Seetaro mai akela chaand si thi wo
Foolon ka mehekta guldan si thi wo
Thi nadi jaisi aviral,chanchal
mere dil ka haal si thi wo

Ghani dhoop mai chav si thi wo
Kisi geet ki addaon si thi wo
Thi hava si mehekti, komal
Mere dil ka bhav si thi wo

Beech majhdhaar mai nav si thi wo
Khusian ka pura gaon si thi wo
Thi koyal si meethi,nishchal
Mere man ka abhiman si thi wo

Paido par wo patto waali hari bhari koi daal si thi wo
Holi ke rango mai sabse saadi ek akeli gulaal si thi wo
Thi wadi kasmiri koi
Mere geeton ka sur aur taal si thi wo

Mandir mai wo shankhnaad si,pooja ka prasad si thi wo
Baarish mai mitti ki khushboo,badal ka dharti se sanvaad si thi wo
Thi meri wo beti pyari,usse hi ghar 'harshit' tha
Mere ghar mai sooraj si,Mere ghar ki shaan si thi wo

Thi ab wo jo nahi rahi,aakhir khata kya thi ki usne
mana hi to kia tha na beta shaadi se,
Par dosti ka haath bhi to badhaya tha
Teri Bezatti toh nahi thi ki usne
Fir kyun tune usko har ghar badnaam kia
Dushman na kare,dost hokar tune aisa kaam kia
Chali gayi ab chhod ke mujhko,wo akele jeevan ki saanjh mai
Meri khushiyan,meri duniya,meri pyari jaan si thi wo
Meri pyari jaan si thi wo

The smell lingered long after she had called the ambulance, after she had scrubbed the bathroom tiles back to a pristine white, after she had thrown out the ******* mangoes he had hid in the closet. For days afterward, she avoided the bathroom, showering the best she could in the old porcelain sink they had installed in the spring when he was able to keep fresh flowers in the kitchen vase. Those days, she would come home to jasmine and broken plates, marigolds and burnt biryani, pigeon wings and torn paper. Some days he was snake-quiet. Other days, his skin was fever hot, his limbs flailing to an alien language, his head tilting back, ululating.
Every day she would carry his soiled clothes into the laundry room, ignoring the thousands of whispered comments that trailed behind her. “Look how outgrown her eyebrows have become” as she strangled the hardened blood out of his blue longyi. “Look how her fingernails are yellow with grease,” as she beat the sweat out of his white wife beaters. “Look how curved her back is” as she hung his tattered briefs to dry in the small courtyard. The sultry wind picked up the comments as it breezed by her, carrying them down the road to the chai stand where they conversed until the wee hours.
Today, there is no wind. The coarse sun has left the mango tree in the back corner of the courtyard too dry, the leaves coiling inward. She picks up the green watering can filled with gasoline. The rusted mouth leaves spots on the worn parchment ground as she shuffles over. Her chapped sandals leave no impression. The trunk still has their initials, his loping R and V balancing her mechanical S and T. They had done it with a sharp Swiss Army knife, its blade sinking into the soft wooded flesh. “Let’s do it together,” he urged, his large hand dwarfing hers. A cheap glass bangle, pressed too hard against her bony wrist, shattered.  
Now, her arthritic finger traces the letters slowly, falling into grooves and furrows as predictable as they were not. When had they bought it? Was it when he had received the big promotion, the big firing or the big diagnosis? Or was it farther back, when he had received the little diploma, the little child or the little death? There was no in-between for him, everything was either big or little. Was it an apology tree or an appeasement tree? Did it matter? The tree was dying.
Her ring gets stuck in the top part of the T. He had been so careful when he proposed. Timing was sunset. Dinner was hot rice, cold milk and smashed mangos, her favorite. Setting was a lakeside gazebo surrounded by fragrant papaya trees. She had said yes because the blue on her sari matched the blue of the lake. She had said yes because his hands trembled just right. She had said yes because she had always indulged in his self-indulgences. She slips her finger out, leaving the gold as an offering to the small tree that never grew.    
She pours gasoline over the tree, rechristening it. Light the math, throw the match, step back, mechanical steps. She shuffles back through the courtyard as the heat from the tree greets the heat from the sun. She doesn’t look back. Instead, she is going up one step at a time on the red staircase, through the blue hallway, to the daal-yellow door. These were the colors he said would be on the cover of his bestseller as he hunched over the typewriter for days on end. Those were the days he had subsisted only on chai and biscuits, reducing his frame to an emaciated exclamation mark. His words were sharp pieces of broken glass leaving white scars all over her body.  
She remembers his voice, the deep boom narrating fairytales. Once upon a time, she had taken a rickshaw for four hours to a bakery to get a special cake for his birthday. Once upon a time, she had skipped sitting in on her final exams for him. Once upon a time, she had danced in the middle of an empty road at three in the morning for him. Once upon a time, she had been a character in a madman’s tale.
Inside, she takes off the sandals, leaving them in the dark corner under the jackets they had brought for a trip to Europe, never taken. Across the red tiled floor, she tiptoes silently, out of habit. From the empty pantry, she scrounges up the last tea leaf. Put water in the black kettle, put the kettle on the stove, put tea leaf in water, wait. On the opposite wall, her Indian Institute of Technology degree hangs under years of dust and misuse.
Cup of bitter tea in hand, she sits on the woven chair, elbows hanging off the sides, back straight. Moments she had shot now hang around her as trophy heads on cheap plastic frames. A picture of them on their wedding day, her eyes kohl-lined and his arm wrapped around her. A picture of them in Kashmir, her eyes full of bags and his arm limp. A picture of them last year, her eyes bespectacled and his arm wrapped around an IV pole. The last picture at her feet, her eyes closed and his arm is burning in the funeral pyre. No one had wanted to take that picture.      
A half hour later, a phone call from her daughter abroad. Another hour, a shower in the porcelain sink. Another hour, dinner, rice and beans over the stove. Another hour and the sun creeps away for good. It leaves her momentarily off guard, like when she had walked home to find him head cracked on the bathroom tub. The medics had assured her it was just a fall. Finding her bearings, she walks down the dark corridor to their, no, her bedroom.
She sits down now on the hard mattress, low to the ground, as he wanted it to be. She takes off her sari, a yellow pattern he liked. She takes off her necklace, a series of jade stones he thought was sophisticated. She takes off the earrings he had gotten her for her fortieth, still too heavy for her ears. She places her hands over eyes, closing them like she had closed his when she had found him sleeping in the tub, before she had smashed his head against the bathtub.  
In her dreams, she walks in a mango orchard. She picks one, only to find its skin is puckered and bruised. She bites it only to taste bitterness. She pours the gallon of gasoline on the ground. She sets the orchard on fire and smiles.

i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.

Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum behad khoobsurat **.
Ye jo tumne akhon ke kajal ko b palko ki had me dal rakha hai.
In aankhon ne jane kitna kehar sambhal rakha hai.
Kya chamak hai aankho me jaise ek choti si khush duniya ka sapna paal rakha hai.
Socha cheru thoda tumhe or thoda sata du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum nazneen **.
Phir kuch tumhare galon k un khaddo ki gehrayi dekhi.
Na us se gehri koi khaayi dekhi.
Nazar htane wala tha k us muskan ne rok lia..
Muje aj sambhalne se pehle tere chehre nadan ne rok lia.
Jane tumhe ye sab kehna lagta hai khata kyu.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum dilnashi **.
Vo choti si kali bindi jo thik maathe k me kahi hai.
Vo b har shayar ko kheench rahi hai.
Jaise muje kehti ** idhar aao tumhe kano k jhumko ka pta du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum dalkashi **.
Ye phir thode uljhe thode suljhe baal hai.
Inki to ada hi bemisal Hai
Tumhe tang karte hai.
Manmarji chalate hai jaise tujse jung karte hai.
Chere pe aate hai tum unhe phir peeche karti.
Kabhi clip se kabhi rubber se kheenche rakhti **.
Kabhi aaye chehre pe to shayad main b hta du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum koi kehkasha **.
Or vo sone ki nath ko koi
kaise taal sakta hai.
Jise tumne apni teekhi si naak me daal rakha hai.
Or kuch batein in sab se pare hai.
Tera chutkan sa Gussa hai jane tu kaise handle kare hai.
Phir vo pyari si hasi vo sharm haya  vo bachpana vo nadaniya.
Samjhdari vo nasamjhi
Vo adayein vo shaitaniya.
Or sambko tumne brabar rakha hai.
Jane ye hisab kaise lagakar rakha hai.
Kya kehna hai kya sunna hai kya bolna hai kya btana.
Kab ruthna hai kab manana hai kab satana hai kab jatana hai.
Teri har ek choti moti khoobiyon ne dil me aatank macha rakha hu.
Jane tune kitne salo se khud ko ishq se bacha rakha hai.
Jane mujme kab se or kyu ye thode guroor k lakshan aaye hai
K tuje suna sabne hai samjh sirf hum paaye hai.
Tum jaisa or koi mere aas paas ni hai.
Phir kaise manliya jaye tum aam ladki ** tum me kuch  khas nahi hai.
Ha aj maine ek kadam apne beech ki sarhad se thoda bahar aaya.
Tumne apna hunar azmaya tha vo pic dalke use shayri bnake maine apna hunar aazmaya hai.
ye padhke tum socho k inam du is shayar ko ya koi saza du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum afreen **.

Tum khoobsurat **.

Pyaar to kai trha k hote h
Mgr na jaane hmara ye ksa pyaar h
Pyaar k to kai naamo ko ME btadu
Magar smjh NH aata ki hmare is pyaar ko ME kya naam du
Jo kbhi hsata h  to kbhi rulata h
Kabhi naraj krta h to kbhi mnata h
Or jb shk krta h to uske agle hi Pal khud se jyada ykin krne lgta h
Agr khuda b aa kr hmare is pyaar ko byaan krne ki koshish kre  to shyd vo b nakamyab **
Kuki hmara pyaar vo nhi jo lfzo ME byaan **
Pta h mera dil bht ziddi h..  Hmesha ek hi zid krta h
Khta h ki vo tumse milna chahta h.
Tumhare kareeb hone ka ahsas mhsus krna chahta h
tumhari baaho ME jo sukoon milta h vo sukoon mhsus krna chahta h
Tmhari aakho ME aakhe daal k tumse bt krna chahta h
Tumhara haath thamna chahta h
Lekin me usko daat k chup kra deti hn
Mgr kya kru yr apne aasu rok NH paati hn
** ske to Mj cchor k kbhi mt jana
Kuki agr tum mj cchor k chle gye to me apni rooh ko NH smjha paungi ki ab b  **** ME ruk jana
Agr Tmko mjse door jaana b pde to khud ko kbhi akela mt smjhna
Me US lmha tmhare aas paas hi hongi mj mhsus kr k dkhna
Hr Pal dr lgta h tmhe kho dene se
Mgr phr khudko smjhati hn ki is janam nhi to kya hua, agle janam kon rok skta h tmhe mera ** dene Se
Me nh janti ki hmara saath kb tk h
Mgr itna jaanti hn ki hmari rooh ek tb tk h suraj chand jb tk h..

there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

She drives me crazy!
That little care-free Jalfrezi.
You see where I’m going with the curry?
‘Course you don’t, you’re ******* vindaloo!
Who the **** are you?
And as for Tarka Daal and Argy Bargy?
If they ever get off the carzy we might be able to talk.
So are you ******* listening?
She drives me crazy!
Both of you are too stupidily lazy,
Nor are you like Jalfrezi.
Re-arrange; re-word the last two lines?
Yeah right, I’m Mr Lazy.

Teen die hange van die berge-nag
Speel die donker op die ligte sag
Die kalm daal op die chaos-stad
Van klank en mense op elke kronkel pad
Dit voer jou mee in 'n sterre mat

In skoon lug met 'n oop kop
Kan gedagtes net vloei en skrop
Aan dinge wat is en kom
Aan mens wees, goed en krom
Aan die eenvoud en dit wat verstom

Woorde lê in 'n niks-wees dwaal
Dis rou, dit is maar net  -  dis kaal
Net om die stemme wat skree te verlos
Dinge wat 'n uitlaat soek in die kosmos
Dit het ink gevind, soos vuur in fynbos

Aapse hi har subah ** meri aapse hi har shaam,

Saans ke katre katre mein samaya hai bs aapka naam.



Achha lagta hai jis qadar pawah karte ** aap humari,

Ishwar aapki jholi mein daal de khushiyan dher saari.



Itne khushnaseeb hain hum ye baya nahi kar sakte,

Meri zindagi, meri jaan meri rooh hai sirf aapse.



Khuda ka tarasha hua sabse anmol farishta **,

Qismatwale hain hum  jo mile aap humko.



Aapke har kadam par saath hai aapki mahiya,

Beintehaa mohabbat hai aapse saathiya.



Jis din milengi rooh ki rooh se nazar,

Jaane jaan pe kya hoga asar.



Rakhenge humesha aapko dil mein,

Bhar lenge aapko baahon mein.



Aapse pyaara nahi hai koi sanam,

Saath hai hum aapke janam janam.



Aapki muskurahat hai taaqat meri,

Ye jaan sirf hai aapki sirf aapki.



Hum par haqq hai sirf aapka,

Aapki dadhkano se hai ye dil dadhakta.



Rabba is pyaar ko nazar lage,

Humari jodi humesha salamat rahe.



Meri zindagi meri har khushi hai aapse,

Aapko paakar mil liya us rabb se.



Mangu mai ishwar se aapki khushiyan hai meri ye bandagi,

Har janam bs aapke naam ye meri khubsurat zindagi.

or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.

Aapse hi har subah ** meri aapse hi har shaam,

Saans ke katre katre mein samaya hai bs aapka naam.



Achha lagta hai jis qadar pawah karte ** aap humari,

Ishwar aapki jholi mein daal de khushiyan dher saari.



Itne khushnaseeb hain hum ye baya nahi kar sakte,

Meri zindagi, meri jaan meri rooh hai sirf aapse.



Khuda ka tarasha hua sabse anmol farishta **,

Qismatwale hain hum  jo mile aap humko.



Aapke har kadam par saath hai aapki mahiya,

Beintehaa mohabbat hai aapse saathiya.



Jis din milengi rooh ki rooh se nazar,

Jaane jaan pe kya hoga asar.



Rakhenge humesha aapko dil mein,

Bhar lenge aapko baahon mein.



Aapse pyaara nahi hai koi sanam,

Saath hai hum aapke janam janam.



Aapki muskurahat hai taaqat meri,

Ye jaan sirf hai aapki sirf aapki.



Hum par haqq hai sirf aapka,

Aapki dadhkano se hai ye dil dadhakta.



Rabba is pyaar ko nazar lage,

Humari jodi humesha salamat rahe.



Meri zindagi meri har khushi hai aapse,

Aapko paakar mil liya us rabb se.



Mangu mai ishwar se aapki khushiyan hai meri ye bandagi,

Har janam bs aapke naam ye meri khubsurat zindagi.

I

School bag, blue shirt, hair parted on the right,
Daal-rice, clock ticking away in delight;
Cycles stop, wagons with seasonal crop,
Get to her class before the gates shut tight.

II

The obsession froths beyond the eavesdrop,
Secrecy brews a moral of Aesop;
Friends don't yet know, the fear that the eyes show,
Grows the need to shout it from the rooftop.

III

Geography is boring, the maps tow
Useless details such as where's Kosovo;
It's all pretense, the absorption intense,
But her attention sets the world aglow.

IV

The wistful heart struggles to make some sense
And accept pain at misery's expense;
Then her comment, and the motives ferment,
The surging tide sweeps over the heart's fence.

V

Evening is drunk with sunlight, the day's spent,
Menthol erases the cigarette scent;
She fades from sight, the mundanities write,
A long ride back under the clouds' intent.

Ajab si khamoshi hai
Hawao me ek roshani chhae hai
Logo ko bade arso baad fursat mili apno ke bicha rehane ki kyun ki
Corona ne chaaro aur koharam machae hai

Loga ko aj smjha raha is musibat me daulata kaam na aae hai
Bs ghar se bahar na nikalo sarkar ki itni hi guhaae hai
Phir bhi kuch sadko pe ghuma rahe hai
Shayaad unko baat smjha na aae hai

Dusaro ko kyun jokhim me daal rahe **
Waise hi itni badi aafat china ne laae hai
Doctor desh sb to lada rahe hai
Ab hume bhi saath mila kar ladani ye ladae hai

Swastha rahe ghar pe rahe.

Kahi kho se gayi hu
Khud ko hi dhundh rahi hu
Bechaini se chaa gayi hai man Mai
Shayad Mai kuch galat Kar rahi hu
Ya shayad sahi karne ki chah hai
Ya kahi ye to nahi sahi ko jaanti hi nahi
Man vichar raha hai
Man ki shaanti kahi kho si gayi hai
N jaane kyo ** raha hai ye
Apne aap par hi dhyaan nahi
N jaane kaha kho Diya hai Maine khud ko hi
Kya ** raha hai ,Kya hona cahiye
Kya sochti hu ,Kya karna cahti hu
Uljhan hi uljhan hai
Kuch samjhne ke kosis Kar rahi hi shayad
Ya shayad khud ko or uljhan Mai daal rahi hu
Kya ** raha hai Kya chah rahi hu
Kuch man vichran karne Mai laga hai
Kuch vyaakul para hai,kuch hissa to iska Jalan sheel ** rakah hai
Kuch apne aap se hi Lara hai
Kuch chin bhinn hone ko taoyaar nahi
Kuch khud ko phir se paane ki aash lagaye baitha hai
Man bas vyaakul ** rakha hai.

Har koi chahta hai us aasmaan ke chand ko,

Ehsaason se mehsoos karu mai roz apne chand ko.



Poori kudrat samet ke jaise koi meri jholi mein daal gaya,

Wo mile mujhe, mera khuda mujhe mil gaya.



Samundra ka paani bhi meetha lagne lage,

Suche moti se bhi pavitra unki rooh lage.



Kayenaat ki khubsurati bhi feeki padh jaye,

Jab unhe mera chand nazar aa jaye.



Unhe kisi ki nazar na lage,

Mujhe wo meri saanson se bhi pyaare lage.



Wo humesha mehfooz rahein,

Har kadam par hum unke saath rahein.



Unki saanso se chal rahin hain dadhkane meri,

Prem kahani nahi janam janam ki kahani hai unki aur meri.

Smell of the first cup of coffee
Text from a best friend
The voice of my family
And the cool morning rain

The milky chai and biscuits
The steaming hot pakode in the rain
Hot daal chawal with ghee
And curd rice with pickle

The melody of my favorite song
And the moves on the dance floor
Singing while taking a shower
And dancing with random moves

Discovering a new song
And playing it till my ears bleed
Singing the song till I find
Someone crazy about it like me

Travelling with my best-friend
And doing crazy pranks on each other
Meeting a new person
And finding we share the same interests

Finishing up of an artwork
Completing writing a poem
Reading a novel entirely
And binge watching TV series

The sound of the ocean
The feeling of sand beneath my feet
The way the waves touch my feet
And beautiful sand castles

These are some of many things
That makes me smile every day
I had many smiles today
Sharing one with you too!

Tu Nai Kaisee Azmayeez Mai
Daal Diya Ya Rab.

Siwai Intezaar Kai Aur Khuch Nahi
Kar Saktai Hum Sab.  

Pura Barausaa Hai Tuj Par
Puri Umeed Hai Tuj Par.  

Bas Aur Maat Tadpaa Unhai.
Bulai Lai Jald Sai Jald Terai Paas.

you know, two doors down,
a bunch of youthful sikhs are having
a weener get together party,
sounds like friday at the mosque:
no women allowed;
and they're standing there in
the garden, smoking joints,
laughing & trivialising,
**** on the read: i call them.

and there's me, little ol' me,
solving a sudoku puzzle and drinking
some *** on the side, while listening
to the ultimate template for "m.g.t.o.w.",
and thinking, am i part of this movement,
to be the reversal cartesian dynamic
that hasn't kicked in?

vocals on gorgorath,
and the story behind it...
i see hell as silence,
mainly? no throne of god,
nor hallelujah angels...
i have to make this pig latin...

ego videre infernum qua silentium

  and i do... see hell as silence:

   videre infernum qua silentium...

heaven?

      rephrasing: audio... for pedantic
***** involved.

so i have thus: sikh party two doors
down,
i don't mind them...
    i'm sure as ****, the fan gets involved,
i start to gurgle the brew,
i tilt my head back, with a neck still
intact..
  and gurgle the brew...
        mind you, these neighbours killed
my cat...
               i'm not begging, i'm not asking
for a response, i'm just saying...
  what happened, happened,
    i have the north winds to attest to...
no sikh is going into my house
and say: make us a kuppah...
no, *******, turn your turban cloth into
a napkin, and have
your jimmy-jimmy daal....
you ******* idiot... oh? it didn't translate?
how about i voodoo my cat's remains
in a woogie-boogie promise
of: the haunted house?

     i **** as hell digged up a grave,
you "think" i'm about to joke?
let me fiddle with my nose for a bit...
you know how disrespect for humans
is born? when the "idiot" disrespects
the non-edible, petted forms of animal...

you make grievances with
non-edible pieces of meat
that men are associated with...
you're asking for the name of the seasons,
plus a choir of angels to untie you;
boo-shakalak-kee-sha!
  what did i find?
these turban brigadiers, these
blue indian, these pakis...
they have only one motto:
strength in numbers...
    but when they hear a white boy,
gurgling alcohol out of the window,
as if imitating drowning,
tilting his head back giving the perfect:
macaw signing in the sea...
these olive skinned virgins either play
*****, or call for backup "plans"...

*** yer plantain, but not yer bananas:
sure short, a ******* wake
across the whole of the caribbean...
called the havana autumn:
lost leaves, dry dung,
    monkey 'ave a throw's worth
of a bullet 'andy.

what? you gunn'ah **** on the pineapples
any'who? ******* will,
i'll be right there,
shitstorming your *** whether
there's an irma or her **** jose -
***** i'll witch-broom your ***
right off with a woop, telling my
neighbours: i've done so;

and yes, the internet is not a cul de sac,
you don't get to play
radio 4's the archers here...
sorry, i was wishful thinking for a sitcom
too... turns out...
    the phonebook is exponential in size,
but also too erratic in terms of
fluidity / fluctuation of capitalised on
use.

Sanskrit prudence in Dublin...
because you know...
i'm your next: on cue to be the next
Delmore Schwartz in making
Finnegans Wake somehow "pop"....
not going to happen: dear son
of an Arab lost on Aran...

i thought the prize was the puzzle: per se?

oh i'm sure you have heard... the Irish...
can we please serve these people
the proper non-anglican diacritical markers?
no? we can't?
no problem... we'll find alternative avenues...
i will never find my feet making
footnotes in a Thailand...
the rich rushkeys and the rude -
compensation markers -
the culture from beijing...
always your first go to...
stomach ache...
apparently cannibalism is not so bad...
when you hear about what
the chinese are cooking...

no... can i please pet my cat?
i like petting my cat...
and there's this "how-almighty":
pretty awe-mighty Allah stressing
pork decrees as: "***** meat"...
like i said... ***** are vultures...
but... bound to water, to salt water...
well... you know that salt is...
a bit like keeping meat refrigerated?
it's a compensation guise of keeping
meat alive...
that's at least how herrings from
the baltic were kept...
ask any tapeworm or other kaleidoscope
of parasite...
no thing to be found or be bound
to being denoted: alive...
in the dead sea...

salt curates more than the viscious
sun, the desert...
salt and how it can be thought of as...
******* the juices -
esp. noted in cooking -
in a stew, a broth, a curry...
the magnet addition...
throw some salt into the equation
and watch the tapeworm
shrivel and die...
dehydrate the body...
salt caramel lollipops...

thai... thai **** beetroot:
because there was no bogus
to begin with...
eh... fickle most probably tamed
feeble stomachs...
probably glutton or lactose intolerate...
weak western stomachs that
need to be pampered...
oat free - wheat free - lactose free is
my limitation...
gelatin free too?

but the irish... exploration of
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
it has to be: catcher of the F...
upon hitting the definite article you can
see and sport a sparrow with: delta...
the fact...
the said...

otherwise... i already stressed:
the **** **** worth of truth -
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head - like the next ukranian -
and that's how you pet a dog?
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head... let's watch
a cascade of dominos as if:
if ever karma!

the irish myth of θought...
oh... unlike me...
looking for... oh look...
omicron O iota I...
φ phi insert the door locked...
turn, twist, θ... door opens...
****... troy's trident of
Perseus making miracles
with a strap-on *****...
Ψ pops out, motto: "check your soul"...
an atheist a materialist...
supposing... do i still have a thinking attached
to the existence of a soul,
or was it more or less...
lodged in the bribe pocket of materialism
of the body that...
cancerous evil... when not looked
at the serenity of the event via a botanical
lense of... the mistletoe...
which is a botanical variation of cancer...
it grows on trees...
and people demand to be kissed under it...
hell'oh lip cancer!

but the Irish? oh there's still that....
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
which is like saying...
the sanskrit crowd surd the H...
it's silence... the irish will never...
the θing is true...
nope... the irish will: the τing is true...
or... apostrophe the H out of the whole
"thing"...
it doesn't apply to: THE...
that theta's trip is already lost...
replaced by churchill *******
a east end london girl:
wishing Whitechapel was somehow...
a Hammersmith... comparatively?
they don't differ, that much...

the Irish searching for the tau in theta?
oh sure... no Yeats in sight...
not mention of the chinese philosophy of:
eat dogs first... salvage the cows for milk
Tao...

but in Sanskrit the H is a surd...
which... must be a Boston Irish t'ing too!
how the T can escape the greek F...
and the other greek F of φilosoφy...
otherwise... what do we call it?
ψycology: in spelling: psychology...
but in "reality"?
surd π:
σycology - no... south korean PSI... is there?
nor with a surd gamma (γ) in:
'νoστικ... i.e.
no more a 'νoστικ than... oh! the eye-itch
of having to... nonetheless write:
γνoμη (no-oo-mm)
because by now the epsilon or eta is also,
somehow: surded...

a known-aum...
and yes: the K is surd...
like in no-um... otherwise dhal or dal or daal...
or a macron appears above the A...
and we have ourselves
a gnostic ('nostic): gnome ('nome)...

nomine ex response agnitio?
ex pandectis Florentinis... repraesentatus,
com[m]entariis Accursii, Scholiis Contii...

i believe eta (η) to be the shorter version
of epsilon (ε)...
as i believe that omicron (o) to be the shorter
version of omega (ω) -
then again... that's just me...

believe my disbelief -
to first own a dog - a leash -
to later discard a dog: a bullet to the back
of the head...

but... i fold...
this is not a poker came i'm going to be
best equipped by...
it's all that more simple since...
i'm not a native: curator tourist...
it's a Dublin "thing"...
when... i'm told to stress extracting
a tau from the theta...
calling "it" a τing and not a θing...

i am allowed to relax whenever the 2nd
greek F comes into play...
"relax"... φilosoφy is somehow;
what? the *****-slap waiting in the background...
when the atheist materialists use a term
like soul... but... thinking should not
be investing itself in the existence
of a phantom, a ghost,
all thought should be invested in the body:
all body: no soul...

no wonder... psychology...
oh the name will not change...
after the "death of god" the human soul has become...
at peace in refining its sadism...
it's very gentle... it's very subtle...
it refined fine dining!

first you require the prime...
anaesthetic... a curtain of fiction...
fiction is the ultimate anaesthetic...
it's not the sort of anaesthetic injected upon...
dealing with critical pain...
sending you into a pocket of coma...
fiction is a subtle variation of
the anaesthetic... the pain of a pointless
existence requires more cushions
and less... fears of the needle...
imagine what fiction wouldn't be...
if... you would require people to be
pampared to...
to have pigs slaughtered...
cushions! to have "proper", ahem...
"grammar" and "pronouns"! ahem...

and i have been diagnosed as a schizophrenic...
i tell you...
bilingual is the new schizophrenic!
i love it... the one time when
poetry can meet psychiatry:
on its own terms: on the crux of metaphors!
i love it!

at least that's how you explore:
pseudo-medicine...
psychiatry...
the grey areas with metaphors...
the entire litany is probably an oops
and a Daisy of a correct etymology - "correct" -
otherwise misnomer applications...
a hammer was used for screws...
a screwdriver was used for nails...
same old, same old;

better you than me...
and that me is not the you about to listen
to some heavily tatooed nymphomaniac
from st. petersburg: alias novosibirsk...
i too though i was a bit mad
having moved from the outskirts
of London... into the center of Edinburgh;
clown luck at being right;
i should have been the sort
to have moved from the underbelly of
Tehran - interracially bred -
started a renting company -
and had a girl by the name of Laura...
what's Laura in Farsi Baháʼí?

i was this close to ******* my way into
the cult... this close...
suitor: better i just stick to the beetroot,
parsley root, carrot, turnip,
wholesome cabbage, potatoes...
and sure as **** no mamluks,
no oasis... no mangos... no peacocks...
just your standard ***** meat hogs...
fauns and...
what does the quran call the original:
not domesticated "pig"?
bore or boar? what do i call beer
when they only start serving wine? mead.

so how did you spend last night?
- oh, you know, i stayed up
listening to music
with interludes of foxes making
noises...
       then for uncontrolable reasons
i wanted to achieve
  a transcendence via
arriving on the, plethora...
- how did you do that?
- as someone who enjoys pain...
i started to punch myself
in the head,
i figured: the amitriptyline
and paracetamol combo with
a liter of whiskey sometimes doesn't
work...
- how was it?
- i woke up... and...
         ****... it all started to fit
into a tuxedo-tight...
          i just had to know
the methods employed by young
western females
when inflicting self-harm...
- so?
- now i know,
   i can almost understand
the relief of inflicting pain on yourself,
akin to the burden of giving
birth, albeit...
  i'm confused...
   why not champion for
cesarean birth, rather than abortion?
hell, look at me,
male, a ***** strapped to an ego
inside a toy-thing of body...
- feelings?
- oh sure, even now,
i sense gravity working on my heart...
something south of the collar bone,
that "something"
  that's either over-rated
or under-rated...

point being: i know why i will
never write anything beside
verse:
   my weakness being:
   dialogues...
       unbalanced libra...
one side always dominating
the other side...
   like there's no "hypothetical"
scenario of a real-life event
of me visiting a brothel...
as for punching myself
in the head...
yeah...
            for someone who
enjoys pain
   like some cameo role
in a rammstein music video
akin to mein teil
my usual, melancholic,
morbid "european" self...

              i should have been born
in a time when the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth partition
was happening,
seeing what's to be seen
of england...

          doing the bidding
of the crucifix,
age old superstitions...
but all this modern scientific
sensibility,
         the snarky comments...
too much effort...
i write better when i do something
wrong...
  me? i can't entertain the sort
of thoughts crafted by an Einstein...
but i do know,
that the letter H... is only a surd
in translated hindi...
e.g. dhal
   (but you forgot the macron, a,
given that...
   you extend the breath
to compose daal, i.e. dhāl) -

well someone has to be pedantic,
it's not like i came from
a breeding stock,
with a generation prior to me
was ******* illiterate...

               code, no can do...
figure out a blank space in front of me?
sure...

          u'słuchać
   (which could also be written
without the scalpel apostrophe...
i.e. attached to the u
via                     úsłuchać) -

namely? buckling down...
before the internet filter algorithms
("paradox": rhythm)
      get on my ***,
i'll be long gone...
      trying to code in a filter
that appreciates
                    diacritical markers...

no... emotions are not over-rated...
they are merely over-stated...
when the heart chokes
the mind to usher out a tongue...
and the heart does choke...
but...
                      whatever is to be made
of the plethora is the whole
point...
              like religion...
privately...
          until the heart becomes
akin to that bird in the oxygen experiment
1768 (joseph wright of derby’s),
    
and requires the devil
to employ the hands to do more than
merely scratch one's head...
  fiddle, scribble...
  double consonants...
for the bounce-effect in a word...
            or a hooded extract:
double vowel, macron,
an extension...

           but i didn't "discover" the english
language to be barren
without diacritical markers...
it was without diacritical markers
to begin with...

        i know, the shame,
but of all the languages i've heard
with this print: label Latin?
the pollacks have been the most
consistent
         in the play of rubric
of the syllables...
                  that clarity...
unfathomable within english,
or french...
              the french?
they write one thing, speak another...
that's why i didn't learn it,
it was enough for my custard
fest of using english...

         belittle...
         lite...
                    eh... that iota...
(looking up, no halo)
   does it really require an 'ed?
i'm repeating myself
but... ιota...
   there... no levitating...

                   i still believe in the plethora...
given there's no
worth for the current
                         plateau / zeitgeist...

get thrown into the deep-end
of the pool
   and learn to swim -

    the blah blahs will come
    any **** worth the parade,
i'll stick to the claustrophobia
of the heart giving me prompt,
than the "unaware" claustrophobia
of regurgitated opinion
of the mind's joke of a juggling act.