Quacking ducks
Dung throwers
Degenerate, opinionate

No plea for serenity
No chance for reverence
Only less politeness

Survival of the fittest
Hegemony of the crudest
Twitter for the *****

That unforgiving metal.
Within that unforgiving metal lies all the things you cannot forgive about yourself.
Those freckles on your chin that you wish would expand into a constellation so that you may give them names and so that you may give them meaning,
within that unforgiving metal.

The Greeks threw their hands towards the heavens
and deemed cosmic accidents worthy of the names of gods,
although within them lie no gifts.
Like a bedazzled and jaded Tiresias impostor one stumbles upon
on their way home,
who sees nothing but the tangible
and tells all but the truth.
Still, he is clad in diamonds and gold
and thus has value in trade.
Beauty triumphs over mendacity
and mendacity over reality.

But the freckles that mar your skin,
that you cannot transfigure into the most meaningless of stars or the crudest of answers,
sit there defiantly,
waiting to be acknowledged and waiting to be named.

You lean your forehead forward to rest against the cool smoothness of its idle twin.
You could swear you saw her sneer at you.
The freckles do not budge—they will consume you whole.

Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
built somewhat like a box. No. Built
like several boxes in descending sizes
one above the other.
Each is turned half-way round so that
its corners point toward the sides
of the one below and the angles alternate.
Then on the topmost cube is set
a sort of fleur-de-lys of weathered wood,
long petals of board, pierced with odd holes,
four-sided, stiff, ecclesiastical.
From it four thin, warped poles spring out,
(slanted like fishing-poles or flag-poles)
and from them jig-saw work hangs down,
four lines of vaguely whittled ornament
over the edges of the boxes
to the ground.
The monument is one-third set against
a sea; two-thirds against a sky.
The view is geared
(that is, the view's perspective)
so low there is no "far away,"
and we are far away within the view.
A sea of narrow, horizontal boards
lies out behind our lonely monument,
its long grains alternating right and left
like floor-boards--spotted, swarming-still,
and motionless.  A sky runs parallel,
and it is palings, coarser than the sea's:
splintery sunlight and long-fibred clouds.
"Why does the strange sea make no sound?
Is it because we're far away?
Where are we? Are we in Asia Minor,
or in Mongolia?"
                            An ancient promontory,
an ancient principality whose artist-prince
might have wanted to build a monument
to mark a tomb or boundary, or make
a melancholy or romantic scene of it...
"But that queer sea looks made of wood,
half-shining, like a driftwood, sea.
And the sky looks wooden, grained with cloud.
It's like a stage-set; it is all so flat!
Those clouds are full of glistening splinters!
What is that?"
                        It is the monument.
"It's piled-up boxes,
outlined with shoddy fret-work, half-fallen off,
cracked and unpainted.  It looks old."
--The strong sunlight, the wind from the sea,
all the conditions of its existence,
may have flaked off the paint, if ever it was painted,
and made it homelier than it was.
"Why did you bring me here to see it?
A temple of crates in cramped and crated scenery,
what can it prove?
I am tired of breathing this eroded air,
this dryness in which the monument is cracking."

It is an artifact
of wood.  Wood holds together better
than sea or cloud or and could by itself,
much better than real sea or sand or cloud.
It chose that way to grow and not to move.
The monument's an object, yet those decorations,
carelessly nailed, looking like nothing at all,
give it away as having life, and wishing;
wanting to be a monument, to cherish something.
The crudest scroll-work says "commemorate,"
while once each day the light goes around it
like a prowling animal,
or the rain falls on it, or the wind blows into it.
It may be solid, may be hollow.
The bones of the artist-prince may be inside
or far away on even drier soil.
But roughly but adequately it can shelter
what is within (which after all
cannot have been intended to be seen).
It is the beginning of a painting,
a piece of sculpture, or poem, or monument,
and all of wood.  Watch it closely.

Hay Bale
Hay Bale
What’s a bale worth about thirty dollars a thousand pounds how much if you factor this in an old farmer
Kneels makes a lowly bale of hay his altar this isn’t the breezy free prayer this is a soul brought to this
Place hidden away by burdens that come in waves they find the deepest core of this man’s soul on the
Order of David Brainerd who was said to kneel in the snow and from the throws of Godly sorrow such
Struggle would create enough human exertion to burn at extreme enough level to melt the snow hair
Wet and matted face touched with the incomparable grace bestowed only on those who follow hard
And Close enough to the master to receive the blunt force power the souls of this life buffeted and
Stretchered by all manner of problems the houses you pass without interest or curiosity is of extreme
Concern to the one who stops and dwells when he hears a heart crying in a lonely setting caused by
Disease or unexpected death for this he searches a human agent to rush to the breach stand in the gap
By prayer harness the wind and storm that is breaking over this broken one never believe that this is
Easy you are literally inviting the spiritual equivalent to what they are experiencing naturally the toll will
Wring from you every ounce of your strength and you will give full vent to all the tears you can produce
This is the price the answer demands you of course get the news from the enemy your all alone no one
Cares what a lie three hearts are being pulverized by a hammer of trouble the soul it began with the nail
Scared and he the deep whip marks that will never fade in this ugly descriptive show of purist love he
Still walks bent and bowed from this load and the third knelling just by a lowly bale of hay his inward
Man matching the savoir in all areas suffering physically spiritually and the coldest blow of all you in
Every regard are alone no light no comfort and every accusation the enemy can muster is leveled at you
The battle struck there is no retreat a soul under attack will not survive the onslaught this is heavens
Plan no deviation will be excepted devotion to a cause and a people never knew this quality of glory and
Honor the first indication of how important a son of very God must be brutalized and from unequaled
Innocence be put to death on a cross the price and ransom the debt fully paid but continues through the crudest altars even a hay
Bale.

The first thing that happens
is the world collapses.
That is, it reduces down
but only I seem to notice.
Everything becomes flatter,
the depth stripped away
like rotted lumber,
like when they gut a building
but leave the historic facade,
and I feel like I'm limping
postcard to postcard
until eventually like I'm peering
into a discarded diorama,
where everything is smaller
than it should be,
the crudest copy of itself, and
everything is bounded
by shoebox limits
I can sense them everywhere.

The second thing that happens
is that I avoid everyone.
I avoid my mother on Christmas,
I can't look my therapist in her eye,
I cancel a date because
I can't handle the contact.
I touch my skin and it's like
touching paper that's been creased
hundreds of times -
old pulp that frays and splits.

The third thing that happens
is that I lose interest.
I put in whatever minimums
the day requires
and not a scratch more.
I put my mail aside
and watch crows
gather on the branch,
facing the valley,
black eye to black eye,
base wings folded against
the sleek unbearable body.

The last thing that happens
is that life cheapens.
It's hard not to notice,
since the papers and the news
and everybody's phone
blasts forth the parade of death.
No one is spared, children,
animals, the happy, the hale.
And soon these thoughts -
that life ends without reason,
that God has retreated from the world,
that no step is worthwhile -
begin to bleed in my head.
They lead to the paralysis
of a patient wrapped in gauze,
leaving only the eyes free to move
and notice the great black wing
that scythes into the valley,
feathers dark as stout,
the sun setting in its usual
incompetent way, the wing
so graceful that it might be
the only beautiful thing,
falling out of sight,
into nothingness,
down the *****
into the stale dusk,
into the exact center
of a limitless depression.

I have a schoolboys sense of humour,
Oh yes it's true, it's not just rumour,
I always laugh at bums and willys,
It's immature and very silly,
I cannot help my humours taste,
I try to keep it above the waist,
Yet down the slippery ***** I slide,
This 'Carry-On" sense of humour of mine,
Farts, poos, **** the crudest jokes,
Belong much more to bad *** blokes,
Double meaning things that people say,
Is my specialist subject anyway,
Even though I know it's daft,
I do enjoy a ****** laugh :)

We are all walking around in each other
(our bodies and breathing and sweat and
sneezes)
walking around in pieces of each other
unescapably we are
in each other
in the crudest way possible we are
in each other
(in Buckingham in front of Michelangelo paintings in Taj Mahal in Los Angeles in Sydney in paradise in your bedroom)
connected in an
(uncomfortable)
way we are all each other we are all one
don’t forget to breathe
we only have this chance once
breathe breathe breathe you are one

as a filmmaker
I’d bury
the permanence
of my son
the magnifying
glass
in full
dress
of the shadow
lurking behind
the crudest
of surveillance
systems

as an antidote to the poetic of onomatopoeia, i simply won't allow such a desecration, the ruinous cloud of plum purple hangs over language with this one poetic technique, just before the barrage of rain falling like a vertical tsunami, as i found myself fishing in Poland, the white-precursor of Mickiewicz's castles turned into horses' gallop... and then foo! a monsoon in 5 minutes... the fish? quiet big, but since kept in a reservoir, a bit fat... actually... too fat. seriously, the onomatopoeia has to go, we can't be found imitating sounds of inanimate things... or debasing our use of phonetic encryptions with sounds of edible creatures... why... if we kept at it, you'd see monkeys building the coliseum and man playing the Mongolian harmonica of vibrating lips and the index finder moving up and down to their tune; plus i think onomatopoeia is the culprit of excessive spelling in english... i know, the keeping of necessary aesthetics but come on... moo vs. μ?

and i wish to lessen the optic strain for continuing
subject matter non-italicised...
you know what's more interesting than paying attention
to the use of onomatopoeia like that, the crudest
musicological element of poetry (well, rhyming is
also up there) - English is perfect, it's a-diacritical
(ah or a? never mind) - you have to start to imagine
the language like a blank canvas, but not necessarily,
what's more interesting in this vector rather than
clinging to onomatopoeia technique is that you
can apply anti-onomatopoeia, distinctions, accents,
yesterday it became revelatory,
it's roland garros on the television, after the days
events there's a program with Mats Wilander
(Swedish no. 1, seven grand slams between 1982 and
1988) and a blonde woman presenter,
i picked up my loss of interest in using onomatopoeia
to profile her origin... she could have been of any
European ethnicity... but the accent... it just landed
in my ear... German... and indeed, without an information
bracket on the programme's description, it was
Barbara Schett... you see, you paint the accents, it's
more interesting that way given the nakedness of English
compared with other siblings of the alphabet high-jacked
from Roman; you end up pricking your ears to attune
accents that than ol' McDonald had a farm.

that was my initial fascination, the lie of Eden passed down,
like Voltaire on his deathbed being read his departing word,
his own encoded as: this is not the time  to make enemies
he was referring to the devil)...
also: you'll find it hard to find his *éléments de la philosphie
de Newton... you will find Candide,
and Letters from England... but the elements of Newton's
philosophy will be a holy grail... oddly enough, contrary
to common belief, Voltaire never alludes to an apple
falling on Newton's head, but the book is a joy,
given that it includes diagrams... a bit of an Alice moment
for me: what's the point of books without pictures?
i could give you a chapter-by-chapter schematic of
what's being included so you don't think i'm bullshitting you,
the first chapter is about God... i know, ha ha, Voltaire
the ardent atheists... the third chapter is about the
freedom of the deity and on the great principle of sufficient right;
hold on! i'm digressing again, this was a debate concerning
onomatopoeia! you're probably asking why i've started to
use runes again... imagine what lied more, the tongue or
the eyes... this is crazy geometrics! geometry precipitated
when human went wild encoding sounds, it needed
something rational and coherent to attach itself to, to find
a cure for this crazy phonetic encoding, Pythagoras
attacked (Δ, δ) - i'm sure of that... i mean, can you just imagine
two drunk vikings sitting there, ******* themselves
sound-spotting and dissecting their mouth? which shaped
what, and which was to be cut-off / trimmed after they
poured wax into their ears and started to lip-read?
i mean... how many ****** shapes came from all
the soul-cages being opened with the shape of the mouth
from O?
ᚺ - hail             ᛖ - horse (and i'd say camel, but no camels
so far north)       ᚱ - journey         ᛟ - heritage
      ᛚ - water               ᚷ - gift
                                 i mean, it's amazing how we managed
to cut of subsequent letters we ascribed to things
and create a distinct sounds... but can you the torturous
road toward this end? to have created ~20 distinctions
from nouns? no wonder Aristotle asked to debate
proper names... i'm more inclined to ask a debate about
proper sounds... but still... so many wild geometric shapes
from just one... O... or - (a shut mouth)...
no wonder mathematics emerged: you couldn't really build
a longboat using ᚠ - ᛞ, or a house, what mathematics emerged
was probably when people thus dispersed interacted
via the merchants' enterprises and saw a gold nugget
of applicability write in how so many different people interpreted
looking at the mouth talking...
but i'm but one man, and this is a mystery, for i wonder
how the mind worked in order to write mandarin and
also qin **** huang's wall - i accepted many people died
doing it, and that the Mongol invasion was inevitable,
and that Japan was spared by a tsunami...
but how they took snippets from O to write a phonetic
encoding like 政 (Zheng, which also ascribed the
tetragrammaton at work, with one atom being a surd).

“Our characteristics smear through us,
Like colours in a stick of rock.”
He says to the audience of ties and blazers.
“If I cut you open, what shades
Would I find in your cross-sections?”
“If you cut me open,
There’d be a fair amount of red,
I should think.”
I say behind my sharpened teeth.
“And my parents wouldn’t be very pleased.”
Oh how witty I am
With my quick fire of sarcasm,
And petulant spasms of acrimony.
Eight miles away,
Our house is full of September;
Raincoats and Crane flies,
And I water my Guinea Pig’s tumour
With tears I owe elsewhere.
A teacher at my school
Committed suicide, people say,
While we skipped waves
And created poetry from the leaf-light.
They can’t tell us the details,
Of course not – sensitivity is key –
But that tells us all we thirst for.
School clockworks forwards
With a hole in the Geography office
And I forget about remembrance.
He drove a BMW and laughed
Small laughs that coughed with nervousness.
I sit in History, pen-chewing,
Thinking of all these more important deaths.
The school bells don’t hold silences
The year sevens don’t stand
Or bow their heads in room 180
We try making futures for ourselves
And apply ourselves to those things
That still have chances tied to them
Like clover leaves and birthday candles.
We turn on lights in the evenings
And I wake myself from darkness to darkness.
My life consists of the cooling,
Cotton-throated early mornings
And the bike that my brother bought new
Six years ago.
And the drag of my newspaper bag
That claws backwards from my peddling.
The world is blue and grey with rime,
I rip my fingers on letterboxes.
My shoes fall apart from the heels
My ballet shoes fall apart from the toes
My life enjoys unravelling itself
From wherever I’ve chosen to stitch it
And I fray and crimp at the corners.
I prefer to go barefoot
Across the rinsed, diluted garden
That smells of rotting apples.
Ballet tights rolled up my legs
So that my bruised toes get kissed
With grass slobber and the faded zeal of autumn.
Slugs crisscross pavements like surgical tape
Then get stuck and frazzled there
While the sun toasts them.
“Maybe I’d find hopes, dreams,” he says.
“Maybe you’d find organs.”
You’d find me weeping over pirouettes
And geometric lines and extensions.
You’d find a twice-broken arm
And an array of internal fractures.
There’d be shards lodged between each rib.
My parachute lungs, pumping filth,
Would continue to tear and furl
Until they wouldn’t resemble
The things we scalped in biology.
I re-write lists of ‘Things To Do’
In the hope that they’ll seem shorter
But I add all my flaws to them
For amendments and for procrastination.
For some reason people still expect things
From this emptying girl
Who actually thinks
That the one who cut into her
Would be in danger of finding
Nothing but a brittled, bitter hollow.
I highlight my essays
And highlight the cracks
I’m carving in my personality.
I paste impressions of myself
All over my exterior shell
Alongside character traits.
Who knows what lies beneath
The papier-mâché of well-played parts?
My fingers play music on the computer keyboard
More than they practice the piano.
But the songs they make are far from sweet
And rarely beautiful.
My parents think I’m working
On Hume, Bentham and Kant
But really, I write jaded poetry
Which forms its own philosophies.
“Your experiences would be evident,
Spread through your character.”
My brother ate away at his life
Until he starved.
They set him down in a mental unit
For the ‘Screwy’, ‘Freakish’ and ‘Insane.’
So I buried my childhood
In the side ward mazes
Of hand sanitizer and tubes and tombs.
“I’d find what makes you unique –
Your religion, perhaps.”
I laugh away the suggestion
That is actually the truth of how
My Sunday mornings fall under ‘Church’
And the afternoons are ‘Top Forty’ –
I don’t even like chart music.
How can I be ashamed of the faith
I try fervently not to doubt?
The sun drips from the evening sky
Like a squeezed lemon
And Monday cycles round again
I live in a little world of spirals;
Eternally coming back to the same place
Just worn a little further down.
I waste my life on the vanity
Of mirrors and self-deprecation.
Sometimes I think I must be arrogant
To make the pretty little assumption
That I don’t have to wear make-up.
It’s funny that I lay my skin bare –
Always –
But can’t manage to strip myself down
To the crudest, rawest truth.
I can only write for people I don’t know;
I let my parents believe blindly
That I’m a creative prodigy
Instead of human
By refusing them the blessing
Of honest words from ink and paper.
But the truth is;
I am not the faded mystery
That I pose as in my writing,
I’m just someone who sits in school assembly
And tries to make self-portraits from words,
And tries to forge intelligence,
And tries to never grow old,
And tries to be something,
And tries nothing,
And tries –
“But what I’d really want to see
Is compassion,” He says.
I turn my face down to my knee bones
And permit myself to agree.
Compassion, I tell myself
And, just for a minute,
I feel a little less
Superficial.

Cruelest is the man who sits and says nothing
Stand alone stare with a harrowing message
Or maybe it’s the poorest, crudest of man
Who we all brand as vicious, biting off hands
But then what of the angry indignant man
The one who feels drained with no moral compass
Moans and groans develops own brands of justice
Then there’s the soldier in all different shapes
Who plunders and kills or kidnaps and rapes
No words for the actions of each head of state
No words for the actions of the man who wont stand
No words for all those who play life at high stakes

Doesn’t life burn you when spending it thinking
So here we all are; fast living and sinking

We are a white children
of clouds
of sand
of carving words
that shape the sands we walk upon
and cannot judge one slip from another
at times
love is expressed through
the crudest terms
and so we divide,
define
and in each mind
rest the chicken bones of the last meal
press the prickly matter into the damp soil
where it will be forgotten.

look back and you will see a traveller with the crudest of maps
be kind to that person struggling with so much daily detail they have no clue as to how they are going to fulfil their half remembered dream. The dream they keep tucked in the pocket next their heart, the one they take out now and then when alone and have deep intentions to make it all come true. That person is every person and if you look, that person is you.

How do you prove an immunity to
a recurringly exhumed seclusion
when the noise of static, so intrusive when unmuted, easily confuses
and a skewed view produces only illusion's futile ruses?
Can't hands, seamlessly and when misguided, be abusive
from refusing their own bruises and contusions,
manifest and fuse into a multitude of misconstrued, misled misuses?
Yet I will argue choosing to humor the tune communicating through the intuitive music and movement that amuses-
what is heard echoes clues for harmony and hallowed union's
mutual congruence,
even in the crudest beauty and pursuit of human improvement and what we knew, uprooted.
Doubt, when reducing to delusions, always loses when refuted,
and though humility means fragile ****** included,
elusive truths all allude to an absolution through this-
what diffuses, what we keep, and how we do it the conclusion.

Writing poems but who are they for?
Are they secret notes to myself
To read
When I'm old and gray?
Are they
(Perhaps)
Simply lyrics to
Songs I'll never sing?
Are they my
Crudest representation
Of
My soul?
Yes they are.
Maybe.
I'm not ceratin.
To be honest
I have
No clue.

So it was
Once then never was
You left me and it hurt
Why did you choose to change so much?
We were best friends and sisters
You made it all about the misters
Finding time to keep you around
Why were you never around
When we broke bones and banks
I knew you were down hard
Broke down bikes and cars
And I turned scarred.

Seeing you after a year makes me wonder
Do you think of me too and ponder
Why things were left unsaid
Why we drifted away
Tried to forget you and found many other
But no one came to be so picture perfect as each other

You don’t even care you looked away
You ****** me off when things went grey
Contemplated many a times to message you
But remembered how you threw me away.
But pride came to play
And stayed more than half way

When I looked into your eyes
I saw hurt and pain but also crudest acclaim.
Why it never worked out I don’t know
Mistakes were made and both grew up
Careless nights to back road to and fro
Somehow we grew up and grew apart more.

give me a memory,
any memory,
where you are happy,
and it can mask,
the worst thing ever said,
the meanest thing ever done,
the crudest thing you ever saw
and I'll not write anymore.

after all... i have to represent the anatomy of the teeth, mouth, tongue, brain, lung and heart structures with the windmills of my quixotic fancy using a, b, c... and follow suit an explanatory commnet: that's a trumpet for an elephant.*

only among the crudest of representations
does imagination volcano out,
whether that be a - z, 0 - 9, or among
the notable cymbals of musical notation:
what’s compressed elevates imagination,
this skeletal affinity, does imagination justice;
and only this.

Fasten your seatbelts
For the ice the heat melts
Will be dealt
We’ll receive welts
From Earth’s belt
Her pain will be felt

Crazy cancer
Lazy dancers
Don’t have answers
But as enchanters
Conjure banter
Of absurd slander
And crowd panders
To darken lanterns

Flooding the gate
Money to make
Muddies the stakes
So they act fake
To catch a break
Becoming snakes
With stunning rakes
For nature’s ****

Carbon emission
Cancer remission
In need of incisions
To heal our decisions
Yet denied permission
By a wealthy commission
Utilizing superstition
And pure fiction
To ensure friction
Fueling oil addiction

The hurricanes
Assuring pain
Are curing stains
Of carbon shame
Until what remains
Stays in nature’s lane

I hide in dreams
From Poseidon’s screams
At polluted streams
From brutish teams
Of the crudest greed

To break our code of mourning
We need the noble forming
A case for global warming
Against the vocal storming
Of the slogan storing
***** adoring
Public scorning

We need Atlas here
To fix the atmosphere
As those here
Impose fear
Against peers

Their success equals destruction
So acting responsibly is obstruction
Pushing the planet to an eruption
Of cataclysmic disruption
Due to cynical dysfunction

A tidal wave
Of vital days
To fix our maze
Sits in a haze
While we’re slaves
Digging graves
For the brave
In their way

If you wish the sympathy
of the broad masses, you
must tell them the crudest
& most stupid things,

& it is quite a special secret
pleasure how the people
around us fail to realize
what is really
happening to them,

& make the lie big,
make it simple,
keep saying it,
and eventually
they will
believe it.

& all propaganda must be
popular and its intellectual
level must be adjusted to
the most limited intelligence
amongst those it is
addressed to,

& history comes around
& many of the tried &
trusted methods for
running things just
keep on making
that eternal return
don't they.

i tend to visit poland once a year,
although i used to spend
every summer over there in my teens,
that's how i left school aged
16, a chubby doughnut,
and reentered it to study for my
a-levels a beefed up slim -
the only way to loße weight,
apparently is not in the gym
(too much excess skin) -
  cycling!
       or? swimming!
          anyway...
but as i've aged, whenever i go
into hiatus seeing my grandparents,
who do not have internet access,
and stay off whiskey for up to
a month, and absorb all the scents
of winter of -0°C - last year it went down
to -30°C in the night,
    and -18°C in the day: magical -
felt like smoking a cigarette with
every breath, and that eerie crispness
in the air, biting, stabbing needles -
and an even eerier scent of burning
wood - leaves - cinnamon...
by the way: bad idea wearing jeans
in sub-zero temperature -
             the cold pinches the fabric:
you're better off with softer materials.
anyway...
  as time went by, i realised something,
westerners look at their countries
as if about to chop off a gangrened limb,
they see no mirror, themselves:
   faces savaged by an abyss, drained,
non-existent, hardly even in the buffer
of the grime of the everyday commuter
grey, merging into a collective
         amnesia of: hardly a stand-out
punk with leather, studs, and a fluorescently
pink mohawk.
               these days i find the country, sure,
it's there, it's more advanced than it was,
people are getting richer,
  but you still have stray dogs running
in the streets, and wild cats in the cemeteries,
don't ask me how these cats managed
to un-domesticate themselves and
turn into these feral bonsai tiger,
  they live in tombs,
   waiting for the next funeral i expect;
point being:
every time i go back and visit the old-timers,
my grandfather always buys me cigarettes,
and usually picks out a book from his
private library in order to give me a challenge -
he has all these books and has barely read
a tenth of them... last year he gave me
god's wrath by kraszewski -
   a wide majority found him bland -
   but i managed to digest it, not bad,
given that the backdrop of god's wrath
translates into the with fire and with sword
by sienkiewicz - i.e. the cossack uprising,
seen the film, didn't read the book,
  but i read the "antithesis" of the whole
affair... so that's that.
   again, beside the point,
  the point i want to make is that,
whenever i go back for my healthy hiatus:
i'm not looking for a country...
i'm looking for both child,
  and teenager.
              i can't either of them!
        every single time i'm looking for
the child, the teenager and the man i am now,
but the man i am now is a detached
body, with what seems like missing
  organs, mainly the brain, and the heart.
i can't find either heart, or brain in this land...
merely having the tongue that
can belong in this land is not enough...
  it doesn't matter if the tongue is
still there, with no heart, with no brain,
i might as well be a foreigner who merely
acquired the native language and perfected it...
  which is odd...
              to say the least,
esp. upon hearing stories about what is
the day-to-day in the pat three days,
  the 60,000+ strong marches through warsaw,
the resurgence of nationalism...
i feel some allegiance, in absentia,
although to the tongue, rather than the land,
simply because: i'm not there!
              my heart and mind have
become detached to the point that they
remain in england, with the internet connection
access;
  and mainly my work:
   i want to introduce orthography into
the english language, as already stated:
  loße (lose) differs from loose - primarily
because there is a stiffening of the S in losing
that becomes gaining a Z -
            the germans use it, originally,
to cut back on the english preference of
  little, better, mummified,
                          bladder,
                                  pepper,
                daddy, i.e.? the double consonant,
the rudolf heß - rather than hess -
   well, the english could actually make
sense of the german grapheme (es und zed)
   by playing the latin interchange game...
you don't loose, you loo'zzz...
                 i wonder if i can puncture
english and introduce orthography into it...
diacritical markings...
   after all, orthography is already in place
in english: text spreschen:
e.g. c u l8er the crudest example i could think
of...
                          only the best of men
are the products of their time,
   and none are even revolutionary -
                       most, are merely reactionary.
the whole joke in this affair that
these were written from: essex.
             imagine the irony when
that's revealed to an englishman -
given that essex is the ****-joke in every
stereotype...
                        a bit like that similarity
to: whatever good ever came out of nazareth?
applies to essex, essex is nazareth
of the north.

This country is in dire straits
The great unwashed now
Outnumber the intelligencia
And truth and facts
No longer rule the day.
The gates are swinging open
For the Robber Barons to hold sway
As Gaia begs for mercy.
Everything is up for sale
Including honesty and souls.
The sexiest thing obtainable
Is power in it’s crudest form.
No female DNA is safe.
Children learn it all by five
And **** themselves by ten.
The One Percent hold all the cards-
The rest of us use credit
With totals we can never pay.
Everything is Monetized
Except unwanted children-
No one’s solved that problem yet.
Now adults can choose their gender
And switch it any day they choose.
Families are multicolored
And a Peacock is a service bird.
Rainy days do not get saved for,
College loans are never paid.
The Holier-Than-Us are ruling
In their God promoting way
Wearing masks of indignation
To cover their own iniquity.
Even though the sun still shines
The rain pours down, the snow piles up-
It’s one endless epic storm
As Six-pack Joe heads off to work
To earn almost not quite enough.

Will we crumble - will we thrive
Only if the voters rock the boat
And throw the pirates overboard.
ljm