to me? Real with a certified S.King filtered -ly mod,
by god,
as the oh myers say. On Writing sans Shining.
Needful fiction,
Liars prosper. Okeh. Thus,
the poor we have with us, always.

Truth t' tell.

Entshallah allathat, OMG samesame
good mastah willin' creeks don't rise

Do the work. Come Sunday, someday,
we, all us, say.

You ever finish your own work one day and jest

sit back lax - lacks a daisy, taken easy,
laxative action,
gut synapse
synch-up, cinch that saddle on my wildest
old Nightmare, beat my plow
back to a oil drum,

set some feats t'dancin' in some ol'lady minds.

old man's angels seen t'be jiggin' on
the head o' some pen
in the hand

worth two in the bush.

Who know what ever mean, okeh.

period. point made signal.
that was said and it's writ.

set it aside, let it dry

crumble to dust and be scattered to the five great gyres
to settle
as sands
ifiable quant, to mortal mind, weighable
any worth assigned as
sought or ought,
a grain,
a mote,
as seen with five gee augmented
lenses
prestandards beeing raised in the buzz
from Utah

as an erranded boy's sail bike lifts into if
from the saline shore.
Bike tires adhered to passive-ly

by molecular
memories of being
in truth, as if
once and ever,
salt of the earth, see in the distance,
Lot's wife

as tiny as can be

Na and CL, for ever,
deja wuwuish it were possible… dream… or die…

no don't. There is a reason. I for get it can not right now but these
keys can be

used right by the sober one in the batch.
God, I love this process. This is the work. Living.
You can do it as long as you can pay attention…

selah

then it, the algorithm, I'll go rhythm, pauses,
Spelchkovian spells masters seem sorry we ever agreed she'd
leave me leavened as dust
lying around
on white linen
in the streets of Laredo, as cold as the clay,

back in the day,
we sang that song in school. We sang
in movie theaters, along with a
bouncing ball and other people,

big bio jump here. My step-brother was murdered,
and it never seemed relative…

my father married a wombed man with one leg,
whose family sang along with Mitch,

and played Spit in the Ocean.

Such experiences ificate possibilities few knew
some survive.
There could be a contributory flow…

This ever lasting book of life.
See, a shore, sand bar
snag a thought rainbowing true to you

hang-ups from way back

Any boomer bubble popped too soon. Manifest at will.
P-pickup from scratch and
make a point
to infect the next pun unknoticing kid,

old -time slow hand-eye coordination special ed, Big Ern,
kicking chalk dust in far right field, noticing
patterns
in the leftmost vector straight home--

grand children, for the joy of knowing they happened,
caused,
to all outward appearance,
by my survival of several unbelievable

periences ex nihilo only
if "It don't mean nothing".

link link link something has broken, what do we con tribute tributary flow
too dammed salty, got to puddle around

waiting. waiting. waiting for one point
to be made
edged on all angles, to each mea culpa assured
quantifiability of reason,

inquizical sequence surpast
glistering

whetted and furbished for ever,

the keenness
the cut, precision decision

and how swiftly forms the scab,
a touch,

capillary seals, the grain, at HD,
one pixelish crystallin charge

change that,
by taking thought. It does nothing to your stature,

think allusive butterflies of lifenshit

it gets tiresome. A body wants some rest from ever
meaning ever and never was known
or heard
a dis cora zone age word, like

troglodyte or luddite Denisovan bracelet breaker,
ropemaker union with certain silky
threads
to which a little leaven always sticks
as would caterpillar spit.

Meandering, right, it's the play. My role.
I manifest the dance
as seen on the surface, from Jim's POV,

then my own POV,
then my own rivers of no return,
tribute

'ary a day goes by I don't re call that feeling,

flow is moving paster and paster the walls are
higher
shade deeper
colder'n'hell fersher, rapids.
Ah,

Kern River, I remember this.
Almond trees, Columbus clouds…
Hey, readerman, paperbackwriter wannabe,

we survived. What'sa-hell, right's right.

clap. there is a - an  STD joke there.
But those aren't funny

right,
standup guy says right's right, does a
Johnny Unitas stiff arm
and gets a case of
clap from the left, worse than meaningless

neo **** non clapping on the right.
Repent or perish.
****** if it don't feel good to say that.
It's true, once you know,

Gertrude Stein, I got it from her. Lesbian Jewish leaven
in passover brownies dipped in Mogen David,
she made me stand and say a rosary.

By any other name,

a rose is a rose and so on

There's been a disruption
in your body's

p a  tt  ern,

b-r-a-n-c-h-i-n-g
river ways
                                                          ­                 form a road map,

             a
maternal
             mosaic,

z
i
g
g
z a g g i n g
                                  a   c   r   o   s   s

peaks
.
.
.
and valleys,

******* >
           bums ~
                   hips ~
                         and (~) tummies.

Vividly hued
in pinks or reds
or silver threads.

One-of-a-kind,
universal at the same time.

Glitter                                      stria,
      ­           shiny, sparkly,
oh-so                                     pretty.

  Worn with pride!
                                                          ­            Or do they hide?

They test you,
                      like any child,

REFUSING
to alter their behavior,

REGARDLESS
of how nicely you ask.

                          Baby's left her mark on you!

Love those lines
as artistic souvenirs,
acquired
on the long journey

                                                        ­               to becoming a mother.

                                    Like
                                    Love
                                    Letters
                    ­                they always have a story.

  What does your story tell?

Hence loathèd Melancholy
  Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian Cave forlorn
  ‘Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.
Find out som uncouth cell,
  Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
  There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,
  In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com thou Goddes fair and free,
In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som Sager sing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,
Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
  Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,
Such as hang on ****’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to com in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the **** with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,
Oft list’ning how the Hounds and horn
Chearly rouse the slumbring morn,
From the side of som **** Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Som time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Wher the great Sun begins his state,
Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his sithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where the nibling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows trim with Daisies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Boosom’d high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps som beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two agèd Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,
Som times with secure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;
And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday,
Till the live-long day-light fail,
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht, and pull’d the sed,
And he by Friars Lanthorn led
Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,
To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,
When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the Corn
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,
And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
Ere the first **** his Mattin rings.
Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep.
  Towred Cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prise
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend.
There let ***** oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
And ever against eating Cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden soul of harmony.
That Orpheus self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear
Such streins as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain’d Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

grandmaster of funk is called Ern
learnt his jive at the big losers cafe
Ern is full of ******* to no **** end
talk of bedding the ladies but he's so fey
he's been to china and bulgaria to learn Zen
but we know he takes rentboys to loos for some affray
disguised in pouncy ray-bans he poses saying call me Ken
am a Mentalist specialist so come **** me at the madhouse bay
hes a liar and a bully and a proser of disrepute with a three inch pen

“Chip!” Ernie bellowed.; “What do you want you stupid, *******?” Chip answered; “Who are you calling a stupid, *******? You're the real stupid, *******, not me!” Ernie exclaimed.; “Oh yeah?” Chip questioned.; “I'm not half the stupid, ******* that you are!” Ernie informed.; “Yes, you are!” Chip retorted.; “No, I'm not!” Ernie indignantly replied.; “I say you are!” Chip boldly proclaimed.; “No way am I a stupid, *******!” Ern, as he was hardly ever called, reasoned.; “Listen,” Chip began in earnest, “it's no secret around here, and you can ask Uncle Charley, that you are the dumbest and the stupidest ******* ever!”; Ernie stood up and faced Chip. “Well,” he began frankly, “Uncle Charley is senile so he's not able to judge who's the stupidest ******* here!”
   Just then  Rob, played by Don Grady, came in. “Hey Chip. Hey Ernie.”; “Hey Robbie,” Chip muttered. “Who's the stupidest *******: me or stupid, ******* Ernie?”; Rob put down the shoe box that he was carrying. “I guess Ernie is.”; “Thanks, Robbie,” Chip thanked Rob, thoroughly relieved because the issue of who is the stupidest of dumb *****, he or Ernie, was settled once and for all even though one must use stupider as the comparative (comparing 2) & stupidest as a superlative (comparing 3 or more); even though stupider & stupidest ain't even proper words.

.
                                  Ivory
                       ­      Billed Wood
                            pecker  Amur
                   ­       Leopard  Javan
                          R h i n o cer o s
                          Northern Sport
                          Lemur N o r t h
                          ern Right Whal
                          e The S a o l  a-
                          Asian   Unicorn
                          L e a t h erback
                          S e a T u r t  l  e
            Siberia T i g e r    Chinese G i a n t
          S      a        l       a     m     a    n  d   e   r
           T h e     L I t t l e     D  o d o    B i  r  d
              A m e r i c a n           D  I   c   k

Procrastination on reaching
destination
national
notional global
we,
the people, the species joined
by virtue, the power in/of/for life, of
truth, the oomph that fixes first trys,

so oft ging awry, ai ai ai
so we suffer
woe is me
I am so lonely I could die robby robot voice

ping. Time to imagine reality from thought
through thoroughly thundering herds
headed el otro l'ow
wow
allowance, we bit o' flex, stop the flow, oh,
no
prop-blem-blame, right, a real bullet in a real gun did that,
when we were kids, three times,
none of those killed me, so
one more big bang.
DID it, a gain for the whole gang.
And the whole team sorts the peace from chaos.
Masks on, filters set to AlphaGo rules of longest game
ever
imagined, as now,
with one of us watching this written,
with one of us reading this written,
and all of us, the unity denominator, we
- focus, slow, finer detail one, mind
as fine as
ever
imagined, as now,
breathe and think how I wished this could be,
imagine being, long ago,
me, uh-oh slipped,double mind-error, nospace
fine tuned enough to learn of the hope
this is we manifest in /as vessels full from his
faith in the effort to accumulate all we ever knew
ever learning, the art of discerning soul from spirit
-- effort to think this was given to us long ago by
the unsung
second son of The Admiral of the Ocean Seas.

{in the realm of bubbling reality, where ******* is more
a character arc than char'cter trai t or trade, give ya this
for that… this is not what you thought was real, this is
the deal. We all think we make it with ourselves,
imagine-ing as we are wont, we actively think,
we be lieve we leave no trace, gone gone gone
yet words
surface, as stones on unsold desert lots scraped
by Patten's Tank's, then by the future home,
of the rebuilt London Bridge, said to have
fallen for this one line of reasoning alone to know
that bit
of all we think we know, avowt Lawn'dbridtches
fallen down fallen down fallen down

oh did we become corroded, yet we be, still eh, slow
reader
slow writer ride on…

first time in the temple, kid?
have you no id-east being in you, knowing, growing
as it occurs, id have donithadiknown
groan-ing ping, pragnanz, several days misinterpt, but
here's the now trick.

I live in Hernando Colon's actual functional imaginary
library, and I have developed an untimely urge
to fake the leaking dam, flash, rec- current or creational
flow
I have no wish to know.
So, on we go. Where were we?

Colon is the Columbus family name, in Spain,
all over, not only on the plain, or even
mainly there,
this stream of science used as knowing being
knowing where answers may
be found.
London Bridge,
mind map says the humming bird intaglio
has cousins here
scarred from wars of we and them,
all locked in unalienable rights to hide lies.

Site Six, magic fish caught on worms,
imagine that…
one single summer in all the ever summers,
this seed first spat.

Treasures hid in serpentine winding tales
of pattern forming
on surface of bubbles that survive the rise
in the ever watched *** that seldom,
but does, some times,
moments
instants
in contemplation
boil
over the top and sizzzzle on
the tongue a fire four times hotter
ai ai ai the spice from hell

says the actual signal accept-slot set in the thought
this hot
at this particular set
of sensors tongue to taste tell if we can or not,

if you swallow there will be grumbles
from below, takes half an hour to burn in the end.
..
spit it out, be the fool. Ever a role any pup can play.

-- dark inside

I am the emissary, aware am I, of certainty
in certain future wedoms,
when each sensitive bit is accounted worthy, eh,
pay attention
to how hot these peppers really are,
and why
in ever was such pain endured and acquired,
as a taste,
of what's t'come kid, fresh man can did, ate it, didn't I, wink
; didn't we all
think you can handle it. That is not a question
this is it,
this thought is thinking we can take it through to sane,

or settle in the first unfilled-in peace valley we find, hell,
we could build on any refuse pile, 'ernando did.
- dis associate sigs scramble cipher it through
- read on, make it make sane, not mad, push

Did not know but now do, there exists in my library,
a book, new,
a compilation of a trove found in the leavings of
a harmless second son of Christopher Columbus,
herein known as 'erna'do, ern-ado, ern-ator, old
Ern,
TV character, yes, reincarnation of id- the arranger alone
sorting **** from shinola, and loving the effect of Brasso
on buckles, vestigal symbols
bucklers, ala WWWhatever bouts of dance-viol-ent-ities
we imagine,
as bears once were baited and dogs bred to ****,
angels wrestled with, naked,
as apes.
Eh, Socrates imitator, asks the imitator of anointed gnosis
refusing the sign of the serpent stood tippy toe pointed west

with a swirl into the realm of his magi-ist existancy, ah, me
see, qwerty key aware, stories
so often as mousemade plans can, due to sudden constant cut off
telomeres, mere word effectuality, wanes,

as voices of the dead in Later do. S.King novel reference, for
future cultural harvest.\
wait. see. now, as the reader, we steer the story through
the straits of Magellan, as one of the final 18, into
rest, safe harbor
home for real
feel
right at home, taste these peppers we brought back
boom
AND we are from a culture who laughed goodheart laugh
of I did that, spitting image,
I did exactly that, I spat it out and said
to hell with this,
yes, been there done that come visit say, some
visitation day,
pay the preacher for the story was the story preacher told
don't tell,
it's the business side of things, the paperwork you know,
art informing actual imagining aiming am-ping right
at artistic intuition
ai ai ai
next, time you visit the temple, plan ahead.

Wait, contemplation is momentarily
on instance access only,
one instance per new book discovery, acknowledged
we haf enough no to find the remains of
wasted time thinging wron thinks

The Catalog of Shipwrecked Books,
and touched on
just in time

settled dust
exist-dance in the anonymous peace past understanding
or caring if you do, I slipped
om u dodo doodot doo doah, yeah
jazzy after hours clickity click
sig sent, see
see me se-ing open open open outside the whole damnedmall

personally we is an offensive pronoun to me, I feel we
as intimate-permanancy, the outer shell
of ever,
where the math goes kerouac and ****** if ginzberg
had no secretmeaning of shirtshatsatin, some dope
some hope howls
some day may
be as good as any man can make up his mind to be, and if
that mind be evil in intention, we arise

to twist it otherwise, the filters, to now from then,
instant speed of fingers on keys,
and soon, very soon, Elon says,
think
and the finding of the answer is done, boom. So die.

Then is is believed no error of double mind striving for balance,
balance is not how we roll at all,

this is still the same novel found on the diamond farm

the longest game, keeps Sisyphus happy,

see Camus gave some old guy I knew as a mind meld event
once, in a book I think I read as if it were being written
by my friend, Ben, from Ben and me, yes,
early evidence of Disneyifity activated sooner than Later.

The fading voices of the dead, that adds urgency, right
to know,
gotta know, gotta pass through-t the penetralium

thought through thoroughly, roughly any sense of knowing how
to find the answer to any question that comes to mind,
locked in, same as dead? nah, why try to live,
otherwise, try
as an alienated mind, mass accessible.

Tune-in, drop-out, some did,
some said they did, then the judge
mental
we begin to sort ourselves from first nibble, first taste, first
snakey lick, with a kick, whoa
this is too too too hot to just
give
away, go, shoo fly, you bother me, I have no rich and famous wish,
I waited to see why we ever get old,
see.
Ever is ever not every e-very e-ver-y ai ai ai hot wire signal to the sun
start my fire
I come to offer up another day in a paradaise I imagined after
the fact.
It is a knack included in the greater works than these clause,
if you find the time to imagine that, after all
is
said and done, my side won, and this is what I do for the rest
I earned by enduring to the end, let go, lose loose ends,
trust the knowledge, constantly forming information
conforming to the spirit of peace in knowing
everything
has been thought, and all the enjoyment we can imagine
is used through knowing grown all this time one root, you
think
you can know by kindness, all things, faster now,
faster thinking
taking time, to think more faster ab
rupturous break through

and, *******, life ***** the life right, right, fight right
good fight
semper, simperingwisherypuke, fi

del- phi-delit, it's us,
we lost the temple but brought the fire
from the alter,
?
what does that pretend to mean, you think,
JFK eternal flame, boom
we know you know, run, fustus wit 'd mostus make us
think war was glories once,
oh, yeah, don't we all know, the glory and honor of war,
bestowed on a nation
?
a nation of unalienable rights,
right things one pledging must believe,
pledged, owed. Dues as debt, must be paid,
- we-owe we,
- we- owe- we, clink chanting hammer ringinh'
- we- owe we, marching as to war appear
to cut the muster,
not the mustard, we must only make it through the morning
call to arms, we remain
ready, read-up, prayed up, writers
of the purple sage sayings saying each
time
write this, stroke, this jot,
this tittle, write it a little off
on the whole
no big deal, endless paper endless ink ever learning yet all the truth
holds, who can know,
as you hold certain truths your own self,
proper, eh ly or ty, own properly property
self, you, reader, me writer, they
the unknown NPCs
on the journey named
for a genuine mad man with a plan,
gone awry, as oft we do, on the name of a fool,
remembered from a history test
to determine earthling status
ai aye, yes, a fool is
a man who says in his heart,
there is no god,
there is a friend in truth, a love
in knowledge formed as caverns
formed to be as beautiful as any seer can imagine,
these walls of all our marvel dc sony wonder world
of utter global disineyification allows in
ABC- text in context, seeing

we visited the pilgrim stories, speed of thought, bits of citixery stick
think. We ought pay the reader,
but I am the reader, so we think together flocking,
feather-wise alienated mind
flock.
DIP switch set to master. Set D and E to slave.
Remember the last 26 terrabytes.

Now. This has been a Hissing humming tail of a long story,
warning, it has been told as many times as you may imagine,
ever being as it is, changing,
and all.

Mere words. All mere word pairs, can be re searched, this is 2021,
but you may think you knowit,
knowing wrong does not **** you if you can make it right,
in the end you must swallow the tiny pepper whole.

That is the secret, chose the smallest pepper, do not chew
do not spit, swallow the tale, tell it true, each telling lengthens

the attention span of a very rare we. Who make the discerned
soul and spirit function as a good, we know, is hard to get.
But easy to make from bits of idle cultural refuse
piled higher all the time.

one thing most evident about england,
well...
not that many birch trees (my favourite),
or pines...
    birch treets as said to be the scounts,
they lay the ground for a forest,
    the best i can experience
around here are foxes, no wolves...
and even the foxes as shattered...
  a bit like the badgers...
   mind you, we can have as many objective
truths, and sorta feel proud...
    but i feel numb...
   numbers don't add up in the category
of feeling...
      i should really be standing
at some road juncation:
with excess applause...
          i don't think that's necessary...
    i can only state
a neo-gothic excavation began by
type o negative...
                     and the early death of
the lead singer....
   then there's that excess of attire...
lead, and Pb...
                 as some seach: also contained
within: a leash...
               me in a Turkish shop,
talking to the owner:
Papaturk... how i saved him money
when the local council
               inquired why he provided the caravan
umbrella...
    and hid the public bench...
   5 months i haven't seen him...
     we start speaking and it really is 5 months...
i talk about a month spent in Poland
and -18 temperatures...
  he just keeps referecing 5 months...
i'm only buying 4 cans of beer,
who gives a **** about a biography?
   i don't know if i half pretend or actually am
the one some might call: busy...
           my eyes are elsewhere...
i keep looking for them like i might
turn to finding either heart or Brian...
                one's a stone,
and the other a fat-sponge soaked in porridge...
    yep... type o negative... just
when the jerry spinger show was taking off...
took goth to a new dimension,
i remained clad in the most believable grey
attire... the boring type...
        and it's only that having experienced
a very rare traffic of soul-like expderiences...
did i become to realise
that such experiences are, well,
rather pointless...
   or at least undermining everything
surrounding them...
   god is a great concept, to motivate
the hazy fairies of the suggested approach...
             and when it actually happens,
say: hear angels singing while to rob
the altar of its white cloth and lie under the
altar... checking for sure whether you
are hearing what you're hearing...
             it thus becomes an existential
game, i.e. whether you "hear" or hear,
whether you "heard it" or heard it...
     and whatever experience you may have had,
it's a bit pointless to state that you're
of a cultish calibre...
               it just becomes a bit pointlesss...
you just see selling potatoes
   and Korans as more important...
     then it becomes a case of:
  well: why beging with anything at all?
why not call all the saints mental imbeciles?
   why not begin there?
i say that because, given the teaching,
as in: forgiving your enemies,
has not compass in western society,
western society, if isolated,
would be equivalent to a man / woman talking
to themselves in the streets of Beijing...
          i say i could have had an experience,
but the way i have been itemised, scrutinised,
i'd gladly believe in a crowd of people
nibbling at a mystery...
   actually experiencing a mystery gives you nothing!
i'm all for democracy, all for chaos...
            nothing happened, i didn't exist...
it's easier that way...
    that's why i feel no affinity with western
culture... it's just a load of ******* to me...
            i could have said:
i heard angels singing,
   but given the so called "sanity" membrane
of humanity, to create an omni-entity,
to later discard it...
     evidently there's no precise vector linking
(a) to (b)...
                   in england they call this
case a "mental" illness...
  i really wish my brain had the capacity
to create placebo experiences so pontent
that i'd sorta stop following in my father's
footsteps and becoming a roofer...
then again, he was sentenced to labour
in an industrial complex of steelworks,
look how that frail and senile pope
looked like clinging to his throne,
slobbering with his last speeches, "saintly"
john paul ii...
               i was very fond of pope emeritus,
all the grannies in poland said:
take, that, thing, from the throne...
    no easier way to overcome the saints
than have a pope-saint...
   who really wants the spotlight...
but should be killed by strobe-light and something
translating epilepsy into a stroke...
   as one bound to an exodus
i have no allegiance to the current folklore of
my original people...
    i don't know why i kept the tongue:
apparently such things are hard to erase,
   being first generation, i guess only with
an english wife i'd be able to shut up...
hence my english having a "subconscious"
undercurrent of polish...
             and i live in an anglican country...
    oh there are, there are differences
between a catholic nation and a protestant
nation...
   as there are differences between northen
catholic and southern protestant...
        no wonder i was given a "medical"
    noun  schizoid...
       encompass all of that, in a single generation?
you'd go cuckoo!
                 but then again i'm playing
tennis with a brick wall...
         i don't expect pity, i don't expect empathy,
in just expect nothing, no body...
              we're all bound to wear the shoes
we tire with against the pavement...
  but ridicule is the one thing that ****** me off...
   i'd prefer a comforting joke...
   ridicule is something devoid of what is required
for a passion, even a passion scrutinised and staged
by a stand-up comedian in sarcasm...
   ridule is a bit like science,
already lost to the schism of its counterpart of
falsification...
                    so many truths! so many truths!
          i guess that's what philosophy is about,
apart from being a mediator of science with / vs.
humanism, it's the membrane segregating the two...
      you can clearly cheat with science,
you can ascribe fake statistics with science,
  tell them 1 in 5 women were *****
as part of the **** culture phenomenon,
  when someone else states: more like 1 in 165...
but you can't exactly find a person who
lied about reading Tolstoy's war and peace....
only because a person who has read that
   piece of work: isn't exactly keen to talk about it;
from experience:
   i've read don quixote... and i'm not that keen
on giving a proof of having read it...
that's my own c.c.t.v., not yours.
   you can find that a lot, one a person
reads the equivalent of 5 Islamic columns / elements...
   say.... rather than completing the Hajj...
reading the Brothers Karamazov...
        you really don't get that much
conversation...
  reading a book as the established order
of the 19th century, read in the 21st century...
you start to look at your contempories
a bit suspiciously... like they really are devoid
of acknowledging a worthwhile experience with you...
i started to look at most people, my contemporaries,
at bit like walking into a bathroom showroom...
    i guess i thought about brushing my teeth
and talking to them so they could pick up a scent
of wild strawberries oozing from my mouth...
   i read the **** books, i don't need to compete
for being able to talk about them...
given the books... it's very hard to talk about them...
      you don't really get to talk about
these columns...
          well, unless it's the Koran,
then you really get to talk... you get to shout, even,
and shoot a throng of pigeons while you're at it...
  apologies, no apologies... yada...
or as one puts it (talking queeny beeny) -
   to the great artistic mafia of Poles...
              somehow connected...
   the whole: blood thicker than water...
            oh i'm about to dump this
  mongrel soul and treat it as:
            a Mickiewicz might:
of the tongue, of the body, toward the soul
   cleansing...
               i probably will not like the end
results... but that's better than what i have now...
        i don't like to have a mongrel soul
trapped inside a mono-ethnic body...
              i tried the whole utopian masquerade of
living the dream, i.e. "living the dream",
it didn't exactly work out as western politicians
liked to have hoped it might...
             and that's the really sad part,
i really wished it could have worked...
   now, whenever i think about *******
  someone of my ethnic compendium
whether by body represented, or by soul encouraged...
i just think it's ******...
                 it's like the culture i express
has encouraged that i move to
south africa and **** someone so far removed
from my experiences...
          it really does feel like ******...
        what a sick sick world to be gravity prone to too..
but hey! we have the numbers...
     try to be cosmopolitan for a bit,
whether that's in London, or Edinburgh...
      it soon emerges that the Greek city-states of
modern capitals are surrounded by
****** prone cannibals...
   and more importantly: philistines.
                     sure, for a second you can almost
be persuaded by atheistic arguments...
as those took hold the imagination of people
in the early 21st century...
     i just look at man and see god laughing...
and since the case is: the ugliness of a godless man...
      well...
                    the crucifix is hardly
the N on the compass...
  but since the crucifix aimed at the N of the compass...
the northen barbarians said a joke
that made the crucifix something worth
imitating in the Philipines for a worth of spectacle...
and elsewhere, skog av krux -
oh, it's a very short joke...
         blod ørn... ****** eagle...
   given that so many imitate being crucified...
  can only signify it being a complete and utter joke...
one hour in a järn-jungfru
would make up 2000 years worth of history;
or a scene from a Sioux scalping stone...
    we're ingenious like that...
and yes: blod ørn - blod o(h)-ern...
          i prefer the german blut adler...
   so many moustaches, and other periphenelia
of attire, such as a bow-tie...
  to translate the bewilderment
that a latin inherited grapheme can't
be the smallest unit of sound, given the vowel...
  or how the grapheme became translated
for the worth of diacritical marks...
  æ and œ created
    the basis for diacritical marks being applied...
as with the already stated example...
ørn is derived from œrn...
             tongue-tie twisting like a serpent around
its suffocated prey...
          spine bound to crunch, and defeatist chess...
    we can never say why it was applied
to the signifier: umlaut (ü) - best explanation
is a hidden arithmetic... and the compensation
of omicron-macron...
                       but that's just a guess...
    science is anything but holy...
given the fact that it's so easily manipulated...
                 and falsified, and cheated...
     the samde torturous instruments that defended
religion, are but replaced in the name of science...
          as a life bound to be a freedom,
with labour inside the mind that is relentless,
   and in dire need of change...
where  democracy, or autocracy, as nothing more than
slaves of the arch-cardinal, known as status quo.

If you people feel the way I do,
You would know exactly what everyone's been through,
It's about time we make a change for the better,
Don't be mean say your glad to have met her,
Time to say how you really feel,
Say this is a dream and this isn't real,
My worst nightmares have come true,
If I wake up in the middle of the night it's because of you,
You make my head spin and hurt,
The ****** thing is, is that it can always get worse,
It really hurts but it's time to refrain, it's not the drugs that causes the pain,
Inhale your problems to exhale your solutions,
The appitamy of your resolutions,
Over and over things try to be fixed,
You want to leave but literally everything will be missed,
If only you listened to my heart like I do,
How long should I scream "LOVE ME" until you actually do,
Straight jackets and white rooms of love, call me crazy,
But I'll **** for you ern though your killing me.

trainers?  who the ****
needs new trainers?
i want the sort of music
i can cry to...
          oh...
right...all alclohlics
don't cry genuine
tears...
   well..
hello gay-lord
paedohpile priest
child molly-molly
******! what?
i thought i was told
that crying
over classical
music
   was taboo?
sure, sure, like... me...
    'ere 'ere...
best of a 2 h
screen shot,
not having spet
watching
a washine machine cycle,
or what some people
call, "conspiracy theory"
by, moo'd'ern'
stand'oods...
   what?
oh right... ****...
**** without a samurai
sword agitation,
must be a white thing...
      is that even a...
a...
  an even...
a that...
        a a...
you want to play
this game?
                i keep forgetting
to play it...
but i undermine myself
with a reminder...
   there's genuine
interest
in donning this
****-fest
of the clash,
*** the beatles...
    mersey... come
the thames...
         like i said before...
you can't provide a stable environment
for island dwelling
people...
                 freaks!
     unless...
they are mutually
   exclusionary...
  "off"... their "fellow"...
invading barbarians...
    oh sure...
the native communities changed...
come the 1950s...
but with the european migrantion
from the late 00s...
of the expansion
of the european union?
don't worry...
most of the pollacks left...
you're just left
with the ******* ****
gangs...
no worries!
chill! chill!
what are you getting hot &
bothered about?!
  chill!
i'm no jew,
i'm not existentially..
globak pro...
fugitive...
     the english bird
high up 'n' arms...
protectionist...
while all you want to do...
is **** a
   sydney watson
or a delta goodrem...
bad ******* idea to send off
convicts...
   what?!
who's bewldered playing
a who's who?
do i look like a ******* stalemate
of an englishman?
i need 1980s pop songs!
what?
i'm a sensitive beast
with a lack
for a concern for a sense
of humour!
whar?!
   i don't like
humour,
that doesn't prompt
itself to continue
with a genesis of slap-stick!
you know what
fetish-**** is to me?
tina turner...
  mingling with
   sydney watson....
that's **** to me...
either that...
or... jerking off to
a bronzino...
or some 20th century
apocalyptic nostalgia
of...
  what would never
become
the tinder,
the fb,
       and...
       what i best serve
for the blank
stated waiting
game...

but i'm not even
english!!!!!!

when you're eased
out of a delusion,
finding yourself,
recluse,
with a relief,
bound to the ability,
to extract
an authentic tear.

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?

i was going to write about how
i made kolhapuri masala for a curry i made...
and how i forgot one ingredient
when writing about it
and how i solved a sudoku puzzle to remind
me of it...
and something about...
   the men-yoroi...
               and details of a dream...
             but why detail all of that?
     after all... i reserve the content of dreams
for myself...
i dream so rarely: i rarely have a chance
to ponder them...
i hear about elaborate labyrinths of
dream-walkers... and those people who
have recurrent dreams...
  part envy part: ******* idiots...
reflex not working... hell with a knee ****...
the entire knee is missing!
dream-walkers: ghost-limb extensions
that some make a summary of: brain's ditto:
ergo tweet!
otherwise the real deal...
      the idea came with... a book...
not just any book...
the romford public library can blush...
picked it up in edinburgh...
sold at £28-        the cheapest online? £60!
well... itch... itch... behave... behave...
it's not a shoe... or a pair! ha ha!

it's just a first edition... 1985...
   the anatomy of madness: volume 1 -
people and ideas ed. by w. f. bynum, roy porter etc.
    tavistock publications
         for more information...
please write to: 11 new fetter lane
                            EC4P 4EE...
    east(ern)-central... believe me... no city in england
is given a NW... or a SW... the greenwich
treatment of... far far away in
the "honk honk hanging with kong"
or... whatever that sort of postcode is...
i would say anything with E17 is probably
Warsaw or Berlin... and hardly walthamstow...

if you're looking for the centre of the earth...
otherwise please write to:
      29 west 35th street
                           NY 10001...

sometimes it's just necessary to hit a plank
of wood with a spandex whip...
or... bop around seemingly on the verge of
drowning and misguide a bottled message...
or... droll! what's a droll?
curious or unusual in a way
      that provokes dry amusement;
yes... hardly a doll.

might as well start calling it...
Dickensian out-of-vogue: vogue etymological
revival of... the victorian lexicon...
being heavily influenced by...
the attire of the empire being...
that of saving the myth of rome...
with... good manners... b.d.s.m. ******
parameters and... brandy drank...
with some water...
like... a frenchman would clean his palette
when drinking an espresso...

the essay in mind?
        w. f. bynum & michael never:
   hamlet on the couch...

well so much for english jurisprudence:
due process, innocent until proven guilty...
and all that "jazz"...
not under the flimsy / quasi-hippocratic
"oath"... machado de assis: the alienist...
you are always to be presumed mad:
you have to be presumed sick...
before you can be well...
it's not like you are ever to be well...
otherwise: how does a psychiatric logic
work? yes... all those "metaphysical"
conundrums...

     point being: my new discovery
of my rekindled ability to dream... is my new ****...
my new privacy...
how does hamlet on a couch matter?
how about... dickens in an armchair?
this is my alternative "doodle"...
if a shakespearean character is lying
on the couch...
what am i to do? in passing "listen"...
but doing nothing of the sort...
instead... reading some dickens...
and... having to finally...
succumb the victorian common colloquial...
i.e. of words: directly derived: etymologically
from latin - and loaned into english...
oh no... no romance concerning
Charlemagne, the vikings, the saxons...
the swabians or the dutch or the french...
what victorian england spoke:
having this phonetic encoding...
less and less imperium romanus and more
and more giuseppe belli sonnet slang...

cappuccino!
        e jjeerzera me diede un'antra stretta
    (last night she made me have another fit).
credi che ffussi uno scorpione? eh ggiusto!
era un pizzo d'un osso-de-bbaleno,
che jj'ussciva cqui ggiu ffora der busto.
    (you really think it was a scorpion?
yeah right, and not the piece of whale bone
which stuck our of the corset that she wore)...

so much for ancient rome...
so much so for victorian england...
what would you call it these-days...
if you started calling "it" a... 'lard-buff'?
    
as far as i am concerned: psychiatry is a branch
of "medicine"... or rather...
medicine has a tenctacle that reaches into
the parts of hades that only wriggling worms
get to chew on...
and at that: you're not presumed innocent...
you can't me... adverse logic:
you have to be sick... therefore guilty...
and how did ever... this loophole escape
the grand justices of the crown?
people pleaded insane: therefore guilty...
but thereby somehow exempt...
it's a satanic laugh i tell you...
                      no other... no less...
                  
                      you can't plead a case of law
when facing an antithesis copernican plea
of now standing up-side down in
australia: or the black swan...
or if caging a wallaby will ever bring you aid...

under english law: you are innocent...
until proven guilty...
under an extension of the hippocratic
oath within the realm of:
practice of psychiatry in england:
you are sick... until cured...
                 never can you be semi-well...
and therefore treated...
and by being treated... chances of you
making a recovery? ha ha...
chances of you becoming a spider
in a web designed by learned men...
lost in prefixes and suffixes and other sort
of ******* of rubric terminology?
oh hell!         cudos! applause applause
to you sir!

                the hamlet on the couch is
but a fraction of shakespeare...
for which i prescribe only one course of action...
some Dickens in an armchair...
no other cure for it, sir... and dearest madam...

and oh! oh i almost "forgot"...
why is it sourced as:
woda (water) and wódka (*****)...
such a close alliance...
but no... it's not a drinking water...
so much for water...
what is mirror? lustro...
       well...perhaps it shouldn't be called
for what it's called wódka:
the ill-water...
            perhaps it should be called:
pite-lustro...             drank-mirror...
well... it can't be called a verb and a past-particle
of that verb: pić-lustro: in the present-particle
of: to drink a mirror...

eh... nouns... loan words...
no man's land... brothels and judases...
easy targets... the bulk of the army hides waiting
in grammar...
unless... there's an army...
of "gender neutral pronouns"...
who wouldn't jump first and thirst for the idea...
mannequins eerie: err west!
the middle kingdom mantra began...
no nukes... nukes are not economically viable...
send em a bio-x-factor that the Y in XY will
sooner or later want to forget:
rather than forge...
we **** poor but our women give
the ****** of accelerated reproduction...

      Xin said to Wae Wae:
and that's how the Yang was brooded...
   and Chan said to Ezra: mind the Tao...
please!
  and all other politico: tic-toc
        tic-toc
                            some say it's *****...
some say it's: lustrzyca...
a mirroring-counter-effect...
  blind narcissus...
                my psychiatric ills:
too many words Wilhelm! too many words!
i need the pleb-lingo herr doktor helmut himmler!
to: "fitz inz"!
      
oh y'as sizzor: scissor sir: wery ilz sez he'z...
past the fever's crux 'n' zeniv sirs...

and of course... bad latin grammar...
working from vide cor meum:
     and ad hoc...
                             and a hiccup...
and carpe diem...
      hic: this...
   diem: day
   est: is
           mea: mine...
this day: is mine... or is it...
           hic diem: mea est!
   let's go with that...
  (because it just couldn't be
ancestral language with modern
english... this day: sure...
        is mine? n'ah n'ah'ah'ah)...

             bad english into french can't be
as bad as... good german into good
english and a zeppelin shower...
i.e. good english into bad french...
because it's most probably going
to be... good english into circa-good german...
which is... always the rage of a pwoblem...
you can write bad english into bad
german... and good english into good german...
but however you write good english into
french: it will most probably become:
bad french or... gascon...

    hell: call it a burgundian appealing?
it's a hush... elsewhere... a welshman...
a kashubian... a ruthenian... hell... even a prussian!

sam weller would state, so: wis as whittle
as: theta on the tip of the prefix with
the whiff of: THis!

Dead inside I am.
Dead I am.
Pain is only in my head where my demons live.
Daily doses of lies. "I'm good" "I'm always good (fake smile)"
Death use to be something of fear for me.
Now I don't know the difference between living and dieing.
Are we living to die?
Or are we dieing to live?
Dead inside I am.
I am dead.
Visuals of the bottom of a lake and how long it'll take me to reach the bottom.
How hurt will my mother be?
Dead inside I am.
I am Dead.
Feelings are nothing more than a tease of what I believe to be the key to happiness.
That happiness is when you finally get to lay in a casket or be cremated into a ern.
Dead inside I am.
I am Dead.
Why feel anything?
No pills needed for me to not feel.
Only takes one thing to make sure that smile of mines turns to rain.
And it to me is worst than death.
I will live until my final day here.
I will remain the same.
Dead inside I am.
I am Dead.

A little here a little there as good as a smile
I see a soul on the street nothing to eat
I buy an extra bun or two all worthwhile
A little here a little there very hard to beat

During the 2nd world war my dad for sure
Had his own problems to say the very least
But alway bought a little extra to give away
So a few he knew could even then enjoy a feast

If any happen to see some of my poetry and think
Oh from that I could add a tune and create a song
Pick up that guitar and play and sing it your way
Maybe a middle 8 or a cord break  to keep it strong

Imagination a wonderful thing a good point made
Things down the street that you've seen on the day
A poem thus burn allows the genie out of the ern
All smallest forms of insidentle giving your way

What goes around does come around all so very true
Become your inner souls voice tell it your way rejoyce
Someone thats somwhere will feel beyound compare
You adding a positive feeling giving life some are ..

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018

strapped to some unfathomable debilitating
fear -
           yet that it is: fathomable by the tinge
of it being primodial -
                                          archetypical -
a very real "god" without an organised
boasting court of a spanish inquisition -
                                        just a solitary ordeal...

new york city concrete -
            in 1970s style grit cinema -
                              something akin to:
          a veil of flimsy sandpaper covering
the eyes...
                      as i'm thinking of buying
charles olson's maximum poems -
             not that there's much of a difference
between a hardcover and a soft-,
         at forty-quid a pop...
                      that's comparable to splashing
out on a heidegger's black notebook...

some awe-inspiring punctuation -
morse and shrpanel -
                              a pinnacle of rewind
as i sit and watch: america the 1990s...
          and it's so much the same export
and it's so much what's basically new-old
if i were to keep my eyes
itchy with glue and insomnia...

i think i'll buy the book -
                                               cur non?!
it would surely make starving
              so very spectacular: spec-tac-ular...
hardly a near miss -
   because there's always that:
                         to imagine a square
is nothing when imagining a kangaroo...

   nor like this → here or therefore ↓
-                                                             c
h                                                            o
s                                                            u
i                                                             l
n                      (e)                                 d
i                                                             e
f                 (d)                                       v
n                                                            e
u                                                            r
↑                         noiɈɒbnυoʇ ɒ niϱǝd ←

                here: right - no centre -
                       here a wish: left -
                                      begins: no leftover...
someone once told me to stay away
from the postmodernists...
                                    but on a diet of acute
sensibility and teasing that old
fulfilling desperation of life told by one
against the marrow millions...
                    
to present a whole chicken for a meal...
when compared to...
   a bowl of chicken hearts that can be used
to make a broth...
you wouldn't roast a chicken
with all the tender insides: of liver,
of heart or stomach...
            headless chicken you serve...
but...
             this one chicken is...
           and a bowl of chicken hearts ready
for a broth / brew also...
                               but the tenderness
of a comparison...

   i should have bought tool's fear inoculum
when it first came out...
i should have bought tool's fear inoculum
when it first came out...
                  
an ancient fear like a shadow that can move
on its own will without
a necessary body and a projection
of the mind...
                      
for the same amount of money...
tool's fear inoculum or charles olson's
maximus poems...
           let the heaving sigh of american
originality pursue a decade longer...
         i'm not exactly supposed to find
cultural exports of russia appealing...
                   i might...

           but america comes naked...
comes certain... comes brown-nose and comes...
a lethargic stress of light:
if that could... but it's not possible!

i shouldn't have bothered reading
postmodernists... beside Olson i don't think
that i have...

                   it's not such an impossible
gesture to wish for:
              given... one's own wish is...
the sulking silence of a theatre -
                    deemed impossible with actors...
i feel so many crawling eyes
over my body when i designate myself
to a rest:
  but always prior...
                  before a dream: there's never
a dream...
there's the erotica of suicide...
a complete kenneth koch hard-on
for jumping out of the window...
there's even the added "mystery" of
jumping out of the window
with a knife...
                      to make sure...
the knife is pointing at the heart...
            because... making a pancake
of oneself...
finally having a revelation that...
yes... upon impact... there's the skeleton
with electric extensions of nerves...
that there's no exoskeleton
and that upon impact...
the pain spreads like a soothing
immediacy - that there are not days
or weeks or medical induced coma
recuperation...

                     what is the common question?
suicidal thoughts...
oh god... aren't they the best sort
of erotica... the will to death is all that can
be sometimes achieved...
when so little of life fits...
hierarchical agonies and groans...

it's not a hard-on but it's...
                a sort of goosebump hot shave
and friction stubble
of a tickled pair of ******* suddenly
dropped into a bowl of creamy ice...
with the whole guillotine spec-t'ah-cular!
it's hardly a hard-on...
it's an imitation ****...

                that death must be ****** is
so certain: inch by inch i try to escape
the monotonous anthem of pride of the elders...
the coffin the grave the hobby
of tending to a yet entombing epitaph...
death must be the best **** to come...
beyond a mere dog howling bark and dangling
whipping of dirt with hind legs
and broomstick tail...

        a pristine man to exoskeleton -
a satanic gravity of falling...
                          it's so important to imagine
falling and how time
morphs... perhaps throwing a stone
prior and then chasing it...
                 or at least pretending to chase
a laughter of the mountain
given the nibbled at nugget: guiding one's way!

because it can't like being with a woman
and debating the worth of vinyl
in the shop - how one might invest
in buying up vinyl -
i did buy a frank zappa vinyl and
there's no debate...

i think of death personified...
but unlike the personification
as a mere skeleton:
   i imagine that there's a mouth...
an ****... a stomach
and the intestines...

             of a god i find a heart at ache
and a mind with scabs...
and i can't help but acknowledge
the genius' agony of:
beside all that's perfect...
the rats and the brimming full
of imperfections...

               i wish for a thought
of luxury that's very much a death
of either a patriarch or a sowing
  shut of a glutton's passage..
                  accents of rhythm:
enough to allow a pass of bass mingling
with the drums: the drums have lost
their prized concern to be excavated...
and all feels like Sunday...

even the trees rest...
               there's no insomnia of work...
there's enough of the intricacies
that manage idiosyncracy
to manage a well conserved sigma purpose
of...
            how Σ = ◻
                    
                      these whimsical details
that are - but also leave
the contraband of gypsies unaffected...
splinter of the mind: a caution
when a word is used
contrary to the shackles of
revisionist psychopaths...
         since that's the right definition:
and psychopaths are prized
Nero bulls should the "other" N with
bigger... come giggling...
laughing because the route of
the river was... the drying of the tongue...
not because of point: ever being
made...
but because... there's the bite of the bait
of the tongue made into sacrifice...
and oh... my sanctity of the mind...
isn't...

toward a sea of drowning...
  toward a sea of night...
          toward a gorgon moon...
and the antithesis
of jumping from a height:
  that a drowning might be concentrated
upon...
             a question: regarding
a buoyancy of bones...

              the taste of warm whiskey
is always a bite...
                   i once hoped to have made myself
in an acclaim of expressing love...
i was... apparently... the great don juan
loiterer...
              the penny count st. matthew
drifter...
                an arithmetic mad count lesson x:
because... algebra is how
a large number is condensed...

               i still love the taste of
the bitten off nails...
            it's unlike... well... it isn't...
because you can't exactly fixate your teeth
on an in-between with cartilage...
come bones...
and the hair is: a fly in a champagne flute...
but nails?
nails are like target practice...
when one has to come across...
playing the flute of
a chicken drumstick...
leaving the hollow wooden piece
and some... marrow...

          a testimony of a word collage
over a wording... that's also a limbo fretting
that's a bad grammar:
the bad taste of analogy...
the missing of teeth "metaphor":
that all metaphysics, can be,
a metaphor...
that... any language spoken
these days... that isn't greek...
with that lisp imitating iberian primo...
is like... a death sentence with
time: inconsequential...

               there's a pretty poem...
there's a pretty flower...
there's a spider, there's the concept
of architect...
                  and there's...
       the great gatsby: fly in a champagne
flute to have to... "spoil the party"...
there are the postmodernists...
and there's the: vague... tongue-chasing...
modernist-revisionism...
a post-tow-too... of the post- in light
of all 'ings myriad'ern!

     the heaving dust of words:
that by a democratic majority are...
unread...
like some... fiddling genghis khan jr.
this... loiter...
  this... john adams' ripe lingering
apple of frustration...
                     to have to imagine:
heaving for applause...
then: that there's / it's necessary
to heave any or rather: no applause...
than the deserving rite
is inhibited parlay of the pickled pear...
the shadows can somehow make grief...
that the sun can spawn planets and
subsequently moons...
          
                  it's oh so impossibly true!
the fickle drama of youth
and the paint-stroking of hormonal
rogue over-powering a blatancy
of blue teasing suffocating a "purpose"
of bishopric purple...
beside the already having
arrived at... cardinal creases...
otherwise hasidic black basic...
            
     my faint! my full moon!
             me jolsting the aspiring
marathon sprinter of a oyster's worth!
the leisure of barricading stones
that's grieving for some wisdom from
a solomon & mountain.

We become the stories we tell.
What the hell? That

Is a common question not answerable.
Lack of link, what what the hell?
AI ignore it, we call it another idle phrase,
used to express befuddlement.

A curious fuzziness. Impulse to pull
sense from a hat. Threaded thoughtwise.
Ha, I've a mind…

Fiddle with the tuner, the ****'s a little loose.

Hushshshsh, gentle gentleman, wisdom whispers
listen
easy is never the bad way, the hard way, offers glory,
dare the devil and win, the right way, -- walking away.

ignorant bliss, buzzing beings wished, was
available this morning,
sunshine, softly singing silly kids morning noises,
calling out countdowns to the chrome yellow bus…

Goodbye, Columbus. Literary allusion to unread books.
And shirtless Ali McGraw, in the movie. Artsy flick.
And then, Far from the Maddened Crowd, same chick…
with me, at the movies, not in the movie, me
and Blue, whose brothers I barely knew, we
saw three films together, we had raw unpleasing ***,
three curiously wondering why we only saw highbrow films.

Third one was Gordon Parks, The Learning Tree.

There was one movie house in the town.
It was a four-square spinoff revival church by 1985.

Really,  you know how lucky you are, boy, knowing
"to be"
as the answer we all answer Hamlet, in each role
his messed up character, appears in to offer
the one real question,
as if being were once a choice, each day…

ah, we. E-t, et et-ern
from Latin aeternus
"of an age, lasting, enduring, permanent, everlasting, endless,"
contraction of aeviternus
"of great age,"
from aevum "age"
(from PIE root *aiw-
"vital force, life; long life, eternity").
Good men, wombed or un, must
Endure unto the end…

from Latin indurare "make hard,"
in Late Latin
"harden (the heart) against,"
from in- (from PIE root *en "in") + durare
"to harden," f
rom durus "hard," f
rom PIE *dru-ro-, suffixed variant form
of root *deru- "be firm, solid, steadfast."

Tough nut. Hard row. Slippery slopes,
deep dark holes, boggy winter swamps…

As the world turns, the young and restless age.

(of the defunct T.V. series 𝘔𝘺 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘴)

“Chip!” Ernie bellowed.; “What do you want you stupid, *******?” Chip answered; “Who are you calling a stupid, *******? You're the real stupid, *******, not me!” Ernie exclaimed.; “Oh yeah?” Chip questioned.; “I'm not half the stupid, ******* that you are!” Ernie informed.; “Yes, you are!” Chip retorted.; “No, I'm not!” Ernie indignantly replied.; “I say you are!” Chip boldly proclaimed.; “No way am I a stupid, *******!” Ern, as he was hardly ever called, reasoned.; “Listen,” Chip began in earnest, “it's no secret around here, and you can ask Uncle Charley, that you are the dumbest and the stupidest ******* ever!”; Ernie stood up and faced Chip. “Well,” he began frankly, “Uncle Charley is senile so he's not able to judge who's the stupidest ******* here!”
   Just then  Rob, played by Don Grady, came in. “Hey Chip. Hey Ernie.”; “Hey Robbie,” Chip muttered. “Who's the stupidest *******: me or stupid, ******* Ernie?”; Rob put down the shoe box that he was carrying. “I guess Ernie is.”; “Thanks, Robbie,” Chip thanked Rob, thoroughly relieved because the issue of who is the stupidest of dumb *****, he or Ernie, was settled once and for all even though one must use stupider as the comparative (comparing 2) & stupidest as a superlative (comparing 3 or more); even though stupider & stupidest ain't even proper words.