Please forgive my hesitation
at instigation of flirtation.
Did I ensure my elimination?
My romantic assassination?
I'll gladly partake in any placation,
for any chance of indoctrination
to the centralization of your concentration.
An operation of admiration.
A correlation of inflammation.
Your gravitation brings animation,
exclamation and elongation.
My specialization is duration.
Not to hint at a connotation,
but I feel a certain *******
by an obligation to a certain destination
where your presentation gives me restoration.
Petrification?
Total mind evacuation?
Would clarification bring fascination?
Stimulation!
Salivation!
Gratification!
Insinuation of fornication?
A simple salutation to syncopation.
Would a single bright carnation
be enough of a motivation,
for a two way relocation?
Would poetic recitation
be sufficient lubrication
for collaboration?
A consolidation?
Or an exacerbation of isolation?
Please hold no reservation,
I've only got one aspiration.
To achieve a higher elevation;
by means of inhalation,
or a certain recreation
involving a bit of perspiration
along with physical communication.
Does this seem such a bad situation?
Or are you ready for pure elation?

tailing off / trailing off poetry, or signature poetry prior sleep
is usually filled with too many prepositions,
and by being filled with too many prepositions
the prepositions tend to be repetitively used;
nonetheless, a study of language is provided,
not everyday you get to see language
in such quanta; yes, quanta, because
physicists will not get away with smartphones
by mystifying words with all those theories
in the subconscious working on the word idiot
consciously in argument with an antagonist;
well it would be hard not to express mystification
of a word in the standard vocabulary package
of conversation, without having so much quanta quarks
stork butter and curd cheese to mash up:
for a thrill in the trill... yar yarn pi's randomised counting rates.
because not everything you read is technically
within the framework of an addressee, or read aloud,
and no one wants to read **** like a bog standard
newsreader prompt on auto-queue of flimsy pages of lies:
i mean, it happened on a monday, but not a joycean monday,
it was 4pm, one gun shot was heard a minute prior,
but then jules anno domini came along and said: stern!
make the eyes stern! then gregory the pauper of paupers
said: it was actually 9am and the gun shot was heard a minute after:
but still the man at the market shouted: '*** yer bahnanas,
toe fo' 'un, *** yer bahnanas - toe quid bunches fowl's worth!'
yes, the h in english is an elongation "umlaut,"
now say it *****, say it *****: bahamas.*

most people wash their faces in the morning
for the eager 9 o'clock slap of reality
for the bossy 8 hour toothpaste feel
on the vertical, without the whips and chains;
i only wash my eyes, knowing that
i'll probably "say" something *****
but see all too squeaky;
then i fuse a hangover with a bit of alcohol
to ensure the hangover stays longer
and feels like the previous night's binge;
we apache and aboriginal down here,
we don't ask for cruise shipments of thoughts
on the sunny side of starboard with the pensioners
under blankets of deceit.

so the first time they tried to **** me was
in a hospital cot,
the nurse almost suffocated me, gave me a heart
condition, fearing the monster with the chernobyl
birthmark.

the second time it was my childhood companion
conrad, who pushed me into a deep dark well
but having clung to the edges i managed to not fall
and climb out, conrad's mother was there too
(sunlight in a sugar crystal, or the punkin for a
pumpkin in canto xii from chicago breezy,
now the poem, reflected with the pumpkin in mind,
or that rowntree pastille twinkle of bleached tooth
and thumbs in thumbs up the ****
for things sold with audacity past the use-by-date;
cold-air balloons nearing titanic!).

the third time? south american poison, brain damage,
the entire prompt for my writing expedition
into ***** wonka's factory of candy tooth smiles.

or as i say of darwinism with relief: am i watching
the athletics or am i simply watching a chemistry experiment?
shouldn't it be called anabolics instead?
a needle to the puzzle muscles of aesthetics without
greek ship oar, *** horse reins, the scythe of wheat,
and we turn protein into carbon dioxide covered
by some plastic surgery on the sheen of lost wrinkles
in balloons on film - well obviously - given the tractor
and the aerodynamic future of fifty hundred different
speed mechanisms - the lax and laze of the populace
requires constant intellectual stimulation:
the 100m record was downsized from 10.5 to 9.5seconds
over the past twenty years, the mob rule is?
talk talk talk.

You frown, I frown.
What obligates you?
And to I-why?

Do not we dote;
the elongation
of our tumultuous spirit?

Like a waterfall in pursuit of a sea,
Like weary eyes in need of lubrication,
Like a meowing kitten craving for milk.
Suffice is not.

Ere we beseech serenity
-an equilibrium.

O speak,
From your deepest well
-gay or remorse.

For a mirror, I am not.

at the Hajj, the people are told to pick up pebbles and throw them at a crude representation of Satan by some Gomorrah Rodin... the ****** is delivered, the junkies then stampede each other dead... religious Darwinism can thus alone be met as recipient of the more eloquent theory - that i, in my ivory tower, be kept a slave in learning... as the below stated, a pebble picked up will not make you scale a mountain - a chance trinity of a pebble touching a lake, fair enough, maybe Narcissus will wake up on the third stroke... what matters is, is that polytheism taught by example, an example set by the demigods to not imitate - monotheism has everyone bothered... but the sincerity to imitate lives like a butterfly - 2 weeks max - is plagued by spandex elongation - people want to imitate the demigods of polytheism in monotheism as the keepers of time - and change - but there are no lessons to be learned, unless one... the fashionably 15 minutes late, antidote to the fame riddled 15 minute Warhol; backlog of celebrity, before celebrity there were the utility people, after the utility people vanished we created a celebratory quasi-Coliseum caste of people willing to never have a private life... because they were willing to sell it... voids of supposed apology. fame was never about achieving anything in the universal realm... in the particular realm we all got on with our jobs... but the hunger stemmed from the universal realm... people never wanted celebrity per se - per se... the box that's a sundial for a priori and a bomb-timer for a posteriori - knitted into a per se (from in itself), preferred as ex per se - fake hiding something for a minute, then expose it in all its a fortiori / a infirmiori perfection; fame was never about ****** recognition devices - fame was a way to alleviate boredom - whether the wild cowboy outlaws or modern actors - acting as the prime alleviation of boredom precursors our need to lie in social circumstances - we lie more because we celebrate acting  people become famous by ways of hammers being useful across the globe - we like to lie in social situations therefore we glorify acting - we don't glorify poetry because we like apathy - we don't glorify philosophy because we prefer calculators to mental arithmetic - but we all end up staring at Plato's Cave - where once our former self no mere puppeteer's shadow... we fear loneliness but we also fear the herd, our phobias are magnified day by day - we feel a loss of original content to express ourselves as merely part of the conglomerate - yet the original sin we have committed; there's no fame to be claimed, the people spoke! there's only a boredom to be given a plumber who blocks our boredom with a load of selfies - ask Narcissus what he thinks of the matter? he would simply reply: i looked once, and i was forever mesmerised... people haven't even looked once, nor looking at themselves a million times could they feel mesmerised; if beauty be in the eye of the beholder, why are we so obsessed in keeping it in a paparazzi museum? modern beauty to me is a rigid prenup skeleton at the hairstylist for the aim of zenith: "pretty"; beauty ought to be mandible, flux-prone, never the dusty-upkeep of ****** bones immune to fracture; if the sin we committed was so original, why are we so good at plagiarising it without noticing its originality? all the animals are therefore excused from original sin (or celebrity), because they committed the virtue of plagiarism; and we really do fear it... it's just another conversation about Communism, that "failed" system as prescribed rhetoric of the Popes: gotta have the harem and those ruby red shoes marching in Kansas.*

picking up a pebble
will not make you
walk up a mountain.

I want to see lady to ladette
set in Baltimore
with Omar teaching drug theft
with the finer points of gun cleaning
calibre selection and event planning
as his curricula.

I want Jimmy and Bunk
teaching the dos and don’ts
of alcohol intoxication
the art of shot and stubbie mix
the singing and drinking anthems
to stir the blood
and the strategic gutter chuck
before the final whisky chaser.

I want those girls out on the corners
playing police bingo
speaking drug lingo
and developing their drug-fuelled irony
of WMB, the Icicle and Pandemic.

I want Clay to teach them elocution
and elongation in the word “Shiiiiiiit”

I want Avon Barnsdale to teach them gangster codes
of respect on Sundays for stoop people
and Sunday crowns
on everybody’s grandmother.

I want Kima to discuss sexuality
and the Other
I want them to talk change and reform
with Cutty, Colvin and Prez.
Daniels will show how love and loyalty
can be made to work in reality.

And I just want
I only want
Stringer
for myself.

© M.L.Emmett

i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons:
editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i.
into aerodynamic informatics
for a breeze and wavy hunches true:
i wondered - would this much assure
me to buy a mandolin?
i bought a mandolin once,
but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead
i was lodged into essays
and existential qualms relieved:
entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco
to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into ****;
i thought of a flirt though,
played the mandolin in scotland,
beneath a window for a vine,
jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter,
and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe
excess sight with light through
spider's diadem kept, webbed;
landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides
to counter the "debility"
of elongation instead; took two windmills with me
into don quixote, and out popped
the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing,
aged cougar.
so? my one grand delusion is a robot
precisely spelling me wok twang wrong;
i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse
to equate soberness with sanity
and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone
above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.

I float on by
I float on by
up up away in spaces
beyond the planes
of existence
& when I cry
I wish this time
would speed up
we just
don’t know
where I’ve been
or how far I’ll go
because
I float on by
I float on by
Confined by my thoughts
as I want to stop
this elongation
patiently racing
forcing destinations
into place when
people’s faces
are shadowed
shallow traces
of waters carving
the canyons within myself
drowning
I float on by
I float on by

that plant in the window
may well resent those roots
firmly potted and positioned
on that westerly sill
held in place as it is
by those wispy tendrils
straining outwards
desperate for growth
ever-reaching for
the drifting light
of that introverted Sun
evasive though it may be
its potential remains
dirt encrusted and anaemic
as the hidden branching is
neither its stem nor leaf
nor its bud or flower
could realise the heights
that it hopes to achieve
without these buried parts
for though this tangle
is filth-covered and
far from what any wish
to be faced with
when in admiration
                   of such flora
without this
the evolving maturation
from ceaseless elongation
and meristematic activity
the terracotta on display
could not be filled with
this greenery so vibrant

To begin: a poem entitled “Lines to Serve as an Introduction to the Show, Written for the Lowest Common Denominator; Hastily Amended to Address our Pale Horse Future”

There are no literary devices in this poem
no simile, no apostrophe-
there's no dissonance, no assonance,
no distancing my consonants,
in constellations of conversation,
an astronomic lack of conjugation-
there's no elevation in
the elongation of thoughts-
With this piece, my synaptocratic,
idiosyncratic oath I recants.
I'm just a guy quick-drawing
inspirado from the sky,
full clouds and dark wishes,
kisses from other's Mrs'
red wine and all that comes after.
The truth's in repetition,
the revolution of the wheel,
all art's born of friction.
Hell, God said
'Creation is lonely work,'
and on the eighth day,
hoping hands will hold flimsy dishes,
he filled us with desperate artist wishes-
Sad, bold lumps of clay rising
like Play-doe,
hell, ask Plato,
we're forms arriving at the real
manifest desk in a city,
where writers write dying,
praying for real forms arising,
just in time for the plying
of fact in layers peeled back,
while cracks in the truth
erode faith from way back-
Stopped dead in their tracks,
feel like thieves who steal moves,
but the ecstatic hack,
the stark raving yet pragmatic
hack will still muse;
muse for the muse
and on the grandest conquest
will invest, digress, come upon
an ingress and disappear into
a land beyond the beyond.
All in search of the mustang *****
who won't ever wear a saddle-

I've met the muse
She was the queen in the land of the blind
and what she lacked in depth perception
she exploded in all the truths of all the world
because to her all truth appeared equidistant
So I met her for a simile, but missing an I
all she could offer was a smile
but it was she who taught me
the demography of cool
“artists create from nothingness”
she told me
“and so when they begin it is with nothing,
so they live among Ginsberg's ***** streets
where the rents cheap and they chip away
at the void until where once nothing
now is something”.
“Remember,” she said, “creation is lonely work
but once created celebration demands a crowd;
so those with nothing are surrounded by those
who need something; something to fill the
emptiness they cannot fill themselves.
But the crowd ***** the creator dry
and like weeds temples to the boring
emerge on those once ***** streets
and the artists still have nothing and
now need something to stay – but with
nothing they are forced to move:
move on, move out, move away,
leaving behind those who only know
how to follow to lead”.

**** slick, you're sly, you heard my simile-
in a piece that promised no imagery,
and that wasn't the only one...
Do I contradict myself? Abso-simile-lutely
This realm is rife with ******* platitudes and
be sure, this poem here contains a multitude
We have many names on the list,
some you've forgotten, some you've missed:

I'm sorry Lawrence Ferlinghetti
we here ain't getting
any closer to a rebirth of wonder

I'm sorry Jack Kerouac
there ain't no going back
on the road when your directions
start with you are here
and here is a windowless room

I'm sorry Billy Burroughs
the algebra of need is thorough
but ours increases not geometric
but exponentially

We have many names on the list.
some you've forgotten, some  you've missed

Beat.

Kicking with the same sentence
The reek but not the contents
Each kick of the hour with
The note that holds
But does not hold with truth
I am stuck on every part of you
Sticking like paper would to glue
If skies were to part with rain n' snow
I would shiver n' whine with every blow
But a whisper in the night tells myself
To keep on fighting
To get to know
Just as the clause is to us
And the wheels are to the bus
Lost in the sane relentless
Of men with sense and tents
Money hoarding fire rockets
Shouting for peace like cares
With out sprockets
A miss lined beehive
Where the women dance with their
Incredible behinds
To see such mayhem where others only see
A cause of peace
Makes me believe that my sneeze
Is coming from someone else's
Knees
Not here for where we are born
We are sworn
Labeled like the cattle
Like the product
Like the fish destine
For our dish
Meant for continuation
Meant for elongation
And I tell myself HOPE
Is a four letter word
A strong word
A HOPEFUL WORD
I tell myself many things
And I swear to believe them
But I lie to myself as often
Watch my fingers bleed
As I pick up
The chipped pieces

The viens in your hands,
artistically inching towards the pattern inside your human body,
the elongation of each tip,
adjoining the vast bed of perfectly shaped standing rectangles.
Your fingers speak of you,
the art that you create,
the story that you sketch.
Each vein walks in five different directions,
all beginning from the start,
where they collide,
irrespective of their aim.
The sculpted valleys in between each length,
portraying just how much life your hands hold.
Aesthetically beautiful hands you have,
don't let just anybody hold them,
for they hold the emotions that you hide,
each vein striding towards humans,
ready to connect,
explore,
discover.

                  ~kc
                   23.12.16
                   6:15 PM.

√1 x √ 1 = 1
Root one, never felt like a full piece, never one,
Root one, met another number so alike in style,
Their common interest multiplied and became one,
And that was when they both let out their first smile.

When other numbers counted the bees and the birds,
Root one and root one counted fractions and surds,
In hopes that no one ever knew or ever heard,
They spoke of words like how absurd was the word surd.

Root one who never felt more whole than anyone,
Finally found another soul to make him a whole one.
No need for imaginary numbers of root negative ones,
Because Root One found a positive match, Root One.

So as night approaches,
Root one and Root one now a real number
Surrounded by the petal of roses,
Fell into one another arms to slumber.

Night and day comes to an inevitable close,
Root one and Root one became a complete whole,
This simply goes to shows,
That you don't have to be without flaws to find another soul.

--------
√1 = 1
In another universe, root one was happy being root one,
Because root one found the one within himself, root one.
They say one is a lonely number, so a root one,
Must be the loneliest number with no need for anyone else to be one,
Living a sordid life of loneliness, no other numbers left to join,
And at the flip or toss of a coin,
He will remain a never used piece of conversation,
But this poem must come to a close, no point in elongation,
Root one is a lonely number with no one to root,
But his own self, what a lonely shoot....

r a n, or: reformed alcoholics named, such pretty,
saintly creatures, you can almost yawn at the whole affair;
i've never heard such gracious life-affirming stories as these -
watch them scuttling like rats from a sinking
ship, you can count them, hell, you can even name them:
oh there's jerry who ****** himself in bed,
there's bradley in black-out mode
at liverpool st. station,
james the one who puked blood in the toilet...
and there's me, using alcohol for what
the arabs feared it could do to a man:
dehydrate him and leave him with a snail-tongue,
all slurry and slow - not a very known
sedative back then, it was first used to sterilise
medical equipment used in removing an
appendix, or the third tonsil (e.g.) -
rarely was it used as a sedative, people abused it
during Bacchus ****** - they'd dance and sing;
Spartan meat-heads used to drink diluted wine
(all that six-pack growling and Hoplite Phallus...
Phalax... whatever RAA!) and would give pure
wine to shame someone and walk him down
the street, tumbling... the Japanese... hmm, what
an odd case indeed... i'd need a barrel of sāké /
säké to get drunk... and they drink it... warm,
disgusting... mulled wine i can understand...
but drinking ****-***** ***** warm is sick...
            now concerning the diacritical marks,
so the umlaut a (dot dot)... am i right in assuming
that in english it would be equivalent to write
it as: a a            and whatever letters either side?
oh oh! like aardvark? i'm good at arithmetic, . .    . .
    . .        . .            . .         . .                             σ 12, yes?
then surely the macron on the other variant is also
a prolongation, or perhaps an elongation of the vowel,
but of course with the     e           you're sort of supposed
to jump, make the tongue jump or fire a slingshot
or throw a Molotov cocktail or something, ṝight?
(yep, that's not a trill but a "growl", the english
                                        hollowed-out r -
     meaning it is prolonged, but it's not trilled -
                                        the posh Chelsea girls would know,
puffs and toffs and macaroons, whatnot, oh ya,
yeah, those kind of girls, they'd tell you all about
                   the hollowed-out and prolonged english ṝ
there's no greater amount of ambiguity like there is in
that and why w is said to be a double-u but is written
like a double-v, and translated into polish
a                 w is actually             a         ł;
                            i think this is where we ref. everything
to the dispersion of the peoples and the tower of Babylon).

Ashes of life permeate
       through shallow tides,
weakening as shores of
                   white undercurrents
collect stagnantly on white shingles.

Corroded within each grain
          that swallows all hope of
                                          elongation.
Life is a moment crumbling to an
inevitable ending, buried beneath times silt.

you can recognise it easily, in that abode
which recognises it,
where a man who loves thought
rather than wisdom, because he accounts
wisdom as too much factual provision...
there in the music, where his thought it scrambled
and literally non-existent.

i thought that *demdike stare would never
produce anything as haunting as they
already have,
but it wasn't them who produced the most
haunting piece of music known to me,
it was susumu yokota's tears of a poet
that's receptively glorified into an allowance
of what comfort might come
from households of ten million chinese
and a few europeans as singletons of that status sibling:
but still in the fathomed depth of violin or cello,
like that of ola gjeilo...
i'm happy for my melancholy... it is amply biding
intelligence with it... only because the rhythm section
is given unto string instruments rather than bam-bam
buckling drums heartless... lullaby rhythm i call it...
i love my sadness, because i can appreciate beauty
with a tear... and no one is invited...
and it's that kind of loneliness that turns me into
a goose... awaiting the pumpkin cindarella carriage
with surprise... if tear be shed, led it be shed at the pinnacle
of man's expression, not the sombre minute silence
of the slain in war of fingerprinted blood and mud...
let it be... decisively... from what appears as a lack of imagination
due to the engraved into cipher geometry of
the chaotic stone's face... let it be man abstracting
himself against so many patterns of chaos...
thus in turn bringing order and subsequent layering...
let man come with an elongation of each noted grievance
fully embodied and consumed...
to rise higher in an assertion of likened to angelic choir...
or will it simply be a story of those who self-love and loath
love by prizing their handy ******* the perfectly caricatured
of female genitalia... and the resolve of explaining those
who wish to embody the act of death to thus differentiate the two,
of those who self-love love occupying themselves
to not take up a sacrifice, and of those who's self-death die
by a known hand in the viscinity of visibility?
i am of no content strength willing to pride myself
as expressing either, or a deviation from,
for i do not speak in the realm of human continuity
that does not express either...
for i am not content with it, and never will be...
due to the merchants and what life is expected to be,
for if shakespeare wrote the merchant of mecca...
and left venice in the judgment of byzantium...
it would not be a pound of flesh to be sacrificed...
but a pound of flesh multiplied by a thousand if not more
and thus allowing the plagiarism of the thousand's
irrelevence and the least expected but the most hoped for discard,
for some future bound example of only one man.

p.s. i dont have the instant glorification concern
when using social media...
i have to be simply content with instant dis-satisfaction
and continue down the road with simulated non-existence
in terms of what invisible / cognitive narcissism
can discard of to expose recognising me;
honestly, atheism ought to begin the argument
concerning the non-exitence of god with the non-existence
of thought... by crossing the street too early for
a traffic accident... or the holocaust - after all god
is a word that's foundational in an expression of egoism
or at least self-autonomy to build a house without the mormons;
i know this language to a point where i deconstruct
the prime fuctioning words of co-ordination
without necessarily deconstructing the nouns
due to ha-shem, or deconstructring the verbs / actions
because of the fact that i think and am taken
aback by some of the action undertaken by people:
like ******, ****, theft, like lying, laceration or faking;
but with deconstruction come spelling mistakes
as the easiest casualties to improve on: the pawns in the game
are given the ordeal of democracy, and this democracy
is a numerous number of spelling mistakes
that feel shameful from the other side of this pixel mirror
having to be fed a life, and thus in life recognised
as accessible to be corrected for a higher reason thus taken.

kån skal syngje meg
i daudsvevna slynge... meg;
nor eg på Helvegen gor
og dei spøra eg trår er kalda, så kaldara -
and with approximate accenting
on vowels or stressed elongation,
angstrom - or o or u or neither with ø.*

O but the fickle mind!
Gemini readied for both
body and soul?
i hardly think so...
and each animal his own
character, each his own
albeit well encompassed
in fascist automaton replica
undecipherable for us
to practice, or if to wield
to yield all but failure in the finite
as then too almost cat replica cat
cloned... but then
such character assassinations to
tell them apart, not even invoking eugenics
is dismissive altogether to begin with.

Let my death not be brought about by the pain,

of elongation, of sickness and disease,

nor the bitterness and cruelty of Nature.

Let my death come of time,

when all else seems of no effect,

in the midst of yells and screams,

Fire and Smoke,

crack and Shot,

in the hot temperament of Sacrifice and Glory,

Let my death unfold like a letter being read,

and my death will be watched,

by people who will stand in awe.

Let My death be not of no use,

Let it serve a true purpose,

let it be with intent,

Let it be of a lesser good,

rather than a greater evil.

I will not die in the solemnity of a hospital room,

Nor in the silence of a cold household room,

I will not die in bitter cold,

For deep down inside,

I know I will die with the warmth of my love for,

my family, my home,

my people, my nation,

My Faith, My Freedom,

My Brothers, My Sisters,

My God, My God.

french garçon - son - ç / s / ς.*

and i let the wind turn the page, while
i held onto the last word, i let the wind
turn the page had it not have been held like
a woman in a marriage, and indeed the
wind flipped the page - yes, the perfumery of
books, old or new, stale or freshly baked -
i wanted the wind to turn the pages
of this remnant upheaval of readied reading -
as scenic as i could have wanted -
i let loose the page from under
my fingers, and the wind turned the page...
how i became entombed in
the company of the god Éolides
(εωλιδης) -
and what a happy repose it came to be -
yes, the greeks proved to be the
true aesthetic masters -
dependence on pronuciation's elongation
and curbing - a macron on the omicron
is an omega - etc. - and the epsilon (ε)
should be coupled with eta (η)
in terms of style, as sigma (σ / ς), already is -
but it will be hard, having to digitalise
handwriting, and how easily we can
impose words on the page, without
the smooth rekindling of the waves of
an incoming tide of inspired thinking
known as the birch forerunner, scout.
hence the new testament fitted with the old:
y omega w omicron / y epsilon w eta /
y theta w phi - i.e. yωwo / yεwη / yθwφ;
but of course i'm implying the same treatment
for o and ω like i'm implying for the above
mentioned ε and η akin to handwritten
ease of the two sigmas (σ / ς) - the latter written
at the end of words, the former in between.

i hate that it has come to this:

   you can't poke the joker card
of anti-semitism
ANYMORE!

    israel is a nation,
             you can't make any, ANY
anti-semitic argument
anymore!

      this idea of "discrimination"
it seized to exist with the founding
of the nation of israel...

            you can't have both
the nation of israel
  and the anti-semitism card
at the poker table...
you can't have both!

       *******! *******!
stop this semitic parasitißation
of europe!
              
either you accept the state of israel,
call it a state, when in fact you
want to call it a nation...
have it!
           have it!
   but some subscribing us to both
the state of israel,
and the idea of anti-semitism!

        there's no anti-semitism,
given that israel exists!
look, it took you 2000+ years to get
to where you are now...

          can the jews at least entertain
the "idea" of a nation?
without having to scare-monger
us back into the non-existence of israel
with this profanity that's called
"anti-semitism"...
  well, **** me... we can go back
to platz eins...

as the ancient polish proverb states:
either the fish... or the aquarium...
  
                you can't have both:
you either have israel
         or the anti-semitic card...
                      
               you simply can't have, both!

you can't!
                                 *******
kippah mongers...
               chinese noodles with
their payots...

   they forgot the idea of nation
as much as they tried revising the idea
of a synagogue...

              no! i'm not going to calm down...
you push those americana pills
down your childrens' throats!
   you calm their a.d.h.d. p.t.s.d.
   you tell them that
the nag hammadi library is the same
as the dead sea scrolls,
fine **** by me -
being crucified, but the latter?
refers to isaiah being cut in half...
      don't confuse the two...
the dead sea scrolls are an elongation
of the old testament...
the nag hammadi? a joke,
            chinese whispers via st. thomas...

but you can't claim both
anti-semitism and the state of israel!
you can't!
   that's heresy of any decent
  interaction between disparaging groups
of people!
you're not going to get away with
establishing the state of israel,
and keeping the notion
of anti-semitism at the same time!
  one will have to give way to the other!
you either embrace the state of israel
and stop ******* about anti-semitism...

jews think they're the elites...
how many nomads are there?
how about the irish nomads, i.e. the *****?
personally, i prefer calling
the scots: picts...

     the jews are the only nomads? really?!
ain't that a kick in the ***** pretentious...
what about the roma roma (gypsies)...
the jews are ******* high-brow
bona fide actors... hence they own hollywood...
great at plagiarism, ****** at talking
the origin of, said matters...

          ooh no no, the egyptians can ****
themselves twice-over...

but you can't claim an anti-semitism,
given that you have established a nation...
   you can't, have, both!
   forget it!
                      you stopped being nomads
once you've established a nation,
god given,
                   on the divine promise...
   you play that ****** poker
anti-semitic card on me, once more,
i'll swear it won't be a holocaust denial
that might bother you,
it will be a denial of your hard worked
efforts to establish the "state"(?) of israel...

you can't claim anti-semitism
   and israel at the same time...

          you ******* kippah donning bully,
that's not how the game works...
    i swear the holocaust would have
given you a chance to grow some *****,
and drop one side of the argument
   to strenghten the other,

no, either the state of israel,
   or the victim card of anti-semitism...
wasze ulice, nasze kamienice
   (your streets, our tenements)
(the old jewish saying
   before ****** gave the land
the "giggles")...

             i deny any notion of anti-semitism,
since i recognise the existence
of the "state" of israel...
  everything i say is within the law
of acknowledging the nation of israel,
and having a just rebuke
of any "anti-semitism" associated
to my freedom of expression;

    i am justified in expressing
the worth of a "state" of israel -
   as i am justified in expressing
that the established state of israel
    has lodged
   an anti-thesis
   to the vulture-mongering
  "virtue-signalling" cases
   of "examples" of "anti-semitism".

In its immensurate clarity,* In its elongation of whatever time is left to my uprightness; that thrice divided second before you make the first incision Balloons and collapses upon my space, in my air.

Concussed, winded: I  should dig in to counter the character dissection,
to appeal with all ire against this clinical dismissal and if necessary I will make myself aged and rage grey, a ghost of one last furious effort.

Two weakening supply lines open up from my heart and twist like lovers
throttling one another for the right to carry the thickest blood and tonic
to my left-right-left brain. I see both outcomes as unreal orbs in each palm:

Fought, but foundered, I could go in lunar were-peace towards the rough hewn exit I saw you cut through the nearest physical plane for me.
It has splintered, like young wood does, in a bunch of feather and spike.

But if I just sit down here instead, let you flay me from a distance
and have trial and have done? Then pack my deserved wounds with dirt and paint me justly black. My reeking cowardice, to match your triumph.

It is an unnatural horror to fight you, to choose between prompt defeats or the slow-burn aggregate loss of small and token victories. With less life to live and more to chip away at, I begin to just eke.

There is no shortcut, no revelation in user experience that floors the bad design leaving me wanting. There is no way to win at you.
You are Dependable terror. I just *eke.

to get my hands ***** with miracle,
to be fed with unknown, quietness, outburst of laughter
to carry me like a bridge into nonexistence
to make me a violin amidst misunderstanding
an imperfect piano in Chopin’s musings

to confuse me with another
spewing me on a distant shore
to bear my craziness of walking naked
among suspicious warriors
to teach me a prayer for each & every
breathing day
to take me to the other side
inside

I want elongation & annihilation
the practice of martial arts
in the truth of uncertainty
to invent distant words for the violent joy
of being alive

I want the little things
filling the imperfection of the day
like the warmth of your socks
my hand finding your stubborn lips
the forgetting of your tired shoulders
the softness of my whispers sometimes
my shoes next to yours wandering there
where something always happens
hic sunt leones
the shape of your thoughts in the bedclothes

I want to fall from grace
to love the weight  burying
me in this round-about,
the hymn of my blood

i'm not someone who's all too willing to regurgitate
maxims...
it's quiet impossible to have to
vouch for so many observational (not objective,
really) truths...
   after all... the height of the maxim came
with (not Nietzsche) - came with
                       la Rochefoucauld...
                - chance and caprice rule the world
   - we are lazier in mind than (in) body...
to pick but a pair...
a western emphasis for all things
    a posteriori...
              to circumstance oneself in a stance:
akimbo...
or at least akin to Pontius Pilate having
nothing to do with the drilling in of mea culpa:
even for him... something about a lottery
of time and an inescapable round of chores...
that some things are certain is enough
to give a day one's privacy...
but everything else: so agitated and in the tier
of meaningful encounters...
always the "matter"...

unlike those ?? maxims -
which mostly dictate things with an a priori
tinge of "sentiment"...
a verb pure suppose: no prior encounter
like that one that i kept and figured:
keep the sponge of a brain suckling up to it:

the only way to aid the world
is to forget the world
and for the world to forget you -

                crazy for that chance: anon. as
being credited to me, though...
   there's another maxim, though,
i must ascribe it to Socrates because it's most
befitting...

some people live to eat...
others... eat to live...

that's a real conundrum for me...
well... why wouldn't it be?
     if i were to take into account something
archaic as the Pythagorean diet schematic...

god-like eating: vegetables,
                     spices, cereals, dry food...
although some distinctions
if eating meat pork > goat > offal >
mutton > beef...
spices are the extreme to beans
(although... a diet without fibre...
and "we" know that beans
are high in protein)
            dry food: well between
burnt offerings and something rotten...

i was surprised... given the status
of pork to the pagans...
then again: it's the most pristine creature
as it's wholly edible...
beside the oink and the hoofs...
and ol' porkies wouldn't survive in
a desert to begin with...
so i don't understand allah's "beef" with
this pristine creature...
child's play of talk...
      no mention of eating crab meat:
scavenger meat... yet most pristine...

yes... but it's a return from my little
hiatus in katakana, hiragana & hangul...
i'm tired of this custard brain splodge
of curating these symbols
of syllable encoding...

back to the atoms of Latin script...
that these letters are as they are...
mostly because
of the Greek eye...
imitation: the latin script doesn't
have names for its letters...
sing-along stipends (etc.)
no clearly defining A a a(lpha)
which denotes a name and a cipher
like a(lpha) male etc.

a "quicker" root: conserved time...
Hebrew, Phoenician, Greek, Latin...
chicken scratching later...
hopes to elevated to pelican... somewhat...

but still the maxim:
some people live to eat
while others eat to live...
it is a double-edged sword...
i can spot the obvious:
when and where people eat
to survive...
it's more important to eat...
than not to:
how this maxim deciphers fussy-eaters
among the Mandarin omnivores...
well...

but then there's also this attention
to detail surrounding:
some people live to eat:
so they will treat their food with
knowledge and tenderness...
that will make eating a pleasure...
who here might quest to make
the antonym of eating a pleasure...
a spell of diarrhoea, for example?
unless of course bombarded
with **** *** imagery:
one would have to quest to find pleasure
in easing out a loaf:
best in one piece...
  than have to imagine the same...
being reversed back into
one's "glory hole" with a pump action
of agitated vibrations...

and there i was thinking about
being in the possession
of a strap-on phallus made from
ice...
some people live to eat
whole others eat to live...

i thought it less to be in the category
of people who live to eat:
then i gave it some "thought"
and figured out...
the people that eat to live
are the ones that will not prepare
their own food...
oddly enough...

i too thought it was a sustenance
statement...
but given that ******* out
is hardly pleasurable...
chewing is hardly too...
digestion can put you to sleep...
preparation of food is most associated
with the sentiment: some live to eat...
it's not a statement of gluttony...

what's the best easy breakfast i could
think of, sparingly... today...
with revision?
when frying an egg
letting it fry just shy of completely
while dressing it with a slice
of chorizo and finishing it off
with a slice of cheese...
placing it on a toast...

   that i eat to live: well i'm not starving...
animals eat to live...
which is why they don't cook their food...
they eat it raw...
and some people have become
wild animal esque...
in the fast food joints...
lazily being... some people are fed...
to take care for what's to be eaten...
i love this maxim because
it's not so ****** obvious
as to why: some people live to eat...
that there's a concern for what is eaten...
you can't exactly expect yourself
to find substance in tree bark
and grass...

to eat to live is out of desperation...
to live to eat comes from
something more aesthetic than...
       previously thought...
not to the extent of treating food as some
Cezanne - humble origins more, please...
rustic - yes... that's another word for it!

i came across this thought as i came across
a memory of her...
it's a real shame... really...
i was so young then...
she was so young then...
i was 21 she was 19...
   a weird year where i suddenly had
attention of a few girls...
but this one in particular...
what sort of girl proposes to a guy
and choses an engagement ring...
the sort of girl that subsequently
gives it back...
because - well where's Edinburgh
and where's London...
but it's not like she would go down south
with me... she went all the way west
with a previous boyfriend...
from Novosibirsk to St. Petersburg...
then again prior bf had a daddy well
situated and i'm still equivalent
to being a carpenter's son...
  
     out of no less... when the heliocentric
revolution happened...
and geocentric us-and-us-alone
and wish the gods real...
the gynocentrism prevailed as did...
           hypergamy -
                       it's no shock it's nothing new
it's like there was no Copernican
adventure to begin with...
since... everything on earth stayed:
pretty much the same...
now there are only about 3 million
a posteriori walking abortions that
could have taken place
but since... the argument came from:
use... the ****** had to be...
used... and there was all the free time...
and everyone else was doing it...
but not these sons are placebo solipsists
and they have to sort of:
give back the existential tax
of having a life on loan...

            hello... world...
but god the *** was good...
   the most thrill from the memory was...
eating her out like i might
divulge - burrow my face in
greasy beef... i would like a comparison
with oysters or... eating flowers...
but that was the best part...
oral *** and a little ******* sgt. pepper
of the index middle and thumb
working with my thumb to grease
myself up before the whole hallelujah
of the genitals in symphony...

i've been to several brothels and
about a dozen ****** and...
well... well...
                 it's not the same when
one of you is faking payment
and the payment is not as clear
as literally for an hour...
she stayed in my flat rent free...
etc.

          my youth... and she...
oh... plus the chance conversation about
liking Milan Kundera's
the unbearable likeness of being...
although i doubt she read it...
she was most concerned with swans...
i remembered swans from the film adaptation
more than from the book...
then again: memory is a fickle creature...
even now as i'm enjoying
this little cameo project of existentialism
(i.e. memory) -
well... i don't exactly have a choice
in what i can and cannot remember...
beside the anti-dyslexic / numeral-savvy
2 + 2 and a + b + s + o + l + u + t + e...

when she broke up with me
she had this way of insinuating i'd miss
the *** with: when we had ***
and listened to music
the dandy warhols' good morning:
play it when you're missing the "****"...
sure as ****
when i think about eating chicken
meat off the bone...
esp. at the tenderness of the chicken
neck with all the intricacies
of suckling and "plucking"...
i do think about...
a fleshy fruit that i cannot nibble...
or eat...

well that was me zenith of ****** endeavours:
i must adored the heart
of the **** i was eating out
since her onomatopoeia of sorts
is still ringing in my ear:
along with her face in cubist contortions:
i still haven't found relief in
having been pleasured:
some variation of an agony of a martyr
having given pleasure:

not state-holding of a saint's repertoire...
but as i now look it...
a life of restraint:
beside the prostitutes and the brothels:
hell... even the Teutonic Knights
had a brothel in their citadel...
if only i were as willing as
to give my heart up...
to weave in
     a sacrament of giving her a pink
rose... no...
i didn't come across something
just as good:
and this "just as good" is too firmly
lodged in my memory-cinema
for me to blink away from it...
i count myself lucky...
how pristine it all was...

a good shaking of the bag
and out popped out a ****'s depth
enough of wriggling for me
to not appeal to some
*****-envy buckle... after that i grew
a beard and forgot to want to play
the fiddle...
but it was a must, something necessary...
me writing about it now, a decade later
might appear as a vanity project...
then again: i wasn't as busy...
she took off and became
"devoted" twice...
the 2nd time a failure the third i'm still
praying for the poor buck to not
buckle...
i mean: she can boast that she drove
one boy mad...
but what a strange man he came out
to be...
a half-baked loaf of bread: with
teeth for a crust...

summa summarum: it was worth it...
i was ruining my time
in bed, of late...
i came across a ref. to the Noyades...
which was of "concern" for me...
but i also came across an entry: GENUG

the last words spoken...
by certain people of "concern"...
kant (genug) - enough...
              agrippina (nero's mother) -
smite my womb...
thomas hobbes - a great leap in the dark;

if i were the latter i'd also like
to reiterate: into the dark...
unless it be the already sentencing of:
a dark of night...
i find nothing universal in the day
but at least by night
i would simply imply:
beside the darkening mechanisation
of life by toil of body
and the fickleness of mind...
ah... pedantry and chastisement
of self-
(yes... prefixing attachment ready)
for whatever requires
automation and scythe...
and rude workings of
   a digestive system...

besides... there's an easier demand
of argument to be met:
some people live to ****...
others **** to live...
i never liked the Anglophonic line
or argumentation from existentialism:
for the masses from within Darwinism
solves all little interludes...
how it's necessary to equate everything
with squared root of ape...

it can't be this whole narrative...
even the ancient pagan had knowledge
of: **** similis...
i'm still searching for this...
vanguard hope of **** sapiens...
i'm yet to find one...
esp. one with strict etymological
obligations that can distinguish
a word like Slav from Slave...
a Germ from..          -an...
mute from niemy... chwek... etc.

this narrative though: concerning genes:
genes are blind like atoms of sodium are
unless pushed out
from extremes of hereditary cul de sacs
of non-replica...
lineage of cancerous-growth-prone-examples...
etc.
but why oh why...
have this baggage of concerns...
these atomic-attachments:
this hiding of hearth...
it's not predicate of genius...
vain hope bound to horoscopic tension
to spit out a desirable temperament
of a man?

character is all Lego...
crafted from both an a priori and an a posteriori
and an a- priori and: summa posteriori
litany of shelved secrecies...
(a-? without)

each time i return to this little scrap:
this little memory of her...
i also return to myself...
what an idealistic ****-lord
of presence i was...
i was the sort of guy that could buy
a girl oysters for a single date...
well... given the "nature" of life...
the "narrative"...

i will relinquish my fascination with
the eastern arts...
the katakana, the hiragana, the hangul...
when someone teases me
wrong... as i show them...

the cedilla in C and the greek
sigma
  i.e. ç
         i.e. there are many sigmas...
there are... satires...
    there are... all opera is tragedy...
there are loan-words! even in english!
sights to see
  si(gh)t?... ******* surds...
   (g)nome... diaGnostic...
                  (k)night... night, nought...
GH & proud...
   it's almost my...
  meine besitzen zunge, das ich liebe
     so viel...

watch the zeppelins rain down blitzkrieg
in slow-motion while
the Danube rummages with
flow vs. tide... and Birmingham is
without tide... and everything else
is everything else with a spare
tire of metaphor...

- some people eat to live...
while other live to eat...
            i much prefer to cook my own food...
i take pride in owning an arsenal
of spices...
along with a black cardamom
that's the equivalent of a
Laphroaig glug...
  since mead: was yet to be
a drank mythological concern for truths...

oh this little vanity project that it
is... when i loved...
when i was in love...
  when i wasn't this beastly secured
in things that would either blush
or frown at things upkept
in the cosmopolitan lineage
of affairs...
  "conversation":
  that it was Paris and me and
these two Catelonian girls went
to the grave of "desperate Michael"...
well, no... who was it...
it wasn't Bill Murray...
the doors' frontman...

        such a revealing proximity
of: my given names i most associate
with...
   konrad von wallenrode...
konrad of masovia...
  mateusz: tax-collector...
       40 ******* months
itching before what remained
Giza... and that's before the dwarf
Napoleon shifted rules of rank...

it was a great ****...
i still love the idea we didn't become
so bored as to be bored
with orthodoxy that we might
have to delve into
****... *** toys...
or... i would love to have
donned a latex gimp... open mouth...
hell... all that gwory hole-ing a limited
status of halo...
i retracted my ambitions...
didn't... i?

i didn't find replacements...
physicality strict-dentures of: failure count?
i made my metaphysical investment?
didn't i...

two weeks without walking...
chant des templiers...
i "thought" myself more a Hospitalier(s)
son in bud...
salve regina...
two weeks without walking
i "decide" to write...
it's not enough:
memory
overcomes me...

the best **** i've had and it's not
something i want
to remember for a *******...
mind you i found alternatives...
donning my hair long enough
and a new found riddle in
a beard...
and a Turk that dealt in
Caucasian memorabilia..
of living extensions...
               you see...
a visit to the barber with overgrown
bush...
of hair and stubble...
became more frankly... pleasurable...
than... what was to be done
with...

         that statue by
            apollonius of athens...
i ****** off to Bronzino's
   venus, cupid, folly & time:
beside the cupping of the breast
the teasing tenderness of the ******
prone tongues...
all ***** on silent mode...
or at least only gesticulating
at marble statues in the process
of being erected:
without promise of a public
ordeal to overthrow (the publics)
Punic details of slou... slow...
slouch... and brittle... karma: wood...

toward an excruciation of justified
meaning: this arrangement of lettering:
how feeble and toothpick prone
this brittle groove & ground...
my harvest of dislodged ease...
sensibly: antithesis grammatical pseudo...
sssssssssssss
side-winding... slithering...
side-accost...
***-seer-Saracen...

          becau­se of some pope
with a name like Urban...
              a finicky genesis...
             from memory
a white serpent of light
   in a crest of illuminate azure
giving border upon the Firth of Forth...
when two creasing crows
staged themselves
on the pinnacle of the Old College,
Edinburgh...
the nights were aflame with
youth...
the nights were... gott-gegeben...

miraculous? no!
    just aided by a stealth variation
and with life...
this mediocre surmounted...

pointer: when is... "it", i.e.:
enough is enough vs.
enough is "it"?
  i'm hardly poignancy prone
to state the difference, proper...
i've levitated toward slouch
for a week or so...
i find not pleasure in writing:
not as much as i arrived at
finding it, once more:
in walking...
boyo... you should have seen
me gear up to a bicycle...

         god what time it was to be gladly
*******!
to be so Darwinistically excated
with purpose!
but also so blind... so unhappy!
no wonder i had to fathom
a retraction: this everyday
into day-by-day...
und grey-labour & tedium &
"good"...
        
but it wasn't a waisting
of a "crown"...
i didn't live up to the expectations of:
the greatest ***** that ever
"lived"...
i wouldn't have...
lived to spar with agony aunt
commentary...
i would be the least believed *******
child of variation of
a prosthetic progeny of "sowing":
all gladly encountered metaphors...
some as ugly as necessarily ugly to breed...
most high i.q. is bred out
and is left to individualistic chancing
of revision...

then again: there's no revision...
the one who i lost my virginity with...
i "tried" to get in touch with her...
5 loads in the basin later...
she's an insomniac of reproduction...
of course she was all defensive...
when i asked her why she was so sad:
five daughters: no son...
she put it down on exhausted from...
she didn't notice i was making
a henry VIII remark...

i can't and therefore will not wish it upon
myself:
merry me: marry me i too were
that father when je suis and hey zeus
asked upon the crucifix dangling:
father...
yes... perpetual bachelor, i...
entombed existentially: no escapee
planning: processed...
            
      alles ist gott: und nothing too...
  my words: before i die...
i'm sure i'll be drunk as a saber
with blood not spilt...
as heavily worked
as a currency of horse
currently on display in the fields
where i walk...
ditto grazing and ditto:
  grass-heaping chewing-heave
          anecdotal.

before the "prized ******* bull" &
entourage of fizzing waters started to throttle
any further mentioning of
libido limbo:
        that's the scarcity of my
****** ambitions...
   mind you: i'm glad i suckled on that
wet oyster pouch before
i was sent back to the "gulag"
of skeleton teasing an imitation hollow...
before the kama sutra provision
***** envy might have taken over...

very impossibly: it's a conundrum
of reiteration of sort
that's not worth more erosion
of memory since it doesn't rhyme...
i wouldn't have lived
enough of the already given
"this" if i haven't thought about "that"...

today i found some compensation
for years drilling ego into abstract
and smiling at nothing
and all things / manners of ape:
everclear's debute e.p.
        marylin manson's holywood...

i still want that king crimson debut
vinyl to adorn my loan space
of a room of a life...
because i have to hide all that jazzy *******
on the side...

stone temple pilots -
that album with the song: art school girlfriend...
anything more -esque to capture
the sentiments of pulp and that
other song: wickerman...
for d'ah bass...

   impossibly delightful to heave
a wounding of a lung with
a morning's daily brief of
harking up excess phlegm
stuck to the wall...
how there's a heart and i call it
a sparrow and how it flusters
and flutter with a difficulty
when i've presented it with
a caging like so...

             Baltic sushi: which involves...
primarily... soaked herring in
spirit vinegar...
with mustard seeds...
bay leaf... allspice... onions & garlic...
tender... fish meat...
curated by curing
by acid alone rather than heat...
evil in the beans: perhaps too much
"roughage" / fibre...
but a constipation of world renown
for 3 days solid...

because of the full-english-fry-up...
which makes you wonder
how it can be served thrice
in a day
if one's lazy about "details":
the same quote revised...
some people live to eat...
while other eat to live...

it's not a statement of gluttony...
it's... some people will eat anything...
while others will tend to curate
what they eat to make
expensive remarks on what's
allowed to expand and what has to...
inevitably... shrink into non alias
null alias nil alias shrugging feline...
bothersome quick-essential...
practice of dangling a kite...
toward (rather than against) the wind...

GLAYVA - a liquer...
          ****... a... liqueur - a L'CUR
   a lee cwuer...
         velsh?!
               simply *******...
          a li'kwer... ditto ditto this that
and anything in between...
i'm rehashing a fancy for sleeping
with a foreign body in the same
bed i leave open to satire: tomb...
begins with cat...
given all my whimsical demands
and idiosyncratic scrutiny+plural..
highten-ed
                what first was a believable
oyster gorge and...
floral patterns agitated:
pound upon pound of flesh...

no... impossible...
some people live to eat
while other eat to live:
statement of not so desperate times...
perhaps...
if necessary i might nibble on
some grasshoppers...
or any insects fried...
but the statement alludes
to... some people will eat anything...
it's not a statement of / for gluttonous
mishandling of...
some people live to eat:
nutritionists...
the statement is clearly abstract towing
so it expand with each reitertion
as any maxim given enough
mantra status...

said true: but prior to...
blindly-being-followed...
it can revise itself...

        rekindle: ashes and all manners of
said... truant...
         bigger no  bigger than
a hyphen interjection within
the confines of conjunction:
Big-Giza... troublesome 1st and omega
sentencing... echoes of melancholy
in a rush to satiate
forests turning into bureaucratic
pyre structures...

      these burning effigies of time
best wasted... off what was readily available:
scrutiny at best:
all that surfaced was to heave...
an amalgamation of prods, touching,
prodding... juxtaposing junctions...
hinterland of diacritical marker demands...
something "Ukrainian"...

something Moldova-esque... old haunts
older grievances...
newly arrived at carpets with
them being cleaned...
a grandfather most impressionable:
death so last random
that it could only have leverage
with(in) the cofines of
a stomach confined to:
squid ink squirt...

misunderstood lyrics...
slipknot's eyeless...
               i heard...
   you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...
you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...
you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...
you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...

i'm pretty sure that's not Tsar: i.e.
"it"... yeah... that one...
bothersome brother at the till
of a brothel... less chasing chequers
at the hyper-inflated curiosity of need
of a supermarket...
till... cashier... sooner me dead there
with a death prior...
how ignited in the case:
most futile...
not ignited by some plumber credentials
etc.
stash of leftovers...
basin of sudokus...
              crazing over scalp shaves
rite of bone...
"my" kindred... touch-tease a halving of
bone of Iowa...
riddle this scuttle of nuance...

this leftover cold sure: beef
i heaved for a closure for:
the innocent expanse for furthering of "love":
what was made edible..
what was kept indigestible...
this riddle of words...
              these words half kept
as w(h)iddle...
    beg....       big...      Giz'ah...
sigh of relief or give one's purpose...
vowel-catching... within the confines
of sighs... otherwise
the exclamation markings...
letter to the "bone"...
                   hardly anything of note
ex the Iberian peninsula...
a Hebrew would know...

       thank you gimp suited &
boot licking worth maggot spew....
i have outlived my purpose of riddle...
i'm hardly going to appease
the throng of "doubt"
when it comes to clinging to something
"bilateral":
queasy without dizzy...

what's that?
qu-easy
  vs. -izzy..
                        forget it...
letters like lumberjack praise of
pork,,
something to market: sizzle...
gimp suits and all things best kept
tinged with... bride... horror...
my bride.., not some angry african
who-man'ood...
   conservative little hooded
monsters prior to the Levant practice of
the snippet...
skin left so bare...
the eagerly waiting *****
of whitey...
angry baking half angry "noir"..
the women the challenge...

i pretend to dance before mirrors...
my elongation of the hand
looks more like a crab
than what i want it to depict:
i.e. a spider...
the 2oth century is a house
of haunting:
it's not a circa... esp. one might
wish to be born in...

that there was ever an "expectation"
and it allowed itself
a summary... with excuses...
if we are all...
pointing & turning...
the Polacks were not given... TS...

“He also saw the cook’s cat which could do somersaults.”  

At least that’s what the cook said,
a claim the cat, shapeless sack
of snide, deigned neither to confirm

nor deny, content to ****
long afternoons in desultory

elongation, stationed
on the window sill above
the blackened eight burner Garland.

Once, when the cook stepped outside
to smoke, the cat, mood sour,

expansive, airily confided
the corpulent cook could climb
stairs on his hands while whistling

“Parlez-Moi d’Amour”
then spat in the soup, dispelling

any lingering incredulity,
his stomach duly nailing
a flawless double backflip.

that there be no memorandum and that's, with ~one word:
enough said -
                       enough to say
Maurice Jarre; and the kept heart;
autumnal bearers of
the Griffin mould of brown and
quarter orange -
                  so i too might remember...
that beckon of the south....
                       at last in rhapsody
to the one remembered as having the attention span....
and the Shakespearean puncture -
                                          well...
had we been so loved up with learning
             as Ancient Arabs were with Aristotle....
10th century revision acquired demand -
                              i too would make a joke concerning
the black gold of the Saudis...
                       being spent on joking around the totality
of human affairs... and when the Koran was necessary
the Saudis simply quoted their newly established
Kabul of unorthodox idea -
            parallel to Mecca -
                                               minding the failure of:
fill 'em up, meaning they'll be fulfilled;
who gives a **** if the Arabs read Aristotle pristine
in the 10th century, they're hardly the ones to
speak a "saving the planet" speech these days...
   they could have read Aristotle perfectly in the 10th
century... but when it comes to readers' digest:
they're basically not clued in...
                             given it's the 21st century...
i'm blaming all that spending potential...
                                       all that spending potential
on Arab sycophancy, elaborated;
cos', after all, it's just cheese: mozzarella elongation
and a tribute to the moustache.

I was in 6th grade when I proved the infinite, not the finite, was reality.

I took my 12-inch ruler and pretended it was a magic ruler. It had three buttons on its bottom end:  the left, the middle, and the right. The left button elongated the ruler. The middle button activated the magic drill bit on the top end that could penetrate anything. The third button retracted the elongation.

I took my magic ruler to one of the big windows in the classroom and opened it. I pushed the top end of my magic ruler through the opening and pressed the left button. My magic ruler began to elongate, first through the limbs of trees, then through the sky and clouds, until it went through Earth's atmosphere. It kept elongating. My magic ruler went through our solar system, then through our galaxy, then through outer space deeper and deeper, elongating and elongating it seemed like forever. Finally, it stopped. It had hit something. So I pressed the middle button to activate the magic drill bit. It began drilling through whatever had blocked the elongation.

The magic drill bit kept drilling and drilling and drilling, then drilling even more. Finally, it drilled through the blockage, so I pressed the left button and my magic ruler began to elongate again. It elongated for a long, long, long, long time. When I realized that it could elongate forever, I pressed the third button to retract it, which happened very fast. When it came back through the open window, it was again an ordinary 12-inch ruler.

I took my ruler and sat it on the top of my desk. Then I got a pencil and tore out of my spiral notebook a piece of paper. I wrote down the number 12 and divided it by 2 and got 6. Then I divided 6 by 2 and got 3, then 3 by 2 and got 1 1/2, then 1 1/2 by 2 and got 3/4, then 3/4 by 2 and got 3/8, then 3/8 by 2 and got 3/16, then 3/16 by 2 and got 3/32, the 3/32 by 2 and got 3/64, then 3/64 by 2 and got 3/128, and so on. I realized then that it did not matter in which direction I went. All directions never ended. I had proven infinity, not the finite, was reality.

So why the illusion of our seemingly finite world?

The answer is, we know truth from untruth, a paradox that is paradoxically not paradoxical. The illusory finite is paradoxically the pathway to infinity. It's like a kid growing up. There is a lot of things to learn, and it takes a long time to learn them.

There was no Big Bang. No telescope, however big, will ever see the end-edge of the universe. If we attain enlightenment of our souls on Earth, then when we die, they will become one with the infinite Cosmos that has no form, no beginning, no end:  It is eternal love.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

in terms of ontology: all is permitted,
given that so much is left,
dangling upon a damoclean
                         thread of a single
horse hair...
                            of the unexplored:
ontology is a waiting game,
with what, already is,
   a fixation on the constraints
of: ex simiae:
                       hence my approximation:
**** similis...  
    it's still a desire to preserve
a base, an origin story transfixed by
the use of fungus...
      accidently swallowed a mosquito:
suddenly grew a ******* pinocchio...
and somehow, slyly:
fixating on keep the libido
                                     momentum...
that's crucial, that the momentum is kept...
yet i wonder...
     racism:
                       poland vs. senegal was
the first game when the rams bothered
to clash horns...
       oh i can be crytical when i see it
through a lense of: crypto-nationalism...
unlike the romance of the noble prize
being given to Milosz...
            economic migration background:
i'm not allowed to romance about it...
there's no "grand" furore to mind,
no expectation,
           and certainly no: bending the knee
of the hosts...
  ****! from calling them natives
i'm starting to think in american terms
of hosts...
                  given i'm an alien "body":
                 more or less a thought, prior;
but that was the first instance of
deviating from playing out the sport,
poland vs. senegal...
            ******* europe versus a people
who know of europeans...
                            belgians and the congo...
slim afro beauty that she was...
no wonder...
               could almost say the *******
came when i felt my frontal pelvis
bones was sore after she
                rammed her coccyx onto me...
but outside the realm of serving
seductive cocktails while playing
          cedric 'IM' brooks'
                                     satta masa ganna...
no, i'm just curious about
the dynamic, behind a word such as
racism...
   and language in general...
           who are the people who use
a first tier definition of a word?
          i'm sure language is as loose as
well oiled spaghetti in imitation of
a pit of snakes...
           and yes, the linguistic atomists
(akin to myself) who care to mind
                          diacritical exceptionalism
in uttering a micro-seance
      prior to a syllable... notably via
ü (the classical umlaut)
               and what could become an
applicability of orthography in english:
with, oh so many examples in need of
being addressed:
             namely: from pout,
               came pút,
                                pool
                           ­             (pül),
                and the disguised vowels
of english: putter versus a patter...
  the subtle elongation of the A
  in a: pāt on the shoulder...
i already know that my suggestion is
too impractical to be ascribed
a subsequence with a towed effect
being ascribed...
           but at least there's the observation,
in the open.

  with this one particular word,
what is it: from zenith to nadir,
  or from a nadir to a zenith?
    definition 1.
             first, or           definition 3. first?
vocab. inheritance tax...
or just mindless fronting concerning
the affair?
    
is it a priori:
   1. a belief or doctrine that inherent
  differences among the various human
racial groups determine cultural
or individual achievement,
  usually involving the idea that one's
own race is superior and has the right
to dominate others or that a particular
     racial group is inferior to the others

or 3. hatred or intolerance of
               another race or other races                 ?

seems rather contradictory that
there could be such a priori complexity
to begin with, to be inherent...

zenith / nadir
                   a priori / a posteriori
dictum would suggest
  that: definition no. 3 is a priori...

while definition no. 1 is a posteriori...

    which also allows a psychological
dimension and
    the Freudian-Jung dynamism to
"explain" the proton, neutron, electron,
egg shell egg white, yoke,
               sclera, iris and the pupil
dynamic invoked by the psyche-dissection
into compartment
of a consciousness,
                    a sub- and an unconscious...

definition no. 1 can't be a priori:
it's too worded to make sense of
what an a priori statement looks like,
i.e.: 1 + 1 = 2.

an a posteriori statement?
               given that 1 + 1 = 2 is an a priori
statement?
                                    √-1...
   ­  lo and behold!
             you get a letter! as substitute to
the meddling in numbers...
     and then from i, to iota,
                       and the concept of a pronoun
in english (gender neutral) you go...
                              wunderbar!
                ­       ja...
because you can begin with an:
a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i...
                  clearly there's a priori
favour, to subsequently allow
a loss of explanation with a 1 + 1 = 2...
inheret bother:
      because when wasn't
         arithmetic ever akin to spelling?
the frequency of the letter-usage
compared to numbers?
      
              do you call the mann unable
to count or spell:
at the same time blind
            and deaf, synonymous?
what definitions behind a word
do you use?

what tier of a word are you making
                           allowances for?

using tier no. 1?
        or using tier no. 3?
   how can you even allow
an "ambiguity" of secondary tiers
of red...
               given there's no celtic ginger...
and shouldn't tht belong among
painters who can actually
see past the writer's daltonism,
  or x-ray in teutonic schwarz und weiß...

   a sch't'ern tongue:
          among, platzieren ziegel von die rot
                von Marienburg...

what is the dictionary "ambiguity"
of red?
            
            one subsequent definition is:
BLAH!

               so we've established word
that acribe to tickling a thesaurus
ambiguity...
    but sure as **** there are some,
rigid, orthodox, words:
that can be used, un-acriptive
of a challenging authority
wishing upon it a counter-usage...

  i was born a pollack,
i acquired english:
            god forbid i don't die german!
hence all this crypto-nationalism
*******...
      i am a crypto-nationalist,
given that a nation is a cryptic,
quasi-noun suffragette...

             ich, werden sterben ˈjərmən!
point being: i'm hardly welcome...
        but death is hardly
a grieving mother,
               rather, a welcoming *****.

i've "said" enough,
  question is...
                                 have i drunk enough?

a bit like walking to a shop
for a bottle of whiskey,
while simultaneously paying
attention to the undertakers
and their coffin limousines
and a hapless old man
  peering into the notion of a selfie
strapped into a car seat
with a wish for a crash-mannequin
helmet...
  thinking: ****! the ***** that's
death has finally found me!
       i've realised that losing
the plot means so much more than
acquiring one,
given that the essential plot
is a Houdini act of mortality...
i like toying with the unrest
of eternity, i joke with it rather than
allow it to comfort me...
   and how was god disproved?
not by words alone,
20 dead bodies in mass shooting...
******* can say ****.
       there's always subtle tier of
drinking hiding beneath a layer
of chill and: something or other...
the best comedy, i've learned,
is derived from agitating apathy,
english (of course) -
ridicule!
                only the english have
attained the sort of numbness that
respect cordiality of the formality
beyond ****** relations -
            the sort of exemplified
"rationalisation" of individualism as
a continuum worth: jack ****!
blah blah bl'eh bl'eh blow
up the 100th ******* balloon!
   i can go on for days,
i'm that good at playing the ridiculous
englishman sensing...
  ****, the 60s and the 70s
nibbling onto the 80s have just ended,
minding the 19th conundrum of
what i'd rather call:
ever get dry ****** by a perverted dog?
   that protruding elongation
of the tender pink of a dog's phallus?
little ****** could make a great elf,
considering the fact that he
wrapped his paws around my leg so
tight that i started thinking about tripod
abominations...
          i'd ******* that crucifix
any day of the week...
mind you, he's the only jew i'm allowed
to hate...
                      if the jews hated him...
what's the logical conclusive remark?
  kneel and **** him off?
     muslims are already doing ****,
while the jews are left headbanging by
the al-buraq... burak?
  burak is slavic for beetroot...
    well, slam your forehead that many
times against a brick wall and you're bound
to get a visible tattoo of an expanded
bindi...
           or that thing called a: hárū -
see? diacritical markers ease up the fluidity
of syllable incisions.
     i still think a mere thought
would suffice to pay homage,
  than this **** of acceptable gesticulation...
religion, nothing short of sleepwalking
or an attempt at reading braille,
  drunk beyond hope,
                  maybe it's a magic trick
they're trying to pull off...
             hocus pocus andromeda focus...
got to give it to them,
   the logic of woman is the logic
of a god, hence theology -
which is never a love of,
                    no wonder philosophy
is underrepresented by women...
giving the culminating plateau-zenith
that's feminism...
                           women best
adhere to a god for they already possess
the circus of: being within being -
        pregnancy...
                  man, that barren creature,
can only hope for an imitation comparative,
when infested by a, tapeworm.
oh yeah, and that added: oops.

.before i am done with this escapade, i will try to stick travis' - walking down the hill on repeat for a while... to settle for the mantra... something that needs a repetition in the background, before the final collage... and before... what settles as dust from burnt old father oak and my body too... or perhaps... the inter-connectivity that's shared between ethnic minorities: the kashubians, the sorbians, the navajo, the dene suline, the inupiaq, zuni hopa and the dogrib... the Łacinka & Łatynka (belarusian and ukranian) respectively... Łacina: Latin... as it is known on the vicinity of the old capital of Cracow... simply from a shared letter... no more a hello than a plain disregard for twitter poetics... or instagram: captions... sometimes you just want a chicken drum-stick of words... and the bone and the cartilege and the heads filled with marrow... which is more... than some toothpick escapade... well... Winchester is so old for anyone to remember... and London is so nuanced that even Warsaw makes the count... but Cracow sits... humbled... when snow falls... there's the actual snow... and there's the mistaken snow of the ash from auschwitz.

once - when i was much younger - and my voice
was but a crude and feeble whimper -
nothing that could compare itself to a butterfly
in haiku - i would be found trying to forcibly imitate
anything immediately read -
what a naive misadventure upon every turn...
every poem became: as if an act borrowed from
Macbeth - quiet simply - a young man's jealousy...

i can only now gratify myself and the audience that...
i have matured beyond that hot-headedness... former...
now? i rather simply translate the work -
as i am sure that something will be lost -
however good the translation might be...
or the original text...
here's my first attempt...

zbigniew herbert - kaligula (1st attempt
and the last ettempt)

/
          while reading old chronicles, poems and biographies
Mr Cogito sometimes experiences feelings
of a physical presence of the people long ago dead

Caligula (is speaking / speaks):

from among all the citizens of Rome
i loved only one
Incitatus - a horse

when he walked into the senate
the unblemished toga of his fur
shone immaculately among that of
the cowardly murderers' sitched with purple

Incitatus was full of advantages
he never spoke
a stoic's nature
i think that at night in the stables he read
philosophers

i loved his so much that one day i decided
to crucify him
but his noble anatomy objected to this

he accepted the dignity of consul indifferently
he held authority the best
in that he didn't hold any authority

attempts to persuade him to have permanent
****** relations with my dear wife Caesonia failed
therefore a line of caesars - centaurs
was never created

which is why Rome fell

i decided to appoint him as a god
yet on the ninth day prior to the days of February
(chaerea) cornelius sabinus and other fools
obstructed the intentions of this godly work...

he accepted the news of my death peacefully

he was thrown out of the palace
and sentenced to exile

he endured this blow with dignity

he died without any hiers
slaughtered by a thick-skinned butcher from the vicinity
of Anzio

Taticus is silent
about the posthumous fate of his meat
                                                                ­               /

perhaps looking at the original -
would help... oh more surely...
but prior to the original...
i can see that certain peoples of asia...
who have a culinary superiority complex...
who hide behind a spice grenade...
have an aversion to cabbage...
and it's like that irish love potatoes
and the slavic people love cabbage joke...
don't mind me morphed into a pawn...
the persians abhored and still abhor spicy
food from bengali bush monkey regions
of the raj...
persians have a palette for sour foods...
can you imagine eating a hot-dog...
without choked onions, chillies...
sauerkraut and some sweet gherkins...
mustard and ketchup?
i can't... then again: a cow is more than just
milk... mother goat...
but there comes a time when you can...
appreciate the culinary superiority of the blue indians...
then a minute later call it: a kitchen of black cardamom
stink!
believe me... black cardamom stinks...

but a problem with sauerkraut is a problem
with persian tastes...
sour... sooner rather than later i'll see...
sauerkraut added as the german delight...
in an ottoman kebab wrap...
the sourness could cut through the fatty mustang
of the lamb... somehow...
because the pickled chillies are not enough...
and the raw spanish onions do very little...
the blue indians throw "beef" around
an appreciation of sauerkraut... i just give them
the one-liner: black cardamom and...
the ultimate dye... turmeric...
it will stain, anything... plastic, metal,
ceramics: oddly enough no... and glass...
spice barons, eh?  

the original... but it's not exactly the original...
since... i do borrow from"elsewhere":
sound distinction that exfoliate in the meaning...

after all... i did graffiti the original with
some cyrilic...
sz = š = ш = (sh)ape ≠ ś = sie- prefix: if śιe
cz = č = ч = (ch)urn ≠ ć = cie- prefix: if ćιe
ż (= rz) = ž = ж ≠ ź
(also noted in french: via je suis...
   oddly enough... it sounds like жe swée...
but looks like: je suis ce et cette)...
ń ≈ ñ
ch = x
nonetheless...
or more importantly...
c = ц ≠ c = s = ç...
an no... there's no translation
of a cedilla A(ą) nor a cedilla E(ę)...
a bit easier when it comes to...
ł = w
            but... w = v...
so ł(h)en... the surd hatch...
eyes closed: mouth agape!
no "v" given how the greek upsilon (υ)
was sharpened into (ν):
i always thought: cute acute ó = ω: tool...
while omicron was more grave (ò)...
and up! upsilon! the u was first acute
before it became the ω in the german
umlaut (ü)...

otherwise: there's mOre to what's
later a mOvie... the elongation of:
tool... the distinction: thus pronounced...
wants to be recognißed -
the s to z to s to z interchange within
the ß: es'zett... yes... the apostrophe is "somehow"
necessary...

if the hebrews have their vowels in niqabs...
we can have our...
exfoliation of consonants and vowels...
fully exposed... nonetheless included!
with: details of the frontier!
and in them: i mark my finger in the sand
and skull among the cavern,
the rocks the... ghostly whispers that
shadows should profoundly speak...
but never do...
my shadow my ghost...
my first avenue turned should i be thinking
about a Hiroshima selfie... shadow glued
to the ******* wall... move it: chess-***...
bullet to the head...
and then two weeks... trying to die...
in a prison cell...
with one nightmare overtaking the previous
nightmare... in how...
your brain will never be:
the eyes-connected to the sponge:
mr. chikatilo...
the sponge: sorry... nothing but shrapnel...
perhaps some eyes...
but your eyes are consistently closed...
let's not mind them...

and what's because, what?
finnegans' wake: no diacritical markers...
because, what? low on ink?
if low on ink... can't help you...
but if not enough paper?
¶ (pilcrow) all the paragraphs! sardine words
onto the page!

the god awful truth was that i smoked
marijuana in england...
and... the ******* is free! upon the pretence
that you don't own a brothel...
elsewhere: namely Amsterdam...
while in Amsterdam i had a thought:
what about ******* a siamese twin
in some vacant... Tehran nightmare come true?
gang-bangers are treated better than i...
in terms of "treatment":
the best they ever gave me...
was to be left: to my own devices...
when i should have been learning german...
they sent me to the window-licker class
of c.v. writers anonymous...
because: m'ah hanging-leash of in and leash
was a bad, spotty E... with a tail!
devil's spawn... or something that would
always come from the warsaw pact...
or... coming from one: under the iron curtain...
would show... and cover the current brood...
with a change of element...
from under the iron curtain...
then unto: under the silicon curtain..

i'm sure the people have chosen their chess
pieces prior to this: *******-ramming
of the anger itching from the cranium
of a castrated bull...

mash up... no interludes...
let's keep it staccato... and... fits the purpose of...
how best lodged into form...

                   because the iota and the j are...
let's face it... forced diacritical cage-masters...
i graffitied the original...
because... it became obsolate to simply
translate and become overtly pedantic
as to why: ****** grammar was not going
to fit anglo-slav grammar...
never mind the anglo-ßaß grammar: "native"...

/ чytając stare kroniki, poematy i жywoty Pan Cogito
doświadчa czasem učucia fizyчnej obeцności
osób dawno zmarłych (tampering with a lox ness)

mówi Kaligula

spośród wszystkich obywateli Rzymu
kochałem tylko jednego
Inцitatusa - konia

kiedy wшedł do senatu
nieskazitelna toga jego sierści
l'śniła niepokalanie wśród obшytyx purpurą
tchórzliwych morderцów

Inцitatus był pełen zalet
nie przemawiał nigdy
natura stoiцka
myśłe ze noцą w stajni čytał filozofów

kochałem go tak bardzo жe pewnego dnia
postanowiłem go ukrzyzować
ale sprzeciwiała się temu jego szla(ch)etna anatomia

obojetnie p(rz)yjął godność konsula
wła(dz)e sprawował najlepiej
to znaczy nie sprawował jej w'cale

nie udało sie nakłonić go to trwałych związków miłosnych
z drogą жoną moją Caesonią
więц nie powstała niestety linia cesa(rz)y - centaurów

dłatego Rzym runął

postanoviwem mianować go bogiem
lecz (dz)iewiątego dnia p(rz)ed kalendami lutowymi
(Ch)erea Korneliusz Sabinus i inni gwupcy p(rz)eшko(dz)ili
tym zboжnym zamiarom

spokojnie przyjął wiadomość o mojej śmierci

wyrzucono go z pałacu i skazano na wygnanie

zniósł ten cios z godnością

umarł bezpotomnie
zaшla(ch)towany przez gruboskórnego rzeźnika
z miejscowości Ancjum жшчčšц

o pośmiertnych losach jego mięsa
milчy Taцyt       /

no... no Helmut will help you with: dość! enough!
some casanova Nikita might - with:
szczypta: pinch - via... ш + ч = щ: vague - i know...

ah! the calendar's days of february...

already i see that this poem is "unspectacular" -
everything what was supposed to be lost
in translation is, lost -
the jealousy fizzles out and it's plain
as a shadow at noon on a sunny day
that it was never inteded to be there - to begin
with...

perhaps it's not the direct translation -
but how certain words just: sound more appealing -
and add toward the grandiosity...

i don't see how a poem can be translated
without something being lost...
after all: i want to lose: rather retain something
in / from a poem...
i want language to... freely...
"inter-racialiße" itself:
modus operandi - the lingua franca...
the l'ingelese of the modern chapter...
as the greeks would point out:
if the english tourists will not speak our tongue...
if the english tourists will not speak our tongue...
then we will speak their tongue...
and speak it was belgian speak it...
which is, better, than these nativistic half-breeds
of: 3/4 empire pride riddled...
1/4 rotherham bewildered...
we will not out-breed them...
we will: simply talk over them...
and their accents...
which we will learn and thereby:
insinuate over: via diacritical markers
and exceptional surd status reminders
of the raj: H...

i will claim that poetry is where i "paint"...
**** it. collage...
rude importune and most obscene...
a thesaurus cascade of synonyms!
impromptu one off...
it's not a hosonnah in the highest...
but a sitar in the bellowing detphs of the ebb...
it's a growling escapade...
something that ****** a yeti from
the carpathian mountains...
something that would require otherwise
to give it shackles, chains and a non-existent
lunatic asylum!

why dooes picking up... an alive cat...
make you succumb to an affair less...
bothersome... when you are indeed picking up /
handling a dead cat?
don't know...
a quasi-symbiotic affair between
matter and anti-matter?
borrowed terms.... outside of physics's disneyland
pretty irrelevant...
a corpse of a dead cat is always more
heavy than... the animated corpus of
a cat still outside the schrödinger
brackets:    cat[                            ];
what'­s death then? a colon, a semi-colon;
a hyphen or an apostrophe?
notably? an apostrophe without having
to be inclined to be used in a:
possessive article 's "scandal"?

i will escape with this language: i learned,
i acquired... i will leave the natives with
nothing but leather for skin:
that i will mark as an armchair...
i will entertain no more than
a genghis khan would have...
when the tanks started rolling...
and the luftwaffe was extinguished...
because... an invasion of an island...
no tanks, no bullets, no bombs...
diacritical markers... instead...

these letters are still: ROME!
came late to the party... had the vaguest notion
of coming late: but also becoming
the d.j.!

old mother: Cyrylica...
will and always helped...
the "natives"...
understand the reins and you can surely
translate... all the old paintings
with: we rode bulls into battle...
we didn't ride horses...
what does an army that that rides bulls
have as compensation compared
to an army that rides horses into battle?
well... a lance with a sharp point is...
replaced with the horns...
and a vector signature of red tied
to the end of a stick...
the horns replace the lance... the end...

somehow: and as the polytheistic gods
came as surprise material in:
goat-******* and bull-******* and swan-fiddling...
the monotheistic god came as...
the lowest of men...
because:
     Δ and... ∇: when nabla met delta:
the son of david was born:
which was called by surname: astar...
david astar...
       the phenomenon of...
when the father would become jealous
of the son: solomon...
or... rather... the son would never look up
toward the archetype of father...
because the father has his psalms...
while the son had the harem sonnets
of... sparrow-hoarding ****** of the onomatopoeia...

teach? teach? i am this close to...
correcting what has already been written...
however impossible...
claustrophobia and james joyce esque...

why not ж = rz...
and... ž = ż...                  half a caron: źrenica:
pupilla...
a back catalogue of a bilingual bank of vocab
is: the reason i "solve" and "crosswords"
on a blank canvas... like so...

and how do you think i learned a little bit
of greek: if... ovερλaππινγ?

remaining examples where: ц wasn't used...
well... the diacritical marker hovering above iota
like a halo: should it be used?
in a ciasto (dough) example...
well... debate: ćιasto... or ciasto?
in the confines of ciasto: the "c" is not a ц...
because of the proximity of the iota
as "suffix"... but not as a "prefix"...

    цerkiev... цytat... цытaт: citation...
sigh: tate modern is 20 years old...
but 20 years old will not be...
commemorated with the glass ceiling and:
Olafur Eliasson's 'the weather project' -
which is a great shame -
but who am i to judge?
let it be 'maman' by louise bourgeoise...

the same goes with the acute s...
even... imploring: prosić -
  otherwise... imploring: prośιć...

                   siano vs. śιano: hay
                   śnieg... snow...

i've been advocating the necessary guillotιne
for the iota... and the ȷazzy shιt ιn between...

and so much of my life could be deemed
simple... but how i can complicate it with a scrutiny
of language...
the best escape plan i can find -
and this is language: outside the realm of
academic rubrics - that it might borrow from
an international phonetic alphabet
of the linguistic dept. it will not...

it will consolidate two languages: dig two trenches...
and then borrow a third language or a fourth
to dig a tunnel or two between the two trenches...

well that's that for sharpening an arrow
and shoving it up cupid's ***...
to make him walk back smothered by knuckles
and recount to his parents:
Eros and Aphrodite... some of us would much
prefer uninterrupted work /
sifting through archaic words...
and leaving: the currency of vogue be:
something that only attracts:
panic is worse than fascism...
panic disorientates large crowds...
which... fascism is... unlikely to do...
so says the universal mantra of cheese grating:
smiles.

i tend to kiss books, before i open them...

and i'm sure those words are enough,
but then there's always'shakespeare's
macbeth* to kiss, with and upon
every word read, uttered,
or thought of, within the confines
of the designated composition...

those three years in scotland:
are no pity...
   but a herald for what could become
dante's underworld...
   with bagpipe sung,
stormy and jokingly entombed,
half of which was a word danced,
and half of which was a word unsaid;

to pity, to cry, to remember: is to die.

the thane of cawdor lives!
why do you dress me in borrow'd robes?!

and if the koran be so noble,
where are those who kiss that "noble" effort
prior to recitation?
   i have heard no talk of kissing
a book before it being read...
             as i might
kiss and open a cassell & co. ltd.
of shakespeare...
to kiss a book, and with eyes closed,
imagine it an anchor,
                is to levitate,
is to swim among sharks,
   its to find buoyancy akin to einstein
finding the space-time dip in
the earth bound to the "liquid"
of a vacuum...

i enclose my spirit to
the enclosure of a shadow that
burdens the sun from ever challenging
a presense, in the confines
of the last remaining abode of romance,
that is edinburgh...
may my soul rest there,
while watching the sunrise
and the elongation of shadows
from the cranium of arthur's seat;

oh the most loving, are places,
where we once were,
where we wished to belong,
but belong only in the longing,
to erase the once lived,
now remembered:
     toils of a death wish
that only comes with a sigma mort...
it is one thing for man to
be alive,
but another for a man of youth
to awaken an old man
in a deceptive attire of joking flesh...
and say:
   to memory of gravitas' worth of
a son, and a son of a son,
   i count these finite observations
their adequate culmination,
that odd and hardly practised gesture
of kissing books,
prior to opening them,
        and thus delving into
    the hardships of every future's unknown
   come apparent, now.

who needs a giraffe
when you can **** a rhino?

elongated neck,
a smirk,
a take on being
the emblem of savvy...
the last of the worth
of 20 odd years...

jeff buckley:
before i hear your cry...
and i will hear
your cry: your *****!
you will cry! *****!
it's jeff buckley!
you will cry!

i don't want to,
but i will...
and i will because
i am not .i.am.
and because i...
want to & too...

i have more worth
of a heart,
yet i heave so much less
to incorporate
a tear to guarantee
be a bitten beat
of rhythm...
your:
my kiss my heart,
and the tooth nibbling
spare,
to be left in youth:
a promenade's worth
of a a spring's
and a promenade's
buckle scoop
for a squander...

     jeff buckley
would never become
a brandon lee..

          with such song on
the air, and with such ache,
dying...
   will be satiated by
an anaesthetic...
whereby:
  all of dying revolves
around the simpleton's quest
of the worded: just fine...

i am willing to die,
to have died,
with such tenderness
of a closure with
the gravity of
jeff buckley's:
hallelujah
of the mea culpa
             variant...

ha! no life prior
to 30 and not having listened
to miles davis' kind of blue...
as if i were
prior to learning
the concept of lounging
and billy the kid
experiecing the object of
sofa...
   and...

what comes within the confines
of... a "lost feather"...
and what is the "necessary"
base for script...

              and what is
the submerged feel
of tongue...
  and what is akin to it:
a broken wing...
and...
                the turmeric's worth
for the worth of:
sun begot slip,
and slip begot the baron
clot of hindsight
of a scraatching vinyl
on ice lord: loop.

i need both a lemon
and an orange, peeled,
for a sunset...
but to be given either,
as both,
to make resemble,
an equal clarity!

             how about...
i lose any and all
ambition to cherish
anything of worth and
anything at all to have
have been lost,
and synchronised
in being cherished too?

how about that?
am i, what deserves a p.s.
and only thus,
said and lost
and lost and said and better
forgotten...
and no rubric,
and certainly not the Beatles
and certainly no Evlis...

and you my cold Monday,
and you...
my lazy Sunday,
and you my: never a cure
the cure pop slash of song...

stranded sire,
of a sinking ship,
bound to an achor,
and weaving
waves to a wadering
wind
made tumult:
what could have
been a thought,
a soul,
a, a breath,
came as lightly as...
nothing more than
an elongated vowel
and the captured
elongation of a vowel
in a consonant:
AH...

            what was
to be a riddle...
became as simple as...

a...
        
                  sigh;

sighs do not allow themselves
to be congested by
a tomb...

       i: tow the debt of...
whispers without an
anonymous script of:
people who'd love to be
associated
with given: scrap 'o'
           cohen...

who is the www.poetryfoundation.org?
who is anyone,
who is:
the person with a head
for a shank of lamb
prior to the Edward crowned;
oven invitation only:
         supra to no ditto?

choc. chipped cookies:
and all that's
assured the conventional
terminology of
an Etonian, mess...

         me?

             what: ****'s worth
of ******* a ******?
do i look like some
English bourgeoisie?
      no!
                 i have hibernian
attaché "squirm"
              spots of minder
to "attempt" to gravitate from...
in Catholic,
as in:

      'eire and the paul's slack
& lack...

           fidgit: the LOAN TITO TEEN OH
'phbet...

scout the 'ed
& eer' 'n' oh...
                  to loan a sme'ck...
and rattled by 'eeve'
  to confine a:
Mr. to every Moun't'aey.

if your humor fails you **** yourself
because they will tell you why you failed
in far too great crippling detail
enemies of play
goose stepping to a zany polka
entire regiments ready to die
for the Nut in the Nuthouse
in a deep cover psyops mole operation
****** with my head like candy from a baby
weather permitting we'll visit the ruins
ancestral whorehouses and wretched genes
but they chose him and the billiard ***** flew
he was known as the glider pilot artist
painted a series of blue canvasses
with a single line down the center
because the mystery is an airy one
held together by a paper clip chain
though we were unjustifiably scared
out of our muttering wits to look
oh dear I believe I've lost
my transparent all-seeing membrane
it was the limpid dawn of another millennium
and its less than daring innovations
by the Mercantilist Association of Research
did its work upon the landscape
and the picture was anti-ros
for Seduction Delightenment and Elongation
their devil women had an undulating beauty
and boy they could really dance
having 3 legs and the gaze of the converted
she snipped his cigar and they got smoochy
it was a Robusto and presently the lights came on
in the passive calm of logic he screamed
with the strength of the oft bamboozled
not so passive then
her tongue curled round the back of his teeth
artillery pounded the trenches all night long
she had always been too much for any man
her star sign was Capricornucopia
one of several million methods
for eating the hearts of strangers
Nature having its benefits and liabilities
as welcome as a volcano as usual
we play lotto on her occasional flowerings
flail at doom and leave spoor
and try to make tension beautiful
what other species is there
that apparently actually wants to die
life has a lot of puzzles
on your way to
the bonfire
in the sky

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon

i suppose there are variations of this name...
some cite it as of: Turkic origin...
   i'm not going to agree or disagree...

evidently the insertion of the second surd H
was of my own scrutiny...
although it's not necessary...
i don't suppose the first surd H is necessary
either... given that i've employed
a macron on top of the vowel
to make emphasis of elongation...
which the surd H also stresses:

instead of kaa... either way:
a double emphasis...
like... writing something in: italics
after a colon...
the colon is an emphasis as is the italics...
"misnomer"...

... and some ****** ska-punk
with KULT's - brooklyńska rada żydów...
like any ****** might make summary
of: Oh... they left?
what happened to that old saying of theirs
that my grandfather recounted
to me once...
of the 'ebrews living in Poland...

wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets... our tenements...
i don't suppose...

anyways... enough of that...
no wonder... i'm no duracell bunny...
i can't just get a hard-on
in a company of two...
it's different when i'm completely:
unabashed... solo...
today i checked myself...
not much to look at...
cleavage, some thighs... hair... lips...
hands...
six times i spotted myself
with a proper wedding tackle...
six times i stopped myself from
*******...
so... this thing's on?
it's working...

now i see the bigger... funnier picture...
a few night ago...
after a... draught... "season":
i'm starting to suspect those 3 years
are actually 4 years without being
intimate with a women...

a dysfunction of the *******...
i'm not going to pop some ******* pill...
it's like push-ups...
or the trick the mind plays when
you're cycling up a hill and feed into
those thoughts of giving up...

perhaps i just wasn't that much into her?
perhaps she wasn't that much into me...
upon entering the brothel
she was sitting alone...
the matriarch said there would be more
available in about 20 minutes...
she was sitting alone...
i figured... if this isn't going to be a slap
in the face...
i don't know what will...

i like 'em... older... cougar-esque...
with a full-blossom of hips... stomach...
****... *** and **** like a royals-royce rather than
a sporty Lamborghini...
skin like... well worn leather...
nothing too: cherished and un-tested
akin to a ******...

for an hour i tried...
worked for about ten minutes...
but was i crippled with a sense of shame that would
turn me into a Jack ol' Ripper with
thoughts on revenge...
she was pretty... all that's pretty about
the Romanian countryside...
fake lashes... extravagant nails...
i caressed her... we exchanged some words:

ochi (romanian)... aha... oczy (******):
eyes... lips... ears... eyebrows...
i bit her tenderly to test the waters...
pinched her... suckled a while...
while my hands were already all octopus below
her threshold...
i ****** at my fingers and tested whether she was
aroused...
hell: i've missed most times than i could ever:
****'s sake... all that *****
and the point of insertion is always below
what i'm "expecting"...

but i drank too much...
better be all the more nervous and only 50ml of
whiskey in than... 300ml of whiskey
and having issues with the ******* tool...
literally...
hell... i would be willing to put on a strap-on
***** but... seeing how she was not in the mood:
and i found myself: not in the mood either...

eh... what could be bad with some kissing...
some caressing some hugging some...
if i were really going for some
Trojan cohort ****-buddy: forget me not
egoism...
i'd have them lined up, wouldn't i?
3 / 4 years without touching someone
so intimately...
i call that the ice-breaker date in the brothel...

mind you... i cleaned up after myself:
i insisted...
i took that welcome shower prior...
and as we walked out... i sat down...
cornered...
now there were three of them and the matriarch
sitting in the waiting room...

hmm...i suppose: UN-like talking to three
girls in a nightclub...
talking to three prostitutes in a brothel...
some "things" become... obvious...
i have something they want...
they have something i want...
who's going to date? no... one...

me talking casually with three prostitutes
in a brothel would be...
unlike that ****** funfair of three girls
in a nightclub...
the cards are laid on the table...
you either take it... or don't...

recently i've been listening to some "mano-sphere"
******* and i'm just like...
no... i can't listen to this...
get over it... stop talking about it...
turn your focus onto something else...
me... i just drank too much
and... she wasn't my type...
but she was sitting all alone and if i waited
with her for those 20 minutes before
the one that's my type walked in...

just some tenderness...
i don't mind paying for that...
at least there won't be any free nagging and *******...
ha! obviously!

- and as we walked out from a room of
improper deeds
there sat... Khāda... there was that immediate
connection: she: all leather...
like an armchair in reverse...
it's so terrible to stress sexuality among
the English:
why do i have to be that...
perverted... congested... ****-lord...
this...                  oh-it's-naughty borderline
gimmick... i don't like the concept of ***
among these natives...

but there she sat... this implosion
of an armchair...
glorious in her skin as leather...
she said she was Turkic... i figured...
honey... you belong further east down
the silk road: you are teasing the Raj...
all the more for me to like...

as she started to tease me with her *******
in her hands...
i told her: i'll be coming for seconds
for you... believe me...
she liked me... she even wanted to have a listen
to what music i was listening to:

wardruna's helvegen...
she asked me for my name...
matthew...           wha? she asked...
matti... mateo... mathias... mateusz...
second name... conrad...
two good names to have...
so i asked what her's was...
up came  Khāda...
but of course i had to...
   write it down on a tissue for her to read...

what a bulging plush of womanhood...
everything i want to be in love with...
older than me... plump...
something i can fix my pincers on:
creasing some more of the already established:
mandible parts...
well worn... skin like leather...

as i departed with 3 glasses of delay...
her friend joked at me being a gentleman for kissing
her hand upon parting...
Khāda i kissed on the hand and cheek...
while this Romanian girl lodged between them
i kissed on the forehead...

you can't not love women...
even if they are prostitutes...
   i can't listen to men stress the need for the purity of
women...
i've listened... i've come back with
stomach pains...
now a test... i'll drink less
and worry: even less...
about... what's that word...
  that word... exposure... no...
upkeeping... no...
stamina... almost...
         PERFORMANCE!

never you mind that i pull my ******* back
to give imitation to the most pristine
representation of the phallus....
among women who....
will not don a niqab etc.?
               for a compensation?
no problem:
i'll just just sheave and practice jerking off...
oh... this time...
i better not drink...

Khāda seems like a woman that's all that's
fun and i don't want a limp-biscuit-of-a-****
to worry her...
she seemed into me and i was... most certainly
into her...

the moment i forget having to desecrate
virgins... and lean in into some
flesh... is the moment i can pardon myself
with: life... and a scrutiny of relexation...
this impasse of sub-par...
performance will not discourage me...
i'm already planning a second date
of stomach crunches of: suckling up to
a phlegm-and-sick being ushered out
from this same gob...

3 / 4 years of "procrastinating":
from a... vector... akin to hunger...
akin to shelter...
when i need a ****... i need a ****...
sorry me for not hitting the mark
with an ******* and a fully-working
hard-on...

oh but this *****...
   she's right up there in me desire to dream...
since i hardly dream...
i can see her as this antithesis of *******:
although i've limited to looking at stuff
deviating from any possible ***** envy...
all the curves... hell... anything that might be sculptered
by Rodin...

i'll just go to the brothel...
nervous as a lobster... sober, though... and therefore
perform my little litany of:
piston at the ready...
juiced up oyster second best...

oh that "thought": what if i don't...
well then... i won't be... glamour-****-egoism
to mind... further conquests...
i hardly imagine christ on the crucifix
with a hard-on...
so i'll imagine myself being crucified
when attempting to be intimate
with a *******: for the giggles...

i'm not going to drop the pill... i'll continue to rephrase
the sentiment: i was either too drunk
or wasn't in the mood...
or she wasn't on my palette!
but this one... and since she was so engaging...
god... a volume of a woman...
everything requiring a leather analogy...
makes one think about *******
an elephant standing on a ladder...
but not an obese beached-whale type...
just this: completeness of woman...
that most certainly hasn't focused itself
on breeding offspring...

plush... harness proof...
come the barrage of the sea...
or the tide within the confines of a river summary:
this woman...
like she was... almost... edible...
of course she was edible:
but i'm teasing in halves...
she's still a movie creature...

here's be celebrating sobering up...
i'll pretend to ******* six times
on the thighs...
once on the cleavage...
before i take my turn...
on what her sigma will ****-up...

as i will not... listen to men bemoaning their...
adventures in Darwinism...
you can only hear so much of it...
after a while you just...
unconsciously gamble with what's on offer...
fair enough: protecting the younglings
while protecting your whittle harem...
i don't mind women that feel like...
their skin is leather...
and their body posturing is an imploded
armchair...
i also much admire the ancient Roman
liberalism concerning...
fostering...
the ancient Romans... the most noble...
of the highest hierarchical certainty of preservation...
em... they...

fostered offspring?
******* son of a ******* uncle: i'll father you...
said some Augustus...
what's being focused on?
the... ******* IDEA...
i have no concern for biological reality:
i have, concern for... the cognitive disparity that runs
counter to... whatever nature unconscious dictates!

the problem men have with
the promiscuity of women...
me? i just went to the prostitutes...
let's have it done and dusted...
i'm not here to argue...

my god that blush... of this Turkish...
gloat of a wheat loaf... and...
          amylase of the nibbled on *******...
all her sponge of buttocks...
her turn-tilde of hips...
             she's not edible but i... just... want...
to... eat: her!

if about a tenth of Afro-Americans
went back to Africa for
a holiday...
                   my my my...
they'd see it as a humbling experience,
i mean: a really really humbling
experience...
               i know i do whenever i go
back to Poland to visit my grandparents,
i feel like a sore thumb,
sticking out...
               there's nothing unique in
being stripped of a minority status...
back in England i can play the cognitive
game of solipsism...
it's not a thought experiment,
it's a game...
                solipsism is almost
a membrane "theory": which falls
apart whenever i interact with someone...
solipsism is the more eloquent
description of autism,
a philosophy rather than a medical
curiosity...
           so my suggestion is...
each minority in the anglophone sphere
should go back, with a shovel and dig
up horseradish roots...
    if you identify as this or that
minority group... go back to where
the minority group is a majority...
        oh i'm pretty sure the Afro-Americans
who have enough ***** to go on
holiday to Africa, will find themselves
severely humbled...
                   i know that i am quasi-crippled
whenever i return to my ethnic
origins... nothing special about me...
nothing unique...
            i'm stripped of the complexity
i've made a labyrinth of in the English speaking
realm...
         i'm standing in an Edenic pose...
stripped to the focus of, being nothing more
than a unit, a number akin to
the fraction 0.0000000000000000000000001
(if not a bigger elongation).