She rubs the night onto her eyes
In her dish sized eyes, tiny moons shine

She's a galaxy girl
A world all her own
And you know you want her
But all you can do is revolve around her

She grinds up meteors, hoping for a ****
Her coffee *** is filled with Saturn smoke

She's a galaxy girl
A world all her own
And you lay awake and think about her
But all you can do is revolve around her

Inside her chest, a black hole sits
Aurora borealis pours out her fingertips

She's a galaxy girl
A world all her own
And you can't stand the longing for her
But all you can do is revolve around her

The stars form her body, her face, her hips
Kissing space directly on the lips

She's a galaxy girl
A world all her own
You are a million aeons away from her
And all you can do is revolve around her

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

what of nature is eaten by the mouth of man,
      so too eats the genitalia of
woman with as much ferocious gluttonisation -
   no serpent of eden care more
for the reality that's bound to tempt the choice:
either know or be known -
     below the standard equator of the body
as the point of disembowelment and Cesarian birth...
   spewing toward a heap of two tonnes
of sardines with a stench that can't classify
**** for the scent of strawberries...
               proof of solipsism? a man sitting
on a toilet for an hour with a newspaper...
   disproof of solipsism? a man easing a **** out
on a crowded train... ****** expressions?
piquant... yonder! the lustless ******! or what
would be said when the gyroid was out of place
when anything concerning sine and cosine
      reflected the one plausible coordinate of
tangens... namely 0... so in whatever algebraic
form interweaving sine x with cosine z + + +...
you'd still get the tangens either side exponential,
and your own summary, bound to that
infamous biography of never reaching fame...
     and that myth of Atlantis and the serpent there?
  more like an octopus that fiddled and slobbered
the **** than said: of this fruit an addition
to your "natural" duality - to encourage your number,
replacing dualism with a dichotomy...
           rites of passage for the ceramically fainting skinned -
ivory and squint, then
           diddly-and-piglet-or-flamenco-skinned-squat -
wide-eyed... or listening to how the Bulgars settled
in Europe and became ethnically cleaned with
     neo-Cyrillic... or as some say: proto-Greek revisionism...
       some words are familial... i can actually attest them
a phonetic synonymous that's familiar to the ear...
but the little words... remain with origin bound,
rather intact... only nouns get ***** to assimilate...
it's the little uh huh and um and om and
      so many in between that never reach cleansing
a tongue fully...
                  to be said: kinda slavish,
             archaic ***... *** that also said:
Commodus was one of the 5 good emperors...
    and was falsely depicted in gladiator (2000)...
and the *** invented stirrups to shoot arrows with
while quickly moving and suggesting a Mongol to come
along with the perfected idea of that: and pure stink
   of forgotten hygiene... memorised by
        the inflamed library of Baghdad and the pyramid
                 of Iraqi skulls...
the Romans made use of the calvary by employing
only eunuchs in their ranks... well... given no
stirrups... you're bound to make scrambled eggs
   along the ping-pong gallop...
       could ever a modern woman become a Helen?
perhaps a yacht might sail... instead of a thousand worries
to contest her husband's pride: a thousand quid...
  but it would never be such a gesticulation for
making worth of a woman to discredit a man...
            Kant said: i'll marry, only if i marry what i am
already married to... which is a transcendence of
what a man usually is married to... a woman...
  a man can marry his work...
                  it's either:
a. arbeit macht frei... or it's
                                   b. frau macht knecht...
well... it's sad... does it matter whether it's a universal
truth that has no guiding concern for
particular applicability and therefore a non-statistical
verification that splinters off a pathos of
  idealism all too readily accepted?
          and slogans avoid the details, i.e.
a. work power free
                          work empowers toward a freedom...
     is that the irony of suggesting
                                 that the Nubians built the pyramids
    and weren't the original air-coolers with their
   duck-feather fans and that the Jews profited from this?
as in
          b. woman power slave
                   women empower toward slavery...
sure... patted on the back and constantly bridging
gaps and licking lesions of man's struggle...
                       work "sets you" free...
                      and in that "      " bubble you can also have:
sets your apart from...
       sets you against....
                                  settles... the notion of freedom...
                   sets freedom... against you...
                                     so many variations of slogan grammar...
      well, akin to the 20th century shogun snail whipping
you into: ya, mein herr...
                                   and of course, there are the lucky few
that sorta revel in what otherwise are told to do:
            let me shove that remote control up yer ***,
and i'll make it less painful... i'll smear some lard
around your **** and you start pampering a bottle
of johnson & johnson baby powder...
      for a quest into averting the extinction of snow.

Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out
of the sky like rain.

Frogs arrive
With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.

My guilts are what
we catalogue.
I'll take a knife
and chop up frog.

Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father's genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.

The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off
like a light bulb.
At the sight of him
the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he's an apple
and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog
the touch-me-nots explode
like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.

Mr. Poison
is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.

Mama Brundig,
he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ
for a souvenir.

Frog has boil disease
and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me. Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.

Why
should a certain
quite adorable princess
be walking in her garden
at such a time
and toss her golden ball
up like a bubble
and drop it into the well?
It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out
the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills
holes in our skulls to let
the Boston Symphony through.

But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron ***
into the bottom of the well.

Lost, she said,
my moon, my butter calf,
my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
***** such as these are not
for sale in Au Bon Marche.
I took the moon, she said,
between my teeth
and now it is gone
and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.

Suddenly the well grew
thick and boiling
and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas
and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess,
he said, I am not a vagabond,
a cattle farmer, a shepherd,
a doorkeeper, a postman
or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said,
for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler,
those three you will never do,
but she made the promises
with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth
like a tricky old dog
and she ran back to the castle
leaving the frog quite alone.

That evening at dinner time
a knock was heard on the castle door
and a voice demanded:
King's youngest daughter,
let me in. You promised;
now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage
and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise
and forced her to comply.

The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate
looking over her bacon
and calves' liver.
We will eat in tandem,
he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled
as if a small machine
had entered her.
He sat upon the liver
and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked
as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn't exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank
as if it were Socrates' hemlock.

Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour!
There was the pillow
with the princess breathing
and there was the sinuous frog
riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river
of shut doors, he said,
and I have made my way over
the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies
but not frogs, she said,
and threw him across the room.
Kaboom!

Like a genie coming out of a samovar,
a handsome prince arose in the
corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands
and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.

He hired a night watchman
so that no one could enter the chamber
and he had the well
boarded over so that
never again would she lose her ball,
that moon, that Krishna hair,
that blind poppy, that innocent globe,
that madonna womb.

Yung-Frau, le voyageur qui pourrait sur ta tête
S'arrêter, et poser le pied sur sa conquête,
Sentirait en son coeur un noble battement,
Quand son âme, au penchant de ta neige éternelle,
Pareille au jeune aiglon qui passe et lui tend l'aile,
Glisserait et fuirait sous le clair firmament.

Yung-Frau, je sais un coeur qui, comme toi, se cache.
Revêtu, comme toi, d'une robe sans tache,
Il est plus près de Dieu que tu ne l'es du ciel.
Ne t'étonne donc point, ô montagne sublime,
Si la première fois que j'en ai vu la cime,
J'ai cru le lieu trop haut pour être d'un mortel.

http://prezi.com/lf50ud2c7bc1/das-universum-ist-aber-eine-frau/

.                  am i really 32?
  seriously?
have i lived a live
most insulated...
did i forget something?!
did visiting a
brothel do this to me,
that i do not speak
the lingo,
and have no idea,
what these people are talking
about, or have any desire
to find out?
   i was never a big fan
of graffiti art...
and since the current
internet lingo is very
much akin to graffiti art...
i'm quasi-old:
qua-sigh old...
            i'm not in on it...
have i really lived
such an insulated life?
      perhaps i enjoyed
drinking too much,
and blacked out too often
to catch-up with the trends...
point being?
NO, *******, CLUE...
    perhaps i fell asleep
listening to too many
horror movie soundtracks...
perhaps i was asleep
prior to waking up as a man,
as was, somehow yesterday's
gorilla...
     but i guess it began with
no attache of moral superiority...
but there is...
a concept of aesthetic
etiquette...
   what sort of man sends
a picture of his genitals to a girl?
no moral question:
an aesthetic etiquette question:
and that's a biggie...
  life-sized hot air balloon!
can't miss it...
   or if you do...
you're ******* your own
**** with your eyes closed...
or attempting Olympic quality
gymnastics...
i missed something...
didn't i?
       the missing transaction...
if you pay a woman
to have ***, she can't claim
a **** allegation...
  she can claim not being
payed...
   oh sure...
it's so sad, yet somehow *****
when she starts crying
in the thick of it...
     what is confusing is
the clarity of the transaction...
   wait...
did i pay for an ice-cream cone?
did i "say" this, "out-loud"?
   go figure...
ask the Turkish mafia...
who? the Turkish pimps
who run the Bulgarian ****-show...
   i'm still missing something...
4chaan... what did i miss?
is this some sort quasi
rekindling
of the Microsoft chat rooms from
the early 2000s?
   they must be...
they look like those chat rooms...
crude, rude,
and ready to ensure a begetting
of guillotined head,
rolling... like a pair...
of dice...
   did i miss something?!
   you can't experience a **** allegation
with a *******...
       not that **** is involved...
like the bloodhound gang song:
a lap dance is so much better
when the stripper is crying...
      can't say the same when she is,
having revealed she drank herself silly
and is ******* you...

herr metzger, treffen frau fleisch...

i should really stop watching these
youtube channels regarding
social / political commentaries...
drama seeped in...
    ****'s becoming tedious...
i'm losing appetite for these whining
******* and gimps...
     my drinking habit is turning sour...
i'm watching
teenage girls make videos about
their readings habits while
tuning off from
the   thron von throne exercise of...

taking a ****...
massaging my prostate by
relaxing my **** muscle contraction,
taking a ****,
then jerking off...
1, 2... and 3...
   no. 1, no. 2, no. 3...

          so... no one in western Europe
is worried about
the... Ukrainian application
to the European Union?
  Turkey came first?
really?!
  you sure?
           oh i'm pretty sure the Veesteern
Poowers... were more abject
about the power 8...
than about some aboriginals
from former colonies...
          
but i missed something on 4chan...
the gegenwärtigsprechen?
  missed it, by an internet mile...
which is like from here...
  to              here...
and it's actually from here to Jupiter...


about that...
when you **** a ******* that's crying?
and you can't stop...
and you made the monetary exchange...
Alice in Wonderland...
      so... where's the ****?
not having paid her...
or the fact that she's so drunk
that all her hidden emotions overflow
into a rainbow of tears?

crude ******* that i am...
     left with only a metzger
(butcher) appreciation of fleisch (flesh)...
   yet i remember this one
instance...
   being laughed at for my medical
condition...
however politicized,
or however actualized....

       i didn't like it...
        i didn't like it,
because once i did likewise,
but retracted my original jest,
made an apology,
   and later talked with the original
aggrieved party over
a pint of beer in a pub...
and we managed to coerce ourselves
into mutually respectable civility...

but... there are simply some *****...
who keep grudges...
jealousy is a *****-god
of the Hebrews who...
oddly enough...
have arisen... and who always
levitate...
    above their God...
the Hebrews are above their God...
of other people:
their God or (s) is
a motivational tool to surpass
themselves...
the people are little
when compensated by their gods...

but the Hebrews?!
their God: is an abomination...
   what sort of envy is... jealousy?
skiving, ignoble latitude of
envious brewing sentiment...

now...
the Hebrews lie about their God...
they lie about their God,
they lie about their God
because their God...
has no attributes worth
emulating...
   nothing worth replicating...
nothing worth considering a mimic...

and i agree...
true wisdom comes from a God
"despised", or rather shunned...
but more or less borderline
kept on a leash of memory...

   wisdom from a fear of a despicable god,
rather than "wisdom" from a love
of a desirable god, father- or mother-figure.

that's how the Hebrews worked it out...
their god is not the most existent god,
the god apparent...
   it's that...
   they cannot claim a theological pride
in their deity,
  or claim it was culturally sound
to keep his visage beyond anything more
than four letters...

Muhammad is but a man...
the TETRAGRAMMATON?
the tetragrammaton is not a man!

oh... right... the other thing...
making fun of medical conditions...
supposing a hierarchy...
   depression... ha ha!
schizophrenia... ha ha!

well then...
                   cancer... HA HA!

atheistic scissors:
    the definite article (the)
   & the indefinite article (a)

           so as consciousness
begins within the context
of a- (loss) of ego,
            it's  still a persistent
   direct article (the)...

   thus the unconscious
   begins within the context
of no a- (loss) of ego to begin
   with; meaning:
   there was never any ego
to begin with...
       i.e. an invoking
          of an indirect article;
the randomness of dreams,
   and our lack of control
thereof...

       i still persist in thinking
that the subconscious
      if fake, the medium easily
abused by sophistry
              or therefore a lack of...
i.e. in proper disguise,
        guiding the most effective
subversion of
               the righteous vectors...

          nonetheless,
to me there are still only two incissors
into an anti-freudian compass
of directing a marathon's course,
   no trinity, no three tier
encompass of an "identity"...
   no **** sapiens either...
      the split (schizoi) man...
           beginning with the scissors
that are united within
    the grammatical
category of articles,
    such that we always seem to be
reduced toward legal terms
of the american constitution
   and their amendments:
   revisions that
     become reiterations...
   and what original?
                 what original?!
there was never any original
  by current-affairs' standards!

id and the unconscious,
   superego and the subconscious,
ego and consciousness -
hence the quasi-noun status of
index finger's
            pressure "pointing"
at something,
           that's a quality focus,
that descriptive mechanism
              conjuring noun-foci,
that are nothing
            but tarantula bites
of injecting the venom
                   of frau zensieren,
and yes, the practice is
            feminine,
     in the continental sense
   moving outside the safety of
approving gender to
                    inanimate objects....
   that are also noun-pools
   of quicker-stepping in a tango
of spreschen...
            some verbs can be
elevated to the nonsense
in the anglophone zeitgeist of
now... gender neutrality
  cannot exist in the pronoun
category...
                    go to quebec,
  and order a gender neutral
   noun's worth of a coffee &
a bagel...
            while sitting on a homosexual
chair, resting your elbows
on a hermaphrodite table...
   looking at a "cis-gender" wall,
   while talking lesbian
   about animal rights...
  you know that cain was a vegetarian?
these days russia
    looks so much less menacing that
mainstream media deems it to be
so...
     in this war, which is cold war II...
u.s.a. is the enemy...
                 sorry...
  but when every citizen turns into
a babushka ******?
      **** it, i'm out, i'm bankrupt...
     i can appreciate a ****** in a position
of power within a government...
  but when ordinary people
turn into hitlers?!
       **** it... i'm out...
         i'm playing poker with a joker card.

.with rob zombie's: ***** liquor in the background,
a man perched on windowsill,
              one foot tapping along,
                                 the other foot folded
and sat on...

    come to think of it,
                 why am i not bothered,
   not bothered by the neighbours?
well, one ****** tried it,
complained about me smoking out
of my window,
   and that one time i was making a b.b.q.
and he said: 'you should have warned
us!'               the ****?
            all beause he had been doing
his washing and was drying his clothes
on a washing line, 20 metres from my b.b.q.,
and now they're moving house.

the english,
     they always want a house with a garden...
in the vicinity?
    you know how many times i've
seen the english use their gardens?
              roughly 5 times per year...
they rarely even attempt to switch
the garden to a ******* venture when
the one toilet is occupied by someone
taking a shower...
                      for all the wants of a garden,
i haven't seen anyone around here
take to planting a cherry tree,
            or burrying their cremated cat...
i guess i must be the odd one out...
            i mean: i'll integrate up to a point,
but then... well there's just me,
               rumours...
rumours...
      apparently donald tusk got
the job as the president of the european
council, because he mingled
   with frau kanzler
   over the position...
                     **** me...
        27 prime ministers,
    but only 1 chancellor...
                  who said the stereotype
of jews being good with money,
never made it to the stereotype of germans?
   the rumour is...
   he got the job...
       only because his father was
in the wehrmacht...
             after all, he did write
a bestseller book about the city of Danzig...
no surprise there,
  given that Danzig was reminiscent
of a city-state akin to Athens or Sparta...
mind you, better than any movie
on a friday night,
   tuning in on the 66th minute
of Liverpool vs. Southampton...
                waiting for the 1 - 1 draw...
but the genius of jürgen jürgen (klopp)
came through...
                     funny that,
people with funny surnames...
             dialect distinctions...
      klop in western slavic implies
the ******* - ide na klopa -
      i'm going to sit on a toilet...
            ****** must have been a funny surname
before its notorious prominence...
but rarely do you get to see 28 minutes
of a football match of this sort of quality...
    wolverhampton wanderers...
they're playing a very interesting piece
of football this season...
very portugese barzilian-esque...
      everybody knows that
        italian football is boring
  (too many passes),
   and german football is just too predictable...
but how the hell did Liverpool
come up with 2 goals in a period of 28 minutes...
mind-boggling...
       i'm always there for the sport per se,
i don't really feel inclined
to have a vested interest in the sport
as to pick a side,
               what once was
          religion, now becomes infused
in sports... seriously...
  count me out of this secular take
on religiosity...
            i'll pay my dues: were deserved
dues are due...
                   that's probably i much
prefer the olympics to this coming farce
of a world cup...
   how many footballers are going
to drop dead, from heat exhaustion?
we must thank our camel cockey bwovers
for cracking up the heat
          in air-conditioned stadiums...
once upon a time, the arabs had,
enviable traits...
   now? with all that wealth?
                                         take a guess;
if muhammad was raised from
the dead?
                     you'd see a forest
of pikes, on top would sit, decapitated heads
of his own people...
         but that's a wild idea,
perhaps even he, couldn't avoid
the temptation;
nonetheless, is it wrong to say that some
sports are over-represented?
   well, d'uh!
                 olympics comes,
and i always look forward to classical
wrestling matches,
    archery,
                             ha ha... ping-pong...
sure... none of the tennis allure...
  but it's a welcome break from
mainstream sports...
                                 and this whole
team religiosity influence...
                  that **** bores me to death...
clearly religion didn't die,
it just morphed...
                oh, really? it's that time of year?
the one time of the year
where i become a gambler?
   what? it's the quiche thing to do
in england, a bit like sipping
                 pimm's and eating eaton mess
at wimbledon...
       the grand national...
   betting on a horse...
                     and just to prove i'm no
gambler - why would i dream about
going to las vegas?
                   that shitshow of a town?
all the best strip-clubs in the world:
but no brothel.
      eh?!
                 tiger roll (7 to 2)
is attempting to make history,
     by clinging to: two years in a row...
i only have 4 quid to spend on the bet...
   so 2 horses...
               2 quid each...
                         hmm...
                      'further rain would help
him to step forward'
             i checked the weather forecast
(the grand national happens somewhere
south of liverpool, i think)
                     rainy...
overcast...     step back (25 to 1)...
                         now a compensation
horse...
                          i'll need a few more whiskies
before i make this blind bet lucky hope...

i'm not betting on tiger roll (7 to 2) -
the odds are not wildcard enough...

mind you, not being a gambling *****:
i do know that rolling tobacco
needs to be fresh,
   slightly moist, in order to roll it,
you can still roll the dry tobacco,
but then you'd also require
obc cigarette tubes,
         and one of those "gizmos" /
machines, to pull off
             a perfect match...
no in a millions years will you get
out a perfect rollie
with dry, pall mall tobacco...
when no golden virginia is available...
point: but you're also
not going to **** dry the filter
with dry tobacco...
harder to roll,
               but an easier smoke...

anyway...
   back to the grand national...
look, i'm no dustin hoffman
rainman hack...
         i felt like ******* away
4 quid's worth on an event, sue me...

   1             up for review (25 - 1)
         'could relish this test;
      must be a contender'

2a            folsom blue  (50 - 1)
          'mud-lover; stays well
   but at veteran stage'

2b           general principle (40 - 1)
     'best not ignore this irish
national winner'

3            ramses de telilee   (25 - 1)
             'welsh national second;
               stays well and improving'

4   ballyoptic    (28 - 1)
   'scottish national second;
                   cannot rule out'

  5a       mala beach (50 - 1)
               'fresh; could suit;
              a lively outsider'

    5b go conquer      (33 - 1)
         'bids to give his trainer
a third national'

      5c     lake view lad      (14 - 1)
             'improving steadily and
this trip should suit'

   5d jury duty    (16 - 1)
     'should relish this trip.
         could get a positive verdict'

6 vieux lion rouge             (33 - 1)
     'has tried three times in
this; fourth time lucky?'

   7       bless the wings                (66 - 1)
              'would be the oldest winner
       since 1853'

so...
      gambling, fascinating,
   how there's no objectivity argument,
and all the sort of superstitions associated
with it... a truly, magnanimous,
secular age...
   football as a religion,
   gambling on horses as the trials
of fate / luck / whatever belief...

       truly... gratifying...
   and i don't imply that in any pompous
sense, i'm about to invest 4 quid
in the whole affair!

   my pick?
              step back 25 to 1 odds
first choice...
   so it's either between
the mud-lover folsom blue... 50 to 1 odds,
ah... i'll need more wizard like
uncertainty when it comes
to gambling,
repeating to myself:
   there's no such thing as luck,
there's no such thing as luck,
gambling is only subjective,
gambling is the reiteration
of a religious experience,
        it's the sensible option,
it's the sensible option, ****...
i'll just split the 4 quid over 4 horses
rather than bet 2 quid on 2...

per quid:
                      step back
                      jury duty
                      up for review
                      go conquer / folsom blue

****...
                   no wonder i never got
into gambling...
         i never fathomed the aspect
of winning
as much as i never fathomed
the aspect of losing,
   or how they're paired up
     and consecrated on the same
altar of, "thrill"...

    that cut               /
betweeen
       go conquer  and folsom blue...

horses have the oddest names...
          dogs?
                 probably the shittest names
in the whole of the kingdom...
oscar darshan...
                            quorus...
these being cat names...
                                           go figure.

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Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out
of the sky like rain.

Frogs arrive
With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.

My guilts are what
we catalogue.
I’ll take a knife
and chop up frog.

Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father’s genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.

The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off
like a light bulb.
At the sight of him
the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he’s an apple
and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog
the touch-me-nots explode
like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.

Mr. Poison
is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.

Mama Brundig,
he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ
for a souvenir.

Frog has boil disease
and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me. Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.

Why
should a certain
quite adorable princess
be walking in her garden
at such a time
and toss her golden ball
up like a bubble
and drop it into the well?
It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out
the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills
holes in our skulls to let
the Boston Symphony through.

But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron ***
into the bottom of the well.

Lost, she said,
my moon, my butter calf,
my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
***** such as these are not
for sale in Au Bon Marché.
I took the moon, she said,
between my teeth
and now it is gone
and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.

Suddenly the well grew
thick and boiling
and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas
and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess,
he said, I am not a vagabond,
a cattle farmer, a shepherd,
a doorkeeper, a postman
or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said,
for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler,
those three you will never do,
but she made the promises
with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth
like a tricky old dog
and she ran back to the castle
leaving the frog quite alone.

That evening at dinner time
a knock was heard on the castle door
and a voice demanded:
King’s youngest daughter,
let me in. You promised;
now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage
and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise
and forced her to comply.

The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate
looking over her bacon
and calves’ liver.
We will eat in tandem,
he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled
as if a small machine
had entered her.
He sat upon the liver
and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked
as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn’t exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank
as if it were Socrates’ hemlock.

Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour!
There was the pillow
with the princess breathing
and there was the sinuous frog
riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river
of shut doors, he said,
and I have made my way over
the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies
but not frogs, she said,
and threw him across the room.
Kaboom!

Like a genie coming out of a samovar,
a handsome prince arose in the
corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands
and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.

He hired a night watchman
so that no one could enter the chamber
and he had the well
boarded over so that
never again would she lose her ball,
that moon, that Krishna hair,
that blind poppy, that innocent globe,
that madonna womb.

wieso es nicht gelang
wieso es gelang

als sie mich suchten zum liebemachen
als sie mich fanden zum liebemachen

wer von ihnen sang
wer von ihnen sang

sie kamen in scharen
mit freunden verwandten
all jene damen
all jene herren

ich weiß nicht wann
ich weiß nicht wo

doch ich weiß wie
ich weiß es wie

mir ist bewusst:
dichter und autoren werden
keine liebe füreinander hegen

(poet's note: my opinion on
the last three verses above has
fundamentally changed since i been
publishing here.)

liebe mich freund
liebe mich freundin

gib mir
schenk mir
suche mich
finde mich

ich habe mich auf der suche nämlich
versucht

kennst du, bruder, den weg?
den zugfahrplan?
die bedeutung der stahlstreben?

ich brauche eine antwort von
den damen
den herren

finde mich
suche mich
verschenke mich
vergib mir denn

ich schrieb über zivilisationen
von witterung und gier

witterung und gier
freunde sind zwischen dem glitzern
auf dem fluss versteckt wie perlen

sie aufzuspüren zwischen dem wittern
zwischen dem wittern
während des witterns

ich weiß nicht ob du weißt wovon
ich rede
ich rede

aber das ist in ordnung freund
aber das ist ok freundin

wir müssen bloß bruder
wir müssen bloß schwester
fragen

sie sitzen am gleis bei den zügen
sie sind immer da
wie der

“ICH-BIN-DA” aus der kinderbibel
meines sohnes

verstehst du das?
begreifst du das?
fühlst du mich?

viele afro-amerikaner fragen
“you feel me?” wenn sie
etwas ausdrücken und teilen wollen

ich liebe
diesen ausdruck
er zeugt von
etwas gutem, das manchen
menschen fehlt

auf der brust trage ich das tattoo
welches du abschriebst
in einer stunde aus

schatten
witterung
gier
ich wollte das
ich wollte dass

du zu mir kamst
zwischen den schatten
unter der gier
über der witterung

in einem augenblick des
“you feel me”

wie unsere häute glänzten
wie unsere augen glitzerten
wie unsere hände zitterten

wie wir…

ach komm!
was sage ich dir, freund
was sage ich dir, freundin

du weißt es doch dir
ist es bewusst denn du schriebst
mein tattoo ab in

ein buch mit perlweißen seiten
ein buch mit onyxschwarzen seiten

du bist perlweiß freund
du bist onyxschwarz freundin

du bist perlweiß freundin
du bist onyxschwarz freund

ich liebe habeshas
ich liebe äthiopien
ich liebe meine frau
ich liebe meinen sohn
ich liebe meine tochter

you feel me?

even though english is without strict orthographic
obligations of diacritical markers...
that ol' charlie Dickens would cite
a spelling mistake as an orthographic mistake...
best example of orthography:
król kruk - king crow...
the consonants are irrelevant...
just like: whine is not wine...
         or what is to who -
                w(h)at "vs." (w)**: pinch at hues...
that there isn't an asset in the
omni- prefix litany of a monotheistic deity...
omnimemiens - all-remembering...
so: orthography that's still aligned to
metaphysics...
but a new budding term: para-social...
that somehow everything must happen
with and in the confines of: 3rd persons' promise...

all the while towing my libido insomnia:
who needs to be sterilised
with a promise of a stigma of some
mental handicap...
i am peevish about spelling words...
i feel terrible angst if i tease dyslexic freedoms...
what am i? a three-****** camel?

but i get it... churn my genocide *****
*******: opening of the gates for
the tides to merely murmur...
perhaps i'd wait...
and start writing: memoirs...
come old age...
sometimes that worked...
like stale bread works when
it can be soaked up in lard and fried...

it was forever impossible for me to not
not experience the temptation with
monk... ever since i visited Taizé...
i could not escape the allure of what was
on offer...
the remaining temptations of the world
began to itch with a malaise of blasé...
but unlike an orthodox blasé most associated with
firm-rooting... pedestrian same-old-same-old...
it was a blasé (no **** Sherlock...
you could expand that bl-A-sé with a macron...
it would only cost you two omicrons...
or an omega... or a macron above the Alfonce...
Alphonce... abrupt: tease of "alpha")...

good enough hill to pretend the last
breaths of Nero...
a relief from... a fate worse than a slave's...
i.e. a slave implies:
also... another mouth to feed...
sure... someone will cook your food...
someone will clean your house...
tend to your most tender "grievances"...
unless in gladiator pose...
would slaving be deemed so...
irrevocable if... you were to perform...
tasks... that... didn't exactly dehumanise you...
but elevated you to have:
a constancy of a job...
         the security of being needed...

oddly enough i am thinking of taboos...
what is it like, to be truly... needed...
beside what's currently available...
of being: free... but... expendable...
citizen but... relegated should these grand
humanitarian concerns of liberals
shine through for a boat load of "refugees"...

oddly enough... as a slave owner owning
20 slaves... you had a duty to feed those twenty
mouths...
there was talk of people, slaves... being:
assets, possessions...
a much higher status that's what's on offer now...
who are you? an employee...
what's an employee?
something, perhaps a tier above
a cog in a machine... if that...
you know... i've come to admire the ancient roman
concept of slavery...
esp. the sort of slavery experienced by women...
chambermaids... etc.

sure... you're a slave that has been ordained
into constructing an aqueduct...
my brain is exhausted from these petty
scribbles ever since
the monstrosity of commonplace literacy
was made paramount...
i have no original ideas...
i keep this "art" up for my own
"sanctity"... i think of payment like i think
of:

pennies from heaven...
or rather... the fall of the rebellious angels...
one day it might happen... it did?
well then... let's dig up some...
£0.000001 fractions and see where we end up...
there seemed to be some: ortho-social obligations:
once upon a time...
i hear the term: para-social...
which is a sickening, wicked variety of ghost slavery...
it doesn't chain the body...
but i guess... so little worth was placed
on the mind of man that:
so many started to champion their freedom to speak!
without first championing their freedom to think!

****'s sake...
as a slave i would be... an asset... i would be...
property... i would understand the topic of hierarchy...
i could live in the shadows of the *******
kitchen, be chained to it...
without having these bogus allusions
to the illusion of a freedom that would never
come: from me, for me...

as man arranged himself to the best of his ability...
the problem came from higher esteems of
ingratitude for: vivo per se...
foul apples stinking up the ground and grit...
most poignant among the H'arabs with their
harems and polygamy...
walking abortions aside...
cruel little beasts...
not the Arabs per se...
but in general...

this my mechanical arms...
while... 70,000 Africans are waiting in Libya
to be transported to Europe to be
living exemplars of walking ****** for...
because a Gloria Steinem type doesn't care
if her lollipop is choc of chalky vain-villa...
let's be honest...
an African woman that can attract
a whitey copperneck when tanned, lobster...
is a rarity...

even i find the African, MALE... face... attractive...
it can also attest to some tenderness...
yes... "black" men are attractive...
that's my problem with ol' skin-dipping
**** fetish moon's no mercury tinge
drip drip... because all 8" of piston moi is not
up to: **** ***. & I'nah...
if SHE can get away with being attracted
to the Afro-cancockcancock carousel...

why can't i be attracted to black girls?
even Flaubert mentioned in Madame Bovary:
'you'd need to be an artist... to **** a black girl'...
sorry... give me Indian... give me eskimo!
i just find the black physiognomy workable
enough to stand before all that
Picaasso cubism!
why is the masculine black even attractive to me...
while the feminine... isn't?
that's a genuine ******* question...
i'd love to get on that bandwagon
that the white girls are using to settle their:
white people are not racist
so we'll **** as much black-ding-along-doodles
we see fit!

fit for fur? lampshades... armchairs?

it's almost probably not fair...
this inter-racial playground of dips and bops...
would it be oh so necessary to ingest
a blue-pill to ****: that perfected rounded
peach of an *** with pristine
ivory?
but the male African face is so much
more appealing than:
that tarantula: bloated...

it would most certainly cut my efforts of expression
in half could i bypass the already ingrained...
summons for what i'd deem
fuckably: unfathomably, unmoved...
a "concern" for libido insomnia...
neon-tallying and all that happens
"in-between"...

when language is more than graffiti...
how it can exfoliate....
unlike my white brides...
i don't have that ******* option of...
yes... the male African face is appealing...
but the the feminine faces?
******* Gorgons... sea monsters...
Scylla-bred...
for a harem of a cuckoldry...

if the last hard-on i might feel be one
of shame: **** the hard-on...
i don't need to experience that sort of
bollocking to begin with:
i just said your men (African)
are handsome...
what more do you want when it's
a priori: ingrained in me...
to find your women... to be honest:
repulsive?
i don't want to **** them...
if i do: it's a blue moon...
always with the ******* outliers...
and it's not like i haven't tried...
but trying only gives you so much
traction... ****'s sake...

let the party girls do what party girls do best...
i'm not a patriarch:
i have no grief for their freedom being met
with their judgement of what's
to be "best" expressed...

an aristocrat would know what's best:
he would protect his or her...
possession...
funny how herr schlägermann would keep a Boris...
or an Alfred in company...
such were the ties:
people mattered... tied to a hierarchy...
what sort of hierarchy is there:
in a democracy?

no one can summon the pyramid-Δ (delta)...
but somehow... these days...
everyone who's anyone can summon
the pyramid-∇ (nabla) dynamic...
oh look! no Palestinian flag...
just the flag of king David...

- i'm guessing the prophet Muhammad
admired... king Solomon more...
than... he might have admired King David...
he "wrote"... "recited" surahs like
king David's psalms...
yet the focus came... toward converts...
and promises...
what was prophet Muhammad's harem
in comparison to king Solomon's?
a mention of *******...
a ******* solo- project... a fake... an arabian joke!

who are the... Hafiz?
who is Stendhal's Julien Sorel?
Muhammad cared more about imitating
king Solomon than about imitating
king David... it's ******* plain dandy simple as a pimple
on a face of faked smiles... you savvy?

now, of course i'm waiting to be crushed
by the tsunami of man
and the congregation(s) of time imitating water...

if everyone is so... ******* "apparently" free...
there was no more lasting,
binding, contract, beside the slave-owner
and the slave...
permanent employment statures!
what are we doing, right now?
no one is obliged to: oblige anyone to work:
for them...
freedom my ***... more like scavenging
at best...
the odd word... not primordial labour of
hierarchical certainty...
everyone's free! citizen envy!
the *******'re talking about?
it would take a niche of ownership and...
ha ha... clairvoyance to peer into this:
hot heap of **** to see past it...

doubly exploited... ****-wits...
people were: OWNED...
but (by) the term OWNED they were not
"exploited": they were used
to their maximum: ability...
they were tended to...
they were cared for...
a slave had a function... a purpose...
what purpose does freedom allow...
beside the sort of expressions of freedom
only allowed by feral creatures?
am i, a feral creature?

once upon a time freedom implied:
to engage with an unknown world...
the slave was a domesticated creature...
feminine... esque...
have you had the patience to eat food
cooked by women, lately?
just asking... who was the inn-keeper?
she was the harem proprietor for a while...
a madam...
but sure as **** she wasn't the ******* inn-keeper!
was she?

i will find the male african face agreeable
enough for the ***** projects of Helga to take a stab at...
but i really find intra-racial breeding most
agreeable...
i will not **** an african female just because "you"
think it necessary
or that Flaubert might think it as being: "artistic"...

my "one upon a time":
but the males are more attractive...
frau weißschwanorgieanfällig....
oh don'z you'z wozzy you...
the 'ebrews covered themselves, covered...
succumbing the 'ebrew diaspora for the concept
of "nation"... settled dust...

now that the "plague" is in passing...
nothing's new... nothing's old...
in the land of Palestine and Ishreal...
i fed a "passing": then again...
who's to import who?
you might have kept me greasing...
you might have kept me greased...
what sort of an alpha male are you:
now... currently... bowing like every beta sycophant?

you 'ebrews and you 'alestines...
you should 'ave a football match once a month...
to settle your heated blood... scraps of wording:
salad... no?
no... no...        o.k. tease a tonsure with a kippah...
i'll still tell you: the prophet Muhammad ought to
have admired King David more... since... the quran
is to me sung... than he admired Solomon for: for?!
Khadijah turning in her grave...

there have been, there where...
there will be: "myths" from the north...
it's not just some interracial *****... we're told...
oh what we have been told?!
what have we been told?

thank **** my ego collapses...
i own a cat and i like to drink more than
i like to ****...

that's a nutshell statement "all of a sudden"...
i love children as much as
children are required to be adored...
beside my own: that i don't have any?
it's not like i'm limp-****... "freckled"
with absences... of... existential:  purposes...

yeah... yet here we're at.

horns sound, flees the sun
men tire, day’s undone;
blue is wrung to grey,
rendered with a gasp,
and tar night, foul
as a steel pike, or
frau Troost’s onyx soul,
settles on the world
like a cyclone blanket
in a concrete shower.

his own & this world's realities are like the fuzz in the States
they're ones to escape, which is a plan of attack
that, like a unit of ammo dispatched
to the bean of a **** autocrat dying physically damaged & sad
hits his deli̲ght-bankrupt brain; like Donald the dung piece, today
he feels bold, so maybe there'll be, like abundance of cake
["bald"]
fortune coming his way; this one's a schmuck thing to say
["fortis fortuna adiuvat"/"fortune favors the bold"]
but this club reminds of Ukraine (what?)
he, like motorized cavalcades
from the next-door empire, invades
its territory causing, like unaccommodating writer, a sla[ɛ]m
[Eminem & his "Unaccommodating" song]
as he shuts the door frame; obvi, sO̲me people may
find them bars offensive, like an armed aggression
so my apologies, I'm somewhat ashamed
mainstream house stuff is on play
a thought in his skull: "this is lame"
Michael S. straight after he turned around & stumbled on blamed
Toby F.; through the crowd he cuts like a blade
[the ending of the "Frame Toby" episode cold open from "The Office" series]
having hopped U̲p on the stage
as if it were a narcotic substance you've ta'en
he, so loud as if with his cullions in grave
nU̲t-wrenching pain, bawls: "THIS ****** *****!", like a brace
of thigh highs colored with stains of blood; yanderE̲[eɪ]
["*****"; "so[ɑ]cks"]
schoolgirl; disgruntled, he makes for the f#cking DJ
delivers a verbal punch in his face by the fo[ɑ]llowing phrase:
"boy, go house-sit with your confounded
boring house sh#t, just like a housewyf"
whereafter thrusts him away
ending the uproar with "ciao, drip!"
music-wise, it's gon' go hard as nuts in this place
as if a flock of ones who're deranged
["who're" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "whoor"]
swung by a club in the wake of a ****** **[ɑ]spital break (nuts in this place)
he puts on midtempo dark cyberpunky synthwave
Gesaffelsteinish mid-paced
type of music; that's what drives his crumpet insane
speaking of crumpets, he spots a buxomish babe
while nodding his ******* nut to this cray
music, he feels like a **** being aimed
at, for she stands with her sight, like one of a gun, fixed his way
for a few secs, at each other they gaze
she's quite a fox with her vibrant locks
reminding of flame; somebody call a fire brigade
hourglass-shaped & rigged out in tight pa[ɛ]nts & a blouse
with a U̲-neck, like a fella without
*****, & leaving her waist a bit out
["******"]
on display; he makes his way to this frau
salutates her with "ciao"
she greets him with just the same, then he mouths
the following: "babe, you're way like a house
for lodging that's nowhere to be found
that is, in the deep of a labyrinth"
she's like: "what in the void's name's this about?"
he replies: "I'ma translate that one now"
"the way you look's amazing, ten out
of ten", like that "KleanColor" skin bro[ɑ]nzer
["a maze inn"; "Tan Out Of Tan"]
she makes a soft smile, then replies: "ain't you nice, pal
when you lay your thoughts out?"
"not being nice would be a crime
when you face a fine gal
like you", - he replies
"if so, rejecting the company of a guy so gracious would count"
as a crime too", - she replies
the guy asks the gI̲rl if she
fa[ɛ]ncies this sound
her reply is affirmative
she says she, mostly, faves underground
kinds of music; they vibe
to these tunes being pU̲t on, just like
that loony gobshite the whole antifa community'd like
to see end up ruined, just like
Aleppo or Mariupol; stop, I'd
like, before the main telling resumes, to rewind
a little: they vibe to these beats being put on; he finds
out, when asking her what drinkable fluid she'd like
to have, that she deems it uncool to imbibe (*****)
he replies: "to tell you the truth, so do I"
so if there's somebody to end up lit during this night
it is the moon in the sky
["some body"]
soon after having their soft drinks taken, they bounce
like the music style brought into this wO̲rld heaps
before chicks twerking
blew into the mainstream like "blaow!"
["hips"]
like a sick pervert that digs scourging
while engaged in a bout
of carnal fun, he's got a whip ordered
they wait for several mins for it
finally, the motorized conveyance comes out
like a deb girlie
[debutante]
he trails this fox like she's prey to hunt down
watching her proceed to[–]ward it
in a way like she's on a catwalk waving around
a rig splurgy
having hopped in it, to a lodging place they set out
the saucy look in her eyes
once his palm is put on her thigh
a sort of luminous sign–
–board reading: "absolutely alright
with going on a lewd spree tonight"

My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.

Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322

Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.

They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...

I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.

Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.

*So wie ist das Leben...

My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.

Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322

Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.

They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...

I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.

Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.

*So wie ist das Leben...

the punchline sounds like this (according to English psychiatrists), you think i'm mentally ill, schizophrenic more or less, just because my mother is a housewife and my father is a roofer, and i somehow found interest in reading Kierkegård? better ask my grandfather and look at his library and why he bought me the full collection of philosophy books... oh wait... you can't since you're about to leave the European Union... better luck next time; before judging the cover of the book... good luck finding that needle (ego) in a haystack (man is born as many men, under many influences, but dies a singleton, atomic). mother... *******!

they treated me like i had some repressed
post-colonial desires or ambitions to
prance around in my colonial leather boots,
they treated it like global fascism,
i just learnt the ******* language, spoke it
like i spoke it, disguised the accents of my
parents, and still they persisted to treat me
like some red coat, repressing former
glory of the empire... guilty as charged,
frau doktor... if i came here aged 2 i'd struggle
with having a different complex, unable
to relate to my parents with their accents,
i can speak: english in disguise of slavic ethnicity,
i can speak english with slavic ethnicity,
i can speak polish without any regional accent,
i can speak polish like a peasant for jokes -
honestly, if Marx or Engels were alive today
they'd see England as yet another opportunity
to think of something that's ****** up,
and it is... the empowered feminism movement,
coupled with the expulsion of the Jews
and the arrival of Islam... it's a perfect breeding
cauldron for something truly staggering...
eh? you hear that? it's coming from afar...
like an echo rumbling in a stomach...
Mo    tsar             Mo tsar         Mo tsar... tee..........
**** me if another Mozart comes around the bend
(dot dot to prolong the echo, fading),
it wont happen given that, well, ha ha, a section
of Islam prohibits music... yep, under the Wahhabi
act we can't have any music... we can have, as an
alternative the music of blacksmiths hammering, drills,
horse farts, cat burps, and two cavemen figuring out
a camp-side with two flints struck against each other
with some hay... BURN THE SCORES!
BURN THE BOOKS! *the kombucha mushroom people,
sitting around all day, who can believe you?!
- i sit, in my desolate room, no lights?! no music?!
maybe you should just speak
the Adhan in spaghetti mumbles rather than
sing it then? eh? but listen,
i've learned the language not expecting to have to
deal with all that historical baggage that came with it,
but i was treated like some repressed post-colonial
*******... never mind... let it all burn.

There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.

Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".

Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldom keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".

At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.

Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.

Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball

At her husband's behest, a young Frau
Took son to a rabbi with know-hau.
When she ventured to ask
Concerning the task,
He said, "Meine Frau, shouldn't be long nau."

i remember the first time i lost my virginity to a pair of police handcuffs, the ones in england are rigid, so you don't actually get to put your hands behind your back, rather, they're in plain sight, right in front of you... i had the occasional scruff with the law, well, that one time when i was alcohol poisoned by warm ***** and managed to turn a police van into a taxi home... loved the cage though, felt like a bit of a che guevara (gorilla, guerilla, yeah?)... oh, the handcuff loss of virginity... the offence? ******* in a dark alley, next to a dustbin... the **** of a colt of a police officer had too much testosterone in him, kept shouting and shouting at me like batman vs. the joker... i kept from laughing, drunk as i was: i was an inch away from the tsunami of giggles, and he shouted: get up! and i said, i can't be bothered... get up! he shouted, eventually i got up... you know, there's a better insult in poland concerning the police than mere pig... it goes along the nursery "rhyme" of: there's a boppy who only knows how to read, and there's a boppy, who only knows how to write... frau heimlich will explain, in sign language, and that's not braille - so, ****! thank you frau heimlich, for making a, devastating case of ****! (esp. with the missing Я) - i'm copernicus all over it... and make that two shakes of a fox's tale, some ice, a squeeze of lemon, and i'm bound to call your grandma: sunshine!

oh, right, the colt quiff of the blues brothers
suddenly took the cuffs off,
and i was free, ready for my manicure -
because, apparently, ******* in a dark alley
was not so bad, but a drunken brawl was...
i just love the fact that his screaming was
so ineffective on me,
    it almost felt like i became a virus that
built up an immunity to antibiotics -
or anti-*******...
     i might as well have asked for a second
loss of virginity to the handcuffs
by jerking off in public, luckily i had
enough sense in me to snigger while walking
back home...

blah blah nah nah... beside the point...

upon reading heidegger's aphorism 42 (vi) -
it just strikes me...
    i hear this ******* about identity not being
ethno-centric,
   the sort of **** that brings about bill C16
and the albino pronoun brigade,
who suddenly go: whoopie and strip it
even further, and we're left with language
like those *Gunther von Hagens sculptures -
sign me up!
    you know, like totally bleaching people,
stripping them into a post-edenic state -
love the work though, francis baconesque -
can't be a genius: if you can't be mad -
the mad, the bad, and the not-so-bright;
but in this aphorism i conjured up a "spell":
you know that funny feeling you get when
you can reconnect with the antopia?
it's not a utopia as such, more a:
    and all these parts go together,
                                       like an ikea table;
it takes but a simple thing,
a book by a fellow countrymen,
or a song, like track 12, from the film
  ogniem i mieczem - husaria ginie
(death of the winged hussars) -
based on the book by h. sienkiewicz -
thus the aphorism which includes
the following:
   die völkisch (the folkish) worldview,
or better still die völkisch dasein,
the term has actually evolved -
  it's not longer a simply abstract da-sein,
it's concrete in the people, the land,
the artefacts, the basics of the most primitive
kind of artefact: an imprint
on the base of all if not merely some
things organic, inorganic, or at least
the aura of the physical: the melancholy
of, say, the english consistency to be
morose in its weather: overcast;
as you first notice - the first thing you
notice concerning england is:
either a double-decker bus, or the persistence
of overcast clouds... a bit like in the matrix movie;
no wonder then, the sense of humour.
yet that is heidegger's case -
english society has long forgotten its folkish
roots, sure they sometimes play
vaughan williams' fantasia on greensleeves
(and if my informant is correct,
  she mentioned it was originally composed
by the tyrant... henry viii?)
        and those funny looking druids
and the stonehenge -
        but, with kind respect - this country is all
but represented by metropolitanism,
   or that cocktail, cosmopolitanism -
          there is nothing folkish about this place,
a place has been replaced by a world,
been replaced by all things global,
subsequently replaced by an orb,
    a scarab beetle tucking into its dung,
egyptology, a **** similis twice removed
from an orangutan who we started calling
    firlin mc'donald...
                  then onto the moon,
  and **** all elsewhere...
           it's hard to think of a people in the anglophone
world, given that the actual language is
hardly a language for the people,
    so imbedded as to give a literary worth
to the people, a depth...
  english is the lingua franca of today,
or, should i say: lingua commercia -
  and by definition: it's a bit like latin -
                           a language: of dead ideas;
its insulative "protect the women" mentality is
like a cancerous addition to the already
abnormal growth: that, like chernobyl
   didn't ****, ought to have killed many more.
i still can't believe the intellectual toddlers
******* their thumbs clinging to darwinism
like koala bears...
         so yeah... do you think there was a branch
of humanity that evolved from bears?
it's become this boring, this sticking to our
darwinism, that is the source of the most
detestable jokes... as true as it might be:
   the pompousness, oddly enough,
doesn't rub off on continental europeans...
as heidegger points out:
   a people is the ground on which all creativity
proceeds; a people is with regard to the process
of creativity even the root out of which creativity
arises and stand...
  and isn't that the case?
    we've already stripped the people
to the basic grammatical units,
   bleached them, stripped them of an ethno-"bias",
and by that i mean: basic recognition -
  nay! a historical unit of the already governing
history-continuum...
         no wonder there's a trans movement
and the abstracting recoil of the absurd -
     i'm the least surprised given that -
       perhaps this was not written in my native
tongue -
               i leave this page, i'll still ****** well
speak it...
    point being... america is a nation of immigrants?
personally? i like to think of them,
as a nation of mongrels...
          i was fed this jealous crap a long time
ago, in high school, where the history teacher
said that i would be the only child in the classroom
to not head into a concentration camp...
oh right: ******* special i was back then...
   just like any rottweiler pure breed looking
at your common mutt...
        and the atypical question in england
is? so, where you from?
    asked by a mix of sikh and irish?
     coupled with: so what ethnicity are you?
and the scary answer, that makes a sikh / irish
mongrel run away?
  oh you know, they sometimes refer to me
as a pure breed.
      huh?!
        mama didn't shnuckle up with some
******* ******.
             yeah, it sometimes gets that bad -
but a question like: where are you from,
                   over a pint of beer -
                       deserves that sort of response;
so when are we gonna talk about
black privilege, the blues, the jazz,
   and the 100m sprint, or the ethiopian /
kenyan long distance runners?

i'll just spend the next one hundred years
coupling english and german words,
polish and germans words toward
a common source etymology...
i mean that: we all spoke oops loud
enough to later turn
a monkey **** into a cuckoo's mating call.
it'll be fun, beginning with schtintzel
and shabowy...
    frau swer... kaiser mer...
                     pigeon... tauber... gołąb...
acht scheisse! achtung de-klaße!
Berliner... cho cho und bon bon -
the most famous person from world
war ii? herr bitte bonbon...
      sounds a bit like otto von bismarck...
    but then who the hell needs names
and places of origin... so it became:
herr bitte bonbon - or that's how i remember
my grandfather's memory of the second world war.
                    nein etyomological source...
scheisse!
kan...ang-a-****-ah-roo!
      zając!
               nien nien mein herr!
    nein cünt-guru!
              das ist ja: ist: vast-volapul schtad!
pull: heil stretch armstrong!
     pajac! pająk... kurvature pierdu hop hop
i kęs nad turbasem jaj w tej pachwi
na pokaz... kein-gur! or kangur... (kein or kęs -
one of them meaning a bite to eat)
       and that really was: laughter coming
from Himmler...
                rabbit... hare...
   zeitgeist... or that ******* zając!
           red... rot... czerwony...
              but is that herr or háré i.e. ha-re?
ah... neinen.
  yuden yedwabben: jad, and jedwab...
          ja...
   haitian creole...
       silk...            seide...
or wee wee twirly blau of epileptics
          in the night of a polizeimobil...
                           and given i read Finnegans Wake,
i really can write this sort of *******
and not expect a shut-down of the internet
or stating something viral...
i'm trying to remain European...
     i never said i wanted to speak
a Texan drool... as the Scots will already assert:
what with T2 and what really doesn't
sound as anything i could attest to...
  it's really become a globalisation's surprise...
nothing local makes it to the global stage,
and nothing global ever really makes sense
on a local level, stage or no stage.
      but applause to the "loser" in me,
given the motto: everyone wins in capitalism...
            i best own it...  
          i might really want that grave
and epitaph after all.

macbeth: it was (once) the owl that shrieked,
  the fatal bellman.

aye, and i too would ask the urban folk
concerning family and congregation
for any event apart from the most cherished:
for i love only those with whom i eat,
and abhor those with whom i drink:
for i deem them sour company.

and if in haste? from Canterbury seek New York,
there you'll learn a thing or two about
gnarling from a yew tree strained against
the ranks and rags of French nobility...
there, dear sir, will you learn the Welsh Churchill
acronym, by the index and middle i say:
pointing toward the sky as if to navigate
a seagull pooping fresh manna
onto a desert plain for an *oasis of sustenance.
clearly the U was never chiseled into bone or
marble, instead a V... which always confuses
my expertise (2014 GSCE gimmick,
expert-... ease? titillation? prioritising?
no wonder they send spies to south korea to
feed off jealousy of the porcelain skinned
and squinty eyed crap of Zen... because Tao
was the practice of not dipping your head in
a honey jar and running up to a beehive for
a Frenchy) / in Grecian (yes,
poets have abhorring punctuation,
they're donning a take on rasta roots: dreadlocks
  inserted between the talk of personal hygiene
   and vanity performances of family life solidification
to seem the ideal citizen).
      poetry really is an obscurity of prose,
      it's that ****** cousin you hide in the attic,
when you stage poetry against prose
you never, really, get a snooze button fault
while taking a microcosmos of thought to bed
  and "forget" reading something....
   a true testament to poetry? something Mussolini
might say... i am a fascist fetishist: in that
i am also a schadenfreude: a shadowy frau...
   i like to see fascism in others...
          well, you know, Hollywood got sickly sweet
over the years, there's no enough Bruce Lee films
to satiate the palette of middle aged crimbo men...
  don't expect a ****** to know the cartwheel mechanics
readying a girl into ballet...
       cos no attitude brings no Bolshoi, girlfriend.
oh god, how can this age and my contemporaries provide
so many stereotypes?! they're all gay...
         there's me with my pouting but really alcoholic-bloated
face, rummaging in pop culture under the exacting maxim
of: the idiots have all the confidence, the smart uns
      have all things Cartesian...
             you swarm over reactionary talk?
i guess modern people really want to engage in dialectics,
but the current sophistry, the current rhetoric,
     is only based (in bias) against any Cartesian intervention...
the "i think" doesn't precipitate into "i am"...
for example? even wittle Adoolf thought he was good,
but then world war ii and therefore kicked in,
    there was nothing good to be said, apart from
a historical endeavour as to why: the New Year's Eve
Ball of Vienna faked a smile to solidify a permanent
audience...
                      this fire-yawning rhetoric is part of
the zeitgeist (holy ghost) of our times...
                                it's enough that i'm reading the
news review contained in a sunday newspaper on a tuesday,
but another that i'm rereading lawrence lipton's
the holy barbarians at the same time... yep:
the father of the guy that interviews actors on that
show the actors' studio... where we learn all things
sentimental... just before Robbie Williams tightens
the noose and everyone's bloated...
which is odd: it was a promising afternoon...
           i know that society really wants to engage with
dialectics, i've been watching lemon-*******-sessions'
worth of cringe concerning Milo Yiannopoulos -
papa-dough-pu-louse (Greeks have surnames like
dinosaur names: word and verbiage in one go...
a bit like decapitating Anne Boleyn,
executioner on tiptoe) -
                 it would be far more easier to stage
a place by Shakespeare that it would be to stage a
conversation by Socrates... that's how difficult
practising dialectics is... so much so that people invented
diacritical indicators to syllable dissections of words
and then forgot to use them... buttnaked Adam of Essex.
but one thing caught my eye...
  not in a rude way... well... Bruce Willis in mercury rising...
      isn't the Greek a tad bit autistic?
those darting eyes, and whenever a confrontation emerges
the sunglasses are invoked? isn't the confrontationalist
an autistic phenomenon? isn't this autism?
   aren't people rebelling against the spaz?
   the cover-up is obviously homosexual, because there's this
underlying subplot... high functioning autism,
i might momentarily get an eye-contact...
       but anglophone psychiatrists have only two notations
to curate the spectrum of "mental" problems:
1. biting your nails...
          and 2. eye contact.
                  if psychiatry is philosophy without thinking,
then philosophy is psychiatry without being...
              catchphrase? i hope to god no.
               god... well: that's when you say:
i do have limitations in my vocabulary... hence the invocation
to a ulterior being, other than my self
                 (yes, the reflective version of the reflexive myself).
      sure as hell there needs to be a dualism
rather than a monism concerning the 1 + 1 = 2 humanism
of cogito ergo sum, can you imagine a consolidation?
how, in the 21st century (which wasn't that spectacular
even though the evangelicalists stressed was the zenith
and a basis for: no future) the two would never meet?
    if anyone Descartes poked fun at it too:
i'm pink, therefore i'm spam.
                                       can you imagine why some people
were diagnosed with schism that later referred to a mind?
            uncomfortable people for social cohesion are ill...
it's because the healthy people are whipped into
constructing society.
                               adding to the fact that if mental
and physical converged and were made equally obstructive
in hindering people, a fewer number of jobs / specialisations
would exist to counter such grievances...
      you term mental illness i term lethargy and
thinking turned into the equivalent of what the heart is:
de-automated heart turned into poetic muse...
                but otherwise? an automaton pump.
and when thinking becomes automaton prone...
       and when thinking becomes too conscious of perceiving
the body as caged, doubly in a world and earnestly
in the cycle of eat sleep **** repeat... when too much
theory pours into an abstracting pronoun of forgotten Latin
and resurgent Latin with a summary of ego...
   when that becomes a Shiva-likened extra limb...
               when thought becomes automated
  but the body isn't... when thought diverges from any
moral construct to be made intrinsic in the complement
of choice as its sole outlet,
                 all variations of thought necessarily translated
into a narrative die out... because, as it turns out,
              not all narratives are pharmaceutical escapisms
to the equivalent of medicating seriously...
            even though the sky is blue in winter
and all decaying flush of colour of autumn is long gone...
i feel no bolder to stampede against the earth's
tides insurrecting a name and month of birth
                                      as sanctimonious:
other than what the polity deems worthy for me to
inherit, that, which will be my epitaph
is all am worthy of, given such contortions: as already
evident.
    
take your heart to Scotland my good friar,
and then from on-high,
   as if between Edinburgh and St. Andrew's,
take the kingly route back south...
                    and learn to educate those who's
tongue was never kindred to cliche and barbarism,
were it not talk of puritanism and
    a hidden dialect: for no cockney would have ever
heard the seven bells,
                   and definitely shied away, spoilt,
from the meddling cuckoo;
and oh how small this world will seem,
       once you've been woven the greatest attire
of all you command to peacock,
   that operatic Monday through to Friday
that'll always be more than Gucci or an Armani belt...
    routine!

She lived there still, in the house on the hill
Though she hadn’t been seen for years,
The Lady Margaret Hermanville
She’d lived in a mist of tears,
Her wedding day had been bright and gay
When her groom arrived at the door,
The devious Baron Wűrrtenberg
With his soldiers, back from the war.

The wedding service was short and sweet
Was held by a priest defrocked,
Was hurried through from the point of view
Of all that the Baron mocked,
He’d only wanted her dowry then
But claimed he wanted her hand,
And with it the House of Hermanville
With a thousand acres of land.

She’d gone alone to her wedding bed
While the Baron caroused ‘til dawn,
And lay awake with a constant ache,
What had she done, so wrong?
He made his quarters down with his men
While she languished up in her room,
But sought an audience then with him
On the following afternoon.

‘Where is the love you promised me
When you came and begged for my hand?
I may be wed but I’m now in dread
That you wanted me for my land!
Prove to me you’ve a noble heart
That there’s more to you than a gun,
And take your bride, for my barren womb
Should be stirring now with your son.’

The Baron laughed, and waved her away
‘It’s enough that you have my ring,
You have the title of Wűrrtenberg,
Of my heart, not even a thing.
I have a frau in Bavaria
Will be coming to live here soon,
So get you away to the Servants Hall,
You and your barren womb.’

The Lady Margaret stood in shock,
A tear had formed at her eye,
Her face as pale as the clouds that formed
Above on an azure sky,
‘I’ll go and petition the Cardinal,
I’ll have this wedding annulled.’
‘You’ll not be leaving this house again,’
He said, and her eyes had dulled.

A year went by and she sought some peace
Below in the Servants Hall,
While he went riding to fox and hounds
And didn’t see her at all,
His Gretchen came, to lord it above
At the feasts for his Men-at-Arms,
A flashy, rude, Bavarian trull
Who was loose with all of her charms.

The Baron watched her flirt with his men,
Grew angrier by the day,
He had her locked in an old sow’s pen
And sent all his men away,
He said, ‘You want to live like a pig
Then I’ll give you your heart’s desire,
He fed her truffles and day-old slop
And she slept on hay from the byre.

Back in the hall, he paced and paced
His echoing feet alone,
Began to think about Margaret
And thought that he might atone,
He heard the merriment down below
Drift up from the Servants Hall,
Went down the cavernous limestone steps
Where his wife was sat by the wall.

‘What’s this?’ he said, as he wandered in,
His wife was seven months gone,
The servants gathered around her there
And her face, it fairly shone.
‘You’ll never guess who the father is,
It could have been one of two,
You sent me off with a barren womb
But the only Barren is you!’

‘So pack your bags, you can leave us now,
You should have been more aware,
The deed of settlement that you signed
For my dowry said, ‘Beware!’
The house and land wouldn’t pass to you
But devolve to my first born son,
It could have been yours, but now, you see
It belongs to my little one.’

My mother never married again,
I’m lord of all I can see,
A thousand acres of farming land
My mother bequeathed to me,
I’ve watched her cry and I’ve watched her mourn
That I’m not the son of a Lord,
I’m proudly the son of a working man
With a mother that I adored!

David Lewis Paget

too many youtube punctuation akins before my voice comes through, like: hi! i'm child-minding chalrie! ola! oo! advert gives a ****?! you see that? advert gives a toss! well... ola! original lost to marsh potatoes mash.

like i was led by a solomonic harem:

we're buggered;

   to be honest.... hugh grant could have
said that better, and, would have facied him...
if he made that one film from my youth
about a damsel in distress... and the return
of charles II to england... the thing adam and the ants
imitated: highwayman no robin hood...
clean shaven like a daffodil in early spring frost
for the eye to peer into...

as it turns out, you write one great piece of work
and everyone applauses...
you write a thousand symphonies,
and everyone turns flame-eyed and forgets
your one spectacular moment, which
you take into hades and wish to forget given
the total output, when they mention that it
was all great, but so comes cousin critic and you
know that most of it was... a bit ****...
               and because of that:
they tend to do better... they?
   the ones that hit the banknote of a one song
wonder... and then receded into life,
and debated with gay peerage in some restaurant
akin to bridet jones' diary scenario,
and oh my oh my: the palpitations necessary
like make-up... i can almost see flamingos take to ballet!

and then it's back to *quack quack quack
of promenades in the park watching mallards...
  
original jealosy fades.... no, nothing else,
it just fades... which can feel a bit weird,
basically it, just, fades - i take to foot what people
take to: speeding down the a408 thinking
about tax; well yeah, i tax my feet with a mile, or two,
sometimes i take to the mile or two
with a different pair of shoe.
                                   you a rhyming rhino too?
              
you write pachebel's canon,
you're going to compete with haydn's 103
symphony...
similar to a question: how many eggs am i
carrying in my basket?

dear reader, like i child i never fathered,
or like a dog i never petted,
          or should i simply aim at: dear ego?
what unit i had and never thought with,
never mind the thought of?

the fact that you can't cry, is the reason
that you are depressed,
that's another statement that's worthwhile,
stating apathy as a misery
without tears, the original melan- -choly...

listen, i don't care because i don't want to,
  i care about something that i want to care
about because thte things i would like to care about
i can't or don't want to,
   so i take the "metaphor" (which means
half my hans zimmer is gone) that keeps
haydn's symphony no. 103 almost floating
above pachelbel's canon...
      i'd love to miss out the second l...
and there, the ****** white, the doves,
     the church, and... hail! the marching bride!
that feeling of consecration...
    can you realise that newspapers are stink
compared to dust-affording books?
              yep... newspapers are ****
compared to book... i kept a week's worth
of newspapers in my room, i realised
that it stank as if a cat ****** in my room...
  when i listen to pachelbel i'm supposed to think
of kent, or devon, aren't i?
thumbs up essex oi oi!
                   halfway house out of 'ackney
  or 'eckham...
      oh right, right, like i was ever invited to a
marriage...
                     some 'un 'as to be the black sheep
of the family...
   well... i hope she divorces aged 40 and has a miscarriage
aged 35... if i really wanted to give a toss...
i'd toss, a cricket 'ard ball of
                mahogany cranium and make
believe that i was loved,
instead of receiving postcards from strangers...
living about a mile away...
    so there i see pachelbel with his canon in D....
and there i see mozart, laughing in steppenwolf
as is worth citing:
      i wrote so much ******* i just had to
tickle my ***** like a philosopher might ****** his
beard... if that answers your question:
they remember him for only one song,
and do so rightly,
   me? i'm not quiet sure why they remember
me for a hundred.
   it's like pachelbel is the *** pistols
        and i'm the ramones, or the offspring,
or stiff little fingers... or the dread, ****!
green day?!
                 according to noel gallagher
who did say that never mind the *******
was something we didn't accomplish with his
oasis albums... even though back in the day...
on the european continent, no one sang anything
apart from oasis songs... you went to paris:
oasis... you taizé... oasis...
yes, what was, once, france... or frau hans...
and then the exagerration on the f....
like an alo alo alo episode...
                 that's basically what it sounds like....
pachelbel's           pa-she-sha  l          fix it bell's
   pashelbel's               it's also half check in czech...
     but that's what noel said akin to mozart:
to be honest? i'd rather just (have) written than canon in D
and ****** off; if i wrote more than that
i'd be anything but that spare prosthetic limb
for that one legged man, dancing at a party in Versailles.

a slavic joke: how dumb must the west africans have been, if the europeans caught them so easily?! you mean these n. f. l. / n. b. a.  hulk goliaths were caught so easily; these gigantic morons were caught like you might catch a down syndrome sufferer? how stupid do you have to be, to get caught, with all the advantages?!  esp. with the local topography... seems right: głupi do nieba, i głupi jak trzeba: tall to the heavens, and stupid as stupidity needed.*

you, a ******* mrs. of a
******* írē?
want love,
check into a frigin'
         sweetstore owner
like you might to a dentist,
you ******* nookie....
i'll only love-lace you
only when i can curse you,
you boston rat!
            ****** is soft,
we call old-timers *******,
your rapping hooligans we
call the bred-once-never-bred
again **** fathoms...
love you more while hating
you, than by love lacing you...
in s & m and s.t.d.s.,
          ******* culinary
escapades with the coo coo *****...
**** the ladies right,
i agree,
  but **** 'em wrong and i'm
getting rife!
                  she just held her
copper ****** in her arms and you
said doll gall, ye be off yer mark...
markers and seven heavens junior
to a ******* *****...
dance me the ******* jig!
          ******, dance!
        i'll wash m'ah mouth,
                    when i choose *******
labour for the joy,
and not the grippers,
                  nor the intellect,
you fracking ponce of a man!
           there's no thought
with a people who only know
a memory!
               as asked:
primus motif -
              the prime motive -
labours to a loss,
                             labours to a gain,
labours to the work,
                           labours to a fain.

choc bulimic in Edinburgh; the Welsh index and ******* tactic,
that way a dozen models were ******* out to mind an economy.

the next cards you'll pull from the packet
are all jokers - i.e. wild-cards -
western society begot laziness
that begot psychiatry that begot
war on terror - that somehow begot
war on terror, that didn't begot
philosophy, but it did begot crosswords -
as a Frau will testify, aged 91,
prompted-by-excuse-by-her-age:
doing the pensioner's bit: a Koepcke (1928 - 1977)
(i bet you wish it was K'oh eh pck'e'; ya?!
oder Andreas Köpke? nicht wie?),
VANDAL GRAND-GRANNY COMPLETES
A CROSSWORD - a thousand chandeliers
with a a hundred grand pianos crashed with Newton's
apple that day - the day was advertised state memorandum -
Hanzel and Gretyl came along for the sweets parade
expecting salutes in Swedish - contra beetroot -
some said agitations from the blues, some said
agitations from the beets - or so rooted -
agriculturally purple blooded, minor urban dwellers
sniffed out the cabbage-heads -
major urban dwellers sniffed their own **** out -
beginning with St. Petersburg and Cairo -
contra former violence? *sprechen zungefeinde,
zumal falschsprechen.