Sons of the soil.
Daughters of the soil.
Wake up and rejoice, for its the day of your heritage.
Celebrate your culture, for it is your privilege.

You are Africa, Africa is you.
A nation so diverse and true.
A real rainbow nation.
Deeply rooted in our tradition.

Nna ke mo Tswana, ebile ke motlotlo ka bo Tswana bame.
Nna ke mo Pedi, ebile ka ikgantsha ka go nna mo Pedi.
Mna ndi ngum Xhosa, ubona nje, ndiyazi dla ngo buXhosa bam.
Mina ngi ngum Zulu qobo, futhi ngiyazi qhenya.

On this day, remember who you are.
On this day, commemorate who you are.
Take pride in your true identity.
Let there be peace and serenity.
In South Africa our land.
Together may we all stand.

Le ga ole moTswana wa Afrika.
Noba ungu m'Xhosa wase Afrika.
Le ha ole mo Sotho wa Afrika Borwa.
Are rataneng. Masi thandaneni.

On this day, speak your mother tounge.
On this day, sing your clan song.
A moTswana eme a kgibe.
UmXhosa maka phakame axhentse.
UmZulu maka sukume agide.
A moPedi a emelle bine.

Sons of the soil.
Daughters of the soil.
Wake up and rejoice, for its the day of your heritage.
Celebrate your culture, for it is your privilege.

i had a friend once, we used to meet up for drinks and talk *******... i like that notion: once... because it was only for a short period of time, i got ~bored of him, but in actual fact disgusted by him... one of those Dostoyevsky moments from Notes from the Underground... this is the thing about being well-read, self-educated, self-educated to the point where you can loudly say: university taught me nothing, hence my third class degree and ample material of having observed the pigs's numbed snout nibbling on the trough... how easily someone can say: i'm writing a book! i' writing a book! but when the question comes: can i see it? there's no book! i thought this friendly exchange concerning ***** and other juices of creativity would precipitate into a grand finale of actually seeing the sweat and tears on paper... so when i told him: i'm getting published, 100 copies and all, an introduction by an Armenian doctor... decent review... well... naturally jealousy came in... he said i should name the effort a word salad... funny thing about being well-read... you know certain terminological hot points... he was out there writing a book but really smoking dope and playing computer games like computer games are supposed to be played these days: about a million Stephen Spielbergs directing very economised games, very economised meaning: a great investment in them. he was being condescending with suggesting i name my first collection word salad, but that's the problem of being well-read, you know that word salad is a degrading term for someone not capable of writing a coherent narrative... someone who doesn't understand his own words, someone who writes loosely associated sentences of meaning, it's not a pleasant term... that was simply insulting my intelligence, not the sort of intelligence that's quantified within the framework of the i.q., when i mean the less statistical variation i'm invoking: intelligence quantum - a certain amount of understanding concerning a certain focus of interest - as with Kant, we choose what the mind might find entertaining, and discard what isn't entertaining - certainly, not everything contains in itself enough "energy" (for lack of a better word, hence the "   ") to be entertaining, partially because we are limited in what we find entertaining: a) something we understand or   b)   something we can barely grasp... usually the latter scenario, but sometimes the former... but to claim something is a word salad? let's just say i have enough psychiatric literature under my belt to know it's a degrading remark... and the hermit and a severed friendship.

people never think you're well read,
but they never, for once, think that
your isolation is due to the fact that you read,
as with the above stated scenario of
someone thinking you might not have
come across a phrase, that's essentially
degrading - too much video games and ***
will do that to you...
                          as with Bukowski
boasting about reading -
                                             he apparently
read Kant but doesn't bother to mention any
key ideas... populist at heart,
    sure... if i didn't bother to learn the laws
of spelling and punctuation...
                           i'd say as much on the rebellion
of never bothering to learn to tie my shoelaces...
it's pretty much the equivalent of...
     what he already said.
                              and philosophy books do
require patience... they're usually masturbated over
by students writing essays and instead
of going the full nine yards and entering
the narrative, they squeeze out a maxim and that's
that...
                       i'm 30 pages away from
entering the final part of the critique:
                                  transcendental methodology -
30 pages and i'm guessing two years since i
started reading the critique -
                                     well,
philosophy is more geology in terms of reactions
than it is chemistry, where reactions take much
less time to be completed -
                    philosophy in that sense is a variation
of geology - poetry and other forms of literature
are more or less chemically bound to be abrupt,
painfully drunk on the highs and lows -
                             and volatile -
                                                     hence the comparison.
   should i quote? i think i should...

idee czystego rozumu nie mogą nigdy same w sobie
być dialektyczne, lecz jedynie samo złe stosowanie
   ich musi sprawiać, że wypływa z nich dla nas
zwodniczy pozór.
                                                     (p. 303, vol 2,
                                      wydawnictwo naukowe PWN)

               another thing to mention... transcendental
methodology might be simplified in terms of
    transcendental grammar classification, i.e. borrowing
concepts higher than the general classification of words
allows -
                  the double noun exfoliation -
                                    apart from naming a word,
we can absorb the activity of the word beyond mere names:
         words that act as catalysts
                                   words that act as enzymes -
                 should there be specific examples?
                                   in general the substrate to product
transformation using an enzyme
                                                   can be voiced by sophists
throughout the ages -
                                 inflammatory coercion of words
to specific bundles of predictable excerpts is standard
                       when the pulpit is filled and all void denied.
but concerning the above quote, i too was thinking
something along the lines of *a priori being obstructive
       of the ideas of pure reason accommodating dialectics.

trans.
            ideas of pure reason cannot, ever, in themselves
                    be dialectical, but only the wrong application
of such ideas must cause, that from them there flows
        a deceptive guise.

      i could quote further, but the a priori principle is
the argued against dialectics are a false nature acquisition
in terms of these ideas of pure reasoning -
               that we've been given these ideas by a supreme
manifestation of nature in us, i.e. that this highest of
all possible tribunals dealing with pretensions and laws
of our speculation, could also contain within itself
primordial illusions and (loosely) spaghetti muddles.

            true to the reason behind moving from a)
a priori              through to          b)    a posteriori -
        if pure ideas are caustically anti-dialectical,
it's because dialectics would rarely mind the transition
being elementary -
                                       but then again,
i imagine the dialectics in a purely a priori guise
and the Newtonian debate given Einstein's counter-proofs...
in that sense, i somehow seem to disagree with Kant...
well, then again no... in themselves they cannot be
dialectical: i.e. disputed or argued against,
  hence the deceptive guise when Newton was supreme
for so many centuries and then Einstein came along
   and the mask that Newton put on the face of gravity
was to be found not straight, but parabolic.
so yes, that's true: time and space are ideas of pure reason,
and they cannot be dialectical -
                                        even though they are
but not in-themselves dialectical,
                                        they have to possess a dialectical
facade, or at least that's what they exfoliated
              and sedate with...
                                              i'd go one step further:
dialectics is, as far as i know, the only way to approach
ideas of pure reason -
                                           only once dialectics shows
us the ideas of impure reason (the Socratic daemon) -
as leading us into acknowledgement
                                              that certain things are truly
non-debatable -
                                      but that they somehow have
to be debated in order that they might be refined
for the purpose of them being true to their nature:
non-dialectical.
                                   this approach is at least better than
what becomes forcefully adhered to,
                                 i'm still facing a dialectical concern
over Darwinism...
                                      primarily because...
well... my concern is that a belief in a god is more comforting
not for some case in jurisprudence, a heaven on high...
          it's the bothersome timescale and the fact that
skeletons and drawings on cave walls are not much of
a comfort either...
                                   partially also, due to the fact that
i like to think about the item of concern, rather than
express some sort of benediction toward the item of concern:
    there's nothing insensible about that,
given that god, as much as space and time, is an idea
of pure reason -                if i was imbued with
   a natural supplement of atheism, i'd still be trapped
in a dialectical moment of concern -
                                 until i'd finally shed all manner
of a dialectical approach concerning the idea: and make
the final non-dialectical statement of faith.
the flip side is not whether you're right or wrong,
  but whether you actually can make that statement.
as far as i'm concerned (well, i never had that much
admiration for the man) - Mr. B never read a **** thing
of philosophy.

i find it abhorring to somehow feel the need for
a condescending approach to this subject of interest...
as any assurance there need be concerning philosophy...
one thing is perfected witch each new approach to
the subject: you never actually find the time to moan
about not being with women... or how poorly humans
treat each other... you never seem to complain about
solitude, you never once feel lonely...
                                                   you quiet simply get on
with it...                         perhaps that's what it always way:
the best way to entertain yourself...
                    you're basically having to write out with
ease crossword puzzles in your mind that precipitate down
onto the blank page... somehow with it:
life is bearable when alone... and there are more
entertainment hot-spots... none to do with gambling...
                 so that's about as much as being pegged
down to size actually means...
                                         never true: that cinematic
feat to depict modern (and very much Anglo) guises
of modern alienation...
                                           then again: he probably
did read it, but he never bothered to discuss it in any
way relevant as for it to be revealing his interest in
the topics... macho cool keeping it trendy, i'm guessing.

pierdole, jade do Turka, bo inaczej ni-ma rady: pospolicie, czyli na pszysięge: klnąć! nad to:  ścisk ‘zora, o! tyle! gleba!  ścisk - tym ‘zorem siekać, i u-ci-sss-kać! no to dopić: pod ten brak  šatana - tego Ukrainskiego atamana - brak mu ręki - bo na ścisk - jak to mówie: cisza - szmer i śmiech! a to wiadomo czemu tak auto-matem iota ma główke - czemu nie ćιsza, jeno cisza? a no, dla tego! ja nie prosie by tak prosić na gotowe! a tu wysłane! cygan z dywanem perskim, a i tak nie wygoda! bo czemu kropka nad ι‘otą? a bo sie czyta Spinoze i sie pyta: nad literami grawituje tym pytaniem. - to też znaczy: poza lewą nie wie co prawa ręka robi - bo to oczy czytem jedno, a zór lepi drugie - kto by domyślił sie inno turkie ğ to jak ‘glika ha, ha gag - ab surd! grav’ niet kā’ron! bo i tak: śmierć metafizyki jest nowo-narodzonym szczylem (ščylem) ortografii - czyli dwa razy po krótkie i - jakby jota - głucho puste widzi-mi-sie (brakujący ogon, czytem: diabł ma rogi - a zatem: pytń  o ‘gon... jom ci pszepisze Ajrysza Finnegans Wake, tym bogatszy, a przy tym powiem: pierwsza cegła pod ten mur: al-buraq - czyli ten burak - czyli, die rotebeetemauer - jebaniec poniemiecki, jeszcze mu mało pożyczonych słowików... cirp ci kuźwa dam’nom, bedzie bi-da! bi-da! kozmopolitan tylko górali i szkocki akcent bawi na lublu... to cie kurwa zabawi, prędzej dziób pingwina skryje sie w moim łokciu, jak i dąb na tle mojej dłoni! pije, pali, konia wali... w imie ojca i syna, i duchownictwa szarańczy. post / pre scriptum: wolno myślący człowiek nie ma teorii ego, jeno mape, nie algebre o ten niedosyt znaka X - dawym imie - dycha! co pincet znaczeń, dycha! nie nie, aby podpis analfabety - tzn. X i ego, ** i superego, *** i id - tzn. to tamto, owanto. wu czy u - czy wiem i nie wiem, czy: kiedy piszesz i wydalasz cieć klaustrofobii - czyli: chłopie nie pisz jak plotnik fobii jesteś - ad abstractum - od nowa: Zyd na Gestapo - pewnikiem nie żaden: Brzeczyszczykiewicz - schusza - jakby odwrót: syty - szyschkami - šon - ko-kurwa-konery! jebudjed; budujem? da da... ja ni kocham tybi ty ni koi me. a to co? działa NA-WA-RO-NE-SO-LA-TI-DO. ponownie - sprość: ğnome - ğnostic - cisza nad gje.*

i to prawda,
   ta Grecja...
       kołyska zachodniej
cywilizacji -
   tzn. bahory,
      młode gówna:
   kakaшki -
lecz! Virgil i co Turek dobrze
wie... Grecja? nuda
i szambo murmur
w Edenie pirackim zwanym
Loon-dyn...
       bo ci powiem co ci powiem
a ci powiem jak Zagłoba -
   tym bardziej kochać
jak czerni syn w pieśń nad góry ‘niem:
   Bo-***! mój to ulubieniec.
           pisz wiersz ‘ciupki -
maciupki paniczku -
   pisz wiersz po każdej
książce...
              a co w Polsce?
meandry uczuć!
   tak, tak, z babcią ci powiem
nie o Greckiej piekności -
powiem ci o Turkeckiej -
    - co, za... SIKSA!
- i sam bym głowe w ogniste dupsko
diabła wsadził po modłach przed
ołtarzem nie jednej iskry Aten
                          blednącej -
   w tamtą strone jedzie w czern
ubrana żałobą piękna -
w pół kroi sie Ukraina i Grecja...
a tam, tam w post scriptum
Byzantina - siedzi wicher serca
cerkiew i meczet cukrzynka -
martwe to morze, morze,
martwe, lecz nie sól inno cukrem
lśniące błoto, jakby
   z Szanghaju *** świnski -
   córa dla starego i młodego -
Sühan - Sühan - Sühan Tuğba -
     po nią znów 100,000 łajb płynie -
dawna Troja -
  bo ci powiem co ci powiem -
     Turk nie Muzułman -
po Alim drugi - godny sfat Pers'a -
bo jak nie - Turk u progu Europy -
nawet i ja na podziw przed
    obchodem Kaab'y siedem razy
motłochu wart ogląd szkarabu -
i ten słodki adhan -
           bo dla szczoła śpiwać to
na marnie -
     boli też pruch po tych starych
bakach pośmiewiska papistwa...
   jebana kurwa mać w koło to samo -
nie wiem jak, ale
    wolałbym zdradzić chrzest
niż go przyjąć -
           ponownie -
ale jeno pod chorągwięm Turka -
jako janczar -
         chociaż tam jest: śpiew!
a nie, dzwon, dzwon w głąb 'pusciany!
czy też krokiem: kra kra krasnoludy!
fu!
     gorzkość i brzydota!
          mówie! Turek po łacinie
zacina? zacina - alfa-kurwa-becik
po jakiemu? nie po Ł'cinie
godnym Lwowa?
           z Turkiem moge, bo sie
chce, on i tak już lizał Bałkan
   i prawie zawstydził Wiedeń!
    ale to ciwilizowany Pan,
         bo umnie ubrać i nawet
pozwoli wypiç kiedy kości wychodzą
z ciała ogrzać cień!
     o tyle lepszy -
jaki przy Turku z Troją w ręku
i przy Perskim stygnięciu jest
ten prostak Arab...
     a jak im sie skończy czarny glut
to będa eksportować pioch!
    już wiem gdzie,
         na plaże Albionu!
             i tyle powiem -
   o Turka warto byłoby zdradzić -
bo skąd inne, piękniejsze od
  Greczynek niż ciup-ciup pijące
         wróbelki z nad Bosforu?
   Turek drugi Ali i trzeci podział
Izlamu - bo wkręt Ł'ciny -
             i tym też -
               sfoboda -
                 tym też dawny Byzan -
i Troja - i co jak nie Rzym -
        ostatni kalif -
                    i tym Arab w świecie
jak Żyd -
          ale o tym mniej od Żyda -
bo to bogacz na wielblądzie który
nie tylko nie może sie zmieścić przez
oko igły, a co też nie może
zmieścić sie w swe portki!

49.

Men, Niemen?
most, rzeka i autobus
zatacza się w pagórki
          Wilia?
          w upale budzą się Suwałki
          Memel zaciąga brzeg lasem
          znużoną powieką
Memelland ist abgebrannt
          mury
          pagórki
          coraz to milej do ciebie
          miłe miasto

https://yandex.ru/collections/card/5e6f063db651624b1a7fd6ad/


53.

NA ANTOKOLU


na Antokolu
barok wkoło
stiukowi święci
w plafony wzięci
królowie
            żyd jak żywy
            w peruce na głowie
            triumfuje w purpurze
nad ołtarzem w górze
zaś przy drzwiach
z krzyża zdejmowany
nie baczy na rany świeże
dłoń składa na grzbiecie
na nowym habicie
w ofierze
wpółobjęty
z jednego gwoździa zdjęty
ledwo, a już łaskawie
nad mieczykami z ogrodu
błogosławi płotu
regina pacis
dwa bębny tureckie
zdobyte pod  Chocimiem
milczą w kruchcie nad Wilią


60.

JAK WILENKA

spóźnimy się na wieczór Alicji Rybałko
jak Wilenka po Zarzeczu kluczymy; mosty
w zaułki - miasto dla nas na trzy klucze
zamknięte, jak bajka o spiżowym wilku

w Pikieliszkach za dworem księżyc studzi jezioro
para łabędzi przy brzegu - tak prosto romantycznie
i książki w bibliotece dla dzieci tu
nadal dostać można jedynie po rosyjsku

a poezja Alicji, jak gotyk św. Anny
na palach olchowych i workach piasku
w płomienistym po wielokroć łuku
przenoszę na dłoni ten kościół



Stefan Kosiewski; OBY DO WILNA. Wiersze. Wstęp: Dr Romuald Cudak: Na marginesie. Redakcja: Barbara Jędrzejczak. Opracowanie, korekta: Tadeusz Adam Knopik. Łamanie: Robert Kosek. Wydawca: Stowarzyszenie Europejskie PONS GAULI; współwydawca: Radio PLUS Katowice Sp. z o.o. Drukarnia im. K. Miarki w Mikołowie. Katowice 2000 ISBN 83-914127-0-9

it's not that my life was / is more interesting than yours, it's only that you idealise details with such grandeour that puts me off, my life was / is like yours, it's only that i love paying attention to details, and the more details there are, the more personal you can become, and in-so-doing, it doesn't matter what the details are, which makes your life less embarassing when compared to the lives of orthodox autobiographical stylicism, the orthodoxy of a many ommitted details.*

when i was younger, i.e. prior to the age of 17
i used to be that fat boy
who was into metal music,
collected pokemon cards,
and liked wwf (world wrestling federation),
even though i was also the kid
who didn't see his father from the age of
4 till 8... and upon meeting him as if for the first time
at victoria coach station, watched the lion king
movie with a certain gravitas religiosity
to consider being a son again
after school for how long i don't remember,
but i miss being raised by grandfather joseph
sometimes, the freedom i would have
been entitled to like my father who was abandoned
by his parents... i wonder where the heraclitus river
would have guided me... new zealand, japan...
china... certainly somewhere east...
dear joseph roth... only major characters are thieves
in films, all the cameos have pockets filled with
pennies and they are losing pennies all the time,
frank sinatra told them to do so...
i'm currently ólafur darri ólafsson from
the film: the secret life of walter mitty... and i have
my shadow again, from the gray that's everyday,
i don't need to fill the higher tier roles of being
recognisable if my cognitive mirror is my self,
i don't, i exercise everyday these days,
four bottled beers around a 3 mile circuit does
my heart proud - i watch the choke brigade of
relentless bedroom experteese run a mile all geared up...
so when i was a teenager, all fat and bubbly i
idealised loving women... what hell that brought me...
thanks for the womb... no thanks after that...
i dearly idealised them, each night falling asleep
i imagined... nothing came of it... one turned out
to be a "reincarnation" of robert johnson's lover...
robert dropped dead right on the stage...
didn't end up a fat and a well versed whiskey poet
into old age like b. b. king - whiskey poet?
yeah... john lee ****** took howlin' wolf's spoon,
then came the clue for the boom oom...
rendition of all possible revisions...
jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way...
rendition? me me, me me, me me me me...
no wonder the crux of capitalism is that one night
in december... guess the surprise...
ancient slavic lore maxim: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
thumb folded under the index and sticking out
between the index and the *******... what's that?
a fig... co masz? to jest figa dla ciebie!
and where does a penguin's beak bend?
when you show them more than the *******...
you show them the elbow with the arm folded
and tell 'em... this is where the penguin's beak folds!
if you want to lose weight, fatty boy high school crush,
get on your bike boy'o, make those excess lipids
into waterfalls, use your legs to drain the upper body
and you won't have a problem with stretch armstrong
excess skin... during the summers i visited my
grandparents and peddled like mad, my favourite
route was down the 754 route, via krzemionki (flint)
rezerwat (reservation centre), through maksymilianów
where my childhood friend bella the alsatian was born,
and into bałtów, then through wólka bałtowska,
into the masovian voivodeship, through to borcuchy
then onto eugeniów, through dąbrówka, then straight
onto the road connecting ostrowiec with sienna.
the other route... it was in england...
no, wait, that's a lie... my other favourite cycling
route was also in the direction of bałtów,
but in a different direction: through magonie,
boria, stare stoki, ruda kościelna, ćmielów, route 755
through to bodzechów and straight into ostrowiec
(but sometimes through kąty denkowskie)...
my favourite english route though?
i have one specified...
from romford, up to havering-atte-bower,
bournebridge, staplefords abbotts, down ongar rd.,
abridge, through hainault county park
and back home (sometimes in reverse).
so chin hoo fat lost the belly... and stopped idealising
girls, actually lost interest in them...
which is a shame, i quiet liked the fat kid
who put all girls on a peddlestool;
yeah... that could have remained true...
but then he met the girls... and then he met their fathers.

i was eating a pepperoni pizza today,
and took a salty tongue into the night,
£270 on my bank account - great stuff -
took five quid out, felt like buying four
oranjeboom reds at 8.5% each,
instead bought two, and
perrier carbonated glass-bottled water...
god the thirst in this cement sahara...

the best transition accompanying drinking
and listening to music comes
from the heights of reggae to creedence clearwater
revival... no, not the eagle, not Leonard the skin-head
with an 'ard on... creedence... lebowski who
was bukowski's posthumous alter-ego...
so i did a galileo while drinking,
the light on my side-table by the bed light
glowed, put my sunglasses on...
the stars disappeared and the planets appeared...
oddly enough, as is usual the case of
counter-intuitive matters when looking
at astronomical geographies...
mars far left... venus in the middle,
and jupiter the biggest and therefore the brightest
far right...
i worked it out against linear tactics...
the distance of the earth from venus doesn't
make a difference with the distance from mars,
but the distance of mars from jupiter is greater,
see you in 100 years to prove the point
and whether it matches up to HARD, NECESSARY,
PROOFS... LIKE MAINTENANCE ***...
******* a girl with a really really exaggerated
libido, having to wear a ****** while she was
on her period, in the toilet and she bewildered
saying: 'most guys don't dig the female bits...'
hell... i'd do necrophilia...
shame the relationship turned to a sour toast with her,
shame, really... really really.
oh yeah, after smashing that £600 martin & co.
guitar to celebrate valentines day
(chłopiec z gitarą był by dla mnie parą
my grandmother used to sing...
well... sorry to disappoint,
i had her rastafarian shoelaces for
a pin-up belt to walk and play, or simply
stand still and note string twangs...
*była giiitara... ni ma giiitary...)
and bought myself a drum-kit:
well... just my finger-drumming antics
on my legs;
or as a wise man said: **** her, leave the rest
for a backward trek into life
without maps but only premonitions.

bez ze mnie to tylko kurwy!
bez ze mnie to brak matk!
co ja? igrek w stonoge piękna pająk!?
o ty równasz ciepło... ty ciepło?!
ja więcej z grama węgla wydobie
dla mego nagiego ciała niż ty w
odzienie dotyku dajesz!
do arabii spierdu chytrością lisa ty!
no! już! dawaj!
Jan Paweł drógi prosi o odwarcie kałczugu
bounce bounce na immigrant i także sprzedarz!
taniej ty niż skóra wiepsza na butach
iskry, w raptem wosk wax o imie dziewicy ha ha
samogwaltu twego ojca;
to chyba piask w butach, surname Sahara,
a twoje imie Samara.

krytyka na żyda to ta sama na krytyke polaka, skoro krytyk na żyda to też krytyk na polaka - skoro żyd bez ziemi to też polak pod włóknem niemca czy russa czy też bezwdzięcznego austrjaka! odsiecz wiednia!

https://goo.gl/2wVUsz, from minute to an hour:
radio-kacap - lost the c somewhere,
had to innovate -
                                              ra - d - yo -
                      радя -
(я to possess it, a punctuation
                                       mark on the letter to stop
the omicron from rotating a fullness)
                               КАЧП - or simply ç (s) -
              ketchup apparently,
                       the slaughter of Zagreb -
                                        Croat piled on Croat
          for a Mexican roll via Tahiti -
                                 kark capa - kark kacapa
(stary kozioł to zwany *cap
         bronz spermy i zapach tzn. cap'a -
   capie ten ogier Poznania w szambie południa
                            na gry czołem z bliska
                  w tenis z innym capem) -
            stary ogier na tle mgły
                   i kozioł kopiący kszięrzyc w orbite
       i w równie starannej rubryki: sto razy jeszcze raz
                                        to samo, bo to dla wieku
   dwa dwa: die tventy secoond centaur /
         die nächster tausendfüßler, year on - year in.

and you now see what they made me do? i'd never thought it would come to this, that i had to crawl back to the mainland of europe to find a publisher, because the appreciation of publishing poetry in england is null, nil, zero, nothing, a mustard seed's worth of hope; this mediation of saving the amazon rainforest to save up on paper and the first yawn of the digital age, among cat videos and ****, there you have it, a massive blotch on the intended utility of this **** thing - i'm not even angry any more, just ****** nervous - or as the old writer said in his appreciation of poverty and feeling guilty concerning what he deemed to be his riches (a record collection and a private library): happy trails kids.*

Droga Pani Anno,

przepraszam za popszedni email, mianowicie że był on bez poważnej formy i tematyki, taki po prostu skrutem. Lecz przez osiem lat nie-ustannego pisania, pisząc do osoby w pozycji umożliwienia publikacji wkroczyła we mnie trema opisywania rzeczywitości - tzn. kiedy widze śledząc pisanie innych poetow na internecie - i tą marude znaną jako rozczarowanie jeżeli chodzi o szanse publikacji, nie tylko jednego wiersza w magazynie poetickim, a o całej książce własnych wierszy to już ża dużo można powiedziec o aborcji dalszych i utrzymanych ambicji. Myśle wiec ze 100 egzemplarzy nie jest asz tak nie realistyczne, wiem że poezja snuci swą muzyke dla nie wielu czytelkników, określone najlepiej dwoma obserwaciami: w angielskich gazetach można spotkać recenzje książek na wiele tematów (autobiografie najczęsciej), lecz o poezji praktycznie nic, oraz fakt że nie dawno tylko jedna książka poezji osiągneła sprzedaż ~10,000 egzemplarzy w Angli - a mówie że 100 nie jest nie realistyczne poniewarz na jednej stronie (hellopoetry.com) mam około 40 zawziętych czytaczy - 936 wierszy i wszytkie przeczytane przez tą skromną kadre - a na facebook.com mam 178 znajomych których poznałem czy to na uniwersytecie czy też w szkole. Tak, a więc 100 egzemplarzy.

Mateusz Conrad E.

Sikorki tchnienie w locie musnęło ziemię,
Kresy, wrzosy, suche liście też na wietrze.
Na sykomorze dalekiej Arabii ustała,
skulonego u jej korzeni tego, co sonety
o Aleppo układał, wysłuchała,
i przeto myślami po raz pierwszy
swe osmolone smogiem skrzydełka przetarła:

"Ku czemu się wykluwałam? Ku czemu latałam?
Swym trelem, uwagi skinieniem, czego mam być wyrażeniem?"
Nagle poczuła w każdej małej kości:
"Odpowiedź jest jedna: Miłości"

Że ma ona twarz wszystkiego, niczego, spojrzenia naszego:
Dwóch samców złączonych łabędzia czarnego,
Smutku dla szczęścia innego znoszonego,
Sekretu czule z łzami deszczowi wyznanego
I drzewa z grzyba korzeniem splątanego.

Że ku temu radość innym daje, że tego jest formą,
Wszystkich uczuć, chwil i wrażeń zmową.

"Dziękuję", na tą myśl światu odpowiedziała,
z wdzięczności dla poety z dołu
korę drzewa pocałowała,
i z nową tęsknotą, ku niebu Syrii,
odleciała.

też masz mi do powiedzenia, jak niby włókło włókna szarosci sierści psa, dało skóre tą samą, godną, na ubiór człowieka! o tyle, tylko czy ten pies nie igra w psie zasady i maniery łyskotek ogona, a raczej: z krókiem w krok swego pana, na ilość kra kra ha ha! KRA! HA! bo sie barbarossa obudzi!*

potwory na wyspach!
każdy murzyn to wie!
tu nie ma społeczeństwa,
tu nie ma nawet dialogu,
kiedy mensch kochąjacy
mensch jest w nad grobie
ozora zakryty
szambem, i chwyta brzytwy
bo tonie nad dwóch tą krytyką!
i tu ten upiór rady i wolności,
niby, nagle opartym królem
na tronie sracza,
o! królestwo zwanem szambo!
na typ repliki króla jana!
jedna dziwa ulic uciekła bo powiedziałem
rym henryka żon wedle idolizacji karola,
pierwszy z czołem ścięty, drugi nie,
a co trzeci? a tu nagle w gazele!
*** raj car cajs, w ten rytmiczny bieg!
hola hoop! *** tsar cajs! ona w bieg!
no, pięć minut wykorzystane
dla brygady oxfam.

it's called: whenether you dare to call it infantile, that you start imagining people being serious about selling shoe-laces; or Korans.

even those, who you left to "live"
unto the age of 70 and past,
are asking, are asking themselves
whehter it has worth it...
            your arguments don't
scare me, they threaten me,
        and when someone
feels threatened:
             they react in
a natural tribunal of effort...
  when the arguments threaten
you fear confiscates
   the dire need of death
being an alpine promise...
      and the such...
you rob me of fear,
you instill a pragmatic of death,
like the Jew paid his alimony
  what the suffered under the **** crimes...
of course,
the numbers matter....
the Marshall plan in neutral Sweden...
              or what the Poles
    got with Communism...
Jew... barricades... barricades!
messerschmitt teuton krähe schwarzkreuze,
   love your neighbour as yourself:
that too died on the cross...
   and i was but a peasant in Warsaw,
and Warasaw was but a village...
                     something worth ******* on...
and it was the ****'s worth of geography
for merely being there.
       it's there... something akin to be odd...
               i have, oddly enough, no allegiance...
i'm bound to being dreamy...
          so called lazy...
   the next best thing...
                 right now the Jews matter,
i took no deutsche marks from the swabian schweine...
             the jews did...
               jews... they did...
                     blondas *kurva trop!
happy retirement and Hannukah...
you crass-case of albino...
                  alias neo-deutsche!
                          austrjak jebany palmą!
w głowe, jebudiet!
   Wengier! hu ha dusza, i świntosiek
                  duch, i iskra, i łamana
                          świca...
         serce mi da tą ziemie:
   i ja tą ziemie dam w cheć na
pogoń, zwane zając!

nie dla narodu, z kochanej, e, u, ro, py...
pierdole ten cyrk!
ja, niby, polok...
o to ten huj, iskra huja w pizdzie i pizde mi
na kilo jabłek potem wgryść, rozdać i sie
tylko śmiać... Jarkowski, jebany,
       Kowalski, zapomniany...
           Jazurelski: troche i coś odtąd nie tak...
czyli, ricochet, echom czy apropos?
         bo to cynic: prawde mę, to samo co prawde mlą.
hej stop to warto obgadać jako: gnój!
          i szmira, i obowiązek... niby...
   ale skupowisko nie-urzytków, tzn. słów...
rodzinka sie wkurwi na widow mnie!
    no, po prostu wkurwi!
              oj, hyba że ja ponowny Szo'pę,
i kres mego serca na łałel... via W unto V
or: Vienna.
                      as cheap as the joke can be made,
or as plastic and extending as it allows itself
to be...
             taaak, bluźnie:
        bo mi na pacierz nie wypada...
kler: zegnam sie, panie sługo... zegnam sie...
paciorek i tymianek... gówno wśród nas!
to wszystko przez
           braku ari de verci....    
  albo quo vadis -
              ryj!                 i gleba.

ja, między swoimi? na wygnaniu? ja? jeden? z kim, i z dla kogo potrzeb? twoje, twej, tego, co mnie nigdy nie znał? tu?! tu nie ma na na narodu... ani ludzi wartych o przyjaźń, co by dało wartość, zwane: lata. o to zapomnienie, warte, złoto i gruz, na to samo w chinach, praca, zajęcie, ***, i to: tak, owszem, tak jest, panie profesorze, tak będzie... i nie inaczej... stara babuszka w lesie... skryta, skłania się po grzyby, potem na targowicy, w hustce, sprzeda sekret tych perfum. oh tych gnań... do tego: co było, i już nigdy już nigdy nie będzie. ah te piękne muchomory... polka-kropki w taniec, jak niby w twej bluzie... czy też w twej spódnicy, szyk, na tą ostatnią noc, gdzie mnie nie było, na tej zwanej, nad pamiętnej, studniówce; pisane, ręką, dziecką w rękach poronienia, o latach osiem; poronienia od narodu dar, co był bliskim tym co byli nad nim, w ramach lat, przed nim.

the saxons said the same, we don't mix with these people,
if i want to drink diluted ****-worth's of whiskey
i'll drink what the dogs **** out... and tell you,
it's like magic mushrooms!
    you know the difference between economic migrants
and migrants per se?
   the latter do not "conquer"...
    they don't make themselves habitual, comfortable...
they don't earn or learn a trade...
               they're here, to learn what the parasitic
government provides, taxation, en masse thieving...
only to exploit it, the system of benefits.
                                 akin to a saxon, or a norman, i'm
standing on these shores, and trying to thinkg of a good
reason to mate with the women on these isles...
   and i'm thinking... why dilute my d.n.a.,
     as the expression is made plain by the intellectuals,
my *d.n.a. requires an upkeep...
     well, thank you for indicating to me where sensible
objectivity ends, and when true subjectivity, or poetry,
begins.
  i was planning to find out when all these objective
superiority statements would end, they just started to bore me,
sure, they made me feel uneasy,
     the internal dimensions of the object i encompass
are, so much less interesting than the external aspects
of the same object... within the arithmetic of 1 + 1 + 1 = 3!
3 + d!
       economic migrants simply show the ineffectiveness
of the host nation's workforce... it's in plain sight...
they're either lazy, callous, inefficient, irregular,
      low-quality proof (regarding the necessary output
for a satisfactory end-product),
                               in a nut-shell:
a bunch of wankers who just want to shove, but can't push!
              or heave!
why would i want to dilute my blood among these
people? sure, they can jingle and jive, and sing me a ******
christmas carol... apart from that? a potato famine.
      title? celtic-blood.... ginger-red-carrot-hair...
            sometimes there are just natural prejudices,
or let's say, personally experienced prejudices taking hold
of your writing, that you simply can't obstruct...
          some four-leaf clover ******* fairy of a boy tells you:
you should mingle with your own...
         you're polite enough to write an answer,
rather than tell it to his face... when you flying to dublin, you ****?

as i once told a woman nearest to me
whom i was part of for a cycle of 9 months...
nie wyprowadzaj mnie z równowagi jak inni...
osiem lat słucham i wszystko co słysze to gówno...
wilk i lis ze mnie nie ulotni się bym nawet nie mówił jak jeden
z nich, dziki i wsciekły... moje słowa bedą jak kły!
(wiele partii czy tam głosów... prawdziwa demokracja)
przepraszam... nie raczej nie... SORRY (typowo angielskie
podejście na wszystko, dwu twarzowiec^)  że twój ojciec
sporzywał alkohol na imprezach... dla mnie alcohol to sedatywa.
^chociaż irlandczyk natyle głupi aby być dosłowny
i tępy jak kamień (na nim wszystko można
zaostrzyć - wkluczono wzrok, zgubione
okulary na czole wciąż) nawet w substancji kundla;
a to za gitare "maciupki" janie.

given the title?                       a history.
                 you simply don't get it,
you don't get a focal point,
   instead of the hejnał mariacki
i get: the beatles...  included in the exodus package....
or the: when will immigrants be deemed expatriots?
now, never, soon?! host nations
forget that immigrants have a host nation
to remind people of: at least given the lingo...
but then local people repel it:
given the Anglos: it's a best kept secret in
Rotherham... because that's how we like it...
see? we English: two-faced politeness...
  all ****-based in Ibiza... or dare say otherwise...
we like the carry-ons... said:
you say, where we were naughty...
             keep it as you are
you'll eventually remind me of nothing...
   that's worse than a hangover...
you''ll literally remind me of nothing,
perhaps Netwton, but mostly Cockney
inspired ****... i just made half of keeping
Oxford...
             yes, you with Roman and Viking
history, i can't speak a history of Mongol
invasian, or the qusi-vikings akin to Swedes,
and then the Turks...
******* islelanders...
       as the French always said:
you not into ******?
               **** it! let's sell it anyway!
  about as gravity prone to tell a difference
between a rock and a mountain...
watch which one sink further into quicksand...
what you don't get with your d.n.a.:
a history...
what you don't get with your d.n.a.:
no pretty face will be able to repeat it...
you don't get to reach for a history...
            you don't get to claim Maine
of the u.s.a., you have to come back,
back via little england...
     you first have to craft a reply
counter the ιρη and the σκωτ,
no poly
- if britain is outside of europe:
i'll bring europe to britain -
i'll ensure there's the mandible bone's worth
in it jamming its jaw...
  just so it can chew: and later lap up
a history basis...
      call it a Yugoslavia mm,
or murmur... or something akin...
                i know of the snow surrounding
Belgrade...
                     ι / i / ε / +
             -ρη        catch a breath: -re
  i.r.a. to the malconcent,
well, it's a chessboard: either you're pawn
or no pawn at all...
            i get more english in england
than irish in england,
    i never hear scoot in anglo-shire...
not once, not ever...
              the irish belong in american
urban folklore, or unless nibbling on
the Poznań crown of tatties...
  oh... look at ye / v... cosmopolitan self...
mighty proud i am of ye / v..    
    wiepszo-wą...                 ...tek
                ten.. pierdolony... pyr!
Poznański pyr... to gówno i mowa równikiem:
sroka!
        o kurwa ó ó...  sedament:
   i to zwane cegłą.... wielkopolski huj:
schwaben herz!        pyr! daj mi boże wojne
domową wedle testamentu Syrii...
bo ja gnije w nadzieji żem nadaramene wygnany!
    wielko-huja-warty-*******...
pyr... ziemniok... wielko-łaski "hrabia"
    einzbach! ten: poznański "rebel"
  pseudo des esseintes...
   generically know as merely: pyr...
  wkrocze w cheć Warszawy na nowo:
a poza tym? angielska róż może zgnić
w makijarz. tyle.... o o.... tyle...
kopytka i klątwy... śląskie glizdy: czy klusy...
      czyli poznański szlachto-łez-odziedziczony...
            "pan"...
nadal tylko kurwa pyr dla mnie!
no, kurwa, kochaj mnie!
        tak abym nie pisał tym ozorem... zza granicą!
czyli bez ł i paciora, a jednak tyle co chodzi o tau.
i never have to answer my host nation,
i never had to... it's the nation that gave
the care to give Chopin's heart a tomb in Wawel...
         as the perpetual home:
   cheap racist ignitions don't make me really
****- sensitive concerning English don't and do not
slang translation...
   i'm worried about my mother incubator,
    and yes, that's ****- i.e. don't and
pakistani i.e. do not...
                        well... there's bound to be a gensis
at some point... it doesn't necessarily
have to be koranic...
given the saudis are so ******* lazy in their
inheritence of sitting on what the islamic
world calls *schwarz gœlt.

stara prawda...
                                    to tylko nuda;
coś więcej?
    eh... chyba emerytura -
tak na policzku
braku aesthetics
na tle cegieł - bo to ha ha dla
"uczonych" z prostatą na telefonach
niby jak kupcy z arabii
jest równe sezon z wybrykami szeików
kórw i koni - ale nie jest tłem z czołgami
Tiananmen - o tyle blisko by dać
wywrot historii wspomnieniem
słowo Panzer:
nad dot com boom słownictwa;
jak ten noworodek lewicy szczy w portki
bojąc sie ozora powiękrzenia zasobu słów!

to co... na migi?
hu ha
     ham ba ha ra ha?
owszem, an glee
to nie typowy marsz
oprucz w pępek...
bo pępek to Greenwich's
timetable - wersat
o zmianie czasu dla
wsi inhabitants,
    czyli the October party.

nie tak sie przerzegnamy jak bylo dane (w lewo, w prawo, w lewo, w prawo) nie! pierw głowa, potem ręka, wtedy serce, a na końcu: pachwina; jako prawo-ręczny... straciłem ucho na nowoczesny vogue lewicy (w braku komuny)... bo trudo srać, i słuchać tych... bzdur! w swym: powiem co tylko moge... bo i tak angol jest trędowaty, jeżeli chodzi o języki, oprócz jego; a o tym znaczy gromada amerykanców którzy tylko mówia: jak to sie wypowiada?! rub rub rub your hands... startled by the sea of tongues, dislodged from the synchronisity of the tide.

tú stanie moja stopa,
                           i tu nią, powiem
    *hūk! grzmot!
                                rygor! disciplina!
   aport! aport!
                mniej warty niż pies
                                      gnoju!
  doberman na podwurku
                                   chociaż szczeka
    na widmo, czy też cień!
                         ty, kurwo języczna?
    whine whine whimper...
dawaj chociaz voodoo haiti,
      a ty kurwa skad?
   nigeria? kenja?
     co tam gavari? zulu?
           no to kurwa mów! - - - -
- - - - - large dogs don't really
bark at other dogs
    or people, the ones they
                          can see...
          poodles?
   they're picking the wrong
fight, always have,
                       always will.
        ten "muzynek"
bambo?
     wkradne sie w jego
                                  dupe...
   z metrowym kijem
           bambusa!
    i potem spytam...
           gdzie te widły
chinczyków do żarcia
             z twej mordy?
choppy choppy, shticky shticky?
                 bombai fwy wice?
        dziś? jutro? pojutrze?
   za tydzień, miesiąc?
  rok? sto lat?
              sto lat! sto lat!
      niech niech żyje nam!
ale mie to wkurwia...
    wprost, dzięki bogu że
tego nie mówie...
            bo jak bym miał
o tym gadać... to i tak
bym nie gadał... tylko srał...
czy też bawił sie w
                   rzeźnika...
o hej hej! fri-dom of spicz!

  niech bedzie pochwalony...
na wieki wieków
                     ten zór byka...
      że tak sporo na zachodzie
myśli: słowianin to slav tzn.
niewolnik, albino-bambo...
a tak naprawde to:
       kowalski...
                słowowalski...
                      ­ słowny-kowal,
          kowal dla czteru!
      czterem w oddech ziemi

                       north (conquest)              
    
west (war)                +                   east (death)

                       south (famine)

we mnie cichy lew, i tym bardziej
                  lis, szachista ciszy;

             ale z nich pół-głąby kapusty,
co to za polityka, jeżeli tylko dwu-znaczny
grymas... i tym: niewyparzona morda
"wolności"...  co każdy aktor czy diwa zna?

two songs, when i played guitar, before i shamed it silly into firewood? of my favourites... silverchair's shade, and link wray's rumble... otherwise the standard blues chords... under the bridge? yeah, i could do that... but since: chłopak z gitarą, był by dla mnie parą (a boy with a guitar, would suit me fine)... satan speaks better lies than a woman, so no, no thank you; oh please, knock yourself out... for one honest woman, there are about two male thieves waiting to stalk the night... for one dihonest woman... there are no males in sight.

not much music with atheists...
   jabba jabba jabba joobi job...
alt.?   dziabbah dziabbah
             dziabbah whom serve's
the sneeze's worth of argument...

theists?

  well... at least there's:
    fiddler on the roof...

   either silence, or song...
but conversation?!

   if i were a rich man...

  *yubby dibby dibby
            dibby dibby dibby
   dibby dum...

            i stopped talking after discovering
that english has no diacritical
distinctions... and doesn't treat
ch or sh as digraphs...
          
          this language is ******* barren in
technical terms...
  and then tha natives complain:
ooh, ooh, oog'ah oog'ah... ***** accent... huh ha huh...
******... begin with first base of
encoding your own waggle before
   talking to people about "funny" accents...
to me... you have a funny way of writing
with latin script... it's no wonder you had
an empire, and how suddenly it collapsed...
     by hiding your own diversity of accents,
from scottish, to australian, to south african,
to essex, to cockney, to welsh, to irish...
   yo' faackers r foo-king funny...
                             born 'n' bred... me ayes..
please... show me, a start of diacritical
    implementation on the ancient alphabet...
that you didn't actually invent,
      you're just a ******* stuart of latin...
you're no king, no more than i'm
     a beggar asking to peer into the cipher.

    oi! "adam"! put on some underwear,
dress the language up with some diacritical marks!
oh, oh wait... you can't...
             there are too many variations,
to many necessary exceptions to be made...
    
  y'all like drawl... americana nasal...
        wee *** some knee-jerks aww awound az...
                 wee ginna fwy sum kin-tuck-e
                             chee-ken fighs.
no ketchup i gether...
       n'ah mate...
                           we be coo-kin wi'
   a barbie sáùs;

        oh cool cool, b. dylan's blonde on blonde.

dla jaj (i.e. eggs - jokes, gags): co ma piernik to wiatraka? no...  co? to samo co ma parasol do tyczki... i to samo: warte nart: skee *******: skee! how does that look with diacritical marks? sky not ski? skī? e, e... me and my uncle agreed: i better hear this catholic ******* than advertise a Sheikh cite a Surah... sorry: no... we can call them: old ladies taken care of by a charlatan... but i can still bulge in eating pork. schnout?! hog.

there's nothing *fake about
what has simply become
prefixed by: crypto;
   and no...
give me a blank slate and i'll
  smear my ******* crayon
like i might **** in an alley...
there was never, ever anything
"new" about the news...
   unless i'm mistaken,
news, as a word, is an acronym...
n.e.w.s.: north, east, west, south...
call me bonkers,
       but within the vicinity
i occupy? news is as much
about nothing, as a dog taking
a **** is about everything.

qiss kiss ts'kammen
ordeal of the dyslexics.

****** innuendos aplenty:

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

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

or to better translate...

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

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

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

dawni mistrzowie
obywali się bez imion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ehemalige meister
sie lebten mich selber
    ohne namen

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

       ciągnąć nas z wielkich dolin...

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

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

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

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

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

     crocifissione              (trzyma gotowość...)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                          Z__­___

that's how the West met the East in writing

Z_________S

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    CHIMERA = ACEHIMR

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

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

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

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

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

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

aww...
   'cos' mom'z
was a big spender:
and her *******
"grund"-wert-von-
ein-sohn-gehalten-fehlt?!
who: the pitty pitty boy now?

jeffrey, i don't know,
what's you take on
single frame nudes versus ****?
am i jerking off a statue,
or defining fine art?

this third party teenage crap
is not getting me off
most people talk about...

me? i see one slice of the cake
i'd like to keep the slice,
and not fall prey to the
proverb: you can't have your cake
and eat it...
    presume me arab spring...
but getting to the true norse
and the eskimo is not allowed
given the madness of these people...

true sir,
because what arab, in the known
history of the world
ever invited
a second ice age,
inviting the north men
to you realm of affairs,
simply because:
beneath your feat run the rivers of
dinosaur murk...
   #welcome...
   i've seen this advert...
he thongs he thongs his way like
a caesar?!
       oh, ha ha!
ha ha, he he, ha, ha!
        he knows what he fears,
and what he fears is not that he
fears it...
what he fears is already in his dreams,
and what he fears is falling
asleep, with a luggage
                                of dreams...
lucky for me:
   most of the time,
      i dream of the void.
how about this grand prince:
#hisasstowherehecamefrom...
   how's that for a youtube advert?
      ever eaten a lilac mushroom,
prince?
                   ever asked as to
why an anorexic girl might receive
her appetite back, after drinking
three cups of coffee, spoon of sugar,
two teaspoons of double cream?
so may i ask...
              why does the serpent
have no eyelids,
and his most removed cousin,
the spy, that's the cat,
share his pupil's dilation...
            even a man with no
money can compete with your
pleasures...
   among ******...
        and no, harem, attached...
             crown prince,
donning a crown of ten hourglasses...
  but only one klepsydra...
tell me the difference, crown prince,
what is water to sand?
              even Muhammad
pointed to the east of Mecca and
Medina, which i now have to
call for him: Riyadh...
                 grape and blind in one eye
bulging...
         i simply say: ibn-Saud: diabetic...
and two eyes bulging:
     a cube of ice... sugar sweet
   Kaaba(h): camel makes the load:
or grunts, disagrees...
        like those Bangladeshi prisoners
of Kuwait... or what... Sssssssssssýriā?
your partriarch said: from
the east...
                  
          nicht, in, mein, land!
a to tak dla przygody: moi brateńku...
                    - nie, w, mojej, ziemi! -

grzywa...
         bież go! aport!
   gryść!
       mlaskać!
    sęp!
            horongiew bieli
     na tle prysku krwi!

czarne hmury
  na niem-niem-niemca
   kafki okiem widzący lot
od (a) do (b)...
    pierw mi wygriź
  ten -zór...
   potem mi daj
   -zór z akcentem
  dla twej "racji"...
        huja szczątek ogona!
huja ja ci kurwa dam...
   dam oj ja ci kurwa
jebanego krzyżyka
kurwa dam,
   na ksy-zyku
         ze świętym przybitym
    na te kurwa modły
    tych niby niewiast...
tzn. dewotek!
spier-dalaj mały-synku -
   agrest i orzech.
co, coś nie świci,
               coś nie kwita?
coś nie: mru mru?
   coś bez brwi?
ah... sak-son...
    and the jazz
power four:
trumpet, sax, double bass,
      drums...
to skurwy-synku,
  nie to tango
    z pijakiem takim
jak ja;
na tyle jem świadom by
powiedzieć to (ugu-r)...   (niet polschen? y)
a we trzeźwe opinie?
  gówno i grunt
   w polu poczym
  chodzić, tańczyć i sie
śmiać, po nygusie (tzn. nago);
  to było na serio?! chyba tak:
chyba chyba, gruba ryba
gruba ryba -
       chyba ryba chyba ryba -
ryba ryba ryba; chyba.
-       pan z warszawy?
   o kurwa!
   heniek! gdzie ten
     ku-rrrred karp-et?!
heniek! pan z miasta!
lewo! lewo! nie nie!
   na prawo! na prawo!
    pan to przyjechal po...
                 kapuste!
   heniek: kurwa... ale głąb,
   ja jade dwa lata do warszawy
po butelke pepsi,
           jak to w reklamie.

only the english are applied to this "sentiment",
well, let's call it an honest observation:
only the english are capable
of making philosophy a pompous endeavour,
i guess that's because they are
pompousness best exemplified -
     they always considered themselves
the belly-buttons of the world,
far beyond the talk of hemispheres,
their's was always the greenwich meridian:
here is my, year 0.
              why should philosophy ever
become a pompous endeavour?
       was it ever?
                only the english could think
of philosophy as a pompous endeavour,
but there's nothing pretentious hinged on
the shoulders of philosophy...
   philosophy at best, is idiotic...
          or at least: the highest form of acting,
the sort of acting that says:
well... it's hard to play a mr. bean,
it would be much easier to play someone
with at least three dimensions,
   akin to a blackadder - cunning and
intelligence you can anticipate and play
with... but idiocy or faking it, well,
that's a hard gig to pull off...
                         since that sort of comic idiocy
is anticipating you, like a god
before an altar... rather than you investing
time & effort into prescribing the populace
with its exitence, staged.
          it's always harder to play
the idiot, than it is to play the manipulative
member of an intelligentsia...
in summary, two equations:
if sophistry = the study & pratice of rhetoric
then philosophy = the study & practice of dialectic(s);
i'd say it's harder to play the idiot
than it is to play the grand "intelligent"
rhetorician...
         in the latter you really have to try,
in the former (example) -
   the idea toward such a will is to avoid
trying... faking becomes
   more tiresome than actually trying;
ah yes, in conclusion:
     dla boga ból,
      dla diabła: nuda
    (for god, pain,
               for the devil: boredom).

co to jest bóg?
dla mnie to jedno, i jedyne
ultimatum, tzn.
   nieporozumienie.

what is god?
  to me it's the only, and the sole
utlimatum's worth of, (i.e.),
      a misunderstanding.