True Friends
A long time ago in China there were two friends, one who played the harp skilfully and one who listen skillfully.
When the one played or sang about a mountain, the other would say: "I can see the mountain before us."
When the one played about water, the listener would exclaim: "Here is the running stream!"
But the listener fell sick and died. The first friend cut the strings of his harp and never played again. Since that time the cutting of harp strings has always been a sign of intimate friendship.

                                                               ­                                  From „ Zen flesh, Zen bones“*


the gallery of your luscious qualities
do indeed killing me
there is no one scolding you
like they doing on me
for such nonsenseal guilt, that
i sometimes  use imaginary
but alas it happens far seldom
usually i am indeed just infinitely
diminutiv towards your very boldship
the severe prose of life dont
let write astute  fantasies
yet my punk *** is vernacular towards
your upperclassed way to speak
its like dog's bark near
your charming chant of melodies
to be befriended with you
yet listen your compliments
I am getting perplexed
cuz i see you stiff giggling on me
you would better doubt me for my narrow horizon
where i type only about hopelessely of resistance
yet about that love is dead
how bore!!
it trully not what may enterntain!

Better I would dont coment and dont write anymore
Better I would skimp this beggarly text
instead only  picking nose behind of barricade
and let you hear nix beside my
Perro Semihundido's
WOOF!WOOF!WOOF!

….but, I wrote this lolololong locomotive,
since its obviously my pretty fun to ******* myself
bye

it pains me, to return
to a narrative of England,
more so,
  since i am not an
Englishman.
         i actually have no
conviction, or worth
to necessarily speak
  given this dynamic...
       of a future, past,
or present...
            what a disillusioned
unfathomability fathered
by a relentless fathering
of ******* and asians
this country has become...
with a month spent
in continental europe,
i am trying to shy away
from the reality of
this country,
  but i am constantly
bulldozered by a sensibility
for angst...
  i am not, an, englishman,
yet i cradle this bread
and water's worth of
continuance as if i
were the son who stood
first upon these isles...
  i am not sad because
i am oblique -
i am, literally exhausted
by a feeling,
best conscribed to
a funeral procession...
     i watch this living
court of ergo -
as a mass synchronised
for a cull.
  for once in worth of
January, i am fed despair
having returned to
these isles -
  America is snoring
and least conservative -
uncle lambast -
      i am regurgitating
this pomp of an unfed
  imperialism -
   scuttling like
             rats in a labyrinth
of a lost citation -
  squabbling larks
among hogs of perfected
glutton execution...
america is exhausting,
most notably on
the british isles...
        after a month away
from the scurvy ***** ah-ding-ala-do
  cyst smoochers -
  i am becoming tired
of english sadness -
this ultra globalist
insomniac paraphrase -
      i feel a tonne weighing
a gram...
   by comparison,
the narrative of this land
finds no encompass in
  an isolationist tactic -
hey: gra-vi-tas!
          i return to a sad country -
having spent
a month on continental
Europe:
      i can hardly recognise
myself;
        England is
waiting for a cue without a coup -
          and when i say
that i sniff a rot
but enterntain opera
and pearls -
         i know that i'm speaking
an antoinette disguise;
for what hangs
above my pretty, noble
affair to breathe, is not
the noble sword of damocles,
but the populist guillotine;
less drama,
  more exec ruse -
  worth a pauper's demands
to adamantly state:
the beast that suffers least
in the slaughterhouse
tastes the best...
hence this, irritable
   scratch of forbidden
            bacon, off the crucifix.
i still cannot instill
in me, the gullibility of
        this, current,
unfathomable, norm,
           perpetuating
          a concern for lunacy
while mediating
               a care to cure its
own blidness...
   beyond the five blindmen
testing an elephant,
i'd rather see two blindmen
attempting a game of chess!
      if only one were able
to sift through the
            gargantuan blob
             of mundane
grey (****),
             and speak pop
like a ****** or a Napoleon;
or at least be famed,
   like the ***, for inventing
the stirrup!
or the ****** who said:
burp, be, beer.