1611: Emilia Lanier became the first Englishwoman to publish and collect patronage from her original poetry with the publication of fifteen poems, all about or dedicated to particular women, in her “booke,” titled in Latin, Hail, God, King of the Jews.  She was the fourth woman in England to publish her poetry, but the first to demand payment in return for it.  The first to see herself as equal to the paid male authors of the era.

This was the same year that the King James Bible was first printed.  This was eight years after the death of Queen Elizabeth I.  This was 180 years after nineteen-year-old Joan of Arc was burned at the stake.

                                                               ­      +

The Querelle des Femmes is “the woman question.”
Frenchmen of the early fifteenth century created a literary debate: what is the role and the nature of women?  Is it stemmed within a “classical” model of  human behavior; gnarled and rooted with misogynistic platonic tradition?  Should women actually be allowed into politics, economics, and religion?  There are scholars that say this debate radiated across several European countries for three centuries before finally fizzling out.  

                                                         ­                   But it is still there; has crossed
continents, has crossed oceans, is sizzling, sparking up fires, flaring out
into the night, leeching onto the trees, onto buildings, onto people, onto
anything flammable.  It is burning down monarchs and their thrones.  It is
raking back the blazing coals.  
                                                   Exposing the charred corpses.  
                 Proving their death.  
                                                   Burning and burning and burning them
                                              twice more to prevent the collection of relics.
                 It is chucking the ashes into the Seine River.

Lilith: who was made at the same time, at the same place, from the same earth, from the same soil as Adam, got herself written out of the Bible because she thought herself to be Man’s equal. Because she got bored of the *******.  Because she wanted to be on top during ***.  Lilith was replaced in the book of Genesis with a more-or-less subservient woman that was made from the rib of man instead of the same dirt and dust.  She was replaced with a woman that Adam named “Eve.”  She was replaced with a woman who served as nothing more than the scapegoat for Man’s downfall.
                                       The original Querelle des Femmes.

                                                                     +

1558-1603: Queen Elizabeth I ruled England in what is considered to be a masculine position. Although a woman can take the throne, can wear the crown, can wield the scepter, can run the country, the actual divine task that goes along with being a part of the monarchy, being a god on Earth, is thought to be the duty of a man.

Nicknamed The ****** Queen, Elizabeth never married,
                                                     never found a proper suitor,
                                             never produced a direct Tudor heir,
                                   (but this is not to prove that she was a ******).  
Chastity, especially of women, is a virtue.  ((To assume that she never had ***
simply because she never married
                                                                ­ is another Querelle des Femmes.))

For nearly forty-five years, Queen Elizabeth I did not need a man by her side while she lead England to both relative stability and prosperity; did not need a man by her side while she became the greatest monarch in English history.  
                                                She held the rainbow, the bridge to God, in her
                                                                ­                     own small hands just fine.

                                                          ­           +

Saturday, February 24, 1431: Joan of Arc was interrogated for the third time in her fifteen-part trial in front of Bishop Cauchon and 62 Assessors.  During her six interrogation sessions, she was questioned over charges ranging from heresy to witchcraft to cross-dressing.

At age twelve Joan of Arc began seeing heavenly visions
                                                                ­               of angels and saints and martyrs;
age thirteen she began hearing the Voice of God—was told to
purify France of the English,                          to make Charles the rightful king—
age sixteen she took a vow of chastity as a part of her divine mission.  

When the court asked about the face and eyes
that belonged to the Voice, she responded:
                                                      ­                      There is a saying among children, that
                                                         “Sometimes one is hanged for speaking the truth.”

Joan of Arc was declared guilty and was killed by the orders of a Bishop during a time when men were beginning to question the role and nature of women in society.  They thought women to be deceitful and immoral.  Innately thought Joan of Arc to be deceitful and immoral.  (Perhaps she was one of the catalysts for the Querelle in the first place.)

((The church blamed Eve for the
fall of mankind.  Identified women as
                                                                     temptation:
                                                               the root of all sins.))

Twenty-five years later she was declared innocent and raised to the level of martyrdom.
The Catholic Church stood back,
saw the blood,
                          the ashes,
                                            the thick smoke and stench of burned body that
                                                                ­               covered their hands, their clothes,
                                                                ­                    their neurons, their synapses;
        a filth that couldn’t be washed off by Holy water—
can’t be washed off by Holy water.

Four hundred and seventy-eight years later Joan of Arc was blessed and gained entrance to Heaven.  Four hundred and eighty-nine years later she was canonized as a saint.

                                                         ­            +

Lines 777-780, “Eve’s Apology in Defense of Women,” Emilia Lanier, 1611:
                         But surely Adam can not be excused,
                         Her fault though great, yet he was most to blame;
                         What Weakness offered, Strength might have refused,
                         Being Lord of all, the greater was his shame…

Adam, distraught and angered that his first wife, Lilith, had flew off into the air after he had refused to lay beneath her, begged God to bring her back.  God, taking pity on his beloved, manly, creation, sent down three angels who threatened Lilith that if she did not return to Adam, one hundred of her sons would die each day.  

                              (This is where the mother of all Jewish demons
                                         merges with the first wife of Man.)  

She refused, said that this was her purpose: she was
created specifically to harm newborn children.  This legend,
dated back to 3,500 BC Babylonia, describes Lilith as a
                                                                       winged feminine demon that
                                                     kills infants and endangers women in childbirth.

In the Christian Middle Ages, Lilith changed form once more:
she became the personification of licentiousness and lust,
she became more than a demon, she became a sin in herself.  Lilith
and her offspring were seen as succubae, were to blame for the
wet dreams of men.  Taking it a step further, Christian leaders then
                                                                ­                           wed Lilith to Satan;
                                                                ­                              charged her with
                                                                ­               populating the world with evil,
                                                   claimed she gave birth to
one hundred demonic children per day.

Lilith is considered evil in the eyes of the church because she was insubordinate to Adam.  Both she and Eve are considered disobedient; are too willful, too independent in the way that Lilith wanted to be on top and Eve wanted to share a knowledge that Adam could have refused.  They are perceived as a threat to the divinely ordered happenings that men see to be true.

Men wrote the history books because only their interpretation was right.  
Emilia Lanier writes:
                                       Yet Men will boast of Knowledge, which he took
                                           From Eve's fair hand, as from a learned Book (807-808).

The Querelle des Femmes is not just a literary debate in the fifteenth century.  It is a way of life.  It is the divine portion of Queen Elizabeth I’s job being fit for men, and men alone.  It is Joan of Arc being a woman and hearing the Voice of God; it is Joan of Arc being burned three times by the same Catholics that revered in Jesus, a man who, too, heard the Voice of God.  It is Lilith being deemed a demon for not wanting to have *** in the *******.  It is Eve having to apologize in the first place for sharing the apple, for sharing knowledge with her partner.  It is women holding positions of power and yet still feeling powerless to men.  

The Querelle des Femmes is wanting to use gender
to keep one group of people above another.  The Querelle des Femmes
is continually thinking that the ***** is greater than, but
never equal to, the ******. The Querelle des Femmes is
                                                       not understanding the difference between
                                                                ­       ***          and          gender
                                                                ­              in the first place.  
The Querelle des Femmes is me,
burning your dinner and telling you to eat it anyway.

Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power;

Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
Unto him sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
"Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.

"And for myself (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be;
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.

"Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies."

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen.
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there; -
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went -
Our men were hardy!

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O, when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen;
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

Well, what now, hey?
     I threw the dog overboard yesterday.
     The day before, the day?
Where will you go, hey?

I heard the orchestra-man play
The same way,
     Sanctum, requiem, asylum
All Latin in his French dog-eared play.

     Hear the monkey, playing accordion play
To the whirling whirly-whirly-ghig
     Tre dramatique, no? Today
I understand you're just as "tramatig."

I want to hear your Frenchmen play
Play ***** pipes play play
      In his dog-eared French *****-man
Play

But I cannot, cannot say
     Tears of joy, in hydrant spray
The Hyades triumphant rainbow stay
     Cough your little fears away;

Hear the Star Spangled Francis Key play
Frenchmen play, play,
Little piggies counted play
Black white keys with little piggle-plumps play

Atone-al, A-tonal---atonal tonal sounds as if to say
"Getting married here to stay"
       All alone and all today
      Settle down if for a day
And who will hear the trumpet play
When *****-man Frenchman say
"Where? Home of the free" and stay

Keep your hands away
Never want to        let you say
               "Hear me, hear ye, all you weary, weary dreamers
         But never left your confidence like Russell-rustle leaf-blown willow-white

You fill them up with seventy two pay
      Make a kite, to(k)night, allRight
      Thank god for the fleas in the right
Hairless creatures for to sway

I threw the dog overboard yesterday
The day before, the day
And if you'd wanted it to stay
You should've say, you should've say

But never let my hand betray
The vein, the line, the artery
Of arterial shells bombastically
Loquacious to a fault, this day

They say "You want another day"
They say "You never wanted say"
They say "You wasted every day"
They say "They say, they say, they say"

                   But e'er forget, ne'er forget
                   I'll despise you abandon heaven for earth to get
       And leave your money, your millions behind
       For mansions with my Lord to find

But in the ceiling never was a god to pray

The evidence reviewed, this  a half time later.
"a man can
make up his"
own mind, my, me mine
myme mine mymemine nine iterations,

expand the basic concepts of topological
space time, in the neighbourhood
south of all three bridges into Saigon, on the roof

Make it up, make it all up, and wait fifty years.
Whiteface.
And the mime in the street keeps the beat
silently reciting Kerouakoan streams.
'Tryna get to sunny Californy' -
Boom.

Canned Heat, sterno still, sip it,  get back
Beatles became something akin
to a window left open now
fifty years, since January 1969, Radioman
and Tom Green on the Panasonic
music from the other side… the joke
'Look Fred, that man by the road'
Some *** fiend got in print in 1968

Get back, Jack. And that

started the whole world crying,
from the commonwealth to common woe,

-- Interesting times upon us, oh yeh

A hook, in a song,
Forty Million Frenchmen Can't be Wrong
- ah, allusion, get back, prophecy
- right, fifty years ago today, soon
- Ringo says Forty Million Churchills, back then
or late, lately as the topo-logical-ournearity
gets back to optimum
later there, we were, on the roof
of that old fishnet factory
dangled there before, me,
the deal, if you want it, come and get it
better hurry cause it's goin fast,
ping
ricochet -
Highschool History, 1963,
Forty Million Frenchmen can't be wrong?

What does that mean? I asked
Miss Dinas, who was plump, and cheery,
and she lived with Miss Some-name
I forgot
to notice, due to, the clue
in the way Miss Dinas winked, that one time,
not
at me, when she said
Forty Million Frenchmen Can't be Wrong.
-- look away
Some squared away artist cries, stop the lies!
Gray-ace, go fish
Wordsworth,
happy soldier character- no, Fernando- a bull
ABBA , not winking - snorting
at me, when she said
feed your head,
autistic community, com-unionize AI
timeandspace
re-
alize the musical, a means of saying things,
silly, silent
hints of splendor in the grass,
and weeds, and black-eyed suzannes,
growing in the road,
Tobacco Road,
down at the end of town, where
skid row hits the river,
long and wide,

milk and Hohner on t'othaside
sharp hone mama
Sioux wee, Sioux e- baby, be my baba now,
Humbaba, guard
my forest
sein, mein, wine and rosy days being wise
in thine own eyes,

as we warned, eh/ wahrrmmmnned edu
mcate edumacation, the deal was…
I was to learn to
become a maker of papermoney clips
from plastic straws on a trus'line, about to rupture
and spill guts
on gumption swallowed whole.
-------------------
Koans and Cohen and all
-- If it had been my will
I'd a been so dead, so long ago, I'd be
as if I'd never been,
-- If it had been my will

True rest, needs a weary mind,
to weigh its worth,
hangdown yo' head, Tom Green, duely done
do tie yer Jimmie Lee Jackson
Bronc Rider Trophy Buckle to m'line
let it out
come think a mile with me, let's
see what come to mind.

--whistle break
-- heads abobbin, we rock on, Sisyphus
the first,
agreed we got the message in the medium
evolved by will worship alone,
rock on, roll on un
aided, no doubt by the spirit advisor
to old Abraham Lincoln's jot on the margin
"a man can
make up his"… hmmm, his own mind, hmmm

wouldjaremind me, what was I thinkin'
"a man can
make up his mind to be as happy as he is…"

Free to be. I think free to be alive, maybe,
Lincoln was athinkin'
as a we, the people agree we do have title right
to life, awe
ja,
and liberty, I suppose, we must define, to refine,
down to the gilt around the frame,
on the back side, wasted glitter, thin film of actual gold
well
I'll be, did you ever see the like, a
con-
jurer or a presti-digital simulacrum truckin' on and on
sayin' come on
sing old songs, ones we ever
learned again
today
what you never thought possible, just a minute
ago,
as we ponder the effect of a silly millimeter longer
rising in a ribbon
past lips of an apple green shade,

remember the melding
of gilmore and bing
the springfield gates
and desmond ring

remember the trojans
and fools in the pack
sea fair jeans
and corkscrew flat

remember the cabin
and *****’s garage
the gary point dunes
and moncton mirage

remember the warehouse
the water logged seats
tin foil caps
and simple retreats

remember the cave
and turn on the cut
emery’s mini
and hamilton’s hut

remember the burger
and shake in the air
bubs in the back
with little despair

remember the valley
and 66 ford
burgundy lips
and samworth’s chord

remember the plainsman
a 7 inch log
the ***** old frenchmen
and bore-*** hog

remember the javelin
and mushay’s wheels
beaumont’s baggie
and jennifer beals

remember tough charlie
tossing brad rand
the belyae roundhouse
and beer in the sand

remember park polo
and scaling of firs
sleeping in rafters
at 8 bucks per

remember the mayflower
and brothers von grant
the max air follies
and chivalrous rant

remember the flipper
the floyd and the clap
banana boat sunday
and pemberton trap

remember the purples
the rasp in the street
the oliver jokers
and shady retreat

remember the gators
and brick house café
a flash in the pan
and crib cult stay

remember the church
and talbs on the bridge
goofy’s memoirs
and cypress ridge

remember smaldino
whom perry cut short
***** and a ****
and moria’s port

remember the zuker
and gilligan’s isle
the pep chew bust
and 8 tooth smile

remember the action
at blundell and one
the nauseous fumes
and pump house run

remember the canyon
and rock on the cliff
a tourniquet bind
that kept us adrift

remember lake skaha
and jvc tunes
the j bain query
and peach fest goons

remember the irons
and broad entry beads
the alexander boys
we must pay heed

remember the gates
the 12 hole stare
the hospital bed
and ky affair

remember the farmhouse
an open air deck
the john deere tractor
and cowboy neck

remember the wheat field
and jimmy crack corn
the burlington plaza
and fraser street ****

remember the pincers
and wee ***** white
the concubine fractures
and strong overbite

remember the carving
portrayed at the scene
the billy goat battles
a young man’s dream

remember lord brezhnev
and moby the ****
the second beach sun
and paper bag trick

remember the screening
the silver light show
banshee boots
and phipps’s throw

remember the epic
and baby oil block
trash can brassieres
and window rock

remember the law
jack rabbit in may
an 8 track mix
on alpine way

remember the dunes
a pig on the spit
the underarm hair
and corn bull-****

remember old frankie
and bursey head post
the koa leaves
and tiki shore host

remember b taupin
the lyrics he left
cold muddy waters
an odd treble clef

remember street regent
the trips in the night
the trailer park cap
and lightheart fight

remember kits causeway
mortimer and beaks
jk's cabin
and muscle bound freaks

remember glen cheesy
and billy the less
the frozen puke patties
and borkum mess

remember the catfish
and pickerel rock
the emerald meadows
and rainbow dock

remember port dover
with fish on a stick
wayne in a bunker
holding his ****

remember the ironside
limes in a tree
the usc campus
came with a fee

remember the duster
an arrow in heart
the frog man bug
that would not start

remember the zimmer
the ram air hood
a family wagon
with panels of wood

remember peace portal
the 33 back
the power built drive
and dangerous tack

remember the reds
the blues and the greens
the furry point island
and country book scene

remember the springs
and i 95
a lone state trooper
with blood in his eye

remember may’s cabin
and stuff in between
the frame and the picture
and morning snow scene

remember the boss
with a 302 scoop
the diamond tuft console
and back seat coupe

remember ioco
the **** and the spit
the skid road race
and hurst floor kit

remember the shore
and tents in the park
a campfire roast
and kerosene bark

remember the hooger’s
kit kat club
the colvin’s and setter’s
a man called bub

remember the creature
with silk strand hair
and afternoon flask
with little despair

remember quilchena
and robbie the mac
the rice stead box
and tap on the back

remember miss williams
a pilgrim’s salute
the fairmont sister
with all of her loot

remember port ludlow
a scotman on dock
the everett street bridge
and single leg sock

remember the masters
and all of the roar
the faldo follies
at norman’s door

remember jeff samson
tied in a tree
the robertson fastback
with white leather seats

remember the balance
and pulling of 4's
the moncton warehouse
and hollywood ******

remember the hospice
with carter in wear
the power of gospel
and magic in prayer

remember the mini
counting the crows
aberdeen villa
where all of it grows

remember the ballroom
the battle of bands
the buccaneer bikers
and front row stands

remember the steely
and 50 odd pulls
the crook in the cranny
and pilsner bulls

remember the mustang
tb paul
the ****** shack sergeant
was missing a ball

remember dear kevin
head first in the pool
a sheik in a minefield
and ****** gas fool

remember the rumble
and bats in the night
an old lady screaming
to a young man’s delight

remember cliff olsen
that sick little ****
who will be in shackles
on lucifer’s truck

remember the bumpers
and cutting in line
the mice on the ****
and bo in the pine

remember the law
stabbing the corn
a bucket of ammo
and mekong horn

remember s boras
the piercing of yes
the color line paper
sikosie at rest

remember the pinto
and seven road plants
mother’s fine pizza
a trial lawyer’s rant

remember the kennedys
with ***** painted black
a pond in the shadows
where monty looked back

remember von husen
the sea to sky test
a farm hands daughter
was one of the best

remember mr pither
and mao sae tung
helena the cougar
and egg foo young

remember the cinder
and frances road bake
***** the whitehead
would make no mistake

remember the quan
and mental mix
the java hut sister
with pixy sticks

remember j rosie
banging his head
in a moment of dr
we thought he was dead

remember the hammer
discussions caught short
siddrich and roger
and monty’s abort

remember 6 nations
and KOA
the pool hall fight
when everyone stayed

remember the skinners
and tommy the med
the lost tough china
and bubs in the shed

remember the doobies
zeppelin and cars
floyd and the *****
and shankar’s sitar

remember old dustys
the blue and red chair
the cypress hill caves
and mullet cut hair

remember the promise
and vows that we made
on the 2 road stairs
in goodman’s brigade

remember those moments
and handle with care
for the garamond stamp
will always be there…

This piece of land I call my own

One day shall be overgrown

But one thing that is always shown

Is that people here are free

Lavender scent fills the air

People laughing everwhere

Old frenchmen sitting on the stairs

These things just need to be

Wander close and hear the sounds

There are birds and insects all around

But, we are all beneath the ground

And these we will not see

I lie beneath the sunlit sky

For this place is where I did die

For me I ask that you not cry

I died for my country

Birds are flying overhead

Beneath their flight lay we the dead

The ground was once stained deep blood red

From here you smell the sea

When I was here the sky was black

You could not see each new attack

We'd take one hill, they'd take in back

I was only twenty three

My medals are not on my chest

They're home, I hope like all the rest

I died but did fulfill my quest

I made these people free

I will not age forever more

I will not make it twenty four

But where I lay, there's ten score more

Who believed the same as me

I came to France in Wintertime

The battlefield was mud and slime

The beauty gone, it was a crime

There's not much here to see

Our crosses stand and mark our place

No photographs to show our face

We died with honor and with grace

Please say a prayer for me

Just boys we were when we arrived

It's sad that most did not survive

We gave our souls, we gave our lives

So this world could be free

I remember though one Christmas Day

The war was stopped so we could play

I wish it could  remain this way

We had no enemy

So, here I lie beneath the earth

My life is what your freedoms worth

My tale is one but there's a dearth

Of others here like me

But now I just enjoy the view

The birds above and folks like you

Will keep my story, fresh, anew

Just please...remember me.
.

Two Frenchmen,
One newly retired,
One still a few years out,
In high back leather chairs
Beside an empty fire place,
Guinness & coffee & conversation
To bring closure,
And to think how to begin again....

"I'm burned out!"
Mssr. Rivere declares,
"Away with books;
Away with the horn!"
He says, and I can tell,
That he feels worn.

Is this how we come to our ends;
Spent in years and worn of halls,
Chalk and marker memories,
And the clattering of chairs....
Old opening lines, closing remarks,
Grading done and logged,
And now it's out we're turned
To walk upon the parks,
Once quicker steps now trudging
Up and down the eternal stairs?

Memories' mellowed now,
And sometimes failing;
Shall we go sadly sighing,
Or do we go out flailing?

At these crossroads,
Care-worn teachers,
Revert to old philosophy,
To faith, and to our friends...
Ancient lines to lead us
Too soon to be old men....

Must look all ways, we,
Then venture out again
To see what lies beyond
The pasts we leave behind;
Take pause this afternoon
Upon the marge
Of journeys new
We must begin.

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
  With his swarthy, grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
  Some old frontier town of Flanders.

Up and down the dreary camp,
  In great boots of Spanish leather,
Striding with a measured *****,
These Hidalgos, dull and damp,
  Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.

Thus as to and fro they went,
  Over upland and through hollow,
Giving their impatience vent,
Perched upon the Emperor’s tent,
  In her nest, they spied a swallow.

Yes, it was a swallow’s nest,
  Built of clay and hair of horses,
Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest,
Found on hedge-rows east and west,
  After skirmish of the forces.

Then an old Hidalgo said,
  As he twirled his gray mustachio,
“Sure this swallow overhead
Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed,
  And the Emperor but a Macho!”

Hearing his imperial name
  Coupled with those words of malice,
Half in anger, half in shame,
Forth the great campaigner came
  Slowly from his canvas palace.

“Let no hand the bird ******,”
  Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!”
Adding then, by way of jest,
“Golondrina is my guest,
  ’Tis the wife of some deserter!”

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,
  Through the camp was spread the rumor,
And the soldiers, as they quaffed
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed
  At the Emperor’s pleasant humor.

So unharmed and unafraid
  Sat the swallow still and brooded,
Till the constant cannonade
Through the walls a breach had made
  And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent,
  Struck its tents as if disbanding,
Only not the Emperor’s tent,
For he ordered, ere he went,
  Very curtly, “Leave it standing!”

So it stood there all alone,
  Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
Till the brood was fledged and flown,
Singing o’er those walls of stone
  Which the cannon-shot had shattered.

I WAS a boy when I heard three red words
a thousand Frenchmen died in the streets
for: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity-I asked
why men die for words.
  
I was older; men with mustaches, sideburns,
lilacs, told me the high golden words are:
Mother, Home, and Heaven-other older men with
face decorations said: God, Duty, Immortality
-they sang these threes slow from deep lungs.
  
Years ticked off their say-so on the great clocks
of doom and damnation, soup and nuts: meteors flashed
their say-so: and out of great Russia came three
dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die
for: Bread, Peace, Land.
  
And I met a marine of the U.S.A., a leatherneck with a ******* his knee for a memory in ports circling the earth and he said: Tell me how to say three things and I always get by-gimme a plate of ham and eggs-how much?-and-do you love me, kid?

yes, theology reduced to the anti-speculative reasoning
to choose he v. she, as if what pronoun mattered
to be hardly exact - national effigies exist
for ex-patriots - immigrants is a
***** word used by assimilating cultures,
the small intestines and the
the tape worms - she ******* Europe -
he labouring Europe - winged Hussars in Ukrainian mud -
while Versailles was built - Poles, the French of the East -
Moscow was trivialised twice - once by Mongol,
once by Pole - Nietzsche maddened called for
the Slavic-Frenchmen - i can already see the proximity
of French with Polonaise - the duchy of Warsaw -
Napoleon - Justepatron - just partition -
or thus the two bombardments equal -
thus two kept a holy alliance - that the Pole
be Frenchman when a croissant was questioned.

Arise children of the fatherland
The day of glory has arrived
Against us tyranny's
****** standard is raised
Listen to the sound in the fields
The howling of these fearsome soldiers
They are coming into our midst
To cut the throats of your sons and consorts

To arms citizens Form your battalions
March, march
Let impure blood
Water our furrows

What do they want this horde of slaves
Of traitors and conspiratorial kings?
For whom these vile chains
These long-prepared irons?
Frenchmen, for us, ah! What outrage
What methods must be taken?
It is us they dare plan
To return to the old slavery!

What! These foreign cohorts!
They would make laws in our courts!
What! These mercenary phalanxes
Would cut down our warrior sons
Good Lord! By chained hands
Our brow would yield under the yoke
The vile despots would have themselves be
The masters of destiny

Tremble, tyrants and traitors
The shame of all good men
Tremble! Your parricidal schemes
Will receive their just reward
Against you we are all soldiers
If they fall, our young heros
France will bear new ones
Ready to join the fight against you

Frenchmen, as magnanimous warriors
Bear or hold back your blows
Spare these sad victims
That they regret taking up arms against us
But not these ****** despots
These accomplices of Bouillé
All these tigers who pitilessly
Ripped out their mothers' wombs

We too shall enlist
When our elders' time has come
To add to the list of deeds
Inscribed upon their tombs
We are much less jealous of surviving them
Than of sharing their coffins
We shall have the sublime pride
Of avenging or joining them

Drive on sacred patriotism
Support our avenging arms
Liberty, cherished liberty
Join the struggle with your defenders
Under our flags, let victory
Hurry to your manly tone
So that in death your enemies
See your triumph and our glory!

Milwaukee never saw me coming
In all my grey-eyed mistakes
But neither did Paris
And I arrived there without
A sense of falling, foolish place

I wish there was gum on my shoe
I'd hoped the Frenchmen would be mean
It's all mixed up, I got it all upside-down
Please don't ever ask the men of Milwaukee
Not all of them can actually sing

He toasted the world's greatest painters
I let him call me his own dying art
City of Light, I'll take my leave
When he didn't find a note I'd like to think
The champagne glass in hand heard him weep

Bearskin rugs and wide-brimmed hats
I never gave my head, the time of day to ask
Sorry I can't take it back, whatever you see in me
I'm afraid I can't say another word
Or you'll see I'm inevitably green

As I review the periodic table of elements
I have resorted to some thing so Idiotic
That the scientist have adored the relevance
of some infantile youthful designation.
I wondered... if one hydrogen atom
became two in what state,
what would two hydrogens be in another state.  
Shiftless bonds, or double 0 eight.
Is H2o oxygen or is it O2 in rain drops.
How exactly do I love your poetry.
Do I breath as do tears fall from my eyes.
Are we all spying in on the great love.
Does a capitol L make us doves?  
Ive never had such a crush,
To turn down.  How much of a hug
is a lie to another friend.  Ive had so many
affairs. That the friar asked me to spell affiar again
aware of a fraudien slip.  
I listed turned and down again I went as
I listened to my mother speaking to frenchmen.
The diety, the diet, the destruction of language, I just
stood there smiled and again I said... I wish you knew
what you were saying in Latin as the
holy spirit convenced him.  She said in uncertain
latin, the angle (angel) condemed us to understanding demi gods
and taro cards from matter to benevolence.

Cool breezes are blowing
up the Nottely this morning.
The chestnuts whisper
to the sumacs
something about sacredness
& deep in the forest,
where not many travel,
I hear them
trading stories
about Indian wars
& the Frenchmen.
It leaves me wondering
how much blood flowed
in that little creek down yonder.

who designated
the negative  and
abstract term of
the
*****
to represent
the race of
our beautiful
multi-tribal
Black People
the *****
represents
something that is dead
and insignificant but
Black People
are full of life
love and happiness
what gives
other people
the moral authority
justification or
the moral right
to define
Black Folks or
to tell us
what to think
Black Women
must stop purchasing
crazy hair products'
weaves extensions
for their hair and
creams and gels
to lighten up
their skin
to look
more European
with sraight hair
so we must define
our own beauty
within us
because we
always possessed it
stop buying
unecessary
Black hair products
from Asian shops and
making them rich
from our hard earn cash
no other racial groups
would come into our
Black communities
to support or
buy goods and services
from Black own businesses
we must take care of
our own
first and formost
Black Women
must develope
a more
natural look
in harmony
with God
and display
our healthy
curly kninky
shiny natural dynamic  and
beautiful black hair
we must consolidate
our financial resources and
build Black  own businesses
and products
to take care of our own needs
God made us
in His
own image
our Black Women
have always been
the beautiful queens
of the River Nile and
only we
can determine
all of that
furthermore
no other race
on this planet
shall define us
let me
tell you something
about them Negros
logically and scientifically
if we go back
far enough
from here
to Timbuktu
the Chinese
come from China
an Irishman comes
from Ireland
Frenchmen come
from France
an Englishman
comes from England
Germans comes
from Germany
so on and so forth
but
where in the hell
did the *****
come from
logically
he comes from
Negroland
however
this is
just a plain old fashion
cotton-picking lie
bigotry ignorence
prejudice and stupidity
at work here
Black People
are the
original people of
this earth and created
from the black soil of
Mother Africa
we are
stolen people
taken from
Mother Africa
against our
free will
Black People
did not volunteer
to come to America
but we have
every right
to live or die
in the pursuit of happiness
just like any other group
that successfuly made it
in America
and we help
to build America
and turned it
into a superpower
rich nation
yet
for the
love of money
greed and power
capitalism
thus created
a monster
called racism
towards
people of color
Black People
are the
original People
evolved from
Mother Africa
thus
we are made from
the image God
rejoice upon it
born with black skin
is not a curse but
a blessing
from God up above

December is harsh,
Winter seeps through the pavement
And we mourn the tree’s loss.
How can I behave when I do not
Know the culture?
You pass the bread back and forth
And I do not know why.

Will you speak to me, Monsieur?
Speak to me with meaning in your eyes
So that I might understand.

Chestnuts roast, a smell so warm and kind,
We pass the stall but do not turn to look.
Paree, Paree, what did you do to me?
Oh darling! What did you do?

The sky is weeping,
His tears rolling down windowpanes
As he sobs into the shoulders of the Gare du Nord.
Winter has come and he knows it as much as I.
I went to see the girl who stares,
I stared back and sought comfort in her gaze.

Strange, how a place can make you feel so alone.
Don’t you agree? Show me if you agree.
In this town of fifty million Frenchmen
Cold creeps into my bones.

It behooves
               us to shape
the organization so we need not wait
until we hear from above the command,
but have the reins
               in our own hand,
if we are to prove
ourselves worthy of intense
              coming events.

Those who do not move,
do not notice their chains.

They say 'Order reigns
             in Berlin!
Our enemy is bigger today,
“a colossus with feet of clay,
crumbling from within.”

Capital is an historical necessity,
[Like the wooden plow and the chariot,]
but, so too, its grave digger, the socialist proletariat.

Atop smoking ruins, between the pools of blood and corpses of the murdered,
             the heroes of ‘order’ hasten to entrench their rule anew.
We’ve been drowned, and left behind a fertile residue.
The Rose that grows from “the muck of ages” still smells as sweet,
future victory will bloom from this 'defeat'.

Rulers of Russia and America across the sea,
Germans, Belgians,
Poles and Frenchmen,
“you stupid henchmen!”
Don’t you understand,
“Your order is built on sand.”
The revolution says “I was, I am,
I will be.”

Eating Cadbury's chocolate handed
to you by sultry Amazons as you
float gently down the river Seine
in Paris while accompanying Frenchmen
in berets gently play their harmonium
thingy as the younger Brigitte Bardot
lets her blond hair tumble gently over
your face as she softly hums in your
ear songs by Smokey Robinson,

& meanwhile Hendrix's long sweet jam
Voodoo Chile blasts from enormous
banks of speakers being towed alongside
by Viking longboats crewed by Republican
politicians & overseen by the ladies of
***** riot now free from the prison cells
of Siberia,

as Tommy Cooper performs magic tricks
& near extinct animals, birds & insects
mate freely among floating clouds of
vapoury spring dew,

while deliciously gorgeous Thai ladyboys
slowly peel grapes for me before setting
off in a fluttering cloud to use their wiles
& charms on Republican conventioneers,
as you relax & smoke ***** & share a
hot-tub with God.

Joy.

At lunch
My friend told me his dream:
"Jesus, my dad, and I
Were sitting by a fireplace,
Comfortable on soft leather chairs...
And we were smoking.
Dad had his pipe,
I was smoking a cigar,
And so was Jesus."

He laughed;
So did I...
Dreams can be absurd.

"I looked at Dad,
Said, 'You know,
You made my life miserable
Some times'...
And then he looked at me...,
'You made my life
Difficult, too.'"

He stopped and looked hard at me.

He'd had an Epiphany in his dream;
I saw the look in his face:
A coming to terms,
A sort of peace,
An understanding,
A sadding sorrow,
A letting go.

I remembered what he'd told me
When I had shared a dream...
My dreams are only about me...
Not about the people in my dreams.

My introspection ended
When he laughed...
"But that's not all!
We three looked up,
Somehow partners in the dream,
To see mother standing at the door,
And we, all three,
Slid our smokes down to the side
To hide them near the floor."

The twisting tale took us then,
And others in the coffee shop
Looked up from smart phones
To see two Frenchmen laughing.

He sat in the Bell & Lantern with
His pipe and with his beer,
The streets were wet on a misty night
With the pub, the only cheer,
He’d only married the month before
To a girl, not half his age,
And laid it out like a written law,
‘You must make a living wage.’

He said that he’d been disabled by
A burst of cannon shot,
Unleashed by one of the Frenchmen
On his sloop, ‘The Camelot’
He said that he’d done his duty by
His country and the King,
So she would have to support them both
By doing anything.

She wondered what he had meant at first
But soon was disabused,
When he ripped open her bodice, saying
‘What you’ve got, you’ll use.
There’s sailors down at the docks each night
Who’ve been at sea too long,
They’ll pay for a bit of comfort, girl,
I want you to be strong.’

He chose the most of her wardrobe and
He threw away her drawers,
He said, ‘Whenever you greet one, you say,
‘What is mine, is yours.’
He chose a long cotton dress, he said
Was much more like a shift,
‘You have to be more than available,
It’s easier to lift.’

He wouldn’t be moved by the tears she shed,
How much she would implore,
His eyes were hard as her feelings bled,
His word would be the law,
He sent her out as the moon rose up
With its faint reflected light,
‘Make sure you bring all the money back
When you’re finished for the night.’

She wandered along dark alleyways
And she saw their shadow shapes,
Standing by darkened buildings, some
With caps and some with capes,
Their eyes would follow her down the lanes
Until just one would shout,
‘Now there’s the prettiest dolly bird,
What are you doing out?’

She’d soon get used to the smell of them,
Tobacco, gin and beer,
They’d come in close for a feel of her,
She’d try to hide her fear,
They’d ask how much for a little touch
She would say a shilling down,
If they were more of a gentleman
She would ask for half a crown.

Most of them took her standing up
With her dress up to her waist,
Or bent her over a barrel, it
Depended all on taste,
She’d work right through to the midnight hour
It depended on the trade,
He’d ask in the Bell & Lantern just
How often she’d been laid.

A good night, often she’d bring a pound
That he’d put down on the bar,
And pay for a round of drinks for mates
And for her, a *** or jar,
She’d blush and sit in the corner while
They’d leer and peer and joke,
The bolder ones would approach him, ask
‘How much for a friendly poke?’

He’d say, ‘She’s my little money box,
It will cost you half a quid,
But you must be nice, she’s sugar and spice
And she’ll tell me what you did.’
Then one might lay his money down, say
I’m feeling like a ride,
While he would laugh at his other half,
‘You can take the girl outside.’

One night when out on the dockyard she
Looked bleakly up at the stars,
And saw the Moon through the mist and gloom
Sitting right next to Mars,
So back at the Bell & Lantern she
Picked up and shattered a glass,
Lunged up, and ****** it into his face,
With Mars in her eyes, at last.

David Lewis Paget

I'm a Corinthian of greecian shore
I'm a Irishmen of potato poor
I'm a Frenchmen of all amour'
Whilst also
A English men
Pilgrim brought
A Cherokee
Of sage smoke moss
I'm a swiss bred
Of clearing waters
Yay
A Scottish men of castle dwellers..

Tis all are me
And yes
I'm all of them!!!

I am what I am..

title: cow borrow...
body: oranges smile.

https://www.unicode.org/L2/L2018/18323-open-four.pdfv(freeze: 444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444)

weak spot: Lao Che: Powstanie Warszawskie: the Warsaw Uprising... i tend to cry... when my heart constrict into being sized akin to a pebble... then: ah... release! tears! there: stands! a mountain! a monument of me!

i couldn't possibly give either the Hindus or the Arabs
credit for our modern numbers...
given the following rubric:

ένας: 1 - one - I - iota
δύο: 2 - two - Z - zeta
τρία: 3 - three - E - eta
τέσσερα: 4 - four - μ - mu... of h
πέντε: 5 - five - S - esse
έξι: 6 - six - b - ba-toom
επτά: 7 - seven - Γ - gamma
οκτώ: 8 - eight - B - beta
εννέα: 9 - nine - P - or rho
μηδέν: 0 - zero - O - omicron

the numbers were already here...
             "hidden" or rather... the Romans knew arithmetic
in the following fashion:

XI + IX = **
                
                  so... it was nothing new...
to have ascribed something numerical to what was
otherwise a letter -
a sound...                   hmm...

what of the Japanese?
               六 - or... ロク: which is six...

there's a reason why i won't budge on this matter...
i had one Egyptian fwend "friend" once:
what a disappointment he was...
like with most Muslim acquaintances:
the feeling of conversation soon turns into
a feeling of conversion...

               such nagging *******: always looking
for proselytes: who'd they'd treat as inferiors...
not even as Janissaries or Mamluks...
just... eh... some odd convert...

              obviously i didn't, convert...
but i'm looking into a second Islamic schism...
oh no... the Persians wouldn't bow to an invading
horde of Arabs: Muhammad was not a man
of his word... that chapter has been covered...

i'm looking for a second schism toward...
the Turks... spearheading it... with Hey-Zeus...
Isa... being... well...
        Ba'al Yatoosh... lord of mosquitos...
another day another reiteration of my conviction:
since i won't be siding with the Gnostics
when the proper **** hits the fan: proper(ly)...
i'm bailing out... on this whole history...
the Pontius Pilate stance...

            it's also called the waiting game...
my neighbour's son's wife is having a baby...
the waters broke some... oh... 48 hour ago...
but the national health service didn't intervene...
C-section phobia... ****'s sake!
get that tadpole out! imagine having a child
stuck in you for almost two days...
the waters have broken...
  where's the necessary lubricant for her to push
the baby out? why can't all births be done
via a C-section? eh?! costs too much?
what's so good with a natural birth...
by comparison to other mammals...
  we're pseudo-mammals...
you watch a birth of a gazelle... it just drops out
(the mare) like a diarrhea sludge of a serpent...
plop: and it's out...
******* "dyslexic" in its ability to stand up...
but hey presto!
                      it's blinking: so it's receptive...
but my neighbour's away... i was giving the duty
of looking after Bella... this white beau of
a heterochromia: so a Dawid Bovie type...
rebel rebel... doesn't know whether she's a meow
or a woof!
           i love my neighbour to bits...
but i walk in... first things first... my library shelf
is a mess... by my standards of cleanliness...
i walk into her house: shoom! i get the whiff!
i think i just walked into: a museum dedicated
to Ed Gein...
      i'm not even joking...
  i start looking for the cat... change the water...
add some extra dry-pebbles of food to her dish...
change the stale, dried out sachet
with two options: on the menu... some parody beef
and some parody salmon in: probably not so
parody jelly... pig brain remains gelatin...
which is good... i like being reminded...
whenever i think my life's ****** up...
someone else's is... more...
                hence the topic of jealousy disappears...
thank **** for this little...
i'll take these shoes, these socks...
   and... yes, thank you: ******* into the forest
come sunset...

because why is it, in Latin... that... letters do not
have names, akin to the Greek
"fashion" of naming A: alpha... and B: beta...
hell... I is not aye: a yes, affirmative but:
iota...

i might be drinking... i might be drunk...
but i still cycle like a madman through
the traffic... next time i give a ****...
i'll give a **** when a teenage girl breaks her shins:
folds her knees and says: i love you...
blue moon... i.e. that's never going to happen...

it has happened before: Nietzsche in the zenith
of his furore pretended to be a ******...
Polacks are the Frenchmen of the Slav...
yeah: #metoo... i sometimes forget i'm a ******...
i'm more prone to suggest myself as:
HERR SWAB! ******* schwabian!...
not the tourist elder Saxon that became the islander
Englishman... something more focused...
but i get it... i too get "confused" from time...
time... time... space...

but you can't really measure language... sounds...
not really... sure...
you can... elongate an omicron into an omega:
*** via through to pool...
that's an omicron to an omega transfer:
and... no diacritical markers were or are to be used...

as a microcosm of the totality of man...
as: but one... i.e. 0.1...
this implant in me: of the retrospective of man...
history... that... however written...
just... erases itself: because... nature...
doesn't allow for a celebrity horse...
or whatever... replica after replica...
no distinction: the authority comes from:
you will not keep an Alexander the Great for...
what nature allows... scheme... little man...
nature will soon yawn and settle the matters
into creating the replica of the vast void
above it...  the game is to replicate...
      
only now i walked around a supermarket...
whiskey: check... pepsi... check...
turkey steaks for the cats: check...
wow... such... such unremarkable people...
have passed through the membrane of time...
2 children, 3 children... most of which look:
underfed...
   oh so, well... moi..
             i tried to give a ****: once upon a time...
now? well... if i'm not getting any satisfaction...
what? marry a ******* gargoyle in the making?
she drops out two plump-plum-pig-cheeks
of babies and then what?! watch television with her
till we grow old and tired?!
oh **** no!
        make me a warm bath: i'll do the vein slitting
myself... at least when i'm alone
life remains bearable... interesting:
i get to surprise myself...
      sure... sometimes i **** prostitutes...
like a good Teutonic knight might...
                   but most the time...
spare me the ******* details... there are no details...
i stroke my beard pretending to be playing
a violin... it's not going to happen:
i have a blank canvas for company...
that's my epitome... and... probably a ******* epitaph...

but i will not, give, credit... to the Arabs... or the Hindus...
for... giving European numbers...
****'s sake! XI: 11: elven eleven!
people on this continent used to substitute letters
for: abstractions akin to: the necessity of numbers
to measure... space within space...
space counter to time...
  time and... whatever...
Meister Ronaldo Retardo: no... it's not going
to happen...
             i'm not going to allow these copper-necks
to have some up-right: we evolved prior to you:
sure... now you spend a winter in ******* Finland...
******* copper-necks...
can't call them "*******"... can't call them albinos...
those supposedly tanned people of the desert...
my my... 2000 years... you ever wonder...
why the Hebrews became so... ******* pale?!
oh sure sure... we inherited numbers...
but... with the letters we wrote...
we already had the numbers!

   let's have some... pseudo... insert burp:
something akin to the Copernican revolution
implosion...
                     ౺

      μ                           h

                   4: look left...

huh? because it can't possibly be
the 5th disengaging with the existence
of Poland...
like that... ha ha... joke... from 19th century
France...
Ubo Roi... by Alfred Jarry...
  ha ha! it's really funny now...
oh, don't mind me minding the English:
they are island dwelling folk...
half fixated on being Saxons: half fixated
on being Welsh: Celtic...
           never mind them... how England stated:
war against **** Germany!
but... but... last time i heard...
Polacks waged war on these isles...
in the spitfires...
  but what Englishman ever fought their
claims on the lands of Poland?
             mind you... it took **** Germany
combined with the effort of Soviet Russia
to conquer Poland... than it took for...
**** Germany to... conquer... France...
seriously?! France? the birthplace of Napoleon...
France wasn't conquered during the second world war:
France simply spread its legs...
it: capitulated...
the Palestinians have a term for throwing
children against grenades...
the same... the French: just throw easy *****
against anything that wriggles!

because it's funny now... the joke had to ferment...
all the way back from the 19th century...
i needed to feed my neighbour's cat...
walk into a... a... a... a ******* Ed Gein museum...
seriously... i spent the rest of the afternoon
pretending to be drunk... sitting it the garden
admiring the moon...
getting drunk on: how i ordered my household...
i'm drunk... on how... erratic... guillotine... prone...
some people are... sort of like:
   vlad: land-zurückgefordert!
but the Alfred Jarry joke is joke, right: proper...
did it age? really?
oh: the Polacks are king King John of England:
lackland hipsters...
the lesser Hebrews...
        now... oh now...
   hmm... France... post-colonialism...
the "history": how's that working with you?
if it's necessary: tear Ukraine into two!
i don't care... i'll be more than welcoming this:
Russophile attititude!
       it was a good joke... in the 19th century...
but... given France... and the 21st century...
post-colonial realities...
eh... i smirk...i'm trying ol find someone
under 5ft4... who's... greedy with canons!
Elba?! nice... pretty little island...
want to repeat history?!
          Alfred Jarry: ha ha!
who runs Paris, these days?
oh, wait... ******'s dead...
              i want to live in Tel Aviv....
or... like a lot of the Beatnik poets...
in... hubris...via: Tangiers...
                         funny joke... the French, though...
huddling... into shadows...
there's nothing to laugh about at...
is, there?
            
bewildering:
we have names for numbers...
but we don't have names for letters...
undifferentiated:
nouns conrta consonants...
1 is indivisible...
2 is...
   well... 1 is divisible by 0:
ergo 0.1...
            moons and monkeys and money...

time to pretend to have hair
and comb it...
such that is history that is France:
that is post-colonialism...
and... whatever the hell is allows...
let it... 100 years later... some variation of
a Reconquista?!
             great joke... the Polacks having
no land...
           like: you have a history or just:
the ******* architecture?
    it's not nice... seeing you being *****...
Charlemagne is... twisting... turning
in his grave... shouting via death:
death to all that live!
              ROT... and by now: rot is best.

no! nein! nie! niet!
numbers didn't arrive from India... via the Arabs!
we already had the numbers!
within the confines of letters!
*******... take your pride back to the camel jockeys
you were originally bound to be:
******* sand people!
  i can't fall asleep lovely bound to the temp.
of the equator... check me... come...
hmm... the northern bound... height...
come... the darkness and the silence...
and the coldness of Siberia! *******: Baghdadi:
ummah: chasm of wants... *******...

******* luxury of temp.: ******* inbreds:
me too... i'd love to **** my cousins!
i'd love to be a cousin ******.

Frenchmen once said that a man is defined by his beard not his hands or the size of his heart
A man is someone who you can wake up at two a.m and expect him to not wake unless you put an *** in his face
Then it's a debate, whether the *** is great
But of course he'll proceed to sleep when that's been made clear because a man needs his rest like.. everyone else.
But don't think men are like everyone, we are nothing like others except like every other man who owns a pair of gloves
Why gloves you may ask, well it's simple
Our wives got them to us for christmas, doesn't mean we wear them but we own them and that itself is a reason to be a proud man for we have achieved a family who spends money on things we'll never use and who needs money when you got a three year old kid who calls you daddy when you come home from golfing.
And there's your wife, asking preference for dinner and we sure love some chicken but today he kinda feels like eating out because a man will always get what he wants.

hmm... bite; let's relearn greek together... oh ****... the Cyrillic impetus.

                 ZEE-NO'H...   KSI-NO?

              ζ...

zeta:

              dry on
the o, o, omega?!

         harder to sport
seeing an enemy with
two eyes,
   than it is:
         seeing an
enemy with two tongues...

but cross-eyed you
will still see a unison:
   move a deck of cards:
the entire people moves
stacking,
whistleblowing...

        and the most strange reality
i ever "sought":
       a stroke of lightning...
without thunder...
             the sort of observation
that might make
me into a brazillian soccer
                     golden goose.

because the third place was
necessary to fight for
                             a: parsnip?

   to make a custom of two eyes,
two nostrils and two ears:
best to learn a "lingua franca"...
              it's not that much,
but apparently a lot by Napoleon's
standard...
                   a holy trinity:
an Arab an Englishman
    and a Frenchmen walked into a bar...
all left talking Gaelic!
  **** me: a miracle,
  and all from drinking Guinness!
the funny bit?
          i'm not trying to be funny.
if you believe that the adult bit
of the internet is the *context
   of banking or shopping...
    the content isn't supposed
                   to be *****-friendly!
perhaps what Muhammad meant was:
he who only speaks one tongue...
             i like that version
of the Dajjal...
                  ****... why mention
Odin and not the blind-man?

look at 'em...
                some think the Norwegians
and the Belgians don't speak
native...
               or? maybe they speak
english so well that the english
are bound to be excused as merely tourists?

i forgot as i learned in Athens:
the english = americans have
to be welcome everywhere they
tread...
            ******* roosters in
halloween attire...
                ah... **** it...
                                 let the children play;
chances are,
they'll "grow up",
   by importing labour: while exporting
goods.

i find the pontius pilate gesture
more important than the glorification
posture on golgotha.

Before the Euro, you were -- swirling light, sitting pretty.
We kicked it at night along the grungy lanes of Ile de la Cité.
Notre Dame loomed large and long, a battleship on the Seine.
An exoskeleton of Gothic bones, what could it ever do but win?

Hunger hung out among us, an unwanted dog on a wayward walk.
Frenchmen directed us au centre. In those days, I could talk the talk.
Still can, still do, but who needs "J'adore vos diamants de luxe,
calme et beauté" when you must bow down in a row sans your ducks?

Serendipity, man, that's what la Cité seeped. Evening an ermine
blanket tossed effortlessly over the spires of the medieval vermin
that Haussmann hacked into Euclidean lines of parallel charms:
more ordre, beauté et calme. Organic geometry. What's the harm?

Dusk draped us in l'amour du mystère. Cafe awnings as exotic
as Flaubert's Egyptian tours, plump with mistresses for the neurotic
novelist who poisoned Normandy with naturalistic despair. He's
no Parisian, no architect, no monk. We absorb le mot juste; a star flees.

On the sidewalk, a 50-franc note calls out beneath the weeds.
We look for an owner, see nothing, feel nothing but the need to feed
on crepes, chocolat et confiture de fraise. I imagine Camus and Sartre
at Les Deux Magots, nursing black café, pouring noir into your heart.

i don't know why it happens: the stuff i like that i've written falls on deaf ears... perhaps like Ezra Pound i'm about to lament: so few come to my fountain, thirst i guess is wasted on the people who'd rather hallucinate an oasis... i feel out of place... intellectually: i guess i have to be dead to get the sort of traction i deserve: but first death...

i wondered today, why did i buy this beast of a bicycle?
it's horrid: in that it's massive...
this Trek Merlin 5 is humungous...
i might as well tell people as i cycle past that i'm
donning a ride of a motorbike...

and for some reason i keep repeating listening
to Jane's Addiction's Three Days...
it's the bass... i'm a sucker for bass guitar...

then again: like today i woke up and something
ancient: inborn within me woke up
to count how many shadows i owned...
luckily just the one... although: two tongues...
my mother's tongue woke up
in my mind... it's always awake in speech...
but not awake enough to scribble
something down...

mind you: i found the only ideal imitation
of Hebrew in English... i'll show that later...
as i will something else...

mój głos jest przestrzeń -
    a moja myśl (jest) czas...
o tym so powstało w lesie pewnej nocy...

translation? my voice is space...
but my thought (is) time...
about what was created in the forest
a particular night...

  well... two nights...
one night i was drinking heavily on the bench
in Havering County Park...
the night summarised me with
not being surprised... i had
to walk through night, shadow, fog and blindness...
i ended up screaming an aria of bile:
of caged venom of absolute carnage...
mayhem: a tornado on my breath
an earthquake on my tongue...
a volcano in my lungs...
a crucifixion and the absolution of the moon
by a rain of meteors in my heart...
nothingness in my mind... i screamed: i... ROARED...

where have you gone? echo? where?!
that was one night... some other night
i walked back and became frightened...
someone in the woods was silly enough
to brush against an incantation...
i heard them: Satanus in Excelsis!
****... what did i just start? did i give someone
the benefit of doubt or rather: faith?
i was just ******* about a pebble...
i couldn't see... i was marching blind through
the forest... the moon failed me...
it was winter... i was cold...
that's what i mean: my voice was space...
if i were in a cave and i didn't hear
echo... the "shadow" of the voice...
my body is a form that's also a shadow....
stretching.... stretching... mind you:
Game of Thrones... i'm not a big fan...
iron is the currency of that universe?
in my universe? RUBBER is worth more than gold...
but at the same time... it used to be paper...

- let's just say my relationship with women
is... cordial... i heard whispers from a well forgotten
past... i has tattooed by Chernobyl...
a birth mark of plum on my shoulder blade...
as if someone were to remove a wing
and i should have been born an angel...
this nurse... tried to choke me: to spare my mother
the troubles: of what? a freak?!
i have witnessed better freaks live out their lives...
she tried to choke me... the story went along
the lines of: the **** of the milk-bottle
had a ****** too large for your to swallow...
you started choking: your heart enlarged...
plus the hernia... i was born out of agony...
it's all burred: unconscious in me....
but how are you going to treat women,
if the first women you encounter are... ******* willing
to **** you?
that's my relationship with women...
i love prostitutes... the only "class" of women
i love... i like sniffing out lies...
i like lip-reading... i've read enough to be able
to lip-read...
i abhor people who think they're smart
but? are dumb as doughnuts!
i can't insult donkeys...
    i smell fear.. i smell lies...
          as every chameleon ought to...

i should be less bothered:
i just missed the marker... those who are willing
to read me haven't been born yet...
it's best seeing it that way...
i'm not going to bemoan having written
the Great Gatsby... and then... ugh?! what now?!

i see the seat: SEDES...
that's... the part of the toilet that's the "rim"...
the plastic that closes in on the ceramics...
SEDES...
              i see...
write English with two variations:

(a)
  / (waɪt) /
              / (ˈɛlɪfənt) /
      / (nəʊ) /
                    / (ruːm, rʊm) /

wait for what? i thought i said: white: wide: white?!
phonetics my ***... the English version
is half-bad... still bad... but it's not h'american
hwyte bad: that's ******* teasing the Welsh
tongue to come forward!
you want sheep-shaggers in your midst?

that's what i love "naturalization"... you pick
up on local traditions... on local stereotypes and local
preferences and local discriminations...
although... i love the French... biggest bicycle freaks...
at university i had two portraits on my wall...
Napoleon and Marquis the Sade...
who do you think this French girl attacked?
Napoleon was the = of ******...
not a brilliant man... no... no... KO...
    i did manage to lose my virginity with her...
which was nice...
Isabella... third year psychology exchange student...
she looked like a Dracula's *****...
she had ills against Napoleon...
but no trouble stomaching Marquis de Sade...
then again: she probably didn't
recognise him...

but when it comes to the Frenchmen and
the Polacks... Napoleon created the satellite state
of the Duchy of Warsaw...
i... i can' give thanks?! i ought to! Napoleon
gave the Polacks a homeland back...
from that terrible experiment of theirs of their
elected monarchy...
great plan! applause! let the Polacks decide on
a king and make him the younger inheritor
of the throne of Sweden... then watch as brother
turns on brother and invades...
with Sweden bringing the deluge of an invasion
against the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth!

these people are are either too free or too subordinate!
they can't decide...
i stopped caring...
there's nothing i can do...
i'm away from the land of my birth...
ii'm looking toward churning out
an imitation of Hebrew in English...
i'm sure i can... i can...
i can replace the NIQQUD...
    
Hebrews hide their vowels...
what you see are consonants...
you don't actually see the vowels...
i can do the same...
but i will not use the niqqud system...
i'll use the Braille methodology...

this language is mine!
                        i don't care whether i was or wasn't
born with it: i have inherited it!
this language is my dog on a leash!
this language is a cat sleeping freely in my bed!

i will not look into the squiggly nature of Arabic...
someone else is waiting for that
assortment of interest...
me?
i'm bound to investing interest in Hebrew...
the niqqud and Braille... and English...
you ******* smart orthofox Jews... "think"?!
i too think!

    (b)

          met the shadow baron and his host...
i.e.
              M⠑T TH⠑ SH⠁D⠕W
                            B⠁R⠕N
                        ­  ⠁ND H⠊S
  H⠕ST...

                            i see, i don't see...
ONOMATOPEIA:
U's missing...
    ⠕N⠕M⠁T⠕P⠕⠑⠊⠁(⠥ - y, o and u too!)

oh... you think... that just because
the Hebrews suffered a Holocaust they can be
freed from their deity: their
god eating god deity?! Moloch used to be a god!
Beelzeebub was a god!
Mammon and the whole lot of them!
Behemoth!
              Belial!
              right... your people hide their vowels...
i'll invested an idea too! to hide vowels among the blind...
i know it will have no decent traction...
i know it's a complete an utter failure:
but... i know you will see the momentary genious
of it!
hmm! America is... ripe! it's... Rrrrr-ipe!