.It was mid-winter, 1927. Cold isn't even one of the wordsI would have used to describethat winter.It was more bone chillingthan I really care to remember. We were both young,Davie and I. November,before momma and daddydied was the last time we had heard from the man at the bank.Foreclosure was the wordthat formed icicles in my heart. We were downto our last can of beans.We were frightened, to say the least. We had no way to heat them,the wood was all burned.I swept away the old ashin hopes there would besome kindling there.There was not. Then I got an idea.When granddad was a boy,he collected chunks of coalthat fell from the trainsrunning from the mountain minesto the cities far away. The unused stall in the barnhad six large burlap bags full.I told Davie to stay put.The snow was so deepthat it took me over an hour to reach the barn.I filled up an old Diamond's potatoes sack plumb to the top.I retraced my stepsback through the snow,almost tasting the warm beanssliding down my throat. Davie's eyes danced upon my return, his tears dried the instant I opened the half frozen door. I quickly assembled a small pyramid of coalin the stove and set themablaze. They glowed like molten steel,as we warmed our hands. Iwarmed our last can of beansand exchanged worried glanceswith Davie.I told Davie to say the prayer,then we ate. The beans were good. Oh,Lord were they good!We chewed each one as if theywere made of gold.I woke with a yawn the next morningand the sun was shining. Davie had risenearlier than Iand he had even done his choreswithout being asked. I told him that I was proud of himand patted him on the backlike daddy used to. Suddenly Davie looked at me funny andhe handed me backthat same Diamond's Potatoes sackI had just emptied the coal from last night. He told me he was cleaning the ashfrom the stove and he found this pileof glass stones.I looked closer...

Davie is not like his older brother Solomon.
In fact, he works hard at being different.
He never makes his bed for weeks at a time.
He wears the same grungy shirt until it falls off in shreds.
He never washes his hands before dinner, and often comes to the table late.
He doesn’t brush his teeth, has never been to a dentist, doesn’t floss,
And avoids eating his vegetables, except for green beans.

He spends his allowance on wine, women, and song, and friends Zeke and Abe, who are always in trouble.
He frets about not having more money for wine, women, and songs.
He avoids work, quitting early if Solomon is not around to yell at him.
He loves upsetting his older brother, tries to do so as often as he can.

Many nights Davie sits out under the Milky Way and dreams of what the world out there must be like.

Nearly every day, Solomon complains to their father,
“That kid is no good, lazy, irresponsible, and destined to destruction. Father, you need to do something about him.”
Davie says,
“I’m not lazy. I just have different priorities.
Life is too short to spend behind a plow on this stupid farm.
I just want to be free to live my own life in my own way.”

He's sure he could make a go of it, given a chance.

Her shallow waters, I dove in
head first trynna be someone
I shouldn't sin
suicide
if she wanted I would jump again; terrorist all she needed was a turban with a Taliban as a wristband
chants written on her body they were lyrics then
tattooed, and I was thinking more like angel wings instead she brought a dress from the devil on the ****** sands
tainted, glasses even tinted, everything Instragram everything vintage, everything is everything to her im just a witness; a blast from the past, a mistress of a mistress Killed it.
matter fact **** me this not what I wanted and I not who I should be; you say the sky's the limit but my limit is a frisbee my sky is a ceiling of a feeling of what could be
I don't think I want you any more!
MTA
stand clear closing doors
gasoline
burning bridges to the floor abandon ship ***** you don't wanna fall alone
but it seems im stuck in Davie Jones and swimming in her waters is the only way to roam,
grown
daughter of the music angel so; burn
Sean is the only way to go; swerve
I had get up outta there but no one elses water taste like Everclear and no one elses water I could jump in bare
matter fact there was never water there i could jump in raw, the rain coat was never there
Hold up, but what was I thinking
I knew her whole song she never had to sing it
I knew that it was wrong, I couldn't stop reneging
***** after ***** after *****
cut after cut with a blade
clubs I would cut cause of shame
I knew her whole hand so who is up for blame,
Or is this just a phase but maybe I was wrong, to think theres something better and maybe Im alone in thinking that there was palm trees and maybe nicer weather after I was giving up but I cant forget her.
so I
jumped in again, head first
she was wet all clear, slick roads
traveling full speed on her **** curves words slurred vision about to go
I'm bout to give it all up to this girl
my mans like I don't really think you know
cause once you go in raw you already sold your soul
and once you eat her fruit she already took your clothes.

at the start of 2016, old time rocker Bon scott decided to start u[ a rock band

and the songs he will play is the music of astrology and the members of his band is

David Bowie and Lemmy from motor head and Glenn Frey, you see Lemmy and Bowie

and Glenn frey were rehearsing with each other and the first song they did together was

jupiter arising

we were moving up and down the great walls of outer space

understanding that there was a concert playing there

the ,music that was playing was hotel California and the heat is on

and then David Bowie sang ground control to major Tom

you see the music was very loud ya see, very very loud

it was like being back on earth singing to our crowd

oh yeah it is now the hotel california to you

the party that we have, was getting drunk on bottles of scotch

you see that was what my name was mr bon scott

and then i woke up dreaming saying what the heck is happening to me

and the dreaming of a local farmer losing his stock

you see the farmers name was scott and so is my last name

maybe we need to stop terrorism

maybe we need to stop crimes in general

people are committing too many crimes we need to flee them to stop

I know one cosmic music concert isn’t going to stop it no

the man named Jesus Christ said come on Bon we need you to entertain us

my next life is a down syndrome man, living in Canberra

you see he moves his body when he is waiting for the ute doing head banging oh yeah

i really think this whole death thing is quite stupid oh ****** yeah

please send my next life to have some fun, oh yeah jupiter arising


and now here is Davie Bowie

ground control to major Jupiter ground control to major jupiter

this is major jupiter to ground control

planet earth looked doomed and there is nothing more to do

and i will leave my next life to come back and say, i wanna help

ground control to major Jupiter ground controll jupiter

i think planet earth became real bad, with terrorists and people losing lives and all their possessions

ground control to major jupiter

the party is on for young and old and we have no party if the earth doesn’t move

ground control to major jupiter

ashes to ashes fun loving monkey

we know major Tom’s a ******

stuck in heaven and then i met these singers and other singers followed me up

ground control to major jupiter

ground control to major jupiter

i know planet earth is doomed and there is nothing else to do

ground control to major jupiter

all the people in the crowd, just watch ya back because terrorists are coming on your back

ground control to major jupiter


and now here is Lemmy from motor head


i party and i love my life and i know my music was loud ya know

but loud is great and it shows me one thing that i love life

i dream of life and i dreamt of of being dead

I know a lot of us are scared of being dead

everyone lives forever anyway through reincarnation

you can come back to life as a cat or dog or bird

you can come back to life as a magpie or a man who played for the magpies

you see we get down and party party and party on

this is the time for the man to say, let’s party from Lemmy

the motrohead singer who is so cool

he is the singer who breaks no rules

we are on jupiter trying to stop terrorism in outer space and on earth

we need to get rid rid of Ronnie Biggs and Ted Bundy and many many many more

Ahhhhhhhh!   Ahhhhhhhh!, let’s party let’s [arty

as we het together and say, stop the terrorists we certainly say


and now it’s Glenn Frey’s turn

the heat is on, it’s on the street

the heat is on burning everyone we ,meet

the heat is on, we will party right

every day and every night

you see now we have the action and we will keep the flood lights on

because if the heat still is with us, we need the water from the flood to cool us down

the heat is on oh yeah

oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah

we are caught up in the action we are looking up to you

oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah

hotlel califorina is sang so great

and the heat is on every day and night

oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah

caught up in the action i am looking up ro you


you see Bon Scott wants this to be a way that music can calm the savage beast from within

and everyone says to each other howdy, and i say to my recent deceased in music glenn frey and

Daeid Bowie and Lemmy, and i want to show how cool these musical artists were when they

brought their music to help save the world and now musci can save the universe and now here

is john Lennon

i know that there is no heaven, nirvana is the key

there is no hell below us, above us is the parties we have up here

there is no god up here, i wish their were

but i am sure that there is peace up here, let’s bring this peace to earth

imagine all the people dead or alive

you see people say we are dreamers

but we are not the only one

i hope one day you will join us, and the universe will be as 1

there will be space ships taking us anywhere we like

i don’t care how long it takes my friends


and the world will be as one


and now the party is on, and we are attempting to save the universe with music

Oh something just now must be happening there!
That suddenly and quiveringly here,
Amid the city's noises, I must think
Of mangoes leaning o'er the river's brink,
And dexterous Davie climbing high above,
The gold fruits ebon-speckled to remove,
And toss them quickly in the tangled mass
Of wis-wis twisted round the guinea grass;
And Cyril coming through the bramble-track
A prize bunch of bananas on his back;
And Georgie--none could ever dive like him--
Throwing his scanty clothes off for a swim;
And schoolboys, from Bridge-tunnel going home,
Watching the waters downward dash and foam.
This is no daytime dream, there's something in it,
Oh something's happening there this very minute!

What I see is the product of wholesale hate.... an inexpensive solution to happiness… a scratched table leg...
The memory of laughter around a table or in a red station wagon... Long trips in a car with no air conditioning.. When i found out my feet were no longer kissable...
The thought of " Im Happy"..... Maybe its never a good feeling....
Then i learnt that distance is equal to money... Then it was not watching you eat cake...
My wishes were no longer " Ours"....
A bike ride became an excuse to watch the highway.... high flying jumps as you drove by a honk was as good as a hug....
Being mad as you were always asleep in your spot... Hating the dent on the couch...
Now wishing that the imperfection of furniture meant you were still here...
Watching the spot in our garage fill with picture albums...
Where every garage sale Our memories were only a buck....
That day when our red station wagon became a shiny new truck... Still red but to clean as if we were not gritty....
My Friday nights when ten o'clock was the limit.. And faking sober over minty mumblings...
And soon You would say.. "Dont breathe on mom"....
Even though the truth you hid was like a slap in your face...
Saturday morning where a quiet " Davie son"... Was always met by a simple "Im Up"...
A white lie to cover the truth.... I loved Saturdays more than Friday nights...
Fridays were for friends..... Saturday was for my hero, Black tar in faded cups...
Because sugar must have been a luxury you couldnt afford.... I wont drink black coffee anymore......
The more blue creamers make it less painful...
That time you said get out of "His" chair.... Then everyone knew it was MY chair....
Such a simple thing a place where i learned that a set of blue coveralls was as good as a red cape....
A briefcase was not just for lawyers... It was the place where you could find the last picture of us together....
A sunny day where i watched you turn an empty room into a work of art only now I know WE could only appreciate...
The bending two by fours as you made them a highway for black pipes...
That day i carried both tool boxes at the same time... Thinking why did you park so far away?....
But the way you smiled and winked when i put them down...
I catch myself sometimes in moments of pride winking at her.......
Those times where i can hear You in Me and it shoots out my mouth with a "Jesus Christ"...
Then apologies in the form of gifts... Men don't apologize......
I still cant afford your gift.... Maybe its not available in bars.. Or in measured amounts...
It cant be bought all at once...... Only in payments of my best.....
I haven't made a payment in a while....
But I remember I sign an extension every night.... Signed in tears in an office only visible with eyes closed....
Its the only place my chair still exists... A room with a briefcase on a desk... Slurppes with ice cream Dire Straits over the radio....
Playing in a shop i cant get too....
Where i can still carry your tool boxes...
Then flashes of black cowboy boots... Blue coveralls...
But never a smile or a wink...
Then i come back and whimper "Jesus Christ".....
Real men don't cry... Its been a while since i've been a real man...
Now its just an excuse for bars and measurements……

tetris patterned-shirt
weird, life-is-a-creamy-dream feeling every ever
I spend here
in
Downtown Vancouver.

is it the thought of the chilli-pepper eyed parrot
grazing on the street soul from the corner of Davie
and Granville?

is it a birth trauma coma slam
considering the fact that my
passport
says I awoke here
for the very first time?

is it the caffeine pulsing through my sweat like blood
the triple-sweater sandwich I call my chest
the passing of my dear old Auntie Debbie
the alien faces of a city-gone city goer
the warm freeze of 15 dollars in my pocket
wallet
crunch

perhaps it's the red pants
the folded skinny's
the overalls
the great validation of Shakespeare's scream:
"All the worlds a stage/ and all the men and women merely players."

Did he mean John Players?

Each and every all of us to be smoked
in the soaking rain
pretending that we
each
have brains?

- - -

I know
I'm not as intriguing
as most of these Greek-God's and Goddesses

But I still wonder
if man and women gaze to me
like I'm bless-ed.

- - -

could that explain the dream feel?
the creamy steamy dream feel?

my lack of validation
in this crowd-work calling card?

- - -

it's just about time
that I mention the women
whom gazed
from the train
that traverses the
clouds.

East Indian I assume
I the troubadour
I gazed right back into her eyes.

We played this game
until 'screech' went the train

and I moved on in space and in time.

She exited there
at the same place I glared
to the tiling below my unfit and soaked
sigh's.

As to why that I raced
so that she couldn't chase
and speak words that would open the
light

I'm unsure

but I wanted to
even as I
slipped from sight
into Vancouver's day bright of a night.

come on, we can at least compete with the asiatics of chinese or japanese speakers, like the arabs can compete with sanskrit, and admire hebrew skeletons.

come on! tom petty just died! this is not a
dawid bovie effigy, worth remembering,
it's harcore americana
and even i feel no mortal transcendence
momentary: standstill,
    he gave me more mornings worth living
through to an afternoon than davie ever did...
hand on my heart, come on
mary jane's last dance,
   or *i won't back down...
he was always someone to me as something
akin to a mix of chris rea & bruce springsteen,
and so i find myself woodpecker scratching
off a piece of writing,
  because, just because, i want to walk
in england so the cross is left intact,
namely the hospitalier cross of malta -
and i have a t-shirt with the cross,
and a word underneath stating: malta...
so i chicken scratch, woodpecker the letters
off with the index finger...
    i like the "compass" as it is...
     price dies, everyone goes mental,
david bowie dies, everyone goes mental,
tom petty, or chris cornell singer dies...
  i must have outdated tastes in music...
           because everyone just shrugs,
keeps their ground, and waits for
the next grey-mass massacre...
    mary jane's, yeah tom, call it like that,
it's still mary and juan in a ****** package,
like howlin wolf called ****:
      that backdoor man attitude...
you seriously can't conjure up more backdoors
than *******...
      and then the man who loved
animals said to his female ***** -
honey, i have my prayers to keep to,
and i feel no cruelty towards you
being argued, to survive the homosexual
apocalypse.... it's all dorthy rainbows
and ruby shoes from here-on-in...
   come on, tom petty just died!
          i can't be a matt hardy with liszt and
cigars and women and:
     i'd put those jerky twinkles in about
10 wheelchairs and call them
charlie chaplins subsequently...
       why this desire for women's attention?
i hate shopping! i can cook and i love
cleaning the house esp when drunk,
so, i listen to too much music and
the more female talk i'd hear from any
woman other than my mother i heard
i'd prefer the shout of a close range bullet...
and as brother aramis said:
the best advice? is to not give any advice,
just give the narrative, and
allow people to chip in...
           tom petty must died, along with
60+ others and 500+ others maimed,
come on stop tangling me in gambling,
that antithesis of prophetic thinking,
and that's true enough,
  gambling is the antithesis to prophetic thinking...
but tom petty just died, and all i get
it a **** in a hiroshima's worth of attention,
but when dawid bovie dies
i have to suddenly state my transgender
  orientation! not that i have any...
nonetheless listening to tom petty is like
watching back to the future...
   oh, right, you want the chemist
turned linguist tell you further via
indications -
                             dáwíd bòvié -
the ò comes from the automated diacritical
markings on iota...
without the dot it would have been
otherwise four times the acute...
oh wait...
  reminder...
               dáwíd bὼvιé -
                 and yes, i was hit on the head
by a swing as a child,
no wonder i have made an easy life
having complicated the language
as i have...
    but automating diacritical markings
as the english have, is just a lazy
explanation... to what's exactly pedantic
for the argument of arabic
                  equally perpetrated;
               ὼ = ó,
and a wild sensed comparison of
congregative attributions with a missing
father caron...
    for ὼ = o,
            as much as ó = ω.

odd, some of my family members have the
surname saracen written on their gravestones.

The New Future roar +
Gimme Gimme
Better salaries 2018
Hard years or light years
Galaxies
Hey 19,20?,21$,
22 my birth number
September Saphire blue
What's true the roar-ins
The movies the cold cuts
Getting hot
Boar head bites
The crybaby nights


Roaring Twenties* Flights"
It's time  for the modern
"I Dare" to be on the edge
Just Dodge

Men at war draft ins
Pennies for their thoughts
Dr. Who am I drugs new
laugh-ins
She's the boredom
Monday- millenium
"Gatsby Gorilla"
Tuesday Tarrantula  deadend
It been a long weekend_

Money is the killer
Ransom not a fandom
The Samson and Delilah
"Gilmore Ladies" Halleluah
Stocked up on mercedes
Flapper dancers flipped
a coin
They marched in computer
lion


Whats in your pocket
Now Hewlett Packard
Hackers and fast and furious
snackers

(The Thirties) centuries gowns
Kitchen the wife cooks
Turkey tough food 4 the soul
Davie Bowie ground control
Bowing down "Beek Jerky"
The golf player the hole
in goofers those penny loafers
Coffee and cars comedians
"Seinfeld" is money gold

Jiffy peanut butter
Sandwiches spread with love
I love you "Mother" Miss Kleinfeld
I am getting married
Those emmy awards looking worried
What's edible  Mr Hannibal
with attachmnents Mrs cannibals
The love can (B) incredible


Cornish Hens
Another day like Zen
Those Stepford wives perfect ten
Eyes of Fifty shades of poodle skirts
New Jersey housewives movie cut
Greek goddess of Ulysses lit

Greek yogurt creamy lips possess
New future what to address
Wordy so quirky time gets
spooky
Look alive get perky
The future for me is right now
Jersey strong "New Jersey"
All Excell moon solar system
The future I got the rhythm

that wide eyed:
a cat with dilated pupils
the size of a 2 quid
coin...         horror...
of a delirium,
coupled with the word
sorry upon
encountering
    a counter-posit
of your ego
and the general claustrophobia
of thought....
      
p.s. why wasn't there a mass
media frenzy when
Wayne Static
or Tom Petty died,

akin to the prevailing
relevance attributed
to the deaths of
Prince, or Davie Bo?

/come to think of it, i'm starting to enjoy learning the second tier of using language, namely the mimic involved in others' punctuation; there's a piquant delight in loaning punctuation ergonomics - unlike slurping oysters... mind you: how the **** do these half-wit neither muscle nor a brain procreate?! i'd love to ******* to that one, with a SIR davie atten-borough-e commentary: and the shells?! such meakness: yet so stringent. punctuation? paul joseph watson: a.k.a. - do the pigeon strut: saved a many life of your atypical metal meathead headbanging.

brexit?

         that's still the same old
clingy toddler's word?

like a **** set against
an impeding whirlwind,

for all i know, "my" people
will not budge,
       or venture to hide in

a border "question":

    strapped to: a ******* island!

/                early lindsay ellis
videos?

             **** me...

that subtle... exposure of skin like it
                                 might be canvas?

do you paint with
your lips, or your phallus?
can't exactly posit slobbery of tongue
or an oyster...

   mind you:
   davie attenborough
never explained how
an oyster managed to
hoister a shell over itself...

or how a snail managed
a snail shell...

  borrowed link in the "mussing" chain of
"command"?

   **** the ape to human
narrative...
i'm more bewildered by
how...
              footballers
in qatar will drop like flies...
or so i hope...
because how can,
a...
        non-liver, non-kidney,
non-stomach,
yet somehow "brain",
acquire an "exoskeleton"
couch of a... the hell it
actually is... that's isn't
king saud...
           or: i-raq or rabbi
                                        arabia...

it's an oyster!
                      how does something,
without a "brain"
that's simultanoeusly both
brain, both liver, both everything else,
muster the capacity
for a "skeleton"... to enclose it?

  space exploration?!
how about, the fish in the sea,
in the oceans, in the:
         marred moon landing
imagination?
        
lindsay ellis' make-up tutorial
                     (if ever)...
bloom lips,
            like looking
at someone eating as rasberry...

who said men said anything
about **** movies?
  are that dumb to not allow ourselves
classical ****** of the static,
picture form of reference,
to then allow our imagination
go wild, deviant of a pornographic
movie?

     guess i've been dumb all along...
**** movies are idiotic "to begin with"...
and all those artists painted nudes
of women, while they ****** and
pretended
there was no ****** at hand?

**** might be made by men,
but it's primarily intended for women...
like a harem colony of
what a walrus might call: turf...

**** is the modern form of
the ultra *****, the castrato,
                    bait for the "beta" male...
it's what harems consist of,
bored women, nonetheless caged
within the confines of a harem,
attempting a bothersome escapism...
    
it's not that i'm even jealous...
*** = exercise...
                                 i'm looking
for much more than ****** motivation...
a tongue of a woman,
to be attached to the absence of
coherent "thought" in my mind...

but since there is no "competition"
to suspend such a thought:
   **** and pillage, hey **! hey **!
thus the seven daft dwarfs alongside
a hunchback shadow of a man.

i couldn't learn Russ even if i wanted to...
not because i can't speak favourably of
the people: a most hospitable folk...
although: as a ****** in Moscow...
dating a Russian girl... things had to be on
a: hush-hush... i had to "pretend"
to be English...
which wasn't hard since... i have a generic
accent: if an accent at that...
only in Essex could it be know:
by an inquisitive 14 year old girl...
in the middle of the night having left a ******
party looking for a friend... instead
finding me first... walking out of the darkness
of a park to inquire: where, was, i.... from?
we sat near a roundabout...
i rolled her a cigarette...
a black cat came towards me...
picked it up, stroked it... blah blah...
all of a sudden i was a warlock while
the girl did runners... to and fro...
50 metres ahead... 50 metres back...
like she was trying to shake me off but couldn't:
since i promised her that we would
find her friend... which we did...
lying face-down at a bus stop...
i took off my hoodie attired the poor shivering
thing and... we walked to a designated
pick-up spot so one of the girl's father
could pick them up... which he did...
of course... we had to take a group selfie
before all of that...
- a strange hallucination:
i sometimes feel i have a spider crawling around
behind my right ear...
petty architect of... beside the cobweb...
for a 14 year old: i'm stabbing in the dark
she might have been older...
it's not like i didn't think about her
*******, which were: of course... pronounced
while i rolled the tobacco and asked:
my spit... or yours?
so i gave her the roll-up so she could
lick it herself...
          the things that happen in the night:
it's no wonder i find the formalities of
day so... pedestrian...
oh but you can get away with being English
in Russian... they love these people
over there...
not so much the Polacks...
       - again... to reiterate... i would never learn
that language: perhaps i'm just fonder
of the Greek writing script than i am of
the Cyrillic...
(no... that sensation of a spider behind my
right ear was not a hallucination...
a happy home is a home filled with spiders...
some... ancient proverb or... something...
caught the little ****** crawling on my arm...
dangled him on his string and placed
him on the windowsill)...
- i really have bigger things to worry about
than a discrepancy in Cyrillic that
i simply can't ignore: it has been burning
in my mind since yesterday...
- ******... oh sure i'll complain...
the cat thinks he can own the night and prowl
and prance all he likes:
that's the problem with cats...
they teach you the unattainable bewilderment of:
they have free will:
while you too, have, free will...
but it's only illusionary...
or worse... it's more than an illusion...
it's a bad... b'ah b'ahah joke...
a little h.m.v. (his master's voice) moment
in the calmness of the night:
quorus! quorus!
quo... where is russian?
i can't take credit for the name...
the breeders conjured it up...
i would be more inclined to: qua-rus...
i.e. as being: russian...
maine ****... ginger... it could have
worked... so i'm writing this to calm myself...
could this 10kg little Colossus take
on a fox? well... he is a house-pet...
not a wild animal...
its legs are more flexible... it too can bite...
but... little pockets of anxiety and
the debacle of... KBAC...
i.e. KVAS... a popular drink in Russia...
sort of: a better version of root-beer...
malty... & sweet... carbonated...
perfect for eating fast-food pancakes... with...
orange caviar...
- i sometimes walk through the garden
and a single cobweb thread covers my eyes...
i must be dreaming when awake:
sometimes... eh... most of the time
since i'm so dream-starved...
Freud couldn't make a shilling out of me:
what is there to interpret when
all you dream about it a great big...
black yawn of a void?!
i guess this brings me to the schematic:

                                   north
                                  północ
                  ­                    Ц

    east                                  ­                        west
  wschód                            ­                       zachód
      Ш                                                   ­          Щ

                                    south
                    ­             południe
                                       Ч

a "lesson" in etymology: shrapnel...
pół: half... noc: night... i.e. half is night...
i'm guessing: of the year...
but why isn't south: half is day?
po: after... -łu- is sharpnel...
dnie: days...  dzień: day...
   it's still one and the same however much
the word morphed... half-day for south
half-night for north...
  wschód (rise... an all-encompassing
reference to: sunrise) - east...
likewise with: west:
sunset: zachód...
                 etymologically?
eh... chłód: a coldness... an eerie coldness...
zombie-esque...

hell... i didn't sit down to write this...
i came for the Cyrillic letters that bother me...
i.e.
    why isn't Ц: Ч
     and vice versa - why ins't Ч: Ц?
when...
     Ц looks like... the better half of: Щ?

i mean: it seem logical, or phonetically authentic
that half of Щ
                                             Ц
would encapsulate half of the sound
most associated with my Slavic terms:
szczeka: (it) barks...
szczerość: honesty...
oh i can hide the "confusing" Z and bring out
the English H... one surd for another...
SHCH:
        sharp is szkic...
cheap as: czerń...
          i could go one step further and employ
Czech orthography: style...
the aesthetic of writing: encoding sounds...
and hide both the Z and the H
in a caron: a crown hovering above the letters C & S...
but then... it would appear congested
with a word like honesty:

       ščerość...                    no? too much baggage:
from on high...
but it's not like the English language
has any concerns for this...
even Charles Dickens dared to summon
the term: orthography to a sound encoding "system"
that didn't employ... summon...
any diacritical distinctions...
one ought to be intuitive about the excesses of:
tatters... one ought to remember THat: THought...

it doesn't matter: i'm asking the Russians...
if half of Щ (šč)
    is Ц... it looks that way!
then why doesn't Ц denote: č-chequers?!

hell... have your: Ш... i'll be... haha... "brave"
and say... it deserves to almost resemble a
crown hovering above a serpent... š...
how a Y (igrek) might behave if
asked to be treated for geometric purposes!
instead of crafting rivers!

i'm not "confused": i'm just *******!
Ц ought to denote entombed in Ч
and... vice versa... at worst!
Ц is one ******* half of Щ!

- and what is Ч: the western slavic C: it's not an aesthetic
substitute for either K or S (there's no... cedilla
attached, last time i checked...)
or for that matter... Q...
CKQ... no?
                           i clearly don't quiet, belong among
these people:
with their mundaneness practiced so well:
they dream! oh god they dream!
i'm the one dream-starved while they
dream-out their little-by-little: belittling fetishes
of power-gambling the toppling
of peaceful hierarchies...

i'm the antithesis of the celebrated Barbarians
of the American counter-revolution...
sure... i'm banging at the gates...
screaming: let me out! let me out!
i don't want to be in this custard mess
when it truly: properly... falls to ****!
i'll leave with my feet stinking from sweat...
even though i wouldn't have ran a mile!
let me out! let me out!
for man's ruin and for anything even remotely
god-as-man... give me air!
give me cognitive air! i can't breathe:
let alone think!

- i'm growing tired... more and more tired...
of plotting: nicety... along the vein
of thought of the English...
i'm just more and more salt grain
from teasing at the wound of:
perhaps i'm here as a pet project:
for "my" people...
to get the feelings associated when
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
was carved upon...
or a lesson in how the Roman Empire
imploded... so too..
how Britain buckled...
how Britain buckled...
fell on its drunken-face wishing it was:
"somehow"... Victorian: sensible...
sober... augur-prone...
well... it's too late for all of "that"...

it's happening: and i don't have a stop button:
quick & easy to solve the problem...
i like to drink gin
as a solo project: on the ice...
the fascist in me: is always
the fascist in everyone, anyone...
i'm digging trenches with my writing:
conjure up a better imagery:
i bet you won't...
but am i... "somehow"... this...
easy... "walkover"... prized asset of cuck?
sure... the women are rampant...
i don't mind... i'd rather ****
a ***** than a nun any other day
than... today...

we're having a debate about how
russians have encoded: poorly...
well... confusingly...
it just doesn't make sense... what i already stated...
i'm no longer looking towards America...
it's a dead... a dead & wasted land...
it's a predictable land...
it's a horrid little: my why we never might:
reach it...
culture-wise...
   some... "oops": didn't jazz die so soon?
i thought so too...
i'm looking for the peacock feathers atop
the armour of the Teutonic Knights...
the failures of the 3rd Crusade...
broken pride... escapade to an "elsewhere",
no?

sorrow, me... how i'm tattooed with
history... i can only imagine the fate of the
modern... western... secular... man...
freed from both history and religion...
i almost admire him...
i admire him: in that i speak his tongue...
i admire him...
but then i see his bewilderment...
and i think to myself...
"my" people: being so reclusive probably
have it right...
we have no colonial heritage to...
we didn't have the expediency of the sea
before us...
why do i... or my brethren get to luggage...
these jumbo-afro queries?!
i once had a key-chain that read:
the only way to tell someone to *******:
is to... tell them to *******:
in such a way... as they might be...
awaiting the: ******* transit...
so they might await the trip...
women sold us... women sold us into
this *******...
i kid you not...
            
i will not sell my heritage upon
a post-colonial bend-over past...
i'll sooner side with the Russians as i insult them!
i'll grind my teeth on stone
and spit out a *******: well-rounded pebble
than side with these... fakeries of freedom!
give me freedom! give me the supposed
bread! the songs! the... what's it called?
diabetes?!
          fat *****...

i'm one with the Kabul patrol...
i'm mad enough to try not being gesticulated at:
as being fake...
like i might cry that this canvas is not made
available to me...
ergo... you're going to turn off my water-supply...
my electricity-supply?
you're going to cancel my...
like i want to care about a dying culture
where only the bogusly: blatant rich
are... left?!

such weakness in a dying kind....
i cannot not... drawn parallels within the confines
of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
i can't!
   jeg kan ikke!

if "their" history breathes through them!
    så gør mínë...
all is "European":
              ******* cotton-muffin... afro
riddled... tarts... ****-boy-ohs...
ha!

who's not... Caesar?!
            bread wins the: paint?!
what's more cooking
than what's more... *******...
drying?!
oh sure... my shoelaces definitely stink
of bacon... but...
n'ah... n'ah... you're on your
own with that pseudo-king-Solomon..
sort of crap...
me... kind Davie...
surah riddled... psalm bashing...
sort of "crap"... i need a woman like...
i a need an anecdote...
oh god...
          so 'ere one comes....
no... it's not funny...
how.. unexpected... the opposite ***
tends to... behave... without having....
white boy... insurance policies...
oh... wow!
           *******... *******.
now the bread winner: brown- boyo...
better be... the... bread--- basher!... ah... ha...
ha... his alias: also: no.