stop that.
curtailing the rewards of love
around the softness forming on her face
upon the news, you've broken up
and there's not a chance
of feeling any contrition
because you're all about yourself
most of the time, anyways.

She, wrapped in light and acceptance.
you, in the dark, smelling of bark and river
overnight.

thinking of Her again
stop that.

In the ballroom, half past the hour I struggle to find place where bleeding walls are curtailing chase. and in the crude mix of masqueraded hearts I found your true face I watched you stroll in and out of fits of love, destroying every good thing left to break
In the ballroom, three quarters past the hour I felt your cruelty pierce my skin and bone to a core, childishly toying with an old doll that couldn't take the pain anymore
so that one day when pride knocks on your door he'll bestow you upon the floor and may you rest there forevermore.
but in the ballroom, as the hour ends, for now you say amen before you feast upon the fragile thin of souls that belong to men whom may never love again. and may love never forgive you for this sin.
In the ballroom, for the rest of your extent,
may all the lost souls never forgive nor forget you for this sin.

An almost stillness came about as she strode into my door,
like breath itself refused to move,
fearful of touching her mysterious beauty

But her obsidian eyes betrayed her.

Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
she looked at me,
and I knew…

---------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------

Molten lava spilled forth from her mouth, melting our clocks—
eighteen hundred nightmares compressed in two hours.
Long hand moving forward, as the short hand moved backward
How can memories persist in such an acrid life?

She spoke of a beast in the guise of a man,
one who ravaged innocence with the flick of a click
A coward that collected milk teeth for hardened bones
of other ***** beasts with no spine

That throaty tenderness when she spoke,
sprinkled crystal seeds of frustration in me
She says she loathed him, denied she loved him,
but her obsidian eyes betrayed her

There she was, a bud he plucked from the nuns’ garden
He grafted then he pruned her,
spreading her pollen, wafting her scent
yet folding her petals to himself

Caterpillars feeding upon her leaves,
she lets them devour her,
yet once they are wrapped in their cocoons to sleep,
she stabs them with her thorns.

Tears then slid down from her midnight lace eyes
and it was all I could do to catch them
She said she was weary of curtailing butterflies,
of tearing their wings before they can even fly

I had to ask, how many… how many winged gems?
She lifted her sleeves, and showed me her scars
One ugly mark for each innocent child plunged deep,
my heart getting slashed at least three hundred a beat.

----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------

A certain stillness came about as I strode into her door,
like fear itself refused to move,
letting breath touch her mysterious beauty for the last time....

Her obsidian eyes had betrayed her.

Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
I looked at the knife beside her.

Maroon-mapped sheets, a stunted womb.

Strains of Bon Iver’s “Flume”
flit past the sighing air like a butterfly,
and I knew…

Hate what’s mediocre and banal too.
Despise them both and take the two to task.
Their infection consumes flight of fancy,
Hidden behind a bland and facile mask.

Please write your tale to help disarm the pair.
Together we can speed up their demise.
Although there are greater forces at work,
Much more than most, the same do they despise.

It is still so, but the hatred makes way,
For the flight of our thoughts, thus creating,
Works of beauty; wondrous to minds of men.
What’s hated, in truth is sublimating.

The platitude “Thinking outside the box”,
A phrase by those whom ignorantly use,
Lead astray by these bland meaningless masks,
Fall short of honing tools with which to prove.

To begin with, there is a strong feeling,
An analogy in a nutshell which,
Is presented to aid understanding,
Curtailing a cerebral glitch.

Then a comparison to the flip side,
Passionately pervading all angles,
Adding anticipation and power to,
The carroty denouement that dangles.

Echoes, not retorts;
sound reverberates from walls
that constrain the singular,
curtailing the enthusiasms
gained from conversation;
increasingly concerns
remain unrequited
yet laughter repeats
reflecting mocking repetitions

have you heard that animals
come in more than one form,
not just covered in fur or lined
in scales, in shirts and jeans
they walk, talk and conjugate

have you heard that diseases
are more than just viruses, they
have names like thomas, luke, jeff,
scribbled in notebooks, sipped through
cocktail straws,

this is no friendly cherokee parable
spoken in elderflower and feathery
folklore,
the wolves are here and have always
been, you know they rarely come in ones,
curtailing escape, the abridged version of
all-them-who-called-wolf because we don't
cry wolf, we seek wolf.

speak wolf.
so surprised to have them at our throats
when we have been no angels--
neither devils
just another injured animal
trying to make peace.

1st Movement:

When I hear the knocks at my door I’m filled with hope. Hope that it’s my good old friend coming to see me again and fill me with his familiar presence. By equal measures, though, I feel fear. Fear that it’s my good old friend back again to fill me with that all too familiar darkness. They’re gentle knocks, sinister but as grating and aggressive as a great dog’s bark. The sound turns the air to a particular darkness which fills my lungs and heart. Fear interspersed with curiosity compels me to answer the door with haste and resignation to his behest, if only to refine this binary mixture of emotions to one or the other. Both are equally awful as each other, for this old friend is not the kind of friend one would willingly welcome. He’s the sort of friend who, when he wants to come in, he will, and I’ve learned over the years that it’s easier to let him. Let him in to wreak his worst on me and let him go again until his return. He always returns.

This ‘good old friend’ I speak of is the crafty external force which deceives me with my heart’s treachery to believe his bogus internality. He deceives me and he deceives my heart, my mind, my soul; my whole being, the whole world. The sooner I let him in and the more open and receptive I am to his abuse, the sooner he will leave. Leave me for a moment’s respite from his damning indictment which screams of anger at his own futility.

The figurative door barks only in my brain, but the definite door knocks gently, devoid of any disturbance. As I open the door the darkness dissipates making way to a bright clarity. My fallible heart was presuming the worst, yet not knowing it. Standing before me is my friend, my brother securely holding in his hands the words written that everything will be alright. Not now, and we know not when, but everything was, and will be again.

I put on a mask of happiness to fool my brother to altruistically manipulate his altruism toward me, but to my own detriment. My own success backfires. My brother, fooled in my eyes, serves the manipulation straight back to me. Facile happiness abounds us both driving enthusiasm with which to examine the words he holds, and to diligently extrapolate the truth from the book he bears quenching our thirst driven by our mutual love for truth.  As his eyes close to another world, another dimension, mine too close seeing only the questions asked in my imagination. What does he under his eye lids see? Where are his words going, and to whom other than me? These are the questions he is here to answer, unbeknownst to me. The questions I’ve been silently asking ever since I learned to question. The same questions every single person in existence, excluding none, asks all the time. Some ask with hope of an answer. Others, enveloped with contentiousness, ask to prove a nonexistent point and perpetually fail to succeed, mocking only themselves. But do they know they mock? The self ridicule is cloaked in self righteousness woven by this world with its daily, bite size propaganda fed through speakers and screens right into the deepest recesses of the mind. The dangling carrot promising satisfaction. Playing on our inherent knowledge that there is something better, something more resemblant of that originally intended perfection for which we all strive in our divinely uneducated way. There is something better than the devastation we witness encompassing our souls and poisoning our hearts, making us sick. A sickness self inflicted from the view of the original intender. A donkey won’t chase the dangling carrot without the hunger. The screens drip feed us hunger and, offering the unattainable antidote, it keeps us chasing.

My brother has come to help me use my mental tools to instil the abiding antidote from these words. Words with which to gradually alter my outlook on their beauty. My previous reverence for poetry changing like the tides, flowing and ebbing over and again, gently moulding the lands into more beauteous forms making known nature’s true name.

יהוה; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.

We know now, consciously or not, with whom we originate. What stops us from connecting the dots. A dot-to-dot; something so easy to do, but where those dots continue to move, we fail to place the blame succeeding to rue. Frustration turns to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to he; The dot mover, the obstructer, the distractor, the decoy from truth, from love, justice, from every good thing. We know whose power the world lies within, yet choose ignorance over the truth which we already know in our hearts.

These realisations are made like Wordsworth’s frost at midnight. They perform their secret ministry through the air, over my body and penetrating my mind and heart, upheld by any wind from my or my brothers mouth. Each and every utterance supports any later rumination on the truth, the lie, and anything in between these extreme poles of all that’s known and that which is unknown, seen and unseen, loved and hated.

These reciprocal uplifting and upbuilding exchanges, each a divine gift, a string of gems to have and hold for time indefinite, aid an understanding of the one responsible for such. So little time we have left, yet such extravagant lengths of this most precious dimension is wasted arguing for and against, but never asking who or why? Surely only a fool argues a case about that which is unknown. The facts form irrefutability, yet the propensity to form too fast with a one sided judgement still wins while we dote on our own supposed intelligence.

Acknowledging the light seeping through the cracks in the still darkness, he rages with a concentrated anger at his self generated, perpetual, vindictive blindness. He is that getter in the way of things, the shadow caster, the adversary, שָׂטָן.

He is the darkness licking round the door frame, to my mind with all his might and yet crafty restraint. Not one of us can escape this darkness, not on our own. We can, though, shed light on it. Light will always win where both are present. Darkness may be the fundamental state, but where light is allowed, darkness is always destroyed.

But then it comes over me like a tidal wave. A darkness rushes at me like a sledgehammer for making this realisation. Past the point of no return do I give in. I give up. It’s too much. Only so much ducking and weaving can one man’s energy let him do till there is none left, and now it’s gone. I’ve run dry to doom, run into the ground. I’m broken.

Time rolls on filled with a single solid nothing. The weeks pass. The days, the hours go by sniggering and sneering. The clock’s face look down his nose and finds me. To us, time seems the highest of all dimensions, but as obscure as it is, by what does it run? A question we have not enough time to fully answer scientifically. Science by it’s very nature is the perpetuation of posing question after question until the answer lies beyond comprehension. Posing question after question to answer with evidence is categorically finite. Uncertainty is an underlying rule pervading science itself, though faith follows beyond the apparent end. One will never know just how much of a threat obtaining this faith can be to he, the adversary.

Life’s doorman presenting my open garment inviting me into the warm wrappings of my winter coat to deceptively soften the mourning of the summer we lost. That paradise on which we passed. Beaconing me into the warm wrapping only to send me astray, away, adrift from the truth to eternal ruth and regret of one day.

At this my brother departs for his own trials in his own house, thus leaving me to petition and plead for a helping hand out of the ill-lighted and lurid cavernous fog I find myself in. There’s a relentless pain pervading my whole soul, but the pane in the wall frames nature’s beauty which taunts me so. A picture plane presenting a small glimmer of the bliss meant to be. A hope of spiritual prosperity, assurance for which we have been given, though the reminders are not easy. The doorman’s world drives his crafty vehicle of dangling carrots with such ferocity to blind us. The speed blinds the minds of those who stopping, would realise there’s string and a stick. It’s a trick. A trick which has seen us plough through a vast array of food, a banquet, chasing the ever out of reach embellished single grain, though always the closest.

Try as he might to perpetuate this fight, us, his captives, continue to fight longer and harder with a never ending and unlimited supply of the best weapon known to man. Love. From where does it flow? To where does it go? First we have to know, and once harboured, we must direct its flow.

Five years have passed. Five summers with the length of five long winters, and again I hear these waters rolling from their mountain springs with soft in-land murmur.
(William Wordsworth - Lines Written at Tintern Abbey)

The mountain spring is where. A monumental spring of an historic scale from mount zion producing a never ending murmur of love to cascade over the ocean of a people lowering themselves to the strongest and most sturdy section of the mountain.

As the result of a string of mutations, always mutating and never improving, is always the same, such a long string will never become rope. An infinite number of monkeys given an infinite number of typewriters and infinity itself will rewrite the entire works of Shakespear. Those who read a Shakespear and surmise the existence of a lot of literate monkeys, are vacuous victims of international mind-numbing, but wilfully so.

Saturated with such a concentrated concoction of diverse threads erratically woven into a veil, a cloak of lies behind which their lack of faith is hiding, a falsity for their fallacy; the world frantically searches for truths using tools honed only by the world, on which the adversary hones his trident. Needles in haystacks the truths may be, but once found they’re overt, obviously. They are the flames that burn the darkness, a holocaust of murk, the Wally amongst the distracting cacophonous din of hustle-bustle of faceless herds trudging in binary directions to their fraudulent feed of false food disguised as noble inflections.

The casting of light in our eyes, as pennies of an historic value drop, irradiates the notion that our eyeballs have been boring into truths and truth has been peering back for all time past. Have we not seen because the want to see was lacking, or did we not see because our ability was cracking? Were the lights on with nobody home, or were they residing in darkness? The utterance of my brother came inspired, “If we focus on misfortune, we will reap what we sow. Focus on the truth and let everyone know”.

Asking is merely making known one’s requirement for information. Prior to this we must attest the intent of receiving such. Though, the truth has been granted devoid of request, negate it has not our silent behest. Do we need to know the truths we now see in plain sight, to live our lives in harmony?

In a world without compassion, where the hungry are starved, the thirsty desiccated, the poor deprived, and the weak expended; does the supposed prime driver really give two hoots about the starving, desiccated, deprived and expendable; me, you, us? Ostensibly not.

Surely a world of war where we’re sick and we suffer will have been founded by not one whit related to love, but a halfwit wilfully innate and cognate to hate. Paying heed to words written with the elusive love we seek, I see the distinction from consent and cause. Trudging through Satan’s cesspit with consent from whom we cannot blame for causing the sewage in which we wade.

I know there is to do, but what to do, how to do, where to do and when. Knowing why is too little to do by. Answers are only information and information is worthless until actions are born. A gift unappreciated lies stagnant and not used. A gift gratefully received produces infectious joy.

Xanadu; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.

As I sit here
My eyes burning with the tears
I have tried so hard to hold inside

I hear the blood curtailing screams
of cell mates, trapped in horrible world
in my unprotected ears
and I want nothing more
than to find silence
in my broken mind

I wish I could turn back the clock
remember
the feeling of
innocents
that came without darkness or anxiety

but that is impossible
and even this
damaged person
knows that.

Eulogize ripped tears
Hazardous sight, from eyes of night
Fallen creatures they shun the light.
Catastrophic wailing
Cacophonous they weep
Pounding fists upon my eyes
Curtailing chance of sleep
Piercing me with sorrows
Flailing by the moon
They grow upon hate
It won't abate
It will not leave me soon

It would have me trembling
In agony of distress
But I won't let it bully me...

I WILL GET MY REST!!!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/21/2016

Cry did the child emit from the newly joined world
Pain was it not meant to be but joy was unfurled
Happiness sprouted from this normative of birth
As the child I see before me runs in my bloodline on earth
A child the innocence of whom enlightens the eyes with divinity
A family's bond shall it be resonated to ever with infinity


Hush my sweet little child
Must not ever allow yourself trouble be mild
Daylight perceived is your beauty to that of the blue sky
An angelic soul shall come the spring of the garden of flowers
Beyond the intersecting horizon of the tallest towers
Comfort so relaxation enters the mind shall it arise best
Incarnation of such a grace will summon as none other than rest


Given is the hunger for one so full of youth
To fill a little stomach is to dine on the food of truth
The curtailing of the feasting is human's belonging of nature
Function such a basic need or shall you be prevented from the mature
Admirable so much applies to yourself should more you deserve
Ascertaining the diet contradicts such a moment for the food's reserve
For any toddler must not endure the dangers of gluttony
A deadly sin I fear would vivify your future of mutiny


Newborn normality is keen on rest and hunger
A burden shall I upon myself do the best to asunder
Longed have the heart of I to bore a child into my life
Burden yourself that you are not, you are higher than the fife
State of quality that you are gifted a mockingbird with it compares
All goodness does the heavenly creature rise up such crystal stairs
Consider you a dime a dozen shall I not in this massive pond
For my love for you will always strengthen our faithful bond

Patterns were forming fast
unstoppable
flowing rapidly
like a water stream
a purpose with an integrity
they weave themselves with humility and compassion
connected to earth
touching every soul on its way
they were like a balm
for many wounded souls
making a righteous living
for all living
they elevated the hopes curtailing their shrinking
humanity still had a chance
to survive
the relentless massacres
were to be stopped
the patterns formed little hearts
entwining the world into
a crusade against
violating the
freedom of expression
of mankind .
-Anju

Make me
Believe,
Begin a commitment
A livid, frigid rigidity
Born and bred in its misery
All contemptuous purity,
Misleads serene duplicity
In all admissible virility,
Sacrosanct and all unviable,
This disposition unreliable,
Outlooks not so reliable,
Ridiculous and undeniable
This solitary moment,
Not in itself so all that potent,
Releasing all these fetid rodents,
Systemic linear motion
Curtailing our devotion
To freeing all emotion
Held true by we, the free.
We fall to power, victims
To this inhuman system,
All zealous to its deception,
Information, insurrection,
Categorized by failures at hand,
Unaware of the faults of man.

I remember the walks we took,
Smoking cigarettes and cursing the modern day.

I remember the Canary sands,
And how we fell into each other,
Our bodies still warm from the Sun.

I remember how your body tensed,
Each time you were caught in vulnerability.

I remember those ancient postcards you’d send:
“I miss you, I miss you, I miss you”
As the hours strained in your luxury.

I remember seeing your beauty from afar,
But curtailing my interest through circumstance.

I remember how you’d say to me
That all love was bunk,
Until you finally tasted what kindness could be.

I remember our intimacies;
Grown children planning world *******
Under the torch-lit covers.

I remember every story you ever told me,
And how all of your words have birthed mine.

I remember how the train took us away.
You stretched out on your empty bedsheets,
Whilst I tarried in the past.

You can hear the rain as it gathers
Soaked cosmopolitan soldiers in the gravel,
Complaining of urban trenchfoot.
Those stars on their hands, declarations of evil
Felt the roughed hands of homeless men
Asking, “where you gonna be next week?”
And other cherries of vagabond greetings
Of his situational pleasantries;
The kids couldn’t say:
Topics avoided are done so the loudest—

That old man who’s friends with the devil
Lying infirm, walking infirm, his only guests are strangers
I hear his didacticisms from long ago
Curtailing the copper snakes despite their promise of knowledge
Good or evil
Because life is too short to be more than just friends.

Everyone works at least one day on the jakes
At the desk at day’s end
At plaster fist on the rivers in tar
Where Rat-prophets have their
Schizoid visions peaking in fright
To a starlit bible-edge clatter and smash
Shaking and roiling, denimized
Words pinpointing you down
Assembly-lined out by the smirking madman

Capital, he says, capital, capital
Looking out on our heads graduated heads
Cap it all, cap them all,
Jagged and four-squared edge
Happy enough to dogpaddle in a maelstrom
Called Sallie Mae
And to forget ‘graduation’ means ‘to rise’
These ocean floors, dark and darkening.

Yet, his debt crushes him for lack of want,
Chicanery and shady deals
Mine’s a blessing, a burden of love;
The brochure is a better read—

Where am I going to be next week?
Recalling the difference
Between indebted and dead
Recalling the difference
Between a ton of feathers and that of lead.

So pointless, still starting sentences with
and as though I am curtailing from
previous profundity into present thought.

Silly, still. Finally I have found
inspiration in the smallest places,
skin-deep moments, echoes.

The world must be easy in your eyes.
Everything laid out, carefully planned.
Your dream is within your reach,
And nothing can deter it.
Unshaken, determined, strong -
You always laugh.
It must be easy in your eyes.

Suddenly, what is deemed impossible happens.
Now laugh, to belittle what just happened.
I can't fathom the depth you're exploring.
I am curtailing behind ...
For tears drop downwards - may they reach you.
You will one day know,
You are not alone.

qiss kiss ts'kammen
ordeal of the dyslexics.

****** innuendos aplenty:

i cycled with a rucksack full of empty cider bottles
and one tiny 35cl where whiskey would
otherwise be found... i have a fetish for recycling,
a fetish for recycling, not owning a car but rather
two bicycles, long walks in the forest alone,
scratching my head and pretending to braid parts
of my beard: rather, pinching it and twisting the pinched
part so it might appear that i have saber-teeth either side
of my chin...
                   little pleasures...
i would otherwise be known as a: KLOSZER...
KLOSZ... lampshade... kloszer is a derogatory term
for someone in Eastern Europe who collects empty bottles
from skips to later bring back to a shop
to get his WACŁO (VATSWO) - i guess i imagined this word:
in the olden days of the early 1990s...
us boys used to play during the summer running mayhem,
on our breaks we'd go to the shop and buy
TURBO gum, chew chew chew...
and have a little prized paper of a car,
and we used to buy lemonade, later pepsi...
if we bought a lemonade (always in a glass bottle)
and drank it on the spot, returned the bottle to the shop...
we weren't charged extra for the drink...
but if we decided to buy a glass-bottled drink and not
return the bottle on the spot? we'd get charged extra:
glass was precious under communism...
KLOSZER? the person who would scout the urban
environment and pick up leftover glass bottles
for a drink of *****... but i'm recycling and i feel mightily
proud of... "proud"... of this Achilles heel...
baron of crashing chandeliers...
                     but it wasn't raining when i performed this task...
when i cycled to the VAPE shop on North St.
inquiring... i was giving this ASPIRE Typhon 100 as
a present... but the more my lips and breath snuggle on
this **** no smoke comes out... and the smoke is harsh...
coils?! coils?! over-used coils?
i walked in to the shop with the sort of would-be
girlfriend with piercings and tattoos
   and all that jingle at the counter... some random guy
sticking around for too long, i broke his train of thought...
i was trying to break past the smoke pretending
there was a dead carcass in the room and instead of smoke
there were flies... **** me... i'm looking for a new coil...
new coil she says... she starts rummaging...
it started raining by then...
           she picked up a £15 packet of five filters... coils...
PnP-VM6... like this sort of detail actually matters...
i ask her... so how do you change them?
she replies: you just pull it out...
so i pull it out... oops...
                     *** scene worded...
my flask is full of blueberry oily liquid... it spills...
all while there's this: now turning into a creepy guy
in the background obviously not buying just
trying to work his game with this woman behind
the counter... the liquid spills...
playful innuendo conversation: oh... i'm not intimidated...
i have underperformed in my life...
not exactly premature *******... it's just when
she's the madam of the "parlour" and i have no energy
and i need to chop my **** off and replace it with a *****
the fluid spills my hands are greasy
she tells me that she'll get the tissue...
oops... once more... obviously it was a super-charged
***-metaphor...
i can't remember the last time i was called HONEY
and the whole affair was brushed off so easily with
***: in my mind, guiltily displaced...
   i bought the filters and pushed when the sign on
the door indicated PULL...
as confused as anyone might be...
when, where? apart from a VAPE shop will you get to pull
out an intricate part of a tool...
spill juices and have a woman retort with: let me get you
some tissues... i mean... that's super-charged Freudian
forbid might have any choking-jokes aside beyond
the already made via innuendo...

i'm richer than the rich having none of their worries
or the follies,
i do own what the rich own: and for that i am
rich in not having to worry about owning
things that might cause me to worry -
                   if it might be only for a minute or two:
this moulded heap of cow dung
    and mud - and milk and water -
   leave behind all the chains of gravity and marry
air: marry air and rise higher to the highest
point - touch the membrane where air disappears
and what is left is the vacuum where stars dictate
what is and what isn't...

or to better translate...

    reading one poem: Zbigniew Herbert's
   Former Masters while listening to Faun's
Sonnenreigen

and as if by magic my knowledge of English
disappears in my mind to a silence...
eaten up twice, ejected thrice!

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

dawni mistrzowie
obywali się bez imion

        (in der goldnen morgenstund
     ziehen wir aus des tales grund)

   ich sygnaturą były
białe palce Madonny  (und wir tanzen
                                               froh hinein
      in den frühen sonnenschein)

albo różowe wieże
   di città sul mare    (hoch hinauf auf bergeshöhen -
                      
  a także sceny z życia
   della Beata Umiltà      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

   roztapiali się   (lasst uns feiern
   w sogno              (             diese zeit
miracolo                  ( die der sommer
     crocifissione              ( hält bereit...)

    znajdowali schronienie
pod powieką aniołów        
                                                (du lässt deine raben ziehen
                                               in die felder golden stehen
                                                und das helle lichte rad
                                                dreht sich über lughnasad)

   za pagórkami obłoków
w gęstej trawie raju
                                                (muzik gemisch nach chor)
   toneli bez reszty                                      "
w złotych nieboskłonach                          "
  bez krzyku pzerażenia                            "
bez wołania o pamieć                                "
                         ­                                             "
   powierzchnie ich obrazów                    "
są gładkie jak lustro                 (es war nun ein
                                                             ganzes jahr)

nie są to lustra dla nas      (seit ich dich beim tanze sah
   są to lustra wybranych      (allzu oft in langer nacht)
                                                 habe ich an dich gedacht)
....

     sprawcie niech spadnie ze mnie
wężowa łuska pychy           (könig sommer führt den tanz
                                               dem ich folg im blütenkranz
                                               und so dreht sich unser kreis
                                               in der alltbekannten weis')

  niechaj zostane głuchy
   na pokuszenie sławy    (du lässt deine baben ziehn
                                           in die felder golden stehen
                                              und das helle lichte rad
                                              dreht sich über lughnasad)

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

ehemalige meister
sie lebten mich selber
    ohne namen

       (w porannej godzinie, złotej)
    pull us from the grand valleys...
oh ****... incursion of the English:
the red-coats are coming!

       ciągnąć nas z wielkich dolin...

   ihr unterschrift war
weiß finger Madonna  (i my tańczyli
                                               radośni zu-hausen, W
                                 wwww to:
schdat:  frühen-para-freeze: fruit:
early... sonnenschein - sun-lighting
oblivion... sun-glee: shine...)

oder rosa türme
   di citta sul mare    (wysokie
                 ÚP z  
wyżyny górskie -
                      
  und auch sZenen mit leben
   della Beata Umilta      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

geschmolzen sich   (liście nas świętować  
in sogno              (             ten czas
miracolo                  ( there the summer, to i too
                                           that: there, the: to i too:
                                        ta jedyna stokroć:
                                         zerk chłodem oka: powieka...
                                   okno na świat... rano:
                                              i modłem: terz:
                                          anatomia bosa noga...
                                    dzicz: bosa noga boga...
rap rap... all that rap might bring to suffice:
the polyglot presence of an African incursion
into Europe... mumble mumbo jam: tát tát... jum-b'oh!

a thought experiment one awry: trying to exclude
English from my psyche for a little while
proved insufferable, even if listening to a song
on Deutsche and reading a Polieren script...
sneaky ******* has a way to return...
i wanted to keep a perfect translation
of: reading a script in Polieren while listening
to a song in Deutsche...
subsequently translating the read Polieren
into Deutsche and reimagining hearing Deutsche
al Polieren... not in the right interest of
the English philosophy ("esoteric aesthetic")
of queuing... ****** just butter in: elbows held high!

SMUTNA SUKNIA: OGIER: PEJCZ!
   co stonoga-noga-o-gołą: nogę...
widmo... język... mów a mowa...
                                     bzdeta: mów!
ogier: stonoga... wilko-kroć...
  step... mowa: noga... ogień: zór...
jęk: kleṅska: ogień: ozór...
                            język: ksieżyc...
ogień: rosputsta: i nadal mi brak słów!

     crocifissione              (trzyma gotowość...)

    sie fanden zuflucht
unter augenlid auf engel        
                                                (wypuszczasz swoje kruki
                                               by stanąć na złotych polach
                                                i koło jasnego światła
                                                zakręty samo-w-się nad
                                                lughnasad!) ­                                     

   hinter hügel wolken
in der dicke gras auf paradies
                                                (muzyka­: tylko muzyka,
                                                     bez, słów)
   sie ertranken ohne der rest                    "
im golden himmelneigung                       "
  ohne schrei auf grusel                             "
ohne anruf um erinnerung                       "
                                                               ­       "
   oberflächen ihr gemälde                        "
sind glatt wie spiegel                 (to był jeden dobry
                                                           ­  cały rok)

nien sind dies spiegel für uns
   sind sie diesser spiegel die ausgewählt

                                               (odkąd ja i ty na tańcu okiem wgląd
                                               także często w dłuższej nocy)
                                               miałem ja, myśl twoją)
....

     mach es möglich lassen werde fallen
    von mich
serpentin schale auf stolz  
                           (król lato prowadzi taniec
                           za którym podążam w wieńcu kwiatów
                           i tak obraca się nasz krąg
                           w znany sposób)

  lassen ich werde bleiben taub
   an verlockung von / auf
                       RUHM        (pozwalasz odejść swoim dzieciom
                                              stanąć na złotych polach
                                              i koło jasnego światła
                                              odwraca Lughnasad -
                                      
płuco - singular... plural?
   płuca... lungs....
    garden of breathing!
soul always escapes the noun...                       

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

just to double check, translating from ******
to German and German to English,
that how i would have otherwise arrived
on these shores if my only mode of transport
was the tongue:
if i had no legs and perhaps no eyes...
if i were an idea of English that could express
it as I, Ja, Ich...
        and, yes, theirs'...
       iota > whatever might come after...

ah! this is one of those thought experiments!
it has to be! i'm excited!
i'm truly awakened!
this muddle of memory, dream, imagination,
reality a sprinkle of words and hey presto!
starved from images having moved
from the Age of the Image
to the Age of the Music...
it's so simple...
once upon a time you could only hear
music if someone played it good
or you played it badly...

yet when someone wrote a word...
or when someone painted a painting...
it could be written once
yet preserved by time
by this ingenious overcoming of God
(no, not man)
and if god "wrote" mountain man "wrote"
Pyramid,
if god "wrote" river man "wrote":
boat bridge watermill...
if god "wrote" forest man "wrote":
pluck out these trees stop looking
for berries and mushrooms...
look for grass, edible grass! find me arable
land that's not a desert!
of once mountain ranges that passed
from time into non-history
    into keepers of time by the whims
of the fluted wind...
                  
by wind my breath...
by my breath the decay of creative rust...
     i can only create dead things...
with me the power of death-creativity...
i invented the stirrup with me gone
the horse might finally not graze so easily
after the work of civilization has been done...

only then might the four horsemen
come with me dead and the stirrup
   i can only create dead things...
i am the death-creativity...
with me there will not need for the fork
or the knife the spear and the rope
upon waking a new world
i will only know words like mountain
apple tree i will know the word cloud
i will know to say the sea and that sea
i will call the caspian sea: sea...
and the atlantic sea: sea...
    and i will call the Danube the Oder
and the Oder the Vistula
but i will not know what is Danube or Oder
i will be unable to say or dream or conjure
a fork without: the fork
i will be in Paradise...
i will not know the concept of ******
because there will be no word for ******
there will be no Madonna or pregnant woman
there will be no foetus there will be so many words
missing! so many words will be missing...
all the basic words of coordination
will be there: and the Highest Abstracts
will be there: will, hope, dream,
    there will be there: be, am and i,
             there will be: because, are you,
there will be giggle and there would be crying,
there would be sad and there would be happy...
there would be: because and after and by
and there would be...
there would be no knowledge nor anything
concerning grammar...
this revision of "vocabulary" would imply
there being no real vocabulary,
a dream-world vocabulary of:
if said thing goes not exist... there's no word for it...
there would be no word: hammer
because there would be no need for hammers
indeed: nails...
motion of hammering...
there might be a rock and a trick of a hardened shell...
there would be no word for distance:
mile... by looking upon the sun...
there would be the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee... there would
be no Night no Nothing
    no Night in this Hanging Pyramid of Babel...

there would be no Moon or Sun
only the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee...
Glee? SH.... what's SH in shIMMER?
what's IMMER?
(oops... a Socratic stumbling block)
   immer... ALWAYS...
      what's SH+H? shh? be quiet always?!
SH... sound, vibration is sound...
            shh! yes: i'm telling you: it's going to be
like that, always...
   promised you 72 virgins?
wouldn't you just want your mind un-muddled?!
what's un- and muddled?
un- is not... not of when coupled to a noun
that works like a verb... doing the muddling...
medley muddling mummifications: toilet... paper...

toilet? no... no knowledge of toilet in "heaven"...
no paper too...
     word... what's word?
God... what is God... no God...
word is the a priori already invested crown
of curtailing words to begin with...
not imitation sound: __S

ah... sobering up... i love this bouncing along of English
dynamic like everyone is invoked to be involved...

                                          Z__­___

that's how the West met the East in writing

Z_________S

my "god" will be the word ONOMATOPOEIA...
and his son will be MIMIC
and his wife will be NĀMÉ
                        alternative written by angels
as NAMEH... because by then only angels will have
knowledge of the clue, not God,
of YHWH... YHWH will become as comical
as the 21st graffiti spray-painted by some boy
in the outskirts of London...
this scribble should have been preserved by the angels,
but like Prometheus, the arch angel Samael
brought down this scribble...

they brought the mummies and their hieroglyphs
that turned out to be Emoticons...
the Egyptians had two brothers...
the brother Aztec who copied the eldest
brother, Egyptian in constructing the Pyramids
and brother of the Great O of the Orient
who squinted his eyes with avarice and lineage
and said: i'll write like you, i'll see through you...
you give me mummified bodies
i'll give you skeletons...
the Aztec was the youngest,
the Egyptian the Eldest...
  the Khan was in the middle...
and Khan was right... he employed a pre-digitalisation
of scripts... imagine throwing
the letter G into Egyptian hieroglyphs...
some ****** did that to Khan's great counter
of hieroglyphs full bodied...
to hieroglyphs pure skeleton...
prior to Latin: not even Greek was a skeleton-key?
what? letters marrying numbers?!
unheard of?

1111111... one... lllllll (little l)... IIIIIIII (big iota)

imagine dropping a latin letter into Egyptian
"script"...
look what happened when someone dropped
something foreign into
Chinese hieroglyphs and so was born
Katakana... Chinese hieroglyphs came first...
then came Katakana...
then came the elevated:
if the story is true... and the Austrians
think themselves better than the Germans...
someone gave birth to the scribbles...
Korean came last...

       that feeling you get when you're trying to look
for an actor's name:
he playss the role of Grand-Duke?
Emperor? of the Habsburg Dynasty...
the elder brother of Marie Antoinette...
beautiful actor...
                          lips like purses...
who threw that ******* bone against the Chinese
hieroglyphs that spawned Japanese minimalism
that translated: ha! translated Chinese through
Japanese to Korean... split the ******* in two...
towing two! towing two!
                          Zhin Chin ****... silly!
   i'm not joking...
           Žin vs. Żyn... Rzym! Rzym... Rome! Rome!
hmm...
           Źın...          Žiń...
  
ha ha... the Nazis smoked out the son of the devil
of the people who gave them abode for almost...
whenever Poland, converted (insert a snigger...
i have the noun-spelling for it...
but not the onomatopoeia, ha ha... laughter
and rugby)...

change of direction at work...
i'm feeling an aura of: DISTANCING...
people are feeding off the appetite of me: leaving...
and their lives being over...
of course they will not be over...
they'll be feet in not worn shoes
in shoes boxes on shelves in libraries
of fickleness of the female side of humanity...
only angels should have been given
the crack-head code of the 4 letter "signature" of
YHWH... i'll give Jesus credit...
well... Beelzebub...

HANGU:L! that ingenious king of Korea
that: seeing a stick being thrown
at a bunch of sticks assembled as a shelter
of the Chinese hieroglyphs witnessed as the Japanese
folded... worked on an argument
of introspection: kept it...
hmm... what are those weird ISLADERS
******* around it?
they have the BOLD katakana
and the ITALIC hiragana...
two ******* trenches...
just let some westerner know:
the Hiroshima (katakana)
and the Nagasaki (hiragana)...

   Chernobyl and Fukushima...
the pregnant women were advised to drink iodine...
boom! boom! boom!
ergo? no real, comparatively: "boom" as boom!
or  BOOM...

it's the second morning i'm woken up from briefly dreaming...
point about dreaming? the content doesn't matter...
i'm not a hyper-focused Freud...
dreams are dreams in
how fog is fog and a hurricane is  hurricane...
dreaming heavily:
you feel exhausted if you slept for 10 hours
or 5... dreamless...
you slept: you didn't dream...
but dreams creep up on you:
they play fakery with your body:
you weren't sleeping: you were dreaming...
unlike getting blind drunk
and... sleeping: not dreaming...
with the lesser baggage(d) people...
snails? no... elephants! no ivory tusks...
already no fur... no drunks...
edible cartilage of the ears...
flapping... hmm... i might have to invent
a rug... a place to take off one's shoes...
shoe?
shoe prior to sock? obviously...
shoe prior to sock...
sexed up legs... procreation by the chemical
demise of acting...
if not sold to actors:
a god-send...
i could **** each any every ugly *****
but... god almighty... the impossible feats...
with Xerxes on your back?
the second battalion ambush of Greece?!

currently as is "currently": and, ahem... "history":
a history of plug-hole psychology
of inescapable Darwinism: cuckoldry...
or Plato's ***** joke about the feminism
of Hindus and their tired, wasted concern for Hygiene...
they bathed with the dead...
so the dead came and ate up the living...

for the past days... of note... two...
upon waking i hear my name being called:
Mateusz!
not twice, thrice, just... once...
i rush down and ask my mother: have i overslept?!
did you call me?
the replies: no... i haven't called you...
why am i: Matthew?
                     i don't think i'm: Matthew Smith
or a Matthew Czopek or a Matthew Eschlert..
or a Matthew Matthews...
why was Jesus Christ not Jesus ben Josephus
ben Matthias?
                i wonder... not really: "wandering"...

it was but a little nugget of inspiration of marijuana
and i went off the tangent...
i would not replicate the original ******
poem into German
   and the German song into ******...
because... springboard og ingenuity
English woke up!
as if: spontaneously...
i can't appreciate poetry written by
mono-linguists or ****-up: kissy: tut-tut..
smooch kiss-up immigrant ****-wits
of: this is only a Lingua FRANCA...
"franca"... a tourist-tongue...
it's a ***** tongue...
people speak it, leave it, abandon it...
sometimes perhaps frame it...
it's a tongue of commerce and Babel
and... at the end of all the tongues coming
together to speak it...
a rather: unsatisfying tongue...
over-salted... over-pompously-self-solidifying
complicated-soliloquy... solipsism...
something this: that: self-
    +-evidently apparent that children ought to
be teaching this modus operandi... *******... ha ha!

letter will not be know since words will not be known,
we will, although know words, that will be sounds
not scribbled down, imagination will be
nullified and nothing will be born with sleep
and dreaming will be alien to us,
since we will not be myopic
*** will be friendship and: we will know not
the word for tool and the specifics of ingenuity
and genius...
there will be no word for man...
and there will be no word for woman
and there will be no diatribe of death and child...

my uncle is in hell and i can almost count
this auditory hallucination:
i will have no concept of auditory: because i heard...
within the non-existence of my bones
and body and blood and brain and heart
in the water and earth turning to air
with each breath...
i will not hear... how my uncle: calls for me...
and how did you live with your mother,
when she aged to a nearing rot...
i lived with them and not people i would exchange
for a properly working bicycle-lock...

for each ******* i would replace the glorious
half hours i had with them
the months i spent with my supposed "lovers"...
i'd take one half hour with a *****
to replace the courting with said woman: unsaid:
to procreate and teach "my" children:
children of the times... flawed lessons
of the march, ancient march of typology
and non-writing and Time as Dust...

am i to help you when i implored the non-existent
deity into my *****,
indirectly you might implore for me:
will i reply to the heaven sent:
what am i to do?!
do as i did: absolutely nothing and nothing too,
that's twice that's hardly not a scone
scuffed and chained to Baron Zung...

            speak two tongues and tease a third...
come the fourth... letters have to turn into images...
in this heaven of no sheltered virgins..
in my noun-basket i will not have words
like pen, or: boiler, roof, eyeliner,
i will not have:
          screen, cinema, actor,
           philosopher, poet, psychologist,
soul: i'll have my self-eating cannibalism of breath...
verbs will merge with nouns
and the only nouns worth existing thereby will
be: specified and "corrupt" by a localised
specialisation:

                 god will be ONOMATOPOEIA...
the son will be MIMIC
and there: within the confines of said time
MIMIC will battle Chimera...
MIMIC will look alike: Chimera
but Chimera alphabetically:

    CHIMERA = ACEHIMR

                   the dead are not so displeasing
when it comes to the living-as-if-dead...
and there are plenty of those
living such: body-and-soul-crushing...
no... i couldn't imagine myself marrying
a troll... just to somehow oddly fit it...
i'm not going to reply to a message:
me and Nicki... says Frankie... are over...
reply: to what? and did you hear
my side of the story? no? no?!
i don't have to hear your side, either!
oculus per oculus!
like for like:
dislike for dislike!

           i'll wait... i'm not actually waiting
for anything other than:
can you please leave me alone?
i'll reply you whenever i feel like it...
i don't feel like
wanting human connection for at least
two days...

there's a hell and a privacy one earns to have
earned it that one rarely wants to
have it made public...
albeit in the "public anonymous"...
all the more willingly... since no immediate
consequences are to  be met: face-to-no-face...
tired of replies...
walking lesbians into the night
is like pretending to not walk
cows into the slaughterhouse...
ego-***** replacing what once was?
Plato the Plumber and the blocked toilet
of reincarnation...
i'm done with pride... Herr Dapf...

             for the waiting to be dead,
falte der primast schattierung:
für das Warten tot zu sein:
ich möchte auch tot sein...

   a death with the hollows
of the hallowed wooded emptied bark....
suffer the sound of a thunder-stroke...
donnerschlaganfall:
all aligned with things living...
nearly: or waiting to be towed toward
A... death...

           morgen?
                          tòmāté...
*******: SPUD!
           morgen butter-kneaded? by the hollows
of said, suggested juices..
my knees are not enough:
meine knie sind nicht genug!

so when someone like paul joseph watson
begins to comment on depression....
that's when i go, slightly unhinged...
for someone who's never had the experience
the psychiatric act of regression:
implanting false memories in
the governance of psychoanalysis...
        that... that bugs the **** out of me...
michel de montaigne was a known
melancholic...
   whether it was him, or it wasn't him...
the observation resounds:
melancholics are the barometer of humor...
the NPS meme? that's funny...
but going after the depressed?
               curtailing yourself around
an explanation of...
   a social-byproduct?
         a lethargy originating from
a non-rigorous exercise
                           mentality?
no hamster on the wheel sort of *******?
oh i've been investigated
by the psychiatric community,
they even tested one post-graduate
psychiatry student on me...
            the drugs?
i don't have a problem with them...
sedated in body, active in mind...
           but having regression tested on me?
that ****** me off...
                a false alliance with
a forward-"thinking"...
     a critique centralized around...
somehow... not knowing how to use a language...
like i've been writing bad Chinese all
this time... coming from a, "fwend"...
who i remember... trembled before his father...
because he didn't remember
the alphabet...
                when he was scorned:
for not remembering the alphabetical
sequence...
               i'm starting to think...
sure... i get the humor... but... there is
no carte blanche on the table...
   which is why i steer away from taking
either side...
           it's become ugly,
    both sides of the "equation"...
neither side believes in
dialectics... shame... really...
      i didn't see a compromise on the horizon
to begin with...
            the English have simply moved
the concept of humor outside
the realms of what would be equated
into French as an Albert Camus novel...
the starter of the absurd,
before the main-course of existentialism...
because i find it hard...
that people have no idea about
an elevated status of lethargy...
    it's not like these people have grandparents...
who confuse old age lethargy with
hypochondria...
          and the general old age melancholy
of... ****... being old people with
grandparents... and seeing how their
grandparents... are not having children...
lethargy is the nuance
   bubbling under the consciousness of
a melancholic person...
                but ******* out of people
like that...
   it's just...
             too crass to even attempt the funny...
the English sensibility of good
humor is... dead...
      it's just crass, over-simplifying what
is, and what isn't, funny...
        i equate funny with:
some odd social interaction...
  but not a medical condition...
         a genuine medical conditions...
with people, "thinking" the solution to
an obscure lethargy that becomes
a cognitive / anatomical lethargy requires...
an invested typo of, humor...
so... what next? cancer, ha ha!
like that general statement behind
the lethargy of schizophrenia...
and lethargy is a word i'd put behind each
psychiatric diagnosis...
    the lethargic schizophrenic?
      unless bilingual: which already implies
a split-mind...
  well... he figured...
the world has gone mad...
let me step away, slow down, and watch
the circus... after all...
a madhouse conjured from a society,
requires, energetic engagement...
protests, slogans, hive chants...
    i can't keep up...
no chance in hell do i have the energy
to keep up with this amount of *******...
sure... i will be deemed senile...
like... schizophrenia isn't some sort
of abnormal, trans-mortal disease of
the brain that attacks aged brains
with its killer proteins akin to Alzheimer...
with all the useful idiots,
i guess i have to be the uncomfortable
"idiot"...
         see... i side with the "real" crazies...
the diagnosed as mad...
    i side with them...
because after a while...
                 they're like the wise turtles
of this world...
     sometimes you can't just...
treat a cognitive lethargy by being
prescribed a session in the gym...
    the mind counters the body...
after all...
  what was once a mind-body duality...
has become a mind-body dichotomy...
once psychology & psychiatry
established themselves,
as being taken seriously in the medical
branch of study...
  after the perfected anesthetic was
completed for dentistry...
and what is, psychiatry?
   psychology: with an injection of
pharmacology... nothing more...
nothing less...
       but please, please, ha ha...
                   i'm sympathetic to these
people's cries of woe...
      don't, just don't give me the simple
solutions... they're pseudo-scientific...
you've never seen a 79 old with
a lethargic hypochondria presuppose
   he's 20 year old melancholic...
            or rather:
because he's at the end of his tenure,
and is having regrets...
              it's not that i'm even "upset"...
but when you experience
the sort of lethargy that is depressive?
when you can't explain
   the exposure to the pentagram senses...
and can't conjure up a transcended
compendium of thought in the hexagram?
when you can't motivate
that sort of hierarchy of animation?
  when the pentagram exposure of
the senses, doesn't translate into
a hexagram of thought that subsequently
becomes motive to be?
   what the **** will going to the gym
to lift some weights ever do for you?!

Feral cats

After a month of rain, sunshine and blue sky, I have removed
the plastic sheet is covering the fire wood so it can dry better.
A cat sits on the top of the wood and hisses if dogs came near,
it's a smart cat has noticed the village dogs are cowards
when met with resistance. The feline around here feed themselves
catching rats and mice, mind, they eat your food too but
will not sit on your lap and purr.
I have just been feeding an elderly dog left behind by hunters,
shouldn't do this when I go to Cascais who will feed it?
It is tough for a dog to have no home.
Have lit the fire; the wood emits an intense aroma of nature,
think of the curtailing of freedom in Europe; the press has been
tamed, they can print whatever they like as long as it is not
The Truth on how we are ruled; then it is called treason, what's
left are soft **** and TV quiz.

Many doggedly believe there is one God
Ruling as a divine singular entity
Stamped with omnipresence
Omniscience and omnipotence
Agnostics take the safe route rather than
Shouldering such unclear creed
Atheists do away with
The existence of God altogether
And there are others who put
God's adversary on a pedestal.
It wouldn't be off base to say
Their views are self-satisfying
That they pick and choose according
To the depths of their understanding
Of course external means have a hand
In forming their ideas that may
Or may not transmute over time.

Nobody can confidently establish
The existence or non-existence of God
Whether it is all good or not so good
In terms of actions and directions
But the crux of the matter is that
Some force must represent the good in us
It might as well be God, the Almighty
The Creator, Allah, Father or any other
Handles that we may come up with
To exemplify goodness for mankind's
Perception of Devil is not all favorable.

God's spirit can be omnipresent
Only if it is residing in everything
And if that is the case, it stands to reason
That such spirit be omniscient as well
For it can sense what you and I
And other life forms are aware of
So its omniscience could be a package
Of ongoing knowledge so to speak
God's spirit can be all-powerful
Only if the entirety of human beings Resolutely believe in its omnipotence
Which is another way of saying
Fear of God begets good behavior.

Is it not wise and practical to pull God
Out of the grips of religion
Out of the clutches of theologians bent
On furthering their versions of theism
And isn't altogether safe to do away
With God as peak of authority
Perched high upon the clouds
Prepared to punish or to reward.

God's spirit can be thought of
As the epitome of collective goodness
An instrument for thwarting evil deeds
Good spirits do not give orders nor do
Intimidate and nor do misguide
They deal in uprooting mental weeds
Which disturb the thought process
As well as blurring the vision
An amazing feat sustaining flow of creed.

God's spirit or the existing goodness
In the world, serves as a shining beacon
Waiting to bring home
The vessels lost in the mist of pessimism.

Guardrail of goodness goes far and wide
Even in territories suspect
Curtailing the range of danger
And evil's prospect.

Of course bad things happen
To good people all the time
Nature's calamities and Fate's tragedies
Cannot be mastered neither can
The atrocities of unrefined minds
But the important thing is
The sustenance of goodness
For without it
Our world would sink into Hadean abyss.

Another afternoon spent alone,
Cataloging and curtailing her desires.

The myopic state

We live in a precarious world when opinions
other than the official ones are banned and ignored
I’m thinking of RT (Russian TV.
That brings news and analyses of current events
the commentators are usually scholars, intellectuals
that do not get a hearing in the usual media
I watch the channel and many others to get a perspective
of the world, we live in.
I Germany RT has been banned because of not having
the right silenced. this is not true and RT is taken
the relevant authority to court.
Probably RT will lose.
There is in Europe and the USA a myopic view
of what we can say or do and many of us who question more
Will and cannot be heard.
This brings us to those who refuse the covid vaccine
they are not criminals but people who fear the restrictions
will lead to more restriction and when a constraint is in place
the likelihood is will be permanent that will
curtailing of freedom.
Our liberty to have a view other than the one accepted
by the sensors who works for the state against the will of the people

We're not all there but we are all able
To be fair to be scared and disappear into a thankful
Pain filled angst lull
The curtains wont come down for some time, but that's all part of the sell. If you don't get that then you won't get anywhere, but helped.
So what's the use in cursing circumstance
If its  sure to offer little assurance to your curb serpent dance.
I'm certain of the curtailing of half an earthly chance to catalyst a curse to lift of a pair of perfect hands.
Nail us to every crooked cross.
We deserve a chance to be terse with the boss, the loss, and every ticking clock conscious of it's own fog.
Let it be a cause for something catastrophic.

Wonder I , why people  enjoy curtailing another's growth ;

Or clipping off his wings, because of ego, jealousy or wrath !

Excuses they cook up easily,  making a delicious broth.

Or to drop him; in crystal clear waters,  add dangerously slippery,  soapy froth.

By doing this, harm they someone's career,
his efforts or his  goals;

Their ruthless unconcerned behaviour is saddening, in trying to portray  diamonds as coals.

Ahura,  may I always encourage young or old; any newcomers, to reach their goals;

never ill treating them, or pulling them down, or at  them, poking holes.

Instead,  may I treat them like seedlings that potentially will grow to luxuriant trees

Those trees, that will someday shade provide n give fruits,  flowers n cool breeze.

Try I will to them encourage; to bring out their potential n energy release.

A dog in the  manger be not; instead be a promoter to someone, please.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

I hurriedly push past myself,
watching my body from above,
feinting with consciousness,
fainting into the Spanish black.

Velazquez's Las Meninas
jack-hammers a tunnel
of ek-stasis, pulling me into
the painter's dark studio,

weighed down by overwhelming
curtains, curtailing the senses'
sense of majesty and control.
This is not trompe l'oeil. This is

tricking the soul into the artifice
of the palette, of paint on board,
of black that illumines perfect
placement: the spectator on the floor.

Stendhal's sensitivity is no virtue
or vice. It suckles the sublime,
sated on illusion, art for art's sake,
delivering a blow to the solar plexus.

I gasp as my body trembles at tremors
of terror, annunciations of angels
bearing paintbrushes as paltry wings.
Their back feathers stained a Spanish black.

Painting owns no one, owes no one
comfort or joy or pedantic instruction.
The cherubs in the foreground radiate
innocence, wonder, humanity's blank heart.

At my feet, my body wriggles skyward,
wrenches for a transplant. Paint on it
Velazquez's black moustache, then part
the velvet curtains. I will rise to new life.

the tragedy of 1948

Israel declared statehood the west was happy
the Jews had suffered much and deserved a state
the fact that 700 thousand Palestinians lost
their homeland was overlooked.
We were all pro- Israel back then and thought
the region would usher in peace and prosperity.
It was not to be.
Instead, we see that the land of promise has
turned violent wanting all of Palestine and part of Syria
and Jordan too, they appear unstoppable.
The only group holding them back a little is the Hezbollah
who we call a terrorist, but they are a bulwark
the brutal regime in Israel who has nothing to offer but
a war against anyone opposing their quest for total power.
But the Palestinians are not forgotten the scale fell
from our eyes, we see what is happening.
Israel as a state should be boycotted, we in the west
should treat the country as an abomination it is.
By curtailing Israel, we will, in the long run, help its survival.
Force it back to the agreed borders, declare Palestine
a sovereign state, and send NATO troops to secure the perimeter
of Palestine and give financial help to her malign people.

i remember when we broke up...

          chasm of melodies or something along
those lines:

a leftover of a roach
come 2pm
and the Ladies final at Wimbledon
is just happening:

as is the Tour de France
so i too did my little tour the Havering:
halfpenny would be nice
just to stand a bit taller

well: rarely does it happen but apparently
it sometimes does:
a blind-spot poem from last evening
left me waking up thinking:
what the hell happened last night?
autopilot on: apparently...

i first came to England as a semi-legal
but technically an illegal immigrant
back in 1994 when you still had a high street
in Ilford on Cranbrook Rd
with Blockbusters and Quick Save
and the likes
and it was nothing like Bangladesh
but oh well:
by 1997 we were visited by two Home Office
officers and about five police officers
i remember that burning sensation
even now:
grandfather was visiting on a visa
the previous day we went to a fanfare
and i won a massive cuddly toy for mum
by sliding ***** into holes
while the camel atop was running ahead
i remember i was on fire that day
i just started year 7 at Canon Palmer Catholic School
and was ready to make new friends
so my father jumped the fences of
the garden
i recently bought a cat and was mingling
getting to know him
1960s Batman movie was on t.v.
and we were eating breakfast
and as my father said:
the Home Office makes raids on Sundays
when no one really works
even the illegal immigrants
so when these two shadows were waiting
outside the house:
it was about a day or a week shy
of the Law
   since by 1997 my father was living up
to 7 years there
and by Law if he made it that far
he couldn't have been DEPORTED...

clue: i found it hard to support the English
football team... ever... ever: like never ever:
but 2nd time coming:
i'm becoming slowly converted:
never say never, ever...
i found it hard to support the English football
team three lions on the shirt:
yes: and three cheetahs on a tree...
so...   but i always had been a fan of English Values:
especially the stance on anti-racism
being a part-time question of authority
before finding my own ontology aligned with:
well i work with blacks Muslims and kinks
so we have racist banter from time to time
between the guys
like one Somali chuckling with:
'i'm a confused racist...'
whenever the same Indian Brigade would come
along and cluck cluck Bengal but but
Muhammad jihad...

1997 we were asked politely to leave
rather than being deported but it was a sort of:
deported at your own discretion:
i don't think they expected a child to be present
so we had about 2 weeks to pack our ****
but you couldn't explain to a boy
of 11 about politics of geography and ethnicity
or whatever
maybe they shouldn't have allowed
the Polish War Government residence in London
but only yesterday i learned
and i honestly didn't know
that it was: **** Germany, Soviet Russia
and the ******* Slovaks who also invaded:

das ist neu! das is neu!

                  ha ha Alfred Tennyson's charge
of the light brigade:
Iron Maiden with The Trooper...
   ha ha: Charge of the Krojanty...
or: like: ever:       the Winged Hussars at Vienna:

as much as i am a contemporary by being
a fan of sport... not particular about factions:
i leave that to the primal man:
funny sort of giggly not funny as in sneering
and devilish but funny-giggly
i'm also a fan of history:

    no i wasn't there but i can still ride a horse
i first learned to bicycle:
peddle: not push: what the ****'s a push-bicycle?
peddling is now pushing?
the **** am i pushing?!
this counter-intuitive working with and against
gravity to capture motion...

well for Bruce Springsteen and at least two
Taylor Swift shifts
i asked to be demoted...
**** the authority and **** the climbing ladders
of "career":
i was like: once upon a time: here:
i'll be there:
like LESTER BURNHAM:
who was actually my Julien Sorel of the screen:
hero... anti-hero...
my two major influences that captivated
the youth and half-beauty in me
were LESTER BURNHAM on screen
and Julien Sorel in books...

           but seriously: i woke up to some unsavory sounds
coming from the garden:
circa 8:30am...
i looked at my phone: did i really call Edie
drunk around 2am?
maybe: looks like it... did i even talk or pretend
to talk?
not unusual:
then i peered from behind the blinds:
Alphonso (Alfons denotes
****, the cat brute of the area:
i'm starting to think about getting an air rifle
and start shooting at the ******)
was there getting nervy:
Quarus in the background trying to
pacify the situation...
but then i see Veroniya
all geared up: seconds later i just see this
Tasmanian devil whirling tornado of needles
of teeth and claws and a pillow emerging
from the roughing up:

Alphonso starts to do cat-wrestling with
my Veroniya...
boy vs girl: this is not play-fighting:
this is going to be:
i think that castration creates very aggresive
female cats
and pacified male cats...
i think the castrated male cats are rather
content
while there's something evil about castrating
female cats:
they, become, vile... tender and vile...
but i wasn't having none of it!

o.k.: when i was younger i tried to intervene
in nature
mostly when i heard a woman
talk about the beauty of a lion hunting blah
blah and oh: so so cruel
the poor Bambi:
yeah: same ******* "Bambi" could knock
your lights out with the buckle of the hoofs
and give you a second brain plum proof
of: itchy-itchy signature oof! terrible headache
i did a skim reading of that scenario
once with seven horses lining up on a hill
in a field at night...
as once i spared a dying bee the agony:
i poured some honey into my palm
picked up the poor ******
and let him O.D. from the honey:
watched the ****** pull out it's long mouth-tongue
and start drinking the pure nectar...
a peaceful death: of a bee...
         by honey O.D.

            i had to run out: i stormed out:
i embodied fury:
naked apart from a bathrobe...
O TY SKURWYSYNIE!
SPIERDALAJ! WĄT!                  WĄT!
chased the ****** away with Veroniya chasing
after him...
Quarus distraught later crawled into my bed:
he's still there while i typo and make promises
to not typo:

               that sort of human intervention
in nature:
yes: with petted animals...
in the wild?
                well: i once caught a mosquito
and held it up to a spiderweb...
hey presto: mummification: because that's
how the Egyptians were inspired:
no?
but there is no homage to Spiders in Ancient
Egyptian culture: is there?
are there no spiders in Africa? not even in the desert?
but spiders are the gods of mummification:
not jackals... spiders are architects
like bees are architects hexagon:
hmm: lineage borrowed from Giant's Causeway?
maybe the scarab: rabbi scarab rabbi:
i'm just curious about spiders and mummification
in this instant...
                i mean: see it in nature then see it
in culture... so...

            but i'm slowly becoming a convert to
supporting the English football team:
because i have no affinity with the Spanish: unlike
Germany...
even this whole 1997 debacle and how:
it was so much easier to deport people not something
***** nilly: i can't complain:
i was about to lose my bilingualism
i was about to speak broken Polish...
it was nice to be reminded
of my heritage
for that year when "we" sorted our legality
and the job was done proper a second time
with lawyers etc
obviously a change of name
but first time my father was young and he was
hoping for the 7 year benefit
but obviously if i didn't go back to Poland:
i was home schooled: or rather i taught myself:
upon return i was in the top tier of mathematics
but obviously the education system
was ******* because they thought i spoke
bad english perhaps my written wasn't all good
but speaking:
not like the first time of hiding in toilets
strapped to a **** unable to speak
because i literally couldn't speak the language
and then that moment
i remember running up to my teacher
at St Augustine's (Barkingside)
                   with a book and exclaiming: eureka!
i can't understand what i'm reading!

which is weird listening to all the Banana boats
and 400 in one day in 6 of them
and no one has the ***** to deport...
but it was so much easier
perhaps white on white made more sense
but then why bother starting a war
against Germany just because Poland was invaded?
shouldn't have bothered:
so i don't understand why somehow
the Implosion of the Empire made it fair game
for the former Empire to come back
and haunt half Tory but never again
merry Tudor England...
                      and from a perspective of the continental
European: neighbor of the Germanic
and Turkic people somewhere slowly southernly
the weirdness that is the Italians
with the ancient Romans sort of ghostly Dasein
a there of a still standing and replica practicality
of the Coliseum... poet of the Coliseum:
sure: because i think that the work i do now
is kind of faking it, acting:
it's not like construction where you're producing
something a house, say...
which is why i don't understand ex-military
working in this industry:
getting all serious and trigger happy
demoted to a high viz otherwise standing pretty
in uniform doing my "work"
at Wimbledon...

             such became self-evident that with
Brexit in 2016 there would be a second
surge immigration to England
like that of 1997 with the Kosovo crew who
would sit all pretty in cafes outside
of Ilford train station
like now we have Albanians sitting pretty
and doing legal jurisdiction extensions of
"human rights" affairs in cafes not
100 meters from my house
and i get that people need to move in
semi-nomadic sporadic outburts

apparently the "eastern Europeans" were
too keen workers:
great! now we have sub-continent of India
lazy-pants working broken English
and fidgety on their smartphones
because the traffic and stench of Bombay
is lost
and even the Pakistani girls are like:
**** get me away get me away
that's the last thirst of Islam to conquer
India but alas: not, to, be...
those polytheists and their: AU NATUREL
ways of passing on water
better to throw ashes into the river:
maybe my body is ash
and my blood is rye
maybe that's my body: my blood...
some ash flicked off the end of a cigarette
into a shot of bourbon! yes! indeed: that's it!

i admit: not as prolific as the antics of
the Cosmopolitan Messiah:
not Moses the army tactician turned
plagiarist of Assyrians
i'm pretty sure he was too busy to have
bothered writing anything
and back when people wrote into stone
i hardly think
there's any concern for the relevance
of: by the spoken stubborn of Judaic
the Covenant of Journalistic writing on the wind
and speaking on paper...
but i can't exactly do one better
than Jose of Jerusalem: but i might have
implored him:
you can't lift the sins of the world:
alone...
you coming back with short-circuit the entire
logic of monotheism:
by a Second Coming you will actually destroy
the concept of: one life one death one god
that is my trinity:
one life one death one god

the Hebrews always faulted themselves
by imploring the second coming of Elijah...
this is a logical profanity of
the supposed superiority of monotheism
toward polytheism and within
the confines of polytheism there are many
universes and alternative routes
and only the Elect number of Souls
of authentic approach toward life
moving like ghost parasites in the composite
body of zombie-people...
sometimes taming the ego sometimes
not taming the ego
given a different status to say:
the former realization of being leprosy afflicted
or too rich or too crazy to handle
Damocles' and the Sphinx's authority
of the riddle...

   but mythology is never part of the Hebrew
history:
there are myths in other cultures
but the Hebrews just don't stand for mythology:
mythology is just like histriology:
there's the logic of: and how much time has
elapsed since we've seen something spectacular?
enough? well then:
we have to re-categorize our approach
to this story being kept in the collective consciousness:
no, not like the collective consciousness
of ants:
but one person alive, living next to another person:
also alive...
can attest that there doesn't have to be
any cryptic Jungian collective well-being spring
of COME FORTH the aliens demonic
humanoid angelic archetypes anti-plagiarism
unlike teens trying to compete for attention under
the guidance of peer-pressure...

reincarnation has not toast of clarification
in monotheism:
únus vita únus mortem únus deus!
depends how you punctuate:
****...
         U R AN OOSE
  goose: para- ditto: Dodd... instead of Tod...

              time to have fun in language and with it
and given no paper
is a carrier of: enough to bypass gatekeeping
with enough spacing
and hot bagels off right off off the bat
and who cares about money
i have Martin "Schumacher" Batuk in the background
half brain not dead
about to be airlifted from Poland
to a nursing home in England
since his calamity occurred doesn't mean
that he'll remain there:
and the ***** and giggles of my grandmother's
dementia is like: a cherry a cherry a cherry smiling
like my lover's buttocks:
i had to get a wake up call
took to smoking a cigarette with coffee
then did two angry masturbations
trying to find female ******* kinks of the teacher
and student... but once that was over
and i did my 3 times the *****
had a shower
and cycled to: African Christian Ladies
opening up a stall and singing and blasting bad
Nigerian Reggae at Collier Row
just outside the Tesco where i came in for
a supply of bourbon...

jeez: that Travis Scott demographic... hmm?
i was not expecting it...
we were all gearing up for the **** Kid
demographic from last year
where African Power and quasi-nationalism
was espoused and it was like a Malcolm X
rally:
but it's still funny watching the dynamic
of black on black
the former slaves: as caught and sold
to European merchants:
the idiots of the tribe...
       and it's not like slavery meant
that no Africans remained in Africa, right?
   it's not like every single African was enslaved:
there were those that stayed behind:
and it's not like picking cotton was:
compared to what the European *******
did coming from the east
and the Irish in the coalmines and construction?
oh: ugh! backbreaking work: picking cotton...
the sun so awful all that brain freeze
and suntan and: i had it once... what's the word...
sunstroke... yes...
not enough Afro curls on me heed to go ahead
and... somehow not sigh?

don't know what the constipation is all about:
politically:
the moment i started laughing at the President
of the United States
introducing Zelensky as Putin...
                      so i'm supposed to go and live
among these people?
hardly:
Hawaiian implores me to mingle with the Polynesians
and it's almost done:
getting those ******* out with enough
golf, golf-tourism and tourism...
but not quiet: quite:
ha ha... funny words... not so far apart:
a Dyslexic funfair that's like the opposite of Islam
but not much better
supposedly we're all literate but
evidently no: so if i can but try to come across
as intimidating:
it would very much coincide with one
observation from a Bengali arch-English anti-Bengali:
'why is it that when you talk
people listen to you?'
you know, fwend: i never really had enough
of an undermining ego-narrative in my head
to be bothered by that: or as Heidegger proposed:
beside the hammer...
i.e. laborers talking about philosophy on the job
rather than exchanging *** banter and banter:
Heidegger's Q: or: the proposed:
question-worthiness...

         there is such a "thing" as: question-worthiness...
i question sparingly:
myself? hardly: but not never...
if Socrates utilized: "nothing"...
then Heidegger utilized: question:
hence, from: all i know is that i know nothing
came:
well... Heidegger didn't actually put up a formulaic
simplification away from an aphorism...
he didn't suggest a succinct approach...
i'll try...

           what is best known is what
           is question-worthy...

best? or "best"? to the highest degree:
aesthetically... maybe...
ethically: definitely...
for the generalization of well-being: being well...
good... ergo best:
yes...

       what is best known is what
       is question-worthy...

if someone doesn't prompt a question:
it is best dissolved, absolved from one's concern...
it's mostly ego mash up and consciousness
debates...
but... find me a single thing in existence
and tell me it doesn't have the following expression(s):

                     ?               !
                             . .
                         .__.

look at the face... it's a pretty face: isn't it?!
i think that's my face:
the mountain screams with the eye of exclamation
while also withdraws with
the eye of questioning:
no smile no frown:
two nostrils i gather and two pairs of ears
funny how ears are unimportant in
the language of emoticons...

                    question-worthiness...
i'm so happy i wasted my 20s and early 30s
on reading philosophy
on being scrutinized by psychiatric professionals
being pilled
bloating up to 115kg
                 being ****** and whatnot
ah: the tyranny as espoused by Plato went away
so quickly and never came back
and i started to look at people in 3D...
i started reading people...
people slowly started to open up to me
from seeing a psychiatrist (not by choice)
to somehow being a psychiatrist not qualified
to dish out pharma cocktails of debilitating
side-effects:

          but that i learned from the private imperfections
of R. D. Laing...
a good portion of my literary diet was
orientated in the scared trinity
of philosophy, psychology and poetry...
that is a ******* juggernaut... a perfect cocktail:
and you have to sometimes juggle multiple
readings: the simultaneous approach
coincidences approach:
life feels eerie from not being or feeling
special: crab bucket mentality is sure to follow:
but just being alive:
somehow curtaining and curtailing
and even censoring
a need-to-have consciousness-as-narrative:
ego: flaky...
i have one but it's un-uniqueness
in that "we" share the commonality of someone
says Monday,
another someone says September 1st 1939 anno domini
dough-mini: instead: piquant:
scale: the backward version of
joy to the world the lord has come
not music in the slightest:
so thought inter-personal transit of ideas
like who discovered gravity
was Newton but not Newton's ego
that became recycled:
and only as such... "reincarnation" of the ego
happens all the time:
timeless plagiarism of being of a species
and having a tongue and relating to the same exemplum
gratis of a fellow man...

but i will not have a 20th century itch
of having to keep Shakespeare as a crutch
for verification stratification
of authority of the penned-whip:
i will lose no sensibility being under-appreciative
of Shakespeare:
besides... well... the movie adaptation
of Macbeth...the Justin Kurzel version...
primarily because of how hauntingly the language
was approached: perfectly fitting:
esp with the score Jed... oh! right! brothers at work!
lucky *******...
they had it with the Merchant of Venice:
up to a point but that's only thanks to Al Pacino
and Jeremy Irons...
the Romeo+Juliet adaptation was just
******* wonky: the language too obviously
sterile beyond everyday usage...
the music gave the adaptation of Macbeth the perfect
haunting eerie-.

I hurriedly push past myself,
watching my body from above,
feinting with consciousness,
fainting into the Spanish black.

Velazquez's "Las Meninas"
jack-hammers a tunnel
of ek-stasis, pulling me into
the painter's dark studio,

weighed down by overwhelming
curtains, curtailing the senses'
sense of majesty and control.
This is not trompe l'oeil. This is

tricking the soul into the artifice
of the palette, of paint on board,
of black that illumines perfect
placement: the spectator on the floor.

Stendhal's sensitivity is no virtue
or vice. It suckles the sublime,
sated on illusion, art for art's sake,
delivering a blow to the solar plexus.

I gasp as my body trembles at tremors
of terror, annunciations of angels
bearing paintbrushes as paltry wings.
Their back feathers stained a Spanish black.

Painting owns no one, owes no one
comfort or joy or pedantic instruction.
The cherubs in the foreground radiate
innocence, wonder, humanity's blank heart.

At my feet, my body wriggles skyward,
wrenches for a transplant. Paint on it
Valazquez's black goatee, then part
the velvet curtains. I will rise to new life.