.alt. title? drunk's acrobatics, but prior to? nazis nazis nazis, my grandfather doesn't have bad memories of the soldiers clad in black coco chanel numbers occupying my town of birth... he remembers: herr! herr! bitte bonbon! and they would give him sweets so sickly that my great-grandmother would have to put his hands under the tap to unstick them... even some otto *******wasn't a bad man, he was a soldier, he probably had a wife and children... he was human: not a part of some modern cult following of a horde of mythological evil... i once mentioned the name: krupps to my grandfather, he, having worked in the metallurgy industry clearly remembers the krupp family... i mean, magnificent feats of engineering: krupp K5, schwerer gustav... the gustav? come on... compared to the soviet OTR-21 tochka? ha ha... and why prevail with the cultural significance of nazis? movies, video games... worthy opponents? i can't see them like the sort of fetish they are for the modern soviet antithesis left in the west... even in poland the youth will say: zz-top - sharp-dressed men... wehrmacht's M40 and M43 Heer uniforms... everyone can agree: the best dressed army in history... which leaves me with a fetish for the german language from time to time... i just can't help it... besides... ah... the sub-plot title... drunk's acrobatics... well, it's England, it's June, Wimbledon is in full swing, cricket: england will face off australia and lose the semi-final, india will play ne zealand and win, australia will win the world cup... but it's so hot, or so humid... come morning i either fall out of bed and continue sleeping on the cool wooden floor, or, like i did yesterday, go into the corridor and sleep on the wooden floor there... mid-dream wake up call from the heat... thinking i was still in bed about to fall onto the floor from a height of half a meter... fall: i did... from the corridor landing onto... the ******* stairs! 1.7m fall onto a ******* zig-zag of gradual elevation... and upon reaching my final destination just shy of my head being split open on the kaloryfer (radiator) i woke up just a little bit more and simply utter: o kurwa (o' kurva... oh ****)... drunk's luck... minor aches / bruises the next day... head feels a little bit wonky... like i put on a kippah to the side of my head like a bowler hat donned by jack lemmon in the apartment (1960)... like icarus / lucifer head first a-grade drunken acrobatic dive into the unknown... seemigly picked up and thrown off the landing... pure magic... clearly. again: the left is really obessing about nazis, i'm starting to suspect they have a secret fetish for the uniforms, that they want them to return... they are seemingly searching for their ******* unicorns, their mythological army of satan... while there was poor otto *******saying: bitte mein gott: ein morgen und ein weißwurst und pumpernickel für frühstück; doesn't get simpler than that.
apparently it's become pointless
stripping someone
to a pronoun,
given the "gender neutral"
modus operandi,
of the existentialists' "i",
ditto: being designated,
"worthwile",
to the confines of the maxim:
to angels - vision
of god's throne;
to insects -
sensual lust...
mind you,
when weren't
the emblems of,
said region,
digested within /
by the confines
of the ivory cavern;
limp phallus,
dry *****...
dry mouth
and a wet tongue...
synonym of
talking: a deßert;
note:
punctuation marks
(apparently),
are not best
synchronised with
conjunctions...
which sounds
like a grammatical
enigma, that are not best,
but so does **** sapiens:
which stems from
nomadic right to left,
wise, man...
any further blah blah
and you concern yourself
with extracting
toilet paper...
or, whether or not,
111 via the ****
subsequently smeared
across a wall is
not the most perfect
archetype of graffiti...
siarka...
sulphur is a word
with a- priori
connotations,
stressing the hyphen
"prefix"...
denoting:
without a prior example...
an etymological cul de sac...
a dodo...
συλφoρ...
because disecting a word:
συλ- -φoρ?
sol associated with
the spontaneity of phren?
history is but
one narrative...
but what became
of the hammer and the sickle,
became the tongue and scythe:
für
freiheit!
said a poem,
objecting to the confines
of, paragraph,
stating:
myopia, darin!
