Incipit prohemium tercii libri.

O blisful light of whiche the bemes clere  
Adorneth al the thridde hevene faire!
O sonnes lief, O Ioves doughter dere,
Plesaunce of love, O goodly debonaire,
In gentil hertes ay redy to repaire!  
O verray cause of hele and of gladnesse,
Y-heried be thy might and thy goodnesse!

In hevene and helle, in erthe and salte see
Is felt thy might, if that I wel descerne;
As man, brid, best, fish, herbe and grene tree  
Thee fele in tymes with vapour eterne.
God loveth, and to love wol nought werne;
And in this world no lyves creature,
With-outen love, is worth, or may endure.

Ye Ioves first to thilke effectes glade,  
Thorugh which that thinges liven alle and be,
Comeveden, and amorous him made
On mortal thing, and as yow list, ay ye
Yeve him in love ese or adversitee;
And in a thousand formes doun him sente  
For love in erthe, and whom yow liste, he hente.

Ye fierse Mars apeysen of his ire,
And, as yow list, ye maken hertes digne;
Algates, hem that ye wol sette a-fyre,
They dreden shame, and vices they resigne;  
Ye do hem corteys be, fresshe and benigne,
And hye or lowe, after a wight entendeth;
The Ioyes that he hath, your might him sendeth.

Ye holden regne and hous in unitee;
Ye soothfast cause of frendship been also;  
Ye knowe al thilke covered qualitee
Of thinges which that folk on wondren so,
Whan they can not construe how it may io,
She loveth him, or why he loveth here;
As why this fish, and nought that, comth to were.  

Ye folk a lawe han set in universe,
And this knowe I by hem that loveres be,
That who-so stryveth with yow hath the werse:
Now, lady bright, for thy benignitee,
At reverence of hem that serven thee,  
Whos clerk I am, so techeth me devyse
Som Ioye of that is felt in thy servyse.

Ye in my naked herte sentement
Inhelde, and do me shewe of thy swetnesse. --
Caliope, thy vois be now present,  
For now is nede; sestow not my destresse,
How I mot telle anon-right the gladnesse
Of Troilus, to Venus heryinge?
To which gladnes, who nede hath, god him bringe!

Explicit prohemium Tercii Libri.

Incipit Liber Tercius.

Lay al this mene whyle Troilus,  
Recordinge his lessoun in this manere,
'Ma fey!' thought he, 'Thus wole I seye and thus;
Thus wole I pleyne unto my lady dere;
That word is good, and this shal be my chere;
This nil I not foryeten in no wyse.'  
God leve him werken as he can devyse!

And, lord, so that his herte gan to quappe,
Heringe hir come, and shorte for to syke!
And Pandarus, that ledde hir by the lappe,
Com ner, and gan in at the curtin pyke,  
And seyde, 'God do bote on alle syke!
See, who is here yow comen to visyte;
Lo, here is she that is your deeth to wyte.'

Ther-with it semed as he wepte almost;
'A ha,' quod Troilus so rewfully,  
'Wher me be wo, O mighty god, thow wost!
Who is al there? I se nought trewely.'
'Sire,' quod Criseyde, 'it is Pandare and I.'
'Ye, swete herte? Allas, I may nought ryse
To knele, and do yow honour in som wyse.'  

And dressede him upward, and she right tho
Gan bothe here hondes softe upon him leye,
'O, for the love of god, do ye not so
To me,' quod she, 'Ey! What is this to seye?
Sire, come am I to yow for causes tweye;  
First, yow to thonke, and of your lordshipe eke
Continuance I wolde yow biseke.'

This Troilus, that herde his lady preye
Of lordship him, wex neither quik ne deed,
Ne mighte a word for shame to it seye,  
Al-though men sholde smyten of his heed.
But lord, so he wex sodeinliche reed,
And sire, his lesson, that he wende conne,
To preyen hir, is thurgh his wit y-ronne.

Cryseyde al this aspyede wel y-nough,  
For she was wys, and lovede him never-the-lasse,
Al nere he malapert, or made it tough,
Or was to bold, to singe a fool a masse.
But whan his shame gan somwhat to passe,
His resons, as I may my rymes holde,  
I yow wole telle, as techen bokes olde.

In chaunged vois, right for his verray drede,
Which vois eek quook, and ther-to his manere
Goodly abayst, and now his hewes rede,
Now pale, un-to Criseyde, his lady dere,  
With look doun cast and humble yolden chere,
Lo, the alderfirste word that him asterte
Was, twyes, 'Mercy, mercy, swete herte!'

And stinte a whyl, and whan he mighte out-bringe,
The nexte word was, 'God wot, for I have,  
As feyfully as I have had konninge,
Ben youres, also god so my sowle save;
And shal til that I, woful wight, be grave.
And though I dar ne can un-to yow pleyne,
Y-wis, I suffre nought the lasse peyne.  

'Thus muche as now, O wommanliche wyf,
I may out-bringe, and if this yow displese,
That shal I wreke upon myn owne lyf
Right sone, I trowe, and doon your herte an ese,
If with my deeth your herte I may apese.  
But sin that ye han herd me som-what seye,
Now recche I never how sone that I deye.'

Ther-with his manly sorwe to biholde,
It mighte han maad an herte of stoon to rewe;
And Pandare weep as he to watre wolde,  
And poked ever his nece newe and newe,
And seyde, 'Wo bigon ben hertes trewe!
For love of god, make of this thing an ende,
Or slee us bothe at ones, er that ye wende.'

'I? What?' quod she, 'By god and by my trouthe,  
I noot nought what ye wilne that I seye.'
'I? What?' quod he, 'That ye han on him routhe,
For goddes love, and doth him nought to deye.'
'Now thanne thus,' quod she, 'I wolde him preye
To telle me the fyn of his entente;  
Yet wist I never wel what that he mente.'

'What that I mene, O swete herte dere?'
Quod Troilus, 'O goodly, fresshe free!
That, with the stremes of your eyen clere,
Ye wolde som-tyme freendly on me see,  
And thanne agreen that I may ben he,
With-oute braunche of vyce on any wyse,
In trouthe alwey to doon yow my servyse,

'As to my lady right and chief resort,
With al my wit and al my diligence,  
And I to han, right as yow list, comfort,
Under your yerde, egal to myn offence,
As deeth, if that I breke your defence;
And that ye deigne me so muche honoure,
Me to comaunden ought in any houre.  

'And I to ben your verray humble trewe,
Secret, and in my paynes pacient,
And ever-mo desire freshly newe,
To serven, and been y-lyke ay diligent,
And, with good herte, al holly your talent  
Receyven wel, how sore that me smerte,
Lo, this mene I, myn owene swete herte.'

Quod Pandarus, 'Lo, here an hard request,
And resonable, a lady for to werne!
Now, nece myn, by natal Ioves fest,  
Were I a god, ye sholde sterve as yerne,
That heren wel, this man wol no-thing yerne
But your honour, and seen him almost sterve,
And been so looth to suffren him yow serve.'

With that she gan hir eyen on him caste  
Ful esily, and ful debonairly,
Avysing hir, and hyed not to faste
With never a word, but seyde him softely,
'Myn honour sauf, I wol wel trewely,
And in swich forme as he can now devyse,  
Receyven him fully to my servyse,

'Biseching him, for goddes love, that he
Wolde, in honour of trouthe and gentilesse,
As I wel mene, eek mene wel to me,
And myn honour, with wit and besinesse  
Ay kepe; and if I may don him gladnesse,
From hennes-forth, y-wis, I nil not feyne:
Now beeth al hool; no lenger ye ne pleyne.

'But nathelees, this warne I yow,' quod she,
'A kinges sone al-though ye be, y-wis,  
Ye shal na-more have soverainetee
Of me in love, than right in that cas is;
Ne I nil forbere, if that ye doon a-mis,
To wrathen yow; and whyl that ye me serve,
Cherycen yow right after ye deserve.  

'And shortly, dere herte and al my knight,
Beth glad, and draweth yow to lustinesse,
And I shal trewely, with al my might,
Your bittre tornen al in-to swetenesse.
If I be she that may yow do gladnesse,  
For every wo ye shal recovere a blisse';
And him in armes took, and gan him kisse.

Fil Pandarus on knees, and up his eyen
To hevene threw, and held his hondes hye,
'Immortal god!' quod he, 'That mayst nought dyen,  
Cupide I mene, of this mayst glorifye;
And Venus, thou mayst maken melodye;
With-outen hond, me semeth that in the towne,
For this merveyle, I here ech belle sowne.

'But **! No more as now of this matere,  
For-why this folk wol comen up anoon,
That han the lettre red; lo, I hem here.
But I coniure thee, Criseyde, and oon,
And two, thou Troilus, whan thow mayst goon,
That at myn hous ye been at my warninge,  
For I ful wel shal shape youre cominge;

'And eseth ther your hertes right y-nough;
And lat see which of yow shal bere the belle
To speke of love a-right!' ther-with he lough,
'For ther have ye a layser for to telle.'  
Quod Troilus, 'How longe shal I dwelle
Er this be doon?' Quod he, 'Whan thou mayst ryse,
This thing shal be right as I yow devyse.'

With that Eleyne and also Deiphebus
Tho comen upward, right at the steyres ende;  
And Lord, so than gan grone Troilus,
His brother and his suster for to blende.
Quod Pandarus, 'It tyme is that we wende;
Tak, nece myn, your leve at alle three,
And lat hem speke, and cometh forth with me.'  

She took hir leve at hem ful thriftily,
As she wel coude, and they hir reverence
Un-to the fulle diden hardely,
And speken wonder wel, in hir absence,
Of hir, in preysing of hir excellence,  
Hir governaunce, hir wit; and hir manere
Commendeden, it Ioye was to here.

Now lat hir wende un-to hir owne place,
And torne we to Troilus a-yein,
That gan ful lightly of the lettre passe  
That Deiphebus hadde in the gardin seyn.
And of Eleyne and him he wolde fayn
Delivered been, and seyde that him leste
To slepe, and after tales have reste.

Eleyne him kiste, and took hir leve blyve,  
Deiphebus eek, and hoom wente every wight;
And Pandarus, as faste as he may dryve,
To Troilus tho com, as lyne right;
And on a paillet, al that glade night,
By Troilus he lay, with mery chere,  
To tale; and wel was hem they were y-fere.

Whan every wight was voided but they two,
And alle the dores were faste y-shette,
To telle in short, with-oute wordes mo,
This Pandarus, with-outen any lette,  
Up roos, and on his beddes syde him sette,
And gan to speken in a sobre wyse
To Troilus, as I shal yow devyse:

'Myn alderlevest lord, and brother dere,
God woot, and thou, that it sat me so sore,  
When I thee saw so languisshing to-yere,
For love, of which thy wo wex alwey more;
That I, with al my might and al my lore,
Have ever sithen doon my bisinesse
To bringe thee to Ioye out of distresse,  

'And have it brought to swich plyt as thou wost,
So that, thorugh me, thow stondest now in weye
To fare wel, I seye it for no bost,
And wostow which? For shame it is to seye,
For thee have I bigonne a gamen pleye  
Which that I never doon shal eft for other,
Al-though he were a thousand fold my brother.

'That is to seye, for thee am I bicomen,
Bitwixen game and ernest, swich a mene
As maken wommen un-to men to comen;  
Al sey I nought, thou wost wel what I mene.
For thee have I my nece, of vyces clene,
So fully maad thy gentilesse triste,
That al shal been right as thy-selve liste.

'But god, that al wot, take I to witnesse,  
That never I this for coveityse wroughte,
But only for to abregge that distresse,
For which wel nygh thou deydest, as me thoughte.
But, gode brother, do now as thee oughte,
For goddes love, and kep hir out of blame,  
Sin thou art wys, and save alwey hir name.

'For wel thou wost, the name as yet of here
Among the peple, as who seyth, halwed is;
For that man is unbore, I dar wel swere,
That ever wiste that she dide amis.  
But wo is me, that I, that cause al this,
May thenken that she is my nece dere,
And I hir eem, and trattor eek y-fere!

'And were it wist that I, through myn engyn,
Hadde in my nece y-put this fantasye,  
To do thy lust, and hoolly to be thyn,
Why, al the world up-on it wolde crye,
And seye, that I the worste trecherye
Dide in this cas, that ever was bigonne,
And she for-lost, and thou right nought y-wonne.  

'Wher-fore, er I wol ferther goon a pas,
Yet eft I thee biseche and fully seye,
That privetee go with us in this cas;
That is to seye, that thou us never wreye;
And be nought wrooth, though I thee ofte preye  
To holden secree swich an heigh matere;
For skilful is, thow wost wel, my preyere.

'And thenk what wo ther hath bitid er this,
For makinge of avantes, as men rede;
And what mischaunce in this world yet ther is,  
Fro day to day, right for that wikked dede;
For which these wyse clerkes that ben dede
Han ever yet proverbed to us yonge,
That "Firste vertu is to kepe tonge."

'And, nere it that I wilne as now tabregge  
Diffusioun of speche, I coude almost
A thousand olde stories thee alegge
Of wommen lost, thorugh fals and foles bost;
Proverbes canst thy-self y-nowe, and wost,
Ayeins that vyce, for to been a labbe,  
Al seyde men sooth as often as they gabbe.

'O tonge, allas! So often here-biforn
Hastow made many a lady bright of hewe
Seyd, "Welawey! The day that I was born!"
And many a maydes sorwes for to newe;  
And, for the more part, al is untrewe
That men of yelpe, and it were brought to preve;
Of kinde non avauntour is to leve.

'Avauntour and a lyere, al is on;
As thus: I pose, a womman graunte me  
Hir love, and seyth that other wol she non,
And I am sworn to holden it secree,
And after I go telle it two or three;
Y-wis, I am avauntour at the leste,
And lyere, for I breke my biheste.  

'Now loke thanne, if they be nought to blame,
Swich maner folk; what shal I clepe hem, what,
That hem avaunte of wommen, and by name,
That never yet bihighte hem this ne that,
Ne knewe hem more than myn olde hat?  
No wonder is, so god me sende hele,
Though wommen drede with us men to dele.

'I sey not this for no mistrust of yow,
Ne for no wys man, but for foles nyce,
And for the harm that in the world is now,  
As wel for foly ofte as for malyce;
For wel wot I, in wyse folk, that vyce
No womman drat, if she be wel avysed;
For wyse ben by foles harm chastysed.

'But now to purpos; leve brother dere,  
Have al this thing that I have seyd in minde,
And keep thee clos, and be now of good chere,
For at thy day thou shalt me trewe finde.
I shal thy proces sette in swich a kinde,
And god to-forn, that it shall thee suffyse,  
For it shal been right as thou wolt devyse.

'For wel I woot, thou menest wel, parde;
Therfore I dar this fully undertake.
Thou wost eek what thy lady graunted thee,
And day is set, the chartres up to make.  
Have now good night, I may no lenger wake;
And bid for me, sin thou art now in blisse,
That god me sende deeth or sone lisse.'

Who mighte telle half the Ioye or feste
Which that the sowle of Troilus tho felte,  
Heringe theffect of Pandarus biheste?
His olde wo, that made his herte swelte,
Gan tho for Ioye wasten and to-melte,
And al the richesse of his sykes sore
At ones fledde, he felte of hem no more.  

But right so as these holtes and these hayes,
That han in winter dede been and dreye,
Revesten hem in grene, whan that May is,
Whan every ***** lyketh best to pleye;
Right in that selve wyse, sooth to seye,  
Wax sodeynliche his herte ful of Ioye,
That gladder was ther never man in Troye.

And gan his look on Pandarus up caste
Ful sobrely, and frendly for to see,
And seyde, 'Freend, in Aprille the laste,  
As wel thou wost, if it remembre thee,
How neigh the deeth for wo thou founde me;
And how thou didest al thy bisinesse
To knowe of me the cause of my distresse.

'Thou wost how longe I it for-bar to seye  
To thee, that art the man that I best triste;
And peril was it noon to thee by-wreye,
That wiste I wel; but tel me, if thee liste,
Sith I so looth was that thy-self it wiste,
How dorst I mo tellen of this matere,  
That quake now, and no wight may us here?

'But natheles, by that god I thee swere,
That, as him list, may al this world governe,
And, if I lye, Achilles with his spere
Myn herte cleve, al were my lyf eterne,  
As I am mortal, if I late or yerne
Wolde it b

Ich habe Fernweh nach dem Ort an dem du gerade bist, und Heimweh nach dem Platz in deinem Herzen.
Ich liebe den Himmel, und ich wünschte ich wäre das Firmament über dir, egal ob hinter Wolken versteckt oder mit den Gestirnen geschmückt, denn dann würde ich dich immer sehen und immer bei dir seien.
Jedoch könnte ich dich nie berühren, von da oben.
Vielleicht wäre es besser, der Boden zu seien. Du legst dich in mein warmes Gras und atmest meinen Duft ein, nach einem Regenschauer, und würdest dabei lächeln. Aber als der Boden, würdest du mich je bemerken? Und wenn ja, würdest du nicht nur auf mich herabsehen?
Das würde ich nicht überleben, wir sind alle aus Sternenstaub, und besonders in der Liebe gleich.
Aber wenn du mir diese drei Worte ins Ohr flüsterst oder sie mir ins Gesicht schreist, dann ist es eh egal. Denn dann steht alles auf dem Kopf, am Himmel ist das Wasser der Meere und ich schwimme durch Wolken. Ich gehe über Federn, und das Federkleid der Vögel besteht aus Gras.
So ist es, zumindest in meinem Kopf, jedes Mal nachdem du mein Herz mit den Schmetterlingen, die du in meinem Bauch ausgesetzt hast, erschütterst hast.

sehnsucht nach einer person*, würden menschen es in
worte fassen, dessen gebrauch sie gar nicht kennen.
oh nein, ich habe keine sehnsucht nach einer person –
ich habe heimweh. ich habe mich bei ihm – und
zwar egal wo: im bus, oder auch in einen dunkeln
raum, der gähnend leer ist, außer zwei personen
und eine handvoll worte, denen ich mich nicht
entziehen kann – mehr geborgen gefühlt, als
in meinen eigenen heim.

denn zu hause ist kein ort, sondern ein gefühl.

Sah ein Mädchen ein Röslein stehen
Blühte dort in lichten Höhen
Sprach sie ihren Liebsten an
ob er es ihr steigen kann

Sie will es und so ist es fein
So war es und so wird es immer sein
Sie will es und so ist es Brauch
Was sie will bekommt sie auch

Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben
wenn man klares Wasser will
Rosenrot oh Rosenrot
Tiefe Wasser sind nicht still

Der Jüngling steigt den Berg mit Qual
Die Aussicht ist ihm sehr egal
Hat das Röslein nur im Sinn
Bringt es seiner Liebsten hin

Sie will es und so ist es fein
So war es und so wird es immer sein
Sie will es und so ist es Brauch
Was sie will bekommt sie auch

Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben
wenn man klares Wasser will
Rosenrot oh Rosenrot
Tiefe Wasser sind nicht still

An seinen Stiefeln bricht ein Stein
Will nicht mehr am Felsen sein
Und ein Schrei tut jedem kund
Beide fallen in den Grund

Sie will es und so ist es fein
So war es und so wird es immer sein
Sie will es und so ist es Brauch
Was sie will bekommt sie auch

Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben
wenn man klares Wasser will
Rosenrot oh Rosenrot
Tiefe Wasser sind nicht still
--

Wir finden und verlieren uns im Moment,
Im letzten Atemzug den wir uns gemeinsam teilen
Um uns herum fängt es an zu regnen,
Es scheint, als ob die Welt wüsste wie
es in unserem Inneren aussieht.

Der kurze Augenblick zwischen Sonne und Regen,
Der kurze Moment zwischen Freude und Traurigkeit.
Es kommt und geht, das Glück zwischen zwei Menschen

Was für ein trauriger Moment, du sagtest mir wir sollen uns nichtmehr sehen
Dein letztes Bild verblasst im Tageslicht,
Zeit heilt was sie kann, doch nichts ist für immer
Und man sagt , es wird schon wieder,
Doch nichts wird wie es einst war

Die Einsamkeit von gestern nimmt mich wieder in den Arm,
Fühlt sich an wie jeder Tag,
In Gedanken bei dir, irgendwo anders
An einem Ort wo es egal ist, verloren zu sein

Es wird immer vergehen, und nie so bleiben
kommt mir vor wie damals,
Damals auf dem Balkon also du die Sterne gezählt hast

Zwar war es niemand ganz wie sie:

Ihre Augen waren hypnotisch,
und ihre Haare waren als einer schwarze Wasserfall,
der etwas für ein Feuer in mir abgekühlt hat,
während ein anderes Feuer entzündete.

An ihr zu denken
ist die Seele anzuzünden,
doch hätte ich es wahrlich
kein anderen Weg.

Sie leuchtet die Träume an,
die immer um ihr kreisen.
Das würd' ich nicht ändern
wenn auch ich könnte.

Ihr Haut kann so nah sein,
doch auch so sehr weit.
Egal wie erreichbar es ist,
lechze ich noch danach.

502 bad gateway bypass:

title - veil-machine
body - otherwise no curtains
found.

perhaps: aujourd'hui, maman est morte sounds better in German... heute, mein mutter ist gestorben... maybe: at least in my eyes that have inverted themselves from hearing external sounds and summon thought to the hall of music and said: thinking is a sound, mind you: thinking is all the sense jumbled up - never mind "hearing" oneself "think" or for that matter... without hearing: on the broken bones in fingertips of gesticulating frantically the same as: could you please spread butter on my toast to... i'm drowning! help me!

i very much like the opening line from one of my favourite books... favourite is sort of stretching it, i picked it up by accident in a Barnardo's second hand book store on Nicholson St. in Edinburgh during the Fresher's Week, when i lost my virginity to Isabella and decided that i would adamantly learn French... although i hated French in high school i thought: well... if we started slow and she introduced me to Japanese Anime of a kind i didn't know before... i remember she scolded me for having three picures on the wall, one of Plato, one of Napoleon and one of Marquis de Sade... she didn't mind Marquis de Sade... but virginity for a man is nothing to be kept... it's something that one wants to get rid off... so i started this French course, failed it, because... i didn't attend any of the classes... except for the literature classes... were... to no "oddly enough" we were studying The Stranger... seeing as i "pre-meditatively" bought the book in english... i had to buy the book in French...

oh, the French language... it's almost as bad as English when it comes to surds, i.e. silent letters that are not heard when spoken but clearly visible when written... like in English... little words: to and no vs. too, row "vs." row... to row in a boat... with oars... and a row of birds sitting on a telephone line... a horse is a horse is a gallop and a stirrup and there's also a hoarse... throat... glug glug... a hoarse throat... there's a soar throat too and that's different to i saw and sea-saw and Warsaw and soaring... which is a terrible way of saying: sorry...

rigid was never a language for me... but love is stupid and losing your virginity to an older girl is stupid and... well... i might as well have went to the oral exam at the end of the year and spoken Polish... or tried German... pretending to forget what course i took... instead i just sat there like an idiot... a castrated ... + an idiot... but hell! i aced the literary side of things... i got a 1st for my interpretation of The Outsider... grades being grades... not everything in life that you learn within the confines of: that acid-riddled memory-erosion cesspit of pedagogy has any market value trans-evaluation of: good grades equals better pay... this was a lesson for life...

mother died today. or maybe it was yesterday, i don't know...

for one? terrible punctuation,
i once heard my English teacher tell me...
never begin a sentence in a paragraph of a journalistic
column with a conjunction, akin to OR or AND...
it's bad grammatical etiquette:
it's one thing to reinvent sushi by mixing it up
with some dried, fried onions and a sriracha mayonnaise
and another to serve the same fried dried onions
with a sickly sweet almost Hoisin resembling sauce...
with slices of raw salmon on a bed of rice
rather than those rolls with still the raw salmon
but with some cucumber and creamy cheese
and black sesame to go with it...

maybe i can rewrite that aujourd'hui in German again,
returning to English for German LEGO...
mutter gestorben heute; oder veilleicht
    es war gestern: ich weiß nicht....

i like this: ich weiß nicht...
        it's not... i repeat... it's not:
                         es ist mir egal...
i.e. it's not: i don't care... care... no wonder it's so
pivotal in the German tongue that
Heidegger made CARE so pivotal in his thinking
since: it's so pivotal in the German language
when the German language is translated...
there is no simple, word-for-word,
i.e.  i don't know: ich weiß nicht.
i worry: ich bin besorgt
   eh? i worry is indefinite...
   i is indefinite... there is no definite i...
i struggle is an indefinite phrase...
which i made a joke of once: mein kampf is a definite
expression via ownership...
ich kampf: i struggle is an indefinite expression
of "ownership": since... at any given time
my ego is swayed to "think" of "its" own "existence"
through a muddle of personal memory,
memory erased by pedagogy,
dreams... other people's thoughts...
mein: definitely, since own...
ich? indefinitely, since hey presto here one minute...
hey presto... Houdini pulled a rabbit out
of a top hat not by the ears but by the tail...

today within the confines of tomorrow...
but what is a "today" when you wake up
and remember a dream...
was the dream from yesterday?
was the dream related to yesterday?
just because you went to sleep yesterday
and woke up today... doesn't mean
the interlude of dreaming you had
might make any linear sense relating yesterday
to today or for that matter tomorrow...
so... muddling the yesterday with today
given the accenting of dreams on the psyche...
well... ich weiß nicht (i don't know)
is a rather "passive" attempt... hell: a most proactive
attempt to compartmentalize grief...
it's not: I DON'T CARE...
oh... i do care... but i want to be numb to
the reality that comes first and the knowledge
that comes after of the fact that... there's...
i swear German as a tongue would require
another Heidegger to explore the word
ABSENCE... FEHLEN...
   Abwesenheit is too close, synonymously,
with Abstrahieren...
                heit (-ness)
                   hieren (here)
    hereness... hierenheit... counter to da-sein?
that Dasein is: there-being... me asking: there's being
and be subsequently conjuring hierenheit?!
coincidence... unless that £60 i spent on the black notebooks
and another £30+ more i will spend on the final volume?
maybe?!

maybe that's why i'm so attracted to the continental
mode of thinking, Germanic or otherwise...
i find that, as much as the English adore pressurising
people as atoms into an atomised stated of:
suddenly! the individual was born!
out of thin air! out rebellion!
out of... the demands for everyone else getting
their fair share of intellectual growth...
there is no intellectual growth in the English mind:
the English are too sensible a people to complicate
the matters of thought if there's no:
******* COMMON SENSE FOR THEM AT THE END!
"they" even have a word for it...
it amazes me how sometimes i forget specified nouns
for their destined use... ergonomics?
that will do for a while...

the English don't tend to deal with reality by creating
pockets of abstract reality of:
nicht-sein-da...
            which is a splendid joke that can't be
unravelled by translating Dasein from Deutsche...
for me there is either: sein-da und nicht-sein-da...
a future of a concern, a care...
a waiting pit of that carefully adjusted performance
art of doing the bit of the mortal lot...
i sometimes wake up at night woken up
by the simple fact of mortality:
and i'm glad to be snuggling in bed, alone
with only thinking as my companion...
at least with the thinking my ego can walk through
and peer at mirrors... see its grotesque nature
it's parasitic gluing to a "me" together with
all those wasted daydreams and acts of
non-fruition...
  
i find nothing in English thought that might give
me architecture or backbone to complete
individuality: a process of individuation...
nothing in Locke... i have not bothered with English
"thinking"... the infrastructure is too sensible...
of transport of taxes of... whatever the:
kleinmann erachten unbedingt!

for the simple fact... what is a public intellectual
in the anglo-sphere? a person who goes into
the public domain with a ******* bibliography?
seriously?
backlog of ideas or, something?
regurgitating ideas of the more shy of the intellectual
heap of dung that once could be called
the iq herd?
        at least by reading continental thinkers i
have enriched my private life...
perhaps i enjoy my work perhaps i don't...
i find it absolutely unnecessary to find friendship...
if i can at least stand myself,
conquer this barrage of randomness coming
from an otherwise untameable ego...
let it pass let is pass i say to the innermost "not-i"
while the outermost "i-i" shouts belligerent day-mares
of.... e.g. being cut-short in a queue to a bus...
let that ****** slide... wait... until i bring
forth the reigns of scribbling finger-tips
and all thinking stop! when there's a clear graphic
for grammar, construction, punctuation
and abbreviations (if necessary) of seen sentences:
seen sentences not some ghosts of mere thought!

gut... mein mutter ist nicht tot...
nicht heute, nicht gestern: noch nicht morgen...
i just thought it was weird,
the comparison...
the dimmed lights of the hospital room
she was wheeled into...
and... the dimmed lights of the brothel room
i usually **** prostitutes in...
dimmed lights...
i carefully plucked the grapes off the vines
for her and placed them before her...
i pinched pieces of brownie dough
and dropped them into a bucket of vanilla ice
cream for her... which she gladly ate...
i watched as she ate that baked potato with
an inverted gluttonous pain from coming out
of the anaesthesia...
forgetting she was half alive half head...
some other quarter falling asleep another missing
quarter talkative...
those dimmed lights and the sarcastic green of
the demands of Hippocrates charming the serpent
as: to no avail... the usurper of the sexualised
metaphor, aged throughout Europe,
serpent, the bringer of temptation and hardly
the wisdom...
long before dinosaur bones were discovered
the people were conjuring up fire breathing dragons...
like... pre-meditatively... what?
the fire born was not the meteor and the fall-out
and yet some dinosaur remains
remained alive while the bigger breeds died?!

to think i might have read Kant or Heidegger or anyone
for the purpose of quasi-pedagogy and not have
read said authors for gains in the realm
of personal gains of obstructing access to
the sort of: puddle-people: pfützemenschen...
people who like to see life's point as:
one complication after another
by allow less than complicated people complicate
their already simple lives...
isn't a simple life worth salvaging?
isn't it?!

as they rolled her in from the hysterectomy operation...
in some, rare, cases... a woman's womb acts
like a man's hernia...
i suffered from a hernia as a toddler...
unlike in men... the female version pushes
a piece of tissue inwards... rather than outwards...
my great-grandmother walked with a bulging sack
of a third ******* of a disused womb until her death
because she was too old to have an operation
guided by the Hippocratic concerns:
her heart her stomach might not salvage her
morality with the applied anaesthetic...

but it felt very much like going to a brothel...
i was looking at my mother drifting in and out of a morphine
15min snooze button...
my father looking morbidly worried...
me? smiling face... giggling... trying to fill a space...
my father is a morbidly worried
swan... i sometimes wonder...
would i be worse off caring for my old father
if my mother died before him...
or would i be better off if my father died off
before my mother... i sometimes wonder...
it's still a coin flip... since the reality is yet to come
and i'm having the abstract ready...
this is me looking at my mother in a secure environment
secured by prescribed injections of morphine...
she has also seen me in my "prime"...
what's 40 units x 7 days a week?
280 units of alcohol in a week...
40 units? one bottle of 1 litre of whiskey per day...
when i was at my highest borne Berserker in scribbling
for people who are yet to be born...

we came home i heated up some leftover pasta,
some leftover chicken wings...
some clear chicken soup... it would be considered
a chicken stock by western culinary standards...
ROSÓŁ... but were carrots added?
was celeriac, was celery, was a leek, was root parsley
and fresh parsley, garlic added?
served with vermicelli?
           i watched him relax and watch West Ham beast
Derby in the FA cup... calmly...
the cats were fed... already sleeping in each
of our two beds...

            oh sure sure... romance... like that isn't too impossible
these days...
the congestion of older generations?
to replace them with what?
we cucks united bridging gaps with the already
satiated single-mommies and puppies
of: cuck...
             jeez... headaches from no known sources...

well i can tell you how similar a visit to a hospital
is similar to a visit to a brothel...
you're chasing...
i found myself chasing the queuing of mortality
with my mother today...
only three days ago i was chasing the queuing of
****** experience with a *******...
i'm yet to join the queue of
losing my father...
i know of losing my great-grandfather: vaguely,
i certainly know of losing my great-grandmother
and i know of losing my grandfather...
i'm yet to experience the loss of a friend,
or... "friend"... someone i used to know in high school...
by then it will be almost like losing
someone equivalent to
Michael Schumacher... or... Nelson ******* Mandela...
importance of whatever and that sniff of ZILCH...

a ******* cat with less to say than already said
will have more to say upon its passing than
Neil Armstrong's theatre for the global populace
and the moon conquered... one step for...
some dared not blink some slept through it...
just as long as the technology of it being televised was
real: it doesn't matter whether it was real...
if reinventing the canvas for a painting was
to be translated into the modern world...
television, per se, as the canvas... would... and is...
more important... than whether
it' a comparison of... the laziest example...
Leonardo's Mona Lisa or Picasso's the Weeping Woman...
NIQAB and the BEAUTY
NAKEDNESS and the BEAST...
or rather... NIQAB and the forever thirst for MYTH
of Woman as once, only then and ever...
faking to decipher by a Flaubert...
the ***** in my mind is the Madame Bovary
for women to pretend to be...
obviously they won't... but? does that matter?

hmm... first in german, then in english

i'm under the impression, that this breed of cats
i'm given the authority of: Maine *****...
behave like dogs... and unlike cats...
how clingy they are, less to me and more to my abodes...
they simply recognise me as the possessor
of space and not a timing of space:
with the requirement of others to fill the void...

katzen sich benehmen wie ***̄DE!
absolve all use of diacritical usage
within the staged, up! "lifting" of h to H...
keep i dotted from above within the confines
of I... or J...
are those speckled "hens" necessary

     ah what fun i could have with this
tongue so barren with the implosion of Latin
with what fellow European tongues ascribed
their idiosyncrasy to...
but of course:
           aber natürlich!
Ęnglisch nicht!
                   ßo! die welt überflutet diese inseln!

sie kam mit ihr zeppeline...
mit ihr senf...
mich? mich?!
ich kam mit die trauer...
keine hure könnte verstehe...

the grey the old the white and the black:
the night and the death to come!

der graue das alte das weiß und das Schwarze:
die  nacht und der tod, kommen.

death before life seems so less not-welcome
when speaking just a little bit of German!
mein gott! what a relief to have found
such miserably happy people allocated
a step-by-step realism of abstracting
pocketed-senses of... to **** with
that "umlaut of Hinduism"!
Heinrich... *******... Tibet suits you oh so well!
******* skiing in that crisp-cut welcoming bond with
the Buddha to serve no future Buddha under the Chinese
regime...

       tat ich vergessen etwas?
                          möglicherweise... sie?

me never think i think this tongue through...
mich noch nie denken ich denken diese zunge durch...

moren bein quartal nach elf...

getoastet roggen-brot:
             pochiert-ei
         spitzen... klacks von
hähnchenspermaeigelbpapst...

                  n'est ce'pas: die toten sind tot?

Wut macht sich in mir breit,
bin gewappnet, mach mich für den Kampf bereit
hab alles getan um uns zu schützen,
hab gemerkt das alles würde nichts nützen
Versteht nicht mal was ich fühle,
was für Gedanken ich mir mach und wie sehr ich mich bemühe

Stattdessen sitz ich hier,
wünschte einfach Flo wär bei mir,
den ihr hättet kennenlernen sollen,
doch es gibt wichtigeres, ihr *******das gar nicht richtig zu wollen
Hatte nach Mittwoch neue Hoffnung gefunden,
spielt keine Rolle, ihr seid frei und ungebunden
ich werde mich nicht weiter um Verständnis bemühen,
kein weiteres Gift versprühen,
werde mich einfach zurück ziehen und euch machen lassen,
versteh nicht wie ihr mich könnt hassen
hab doch alles für euch gegeben,
wollte noch so viel mit euch zusammen erleben


Weis nicht wie das weiter gehen soll,
spüre nur in mir steigt der Groll
vielleicht tut uns Abstand gut,
vielleicht geht dann auch die Wut

Kann nicht bleiben wie es ist,
denn bin dann nur noch mehr angepisst
tu alles damit es klappt,
aber egal was ich sag, ihr seid eingeschnappt

Hoffe wir werden mit der Zeit einen Weg finden,
die Zeit der Krise ohne weitere Schäden überwinden


Wollte morgen so viele Freuden mit euch teilen,
gemeinsam all unsere Wunden heilen
hab meine 100 Mauer endlich durchbrochen,
doch fühlt sich an als Brecht ihr mir jeden Knochen
hab meiner Familie von Flo erzählt,
wollte auch das ihr ihn auswählt
hatte mich tierisch auf morgen gefreut,
tief in mir gerade alles schreit und diese Entscheidung bereut

Ihr stellt eine Frage,
die ist für euch schon eine Aussage
hattet alles für euch schön geplant,
doch in mir drin bereits etwas mich warnt.....

Rosen sind rot
Veilchen sind blau,
egal was ich werde dich immer lieben.

Du zwingst mit deinem Lächeln
jeden Tag aufs Neue die Sonne in die Knie
und wurde die Sonne erst einmal besiegt
steigt unser Mond am Himmelszelt auf
Egal ob dunkel oder hell
Egal ob strahlend oder vom Nebel eingedeckt
Die sämtlichen Farben in deiner Iris
habe ich direkt für mich entdeckt

Du lässt deine Umgebung durch deinen Geruch friedlicher wirken
Ich weiß es gibt bessere Gründe um zu schwärmen
aber dein Geruch nach träumen, phantasieren und schweben
lässt mich von Kopf bis Fuß
erwärmen und innerlich erbeben

Du streust mit jedem deiner Worte bunte, getrocknete Blüten über unseren Kaffee
getragen vom schönsten und leckersten Milchschaum
den mein Mund jemals geschmeckt hat
so elegant, charmant und voller Dank
sitzen wir in deiner Küche in der Sonne
abwechselnd
Auf deiner kleinen, sonnigen Fensterbank

VIII.

Voilà ce qu'on a vu ! l'histoire le raconte,
Et lorsqu'elle a fini pleure, rouge de honte.

Quand se réveillera la grande nation,
Quand viendra le moment de l'expiation,
Glaive des jours sanglants, oh ! ne sors pas de l'ombre !
Non ! non ! il n'est pas vrai qu'en plus d'une âme sombre,
Pour châtier ce traître et cet homme de nuit,
A cette heure, ô douleur, ta nécessité luit !
Souvenirs où l'esprit grave et pensif s'arrête !
Gendarmes, sabre nu, conduisant la charrette,
Roulements des tambours, peuple criant : frappons !
Foule encombrant les toits, les seuils, les quais, les ponts,
Grèves des temps passés, mornes places publiques
Où l'on entrevoyait des triangles obliques,
Oh ! ne revenez pas, lugubres visions !
Ciel ! nous allions en paix devant nous, nous faisions
Chacun notre travail dans le siècle où nous sommes,
Le poète chantait l'oeuvre immense des hommes,
La tribune parlait avec sa grande voix,
On brisait échafauds, trônes, carcans, pavois,
Chaque jour décroissaient la haine et la souffrance,
Le genre humain suivait le progrès saint, la France
Marchait devant, avec sa flamme sur le front ;
Ces hommes sont venus ! lui, ce vivant affront,
Lui, ce bandit qu'on lave avec l'huile du sacre,
Ils sont venus, portant le deuil et le massacre,
Le meurtre, les linceuls, le fer, le sang, le feu,
Ils ont semé cela sur l'avenir. Grand Dieu !

Et maintenant, pitié, voici que tu tressailles
A ces mots effrayants - vengeance ! représailles !

Et moi, proscrit qui saigne aux ronces des chemins,
Triste, je rêve et j'ai mon front dans mes deux mains,
Et je sens, par instants, d'une aile hérissée,
Dans les jours qui viendront s'enfoncer ma pensée !
Géante aux chastes yeux, à l'ardente action,
Que jamais on ne voie, ô Révolution,
Devant ton fier visage où la colère brille,
L'Humanité, tremblante et te criant : ma fille !
Et, couvrant de son corps même les scélérats,
Se traîner à tes pieds en se tordant les bras !
Ah ! tu respecteras cette douleur amère,
Et tu t'arrêteras, Vierge, devant la Mère !

Ô travailleur robuste, ouvrier demi-nu,
Moissonneur envoyé par Dieu même, et venu
Pour faucher en un jour dix siècles de misère,
Sans peur, sans pitié, vrai, formidable et sincère,
Egal par la stature au colosse romain,
Toi qui vainquis l'Europe et qui pris dans ta main
Les rois, et les brisas les uns contre les autres,
Né pour clore les temps d'où sortirent les nôtres,
Toi qui par la terreur sauvas la liberté,
Toi qui portes ce nom sombre : Nécessité !
Dans l'Histoire où tu luis comme en une fournaise,
Reste seul à jamais, Titan quatre-vingt-treize !
Rien d'aussi grand que toi ne viendrait après toi.

D'ailleurs, né d'un régime où dominait l'effroi,
Ton éducation sur ta tête affranchie
Pesait, et, malgré toi, fils de la monarchie,
Nourri d'enseignements et d'exemples mauvais,
Comme elle tu versas le sang ; tu ne savais
Que ce qu'elle t'avait appris : le mal, la peine,
La loi de mort mêlée avec la loi de haine ;
Et, jetant bas tyrans, parlements, rois, Capets,
Tu te levais contre eux et comme eux tu frappais.

Nous, grâce à toi, géant qui gagnas notre cause,
Fils de la liberté, nous savons autre chose.
Ce que la France veut pour toujours désormais,
C'est l'amour rayonnant sur ses calmes sommets,
La loi sainte du Christ, la fraternité pure.
Ce grand mot est écrit dans toute la nature :
Aimez-vous ! aimez-vous ! - Soyons frères ; ayons
L'oeil fixé sur l'Idée, ange aux divins rayons.
L'Idée à qui tout cède et qui toujours éclaire
Prouve sa sainteté même dans sa colère.
Elle laisse toujours les principes debout.
Etre vainqueurs, c'est peu, mais rester grands, c'est tout.
Quand nous tiendrons ce traître, abject, frissonnant, blême
Affirmons le progrès dans le châtiment même.
La honte, et non la mort. - Peuples, couvrons d'oubli
L'affreux passé des rois, pour toujours aboli,
Supplices, couperets, billots, gibets, tortures !
Hâtons l'heure promise aux nations futures,
Où, calme et souriant aux bons, même aux ingrats,
La concorde, serrant les hommes dans ses bras,
Penchera sur nous tous sa tête vénérable !
Oh ! qu'il ne soit pas dit que, pour ce misérable,
Le monde en son chemin sublime a reculé !
Que Jésus et Voltaire auront en vain parlé !
Qu'il n'est pas vrai qu'après tant d'efforts et de peine,
Notre époque ait enfin sacré la vie humaine,
Hélas ! et qu'il suffit d'un moment indigné
Pour perdre le trésor par les siècles gagné !
On peut être sévère et de sang économe.
Oh ! qu'il ne soit pas dit qu'à cause de cet homme
La guillotine au noir panier, qu'avec dégoût
Février avait prise et jetée à l'égout,
S'est réveillée avec les bourreaux dans leurs bouges,
A ressaisi sa hache entre ses deux bras rouges,
Et, dressant son poteau dans les tombes scellé,
Sinistre, a reparu sous le ciel étoilé !

Du 16 au 22 novembre 1852, à Jersey

Gemeinsam stehen wir hier,
hätte nie gedacht das du hier bleibst bei mir
Freunde die einen nie verlassen,
können sich nicht lange hassen
egal wie verschieden wir auch sind,
wir kennen uns gut wer was anderes sagt spinnt

Hatten Höhen und Tiefen,
waren nie gefangen wenn wir liefen,
waren gemeinsam frei,
waren eins und dennoch zwei
Freunde zu sagen ist zu wenig,
denn das hier ist Familie und hält ewig
haben Fehler begangen und geweint,
sie aber gerade gebogen bis die Sonne scheint
sich gegenseitig unterstützt,
denn wir wusste das alles andere nichts nützt

Jahre sind bereits vergangen
doch wir hatten nie Grund zum bangen
denn wahre Freunde bleiben und gehen nicht,
das ist etwas wo selbst die Gesellschaft nicht gegenspricht

Hätte damals nie erwartet das du mal ein Teil von mir wirst,
werde bei dir sein bist du alt bist und stirbst
Tratschen wie die Alten omis über die alte Zeit,
doch leben nicht in der Vergangenheit
gemeinsam waren wir als Freunde eins,
was mir war war dir und was dir war meins
kannten uns teilweise besser als uns selbst,
das ist der Grund warum es ewig hält ✌

.if you want the fresh impromptu, you might as well skip this unpublished draft, i'm even starting to think about leaking my hellopoetry.com password... but given my suspension... FOR 8 MONTHS because of some soccer mum not having encountered something akin to a harlequin novel... i'll leave it at that: •••••••••••••••••, here's to some depeche mode... last time i checked, even africans have the same inside of their hands "whitened"... there is no racial difference to be allowed to read into chiromancy... i met one ***-, tomikuni... he also inquired about reading my hands... we're all pale, governed by the thumb, when asked, or not asked, to hold "something".

and what is the only variant of classical
music, heard on a radio?

    well... there's the fama radio night
sessions - with not adverts
   radiofama.com.pl -

it might be your take on what the french
tell the english, i.e.: euro-trash...

but no adverts...

                          and there is no reason
to concede to reviving punk,
hippy music didn't see a revival,
why should punk?

   a variant of classical music radio,
akin to bbc 2, or classic fm...

       that "oddity" of a morphed bbc 4
internet coverage, akin to lionel nation...
and what i mean by that,
is not h. d. thompson's gonzo...

          the allure of the, un-scripted...
and all of this is raw, flesh,
language at a smithfield
                   or a billingsgate...

talk-radio as the logical conlusion
of exposing your child to classical music...
it's genius -
   reverting back to classical music
once you're older, and don't play
an instrument?
                      what's the point?

dr steve turley bashing out a medieval
mash-up on the guitar...
            and that's "not" even
inspiration for a rock star status...
i like his smugness -
    it's... zesty, lime-like:
             certainty of the twinkling
of the eye that consists of:
    a remaining - intact, i.e., sane.

bbc radio 4?
      what, with zee archers nonsense?
this radio novella
that keeps propping itself up
like a bad take on eastenders without
the kray brothers?
          
                  talk-radio is all about
a non-existent "script":
       the flamboyance of spontaneity...
with the crux, being?
                
                                     ensō -

the only aspect of ζεν, a ταoιστ might
respect.

      p.s.
                  do i believe in u.f.o.  s?
(****, acronyms and the plural article
attached to them, mind boggling)
     no... but i've seen one, so the belief impetus
is, kind'ah missing in me...
             i've transcended speculation,
a question-worthiness on the matter...
since the question no longer manifests
      itself in the narration impetus?
the impetus for narrative, is narration per se;
and how lovely, it is to see
a noumenon...
      when the world of phenomenons
reads like this:

  the times newspaper, saturday, july 21,
2018,
               OVER 70,000 CHILDREN
PUT ON PILLS FOR DEPRESSION...

great headline...
     alas, a chemistry degree (3rd)
from edinburgh uni.,
     am i chemo-phobic?
                 i should ask myself that
same question, when i next
brush my teeth, apply shampoo to
my cranium,
   or wash my hands.
__________
as any drunk might,
   now i know why my parents decided
to leave Poland...
   Chernobyll...
           when you hear the facts...
about a single gram of Uranium, U-236,
2.34 x 10 to the power of seven, years
being the "half-life" or...
****, i should have read over my
chemistry notes from Edinburgh...
before the particle fizzles out...

                 i was lucky...
i am to born again with the age bracket
of 33... which means i only received
a Cain tattoo on my right shoulder-blade...
birth-mark,
apparently i suffered greatly as a child,
hernia and all...
            i had the birth-mark removed,
i'm pretty sure i was a donor,
my flesh became donated to
   some scientific lab and studied...
here's my Shylock pound...

given what's currently happening in my
home city...
with the slow decay, the ever more increasing
number of cancer victims, middle-aged....
they're talking about the sort of cancer
that... moves, visibly, under your skin...
people are freaking out...

     it's not a joke,
   the soviets wanted to hush hush the whole
affair...
                   3.2 of whatever scale...
was hushed... but the reality was
aquivalent to 400 x-rays in a spell of a minute...
i was under the impression that i was
the child of economic migrants...
   eh eh...
               i don't think that's actually the whole
picture...
   come on! if people were hot and bothered
in Minsk... Belarus...
           this wasn't a ******* tornado...
tornados come and go... we're talking
500 years of after-effects...
               even my great-grandmother
remembers how the trees in the local park
were affected... streaks of autumn trees...
among streaks of actual spring green
phosphorescent trees illuminated
by street lamps...
          like the current phosphorescent green
oaks in england...

   they fled... and took me with them...
who gives a **** whether i came to england
without speaking the language...
hiding in toilets at my primary school...
but then... one day...
after self-teaching myself the language,
studious, labour of the mind,
books and books...
i was the teacher's pet...
             i remember this one time...
st. augustine's, near barkingside...
i was the only kid doing long arithmetic...
while the "natives" decided to
stage a: lord of the flies sort of coup
against the replacement teacher...
and what happened when our...
  ****... ms. mcguire! can't believe i still
remember her name...
  i wasn't happy that the children
were scolded,
  i did my work, they didn't,
and i managed to do whatever i wanted
while they had to catch-up
on what i already did...

         for whatever childhood i had,
i still remember it fondly...
    my father being unable to teach me how
to swim in the english channel,
me teaching myself to swim out of sheer
will and determination: competition...
i know people brag about:
how smart they were so early on:
                             yadda yadda bull... ****!

now i am here to take out my investment
in this language,
   to... peacock and strut...
        as i am also glad to not brag about
being a polyglot or a... eh... somewhat polymath...
either this... or a slump in depression
and suicide thinking:
   as always... i don't get out of bed
and think of one impossible thing,
   i get out of bed to overcome one suicidal thought...
not all suicidal thinking is the end game,
some of it relieves you in having
integrating a kick-up your **** to get out of bed!

so... the picture...
well like any past-time of any: happily to be drunk...
walking is one,
the other...
       i wanted to experience a hamsa...
     i was going to do the whole hand,
but i figured: spare some of that ink
for what you're going to write on your grandfather's
80th birthday card...
poor ******...
     he still remembers getting sweets from
two SS-men in black,
  sweets that would stick his hands together...
he still remembers how his uncle
laid in a patch of green, shot dead,
how the russian soldiers would rather prefer
to sleep in the barns with the goats
on hay rather than in beds,
how most of them were teenagers...
and how my grandmother's ultimate insult
to him was: that he was a skurwysyn:
  *******...
     well... he does have 3 other brothers...
half-brothers...
                         eh... clown needs to juggle?
however bad he was...
we did go fishing together...
    but now that he's demented...
and has a dementia routine...
                    it's hard to tell what it feels
in this, transition period of the perils of
us, the mortal men...
                  i could never associated mortality
with any sort of morality,
other than it being dictated by one's
own ambition: to keep as many people
from my private life as possible.
           so when my jewish neighbor
recently converted to islam drops by and
comments about my barber skills:
you and my son look like you've just been
released from auschwitz birkenau...
we laugh...
            and how it suits me... beard and all...
monk...
      cool cool...
   i'm still studying the qabbalah...
                    christianity became... too poverty
stricken for me, in terms of points of reference...
although not circumcised...
why would i be?
                          that extra bit of skin is
for me to not be ashamed of jerking off once
in a while...
   pije... pali... konia wali.

            and this is where the: right hand doesn't
know what the left hand is doing...
regarding chiromancy...

              tzayach's...
i tattooed over chokhmah,
                chesed and netzach....
for the love of god...
there's no     girdle of venus on either
of my hands...
  either hand looks like there's
a letter imprinted on them: M...
                i had a "fwend" in high school
once... god, what is it with the muslims...
either they want to **** you,
or convert you!
    started his own muslim chiromancy...
talked **** about how there's
the number 72 on my hands...
the number of names of the goat-blood
                               allah god...

no... i'm pretty ******* sure that's an M...
anyway...

p.s.
and then you look up those words ref.
chiromancy...
                 as ever, better to bewilder yourself
with what's in front of you,
in your posession than to *******
yourself around the zodiac brothel of
          ... well... even the zodiac killer
is more fascinating than all this: "constellations
talk"... yeah, and a paragraph of
marquis de sade's writing is more
of a hard-on than some harlequin novel!

i tattooed over the words:
    chokhmah...     in the sefirot tree:
wisdom... yah...
            chesed...        ditto:
    love... el...
               netzach...             ditto:
victory... adonoy tzevaot...
   2, 4, 7... those are the allocated numbers
to the sefirot tree...
   whether or not gematria is your thing...
because i'm the type of, "guy",
that likes the maxim: i'll meet you half-way,
now you meet me, half-way...

how could any muslim,
think i could convert,
  to the brat ******* son of christianity,
who keeps nagging,
and nagging, and punching and screaming...
if, that is, monotheism is a noble cause...
why would i look toward
the evolutionary direction...
no past, only forward,
how much of darwinism is about:
forward...
   all our ancestors were idiots...
ah... but what will those,
who will inherit what we... floundered think,
of us?
         not much, by the looks of things...
what have i done?
   to love wisdom,
is to find victory...
   the will, will come from itself,
and the power, vested in it,
i don't need to look for the "logos"
via the christian deity...
   i merely look at the genesis of the idea...
Heraclitus...
            and that's it...
and why do i do "stupid" things when drinking...
like pretending to tattoo my hand?
i do not possess the luxury of dreaming...
rarely... i do, but mostly:
it's the abyss that entertains me...
so i have to do something stupid
within the framework of a "today",
that i might sharpen my memory for
a "tomorrow"...

       i have nothing to learn from
the christians...
                  i might as well turn to paganism
if, and only if,
my... deposed fascination with
judaism diminishes...
                    i don't even care whether
i'm a jew or not, a yew: paraphrasing
the prefix from yiddish...
those people, were citizens of Paul-on-a-leash...
land...
                this is the best i can offer...
i'm not... **** like the ******* caduceus
of protruding veins wrapping
the ******* intact?

****... here's a chimera for you:
**** of a Hermes, heart of a...
     head of a...
                  feet of a...
and a tail of a dobberman-albino-monkey:
when it was still aesthetically pleasing
to trim the ears and cut off the tail
of that particular dog breed!
   and... i'm still drinking...
                      what have you...
bitter, inconsistent, whatever you like...
i'll just trap this in the internet index,
open a newspaper from sunday,
that big one, format,
                   the old school way of reading
an english newspaper:
   having once tried folding a page
on the tube (underground)...
              never mind, thank god i still have
my *******...
i don't look like a ******* loser
all of the time jerking off
without having one...
         yeah: i'm pretty sure the kippah
has something to do with:
the imitation game, of medieval monk's
donning the tonsure haircut.

p.p.s. em... revision, it was actually U-235...
and the core of a nuclear power-plant...
being exposed...
   like 40 ******* Hiroshima explosions
in one hour, non-verbatim...
but Chernobyl was a ghost town
without the sort of tourism manifesto
of Zionists...
who would have to revisit
the grave of their ancestry...
                  no "big" deal though...
m'eh, just a little glitch...
no children in Frankfurt being told
to not play outdoors...
just a glitch...
                the holocaust is forever
the major no. 1 human disaster...
pre-planned...

     say... why study jurisprudence,
when not having studied the thesaurus
helps, i mean:
isn't all of the jursprudent concept
based upon access to a thesaurus,
aren't all nouns: "suspect",
readied for the synonym spaghetti
counsil? no? my bad?

  oh, oh... good to know! really great,
great to know: who the ****
is peddling this sort of *******!
weasels.
even your own shadows will
not forgive you...
mark my word...
whether angels, demons,
your own shadows will not forgive
you...
you'll be dancing the *******
1518 dancing plague:
whether you like it or not!

      let's take a summary:
what looks worse,
Chernobyl or, Auschwitz?
how many tourists visit Auschwitz,
how many tourists visit Chernobyl?
hmm...
    tough number to crack open
for comparison...
          this is the one time i will
craft a crux for / of moral relativism...
who was gagging for it,
and... who wasn't... when it happened:
"out of the blue"?
        let's just say:
Chernobyl wasn't premeditated...
Auschwitz, was...
           now i did start learning
about the qabbalah for a reason:
the holocaust wasn't the worst horror
of the 20th century,
the 20th century prime tattoo of historical
events: wasn't Auschwitz...
       and i will, continue,
to learn qabbalah, denoucning my "christianity",
for this, sole, reason...
the yews, jews, yids,
aren't the only people alive in this world,
i'm not going to buy into this
solipsistic narrative complex...
esp. when i will, forthrightly:
denounce who was crucified...
      i'm done... with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library in 1945,
complimented by the josephus ben matthias
historian...
             how jesus, "son of god"
played chinese whispers in the gosepl of
st. thomas...
   n'ah... n'ah mate... i'm done...
            find yourself a ******* imam
or a rabbi: my mind is made up!
ich will tanz diese tango...
              egal du wie es, oder nicht!
sorry... whether deutsche or not,
west saxon grammar translates itself:
*** essex bound.

Si tu m'appartenais (faisons ce rêve étrange !),
Je voudrais avant toi m'éveiller le matin
Pour m'accouder longtemps près de ton sommeil d'ange,
Egal et murmurant comme un ruisseau lointain.

J'irais à pas discrets cueillir de l'églantine,
Et, patient, rempli d'un silence joyeux,
J'entr'ouvrirais tes mains, qui gardent ta poitrine,
Pour y glisser mes fleurs en te baisant les yeux.

Et tes yeux étonnés reconnaîtraient la terre
Dans les choses où Dieu mit le plus de douceur,
Puis tourneraient vers moi leur naissante lumière,
Tout pleins de mon offrande et tout pleins de ton cœur.

Oh ! Comprends ce qu'il souffre et sens bien comme il aime,
Celui qui poserait, au lever du soleil,
Un bouquet, invisible encor, sur ton sein même,
Pour placer ton bonheur plus près de ton réveil !

Wir schreiten vor
Der Winter steht bevor
Und keine Ahnung
Ob der Sommer
Und der Herbst
Das war, was es sich wünschte,
Unser Herz.

Zwischen dem Blick
Zurück und dem nach vorne,
Entreißen wir uns immer wieder
Dem Moment.
In all den Wünschen, Träumen, Illusionen,
uns zu verlieren ist unser Talent.

Vertrauen zu entschlüsseln,
Zu uns und zu den anderen,
Verliert sich in den Tausenden
Scherben des Misstrauens,
Zweifel und Unsicherheit,
Verfolgen uns wie ein Pfeil.
Und eh wir uns versehen,
Hat die Angst uns in den Krallen.

Wir dürfen bluten.
Oft ist's uns fast egal,
Wir wollen nicht vor Schmerzen schreien,
Hauptsache niemand weiß,
Wie's um uns steht.
Und niemand weiß,
Wie es uns wirklich geht.

Verhält ein Held sich so?
So Selbstvernichtungs-froh?
Wir opfern uns dem Überlebensmechanismus,
Denn lieber rennen wir das ganze Leben,
Als zu uns selbst zu stehen,
Uns selbst zu sehen,
Verdammt, wir sind nicht hier,
Nur um zu überleben!

ganz egal: like for like, it makes no difference... diff rrr... trill rasp of Rasputin in Vlad and Myrhh... the Germanic ontological constitution of constraints and the purity fetish... cult... what is purity and why is it only ascribed to a concern for evil: pure evil whereas the good is impish and denotes an article: the good vs pure evil... because rheumatoid purity... because pure evil is THE good... evil can be given a stance of being incoruptible too, n'est ce pas? otherwise, what, the ****, is worth, salvaging: to begin with?!

As I overheard my coworker
thinking aloud,
seeing how we hit it off with
a silent agreement about cutting
half an hour off each other shifts...
the words: 'I didn't see that coming...'
well yeah! Ha ha ah ha ha...
that's why I came!
I came when the crucifix
was no longer the driftwood
of history for the succulent
popish leeches to overpower
the illiterate with "magic"...
I came just on time...
not with the exhaustio(s) of
the Holocaust: just the disintegration
of the Soviet Empire...
two weeks shy of popping my head
out of a **** and a mother
and mighty the streaks of Chernobyl's
autumn in spring... ha ha...
"I didn't see that coming..."
that's why I came! Ah ha ha ha...
I came to bail out my brothers
seeing them forever teasing humanity
within the confines of coulrophobia
and those trees and those clouds
and all that is insomniac via pareidolia...
well... if God is still this mystical
spirit of changelessness, akin to what
Kiekegaard stressed...
surely a lesser judge concerning
pareidolia since not Islam
can give argument: what naturally
occurs and is not iconoclasm...
or... idol worship... hey sleepy boy
Adam... thin Lizzy oh such love
for London and Cracow I have
that Rome and Jerusalem might
as well crumble into their now achieved
status as the ***** and... Gomorrah.