I am ***
inadmissibly slapped too many times
bruised and shapely underneath my jeans
moving with defening sound waves
I have grown tired of your exploitations

Let love be our anchor
Take safety in its refuge
Let it protect you when waters are rough and help is few
Hold onto it
Our lone  lifeline
It keeps us ashore,floating above the deep beneath
And with this bond-the promise I make I will solemnly keep
I promise a peaceful tide
Drowning will be but a myth
But most of all I promise that as long as you are anchored in love
I will hold you above the rough waters and the defening sea for if you are anchored in love
You are anchored in me

In the streets the cars do boom, like defening thunder in a room.
Hollerd to the night so clear, come and see and you shall hear!
The sounding of terrific bells,and in the city peoples tell,
that the daylight is good and bright...oh, if only... WHAT A SIGHT!

All her shattered faces
Scatter the darkened floor
Her scent lingers in the evening breeze,
Dancing with the open door.

She used to fill my heart whole
With marrow of life unending,
But as I hear love's bell's defening toll
My heart is left unmending.

Now left only with an empty core,
(Oh God, how I hate this dying heart!)
Your broken sighs don't call me anymore
As these strands of life begin to part.

i've long lived with a deutsche seem
within using this tongue,
abbreviating the differences...
succumb to the raven croack...
like an earthworm might to a sunlight....

seems i have been,
much agitated by the expected in
the rallying yewp
of the ones unearthed
as being untouched by closures of
crafting rome...

     de profundis clamavi
ad te, domine;
domine,
     exaudi vocem meam;

little 'elp the chance to live
a life....
       the little that is
begot from man's interval,
and you, who hear,
    are begot by
a defening of ears...
            who vouched to
make the "shy" grief of
jurisprudent song a:
                  mismatch.

only among a people who have
been acribed a history of rome,
to recant, to recount...

         such a fickle labour
to have to mind...
    who would have thought
to infusre ***** with a perfume
of a pear, if not a swede?!
i rest my case...

    drunk, almost dead,
is my most pristine
post-scriptum of seeing
a sunset with this,
english, of all available tongues...

i can't but hinder,
      with the fleshy,
            quasi-take
   on a proxy of imitating
the hummingbird...

                    tod-mit-deutsche!
because via german:
is how i want to unlearn
ever speaking: ęglisch -

to grüz: und gravel!
                         mit dies zunge!

have to travel a question further
to make a in vino veritas
market pleasure...
                    in terms of *****...

the **** drinking italians are
phlegm assorts
in our cognitive couldron...

                comma mother-******?!

        wir anruf es: schloß!

   i don't even know why i took up
a defence of: deutsche,
in a tongue,
        and with a background...
that technically shouldn't
             give me the allowance...

have to explain what's
readily given,
however unsatisfactory to
commence:
understanding of the analogue
akin to the common man;

i.e.: keep your gob-***** in
          the vicinity of the Ypres
trenches, mmm'kay, mr. O?

i too am scared of dying
and "remembering"
a globalist tomorrow,
  without, a, personal,
past, ecnompassing
a yesterday, within
the dimension of a dream
told to a lower, with, a:
                                         today.

didn't anyone ever tell the english
that having acquired
their tongue,
it's equivalent to speaking
a fickleness (wankelmut)?
            minor mood-swings
equipped with a postcard of
                               "sensibility"?!

veer inz: way-V'eh... V not: 'unk!
     Churchill calls them
the little cousins...
  others came up with
bilbio-kleptomaniacs
           given the selling
hard-on for meine: eine: kampf...

can't help but tickle
                   gērman when english
becomes too obnoxious,
             rekindling rotmantel...
even with a backing
of the: ingweren
                   or ingwers?!
      wer?!
                           die       irisch!
      doppelt-pints!             p.s. pint-erens?!
and that became my errand-swish: wish...
mention the Dubliners along the way...

absolutist sveedish?
    i asked for citrus flav.,
instead i had to dunk a pear
feuerwasser within the confines of
a delayed gulp...

why do sober people,
make it so, ever,
****** unavailable to make
drunk commentary
semi-sensible...
  while leaving them to make,
sober... herding procedures,
     a quintessential norm?

Chasing a sound
that may never be found
A defening silence
drives us to violence