a bit like listening to
enya's take on the lord of the rings
soundtrack...
who, the ****, wouldn't
wish to drown, listening
to these Celtic mermaids?
i know i would...

the lunch?
salad....
  cherry tomatoes, fresh pepper,
fresh chillies...
      guacamole with chillies...
god, infused with lime...
greek goat's cheese...
           crunch iceberg lettuce...
and?
****... must have missed somethng...
well...
there was also prosciutto...
like i once said:
i hate bacon...
    prosciutto?
             give me a bucket-load
and i'll play the chipmunk...

   god i hate bacon...
ugh...
     it's lile eating gorilla turds
with a comparison
to what tuna steaks will never be,
and what smoked
salmon slices share with
prosciutto...

the bits that make a whiskey...
smoked salmon...
           if the Japanese will not
entertain salt in their sushi?
**** it...
we'll smoke the ******* out...

what a glorious statement of
attaching oneself to hubris...
  and the Celtic mermaids?
one question:
can i drown, right here and now?!
i want to drown!
i want to turn into a merman!
i want to cry!
oh god... for all eternity!
i want to cry!
i want to cry when
beauty is expressed so piquantly!

i want to be acknowledged
my by second mother, art,
who would never dare
to engage in the ancient greek
ritual of placing two coins
over my eyes to pay
Charon...

             oh sweet Celtic mermaids
from a missing Odyssey!
I.R.A.: punch the grieving
paw of the Anglican lion
surrendering
with a take on dentistry!

i want to drown...
   you songs turn the salty
seas into sugary fountains!
   i want to drown!
embraced by your voices
in the choir or the echoing
chambers of oyster shells!

   i never liked sushi to begin
with...
either the north sea smoked salmon
slices...
or the Baltic Sea raw herrings...

                 the English?
leave them...
   congregating on the money...
surmounting there sphere of influence,
the Atlantic Ocean that becomes
a pond...
   leave them... bestow a leverage of
stalling them...
         keep them comfortable...
keep them exclusionary...
  keep them: 50+ years too late...
that will buy us time...

           keep them sifting through rat ****...
we need them disorientated,
looking at a cul de sac,
rather than a road with, other, road
genesis injunctions
of what life, twist and burden turn
we have to share...

         now... i don't cry because
i'm sad...
      i cry... when beauty is made
sacrificial...
             and since so few cry at beauty?
i have to cry...
because?
  whatever is being regurgitated
mainstream?
   does not gravitate me
to the necessary emotional stratum...

all i can think of is...
  
               Celtic mermaids of Ireland...
and drinking buddies of Scottish
trans-gender kilt highlanders,
Welsh longbow men spies
   of Swansea...
   and the English?
guess it's just a case of talking:
"right across the... 'pond'"...
     like ******* are...
pond people my ******* god...

          i would have feigned the delusion
of... a shared tongue = a shared
cultural reference!
but in sudoku?!

   linear + sq. ≠ diagonal -

England and the U.S. and Australia?!
a dog barking up the wrong tree...
it always was, it always will be...

          i'll rephrase my concept
of England and America...
   being "specially" connected...
what? like retards?!

                        Pontius Pilate:
i'm washing my hands clean of the affair...

ask a Swiss... what he might have felt
about **** Germany!
no?
                           no what?!

      this country already constituted
a perfected allowance to deem my
ethnicity equivalent to vermin,
rats.... foxes...

     well... better this commentary
stays underground...
i wouldn't want some, ******,
reading this sort of wording;

mind you, he, it, she, they,
might forget it 10 minutes later.      

god, i hate bacon...
   but prosciutto?
                            as long as it's combined
in a salad...
  with fresh veg., and greek
goat's cheese...
    no, *******, problem!

SPRING ONIONS!

to actually wish to have everything
explained,
                                as science set out to do -
well, that's all grand -
                        sure, it is welcome -
but in doing so,
  the philosophical premise of
          being awe-inspired becomes
a fleeting hope, to never return...
  could this be implication be a voice
for suggesting en masse ignorance
movements of religious nature?
    not really...
              since western society stresses
the individualistic bias to all
forms of collectivism,
          by way of also stressing a desire
for a community...
                    i suppose having a lazy
eye murmuring a jest of ignorance,
  can allow one: to retain the lost hope
of retaining some sort of
  "claustrophobic" reason for
                                a return of awe...
i find that the idea of being awed by
today's standards of examination is
nothing but a numbing effect,
    a forced placebo,
                        that we are supposed
to stand in awe, while also having to
ingest all the proper facts...
        how desperate then,
            is our hunger to avoid facts and
dwell in fiction?
          how has science become so
pompous that it cannot
         retain its shadowy extract of
the situation...
                  scientists are not the actors,
they should always have remained
outside of the public sphere of discourse...
science has become (due to biology,
which is a half-creature compared
to the utility of medicine)
       populist, only when in the summary
of atheism...
               it's beyond thought-numbing,
it's emotionally dissatisfying to
  engage in too many facts,
              and too little fictive narratives;
and yes, this "problem"
   isn't even remotely equal by dualistic
standards,
     it's clear-cut, it's a dichotomy rather than
a dualism...
        if there ever was a question
  to state beyond good & evil...
     then the next question comes as:
                       beyond dualism & dichotomy;
and the next question?
    beyond monism & monotheism...
    after that?
                           poly-
                 wants a *******
          i think i should get off her first
i think she wants some water
                  to put out the blow torch...
   poly-ism is right now, a made-up word...
   well, "made-up", in that it doesn't
exactly fit the english aesthetic
           by oxford dictionary approval.
i never liked the scientific
         déjà vu explanation...
    i prefer my own: short-term memory loss...
or, 2 minutes after having a thought
and having so forgotten it, 2 minutes later
having to remember a dream from 10 years
ago...
       i just can't believe that
   science has been reduced to idolatry
   thanks to populism in the shade of atheism...
  science has become as idolatrous
   as any religion,
   what with big pharma
     the ****** of cardinals,
             who in turn were preaching celibacy;
and all of this "scientific" superiority
  by people who didn't extend their study
of the sciences beyond a g.c.s.e.
                       oh right
the déjà vu?
          my mothers two favourite artists?
   enya (song? sail away), &
  enigma (album? le roi est mort, vive le roi!)...
   i know the argument...
      i hate my parents, blah blah,
couldn't live with them...
   me?
              i can't be bothered moaning
about the current housing
situation in england... any council flat
in england will either go to some somali
9 strong family unit...
                   or anyone with children
in general...
                yeah, i see them everyday,
cook some of the days, vacuum the house
drunk once in a while...
    but imagine... they actually stand
me drinking every day, a litre of room...
   ****... ***...
                         seems i'm not that much
of an ******* after-all...
                         oh **** me, did you watch
the wimbledon tennis today?
                        i was glued to the t.v. all day,
from 3 p.m. up to 9 p.m.:
svetlana kuznetsova seems like a freaky
           nymphomaniac...
   just the face...
                     the best match of the day?
  caroline wozniacki vs.
                         tímea "kate winslet" babos;
in all fairness, the only sport i can watch with
women playing with more pleasure than
men? tennis... women boxing makes no sense
to me... o.k. the olympic sports are beside
the point... women playing football?
   d'ah foock?! i actually prefer woman's tennis
than men's tennis...
   some men tennis players
   just **** the first serve, and there are less
rallies... hmm... he-he... plus the near imitation
of the bedroom antics when hitting the ball;
women's tennis is probably the best
alternative to ****.

My blue virtual notepad
My ever willing companion
It's comforting and loyal
Ready to serve at a gentle touch!

Yellow notes are for grocery lists
Red notes are Domino's alarm codes
Purple is my WiFi codes
And orange is for Bible verses

But Blue!
Blue is my old leather sofa
Comfortable, familiar,
Available

Blue is the warm orange log fire
That brings comfort and gives life.
My Blue notepad, like the fire,
Devours what I feed it.

My raw emotion
Unspoken hurt
Anguish, disappointment
Love, Joy, hopes and dreams.

Blue understands that Mondays are red,
Wednesdays are green and Fridays are black.

Blue doesn't mind that number 5 its blue too
Nor that the colour yellow
Is for number two.

Blue knows Enya sounds brown
Vivaldi sounds red
And Vanessa Mae white.

Blue is my blank canvas
My faithful companion
My listening ear
Blue is no mere colour

Blue is Me

Ancient trees of majesty
   why reach your arms in excellency?
Why skim the clouds and pierce the stars,
    to stand so bold as warrior Mars?
Why be a thing of children's play,
     and watch the scene where lovers lay?
  Why touch the hearts of young and old?
      Why change your leaves from green to gold?
   Why dip your arms in pools below
       and float your leaves as falling snow?
    Why whistle tunes on winds of high
         why whistle tunes as winds go by?

     I waited from dawn to dusk you see
     for these ancient trees soon whispered to me

      We grasp the day
      We grasp the night
      We grasp the fowl on earnest flight

       You give us  breath which we repay
            we mold your health in loving way
        We climb these hills and mountaintops
             and spread our green as greenery crops
          We house these creatures in wooden shacks
              and feel the cut of the woodmen's axe
          We watch the peace and wars go by
               and suffer pestilence without a cry
            We dance and sway on winds of old
                to tell our stories far untold..

This is a lyrical poem which can be accommodated by
       Enya's "The memory of trees"
Author of poem is--RW Dennen of Hello Poetry
Thank you kindly

it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.

revision of Enya: **** away **** away,
        against the wind against the wind;
mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end
Loud Don... bonkers bunch...
                                                    now that is random,
i wanted to make a serious point,
and i will (insert snigger)... eventually.

what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of
von Kleist against Kant...
Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe,
i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously
and lectured on his poetry,
von Kleist committed suicide out of despair
having read Kant's *critique...
but what i want to do:
to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and
then use each technique to describe it's origin...
so for example metaphor... given that poetry is
ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v.
series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas
Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII,
and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing
poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall
Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because
she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm
sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian
conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne)
and that offended the king...
so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword
was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking
at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta,
who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk
heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched
to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also
cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz
                   with fire and sword - the sword
that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)...
so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman
is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean
death?', 'only if she doesn't move',
so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right
ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there
and then with great stealth moves in the other
direction and cuts her head off from the left...
so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō,
an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done:
nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh...
no... you need to drop the anchor:
                         poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.

Black. Black. Black.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
OK, now I’m riding ******* on a brown horse,
a kindred spirit,
hugging its mane.
Take me to that meeting tomorrow so that I can
make that guy understand.
After that, I need to work out. Should I go for a run?

No wait.

Black. Black. Black.
I’m floating in black nothingness.
Each muscle relaxes in sequence.
My mind is blank.
I am everything and nothing.
Nothing? Shoot, I forgot to fill out that 401(k) rollover form.
Don’t forget that. Must do.
Man, I’m so glad I don’t work there anymore.
That place was a piece of crap.
Speaking of crap, there’s that presentation I have to do Monday.
I bet there’s a good Dilbert cartoon to illustrate my point.
I should poke around for one.
That reminds me of this funny song by the Lonely Island
that I need to get. I wonder if iTunes has it?
Must check iTunes when I wake up so I can listen to it
on the way to work.

Tunes. Tunes.
OK Enya, do your stuff. Make my mind blank so that I can forget.
How much time do I have for this?
Ugh. 5:30. So just enough time to fall asleep before the alarm.
Since I’m looking at my phone, I might as well see if there are any emails.
Yikes! Stuff is broken.
OK. OK.
People are on it. It’s not my problem.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Beep! Beep! Beep!

and you sometimes try to get over a tobacco hangover...
so that means: excess phlegm...
you apply quasi therapy to your
neck muscles and massage the
cavities beneath your forehead
(internal nasal lines equipped
with two furry caterpillars -
otherwise known as eye brows) -
and this ****** of a headache
is going nowhere... you coughed
for about an hour,
     took a **** to alievate the mental
pain of a throbbing brain,
that keeps bashing like a hammer
against the insides of your skull:
mainly through being awake for several
hours and not bothering to
empty your bladder (which by now
is the size of a watermelon);
but stashing a **** in your ****?
                   that's what a homosexual
tongue feels like in your ear...
you listen to it, and listen to it, and when it
stops: you go to the bathroom and
sit on the throne of thrones and relax
for a bit... some fetishist cat will want to
take in the experience with you...
        "i think" i'm at the meditation phase
of this reflection... cats and human excrement...
never knew the two went so well together...
like oysters and lemon juice...
but given that cat **** has a stench so foul
it could usurp the scent of sulphur from
the "depictions" of hell (scents are hardly
depictive, so... description of hell)...
        lucky *******, oysters... i once dated a girl
that thought it was funny to pour
salt onto snails...
                        but i can beat that!
back in poland, in the most obscure place
imaginable... two boys... a frog smeared with
lipstick and a packet of matches...
              boom! a dancing prince on fire;
which is why i rely on memory, or (ars memorandum)
rather than take to imagining harry potters:
it gets you the money... but doesn't give you
a hard-on to just sail... enya: sail away sail away sai
that haunting celt-elf type of mmm...
       lost for words: or just plain lazy because
digression, really requires speed,
         and the speed it requires has to (also) include
punctuation marks.
    it would have been easier to just cascade and write
boom!
boom!
boom!
               but not right here... what was my original
point? oh yeah, a typical tobacco "hangover" (yes,
because it's more like getting rid of excess phelgm that
has built up inside of you): but please!
please! someone find me a poet that writes about
the experience of harbopuring a tapeworm: i'd love
to hear from them in verse.
           so you cough and you cough
   and the three piglets live their "happily ever after"
in the first "house" they built (wigwams or igloos...
of just hiding under a mammoth sized wig;
scalp that ****, right down to the base, where a hoof
ought to be!)
seriously though: you take a **** and you refill your
sharpshooter round of ***** and ms. coca
            and you ponder the **** once more:
          death-bed regrets? why didn't i shove something
"else" in there? don't know, i was keen to compare
it to animals and the duty: she cats?
they're almost always ******* about the act,
that look in their eyes that could put oliver reed's
hellraiser antics to shame: given the look in their eyes
while doing the ***** bits: ****** come out!
      ****** come out!
                                  male cats? they're almost smiling
while doing it...
                (i think this is the part where you
can mutually acknowledge that i think my writing
is ****... comparing over drunks?)
               tobacco "hangovers"... you finally end
them, by harking...
          a bit like barking, but what you're really doing
is spitting the excess phlegm in your nose
      out of your mouth... disgusting, i know,
but what can you do... turn peafowl?
                                but you really do have to go
through this process every day (never mind
the headache: brain throbbing **** of skull:
thump thump thump... thump thump thump...
hammer sickel, hammer sickel)...
oh wait, that brings me onto my original prompt:
  a video (big fan, you tube, we channel),
and it's nothing like i might actually write a comment
in the "description" section (or simply add to it)...

tara mccarthy - laura southern:
how feminism hurts women.

                      i'm just a sucker for the drool... or nasal...
or whatever you like to call american linguistics...
          zombie oogh?         hooh?  ** ** **?
                             now i really feel like a viking, pillaging
people's punctuation styles and reminding myself (cognitively)
how it sounds in reverse... on paper... in script and not
in conversation... and it probably sounds a bit like this:
         and article in the times newspaper (editorial section,
just after the opinion section of journalists... like some
quasi reincarnation of dialectics)...
   the video's content? right-wing women cry valkyrie:
left-wing women respond: cut off the genitals and it's a community
founded on christian heresies unearthed in 1945, in egypt,
when the world was almost going to end (nag hammadi)...
                boy cry wolf, eh?
                                        so that video...
and the "anonymous" writer of the article
   seedier media (subplot): social networks must recognise
         their responsibilites and crack down on hate speech...
the two outlets go hand in hand...
         if mccarthy (the real one, the homosexual)
was alive today, he'd be like... perfect:
    the whole concept has automated itself via digital
human connectivity, now i can go to the beach
and bounce my beach ball and get suntan lotion
applied to my back by my boyfriend Fred;
                yeah, that mccarthy; (joe).
                    
i've had worse days, but they usually end with:
i start to write thin, and then get bulges that don't seem
to fit, totally anti paragraph...
                          (too much american media,
too much american alter media, matthew, i'm seriously
going to punish you for this)...
split conscious alternative realities?
      ******* talk without a well paid narrator
to create consent of any art form to begin with.
   second deathbed confession?
how to write a poem that would eventually lead
to a neat conclusion on form, i.e.

| begins here






                                                   ends here |

and all the line breaks are |
                                            |
                 ­                           |
                                    ­        |
                                            |
|
|
|
|
|­
               behaviour-wise... alas... but at least i managed
to get a sneak-peek into what inside out (pixar)
would look like... it was a three way conversation...
3/5 (three out of five)... i'm missing anger and i'm missing
disgust... oh **** me: so 1. joy, 2. sadness, 3. anger,
4. fear, 5. disgust...
                                 to be honest i'm seeing all of them
and writing pointless fractions concerning
                    ethnic correlation to something that looks
like that thing i, also am.

Who the **** is Jane Austen and
why the **** do we consider her works masterpieces?
Jane "boring" Austen lived an ordinary life and wrote very articulate
and pointedly ordinary examinations of character and mundane things
such as first impressions, and virtue, and proper court manners
She is the equivalent of an Oscar-winning author, because she has
mastered the art of being stunningly, fascinatingly mediocre.
She is precisely in the middle, and so balanced there that we applaud her
verbal gymnastics skills.
Works like these don't seem to carry an opinion of much of anything,
They just kind of blankly exist,
the kind of production that, if turned into a movie,
would have a nice, bland, Enya soundtrack.
There are no tears, nothing to make you feel,
It acts to make you numb,
leave you with a vague sense of discomfort and frustration, like
"What's eating gilbert grape" or "little miss sunshine"
in that everyone agrees blindly that they're good, but
they're not exactly sure why they're good, because
they're too close to life and too far away, there's nothing real,
it's too unpleasant to ignore and too familiar to watch.
It's useless, I can see this **** every day,
movies and books are about extraordinary life, to inspire us,
change something,
not just to make us okay with how stagnant we are,
or to examine our stagnation.
These books don't change anything.
I refuse to read or to write anything that steps around
the eggshells that are the fragile opinions and egos of
this, the 'everybody gets a trophy' generation,
I will not submit to anything less than feral reality and a
crazy, completely insane world, because that's what it is
my beautiful blood is more than beautiful,
it's wild and hot and pumps faster with every gasping breath,
and it deserves literature worthy of the heart that holds it.

Buried a good friend yesterday.
A nice spot; high on the hill
With a view to the Trysil mountain.

His son, my best friend, as collected
As ever, watched the casket lowered into
Homeground, to merge

Over time into the matter of his
Ancestors and fallen friends.
Before the fog cleared and the

Mourners parted, we laughed again.
The way he would have wanted
Us to.

After the four hour drive to my woman's
Appartment, I was met with red wine
And a hug.

The flames from her fireplace dancing
On the leaves -yellow with autumn-
Of a tree nearby.

She sat in a t-shirt uncold, and as my
Shoulders finally lowered, I shivered.
Wrapping me in two fur blankets

And topping my glass off, she changed
The music from metal to Enya; louder
Than considerate to the neighbours,

But who cares? It had been one hell
Of a day, and I'd spent myself
Again.

Spent myself on sympathy and sorrow,
And had nothing left. Nothing
But her,

And a part of me cried like an old man
Who hadn't been able to ever
Before.

I was dead ready for her bed, but
Something... something warm, real, and
Very, very important

Kept my eyes open. How any sensation
In a human soul can blend with such
As comfort, and form contentment.

Progressive, she says about the music
The red wine has made her
Put on the stereo,

And I'm glad I have no neighbours, but
At the same time I wouldn't care
If I did; the way her

Hair smells when she headbangs
Is worth more than summer lilac
And lakeside pine in air. Or silence.

I have surrendered to you day after
Day, tonight I put my sword to the ground
And kick dirt upon it

So it will not awaken. I am without
Arms, touching your face with
My unreachabilities.

Rhythm is the only God we have.
Tone is our Saviour, Melody the Holiest
Of Ghosts . *How can we live

Like this? I ask, then shut my mouth
And do as she says: Just listen to
How it climbs; moves; is.

I have no more fight in me. So I
Won't. I'll just let her decide the volume
And music, and when I need it, Dream

Theatre gives in to Enya, and all my
Needs for rest finally make sense as I
Try not to close my eyes and leave my

Head somewhere between her shoulder
And chest, and ask anything that might
Listen not to, for the sake of ****,

Take me to anywhere that isn't where
She decides that we're listening to music
That is anything but us.

I wish to do Pirouettes
in my bedroom
Listening loudly to Enya

I want to tumble straight forward
To the floor

To release my body to all the empty spaces before me
Just waiting to be filled
With rythmic movement
Tap-tipping motion

To trust the air,
The wisps and whispers
To guide me
To where I need to go.

I want to dance
My heart out,
Alone at midnight,
Just me, the moon,
a whole galaxy of stars
And a distant cities skyline

I want to revel in the gushing awe sensations
Like a child building mud castles
With ***** hands

Faster, foot steps, twirling round and round,
Leaping, tumbling, diving, zig-zagging,
Letting the pulse of the music, the pulse of my lungs take me away,

To dance
And dance,
Until I too,
am a whisper
Until I too,
Am the wind.

I want to breathe
In this cool night air
All that I can
To be completely still,
To be simply mystified
By this beautiful magic
Of life in all its entirety...~~

Penny in the river*

We would have had a wonderful life together,

If I had just fought for you harder,

If I had held on the fights a bit longer,

We would have bought that nice house with a bar,

And have a nice home for you and I,

We'd have a lovely company of our child,

And he'd be the reason to wake up every morning with a smile,

Once the child grew then we'd have each other,

We'd pretend to miss him but deeply relieved that he is a bit further,

We'd run around the house naked drown in our happiness and liquor,

We'd eat ice cream off a freezer,

We'd lay on bed listening to your favourite songs of enya,

We'd live young and grow old together,

May be you'd be okay,
If I'd be with you and stayed,

We'd have a wonderful life together,
But now my dreams are nothing more than a penny in a river,

I wake up before my phone's buzz, because I am SO excited to be alive.
I wake up and love just fills every pore and thought.
I wake up and the world is lucky to have me in it today!

Notifications let me know I was missed.
Birds sing good morning to me!
The spiders have spun, "hello friend" above my head.

My hair looks great, soft and shining.
My smile is broader than the horizon of possibilties.
My eyes are gleaming with potential.

Every outfit clings to me in awe.
My makeup does little.
My voice would make Enya cry.

Today I am a masterpiece of the universe.
Today I am a living God.
Today I am cosmically great.

famous grouse* has a tickling
           accent of chocolate,
compared to the smokey
              tendency of bell's...
when smoked salmond
met a baltic sushi herring
   which later became a smokey
whiskey...
      hey: i'm on mars already!
<waves, but does not plant
a flag>
                   you smile
while sheering sheep into
                              woollen coats?
i must admit: dying them
could help,
          maybe shock purple:
of V pink...
                   whoever walked
in Kentucky and bit off
the articular cartilage
               and the trabecular bone...
ooh: tickles the cannibal
formed from eating a chicken...
cocerning the title?
   the perversity of needing
to disperse...
      a fat slob who?
inacted the plausability of a state...
mind **** with:
could have been a roofer...
            met a lazy Russian lass...
there is honestly a part of me
best represented in a pdf. format...
but until that gets exposed:
we'll just stick to graffiti...
   that ****-show you call
a shadow of a waterfall hit
by Hiroshima's history  while
            taking a ****
on a brick wall?!
                  sign me up...
   the impetus?
i simply call him gruff or
                          γραφ...
just seeing the macro-lego
in translated danish, away from
kindergarten makes sense...
i was comparing two whiskeys
and i was the white trash,
wasn't i?
             oh right...
       thank **** i didn't have any
children to pass on the curse...
it really takes ***** celebrating
failing...
          i mean: i watch about
200 movies in the space of a day
with the number i see:
grinding teeth relieved by
the hot topic of a: king david
       attempting onomatopoeia
while not singing,
  but instead moaning:
  pinching the zenith of expression
came a phallus, a *****,
  and a:                    lingua...
             and each acted out
the rabbi, priest and imam joke...
       of: walked into a pub for
a pint...
            if they didn't walk out
with a jihad, a crusade or
   a holocaust? some eskimo
must have poured them alaskan tonic!
- look at me, i'm dressed
up all mime with the expression
best summarised by: huh?!
         i hate cheap jokes...
        but i make cheap jokes...
suits the sort of ugly *******
that i am...
                in terms of lyrics,
a bit like attempting to wave the Titanic
away, in Southampton,
while listening to enya's sail away...
the fun part comes with:
i actually don't know what's
funny about all of this.