any... the chinese are not
the best parts of h'america...
and the worst parts of russia...
and... all the rest: reincarnated horde motto:
mongol...
joke... stinking camel jockeys will
not touch a squat of pork for fear
of the silk road mafia:
yow-eatz the stinking sheepz...
me eatz pork & leather
    me eatz pork & leather...
                                     shoe?! shoe?!

shrimp **** gets a hard-on and there's no
mushroom saxon esq. 1960s mantra...
of toll culture!
               well: shrimp **** is hardly:
a korean sand-bag or a piece of japanese
porcelain skin... whiter than porky-pink
gets handled by haggling over Libya...
and the Spanish... sun... tan!
- it's a good nuance though...
given that... all of the baltic sushi is
ascribed the status of: herring herring herring;
raw... yes... in a gherkin infused
cream... creamy dreams of a less robotic...
less stockholm syndrome... Stockholm...
the museum of the tomb of the Vasa ship...
and all those yachts...
seeing Stockholm... no need to see Oslo...
Helsinki... Copenhagen... seeing St. Petersburg...
i really... really need to see Istambul;
smoled salmon... rye bread...
mayonnaise... cucumber... dill...
rainbow trout caviar...
it would be a luxury... caviar...
if everyone was willing to eat it...
but... given the price... only a few could...
caviar would be a yacht symbol of richness...
no... you want a better summary?
caviar is... marmite...
you either love it... or hate it...
everyone almost everyone:
the greater majority... can stomach...
poultry abortions...
caviar is not a luxury... it's an idiosyncracy;
there's no "acquired" taste...
it's something akin to: the web architecture
a priori in the confines of
'ed... of the spider...
or how... the woodland pigeon builds
a nest... "from thin air"...

             learning to walk...
is so class-A drug... bourgeoisie...
                perhaps there was a russian revolution...
perhaps there was the industrial revolution...
all in all: there was only the french revolution.

My best friend was fiction. The ocean where I lived was nothing but an enormous tank capable of sustaining the plastic we created in our own image. On odd days the electric lampshade sun would malfunction and the skin of tourists would turn moldy grey from calcium deficiency or rather a will not to see the fabricated sky for what it was: a cardboard cutout created with the sole intention of comfort.
My number in school was always 33
whether it was outside playing sports or being the 33rd person in line at the cafeteria or hanging that number on the lapel of my shirt like a cross at the top of a hill in a Roman crucifying.
For this my life revolved around that number.
33 reasons to go outside and witness the cruelty
33 socks missing their twin at the bottom of a washing machine
33 ideal mates that always say the wrong thing before the meeting takes place
33 witches hanging at the bottom of a lake for swimming instead of sinking
my favorite fiction is the one that tries so hard to hide under the bed
the one that lies on the front porch step of that man accused of robbery in his 20’s
the one that believes when it’s told the earth is melting
that it will just goop up at the bottom of the devil’s dinner plate