Chapter 1- The Saga of the Dragon-Power and Federation Battlefare
Stanza 1-Lady of the Night
You’re such a parcel, but not much of a marvel, you lack a price
But that is good because now we have the Oathed Sacrifice!
Such was the words when Dragon-Man stood before his main foe.
He dare not think what types of devices Drent had for pain though.
Dragon-man was taken off the Lynxian Road and it was a horror soon.
I was watching with my cousins one of the last of the Saturday morning cartoons.
My cousins watched for more, I had already seen it all twenty years before.
I was just shocked that they would show Dragon-Man to Generation Y
Dragon-Man looked to me now like one of those ventilation guys.
I could see Dragon-Man smiling, and I knew exactly what that smile meant.
Because he needed the Composi crossbow, and he could only get it from vile Drent.
The arrows were like missiles that sought out and broke down the body.
It was the type of weapon so strong, it was almost ungodly.

The Abyss-Sword, tell me what does it feel like to be killed by your own weapon.
Dragon-Man replied with a smirk, I don’t know you tell me, and got to steppin.
He reached for the Composi crossbow, but it was snatched away by a Brackti Guard.
**** him with the full arsenal we have, and make sure his death is especially hard.
It is amazing that Dragon-Man could withstand such an onslaught.
He cannot stand up against it for long, with such brawn brought.
Some of the firepower gets close, Dragon-Man might not survive for long.
What manner of man can withstand such a powerful throng?
Suddenly, there is a noise, and all of the Brackti Guard fall dead.
Drent you might have to sacrifice yourself, said a voice that they all dread.
Beside all of them were gleaming bullets, which had a hole in them but were filled with lead.
It was the Lady of the Night, who came in with the Nike sling.
This weaponry was fierce and devoured enemies and their everything.
It also  made a hellish noise when it fired Byzantine bullets, nothing could stand in its path.
Drent suddenly disappeared because with the both of them, his death would be the aftermath.
You forgot your cross-bow, she said as she gave it to him with a smile.
What took you so long, Dragon-Man asked, I was waiting all this while.
You forget it takes long to reach you when you put yourself in trouble.
At least be happy I turned the Brackti Guard into pebbles of rubble.
Dragon-Man looked at the Composti cross-bow and this was good weaponry.
If he saw Drent it would be the last time Drent ever stepped to he.
Let’s go, I got the Paroah chariot, there is no time to waste here.
Drent probably went back to regroup inside of his lair.
Dragon-Man climbed inside the chariot and said “I will drive.
The Lady of the Night replied, I got it, because I want to survive.
They drove the chariot away, and Dragon-Man got back to his place
Little did he know that waiting for him was a criminal court case.

Stanza 2-Dragon-Man’s Advocate
Dragon-Man went back to his home, he did not have a chance
To take back from Shark-Devil the Winged- Fire-Lance.
The next day, he got dressed and went to the building.
They say work is supposed to be the epitome of fulfillment.
See, Dragon-Man’s alter-ego was Jonathan Maine, Esquire.
This is what he would do if he ever had to retire.
But when he got to his desk, there were police all around.
Who told him to get down on the floor and put hands on the ground.
Jonathan never thought this would happen, a lawyer needs an advocate.
He was mad as **** but knew that he had to sit because he was bad at it.
Jonathan was brought to the precinct and placed in a prison cell.
When someone asked what he did Jonathan said I’ll never tell.
Well, well, said a voice and Jonathan instantly knew who it was for dinner.
It was Shark-Devil, also known as Joseph Grant, Police Commissioner.

I’ll let you out if you will work for me, Joseph Grant said with a’
smirk.                                                                                              
Jonathan sneered, Two wrongs don’t make a right so that would not work.
Well then, I guess your days of being Dragon-Man are over and done.
When I am through with you, only in your dreams will you see the sun.
Don’t’ I get a phone call, I know my rights and I know you know them as well.
Shark-Devil tossed him a cell phone and said, Tell them you are going to hell!
Jonathan picked up the phone and said, Now we have Shark-Devil where we want him.
The only problem is the court case, and to get the Winged Fire Lance from Shark-Devil
They accused me of assault, false pretenses and 4 counts of conspiracy and embezzlement.
In came Shark-Devil, holding the Winged Fire-Lance with evil in his eye
So isn’t it ironic that the Fire-Lance you so desperately wanted will make you die.
No need to go before a judge to say that you will not testify, I’m not that kind of guy.
Drent was an idiot, his powers were almost abysmal and worthless.
I needed something  good who would serve my every purpose.
Jonathan looked at the Fire-Lance, it was so hot and the blade was double-edged.
He knew I had to do something quick, or else he was in trouble drenched.

That’s not irony it’s a paradox, Jonathan shouted as I fumbled with my watch.
Jonathan pressed a button and the Abyss Sword came into his hand to launch.
So now we will battle in jail, Shark-Devil sneered as he changed into his form.
That is no big deal to Dragon-Man because that was where he was born.
The Fire-Lance was a marvelous weapon, good for melee or to throw.
But it was not as good as the Abyss-Sword at the brute hacking blow.
Suddenly Dragon-Man gave Shark-Devil a mighty swing, and he fell down.
This is not the last thing you have seen me, Shark-Devil said as he left town.

Dragon-Man pressed his watch, and now he was Jonathan Maine, scarred.
But now he would have to answer to the disciplinary board to not get disbarred.
He picked up the Winged Fire Lance, and that now made his weapons and arsenal.
The Fire-Lance belongs to those who can use it, and use it then well.
Now the lawyer needs a lawyer, Jonathan said with a sigh.
One of the prisoners said to him, I think I know a guy.
Jonathan picked up the phone, the one call did not now apply
The voice on the other end said, Don’t worry, I’ll get the charges dropped.
Now Jonathan just has to sit until he can make bail and get this trial stopped.

Stanza 3-We Are the Dragon-Power.
The dinosaurs did not die out, the survivors became the Dragon Power.
They left for higher ground in the Arurian Tower.
They worked on the Abyss Sword, Winged Fire Lance, Nike Sling and Composti Bow on their grind.
Because they thought that the power that killed the dinosaurs would come a second time.
To succeed where the first time, they had failed.
But they could not leave the tower, they were jailed.
I, Jonathan Maine, stumbled on the Tower, but the weapons were not there.
That someone malevolent would take them was the worst of my fear.

Suddenly I heard a voice who said, We are the Dragon Power and you are chosen.
To become Dragon-Man, and fight against our enemy called the Drozen.
This adversary is also yours, but our weapons were stolen by various evil.
Now you must go on a journey to get this arsenal back, and save your people.
I asked them why they could not fight, and they said, We do not have a presence.
When the Drozen fired asteroids at Earth, he disembodied our essence.
We could make the weapons, but we could not use these instruments.
But we will give you the power of disembodiment as our influence.
And here is what your people called a watch, it will tap into the power of Dragon.
But do not talk about us, no posts on social media or bragging.
I was astounding, but I was glad to have such nice bling.
Now it was the time to save all of Earth and everything.

The Dragon Power warned, Drozen wants to destroy everything, even the darkness
You will have to fight the evil on Earth, but keep your eyes on the ultimate test.
I took the watch, and pressed it, and instantly I saw the Diablo-Robots
The Dragon said, the power of the sky-animals on Earth was transformed to throw shots.
Because the asteroids contained a powerful source called Warbeuite.
We took some of it and used it to make the weapons to fight for good and right.
I just had one more question, how do you speak English so fluently?
People would walk by our tower and have conversations beside the tower’s sea.
I took the watch and pressed another button, and suddenly I was at home.
Out in the day, unbeknownst to me, a powerful being was getting off his throne.

Set a course toward Earth, he said, because this earthling will ruin my plan.
I am going to finish now what I should have done in the beginning.
Master Drozen, we are on our way, the Diablo-Robot said with glee.
Little did I know the strongest force in the universe was coming to fight me.

Stanza 4- The Council of the Faceless Tongues.
Drozen stood before the Council of the Faceless Tongues, kneeled before them.
He was the Commander of the Numberless Clans, and knew his superiors.
The Prefector murmured, you said with great confidence Earth was dealt with.
The Dragon Power and Dragon-man proves that your speech was myth.
Drozen replied, My liege, I was conquering other worlds to isolate the Earth rock.
Because to allege that I cannot subdue little Earth would be the worst talk.
The Prefector sneered, Maybe we need the Legate to acquire this oceaned planet.
And send you to a realm that is more manageable as a colonized hamlet.
Drozen urged, Not at all my Lord, I will make sure that the deed is done.
And by the end of my warmonger, there will be no doubt who has won.
I don’t want any interference, just let me leave and give me clearance
You are the Council of the Faceless Tongues, and I bow to you tyrants.
The Prefector motioned, Very well prepare your Diablo-Robots and go vanquish.
But be warned that if you cannot conquer this Earth rock, you will be banished.
The Drozen left muttering, I must destroy this Dragon Power and Dragon Man.
As the Drozen teleported to the Alieno-Mechanism, he called on the Numberless Clans.
Dragon-Man on Earth felt uneasy, he knew someone was coming in defiance.
But he could not face this threat alone, Dragon-Man knew he would need an alliance.
The Dragon Power told Dragon-Man, we must start to  form the Federation.
Drozen is on his way, and is coming to destroy by annihilation.
Stanza-The Gloryless Cause
As Dragon-Man he knew he had to find the Lady of the Night
Because she would vital for the Federation’s ultimate fight.
The only problem was that Dragon-Man did not know where to locate her.
He went to his house and thought, The search can continue later.
Suddenly the light turned on, and the Lady of the Night was there frowning.
So you would be in this fight without me after I rescued you, she said hounding.
Dragon-Man looked closer and saw that she was only clowning.
You know that I could not fight without you, Dragon-Man said with a grin.
And the best part is, you already are armed with your own weapon.
Lady of the Night observed, But there are two other weapons, and you have one hand.
Dragon-Man replied, I will recruit others for this Gloryless Cause but I will be in command.
Because this Gloryless cause needs the Oathed Sacrifice to fight.

I'll take on this burden to save, Drozen wants to put out the light.
Lady of the Night said, We can use the Paroah chariot as our battlecraft ride.
Dragon-Man wondered how the Paroah chariot would work with a fighting team inside.
Suddenly they were in the Dragon Tower, and the Dragon Power said we have to say.
That your collective powers together form the Nova Knighthood Way.
The Federation is made up of various Knighthoods to fight against this dire day.
The powers you have now are not enough to fight Drozen in his quest.
So we decided to fashion together a team that would have power to contest.      

Dragon-Man, you will be the Alpha Knight, and pilot the Isotrain Mechanism.
Lady of the Night, your power is the Beta Knight, you will be in charge of the Gem Prism.
But what about the rest of us, Dragon-Man asked the Dragon-Power with surprise.
You must search for them, and remember, you cannot rely on just your eyes.
Dragon-Man woke up in his room, and sighed because he had a hearing.
It was at the end of the day, so when he went to work he knew Joe  would be jeering.
As Dragon-Man drove to work, he thought that he had forgot something.
Little did he know that an entity was not there, but it was coming.

Stanza 5-I will bring the War to Drozen
Dragon-Man took the letter from the mailbox and opened it.
When he saw who wrote it, he gasped and had a fit.
It was Drozen, who said I will bring to you The War
On a level your Earthlings have never known before.
You might have the Isotrain Mechanism but I have a machine
No use trying to wake up, because this is not a dream.
Dragon-Man crumpled the letter up and threw it away.
He knew that he had to be ready to fight right now today.
He contacted Lady of the Night on his Galvalar watch.
And told her to get here as soon as possible to this spot.
She came and Dragon-Man prepared to get the Isotrain Mechanism.
Lady of the Night protested, The rest of the team isn’t here or risen.
I hope you would get reinforcements and rethink your decision.
Dragon-Man said, With the Isotrain Mechanism, I will take the war to he
Search for Drozen across the worlds and bring battle to make us free.
The Iso-train Mechanism came, Dragon-Man put the Abyss Sword in the Damocles Stone.
It roared to life, and Dragon-Man proclaimed, Drozen would wish he left us alone!
Lady of the Night parked her Paroah Chariot in it, and now they were ready.
With the Isotrain Mechanism and the Nova Knighthood, the Federation is deadly.
Lady of the Night took the Elysian Scabbard, this would help to ward off injury.
They searched the skies with the Spacecraft scope, looking for their enemy.
Suddenly Lady of the Night screamed, Look at that light headed right towards us.
Dragon-Man turned on the Isotrain Mechanism and said, Engage Supernova rockets full ******!
Drozen and Dragon-Man are on a collision course, the universe will bear this battle’s brunt.
Little did Dragon-Man know, one of the Dragon Power was working for the Faceless Tongues.

Stanza 6- When our Paths Cross Again, Drozen will meet the Hades-Grasp.
The Isotrain Mechanism was getting ready to go take flight.
When a voice cried out, Don’t leave yet you need me for this fight.
Who are you, Lady of the Night cried, and how do I know I can trust?
What about me, Dragon-Man protested, and Lady of the Night said it’s not you it’s us.
I am the Breastplate-Bearer and it is my life’s fulfillment to be the Delta Knight too.
Because Drozen is coming after all of us and what we love, it is not just you.
I carry the Breastplates for all the Knights of the Federation to carry.
So we must be going on our way soon, we cannot stop or tarry.
Because The War will be the event that will define our generation.
And it for this reason that we are all warrior-soldiers in this Federation.

Dragon-Man said, You speak like one who knows war and does skirmish
Bring the Breastplates to the Isotrain Mechanism so it can be furnished.
Breastplate-Bearer also said, I have a Space-craft Vehicle ready to conquer.
Dragon Man replied, We fight to win, but we carry the battle with honor.
You can handle the Lifeforce-Seeking Missiles as your job on the team.
Suddenly Lady of the Night let out a primal, unladylike hell-scream.

A woman was lying on the ground, and she looked so close to becoming a vegetable.
We need to rebuild her, said Breastplate-Bearer, because she looks so dead and still.
There is no time for chivalry, warned Dragon-Man, and she is too delicate to dismantle.
Lady of th

/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
swings...
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
nontheless...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
ghosts...
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
     nostalgia...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
nonchalance...
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
autistism...
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
norm.

.some people throw this phrase a lot... how people people have no, "internal" voice, how their thinking is not elaborate in terms of an "audible" narrative... i propose an alternative... given the original Freudian trinity... if the ego is the unit of what consciousness constructs... then the id is the unit of what the unconscious deconstructs: to arrive at an ego... what i've experienced is an automation, which could explain why i dream so little, and so rarely... my ego became "silent"... i still "think", by heart still has a a heartbeat which i cannot regulate... but my cognitive "silencing" is due to... my ego having evaporated, and its "non-existence" has become known to the unconscious... and the id has taken over... and the id? in the realm of consciousness? it's precisely what i've experienced: its silence... considering that the id orientates itself in the unconscious in terms of images, dreams are the respective thoughts of the id, when compared to the ego... i am dispossessed of the ego, or rather the ego's "audibility" - it would appear i am conscious of the id outside the originate realm of the unconscious, which would explain my primitive dreams, or lack thereof... if the ego is the 1 within the confines of consciousness, while the id is the 0 within the same confines... then the id is the 1 within the confines of the unconscious, and the ego is 0 within the same confines... hence? along the Kantian lines, 0 = negation, 1 would therefore equal: affirmation... well then... the following equations as explanations:

    ego = 1        in consciousness: "audible" cognition,
              a "voice" / a "soul"...
   ego = 1 in        the unconscious,
                                       "non-cinematic" dreaming,
a direction, a purpose,
                         an avoidance of nightmarish
voodoo dreams... all fairies and unicorns...
   changing the rhythm of the heart,
or thus empowered, subsequently?! really?!

id = 1 in consciousness,
    whatever "audible cognition" implies at
this point...
well... more a disembodiment or, re-embodiment,
thinking is no longer, "audible",
but shrapnel, it requires an external
"*****" of architectural prospects...
a blank page will do, with two idle hands
in support...

id = 1 in the unconscious...
                  a pristine hierarchy of organs
being, what they are: clocks...
and perfectly dreaming...
with / without exhausting the day-dream
imagination faculty of...
what all day-dreams are:
    a desire to return to the dream-state...

ego = 0 in consciousness
    id = 1 in the unconscious
   (you're actually enforcing a state
of non-thought, perhaps meditating)...

          ego = 1 in consciousness
id = 0 in the unconscious...
            (chances are you're daydreaming...
gagging for something akin to
an L.S.D. trip...
        since there's no one to mention
the cohesion of the unconscious with
a present id, that isn't distracted
by the fetish of, "the one" in your consciousness...
well... what do you expect?
                             maybe this is difficult
to muster... the rudimentary schematics of
reducing it to a binary language whereby
a mere number hides what becomes
a transition of the id as the ego-consciousness...
and relegates the ego as the id-unconscious...
         isn't this what robotics is all about?
the subconscious is... nothing much...
the osmosis no-man's land...
        the membrane of this dynamic...
   sure... you can explore this dynamic...
and no... they're not banning free speech...
what they're banning is...
        the fear of a free speech that doesn't
entertain the practice of dialectics...
they're hunting down the sort of people...
who... echo chamber...
     this current wave of attacks on free speech
isn't an attack on free speech per se...
but the sort of free speech that either:
doesn't "force" people to shut up...
or... doesn't propagate the practice of dialectics.


clearly some men do not love music
much...
clearly some men do not have
to endure their own company,
clearly some men did not have
to endure playing on their own,
clearly some men have never had
an experience with the religiosity
of monks...
clearly some men have never spent
a week or so in a resort like Taizé...
clearly some men prefer to play
an existential poker...
    but as the monks at
the Magdeburg Castle figured out...
just one public house will not hurt
anyone... by the way?
did you know that the original
was not built from red bricks?
gray-white bricks...
like a ghostly barricade of laments
and towing chains shadows...
the longest relationship i was in
lasted for a few months...
it was hell at the end of it...
  so i stopped looking...
   i had no existentialist Darwinism
argument going for me...
and... well... it's pretty hard
to be senile and impotent
when intimidated by a precursor
of about 9 prostitutes sitting
in the waiting room,
having the audacity to ask one
of them: can one of you chose me?
being replied:
you can't do that...
with the counter: oh... you're
talkative... come on...
let's make this coming
a New Year's fireworks display
on the Thames...
   what?!
   needing a conversation partner?
last time i've heard...
was... the best conversation spar
you'll ever have...
is when your ego stops
pretending it "thinks"...
      the ego does as much thinking
as the id hides behind
the unconscious
mechanical perfection of the heartbeat!
****!
          honestly...
once i'm being fed new music by
someone like jools holland,
and the ***** / whiskey keeps flowing?
why would i subject a woman
to something my grandmother
would call a misery challenged
by hell, which she describes my
uncle's life as, whenever he shackled down
to a brief relationship status?
senile? infertile?
    oh i'm pretty sure my genetic
analogue is going to prosper...
   i'm checking out...
           as a child i was forced
to eat raw garlic to help me recovering
from a cold...
         this, current, ****?
i'm eating none of it...
             i'll be asking Satan for a slice
of pork...
   given it's the new, forbidden
"fruit"...
               shove it down my mouth
or feed it through my ***...
whatever...
                   when i loved women,
i loved women...
       but...
           ever, by accident,
eat a bay leaf?!
         i can do sour, i can do sweet
in whatever excess...
salty... well... just get some sea water
through your nose...
but bitter?!
   can't stomach that ****...
a statement akin to:
no offense is not really going
to work here...
                  i tried to figure why
being alone didn't intimidate me,
why i was alone,
but not lonely...
   and i figured...
  for what i write?
    i'm pretty much cognitively
impaired...
    i'm pretty much worth
the sinking / drowning sensation
of a watermelon lodged into
a puddle of rain with a depth of
half an inch.

Chapter 1- The Saga of the Dragon-Power and Federation Battlefare
Stanza 1-Lady of the Night
You’re such a parcel, but not much of a marvel, you lack a price
But that is good because now we have the Oathed Sacrifice!
Such was the words when Dragon-Man stood before his main foe.
He dare not think what types of devices Drent had for pain though.
Dragon-man was taken off the Lynxian Road and it was a horror soon.
I was watching with my cousins one of the last of the Saturday morning cartoons.
My cousins watched for more, I had already seen it all twenty years before.
I was just shocked that they would show Dragon-Man to Generation Y
Dragon-Man looked to me now like one of those ventilation guys.
I could see Dragon-Man smiling, and I knew exactly what that smile meant.
Because he needed the Composi crossbow, and he could only get it from vile Drent.
The arrows were like missiles that sought out and broke down the body.
It was the type of weapon so strong, it was almost ungodly.

The Abyss-Sword, tell me what does it feel like to be killed by your own weapon.
Dragon-Man replied with a smirk, I don’t know you tell me, and got to steppin.
He reached for the Composi crossbow, but it was snatched away by a Brackti Guard.
**** him with the full arsenal we have, and make sure his death is especially hard.
It is amazing that Dragon-Man could withstand such an onslaught.
He cannot stand up against it for long, with such brawn brought.
Some of the firepower gets close, Dragon-Man might not survive for long.
What manner of man can withstand such a powerful throng?
Suddenly, there is a noise, and all of the Brackti Guard fall dead.
Drent you might have to sacrifice yourself, said a voice that they all dread.
Beside all of them were gleaming bullets, which had a hole in them but were filled with lead.
It was the Lady of the Night, who came in with the Nike sling.
This weaponry was fierce and devoured enemies and their everything.
It also  made a hellish noise when it fired Byzantine bullets, nothing could stand in its path.
Drent suddenly disappeared because with the both of them, his death would be the aftermath.
You forgot your cross-bow, she said as she gave it to him with a smile.
What took you so long, Dragon-Man asked, I was waiting all this while.
You forget it takes long to reach you when you put yourself in trouble.
At least be happy I turned the Brackti Guard into pebbles of rubble.
Dragon-Man looked at the Composti cross-bow and this was good weaponry.
If he saw Drent it would be the last time Drent ever stepped to he.
Let’s go, I got the Paroah chariot, there is no time to waste here.
Drent probably went back to regroup inside of his lair.
Dragon-Man climbed inside the chariot and said “I will drive.
The Lady of the Night replied, I got it, because I want to survive.
They drove the chariot away, and Dragon-Man got back to his place
Little did he know that waiting for him was a criminal court case.

Stanza 2-Dragon-Man’s Advocate
Dragon-Man went back to his home, he did not have a chance
To take back from Shark-Devil the Winged- Fire-Lance.
The next day, he got dressed and went to the building.
They say work is supposed to be the epitome of fulfillment.
See, Dragon-Man’s alter-ego was Jonathan Maine, Esquire.
This is what he would do if he ever had to retire.
But when he got to his desk, there were police all around.
Who told him to get down on the floor and put hands on the ground.
Jonathan never thought this would happen, a lawyer needs an advocate.
He was mad as **** but knew that he had to sit because he was bad at it.
Jonathan was brought to the precinct and placed in a prison cell.
When someone asked what he did Jonathan said I’ll never tell.
Well, well, said a voice and Jonathan instantly knew who it was for dinner.
It was Shark-Devil, also known as Joseph Grant, Police Commissioner.

I’ll let you out if you will work for me, Joseph Grant said with a’
smirk.                                                                                              
Jonathan sneered, Two wrongs don’t make a right so that would not work.
Well then, I guess your days of being Dragon-Man are over and done.
When I am through with you, only in your dreams will you see the sun.
Don’t’ I get a phone call, I know my rights and I know you know them as well.
Shark-Devil tossed him a cell phone and said, Tell them you are going to hell!
Jonathan picked up the phone and said, Now we have Shark-Devil where we want him.
The only problem is the court case, and to get the Winged Fire Lance from Shark-Devil
They accused me of assault, false pretenses and 4 counts of conspiracy and embezzlement.
In came Shark-Devil, holding the Winged Fire-Lance with evil in his eye
So isn’t it ironic that the Fire-Lance you so desperately wanted will make you die.
No need to go before a judge to say that you will not testify, I’m not that kind of guy.
Drent was an idiot, his powers were almost abysmal and worthless.
I needed something  good who would serve my every purpose.
Jonathan looked at the Fire-Lance, it was so hot and the blade was double-edged.
He knew I had to do something quick, or else he was in trouble drenched.

That’s not irony it’s a paradox, Jonathan shouted as I fumbled with my watch.
Jonathan pressed a button and the Abyss Sword came into his hand to launch.
So now we will battle in jail, Shark-Devil sneered as he changed into his form.
That is no big deal to Dragon-Man because that was where he was born.
The Fire-Lance was a marvelous weapon, good for melee or to throw.
But it was not as good as the Abyss-Sword at the brute hacking blow.
Suddenly Dragon-Man gave Shark-Devil a mighty swing, and he fell down.
This is not the last thing you have seen me, Shark-Devil said as he left town.

Dragon-Man pressed his watch, and now he was Jonathan Maine, scarred.
But now he would have to answer to the disciplinary board to not get disbarred.
He picked up the Winged Fire Lance, and that now made his weapons and arsenal.
The Fire-Lance belongs to those who can use it, and use it then well.
Now the lawyer needs a lawyer, Jonathan said with a sigh.
One of the prisoners said to him, I think I know a guy.
Jonathan picked up the phone, the one call did not now apply
The voice on the other end said, Don’t worry, I’ll get the charges dropped.
Now Jonathan just has to sit until he can make bail and get this trial stopped.

Stanza 3-We Are the Dragon-Power.
The dinosaurs did not die out, the survivors became the Dragon Power.
They left for higher ground in the Arurian Tower.
They worked on the Abyss Sword, Winged Fire Lance, Nike Sling and Composti Bow on their grind.
Because they thought that the power that killed the dinosaurs would come a second time.
To succeed where the first time, they had failed.
But they could not leave the tower, they were jailed.
I, Jonathan Maine, stumbled on the Tower, but the weapons were not there.
That someone malevolent would take them was the worst of my fear.

Suddenly I heard a voice who said, We are the Dragon Power and you are chosen.
To become Dragon-Man, and fight against our enemy called the Drozen.
This adversary is also yours, but our weapons were stolen by various evil.
Now you must go on a journey to get this arsenal back, and save your people.
I asked them why they could not fight, and they said, We do not have a presence.
When the Drozen fired asteroids at Earth, he disembodied our essence.
We could make the weapons, but we could not use these instruments.
But we will give you the power of disembodiment as our influence.
And here is what your people called a watch, it will tap into the power of Dragon.
But do not talk about us, no posts on social media or bragging.
I was astounding, but I was glad to have such nice bling.
Now it was the time to save all of Earth and everything.

The Dragon Power warned, Drozen wants to destroy everything, even the darkness
You will have to fight the evil on Earth, but keep your eyes on the ultimate test.
I took the watch, and pressed it, and instantly I saw the Diablo-Robots
The Dragon said, the power of the sky-animals on Earth was transformed to throw shots.
Because the asteroids contained a powerful source called Warbeuite.
We took some of it and used it to make the weapons to fight for good and right.
I just had one more question, how do you speak English so fluently?
People would walk by our tower and have conversations beside the tower’s sea.
I took the watch and pressed another button, and suddenly I was at home.
Out in the day, unbeknownst to me, a powerful being was getting off his throne.

Set a course toward Earth, he said, because this earthling will ruin my plan.
I am going to finish now what I should have done in the beginning.
Master Drozen, we are on our way, the Diablo-Robot said with glee.
Little did I know the strongest force in the universe was coming to fight me.

Stanza 4- The Council of the Faceless Tongues.
Drozen stood before the Council of the Faceless Tongues, kneeled before them.
He was the Commander of the Numberless Clans, and knew his superiors.
The Prefector murmured, you said with great confidence Earth was dealt with.
The Dragon Power and Dragon-man proves that your speech was myth.
Drozen replied, My liege, I was conquering other worlds to isolate the Earth rock.
Because to allege that I cannot subdue little Earth would be the worst talk.
The Prefector sneered, Maybe we need the Legate to acquire this oceaned planet.
And send you to a realm that is more manageable as a colonized hamlet.
Drozen urged, Not at all my Lord, I will make sure that the deed is done.
And by the end of my warmonger, there will be no doubt who has won.
I don’t want any interference, just let me leave and give me clearance
You are the Council of the Faceless Tongues, and I bow to you tyrants.
The Prefector motioned, Very well prepare your Diablo-Robots and go vanquish.
But be warned that if you cannot conquer this Earth rock, you will be banished.
The Drozen left muttering, I must destroy this Dragon Power and Dragon Man.
As the Drozen teleported to the Alieno-Mechanism, he called on the Numberless Clans.
Dragon-Man on Earth felt uneasy, he knew someone was coming in defiance.
But he could not face this threat alone, Dragon-Man knew he would need an alliance.
The Dragon Power told Dragon-Man, we must start to  form the Federation.
Drozen is on his way, and is coming to destroy by annihilation.
Stanza-The Gloryless Cause
As Dragon-Man he knew he had to find the Lady of the Night
Because she would vital for the Federation’s ultimate fight.
The only problem was that Dragon-Man did not know where to locate her.
He went to his house and thought, The search can continue later.
Suddenly the light turned on, and the Lady of the Night was there frowning.
So you would be in this fight without me after I rescued you, she said hounding.
Dragon-Man looked closer and saw that she was only clowning.
You know that I could not fight without you, Dragon-Man said with a grin.
And the best part is, you already are armed with your own weapon.
Lady of the Night observed, But there are two other weapons, and you have one hand.
Dragon-Man replied, I will recruit others for this Gloryless Cause but I will be in command.
Because this Gloryless cause needs the Oathed Sacrifice to fight.

I'll take on this burden to save, Drozen wants to put out the light.
Lady of the Night said, We can use the Paroah chariot as our battlecraft ride.
Dragon-Man wondered how the Paroah chariot would work with a fighting team inside.
Suddenly they were in the Dragon Tower, and the Dragon Power said we have to say.
That your collective powers together form the Nova Knighthood Way.
The Federation is made up of various Knighthoods to fight against this dire day.
The powers you have now are not enough to fight Drozen in his quest.
So we decided to fashion together a team that would have power to contest.      

Dragon-Man, you will be the Alpha Knight, and pilot the Isotrain Mechanism.
Lady of the Night, your power is the Beta Knight, you will be in charge of the Gem Prism.
But what about the rest of us, Dragon-Man asked the Dragon-Power with surprise.
You must search for them, and remember, you cannot rely on just your eyes.
Dragon-Man woke up in his room, and sighed because he had a hearing.
It was at the end of the day, so when he went to work he knew Joe  would be jeering.
As Dragon-Man drove to work, he thought that he had forgot something.
Little did he know that an entity was not there, but it was coming.

Stanza 5-I will bring the War to Drozen
Dragon-Man took the letter from the mailbox and opened it.
When he saw who wrote it, he gasped and had a fit.
It was Drozen, who said I will bring to you The War
On a level your Earthlings have never known before.
You might have the Isotrain Mechanism but I have a machine
No use trying to wake up, because this is not a dream.
Dragon-Man crumpled the letter up and threw it away.
He knew that he had to be ready to fight right now today.
He contacted Lady of the Night on his Galvalar watch.
And told her to get here as soon as possible to this spot.
She came and Dragon-Man prepared to get the Isotrain Mechanism.
Lady of the Night protested, The rest of the team isn’t here or risen.
I hope you would get reinforcements and rethink your decision.
Dragon-Man said, With the Isotrain Mechanism, I will take the war to he
Search for Drozen across the worlds and bring battle to make us free.
The Iso-train Mechanism came, Dragon-Man put the Abyss Sword in the Damocles Stone.
It roared to life, and Dragon-Man proclaimed, Drozen would wish he left us alone!
Lady of the Night parked her Paroah Chariot in it, and now they were ready.
With the Isotrain Mechanism and the Nova Knighthood, the Federation is deadly.
Lady of the Night took the Elysian Scabbard, this would help to ward off injury.
They searched the skies with the Spacecraft scope, looking for their enemy.
Suddenly Lady of the Night screamed, Look at that light headed right towards us.
Dragon-Man turned on the Isotrain Mechanism and said, Engage Supernova rockets full ******!
Drozen and Dragon-Man are on a collision course, the universe will bear this battle’s brunt.
Little did Dragon-Man know, one of the Dragon Power was working for the Faceless Tongues.

Stanza 6- When our Paths Cross Again, Drozen will meet the Hades-Grasp.
The Isotrain Mechanism was getting ready to go take flight.
When a voice cried out, Don’t leave yet you need me for this fight.
Who are you, Lady of the Night cried, and how do I know I can trust?
What about me, Dragon-Man protested, and Lady of the Night said it’s not you it’s us.
I am the Breastplate-Bearer and it is my life’s fulfillment to be the Delta Knight too.
Because Drozen is coming after all of us and what we love, it is not just you.
I carry the Breastplates for all the Knights of the Federation to carry.
So we must be going on our way soon, we cannot stop or tarry.
Because The War will be the event that will define our generation.
And it for this reason that we are all warrior-soldiers in this Federation.

Dragon-Man said, You speak like one who knows war and does skirmish
Bring the Breastplates to the Isotrain Mechanism so it can be furnished.
Breastplate-Bearer also said, I have a Space-craft Vehicle ready to conquer.
Dragon Man replied, We fight to win, but we carry the battle with honor.
You can handle the Lifeforce-Seeking Missiles as your job on the team.
Suddenly Lady of the Night let out a primal, unladylike hell-scream.

A woman was lying on the ground, and she looked so close to becoming a vegetable.
We need to rebuild her, said Breastplate-Bearer, because she looks so dead and still.
There is no time for chivalry, warned Dragon-Man, and she is too delicate to dismantle.
Lady of th

with ego as foetus:
    i do get a chance to give birth
to a thought,
  notably a minor critique,
or, rather, digression from a
newspaper article...

all this posturing and lying
deserves a mundane truth,
   one that doesn't even
register on scaling historical
events: as ever having
happened...

             an article by
julia llewellyn smith (welsh
roots, i gather?)
               on a book by
        emma koenig -
           moan: anonymous essays
on female *******...

come to think of it:
   i always held a suspicion with
regards to this bounty...
  i never could envision
the sort of male ****** with
trust involved...
      
  once with a ******* i ate
mine, ******* and remained
silent...
           a sensation that could
only be replicated with
what brother zygfryd de löwe
  experienced, looking up
at a hanging noose on
a titilated by the wind hallow
tree...

       ever wake up with
an auditory hallucination?
          simply with the word
uchyl?
            namely - pry open
a door?
          only today i "think"
i dreamed of reading
the book of Job, and standing
before a blackboard
   with a rubric that read,
something along the lines of

- - - - + - - - | + + - + + + + +
- + + - - - - - | + + + + + - - -
- - + - - - - - | + + + + - - + +
- - + + - - + - | - + + - + + - +
- - + - - - - + | + - + - + - + -
- + - + - + - - | + - - - + + - +
+ - + - - - - + | + - + + + + - +
- - - - + + - - | + - - + + + - -

i can't say that's "verbatim",
but it merely represents
the excavation of a dream
where + / - were used...

         and a recurrent thought:
cognitive narcissism...
   **** mirror...
        apparently i'm the most
fascinating person on
the earth,
         although i know that's
a cheap thrill delusion...
          since i'm no magician:
it's a mirror womb,
   like any madman appears
to have fathomed....

but i was suspicious of
the female ****** for a while,
this... acting in the bedroom...
this, supposed clarity
vector for the impetus that
guides man...

             having taken "advice"
from an ukranian,
then a romanian *******...
      i remember vaguely:
did i just pay for a kiss?

      winners! and losers...
who are to mind
   the gravity of the plateau?
can't tell them apart...

****** her 7 hours straight
once, in St. Petersburg
just before i was to fly out,
and...
      you say she faked those
pseudo-epileptic spasms
mostly resonating at the altar
of her feet?

   i've had 3 pseudo-epileptic
spasms in my time...
the clenched jaw imitating
the crocodile macht...
     the gut-wrench:
supra-indigestion sensation,
and then the jitters...
  cold-sweat...
         a second birth...
the slain strobe body...
        a persistent vagueness
of the performance of
blinking...
                   pain like
              a disembodiment...
a death: with a near-life
experience...
         an agitated maggot
on the tip of a human finger,
rather than a fishing hook...

custard pie...
     yummy, eh?
    
  well... if no ******,
                            why not pain?
could just imagine the sensation,
thrill, and the Ural wind...
         beating me to the gallop,
like some...
                   forgotten smile,
laboured from a face with
    missing features...
               like the kind of tenderness
a womb is given
to superimpose
               the fraility of a flower...

how chunks of meat
can be cooked with attention...
slowly,
   as to not craft a makeshift
   McDonald charring scars...
of a... fast.

    so you're telling me
that through those 7 hours that
began with a **** me
sunset, to a ******* sunrise,
the pseudo-epileptic spasms,
were, fake?!

        mind you: it's hard to fake
a spasm...
                  not in the way i described
it,
        some nights after my first,
aged 14+, i used to fear falling
alseep with clenched teeth,
considering the fact that my first
spasm was
                   propagated by
a clenching of the teeth...
        i authentically feared clenching
my teeth...
      reminding me of the electric
potency of a worm, moving
down my spine like authentic
mandarin writing...

                     but faking an ******?
man will only know,
if he eats his up with a grain
of silence...
                  if all is thespian:
                                 then all is not...

justice already hangs in
the satanic compedium of affairs,
"apparently" justified
with man's latter fall:
             and you will not know,
the difference between good,
and evil,
       having miscarried the extremes
of a blatant index execution,
with...

             a ******* thesaurus!
minor-noun subordinates and,
lumbering excuses to play:
                   hide & seek once more;
although now?
      ******* off a few people
along the way.

the english: can't ******* hark,
can't ******* trill... the ****, can they do?!
   |ch| is not cheap...
                       couldn't laugh
even if i wanted you to.
       yeah: the "missing" O...

    so why bother with Hollywood,
if you have a Medussa's worth
of an actress, lazily occupying a bedroom?
    
i already said: i was and am,
       suspicious of the female ******...
till i became suspicious of mine...
    and: hardly lost it...
               hid it... in the ecstasy of
the drunk's laughter...

                 and the winner is!
twice removed actress
                     bulging in cushions like
a bloated tarantula...
                   considering the ape...
who is to tell me i'm not right
in borrowing the "metaphor"
      of equating women with a mantis?

too much seems to be borrowed
from animals
in the english speaking world,
  to further an investigation of being
human,
         too much has become
of the deranged, zoological tiger,
writing out a lemniscate
    to appease the democratic
continuum of:
             the tiger isn't adored...
                but the cage, certainly is.
              
a female ******... huh...
                  pseudo-epileptic spasms?
and this article?
plain outright lying,
   i never imagined people gambling
                                               with lies,
    but then again:
     i'll become, less naive,
on the day of my death...
  my pontius pilate hour of:
          you couldn't exactly ask
for a Parisian waiter to tell
me the secret of high-chin, long-nose
*******?
            who cares about lobsters?!
                   mind the Parisian waiter!

Paris: it's not exactly an excuse
       being Croat, speaking English in Paris,
missed opportunity though,
   je-b'a-n'ah      ku-r-v'ah              ma-ć!

and the winner! is?
           Zeus and Hera once debated
which *** derives more pleasure from ***...
but that, a woman,
   deviates from ******, altogether?
         and the man,
      becomes a seagull chick,
fed regurgitated ******* all the time?
   you can't fake pseudo-epileptic
spasms...
                
                  and i know what is and what
isn't considered a finality of
paying for an hour with a prozzie...
    considering the fact that you,
actually know what you're paying for,
when she's not being paid to
act the: pinnacle role...

               well: it was either to go and
see a priest, or a psychiatrist...
    but evidently the ******* knew
better... on how to educate me in
the art of: sifting journalism-on-saturday
diatribe...

                you almost want an
introduction of the concept of a sabbath
to journalism...
      
   but the missing O?
             leaving a man so gullible,
or rather:
                    i could buy into the fact
that i have a replica to "mind"...
   but being rejected from being
able to give, rather than receive pleasure?

she said it herself:
   a rare quality, for a man to mind
giving, rather than receiving pleasure...

to be left in a perpetual doubt,
                     is akin to being denied,
        which is hardly a happy phallus...
i like your supposed
   *liberators"...
                       looks like the "excesses"
of skin prior to circumcision have
a secondary purpose...
     christ, would you believe:
they can make a ******* out of that, thing?

Dragon-Man watched in horror as Vibrate readied her soldiers for war.
Such a force of arms was so formidable Dragon-Man had not seen before.
Suddenly Vibrate sniffed the air and said, I smell the hired gun of Dragon-Power.
Bring him to me alive so I can show him the destruction that is ours.
Dragon-Man prepared to teleport and Dialect grabbed his arm saying, We have to draw them out.
Here come with me, I can set up a perimeter and this is the best route.
They went through the forest, and Dragon-Man was holding his sore arm.
Hoping that Dialect was correct, and that his plan would prevent more harm.
Suddenly Dialect turned and said, Give me your Abyss Sword, it talks to her essence.
We can use it to send Vibrate an unforgivable and unforgettable message.
Dragon-Man stuck the Abyss Sword in the ground, and suddenly they could see through Vibrate’s eyes.
Dragon-Man was shocked at the pure evil coming from Vibrate’s life-force, she wanted only demise.

This is our last stand, Dialect murmured, and Dragon-Man urged, So we should go back to the others.
Dialect nodded and said, We must tell the Covenantial Project because he is Vibrate’s brother.
That thing has a sibling?! Dragon-Man asked in horror, They were a part of the Infinite Order
They were all in charge of the Manifest Blades, which were the Abyss, Templar, and Trifecta Swords.
Tyrus Animus reigned over all as the Chieftain Caesar of the Project Overlord.
The Covenantial Project was supposed to **** Vibrate but he failed so the Abyss Sword rejected him.
The Order broke up, because then the Covenantial Project was unworthy to fight Vibrate then.
Vibrate escaped, and Tyrus Animus told the Covenantial Project there was one way to redeem.
There must be a Federation formed with the Dragon-Power to battle Vibrate’s schemes.
Then the Abyss Sword went down to the Earth and the Dragon-Power examined its contents.
And used the Midas Template to make the Federation Weapons with their last disembodiment.
Dragon-Man was shocked, because this was the origin of the Federation.
But he dare not ask how Vibrate was related to Shark-Devil and Drozen.
Dialect took the Abyss Sword out of the ground and said, You are a part of this Order now.
Because you were not just chosen to be the Alliance Project to take Vibrate’s place, you were endowed.
So kneel before a former Faceless Tongue, and accept your incoming destiny first.
Dragon-Man accepted this sword with gratitude, knowing he would save this universe.

Vibrate angrily shook her head and said, Someone is tampering with my sight in my head.
Whoever is so insolent to use tricks to do this, I want him and his world dead.
Dragon-Man took the Abyss Sword, touched it and got back to Message and the rest.
He stood there gasping, as the Intellic Armor covered his being right through to his chest.
The Abyss Sword also transformed, and had a javelin, blade, and fireweapon capability.
It was just the sort of instrument to play Vibrate’s demise and do it readily.
Where is the Chietain Caesar, Dragon-Man asked, and Message asked, We don’t even know he exists.
But if he does we would badly need him for a fight on a godforsaken rock like this.
The Covenantial Project lowered his head, knowing he failed where Dragon-Man had prevailed.
But as a fellow member of Project Overlord, he had to help Dragon-Man in this tale.
Suddenly Dialect said, I hear something, it is the voice of evil that creeps in the shadows.
Message shouted to the Federation behind her, Brave manpeople, get ready for battle!
The Federation readied its Mechanisms for firing on who would dare invade.
The Covenantial Project and the Alliance Project each stepped forward with their blade.
The Covenantial Project wielded the Doctrinian Scythe that was ready made.
Suddenly Vibrate appeared to him in the midst and said, I was brought here by your bloodthirst.
And The Covenantial Project you cannot beat me, because you are cursed.
The Alliance Project shouted, Come down and fight us, or else hold your peace.
Vibrate walked in front of The Alliance Project and said, I have always wanted to see a Project deceased.
Suddenly her footsoldiers arrived, but they were shot down by the Federation Missiles.
Message looked grim in the face, and when Dialect raised his hand it became a crystal.
She raised the Celestial Blade Saber and Winged Fire-Lance to cut it off, as Dialect let out a cry.
He sank to his knees and Vibrate called out, I told you that who was in my head would have to die.
The Alliance Project switched his Abyss Sword to Javelin Mode, and threw it into Vibrate’s eye.
The crystals on Dialect’s hand broke, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
But the Battle of Paldon was upon them, one that they might not be able to leave.

The Scene and Sounds Invite


The mystery did Venus descend to a nightly wood invest her uncommonness upon the maiden fair she stood deathly still the moonlight
Turned her skin to porcelain white the black hooded cloak gave her the airy feel of disembodiment and then she moved it wasn’t steps
But a floating fluid motion across the glen timeless shadows she stirred into the mist she disappeared I will go back in this dream
For ever how long it takes till her hand I may take and with loves embolden voice I shall speak so tenderly the night air so brooding and
Heavy will easily bear its weight in the cradle of wonder she brought powers of the long ago chants amidst hoary frost the dark forest
Knows the call of sounds so deep only the deadly silence brings reverberation from a mere whisper a gasp would be the equivalent to
Thunder I seek not mortal treasure but loves essence never will it divide and scatter as dispersed light tinged in every single living
Expression how the heart swells as it dwells on delicacies forbidden to the casual visitor but come with a burning hunger for love
You will not know disappointment romance is in the tenderest shoot the tendril vine trembles with the slightest breeze it’s the portent
Of a mighty wind the heart and locks of a warrior has come into view love will wind and turn on its own path it will amaze lovers to no
End come and know private and secret dreams its breath blows in from coastal winds invigorates all before its march a song you will
Sing among all that is wild you are invited to play among Shakespearian hills and fields know uncommon heights carry new found
Knowledge over boundless seas to lands stooped in backward ways you will be their guide the crude and mundane you will over rule
With one taste of your freedom you will give them the path if taken will make them kings and builders of kingdoms

they say you will know
when you are dreaming
hands, clocks, mirrors
they say numbers will twist
letters will distort
an ugly tear will be ripped
across the fabric of space and time
but what if i avoid mirrors
what if i struggle with clocks
what if my fingers are always
too many, or too few
what if the material is torn ragged
and no matter how many times
i run my hands along it
i can always feel the stitches?

**** me in the 15th century, or the 19th,
i'm not going to be a fraction
culminating into an integer worthwhile counted,
while the english aristocracy of the polish one akin,
but whereas the latter sold the land,
the former sold the cities
with london in nigeria and elsewhere
with 500,000 pounds worth of square metres less than 100sqm in size
as was the gold in communism defined by state owned tag.
i think the two are twinned: the former sells off
the capital, the latter sells off the farms and borders;
one disappears literally, the other metaphorically.
you know what they say of the englishman:
well dressed but selling brick lane brick by brick
with jack and the many flamingo ******
giving the odd brick a crease of a chisel for some cheap dentistry.
i like me now, i don't want to be back here
in hindu talking about coordinating stars with copernicus,
or back here being nice. nice enough to publish a book.
take the greek into consideration talking about rivers
and the once chanced, because i'm hardly your
father reminiscent of the days before the radio;
all the while she spoke like a slav unto a slav,
with he slav, turning into a german
and she into a ***** -
because i have soul not simply a heartbeat and synapse and
the liver's digestion proceedings to take into consideration
calling it mechanism & disembodiment with itemisation of the body
looted for science - heart alone is no heart at all,
brain alone is no wavering thought engaged with.
but she said of a brother's death, and my heart said likewise:
a brother died truly in jealousy, because should love be spoken of,
there'd only be a crucifix to kiss for assurance.
i'll bring india to its knees due its care for tact -
and i'll shove the concept of reincarnation up its **** -
of course i'll have no book published,
but i'll not be reminiscent of an uncle allocating capricorn the same stature
of geometry of stars in autumn, because i'm sick of it!
too many western whites travelling to pluck a thought
from thousands of years of the priesthood of the ganges, "suddenly"
usurped from clinging to a population of the billionth remark
ready to instigate western society's complications of two point four and tax.
keep the white hippies wanting and the ageing indians serving curry
instead of theology! keep it that way!
i'll accept the existentialist dittoing method that way,
to use dittoing as an ambiguity of vectors intending travel
rather than dittoing finalisation of travel - without having travelled first,
of those words dittoed as finalisations of travel,
rather than dittoing the prior intention,
having only smeared a smirk of thought to
engage with such a word as god and not laughed to pull such a word
into the realm of i dittoing thought and thought dittoing i,
twinned to instil all other grammar not remnant but completely identifiable
with the external fingerprinting the emerald and speaking of the ruby
as if all coal was used for ink by sway of the crumbling charcoal dusted
onto the page - let us not ditto the words of finalisation,
but let us ditto the words of banality that lead to finalisation -
india and the ganges priesthood are where they are,
reincarnation is where it is,
we hardly need to ask for directions seeking the grecian river of once.

concrete flinging monkey that i am:
albeit albino -
tinged with himalayan salt hues...
   well this little detail of my working
limbs: concrete -
3 parts of sand 1 part  magic dust:
some water -
here's a dead-earth dough -
it's not a pizza it's not a pizza dipped
in caramel to be subsequently
deep-fried: it's not a scottish ingenuity
project for a heart-attack:
after all... a mars bar battered is missing...
oh my little edinburgh...
one of those nights and mornings:
having finished watching the matrix
trilogy and expanding on:
joys of 5am: being awake prior to
the cockerels shooting out their salutes
to the ***** of white noise and fat
on leaves glistening in: an abyss of a yawn -
the crags and st. arthur's seat:
big ******* volcano sleeping
in the middle of the town...
          such crispness of urban life...
the streets so devoid of noons and...
  buying that carton of cornflakes
      and some milk and enjoying a double
variation of crispness...
well concrete flinging monkey as i
were today: doodling my slow
in the garden... digging a trench for g.i. joe
soldiers in my take on world war I...
so the weeds (morning glory esp.) would
take to teasing its presence from my
neighbour's backyard...
  obviously there was a spider: a glutton
of a eye-fest... whether it was just finishing
its delight or...
           the moth: i guess it was a moth
had a missing head...
  so grand slurp champion was *******
all the details...
   i nudged it once, i nudged it twice...
that bulb of: bottomless pit torso that
probably arrives at secreting a web...
i nudged it once more...
nothing...
no nervous scuttling or having to parachute
onto a sponge of its exoskeleton...
i arrived at the posit: my little world
and my inquisitive lense of the microscope...
apparently a spider will not mind
being nudged by "the hand of god"
should it be eating a moth...
    hardly a lazy sod:
                  what's there to admire the a priori
argument:
   it's not like a spider learns
to become the architect of a web -
it's not like dogs learn to swim...
                     throw a dog in the deep end
and watch the gruff ruffian tread!
duck beast...
                    no... apparently you can try
and try to agitate a spider in the middle
of his meal... even after...
after the meal? the spider had to eat
up some cotton...
    like a bear might prior to undertaking
hibernation... to clog up the ****...
the spider started nibbling on some
of the web...
    and i guess they do that...
go hunting with a web:
                  at the opportune moment...
a day's worth at best to pass the time...
once the meal is over
they figured out to clog up the nutrients
with some of the web...
   can spiders take a ****...
but unlike agitating a hungry spider...
which will scuttle the moment it
is brushed with a tip of any sort...
this well fed specimen took things... lightly...
i could have... done...
the extension of "scrutiny":
buried the ubiquitous bulldozer of fangs
that concentrated on the guillotined
head of a moth in a dollop
of my concrete...
                       i just find it impossible
to **** moths... hell... some night
i'd a proud caricature of man in what
become a nursery -
            come sunrise i don't know whether
i am the graveyard
my mouth the last "search" for these...
        "refugees" from the torment of the night...
conversational overtones in this:
"poetry": it's not something to
make memory architecture of rhyme...
rhyme alone is not enough...
lyricism - i am not gorging on wishing
for a Keats replica...
that it might rhyme and be better
ingrained: a burning coal of fluid ink...
or that horrible alternative of: the haiku...
mash up: i write for the sake of not being
able to afford the paint the canvas
the brushes or the superstitious agony
of what's already preemptive in such
an undertaking...
                     but it's better tested:
      from this day's depth and its
eyes made most pertinent -
      (this shouldn't be hard...
all i have to look for is a -ent suffix
to match)
           toward some forever incessant...
my own limbo toying with body:
to later succumb to an anybody...
                lazily rhymed -
    lazily staged: for all the gold
of the leprechauns... k k k k koch:
                                  chasm and a miasma...
by god's sexless and the devil's
**** and furry *****...
   i want to rhymes...
i wants to rhymez...
               rhymez likes ping-pongs...
in another tongue:
the plural of echo: is not ecce for a cappuccino:
etch 'ere...
         crescendo bother: blues...
i forget there's painting involved...
no crisp solidified sounds:
   a tongue lapsing up a lisp and a labrador
cow-traffic of moo: st'...
                        from colour to a sound...
an alphabet ring-a-ding-ding...
in another tongue the plural of echo:
              ech...
                     not... m'eh... or eh... for an E...
which is first sung and later cited: eeee (longating)
e-ha!-o...
              not e.e.k.o.
                             prune juice fermenting
from drinking: god this brain this sponge...
spiders and spiders...
        spiders and spiders...
first inconvenience is also a staggering
remedy: failure on my part...
hangover from a love that lasted...
well... from april through to september...
           obviously impossible as i couldn't
just see the need to "pet" tarantulas...
           me and my fickle arachnophobia...
it's sometimes there: it's sometimes not there...
and "there"...
hell... if a louis zukofsky can play
the tender part of aristocratic verbiage:
here i come towing a guilty expansion
project: under the proposed guidelines
of: democracy... had i a tongue with
a sidewinding penny to boot...
that i might lisp or spit point blank
an empty fill: and... there would be an
academic career waiting for someone
as i might: provide... postmortem...
                 it's not an agony of
the overlooked...
it's just an agony of agony...
   for some per se pressure to peruse one's
own lack of detail...
to have to complicate the demands
of an audience as a...
  "back-up plan": B-project...
                         in seeking redemption:
or gravity -
   all i know is that i'm not a narrative
architect - i'm too poor to paint...
or rather: i have a photographic memory
and i'd rather make food that cezanne
wouldn't want to paint:
or debase by eating...
          could you paint still life
these days: no... not very: not really...
but i am not a journalist... either...
primarily so...
             i am a democrat on the level that
i would be happy to live
outside of plato's republic:
it's not like plato ever convinced that
figurehead of Syracuse...
                  so... spoilt eggs...
chicken strutting flamingos...
     red's an oopsie come blue and purple
is born...
that's not true...
green and yellow will yield blue...
fair enough...
               but as sure as death: i am...
big credit to punctuation as a revision
of: not anti-rhyme: but certainly not pro- it...
    because i'm constipated on this
type of exertion...
i want as much of the holy fire of lyricism
to burn a mark on the cinema of
memory...
   but... alas: here's my 2nd best take
on this not being tabloid journalism...
               - so how come everyone started
to write: cute?
i mean: if not a cute rhyme then...
some variation of the exasperated haiku?
  - sputnik...
           in sight a digression rubric...
it's the same idea:
   - sputnik
   - moon shards
    - elevations of comparisons
   to match up to a meteor crater with
a slice of apple crumble...
    - sound is most certainly not colour...
- could i call nouns primes:
  or numbers? odd... even...
             red elepahant 1 G
              blue sky 0 K
              horrible hat 9 pro
circus envy... esp. clown envy...
                        this couldn't possibly be...
tabloid journalism...
or "poetry"... it's how far democracy
allows itself the pursuit of: ideals
with a hint of veto... for the pardon
of the status quo hierarchy...
                 concrete flinging monkey...
- robert duncan: nee san francisco -
i write by eyes alone -
i neuter the sounds employed
to challenge like neither *** -
best unscripted and that...
       metaphor of metaphysics
                collage of misnomers -
at best...
                     having to sit with
a slab of lard on your head at noon -
       this least grammar this last exasperation...
a furniture of a "poem"...
an earthworm's guide / guise of the tongue...
wriggling away at the benign...
        postcards and a slick licking of
postage stamps...
                 i forget to pause: i pause...
i paint with this bothersome blood of ink...
the crisis at the revisited crux...
stale europe dying h'america...
                i have yet to read anything
i have written aloud...
   i have yet to read anything i have written
aloud...
i have yet to read anything
i have written aloud:
resonance...
                    revelation 13:5...
          the beast was given a mouth to utter
proud words and blasphemies and
               to exercise its authority
  (for forty-two months)...
time a forgotten space...
or at best: a concentrated suffice of it...
a most bearable 10am in september...
i'd like to think i can't be
exasperated... or i might just:
jest at overt-punctuation...
          - written as pure eyes and
a beethoven towing deaf-        -ness...
    too much of: jack of all trades...
- we once had a "pardon" of handwriting,
in that we once employed a quill
and a detail of ink -
but not now but not now
of this clicking machinery like
chickens' pecking grains or letters...
         spiders and spiders and all those
freelance romantics...
a democracy of language that can
escape a caging formality to the endearing
dear sir, kind regards essay / letter...
language in a tuxedo...
language of escapism...
that one might treat a watermelon
as driftwood... or the crucifix as such...
  - that this can be a language that cannot
be a mechanised slaughter -
  for a throw-away: a 20th century admiration
for some variation of the "up-to-date"...
i am having to diminish
the base of an argued for: carpenter...
by bone... by bone... by each...
carrying of the vowels without:
the pentagram soliloquy -
           that could only be a variation
of rhetoric without an eagering of an audience...
this ingrained son of sam
this glittering blood feud of nights...
a line of an exasperation...
and each and every akin to this "maxim"...
because this is not tabloid journalism...
and it's not because it's
a democratic avenue of would-be squalor...
my niche partitioning
between those literate and those:
hardening a candyfloss of tortures:
       born air: settled in a tomb of fire...
born water: settled in the double sediment
that's once a breathing air comb
into frets of grain...
and earthworm wriggling...
now cement... malicious albino ape jester:
my little evil at the passable concern for
salt and the himalayas...
in that i work on the worth of:
teasing clone i - not in english not in english:
but in english...
  in this... tongue that's a best
butchered body of... a scrutiny that's
almost a... verifying anatomy... best:
   brick by ******* stacked...
a harbour of anathema and dangling
posits of: walking-9-to-5 abortions...
            high cue: but otherwise there's always
a managing of a queue...
that's bottom brass and godhad grey...
with a tease of a concept of hair...
balding snow on tomorrow's mountain...
- that i never hear what i write...
that i see it...
            i see "it" borrowed from somewhere
that has to be revised and revisited and
so-forth backed up renewed into
a ******* Guggenheim... renewing:
          new yorker slang and formalities of
rent... and... shackled up with...
dirtying the shells of oysters with...
prior the lemon and the glug of
the slugging: a word for lessening tourism of
Penzance... or anywhere in south wales:
cornwall...
         i tried loving the russians...
i tried loving the russians...
but then i had a mirage of a girlfriend
that had to tame tarantulas and i was
an arachnophobic tease -
                 - that in poetry the narrator is "somehow"
not the protagonist...
disembodiment via a section by
section - this limit of a candle...
this the kidney... this the heart...
but a "polyphony" of chicken hearts
towed into a broth...
          that poetry doesn't allow
a narrator... that i want to pick out a mask...
and i want tabloid journalism to spew
out of me...
this little detail this grammatical
arithmetic - sound of A...
and the syllable tease of a consonant -
impromptu question:
              asked in between: "in between":
what is a consonant K...
then again: in borrowed rome:
KAY is not the greek kappa...
what is the nurture of over-naming
and what are synonyms?
                      layers upon layers and
this is not a purity of jargon-jesting...
spiders and spiders...
                    - such that i believe in the anonymity
of readers and how i don't expect
a comment section:
   that bukowski made poetry pop
for: a gary snyder admirer...
  
  or - how one hundred arrows were sharpened
on flesh: and were dimmed...
because to crown this crude
metal creed against a stone....
and had to make coagulation of
frothing bloom -
extracting pauses to make a living
with taking wheel:
              burning rubber and burning
kites...
             burning threads and shoelaces...
dissolving sugar into
caramel...             an oyster that became
a tongue.... and a tongue...
its uttermost silence that could be
wrapped up back into a clean
residue of: biting / nibbling
for a piano... because never at a...

           such is the concept of rhyme...
that one can beg for guillotines
to... supposedly... "end".

from latin: a letter i can see...
a word i can: lip-read!
               not this... vanguard
of sanskrit and the glagolitic.

translate the letter to a status of a number...
whole: holes...
from nothing the sieving project.

The mystery did Venus descend to a nightly wood invest her uncommonness upon the maiden fair she stood deathly still the moonlight
Turned her skin to porcelain white the black hooded cloak gave her the airy feel of disembodiment and then she moved it wasn’t steps
But a floating fluid motion across the glen timeless shadows she stirred into the mist she disappeared I will go back in this dream
For ever how long it takes till her hand I may take and with loves embolden voice I shall speak so tenderly the night air so brooding and
Heavy will easily bear its weight in the cradle of wonder she brought powers of the long ago chants amidst hoary frost the dark forest
Knows the call of sounds so deep only the deadly silence brings reverberation from a mere whisper a gasp would be the equivalent to
Thunder I seek not mortal treasure but loves essence never will it divide and scatter as dispersed light tinged in every single living
Expression how the heart swells as it dwells on delicacies forbidden to the casual visitor but come with a burning hunger for love
You will not know disappointment romance is in the tenderest shoot the tendril vine trembles with the slightest breeze it’s the portent
Of a mighty wind the heart and locks of a warrior has come into view love will wind and turn on its own path it will amaze lovers to no
End come and know private and secret dreams its breath blows in from coastal winds invigorates all before its march a song you will
Sing among all that is wild you are invited to play among Shakespearian hills and fields know uncommon heights carry new found
Knowledge over boundless seas to lands stooped in backward ways you will be their guide the crude and mundane you will over rule
With one taste of your freedom you will give them the path if taken will make them kings and builders of kingdoms

Face bookers try to ignore this

The mystery did Venus descend to a nightly wood invest her uncommonness upon the maiden fair she stood deathly still the moonlight
Turned her skin to porcelain white the black hooded cloak gave her the airy feel of disembodiment and then she moved it wasn’t steps
But a floating fluid motion across the glen timeless shadows she stirred into the mist she disappeared I will go back in this dream
For ever how long it takes till her hand I may take and with loves embolden voice I shall speak so tenderly the night air so brooding and
Heavy will easily bear its weight in the cradle of wonder she brought powers of the long ago chants amidst hoary frost the dark forest
Knows the call of sounds so deep only the deadly silence brings reverberation from a mere whisper a gasp would be the equivalent to
Thunder I seek not mortal treasure but loves essence never will it divide and scatter as dispersed light tinged in every single living
Expression how the heart swells as it dwells on delicacies forbidden to the casual visitor but come with a burning hunger for love
You will not know disappointment romance is in the tenderest shoot the tendril vine trembles with the slightest breeze it’s the portent
Of a mighty wind the heart and locks of a warrior has come into view love will wind and turn on its own path it will amaze lovers to no
End come and know private and secret dreams its breath blows in from coastal winds invigorates all before its march a song you will
Sing among all that is wild you are invited to play among Shakespearian hills and fields know uncommon heights carry new found
Knowledge over boundless seas to lands stooped in backward ways you will be their guide the crude and mundane you will over rule
With one taste of your freedom you will give them the path if taken will make them kings and builders of kingdoms

they say that 2000 years without Israel
will necessarily bleach your skin,
that ancient fable of the Mediterranean
olives, turning into haram pigmentation
that god forbade to eat:
     ask them: why so pale, so like us?
why are you so pale, brother?
                  too few of us have seen ghosts,
unless they be ghosts of our former selves.
everyday, people disappear with their
selfless acts - everyday: puff! gone.
i never write to entertain or distract,
i'm a non-oratory sort of guy,
i imagine myself like a larynx punching
bag that people speak into -
a persona non grata, but otherwise a
persona esse: that necessarily is.
grata... grata... grata... gratis means
free - i really don't have that vindictive
american woman, stay away from me
sort of attitude: one peg, two peg, three;
but i do like that ancient seemingly
under-used word - frajer -
whereas said in anglo: frayer -
or *******.       the whole bejesus
and           yacht debate asking for saintly
interludes in the general grime of ****
said, **** done - and of that inherent vice
in us? the part where the ants took to
the tarantula and impregnated themselves
with the venom: and turned on each other -
as any civilised thing ever could be.
          what's the difference between
blues and punk?
     an extra chord?      see me blink?
           white boy blues: punk -
three chords -            and so the Mongolian
horde hoarding skulls in Baghdad -
and that's me, sitting ever so lightly,
pretty orange like a peach: apathetic tongue
in the ivory bull terrier grip of a handshake -
a girl might have once said: with
the pulverising stare, he could sit on the pavement
and across the street a fox took to
goosebump nibbles, while a girl walked
past the fox and the fox didn't stir from the spot.
wet snare *****: that's what they called him -
but on top of all that: everyday, the world
crashes in: newspapers? i call them avalanches.
they have non-filter: condoms with a slit in
them - and every time she's gagging
for legislation into birth control,
the Chinese dicta has been revised,
     and she's thinking of honey honey feed
me homely snug and cuddle: scented lavender
candles on your way out, including
the autographs.
   i once claimed that the television is akin
to the Platonian anecdote of the cave -
       now i'm starting to realise it's the outdated
variation of a campfire:
               vatra: and soon our hushed
capacity to tell familiar stories -
once it was talk of whole bodies: now
dismemberment and disembodiment -
                         soon enough a *** or a Juan
in Spanish - soon too łen or when -
łej           or way - those are not: chiral twins.
from what i can remember i found it hard
forgetting my northern Swahili -
         ****** hard, i couldn't have that post-colonial
tattoo done on me -
            but it still haunts me,
how one man took apart the Pharisee Israel apart
and where people had coppery visage: dimmed
gold of the skin, and one has to compensate that
taking apart with his own ethnicity in a biographic
similitude - been there, done that,
off the Unesco map for a century or two,
a Napoleonic haven sort of bollocking,
       **** 'ed over 'ere: old MacDoogle e ah e ah oh,
ha ha. Catholic shortening Mc
         Protestant on a wild surf of St. Thomas' Gospel
and all things trans...
as it should be known: transphysics -
god is dead, poetry is dead, metaphysics, is dead:
nou vogue: TRANS! ***** slap that ****
across the knees: say gnostic (surd g), then say
diagnostic... seem: or properly understood.
******* wankers and cowboys and other
ulterior gunslingers; but the prima ballerina aesthetic
found when excavating the ęglish?
                never talk ***** in public:
really, really vocalise that Cockney bulldozer
vs. culture when vocalising more tongue and less
**** when ******* - appearances are everything
after all - talk pretty, talk lily -
talk rose: and when it comes to the knitty gritty:
slosh!        i mean diarrhoea slosh -
            i mean: not unbuttoning a shirt but
ripping it open: fanciful that: equating courtesy
and otherwise doing the Frankenstein to a limp
**** with words of encouragement...
        (oh the sarcasm i enjoy hiding in symbols)
but i never understand why we talk pretty
and play ***** - why not talk ***** and play pretty?
       this revised "aversion" / ~aversion toward
fascism is really taking hold of people:
        the only difference is that there are so many
charismatic sprechen pseudo Deutsche -
                   i'm starting to feel left out;
still though, concerning the first point:
they really are pale -
                 2000 years without Israel:
it will definitely take them 500 years to get that
Mediterranean hue back of palms olives and dates -
        understandably the siding with
balaclava Palestine:        'cos you're white and
you said ku klux sneezing - or from what i heard
of recent history, my fellow colonial thingy-ma-jigs
     are internalising inherent violence of
the past and shoveling it all at the young -
   many o' man's woes as nothing more than
an evasive self: kindred of the lunatic.
me too: i too wish to have been able to stage
a confrontational and subsequently condescending
conversation with my great-great-great-grandfather,
       but i ain't got the **** or the V, and
                                  not much about the Welsh-middle
of the longbowmen and Churchill's cigars;
funny thing... smoking cigarettes, you get this
taste flashbacks... just now i recounted the taste
of my first love's ****** juices mixing in with my
phlegm cough-up... surely memory is not cognitively
abstract, like tattoos aren't really abstract:
to prove a point i coughed up a memory
of wild strawberries yesterday: well... fair enough:
today it's a memory of eating out (as they crudely say):
Poseidon's pearl.
does **** have to be constantly floral or aquatic?
    oh the cascade into faux pas and cliche: endless!

i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.

The scene and sounds invite

The mystery did Venus descend to a nightly wood invest her uncommonness upon the maiden fair she stood deathly still the moonlight
Turned her skin to porcelain white the black hooded cloak gave her the airy feel of disembodiment and then she moved it wasn’t steps
But a floating fluid motion across the glen timeless shadows she stirred into the mist she disappeared I will go back in this dream
For ever how long it takes till her hand I may take and with loves embolden voice I shall speak so tenderly the night air so brooding and
Heavy will easily bear its weight in the cradle of wonder she brought powers of the long ago chants amidst hoary frost the dark forest
Knows the call of sounds so deep only the deadly silence brings reverberation from a mere whisper a gasp would be the equivalent to
Thunder I seek not mortal treasure but loves essence never will it divide and scatter as dispersed light tinged in every single living
Expression how the heart swells as it dwells on delicacies forbidden to the casual visitor but come with a burning hunger for love
You will not know disappointment romance is in the tenderest shoot the tendril vine trembles with the slightest breeze it’s the portent
Of a mighty wind the heart and locks of a warrior has come into view love will wind and turn on its own path it will amaze lovers to no
End come and know private and secret dreams its breath blows in from coastal winds invigorates all before its march a song you will
Sing among all that is wild you are invited to play among Shakespearian hills and fields know uncommon heights carry new found
Knowledge over boundless seas to lands stooped in backward ways you will be their guide the crude and mundane you will over rule
With one taste of your freedom you will give them the path if taken will make them kings and builders of kingdoms

The Federation stood around stunned because they did not know what to say
Message was the heart of the Federation, and now she was in Drozen’s fray.
Lady of the Night appeared to them and said Message is ok, Drent you have explaining.
Because it was like they were Romeo and Juliet the way they were complaining.
Drent rose up and said, no it was more like Romeo and Juliet were like Drozen and Message.
My father tried to warn her that as an Imperial Candidate she should spurn his vestige.
But Message did not respond, and as Headdress Prince I tried to get together a decree.
That no barbarian could associate with an Imperial Candidate or die painfully.
Message would not speak to me, and Drozen left in a maniacal fury.
Little did I know that Drozen would come back and this time not as a loving suitor.
The Imperial Candidacy went on, and it was between me and Message to be ruler.
I thought Message would win it, but the Brethren never got to pick.
They handed the Advocate Council the paper with their choice, but she never opened it.
Drozen interrupted the proceedings, and captured us both to his Alieno-Machine.
This is what happens when true love turned into violent vengeance, I would never forget that scream.
He destroyed our planet, and took Message to a load to lock her inside.
And as for me he said, Drent you will be a Teremi Mercanary, and if you fail Message already died.

So I came to Earth, because that was my next assignment.
But I did not know that Message was already there, and had broken out of confinement.
I resented Message for the destruction of our world, but I realize love cannot be forbidden.
I guess Message became a courier of the Dragon Power to become better hidden.
The Federation sat there stunned, and Breastplate-Bearer said, This explains so much.
Dragon-Man groaned and Lady of the Night asked, Tell us, how did she get the Death-Touch.
I think the load was so strong that it had a Gretian force-field and in the process of breaking free.
Some got onto her hands, and over time it evolved to become the Death-Touch on her fingertips.
I could never let go of the fact that I let down my Dahomeyians as a Headdress Prince.
Lady of the Night said, No don’t feel that way, and Breastplate-Bearer said, you really dropped the ball.
Boundaries, Lady of the Night and Dragon-Man both screamed, but Breastplate-Bearer continued, Good thing this is like boxing with gloves at all.
Dragon-Man then turned to Lady of the Night and asked, So did you get any intelligence that you heard.
Lady of the Night said, You can use your disembodiment powers to free her, and Dragon-Man replied, I gave Drozen my word.
Lady of the Night said, Well, there is nothing I can do, because Message just has to fight to victory.
Drent replied, I think now that how Message feels about Drozen, victory is not enough.
Breastplate-Bearer called out, Hey, should I take the cloaking mode off the Isotrain Mechanism?
Dragon-Man shook his head and said, No, this is our base we don’t want Drozen to know where we are living.
The Claimant joust was come, and Drozen and Message were both prepared.
But Dragon-Man was shocked for the first time in a while to feel fear.
He knew Message could fight, but Drozen was the Commander of the Numberless Clans.
They must be Numberless for a reason, but at least Message has the Death-Touch in her hands.
Message took her position on the Centaur-Raptor, its wings were spread out to its fullest.
Drozen also mounted a Centaur-Raptor, but when Message looked closely he was sweating bullets.
He seemed to be out of breath, and Lady of the Night taunted, What is wrong can’t get enough air.
Drozen fired back, After I am done with Message I will end all of you who have come here.
Message and Drozen head together each other Message had her weapons ready for combat.
Suddenly Drozen fell to the ground heavily, without Message making First Contact.
Message pulled out her Celestial Blade Saber, and yelled Surrender or die you fiend.
One of the Scimitan referees said, That is against the rules, and Lady of the Night retorted, Hush, you don’t know what you’ve meaned.
Don’t you realize that Message has saved your planet and many countless more.
I don’t think I did it, Message said as she stepped back with Drozen lifeless on the floor.

Can I have his head, No, Heart, No, Kneecap, No, Message and Dragon-Man argued.
His hands, You have hands, stop trying to be greedy and eat this splendid food.
Message huffed, He did not even have the courtesy to die by my hand, how rude.
Drent called out, So what do we do with Drozen’s lifeless body without power.
Dragon-Man replied, Put it in the Acider flames and let them have a feast to devour
Lady of the Night asked, Dragon-Man, don’t you have a pending court case?
Dragon-Man smacked his head and said, Oh yeah, we better get back to Earth in haste.
No don’t go to Earth yet I want to fight you all, the Legate said in the background.
And in the Voidful Midst the Covenantial Project was gathering the Federation without making a sound.

I've given peace..it was rejected..I gave love..it was neglected...I gave respect...it was contested..I gave you wisdom...it was ignored...the only gifts left for one such as yourself are the ones you left...strife...hate...disbandment that led to disembodiment...and confusion...welcome to your darker days..as it is written so shall it be..as the river turns so shall your blessings be.. thank you humanity..I smile at the river flowing at a 360degree

first empty page; they lessen
                 and so on. a drawing
          closes distance, and
    to have missed that middle-branch
                     after searching
                         all the others, when
        thought-seeking meticulousness
                      flawed us --
             distracted by color.
be me some ******* keystone
       disturbance. all this
    *******, self-wrough, and
    seasoned by delicate hands.
                  (a bit of straggled breathing)
    a pale vessel to be burned; not
          so prevalent,
without some sided-suffering
         since denouncement of day-timer.
               cycle too fast,
       when the sun grows;
          burn-out right quick.
approach in calm and
    slothishness, chew nails
to nub, and move with a bit of
      caution. a drawing closes distance.

there was offered a cup
      of coffee to a hallucination;
   some test of disembodiment langors.
           then realizing, these dreams, --
     awaiting some metaphor here --
           are not all dream, and
you can sleep or
      you can ******* die
   as a drawing closes distance.

back in England,
and back to the similitude
of the pardonable
quest for an,          i...

standing before a wall
of books,
from the floor to the ceiling,
stacked
like some
reminiscent domino
of events that didn't
take place...

     back into an interpolation
of i,
   via an interchange
between ? and !

            as if existentially
content: as if:

      from that persistent
bulwark
               whereby there is,
no nothing...
   either an expected agitation
or a nightmare,
or an unexpected self-encounter...

born a slab of clay,
died a slab of marble,
yet featureless -

   not the repetitive dream
of falling,
   not some dream-world
phobia, guaranteed in,
say: claustophobia...

  something English,
and therefore eerie...
as if teasing American,
or what is the vein,
not the L.A. artery
cultural export...

   the sleepy, hallow and
mistifying north east,
the first indentation...
   something...
  akin to:
     what happens when
you first encounter
Dumas... but not H. P. Lovecraft...
but encounter the latter
in an essay
by michel houellebecq -

**** me... French phonetics
and French linguistics -
either a misnomer
in saying:

        no wonder they
are the basin for idea -
or rather... the Freudian
id etc....

                    the clarity of
phonetic encoding,
to be honest:
    i know of one
that is, but buckles under
an orthographic aesthetic,
like a wronged limb,
there...
   but... dull...
  limp... yet there: provocative...

a return then to: there,
or, rather: "there"...

a month sober,
first night drinking
and one expects to unfold
a month's worth
of a Libra imbalance,
i.e.:
    write as much as you read,
or...
  read as much as you write:

never write less than
you read,
   never read less than you
write...
apparently i read
more than i was supposed
to write...

what with the Sveedish
invasion of Poland,
like some... murky rubric
i learned in the Irish
   niche of the outer
east London nibbling Essex...

Romans...
  Romans...
  this diabolical theatre
of agitating poetics
like mantras...

   either Jesus with his
bread and wine...
or mystical Eve with
a 2 in 1 combo's worth
of an apple...

mind you, i did notice
the difference between
western and eastern
Europe...
how the night is illuminated...
dimmed sulphur like
emblems of a moth's
delight in:

    tip of (the) tongue -
onomatopoeia:
where no noun dare tread...

a month's worth without
   a "freedom" of speech
  (third person inquisitive
contort):
   you mean - diarrhea?

yes - thank you, dear,
whoever, what-
    a character assasination
of the narrator...
say...
why am i unable to write
a novel, brimful
with an assortment
of characters?

  ah... i remember the basis...
of this: "nuance"...
  yes... either a misnomer,
or an ambiguity,
caged in the existentialists'
"       ": lacking
the morn upon the 1st of
May's lark...

         i wanted to paint,
but... i can't afford to buy either
paint or canvas or brush...
and... i grew out of writing
novels before i even began
writing novels...
i found it hard to translate
a childish game
into a novel, hardy,
adult enterprise...

hence this interrogation...

  as a Chinese State policy
child... perhaps a, millennial...
but as an only child...
i prefer to be dubbed...
the third plenum of the 18th
central committee of the chinese
communist party:
of which i am not,
    but... eh... what a waste...

i didn't end up writing
novels, because...
i used to play with G.I. Joe...
marionnettes...
   how then to translate
marionnettes into adult?
ah...
   "eureka"! (mundane tone):
write a novel...

   i cut off my hands
and opened my eyes
to the grand lambda...

   i found her on a coach trip
to Warsaw...
   Λ...
   the sensation / awareness...
once i used to smoke marijuana
to entertain
a lost narrative,
    a "lost" narrative...
   which was cogitans per se
is... with all the annexed ergo
implies: cogito est narratio...

of course... minus
ethics, etc.
          which is how i came
across a keyhole,
θought...            which became:
    φought:
or rather... without a question
of a morose: 'ought -
esse - i.

                             that same
blatant disembodiment
of the will of man...
Voltaire is good at that...
   simpleton,
       Zadig...
                sure, prior to: Candide...
but in England,
let me assure you:
do you think you'll ever
buy a copy of Voltaire's
principles of Newton's
physics?
        
               not a chance!

perhaps i grew out of
toying with G.I. Joe
marionnettes too late,
perhaps...
hence? no novel...
hence(?)                  poetry...

sketches...
     the consort of thought...
there is no other,
and there is no...
poetry is no art,
there is no ars poetica...

   Heidegger appreciates
Hölderlin...
a poem is not a *******
rhyme worth a pence
for a ******* postcard... savvy?!

where philosophy dictates
a wall,
   poetry dictates
a brick...
    when "things" become
too... inedible...
people start to flirt with
vegetarianism...

      but said "things" are: edible...
yet...
   poorly manifest
in the dignity they
demand...
   say... a hunted boar
is a tad bit higher
in the hierarchy of tiers
when man
compensates
   the boar with
a caged chicken...

                    and what of
cultural Darwinism?
the same... the same unit of man,
as bothered by:
how German and French
existentialism / humanism,
became the Anglo-Zaz
futurism / economics of:
always the pristine
                German and Chinese
labor...

          i guess some people
have no notion
of either slavery or liberty,
as much: a soul
or boredom...
        only the English
brought about a concept
that overpowered a concern
for worth, in ethic
(with a missing S) -

                                   or not...
deutsche? arbeit!
   chinesisch? arbeit!
the English? flirt...
flirt with nebuchadnezzar...
and let the jew mystify
everything, pact universal.

my, my disembodiment...

       Λ:

  no... not V...    not 5...
   somehow not A either...

                 two eyes
and a pointer...
no... not the nose...
rather... an imagined horn /
honing device...
as in?

   not the automated nature
of the brain,
jellyfish soap opera...
fungus marionnette...

       m'ah ******* forehead...
Λ = oculus + fore'      'ed
   (Cockney gapoos)

   V = oculus + shut mouth
+ wry & wormly numb-tongue

    or the Welsh salute at
the French... in loan a broan
post bow set loose...
arrow: pointy thing...

      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................

(which is an authentic pause...
filled with
fiddling with my beard)

   like sticking
a stick into a river
       and expecting it
to change course...
    
   a wild idea,
  but...
        some insanities
are adhered to...
   Xerxes "thought"
  the lashing the sea...
           a blind
convent of all
our hearts' content:
life -
or no life:

            a bothersome
clause...
    
                         an intimidating
yawn...
       a bloated
saturation of filth
in a sieve...

                           with a childish
kaleidoscope of causes...

   the:  ergo ad continuum
of science...
a *******'s worth
of existential glue.

Dragon-Man sat in the Isotrain Mechanism, ready to command from the cockpit.
He pressed the Abyss Sword, and sat back as the Isotrain Mechanism started.
The Covenantial Project said, I will sit at the Place of Honor on your right side.
Get ready because to reach Vibrate, you will have a tight ride.
The resources of the Federation are behind you, and you will lead us to victory quick
Message sat behind Dragon-Man as the Dahomeyian Ruler, and this was her flagship.
Dialect was in the Communications Room of the Isotrain Mechanism, ready to give orders.
Suddenly the Isotrain Mechanism stalled in mid-air, as it was approaching Earth’s borders.
Message shrieked We are going down, and The Covenantial Project said, This ship must rise.
Vibrate thought that putting the Earth in a Netherlock will be our total demise.
Dragon-Man, fire a Lifeforce Missile in the air and set it to HellBreak mode.
Dragon-Man did as The Covenantial Project said and broke that nefarious hold.
The different Federation Mechanisms behind them were suddenly free to fly-walk.
Message asked, Where are we going , and The Covenantial Project replied To the Schmita planet rock.

There is the Chieftain Caesar and Vibrate seeks to destroy him, he is part of our alliance.
So we must get there and battle with him in this war, otherwise he would not stand a chance.
Message nodded and said, We will rain thunder and fire, and Dragon-Man suppressed a smile.
But to get Schmita was not an easy journey , it would take a little while.
The fleet of Federation Mechanism numbered in the hundreds, all filled with warriors for the fight.
To battle Vibrate and her Netherbeasts of darkness, because they swore to uphold the  right.
Finally they reached Schmita, and when they got there, Dragon-Man could see people running.
He shook his head and said no, and Message piped up saying, She must have known we were coming.
The Covenantial Project said, Good, now she can see the face of those who will bring her to slaughter.
Dialect replied from the Communications Room, It appears that she has cut off all sources of water.
I guess so that this planet rock would be forced to surrender on bended knees.
Or fall to dehydration, and contamination of watered disease.
Message said, We have Hydration Hookdowns to keep the planet stable.
But we must bring Vibrate to battle as soon as possible and we are able.
Dragon-Man interrupted, Excuse me, but we must first have a plan.
Message scoffed, This is why I’m the Dahomey Ruler and you’re Dragon-Man.
If we wait, Vibrate will get stronger and able to attack us on her own ground.
But if we attack and cut off the Gamaid  Airwaves we can weaken her, because she depends on sound.

Dragon-Man nodded reluctantly, and they got off the Isotrain Mechanism one by one.
Message looked at Dragon-Man smiling and said, This is going to be so much fun.
The Federation Mechanisms were up in the air, and Message told Dialect a command.
We are here to uphold our alliance and give Schmita a helping hand.
Vibrate may tamper with the waters, but she cannot destroy our bravery.
Because to die on this planet rock is better than her tyrannical slavery.
Dragon-Man protested, No one is dying, and Message whispered, Hush, It’s Motivation.
Drent called down from his Federation Mechanism, We can hear you two lovers talking on the intercom.
They both blushed, and The Covenantial Project, First we must find Vibrate and get her pinned.
Dragon-Man said, I can use my Disembodiment power to access her and helm her in.
Message replied, Be careful, and Dragon-Man said, I can take someone else with me.
Dialect said, I will come, so that she can not trap you in a place you cant get free.
So Dragon-Man teleported to where airwaves and sound met and man was not.
But he did not know how strong Vibrate was, or what weapons she got.
Dialect took up a position by his side, and Dragon-Man saw a horrific sight.
It was Vibrate with thousands of creatures and soldiers, ready for the fight.

I have yet to stop a lightning bolt
With much success.
Where there's a will, there is
Always the risk of
Disembodiment.

So human. So confident.
*Mine is the will of the world.
Mine are the odds
Of gods.

it would best appear that:
  talking really aids talking to flesh -
and yes, beside the psychoanalyst
triad theory of the "narrator" -
          the ego can become an ailed
limb - a limp arm,
an amputated food -
                     when the square
doesn't fit through a square shaped
opening: the ego become fidgety -
and it aches beyond the ache
of being, a physical inconvenience /
convenience...
    the ailing ego is an ego
that can only construct a cogito
without the ergo dynamic of trickling
toward a "satisfying" sum...
           because there really isn't
any other suited adjective -
  other than the already aired:
because there is.
         i wanted to concern myself
with the dynamic of what is sickly
or at best: an unease unit
of fathomable concern...
              ego must,
ego = limb...
           it's not a central
foundation to all things apparent...
          and believe me when i state
that i require verbiage to make these
statements...
           when the ego is a cubus,
and thought is the "river"
                        quadratum -
       having to encompass the perplexity
of the Freudian Triad...
  it doesn't really matter,
  does it, to concern a cube passing
through a square, when a triangle is
concerned, is it?
                  a mental "illness"
  needs to encompass a "flat earth"
akin to reading maps: no good knowing
a spherical globus exists if you
can't get from A. to B.
                     that is why i don't
understand a stigma with regards to
a "mental" to "physical" dichotomy -
which it has become having divorced itself
from dualism...
          the ego being a limb and
thought a body,
       reiterates my concern with how
mental illness cannot acess the freedom
of a body, or thinking,
                 in a fluid manner:
akin to the thoughtless extracts of
               a disembodiment ascribed to
ballet dancers...
             hence the sickly limb comparison:
the whole affair isn't worth
an atomists' venture to find: a middle,
a nucleus...
                     a sick "ego"
                              disvalues a concern
to think: akin to any worth of
****** function...
            the conscious-unconscious
paradox of the ego is that:
    it's health is supposed to coexist
with the way one treats a hand, finger, elbow...
the fact that a "sick" ego is by no means
sickness apparent doesn't mean that
it is not a form of: dis-ease -
  not a bad word, merely a reformulated
aversion of saying it quickly...
  there does exist as - negation
   of ease...
                       i have found this with
myself...
                          apparently
it was necessary to outdate Latin grammar
once again, while keeping the ego
a necessary ingredient worthy of theory
when cogito ergo sum was
summoned... because where is the ego
in that? the ego is the antithesis of
a narrator of fiction!
             who ever said that fiction
was without Trojan walls and biological
membranes?
                   the ego is either foremost
an ailing limb: or the unscathed narrator!
it can't be both!
          - but the limb comparison makes
more sense, since what is primarily
distrupted is thinking: rather than writing
a book!
                    i have experienced
the distruptive ego like a fidgeting snare of
a limb in metaphorical Parkinson...
               but i am not keen to
sub-assert a division of it worth a sub-ego
and an id... without an ob- prefix to boot.
a "sick" ego disrupts cogitans
in that there is no ergo
       to make a cohesive translation into:
wanting to be a bellerina - i.e sum...
i.e. sum *** non cogitans...
  and that's because the ego is a heavy
load, already not stressed in
the original maxim "prompt" of:
think - and you will be...
  well no... most of the time it's a case of:
don't think, and you will be...
      the fact remains:
  the ego treated as an ailing limb is
akin to an ailing limb disrupting
the sigma of ****** expressions -
             with the sigma of ****** expressions
being best met with mere: thinking...
                 hence the irony of
a "mental" illness -
      there is no ailing thought -
but an ailing ego -
  which is a contradictory summation
of character, presupposing
a character is at the same time narrator...
the stigma? well...
   a person of interest is asked to
have both status of a healthy character
and an ailing narrator -
      or rather: a character
incompetent of having a narrator...
   or whatever this constricting observation
implies...
   the fact still remains:
   the ego was allowed a Ronin status
when working from the Cartesian maxim...
    it allowed itself to flourish in Freud
who took to impregnating it with
  a pseudo-Christian analogy...
         if there is an element of medicine
in philosophy... ha...
     odd...
            how can the mind be ailed by
the body prior...
      there must be a paradoxical intersect
of ergo ( = ), i.e. ≠...
                    whereby the same is true
for: the mind can be ailed by the body:
but the only prior to a body is a mind...
            since there is no prior to a mind
to express: body...
           otherwise why are we to concern
ourselves with a "mind" of the underdeveloped...
ah... but the underdeveloped body...
       hence?         |    a ******* stick
in the ground!
                  it's a simple juggling act of
two *****... on thinking terms,
but yet it is simpler to juggle three *****
on un-thinking terms!
              all i "know" is that
a sick ego dissonates the fluidity of thinking,
and it doesn't aspire to anything
but that in its ailment -
to make it any more complex to
suggest an atomic caricature of
the Freudian id - neutron / superego - electron...
   an ego that distrupts thinking
does not make a cohesive unit worth
a theory...
                 you put a stick into the river
of Heraclitsus: the stick will remain
a stict - the question is always asked
concerning the river!
                - as far as i am concerned
the disruptive ego has "unfathomed"
  the fathomability of thinking -
       notably:
          the mundane cul de sac thinking
of ordinary people -
a lost day-dream break from inacting
a "greater-good" focus of: transcending society...
     and attaining: "the" individual...
    i've experienced the sick ego
unable to convine itself with staging
thought: akin to an theatre with
a stage unable to consider itself:
    not fit to hoist actors on it!
                   hence my concern with
res vanus...
            the "thing" within res cogitans!
the whole point of:  (ego) cogito ergo sum!
          which is why those who have
reached the status of, say: prima ballerina
exact a "cogito" ergo (ego) sum status!
- at some point i really will be
starting to digest the VII-XI ponderings
of Heidegger...
                  bewildering myself as to how:
1939 a.d. was conjured.

The Isotrain Mechanism arrived at the Arurian Tower, and Message said, One of them isn’t us.
Dragon-Man replied, I can use my disembodiment power to interrogate them to reveal their true trust.
Dragon-Man went up the steps to confront one of the Dragon-Power’s deceit.
They were hanging upside down sleeping to recharge by their elongated feet.
Dragon-Man pressed a button on his watch, and suddenly he was in their presence.
Dragon-Man!, said Etil, what are you doing here you should have more reverence.
One of you was working for Drozen, but I am here to tell you that he is dead.
The Dragon-Power had all stone faces and Dragon-Man wondered what was said.
All of them one by one denied it, and Dragon-Man knew he would have to use attorney skill.
Go beyond cross-examination to reveal the Dragon-Power who wanted all of the Federation to ****.
Shouldn’t you leave, Ketil said, you only have a few more hours before your body is consumed.
I will not take much longer, because this is a matter that has to be resolved so we can resume.

Dragon-Power cried out, I will stay so that the Federation may know that my death was not in vain.
No! cried out all of the Dragon-Power except Etil, who sarcastically responded At least they knew your name.
It is Etil! The Dragon-Power replied, as Dragon-Man walked to where Etil was sitting fidgety.
I remove you from the Dragon-Power, Dragon-Man said, as he swung the Abyss Sword at he.
Dragon-Man took Etil’s head off of his shoulders, and tossed it to the dirt below.

He pressed his watch and said Matter resolved, and Message shook her head and said No.
What’s wrong, Dragon-man asked, and Lady of the Night said, Your court case and Shark-Devil.
He will try to ruin your life and your superhero identity to attack you at every level.
Dragon-Man stood tall and said, My credentials are impeccable, so I will not be disbarred.
You are talking to a man who had to fight his way out of the womb, and then was further scarred.
I was born into the prison, my mother went into labor before they could take her to the hospital.
Her arrest was under Shark-Devil’s watch as police commissioner, so anything is possible.
They took me from her when I was young, and when I grew up I discovered she died in jail.
No one believed her urgent cries and even fewer were willing to man up and pay bail.
All because she could not afford a lawyer or money because of her charge of stealing a ring.
So I am ready for any obstacle or charges that Shark-Devil fiend may bring.
Looking out with binoculars at the Arurian Tower, was Officer Jones Thon with Shark-Devil who slept.
He was happy as can be, because now he knew where the Isotrain Mechanism was kept.
What a pretty little speech, Officer Thon said, Shark-Devil snorted, Lawyers don’t give speeches
He will have to find another hobby of his, after the Arurian Tower is breached.

Out in the penetrating haze
Of the natural world
Weapons are used, not made.
No battle is a war
Out in natural light.
And weapons are used, not made.
Indifferent as she is,
Nature picks no side,
And so weapons are used, not made.
When something is born,
In natural light
It is born creature, helpless
So no weapon is born to be made.
Yet under lightbulb, in man's metal warehouse
In sanitary stink and entombed disembodiment,
Some weapons are bred to be played.

A fate worse than anything else
Is to be protected while locked in a cage
Slowly degrading your inner self
As the disembodiment brings the end of an age

Biting down on a silver tongue
Equally we all suffer alone
But gold and blood will forever run
Through this social hell of strangers unknown

Caged by the hypocrites
Pervasive and sick
There is nowhere to hide
Slaves to the hypocrites
Hedonistic and avaricious

Perplexed and abolished of hate and of mind
Is the sullen progeny of the media's design
Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
For the most dangerous things lay deeper inside
Destruction defines our entire life
And so shall it be till our bitter end
A legacy of disease and endless strife
Shall be our epitaph when our demise will descend...

I carry a casual carapace,
A character trapped in ambience.
Amble the alleyways and ascertain an avid state in acid rain,  
The product a revision of charisma corrected conditions,
How I've come to envision a victim or a villain.
Attach the cataracts to collapse to a tone of grey,
We're all the same under the sages, same as saints.
Geared to the gutters, I greet in mustered mutters,
I mumble through humble structures,
The tongue erupting ruptures.
                
I'm sure they see me as a background actor,
In the shadows of a flagship,
The character on mute behind a selective scene of laughter.
Is this disembodiment, or an echo of the cage?
The skin, bones and flesh under the semblance of a face.
Amazed by the growth of atrophy,
A passenger passing passively,
Impactfully passing passages,
Just practicing for a classic scene.
Fit in, camouflage, play ******* chameleon,
The inner truth a Gilles suit, where this mere meat is measured in a meager mediums.

I'm certainly a circus of surplus circuitry,
I could be less of a mesh of flesh,  with a sense of urgency.
Here a golem strung by the clockworks of a blueprint,
Chiseled in with details and a little bit of hubris.
Pistons Positioned to pivot, pin, - all inclusive,
Grinding on the causeways of abusive truths in future,
Joints cracking, hinges at their thresholds,
Attention to the details, a trend to tend to tenfold.

i once grew a beard to never glimpse at the sight of my chin, a year later: i can't see my neck!

it's always handy to keep a piece of toilet
paper, oh, sorry, journalism at hand...
just this overarching sense of how journalists
have no ambition to stretch it into
a novel category of blah blah -
   or the audacity of curbed haiku -
and the immediate numbing interlude
of the many hiatuses that come their way...
which is why i find poetry to be
the equivalent of: spring cleaning,
          levelling all the junk of narrative -
i want the idea, which is poetic:
  less strain on the eyes than a paragraph,
yet still so potent in reminding me of:
claustrophobia -
    so little words, yet so much sea.
        - yet i have to have some journalism
handy...
             although it encompasses but
a day, its over-inflammatory caricature of
novels or alternatives -
its toilet paper quality -
it's supposed lack of... *clinging,
   it's immediate devaluation due to the reason
that: there has to be a story tomorrow,
even though today a story was promoted
from the realm of journalism
into a realm of history...
                    let's face it, journalists
are maddened by the fact that they write
for a living, are scared of poetry and are
told: fiction is session of yoga
   in a steam room!
            i love journalism -
it keeps me "informed", but at the same time
help me forget, which allows me to
read a book...
            in front of me is a loaf of bread,
but it's handy to have a few crumbs
from the previous reading loiter...
             which is a noun for a previous
verb of doing, by noun be, i.e.
       the one imitating knitting with
his excessive pride in mandible thumbs...
        journalism is great for that...
airy fairy hardly ima-gínary
(that hyphen and the acute iota add up
to - in diacritical arithmetic of
syllable dissection as: imagee-canary)....
           but that's beside my fascination,
i live a pretty rustic life -
then again, the simpler life breeds
the most impassioned pleasures derived
from what others would deem: mundane.
akin to ancient greece...
    i once sported long hair like a spartan...
now i have my ****** ***** to entertain my
grooming "gallantry" (dict. meaning
no. 2, hence the dissociating no. 1 literal) -
     i just think journalists are keeping me
informed about the fancies, lusts and debaucheries
of ancient Athens...
                    on the skirmish lines of
where the metropolis ends and the countryside
begins, i'm far from the urbane
   fiddling, squatting, swindling,
squandering neurotics of
  what you think predicates i think...
these journalists reveal a world of the ancient
lure of the unnerved and the revealing
taste for unconscious sabotage...
           and since there's no what in
the fact that i think, there's only me thinking
as a placebo artefact of what could have been
what you think is of no consequence -
alas, journalism tells as otherwise...
  which is why having even the most
uninviting, minuscule effort from the medium
at hand, can allow you to, quiet frankly:
relax.
                   i live among foxes -
i am on the periphery of civilisation -
among the feral kind -
    i have no urban ambitions -
    but in my youth i have noted a clear
distinction between translating ancient greece
into modern, english society...
these journalists recount an athenian life -
i live a spartan life...
        i simply watch them trip up on their
own faeces and hubris with a unforgiving sense
of delight...
        primarily their affairs and conundrums with
the use of technology...
     my mantra was always:
go in, do what the *******'re supposed
to do and... get the **** out before
they can say: aliceinwonderlandthepornmovie;
i might as well call it:
   the return of anthropologists -
but i'm afraid it's too late to revise this
society with anthropology -
        since we're not studying aliens
anymore: but alienation -
                      every time i travel into
central london i'm walking into a zoo,
the same apparent cages, bars and tranquillisers...
notably on the weekend -
                 an **** fest of
                   disembodiment, rattled with
a zombie perfume of a rotten sense of:
       the lost art of imagination.

I dwell in darkness,
Unaware of any emotion,
My mind a blank slate, a canvas painted in reverse when you decided to take my humanity.

You, a feeble being, with no muscle on your bones and no hair on your chest.
You, who lied and manipulated until you were in total control of my actions,
You forced me to give up what you should have earned, what you shouldn't have asked for.

I needed a gentleman, someone old-fashioned who would love me and not play on my gullibility.

Yet here we are.

Me in the darkness of guilt,
You wherever the next woman lays with her body exposed for your enjoyment.

I hope you rot knowing that you were the one who put me here.
The place of nightmares, of terror, of guilt.
A darkness that greets drawn blood with a beautiful passion,
Who needs to feel the pain of torn skin and flesh in order to feel alive.

Yes. This is my new home. You put me here, and I'm going to drag you down to this hell if it's the last thing I do.

there's nothing quite like being rudely woken
by a cat - that sort of shadow you wish you
had to steer off the incubus...
     only the ugliest of the norse founded
kiev...
      i wonder, as i manage to peck a spider
off the corner of my room, drink,
then eat it, and subsequently imitate
regurgitation, upon having eaten body,
and then finding the legs,
these twisting, coiling artefacts of some
sort of disembodiment...
  i really was planning to drink this whiskey
in the afternoon, then the rudeness of the cat
waking me,
              then the rage against the machine
and the idea of a buddhist,
and then the voice, that would never
amount to the said theatric of burn ******
burn...
         i can't compete being drunk and
it only being nearing 7 a.m.,
       i can only cite:
  paper boy took the day off.
                        and i lost count to
every counted sunday,
thinking it a monday;
and that's a half of a hey-yah! thong
    bridget huan jonson jerking off
the next nesting jose johnson,
calling him enrique joe.
                     or: amazon god king
conquistador it's sunrise you *******...
people have to "work",
yeah, they "work", they're
rhetoricians!
             they're the embodiment of
what's spectacular about
western society...
          high brow romancing of
      the averted moral spectrum,
like i really did begin to start ******* cockroaches...
and these women were my sunrise...
    keep the gangrenes,
the *******, the abbies...  
i love that term,
it's like reviving: greengrocer...
        like calling a pet donkey a
chihuahua and then for asking oral ***...
calling it a sloppy-jappy...
      as if it was aimed as sushi shooting
the raw argument.
hence the love of h'america...
no, i never admire or fashion
the idea of americans waking up
i the globalist part of new york,
that's gobalist, and the 24h oops...
oh wait, you didn't realise we were insomniac?!
fucl me... afternoon for them
is like pretending breakfast for the rest
of us...
        i think the dieticians call
it fibre, or something twice as hard to digest,
twice as hard to constipate out on,
and thrice the name of a wife.
i really love they didn't
catch up on the insult:
it's a bit like eating humus,
or catching the sunset.

i am both

         thespian,

                  and ******...

the chikatilo
                    bullett...

   that slowly,
started eating away,

from the back
of the cranium...

   mouth-like-a-mushroom...

apparently you can only
read german philosophers,
if not wholly,
then "only" slightly
                     demented.

- because why would people
   do so?
the odd chance people
achieve
introspection of a sparrows'
song, lifting up
the labour equating itself
to literacy...

           bequeath cameo
          within the confines of
the opportunity to
assert the sigh orientated around
a prime, performance?

     i don't appreciate
reinstating Hippocratic orthodoxy...
when...
            ah...
              worth the excuse,
of liberty,
      and the boring lives
      reduced to reiterating: trivia...
it almost makes my life
worth: the presumption
of the thrill prior to a grave....

have i lived, the,
     only life?
                        no...
        but have i lived
a life, most alone?

that said,
    what would you say,
about, said example:
            without
                emphasis?

all that remains of me,
is a "question"
         regarding the technicality
of usage, with
a language, rather than as:
a language...

           can't exactly fake
a disembodiment...
              no one actually bothers
to pursue a reiteration
of such technicality...
       unless it be a technicality,
that language
  accommodates,
but reiterates itself from making
a use of.

geschwaderwenige:

squadron-few...

imagine my "disgust"
at finding myself
a germano-philiac
in the english tongue...

aber, "sie" konnte nicht
jemand sonst...
andere mit schlimm
deutschegrammatik...

dis eine *****-wunderalles,
like the time i'm
supposed to **** a blow-up
sheep for like
quirks of:
in the village, of the village,
that doesn't exist?

ja!

in der dorf, aus die dorf,
daß existieren tüt nicht!

blick anderswo schlenzen
nein schnüffeln!
      ja: ich verstehen?

nein?
       wir können fortsetzen...
hinter ihre arsch
                  nein mei:

sie nennen mir vater:
ich nennen du mich:
          ein lieben...
                   nei vater:
   nein fürwort...
           alles für alles ist güt.

i heave to allocate myself
the strip of metaphorical
children,
while my grandfather,
wished: upon dying,
to save a last breath
of life, for the word:
p'ah... p'ah...

    there is no h'american dream
given this...
there is no:
likelihood worth
a tomorrow...

   i have, what i heave
a worth of today...
and... no more...
no more...
no more imbecile's:
beyond the village's
cradle...
i heave the world:
no more!
when the world
doesn't visit me,
why am i,
to visit, the world?!

i have been broken
by you once, before...
and before,
toward a now...
to are...

             a figment of
god's imagination,
and my the complete
opposite of activity...
to be entombed for
a worth of agitation...

i am a village person,
a god can stomach
a world, a city,
a: added crucibles count...
i? i cannot...
   god can have the city,
i am no more a man
than the man i will
ever be,
confined to a village
and troop of:
the scuttling baron
scheme of the escaping
baron from the body of
self-esteem...

i am not the world's worth
of expression...
the day and the world in
it can extend to the world
in a day of a 365 divided worth...
i'm not greater...
i can never be more...

i want to live a life,
with a sort of death awaiting me...
with which:
i did not live to
have lived,
         to have to heave
the breath that priors itself
to: the taken breath.

you get me?
i don't want to...
have to...
               make my life,
as if a death:
a consecrated ground
of...

   and as many words i could
end up writing
but never having written...

i did not live to
have lived,
         to have to heave
the breath that priors itself
to: the taken breath -

as being the taken life;

you understand me?
i am not
beyond a sycamore tree's
worth of poker...
in what...
brutally continues
to be recycled...

whether i, mind source,
or i, body disembodiment,
ghost...

                needless to
say,
i much preferred myself
in making a post-humous
stature's worth
of a birch...

         but... who am i...

scout's honor?

                   unto me:
thoughts are less verb-incentive...
and more...
leisures:
not yet undertaken;

        like...
                    who is to be,
who isn't...
            and...

                   a skyve's worth
of unused punctuation marks.

ever the death, lazily demanding,
  consecrating one's thought
on the altar predating life itself,
     clothed in shrouds, thick cloths
and shadows,
            came bugging life
       with an impeding delivery
            upon the shattered altar of
such boorish nuances of:
     a killing of time,
       and the american "fascination"
with the anti-thesis of claustrophobia...
up, up their *****,
            they cascade into heaving
a "person" as well as a "safe" space...
             not even a Peckham plonker
would mind a grip of the collar
             whenever enticed to a private
conversation in a public sphere...
        but here we are...
                 how shielded we've become
by irrational fears,
           that the only rational fear there is
to ponder, namely the mortal
   grief lost to a waiting line,
                   is, and has to be, hidden
beneath a layer of irrational fears,
           for the one rationale:
    with life, comes death,
                  to contemplate the immediacy
of the awaiting of,
              is somehow trans-phobic,
         because a fear of spiders or fear
of tight spaces can be better excused
       than the sole mortal wound...
                     american's and their inverted
claustrophobia...
                   touch too soon, touch no less,
far beyond making ****** contact,
let alone speaking with hands to boot...
             an old man can corner you
and you will feel not inhibition of sharing
a space that contains within itself
a boa manifestation of ****** interaction...
h'americans are apparently not rude,
unless, of course, they have occupied
a large urban environment and *******
rude remarks:
               ever the most prying nation
becoming the most defensive with lies
about its openness -
        back in st. petersburg you can
hitch-hike in an urban environment
paying a stranger a few rubels to move you
in the same direction he's heading via,
your finish line...
               because the most profound
understanding of melancholy, in musical terms,
is reserved to the northern men,
attired in the sun,
               because only they can cherish
this depth of sadness,
that sparks a sudden chance at: a joy
of being melancholic...
                   no profound truths ever came
from happily invested abodes of
a people...
                  happiness can return to
a lunatic's guise in spontaneous laughter,
such said impromptu,
       can never balance an inquisitive
sadness,
           a sadness that has a phoenix spark,
waiting right until the very end,        
  to reveal itself in a haunting presence,
a disembodiment of form,
   when the shadow suddenly escapes
the prejudices ascribed to the body
in the eyes of the other...
                     i imagine the myth
that is already the illogical study of
preserving temporal events...
               myths are only rhythms of
space...
              inherited,
          rather than imitated to preserve
the yester-year as also true,
  to the year to pass...
                of the anti-narcissus
   who fell in love with his shadow...
              well... if, félix guattari
                              and gilles deleuze  
could write their thesis on the anti-oedipus,
i too can contend with
the french pretentions...
             no grander movement
in self-introspection than a fascination
with a shadow,
                    that being:
the unbearable stare into
           the reflection in a water, as also in glass...
what a haunting reflection,
      so diluted in the still water,
    in the later invested in glass...
              i can only see the love-affair
with ghosts, half-formed studies of
       a reflection, unclear as to why
narcissus was poseidon's son,
                  rather than a son of hades:
from what became clearer
                in unearthed metals...
                 and to just think,
that glass is derived from handling sand...
            the paradise of the lake,
the life of the river,
                 the chaos of the sea,
where the paradise of a lake
is a discussion of man and the gods,
   where the life of the river
is a discussion of man and man,
where the chaos of the sea
         is the discussion between
   gods and their fathers, the titans.

i hope that i can speak
with the sort anonymity that
will stress the fact that:
the past 20+ of being awake
will not undermine
using alcohol,
  naproxen 500mg and
25mg amitriptyline...
            funny:
to have studied chemistry
and to subsequently "study"
a sociology science...
              on the basis
of experiment...
          or rather:
  to have crafted one's own
cocktail...
               because
the guy who conjured up
a cosmopolitan really
gave a ****?
                   hey...
it was nice listening
to the theory,
but chronic insomnia is
one thing,
and treating it is another,
the side-effects do not really
matter if you actually
manage to nook for ~13 hours
and stay awake for the next
20+...
       i have to re-iterate:
                  chro-nic: insomnia:
the kind where you don't
actually care about dreaming,
the type where you
actually care for a pristine
interlude of sleep;
believe me when i say to you
that there's no
Freudian geometry inolved,
hyper-induced *******
sleep....
          just the blackness of
a void:
a disembodiment
worth a voice: but no body.

The dinosaurs did not die out, the survivors became the Dragon Power.
They left for higher ground in the Arurian Tower.
They worked on the Abyss Sword, Winged Fire Lance, Nike Sling and Composti Bow on their grind.
Because they thought that the power that killed the dinosaurs would come a second time.
To succeed where the first time, they had failed.
But they could not leave the tower, they were jailed.
I, Jonathan Maine, stumbled on the Tower, but the weapons were not there.
That someone malevolent would take them was the worst of my fear.

Suddenly I heard a voice who said, We are the Dragon Power and you are chosen.
To become Dragon-Man, and fight against our enemy called the Drozen.
This adversary is also yours, but our weapons were stolen by various evil.
Now you must go on a journey to get this arsenal back, and save your people.
I asked them why they could not fight, and they said, We do not have a presence.
When the Drozen fired asteroids at Earth, he disembodied our essence.
We could make the weapons, but we could not use these instruments.
But we will give you the power of disembodiment as our influence.
And here is what your people called a watch, it will tap into the power of Dragon.
But do not talk about us, no posts on social media or bragging.
I was astounding, but I was glad to have such nice bling.
Now it was the time to save all of Earth and everything.

The Dragon Power warned, Drozen wants to destroy everything, even the darkness
You will have to fight the evil on Earth, but keep your eyes on the ultimate test.
I took the watch, and pressed it, and instantly I saw the Diablo-Robots
The Dragon said, the power of the sky-animals on Earth was transformed to throw shots.
Because the asteroids contained a powerful source called Warbeuite.
We took some of it and used it to make the weapons to fight for good and right.
I just had one more question, how do you speak English so fluently?
People would walk by our tower and have conversations beside the tower’s sea.
I took the watch and pressed another button, and suddenly I was at home.
Out in the day, unbeknownst to me, a powerful being was getting off his throne.
Set a course toward Earth, he said, because this earthling will ruin my plan.
I am going to finish now what I should have done in the beginning.
Master Drozen, we are on our way, the Diablo-Robot said with glee.
Little did I know the strongest force in the universe was coming to fight me.

oculus per oculus -
    an eye for an eye...

it was my first time seeing an eye
doctor - only yesterday:

oculist - not occultist -
coo coo
should i change my favourites
from crows to pigeons?

change my scouts
to messengers?

once upon a time we would
sail across the horizon of
where the seas would
merge with skies
with at least two crows

to scout for dry land...
the boundaries thus established
between seas and lands
there is an earnest need
to levy
a rest for horses and for crows
and invest in the theology
of:

replacing Huginn and Muninn
with Fantasiss
     og
               Havhimmel -

never mind...
the Hebrews are as guilty of trivialising
knowledge as the gentiles
and their astrology bull.... ****...

the Hebrews and their gematria
the gentiles and their astrology -
same ****, different cover...
to allude to A = 1
to suggest that words can be influenced
by a meaning in number
is a blasphemy against
the dictum primo (first saying)

initio erat verbum
et verbum fuit *** deus...

in the beginning there was the word...
so much for the fall of man
as the fall of word
into the lasp, grasp and grub of man's
intestines kidneys
brain and a grieving soul (search)

almost simultaneously:
the fall of word and of god
and the rise of man
and the subsequent acquisition of words
as communication as that equivalence
to the harnessing of fire
gifted to us by Prometheus...

words and fire met somewhere
in a non-dialectical exchange:
for this is needed, and was...

funniest football hooligan chants
i ever heard came from Millwall -
or the London Scoots - Scots, dockers,
who call West Ham (Cockneys)
pikeys...
and call the north London Jewry
penny knackers, pinchers, nibblers...
4 x 2s...
             ha ah ha... tenet (almost)

                               aha!

the most marvelous time... against QPR...
two weeks ago...

also recently: a burglary...
had a PTSD episode last night where i made
my mark on the night air with my breath:
as you can imagine
my mother was woken
as i grieved a lost privacy a safe haven
of my garden...
with a prophetic armistice and fury
i tried to ensure that the burglar might
hear me in his sleep...

nein! nein! nein! du klein sheiß!

oh that it is one of my "neighbours" is certain...
a juicy thumb he left as proof of presence
for the CSI officer...
officer...
that too...

      my mother doesn't take my work
seriously... like i don't take her housewife
"work" seriously...
but during the initial investigation by a PC
when asked about profession
i answered: SECURITY
to which he duly noted: security OFFICER...
hmm... what a moral boost
concerning status...

police officers, firemen, ambulance personnel,
security officers...
and all the moral principles of:

come the age of man in his mid 30s...
time to start looking for a serious woman:
an older woman...
i would have never gone down the rabbit
hole of seeking an younger woman
to have some sort of advantage:
i wanted an equal and an equal
i found in an older woman...
in the footsteps of Macron and Wolverine...

anima per anima
duo per duo ut unum

now for the geometry of seeing with only one eye:
hallucinations in the night,
how the closed eye merges
and disrupts the night
or rather how the night invites itself
to quasi dream -

geometry by letters, one eye and that annoying
nose...
always present however missing
with ().     () two...

it must have been so that
Polyphemus had his eye placed above
his nose to never engage in a nasal entanglement
quiet like the crows are emergent
in flight and peck:

L Γ

peripheral vision of the ape
180º
              but i think that crows and horses
have... an almost 360º vision...
if not 358º vision...

    (a) clepsydra funnel sight(s)

        ∇
        Δ

             stars stars and some David:
this is my colateral,
this is my Balaam moment with the Israelites,
because of gematria
being akin to astrology
such foolish waste of cognitive resources
sheer boredom!


     O
                ∇
                Δ
                       O

cubism - Picasso lettering
that is a face, striking how i can't really tell apart
a nose from a nose or a noose,
protruding or retracting?

ever see a hawk chase a prey?
i'm pretty sure the prey can see the hawk
honing in...
ergo? 358º vision...
given that birds fly into glass buildings
but then glass and air
indistinguishable...
like mirror and water...

Edie Edie my honey bear my peaches
this i ode unto you...
R           ya'R               Ar         R
pi              R           i didn't eat:
but you ate: my hairy chest your *****
and all that floral of flesh of you
i can be unabashed in public
for public to scrutinise:

     since i'm not me now but am me
with you...
given: if everything is ****-
pride charged: i'll create an advent for
the binary cis ****
a nudge in the opposite propaganda dictum
of a culture of a sunset...

cite Trinity in the matrix of:
dodge this...
                              i:              pride this...
and it only took roughly a ***** dozen (13)
of like minded individuals on
an SIA course to get a membrane
going - the walls of Troy have risen once
more...
none of this English
liberal *** nonsense middle class jargon
newspaper friendly opinion section
"journalism" of opinions
without a dialectical scrutiny...

the editorial section i can at least respect
for its impartiality and commitment
to a non-person ghost-like allure...
having opinions makes you less than a journalist
when not debated...
a sort of *****-like ATM
an inflated egoism... which is no heroism at all...

but i digress - having in mind
the poor opinions concerning poetics:
enough said:
too many practitioners not enough
craftsmen...
then again: poetry in a democratic crisis?
at least poetry adheres to democracy:
in principle and above all in practice:
why vote when x
   why not grasp for a voice...

in vox electio -

     in voice a choice: one can choose to either
speak or not speak...
carefully listening to thus carelessly speak:
how glorious that:
to carefully listen but also carelessly speak...
it is this freedom
not libertas per se
but rather on grounds of:

audite diligenter
                                                     loqui neglegenter

and amend and retract
with not fear of prosecution with no
******* mental gymnastics
                                    of censorship:
speech like water - speech like thought

as far as selfishness is concerned:
we all owe ourselves this sort of "selfishness".

oh how i desecrated the initial origin
of these words... from high on...
to this lowly human
and fragile and

'you can't make this **** up...
so i'm still reading Knausgaard's mein kampf
vol. 6 and i'm in this interlude
where he's talking about
a Paul Celan poem,
the symmetry the words, adjectives,
pronouns blah blah
and the symmetry of a poem
resting upon the middle with a focus
on a wet eye....
the past the future, disembodiment etc
and there i am... a day later...
with a ******* eye infection and an eye patch!'