The moon's modest nature is entrancing
It's splendour is never fully displayed for long for our eyes to indulge in
It transforms itself every night
Leaving us to outline its curves
while it encrusts light in a sombre sky of darkness.

only one word prompted me: szło,  i.e. as it went...
urgh... phobias for slavs.... she was drininking tango...
(strachy na lachy, piła tango; czarna bandera! i or spanish y,
janosik! hula huj! niby, oby, nie prawda).
ugh, i sat there, on the throne, with my **** eager,
i felt sick more about a ******* relationship than the actual
taboo infested act... family via ****, what a dross!
back to level 1 of art, heterosexual, and onan,
                it was alway going to be
akin to history, and the caurosel... bilinigual "dyslexia" -
carousel... kabbalah in the moment, loss
of fixation on the tetragrammaton...
and i woke up today, fiddling with my hands
like a blind buddha...
that handsignal he is understood to "wave"
about in statue form, how the ring finger
bends and touches the thumb's nail...
and that's to represent a family,
index woman, middle man, pinky a child...
and why we use acronym base
for putting on a ring onto the ring finger,
touching the tip of thumb,
meaning Caesar said: all good...
outside the coliseum...
so that's what blind buddha said...
and like i already said,
in the future philosophers were sellers
of dictionaries, and lawyers were
sellers of thesarus rex...
you mention the dinosaurs,
and i'm supposed to say: you're the lucky un.
i drank in order to remember
that i must forget...
but still my previous life was flashing
before my eyes...
like i was about to engage in
re-imitating it... a *******'s load of hope
groping the eyes of those who,
stranded in the desert, suggested an oasis...
as the title suggest: always about
cliche, about a faux pas... and yes:
an opera...
  i want to be the linguistic orginating in
chemistry, seems i am,
how the english tongue took to
late christainity, the un-orthodox mention
of st. thomas' gospel unearthed from
an egyptian desert... 30 miles south of Cairo...
or so so...
            i might like to read an existential
novel of the children bound to feminism
and i.v.f., and how horrid it was to live
with your parents, and economy,
   and how the shame came,
in pakistani format...
                 just thinking...
my **** said much more 30 minutes prior,
but the i.v.f. narrative and how our nature
was dislodged by our power to overcome
our foundations, and still people died
in earthquakes and tsunamis...
                 but indeed, szło:
how it went...
                and thus my reason to give it ***...
like learning french, masculine and feminine forms,
of the said word,
  szła = she went; szedł = he was dasein / walked,
ergo revision szła = he was dasein...
   and that's the reason i didn't really
love my russian girlfriend, she said
polish was primarily defined by
   ш ш ш, i said huш, she said: шut up!
   the last love and the only and the end, of a concept
and matrimony to fiction.
let's deal with realities... play marbles,
talk about gambling and gamble...
**** it all away... flip coins and
do whatever is necessary, having found love
is rare more than a peacock feather for a quill,
and let's just, grow up.
every, single, time, that jewish ghetto freak
of a god comes up, an all encompassing word,
that can encompass mere noun, from mere sound,
from mere onomatopoeia, into a verb,
   a lament configuration that just encrusts itself
into the concept of a noumenon...
past terms, present terms, future terms...
and sexuality...
  szła шedł szło...
     three sexes, one, the last, neutral...
               and when psychology comes along to play
the game of anthropology you'll say
what i said... she dasein, he dasein,
   it, the world, happened...
                             and that's a thank you
to a philosopher of lore (20th century) for being
able to complicate my life, and
   celebrate the ghetto god of Jews...
  nah, they can keep the crucifix and their
Judas reward like altars...
  all that gold needs the stink of prayer
and sycophancy... like they do in Russia:
priest stands before the altar, reads an orthodox
verse, his back against the people kneeling
behind him, as the depiction of Judas
in the scenario of the last supper...
and you can't even sit and listen to the choir
doing a rendition of Bach... some church
attendant tells you to not sit...
and appreciate the choir...
"modern" Russia for you...
   what's with this cult of modernity?
we are living in times where modernity is cult,
it's nothing but cult, or the limit...
modernity is a cult of journalists...
they're almost anti-darwinist in their expression...
poetry, poetry has to, attack journalism...
i see no other way to go about it...
   marriage... hmmph! шło, how it went...
well... it went like this:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak...
chłop powiedział.... i to było tak:
   an idiot mongolian played the imaginary
harmonica doing motorboat with
his lips and moving his index finger
up and down against the "slur" of excess phlegm...
(a woman was sowing poppies,
she didn't know how,
a man said: like this... and both became
Glaswegian ****** junkies to "feel" good)...
   i broke up with that russian hyenna
just before she embarked into m.d.m.a.,
yes, i'm a happily alcoholic concept of
sanity, for what sanity's worth looking
at other people claim their rites of passage
beyond religion, beyond anything,
as said: only choice, and subsequent regrets
and joviality: if prominent on the faces
of some you encounter in the fudge of
modern grey matter / area.
i can only say that this current transgender
movement is almost as prominent as
what's inherent in the english language,
how words like table, chair...
pineapple, do not have gender in the language
per se, there's no masculine or feminine
conceptualisation of simple things,
someone who's french might say
a chair has male qualities,
   and a table has feminine qualities...
it's subtle... refined to a very slight
           chance of spotting a variation of spelling...
e.g. шło (how it went), and the two variations,
one for man (шedł), and one for woman (шła)...
evidently the anglophone language has too
much money, and even more spare time,
to actually un-poeticize the nag hammadi library...
i mean, everyone is killing poetry,
but this sort of ****** is beyond any worth...
the genesis of this story begins with
psychiatry and the 1960s, primarily a Scot,
a Glaswegian, r. d. laing, coming straight out
of c. g. jung.... freud is for rich people and
the only oedipus: Wilhelm II of german...
it must be a luxury, it can't be anything but,
it must be a luxury to have dreams
and to also have an interpretation of them,
right? they call them the snowflakes generation...
i just call them freud-tards with their toothpicks
for trees forests of "depth".
looking at the way jesus is depicted, with a
void black halo around him:
i'm suspecting we wasn't a big dreamer,
to lift the veil: an imitation of Joseph,
seven lean years, seven bountiful...
   and how so few of us actually have a rich
dream life... we don't, not everyone is invited
to lead such a double life...
  some do, and they have recurrent dreams,
well, one dream over and over and... what a boring life.
i dream sometimes, but it looks like scrambled eggs,
too many: dreams within dreams...
   then again, if i followed the diagnostics of
w. burroughs, i'd probably feel embodied in dreams
if i shot up ******... or smoked it...
  but i prefer a rested body anyway.
so yeah, a bit quasi-etymological,
those "idiosyncratic" but rather specific words:
шło... id.... that it went / how it went...
  and so it went...
english doesn't have a *** in language,
   nothing to decipher whether a man or woman uses
it, unless you congest it with
   excess pronoun shrapnel...
          excess pronoun and conjunction shrapnel...
the only thing that resembles saxon in post-Hastings
french viking invasion are the way chemical
nouns reflect what a german makes of
antidote to claustrophobia:
                  habbeschneizergoo, or thereabouts.
let's just say: language as theory.
   this is mine... what do you have?
ah... right... a concrete heart, an empirical heart...
does that allow counter defining an origin
not related to the big bang, but a meow or a woof
of knuckling a tree... i.e. extracting sounds
and later appropriating the invocation of sound
to later state pointless mantra, and otherwise
read more, see less?
   if we're talking sounds, or the big bang
is my idea of the φoνoς, look... the ancients
beginning with Heraclitus had logos...
or word, until that concept became ghetto...
now we have so much music, and that one
defining "sound"... i say φoνoς, to counter
the science of the bang... and yeah, it's apparently "big"...
just learn a science to a degree level,
and then relax unlearning it writing philosophy...
you just might spontaneously write poetry,
     and gave a libido of a Solomon, but no harem;
gents! handshakes! handshakes!

Winter song. Fall passing.
And too with so many like this. When she is not there-

   Vibrations after the battle, footsteps breathing deeply into the cotton beds and privy the shrews of their slavery. Heavens' toll after me, brine and abalone shimmering.

Cast in a shadow of half-arched feet, slender narrowness shimmering crystals obfuscate the fury of the ringing;

Every evening when I wake she shakes her bell.

It ripples like food coloring droplets undulating in a dixie cup on the mantel of a kitchen sink. The elbows sprout out first, then the head stridently strikes upwards catapulting the arms and wrists to the sides, and then at last when all is deep ****** blue, the raw hairless legs unmask themselves and fold out into the edge of a postcard and the reddy, cerise snowflake stain brands the juicy signature of an incredible beautifully imprinted star. And still she is not there.

Into the white rooms the insects crawl, at last the cacophony of their bedeviled stridulations eeking as if from a broken and collapsed jaw. A necessary end to every inch of hoarfrost strung across their elliptical hoot-shaped jowls-

These are the marks that time encrusts upon disheveled and dilapidated Spline.

In dark matter there are Spline. In shifty daytime television sitcoms, Spline saw at our ears and cost us trillions of migraines each year. Three Splines sit on a log, another four on a fence. They race each other in elevators, make inappropriate gestures, make airplanes disappear into the Indian ocean, and steal the breath right out of our lungs. Spline cannot come any closer. Spline are the dreary minutia which separate friends, they are the sentence that never makes it off of our tongues, the anger we leave curled into our fists.

She is not here and the fevers are burning. The languages are deafening. It is almost impossible to believe words like these were ever spoken aloud. She is not here and the jeans don't fit, the dogs are shy, and the accidents keep happening. There is never a glimpse at perfect and hot happiness. There is nothing here but the spotty ash-pocked masked faces of the Moon Men, hurrying and scurrying.

She is not here and the sea is drying up. The war is in the street and in the streets the men are dying. Everywhere is dross and cataclysmic end-dust, desiccated hours and dandelion seeds.

Inside of the room the music plays softly. Glass's solo piano Metamorphosis Three and Satie's Gymnopedie. It has been only six hours since she left, but

When we see each other I am superman

February 2nd: Dire was my day, every move I made was seen as a mistake.Malice my good intentions, I’ve been labeled as a hurtful, evil, and ugly man. Believed to be a demon, from the pits of hell; I am feared by all and eluded like a disease.
        
February 3rd: My time is spent in isolation. Never desiccated are the tears that endlessly flow down my wrecked up face. My screaming is unheard. Nothing is heard in this room, I am alone.
        
February 4th: Blood encrusts my massacred body, a true painting of affliction. I have run out of tears. Crying is now a more complex process, involving the bitter sweet touch of a blade.
        
February 5th: Exile is slowly beginning to **** me. The hands of time have firmly grabbed my neck and with each passing hour its grip grows stronger.

that mistress
fills you up and falls
apart; lest the air
boil up and consume the
heart

sour and steep and stoic
like a rock upon the mount
my yearning for the mistress of the
night

she bind you and stolen
away that little gift from
above; above yet she descended

her fingers like gold and iron
hair as strong as her heart
silver encrusts the lining of the
soul but betrays not a single
phrase

lament on your behalf and
seal the fate of the future and
fate of the wealth of the triumphs

***** motels and decrepit
churches, she preys
yet against their better wishes does the bird
go on singing and singing and singing

pray the lord my soul to keep and pray
the devil my world to weep

Column by column the legions' feet
march disciplined down Watling Street,
followed by rumbling carts and grumbling
stragglers leaving villas crumbling.

To Rome to save the imperial home,
making Britain an enterprise zone
for Saxons, Vikings, Celts and Angles,
savage battles and local wrangles.

Weeds weave tapestry around a tomb.
Dust encrusts a silent Roman room.
Mosaics stare at the rotted roof.
Painted plaster falls, jigsaw proof.

Perhaps when shopping centres fail,
and motor cars no more prevail,
when wattle homes are reinvented,
then thinking time will be augmented.

the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
detention lasts an hour,
how many times do you think
i'd write the statement?
this is before the dark-web,
before Contraband Anonymous,
oh hell, i can write you Orwell's
1984 in nanoseconds,
about how you should drink and not
ingest hallucinatory drugs,
not least the pharmacist quotient
available...
but prior to... hmm... the N.S.A. is
still my friend, they have the conversations
of the culprits, and Tsar Putin jacking
off to the sound of Apollo 13's mission failure...
and have i the ***** to say it?
i think i do.... unless a Martian descends,
or Jupiter encrusts into a ball of hot
cranium of fire, then we're left with Pluto being
the penultimate ice-ball before
the thing that killed the dinosaurs comes
along in hookah Kiwi haka style
for a fantasia of the Parisian catwalk...
chew wee a mega fibia, aye Scotch,
aye Ben Nervous - mega choo backpacker
and mm, hoo see the Nedtherlands!
and then we all get to nibble on our excited-lower-lip
the French revolved around to hark:
oriental in Romanian: h = r = haaark!
agling to a gagging too.
poetry - you make sounds, you don't
intend to make sense... it's your *******
tongue as a trumpet... what else?!

Slowly the shadow approaches the Glen.
Wrapping lilies in its arthritic hands.
A hush falling upon those in his wake.

Frost encrusts the grass lost beneath your feet.
A songbird falls from the sky, lost in ash.
The sun is silent, and all time stands still.

The scene fades into shadowed nothingness.
The night is calm, the day is cold. Alas.

I reminisced of a time long ago when I was only twenty years old.
I was studying English 101 at the University Of British Columbia in the summer of Eighty-Four.
It was at a summer session because I had failed English 101 two years before.
A failure due more to my citizenship in a different realm than to the failings of my intellect, aptitude or the magnanimity of my core.
“You have such a poignant and evocative writing style,” wrote my teacher on the short-story I had submitted the week before.
I had written about a lonely sojourn on a desolate beach in the pregnant moment,
When sunset injures day's abandon and grants night the freedom to roam.
I had written about the mighty North Shore mountains,
Hoary with age and reverberating with an energy ineffable to the mind,
But savored by the soul.
I remembered how exhausting of mind, but above all of the soul, writing that short-story had been.
I tried to reveal my spirit bare and exposed.
I tried to destroy the ramparts and blow open the heavy gates shielding my secretive core.
But through my exhausting efforts I had only succeeded in weakening the facade between me and the world,
Usually held at arm's length,
But through my story then, only slightly nearer yet still remote.
There is an essence within everyone hidden in a chamber far beneath the veneer that encrusts our core.
We seldom allow it expression beyond just its fractured shadows dancing on an external wall.
But if we all dig deep and reach into this secretive chamber,
We will, to our astonishment, discover we are all reaching into the same chamber,
Not a separate one for each within the all.
And then we will grasp each other's same-hand.
We all share the same soul.
I knew that in the novel of my compulsion I would have to expose this chamber,
Ramparts and heavy gates destroyed once and for all.
And my novel would then cry out from this collective chamber,
And speak for my left and for my right with one voice for all.
It would be the ineffable ground of being reaching out to humanity from the navel of Creation,
Proclaiming the dawn of a Third Age.
It would announce the sunset of the Second Age before this coming dawn.
A moment pregnant with change that will forever be remembered in the annals of the Civilization of Man.
It would herald a paradigm shift far greater than the Renaissance,
Not just an age of reason, but of reason and divinity intertwined as an inseparable whole.
I envision the Third Age to be promoting the two primordial dancers,
The abstract magical and the other its complementary whole.
To engage in the Dance and thence unshard into the Eternal Garden from whence we all came forth.
They are in Eternity entwined, but sharded into the realms of space and time.
They are shards of the divine.
Would composing such a novel be an arduous journey,
Exhausting my body and above all my core?
Would I be as a drowning man,
Gasping for breath,
Kicking and screaming while with futility grasping for shore?
But would every paragraph and page exhaust me,
Yet also leave me yearning for more?
It would I am sure.
This arduous compulsion will also uplift and invigorate me with waves of catharsis and frisson.
And I pray dearly for the same in my reader,
of soul-piercing joy.
If I fail to evoke the same in my audience then I would have failed to breach the ramparts and the gates shielding my innermost chamber,
Our collective soul.
Only within this innermost shared sanctum can I truly touch someone's soul.
And by touching one, I will be touching them all.

i was never an enthusiast of the man,
don't know, never caught me,
the drill of impersonation,
of the zeitgeist doppelgänger
mode of enforced reminder,
just this, forcing upon
another of a memory:
i always repeated the mantra -
let the river flow,
let history become less
congested,
don't allow the **** beavers
build the dam of
historical coagulation...
let others onto the pedestal stool,
but once history that's
a river becomes a dam enforced lake,
well, we currently live in
such times,
  we can't shake off the 20th century
as luckily as we might think
we have done so already...
it always seems to happen...
the closure of the 19th century
was peppered with the most quack
spontaneity...
     usually invoking killers,
as always happens,
a son of cain encrusts the beginning
and the end of a period,
solidified by abel...
      nonetheless,
chris isaak came close to elvis presley,
he rubbed shoulder to shoulder
with "the man"...
it was only, but one song,
but houdini was knocked dead with
a single punch to the stomach...
sometimes it really takes a single
blow to the giant, to see him fall...
after all, achilles was governed
by death, to die from a mortal
imprint of an arrow on the heel...
     elvis who? chris isaak, i agree...
a song that tends to echo without
a repertoire of all to eager impersonators...
it's the per se momentum -
    **** just rolls,
and lols while telling the:
elvis has left the building joke
with added u.f.o. paraphernalia add-ons.
we live in times of
constipated history,
    by now you should have spotted
& appreciated that history is constipated,
the pop culture, the stars in their eyes knockout
sucker punch...
   we are currently living in times,
in constipated times, awaiting a massive
abnormality of leaving the plus & minus
yin yang of the 20th century...
  feels strange, if all honesty be worth disclosing...
here, on the altar of the yonder,
peering into the vacuum,
    a rudimentary, unforced, what
seems to be: merely a yawn.
      it's a very special place,
we're more nostalgic about the 20th century,
than the 19th century philosophers were
nostalgic about ancient greece...
never has nostalgia been so apparent,
and so apparent, given the proximity -
people will look at the 20th century,
and the beginning of the 21st,
and tense up, sensing the most awkward
magnetism at work...
so, when it comes to spirituality,
i think it's *******,
  i'm more inclined to stress: magnetism...
it's only 17 years into the nuance of
added zeros...
     or, rather, shoving a zero into decade along,
rather than a beginning with ω = o x 2.
     and of those years...
14 were lived at the end of the past century...
still, with one song alone,
chris isaak managed to overcome
elvis presley...
          hardly any imitations worth minding...
and that's all it takes, sometimes,
a stealthy punch to bruise the titan
out of the spotlight,
      uranus - ur, the place where
abraham arrived from -
    gaea & the graeae;
       seems so unimaginative,
that man abides his "spiritual" core to the basics
of the arithmetic, accounted only by
the limited digits,
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, perhaps 10, but certainly 12,
and 0, as antidote to the lemniscate (∞);
then again 24; so too 365;
there's no point any literary outpouring,
no worth volume of expression,
given that man orbits a fascination,
mystifying these numbers.

a fog descends, encroaching the mind
wisps lost into the haze: minimal visibility ensured
a strength without direction, meandering through forest
ice encrusts logic; hail bombards reason
i am left

solely with agony
bliss ignorance into incompetence
sheeps alone in a storm
awaiting some dog to provide direction
i ponder: why wait for consensus
if no-one cares to agree and ascend

the ******* doing here?!*

it usually happens with that sort
of italic question...

a 3 year old maine ****
cat, trying to fall asleep in
my bed...

     he's past the 9kg mark of
weight-lifting,
and i'm starting to think
around orientating myself
within the claustro- -phobia
of excuses...

i picked up a dead corpse of a dead
fox once, walked the corpse for
about 3 miles, and threw it into
the bushes once i weighed him...
came up as almost 10kg...

    i was thinking of buying some beers
and going into the brothel
at goodmayes to say hello
to my bulgarian "girlfriend"...

   now i have this feline "love" lazing
in my bed...
so i'm pulling faces,
and he's pulling faces...
          and i want him out of
my bed, and he wants to remain in it...

i've a problem on my hands...
a maine **** ginger,
9kg+ loitering sleepy, feeling funny
in my bed...

    sad as it might sound,
i find it hard sleeping with animals,
which encrusts a follow-up of saying:
should this cat turn into a woman?
i'd find it double the trouble
of falling asleep next to it...

       however sad, however true,
you can only laugh at the reality
of it being managed by counter measures
of: well, i tried my bitterest best,
     i like a comfy bed,
  no point asking for an extra
cushion, in the form of a woman;

i don't want to be a sad loner type in
writing...
i really don't want to be the secondary
inconvenience of the "nice guy"...
i.e.: great father, ****** huspand,
ever-more the ******* lover...
    
               you want a dog, ask me...
i have this 9+ k.g. maine **** "lover"
asking me to lie with him...
          i keep looking at him,
inquiring him: the ******* doing
in my bed?!

       and he replies:
you got something to argue about
with me getting a sun-tan?

it's 2 a.m., if you can pulverise the *******
moon, i can't see how you can turn copper
skinned!

stop being funny... he replies

i reply: stop being a rent "boy"!

       then he replies:
ask me to yawn and meow at the same time,
i ****** know that you can **** and yawn
at the same time...

i say:

              to be honest, arguing with you,
will end up being a chance for admiring the mona lisa
in an electric chair;

call that the electric grin,
    chattering chambers of grease...
the sean connery turkish...
shom-shing short of a shaken, shnot shtirred.

infant in the sea
paled by the raging white surf
his belly swells with foam, stretched
and his cobalt tongue lolls
like the short haired dogs
on the haitian coast
he has kissed the sands of the deep
with his vapid cheeks
salt encrusts his veins
still running wet
with neptune's tears
he
floats,
cold
beneath the waning of artemis
he is bearded by a mother's grief
who has lost her
infant in the sea