Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.

You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The

Dear Gaddafi
I was hoping to be
One of your female
Body guards
So I can tease you
With my AK
Against my self
Be your play thing
And by day protect
You my sweet

Correctly he is John the Baptizer,
His birth was delayed up to late,
Late post menopausal age of his mother,
Elisabeth the wife of Zachariah the priest,
At the temple of the Jews in Palestine
During the regal time of Rome
As a world empire and a role model of tyranny,

Imagine conceiving after menopause,
During the nonagenarian ages
Of all the ages, in the nineties?
But she conceived John,
Was it true or mere sensationalism?
Or mere nerve chilling art style?
To hold the world audience a hostage?
I don’t know but  John was born
After his mother’s menopause,

He contrasts with Jesus
Born by a ****** Mary,
Imagine a Jewish ******
Without ****** *******
Became pregnant,
And gave birth to Jesus,
When Mary was pregnant
She socially visited Elisabeth
John’s fetus somersaulted,
Like a Chinese acrobat
Inside his mother’s tummy,
It was his baptism before birth,
But may be pregnancy of a ******
Has more strength than pregnancy
Of a post menopause octogenarian,

Hence the famous ode by Catholics;
In the name of Hail Mary
The mother of God
Most blessed above all women,

These post menopause pregnance
And ******‘s pregnancy without ***
Contrasts with Adam’s creation from clay
And Eve’s creation from Adam’s left rib,
Another super-sensational literature,
Or pataphorical art; Magical surrealism?

Let me not go dumb or mute
Like Zachariah when he believed not,
But no, I already believed ergo, my vocality,

Now why did John refuse to put on clothes?
Only to put on a skin of a goat,
Or was it a monkey Clobus,
The one which we in Africa
We are forced to ****
Before your father permits you
To face the circumcision knife,
John again refused to eat cooked foods,
He survived on raw honey and locusts,
Nuts, roots and raw fruits, dietician?

Or it was self denial or self immolation?
Like the one often displayed
by the Islamic statesmen aka terrorists
When committing suicide bombing?
No it began with the Japanese Kamikaze,
In preparation to bomb Pearl Habour,
I don’t know at all at all,

Now what of the howling in the wilderness,
Calling for people to baptism in water
At the riverbanks of polluted Jordan
And when he saw the Negroes
Among those who came for baptism
He called them the viper’s generation
Or were they Libyan Arabs?
And Jesus came, John went inferior,
He declined to baptize Jesus,
But Jesus pleaded for the service,
Then the dove opened the heaven
And came down to anoint Jesus,
Which heaven was opened?
Was the sky or the heaven?
This must be the writer’s Gnostics
Used to calling the sky as the heaven
Why the dove and why the heaven?

Then john again began doubting
Very genuine doubt I m telling you,
You see john began spying on privacy of the king
Was he also a night runner? Maybe,
He spied on Herodias the mother of Salome
She was a chic for the king; Herod Antipas,
This stuff threw John into  a calaboose,
Then John began day dreaming
Like any other prisoner
For his freedom and bush foods
He really missed honey and locusts
And also the fruits; Quavas and mustaberries,

He thought Jesus would come running,
Panting like a cheetah to pull him out,
Out of colonial prison, Jesus never came
Hence Johns doubts;
If Jesus is the Messiah really,
Can’t he come to redeem me?
From these colonial prison Herod,
Look; we are all Jews
In fact blood related Jews
And it is a year he has never come,
To pay me a visit when am in prison
Is he the Messiah really?
Or we still have to wait for a true messiah?

But Jesus was a rude messiah
Or Jesus was jealousy? Envious?
Of John’s spiritual competence,
I think he was wrong, totally wrong
He should have saved john the Baptizer
From the Roman colonial prison,
For there is no need nor spiritual logic
For Jesus to heal the lepers, and the blind
To resurrect Jairus’s daughter
And command the devils out of a madman,
But he could rescue his cousin brother
From a colonial prison, was it detention?
Remember Mary and Elisabeth were sisters,

John was a victim of circumstance
Like those who now languish in torture,
Torture chambers of the quatanamo bay prison,
Detained and tortured inhumanly
Without hope of trial nor justice
For no other reason but faith and race,
John was a harbinger of Sadam Hussein,
Osama Bin Laden, Mummar Gaddafi,
Nelson Mandella, Luther King, Dedan Kimathi,
Elijah Masinde, Arap Manyei and Mugo wa Gatheru,
They fought tyranny with firmness
They underwent torture for the sake of humanity,
They suffered for no reason but folly that goes with tyranny.

And finally, Salome the poet,
Living by performing the spoken word,
And Proceeds of her mother’s adultery
And vampirizing on the blood of the righteous
She came and danced in artful wickedness
by gyrating her ***** satanically
In the usual wicked style of a *****’s daughter
Sending the male audience nerveless with ego
Only for to suggest her prize;
As John’s head on the platter,
John was grisly mattered in the cells
Then his head was delivered on a platter
To Salome the poet the daughter of Herodias,
It all happened when Jesus was aware
Amid the full wind of his wonders
On the crest of his fame as the messiah
Isn’t saving the prisoner good as resurrecting
Young damsels and healing the lepers’?

But anyway, it is stark culture of Europe
To chop off the heads
Of those who oppose their tyranny,
It is not only John the Baptist that have suffered,
Suffered like this in the hands of Europeans tyranny,
The list of such-like victims is endless;
Mugo wa Gatheru was buried alive in Kenya
He was ordered at a gun point
By the British colonial police,
To dig his own grave using a mattock
Then the British clobbered and buried him a live,
On this brutal burial of Mugo wa Gatheru,
The Queen of England promoted these policemen
That buried Mugo wa Gatheru,
Kotalel Arap Samoia of the Nandi Militia in Kenya
Was shot twice in the head by the British spy;
The spy chopped off Koitalel’s head
He took it to the queen in heroic dint
And the queen glorified the spy,
Anglo-American power chopped of sadam’s head
Anglo-American power killed Mummar Gaddafi,
Anglo-American power Killed Osama bin Laden
They perpetrated all these without trial,
I am tired of all these………………

My technology nightmare
Leaves me euphoric this morning.
Addicted, like drug trials,
I knew the risks going in,
Got hooked in The Cloud &
Now it always seems easier,
With diminished psychic chafing
Whenever I go with the flow, as the
Hipsters are saying again.
Yes, the hipsters:
Finally, some kids I can relate to.
At least on some level, their music e.g.
The first thing I did this morning,
Waiting for my laptop to boot,
Was put a CD on the stereo:
Matrix Reloaded: The Album.
I set the shuffle function,
Looping back between
Linkin Park’s Session &
Team Sleep’s Passportal.
You can tell a lot about
What kind of day it will be
By the soundtrack you choose,
Your infinite play list,
Don’t ever say these kids have no culture,
Or nothing to share with us old farts.
Old Farts: an apt, Baby Boomer term in 2015.
Kids’ music, some of it quite good,
Quite 60s-worthy if you catch my drift,
As we used to say while grazing in the grass with
Hugh Masekela & his Naai Mongoe-Swazi red,
Surfrikan homeboys & band mates, & that
ANC Kwa-Guqa Township posse,
Shadowing him since Sharpeville.
That’s right, Babaloo,
Go with the flow.
Don’t fight it. You’ve been spared the unintended
Consequences of government shenanigans &
Free market meltdowns.
Consider this a CEASE & DESIST NOTICE:
Cease swimming upstream Mr. Phelps.
Desist fighting tide & current, Michael.
A mariner’s distinction, yet serviceable &
Purposed for this narrative.
“And away we go,” croons a Gleason levitation;
Aloft we go into the wild blue yonder.
The Cloud: an exalted playground.
You are atop the slide,
Kindergarten lord of all you survey,
Sultan, Chinese Emperor & Venetian Doge,
A 90-caliber Duke of Earl,
You are euphoric, Mike.

The descent into the humanoid condition
(See Paddy Chayefsky’s Howard Beale),
Is slick and precipitous.
It begins when you first finger ****
A pocket calculator or touchtone phone,
Or use a Xerox machine.
From there it’s a quick slide down
The technology ****-shoot: video games,
Spreadsheets & word processors,
Emails, texts & tweets,
Laser projection keyboards,
Wi-Fi amplifiers,
GPS navigators, &
Apps for No-Strings *** . . .
By “****-shoot” I editorialize, of course,
In a state of future shock,
Resenting planned obsolescence,
Contemptuous of shrewd **** kids,
Wharton School sharpies,
Scoping out price curves & flowcharts,
Colluding at industry trade shows,
Powwows & confabs,
Releasing newer, more versatile
Models & spinoffs, according to a
Scheme planned three years in advance.

I salt the inevitable wounds of technology,
Taking my fight to the streets, realizing too late
My sole means of alerting the flash mob
Is by so-called smart phone,
*******!
Even the revolution has gone digital.
Poor Gil Scott Heron, dead last year at 62,
Poor Scott Heron, channeled into the
Harlem Renaissance by that loyal Chicago Defender,
Subscriber & reader, to wit: his Grandma,
A “Rainbow Conspiracy” co-conspirator,
Cooking ham hocks & collard greens for that
Mythical coalition of Young Lords,
Black Panthers & SDS.
Heron’s prognostication was wrong:
“The Revolution Will (In Fact) Be Televised!”
We’ve witnessed quite a bit of it,
Lately, prime time lately,
Live by satellite from once exotic places,
Places like Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria & Ferguson, MO.
I say “once exotic” because it’s hard to be
Visually intoxicated by images of screaming brown men
Sporting New York Yankee ball caps,
“Vote for Pedro” T-shirts and
$200.00 Air Jordan footwear.
Admittedly, the production values of
Revolutionary journalism have improved,
Action reported Hollywood-style,
Narrative arcs, scripted episodes,
Drive-by Potemkin villages & battle scenes,
30 or 60 or 90 day shooting schedules.
Spontaneous proletarian uprisings as Reality TV,
Riveting dramas,
High Nielsen ratings & $500K
Per minute corporate sponsors.
Let’s view the new fall line-up:
(1) “Mustafa Behaving Badly!”
(2) “Tunisian Tear Gas Talent!”
(3) “Gaddafi Gets Sodomized!”

It is the last Tuesday of March in 2011
Two months ago, Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali
Prime minister of Tunisia, was forced into exile
Twenty three years is enough
He needs that time in Saudi Arabia

It does not feel like it has been two months
Because the world, right after that January
Has been shaken up

Egypt has since forced Hosni Mubarak
Their dictator of thirty years
Out of the country and onto the shores of the Red Sea

Democracy by will of the people
Popular uprising
A violent revolution perhaps
But yes, revolution in freedom, ideals
These countries will be different
For the better I hope

Now the people of Libya are up in arms
Crying and fighting for their freedom
And because there is so much oil in Libya
And because Gaddafi is letting his troops fire on civilians
The UN is sweating and threatening to take action

Aside from the awful earthquake in Japan
I blame the people of Tunisia for doing the right thing

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


I love life, because in living you get all problems
I love eating because you can constipate if you eat a lot,
I love women because they reduce pocket giants to beggars,
I love children because they instill economic tension to parents,
I love trees because green snakes derive poison from them,
I love poor people because their life is pure experiment,
I love rich people because they snobbishly love themselves
I love motor vehicles because they depreciate in a decade,
I love Americans because they have drones for Gaddafi,
I love Americans because they know nothing beyond their borders,
I love the British because they have a monarch in their democracy,
I love Europeans because they were perfect in colonialism,
I love Africans because they are natural stooges, but very showy
I love the Chinese because they are all short, young and commutalists,
I love the Catholic Church because it has liberal piety,
I love Muslims because they are not intellectually tolerant to Rushdie,
I love young girls because they rarely sense danger,
I love Germans because they made a beetle car; Volkswagen,
I love the Japanese for honesty; they declared me Shinto of poetry,
I love my wife for her spendthrift culture
I love my son for his disgust of school and books,
I love myself for being a poetic rapscallion,
I love everything for in love you display your folly,
I love music, wine and money; they expose you to the robbers
I love short people for their mediocrous thought pattern
I love tall women; they are dull, honesty and rarely divorce,
I love English hunchbacks for they are famed for being erotically strong.

Now I’ve...
Already Done Said It... !!!

Some Peoples’ Work Ethic...
Is... TRULY PATHETIC... !!!!!

And YET THEY...
Seem To Want CREDIT... ?!?

For The Way That They...
Choose To Work Away...
In Their Day To Day...

But They Need To REFRAIN...
From Making CLAIMS... !!!!
That Their Ethics SWAY...
To Having NO DELAY...
In Being... GREAT... !!!!!!

I’ve Said It BEFORE...
And … I’m Now SURE...
That I Will Say It AGAIN... !!!

The CLAIMS Some Make...
Are Those That Display...
... A Crying SHAME... !!!

That DENIES BLAME... !!!
Or Morals That AIM...
At Doing The Things...
That They’re QUICK To Say...

That Their Work Ethics...
Display In Their Ways... !!!

Like... MORALITY...
That I Have To Say SADLY... !!!

Defines Well ……….
... TRAGEDIES... !!!

WITHOUT Gaddafi... !!!
Or Morals That Gladly...
Choose To Be MANLY...
In... How They Move...

Like Doing EXACTLY...
What They Say They’ll Do... !!!

Instead of Move BADLY...
Like The Moves of FOOLS...
Who NEED Ethics School... !!!

The Type That INFUSE...
Being Able To PROVE...

Rather Than INCLUDE...
The Type of ETHICS..
That Should Be REFUSED... !!!

BELIEVE Me It’s TRUE...
of These INDUSTRY CREWS... !!!

Like Those Who CHOOSE...
To Make Those Tunes...
And QUALITY GROOVES...
In... Studio Rooms...

And Those In Booths...
Where Their Voices Croon...
Or Drop Rap Tunes...

I’ve Seen It Here...
I’ve Seen It There...

In Places Where...
The Caribbean Sun...
Makes Working HARD...
And... FAR From FUN... !!!

When Working OUTSIDE...
When The Sun Is HIGH...
Can... Burn Ya HIDE... !!!

That’s Right Ya BACKSIDE...
When There Are CLEAR SKIES... !!!

I’ve Also Seen THIS Stuff...
Run In... ENGLAND... !!!

Where Moral Codes...
When It Comes To Work Zones...
Have INCREDIBLY... SHOWN... !?!

That... RACISM...
Doesn’t Even Get SHUNNED...
When It Is... BLATANT... !!!

Because Moral Ethics...
Are A RARITY... !!!

In ALL KINDS of Scenes...
Where People Now Be... !!!
It’s... AMAZING To See...
That HUMANITY In TWENTY TWENTY... !!!

Has The Type of … Ethics...
That Are WORSE Than Testy... !!!

Deserving NO CREDIT... !!!
Because They Are MESSY...!!!

And Winning NO TITLES... !!!
Cos' They're NOTHING Like Lionel's... !!!

Whose Ethics Have Shown...
How They REALLY Should Roll... !!!

Barcelona Now KNOWS... !!!
That His Ethics Are Those...
That Are Worthy of GOLD...
Just Like RONALDINHO'S... !!!

Cos The Ethics HE Showed... !!!
ALSO... Did AMAZE... !!!
In HIS Playing Days... !!!!!

And Those Are The Type...
I Display In The Rhymes...
That I Now Sit And Write...

In Volumes And VOLUMES...
With Ethics That Choose...
To Yes REJECT NONSENSE... !!!

Cos My Ethics... HOVER ………..
... WAY ABOVE Problems... !!!

Because My Form of Soccer...
Shoots Just Like Revolvers...
And Drones Used As Bombers... !!!

And As For These Coppers... !!!

Their Ethics Are SHOCKERS...
That Require NO WORDS...
Because They’re ABSURD... !?!

UNLIKE Spoken Word Verse...
That Comes From Big Virge... !!!

That Yes DESERVES CREDIT... !!!
For NOT BEING PATHETIC... !!!

Because It's EXPRESSIVE...
And Somewhat Impressive...
Because It's... INJECTED...
With HIGH MORAL Values...
And Being AUTHENTIC... !!!

Which Is Why It's ALIGNED To...

...... DISCIPLINED.....

........... “ ETHICS “.......... !!!

there is nothing more abhorrent from a teenage girl binge drinking on a saturday, than a repentant alcoholic... hey, you signed up to it, you pre-planned the whole thing like w. burroughs advised (plan your addiction), there's no point feeling better about being sober again to please institutionalism of some kind, going down the anonymous route.*

in england people stress the need
for a garden, but seldom use it,
they buy a house in want of a garden
(preferably a semi-detached
to add to the heating costs),
although they do use it, perhaps once
in a while, in the summer,
as a luxury with the barbecue
as if an australian in swahililand;
god what terrible frosts this autumn,
all my vines shrivelled up and took
to being wrinkly, which meant i didn't
end up making the usual yield of 12
bottles of wine like last year.

p.s. plus london is going to the highest
bidder, some arab or rich african
family member of colonel gaddafi's
ancestry... which means a third of my
generation end up flushing money
down the drain / pocket of some landlord,
or end up living with their parents...
but as the newspaper headlines read:
CHEAP HOMES UP NORTH BUT NO JOBS,
ONLY THOSE EARNING £100,000 A YEAR
CAN AFFORD A HOME;
added to the fact that not enough houses
are being built, the best council houses
in west london go to muslim hate preachers
with seven kids and two wives;
**** up went the world... but i get the
perspective... the polish nobility sold off
the land during the three partitions of poland,
in england the nobility are just selling
bricks and carpets, and in this weird
way say the things that jews said
when they were in poland: was(z)e ulice,
nas(z)e kamienice (your streets, our stone masonry);
thank god for global warming,
i might just end up sleeping under a palm
tree should things get really serious around here.

The young guy turns
towards Bill
in the single bed;
his blue eyes
are as innocent
as cheese.

I thought you
were a gonna
back at that bar,
the young guy says.

Bill sighs, moves up
in the bed, getting
the young guy
into focus.

But you took them out
before I could blink,
the young guy adds.

One has to weigh out
the ends and means,
Bill says.

But you're an old guy,
I thought that was it.

Bill reaches
for a cigarette
from the bedside table
and opens it
and takes out one
and offers,
but the young guy
shakes his head,
so Bill lights up
and puffs away.  

You **** good.

The youth blushes,
looks at Bill,
then away
at the room.

Small, Spartan,
few bits of furniture,
few belongings.

You live here?

Now and then.

Where'd you live mostly?

Out of a suitcase.

The young guy
stares at Bill.

What was your job?

Government business.

C.I.A or FBI?

Can't say
or if I did
I’d have to **** you.

The young guy
begins to smile,
but Bill doesn't,
the youngster
stops smiling.

Something like that,
though?

Something like that.

The  youth
nods his head.

Did you meet
any one famous?

Bill exhales
and stares at the kid.  

I knew the Kennedys,
met Saddam and Gaddafi
and other creeps like that.

The youth opens
his eyes wide.

Really knew them?

Bill nods, looks away.

I knew them;
now they're all dead.

Who killed JFK?

Bill smiles;
can't tell you,
but you'll
find out one day.

Did you?

Bill shook his head;
no I was just
a young novice then;
I met Jack K
in a passage way
in the Big House,
back in 1962;
he tapped my shoulder,
had a nice smile,
liked the dames.

The kid looks
at Bill deeply.

Were you sad
when JFK died?  

I don't get sad
about things,
I survive
and move on;
now no more questions,
get me a coffee
and then
we can get back
to bed work again.

The young guy
nods his head,
gets up and goes
to the small kitchen
and makes two coffees;
on a wall,
pinned by a single pin
is a picture
of a blonde girl
and underneath
is scrawled in red ink:
innocent or guilty:
what do you think?

language has to remain
a medium of escapism...
     the world is already an
Alcatraz...
     and you don't hear it
loud enough, these days:
  otherwise we'll all be
procrastinating before
         a hierarchy led by a crown,
and diluted ditto-heads...
      we are, actually, living
in times of a non-existent
         authority...
                i'd have more freedom
if governed by a Gaddafi...
         everyone these days seems
to want to overlord the world...
         i can't pardon
this authoritarian circumstance
of the individual...
  i can't...
                 we'll not even meet
   at the local grocery store,
  and here we are,
                gang-******* the medium
of albino,
                      this canvas was once
a circumstance of surrender...
            these days it has become
      a laceration...
                a testimony
                 forwarding grief,
    and a dozen gobs leeching
            a smacker from baron knuckle;
should arithmetic be forgotten
when it comes to counting to four grooves
    scandilising the pampered cheek.
and yes: that's violence,
but that's not me: strapped to a suicide vest
   crying out ummah! in Istambul.

/you don't, you don't! meddle with civil wars! syria is syria's problem! you don't! you don't! meddle with civil wars! concerning england... i would have thought charles I would have taught the adequate lesson? no? you don't meddle with another nation's civil, war!!! you a syrian baker, plumber, or butcher?! no! thank you! you're just an globalist commentator! *******!/

ukraine was to join
the european bloc  of nations,
once upon a time
before the 2nd crimea war...
     me?
i'm exhausted with all
this verbiage of a defence
for a freedom to talk,
word's worth a tonne,
****** of Ibiza:
             i look...
    and see nothing more
than baggage receipts...
of said freedom...
             so much weighs on
us, to allow these f.j.w.
         freedom,
                    justice...
            a glaring stare
in a hood, with gnashing teeth...
                         what's to fear
other than a punch to the face?!
            fear that?
               send me your way,
i'll pay the due...
             sclera white agitated...
18 years minus
           otherwise spent
at the Camden Market...
              the freedom to speak...
my...
                  how about
the filter for the freedom of
thought, and the subsequent seive?
          reading combats the easy pleasure
of watching videos...
               the "illiterate"
wriggle through...
   and what remains?
                            the seived lot...
as pompous as i might be,
i won't be...
                      but the statement remains
ringing, true...
                    there's a fine line between
the literate, and the easily impressionable...
via the video medium...
              even i know,
that you don't **** around
with a syrian butcher, when the problem
kisses a syrian baker...
  you ******* numb-wit's worth
of tory or librarian socialist!
          i expect charlie on the banknote
within the next 10 years!
            your little *******
meddled with gaddafi...
        now... syria... is, mine...
           or as the prophet said:
  juggling damascus:
                                well...
what, a mighty, return!
                          because that's not what
was written, subsequently kept?
the sadist in me
almost admires
the written word being
turned up-side-down
             as the Quran states...
so... the Syrian civil war.
now you can wave: bye bye;
          and now,
i get to sharpen my teeth.

because all the narratives are slipping...
once upon a time...
once upon.... there was a time...
and people had their lives...
huddled: bonded...
spoke to the fire...
teased a shadow drunk on a night-out
not returning with a one-night-stand
****-budy...
teased a shadow drunk:
for a handshake that would
become a classical: greek... wrestling...
the advent of judo...
sort of... hey there!
         i'm bored of the lies...
             i'm actually more than merely
bored: i'm numbed...
here's to! fishing for: the last covenant
of nazis...
just today...
i was watching the odessa file... 1974...
jo(h)n voi(gh)t...
                             even though...
****... this... **** that...
a people so... "conquered":
brought together...
                 what speaking of land...
to be conquered...
             yes: fishing for nazis...
scouting for them too...
the diaspora finally congregated...
i have to... feed into feeling...
an itch of...
the bother... should...
the words of: Balaam the Diviner...
              i guess i am a "diviner"...
i sentence each word with:
please! spare... this land this...
whatever it might be...
    of which i am... "exiled" from...
i keep the mothertongue in the shadow...
rhaspodic...
         we had affairs in the shadows:
when we wrote...
not much fun... when all the rotting
woodworks are busying themselves
with evixction notices for the:
karaluchy - cockroaches...
              
   two or three words:
   the original advent for the pursuit
of life... hell... that almost feels like
feeding ten piglets!

the black lives protests were just
an interlude...
the attack in reading with three dead:
you keep a libyan hound
on a leash for long enough...
collateral damage...
     of the union to oust Gaddafi...
i would never be a fan of anyone...
so... gifted in exfoliation of attire...
but then again:
fishing for nazis... without...
their... signature... hugo boss...
uniforms...
          who dressed these "neos"
in forgetable... attire?
   uncorked a bottle of champagne
when figuring out...
the new innovation of what was
once: the radio...

i.e. make them... wear...
forgetable... attire...
       some grey suit...
     but... of course the but!
   they can't succumb to the eccentricity
of... wearing the same ****...
over and over again:
the trick would still be played...
that they might...
for themselves: of course...
and have the clothes washed
and primed for re-use...
like back in school...

                  i could swear to have clicked
on my usual ctrl + c / + p...
wikipedia.com...
   for the ц: not being on the keyboard...
by "magic fingers" and all the more
a "magic will"... redirected to...
russlandjournal.de/en/...
    
          ah... "surds"... "signs"...
      like...                 the g-nome...
                           the g-nostic...
                                  otherwise: some variation
of... diaGnostics...
                             my own little...
bless the veil of inconvenience...

my little escapism: well it's fresh...
it's not a newspapers' opinion column...
when journalism was something
noble...
          it's fresh and it's...
how did i abandon finishing Dicken's
   the Pickwick Papers?
                      to have to glue the ridge...
that page turning skeleton...
it is... after all...
an edition from the 19th century...
i want to finish it...
but i dare say... if i did...
the binding would not retain its:
intactness...

                  so... are we still
scouting and fishing for nazis?
the romanced old baddies?
      the ones that would... somehow...
agitate the arab world post 1945
in shady dealings...
how... the diaspora would finally
congregate...
and a people could be robbed
of their land...
an israel...

        but the... diaspora didn't...
"finally" congregate... a sceptical bunch
of kippah kaddish qabbalah scientists...
ibn saud and the myth of the dajjal...
by god: the arabs would never drink...
impossible... camel jockeys that they:
were... are...
so... sugar-frenzy!  
                 they do like their sweets...
and sexed-up juices of trickle
phlegm from the harem of harems of:
****** olives and ******...
                      grapes...

            hell... wouldn't it be just nice...
to see someone... donning a ******* with
pride... for... open-range practice?
but these's days...
it's all a game of... so... who's who?

arab playboys or new-money beijing
shrimp whittle-wichard squirt: a squint
on the altar of lemon-C... some minor
vitamin deity...

                  narratives: all shrapnel...
    all existential "complications"...
have... honest to "god"...
become... constipations...
and the best of these are in england...
what with the school of...
that aesthetic...
  aesthetic-of-curating-hierarchical-norms-/-standards-/-expectations...
i was looking for a word...
a german hyphenated centipede was born...

etiquette!
what was a "complication" came to be easily
served as... a constipation...
oh... and i've had my fair share of
those: wild adventures of Mr. Turdy...

was once: a not once upon a time: je(t)ц(t)цeit:
or the concept of abolishing a theory of gravity
and the great devauliton of a van gogh painting...
classical verbiage...
word salad of misnomers...
if they were only misnomers...

candly floss of stripped nuances...
the elder: a democrat...
"social distancing"
or the... grand revisionism /
revival of the feng shui...

igorant moi...
   feng shui: a geomancy...
...........................................
.........­...........................................
.................................
...............................­........
......................................................
.­..........................................

        (my my! and that is!
a schematic for...
a loitering... paragraph)...

   who among the porcelain folk...
tinged with...
       is to speak of chiromancy...
or... to treat the stars and their
constellations...
with... impertinent questions...
to salvage some sort of a remaining
whole: that some man lived...
that some man...
would be...

a zen parody... a zen anything:
anyone: anywhere...

      to proscribe a tao placebo:
is to live a taoist sickness...
to live "anything" and an "anytime"...
to be so conflated with the confines
of an immediacy: a heideggerian: dasein...
that there's a "there"...
sein... there are more connotations
being excavated from
the etymological "term": unwavering noun...
concerning being: a space...
a coordinate...
than there's... wild dreams!
annotations to subscribe to
a temporal fatalism... by that...
indeed... time...
                  fall of the: and gathered
knee of amen...

                bridal coup:
this.. laced fake sellers' poignancy...
the brightest of minds...
and the darkest of tongues...

i came to this posit: inquiring...
my last... salvaged futility...
and it had to become apparent...
i had to find myself:
unable to leisure...
for the eventuality of all eventualities...
the supper of languid:

the mushroom hijacked the brain
of ape...
              parody...
the tree imitated serpet in shedding
its core... of bark...
the elevation of answers...
via... the 1960s psychadelic
experimentation phaze...
              + + + +....
                                we had to...
acknowledge the gemini:
clone... and the brain subjected to...
the pickling jar...

            why wouldn't i partner
up with... the death closure dynamics...
verbiage...
yes... yes... because...
the sober are the sane:
no sight of dolly the prodded:
proud matriarch fo miles around!
b'ah b'ah...
   i sell my consonants
with an ambiguity of vowels...
every... chance... i... get...
to have to: and i have to...
divinate the tetragrammaton...
in the "H" the vowel-catcher...
phoneticism of the god of words...
and in the beginning...
easy "thing" to desecrate...
the hierogylphs...

   the 'ebrew god wouldn't...
desecrate... the roman alphabet...
wouldn't... desecrate the phonetic
encoding of the greeks...
cul de sac of "adventure"!
             i hear...
the litany of the gods of the conquering
hebrews!
the 'ebrew god... didn't...
conquer and...
the egyptian hieroglyphs... were...
conquered...
                  canninites... canine bark-alongs...
dog-whisperers...
            
the hebrew conquered...
           cuneiform...
                  scribble fancies of arabs...
the revenge of Keturah
the mother of Khadījah
this... inbreeding of violence...
old sway old...
                   new sway new...

             what cave... when working with...
sand?
i **** on it: perhaps...
there might arrive a castle...
i blow on it...
   sand come... sand go...
or... sand go... sand come...

the dehydrated mind is everyone's
new norm:
because: the cpllective said so?
never the sanity of the mandarins...
lie on top of of lie...
cherry-topped-up-with-lies...
but still...
a "forward vector"...

                but the hebrews...
couldn't erase the roman alphabet...
or the greek alphabet...
they... managed to hide the runes...
they best hid the glagolitic script...
but what good did that?
when the greek solved a revival of
the glagolitic script and served
up a palette for cyrillic?

ergo? the hebrew god failed...
the fate of the hebrew people...
with the 20th century...
as a zenith...
was also their nadir...
          the god of the word:
of phonetic encoding...
you can't... somehow...
stage a fake war...
when... the roman alphabet was
to be used... in computer: code...
encoding...
you can't... erase this progress!

  you couldn't with a hierogylphic owl...
so much... teasing...
did... the mandarin: your god:
your sanctity saviour: of what?
god of "gods" blush... shy away...
the hebrew phonetic letters...
posisted against the mandarin
octopus?
what is it? crude bollocking:
and a shard...
          a truly... ripe... "prophecy"...
solomon's harem
the envy of a newly bred...
muhammad...

          i asked the willow...
why it had to gimmicj wilting...
with a Y... as it always turbned...
not the willow... the oak...
sure as ****: not the birch of pine...
to leisure... aging...
by... leusuring a loss of...
skin... leather...

  easy target practice for the god
of the hebrews...
              somehow...
the numbers were also concerned...
for all the love of hiding your vowels...
like they might be
diacritical markers of "accent"...

          hello: pseudo-sand peoples...
4 (ה)...
                  that's as best as i can arrive
at...
kippah... kaddish... qabbalah and lot...
a people: a country...
not worth invading...
a... diaspora... a people...
not worth displacing back:
into a congregation of:
"nationhood"...
if only... israel...
and there came...
the paupers of the vatican...

   i guess... i guess:
i'm not guessing... the returns policy
of that... parody of a clan...

a diet of diatribe...
  how can the hebrew alphabet claim...
superiority...
over the roman or the greek...
alphabet...
     "alphabet": phonetic encoding...
when... the greek moved into the theoretical
constants of science...
and roman... remained: instilled...
    for "phonetic" questions...
  
hebrew: proto-writing...
        i would wait... for hebrew to fail...
when being... dashed...
forged... upon the wave...
crashing onto the caverns of seafront
mandarin!

            to retain some of these letters:
as numbers...
is enough...
            but sorry no sorry...
        ktav ashuri...
   the hebrew god... jealous and proud...
the norse gods... bended their knee...
and became invisibly: doubly apparent...
from Runes unto Rome....
finally! a phonetic encoding system...
that... the hebrews...
couldn't perfect:
or find themselves ar superior odds to...

40 years became 2000 years...
a slow decay i.q. lesson
culminating in the denotated rubric of:
auschwitz... sorry... sorry told...
you can't... treat...
the proto-italian perfection...
like it's some... *******...
hieroglyphic! like it some...
proto-borrowed... syriac / cuneiform!
sand-****** kippah-u.f.o.!

savvy? no savvy? we can have
this argument going... on and on!
it's not like...
  i have care for the crude...
it's not like people are going
to return to the cafe or subject...
they'd hope... themselves
to a live maggot and concert...

you can't... you can't...
perfect what's already perfect
in latin with hebrew...
the music! the music!
     a cul de sac war project of ******* whipping!
which is all the need for
a circumcision!
added
of a worth of a niqab!
...
   i'm starting to think that... the kippah...
is a side-project for...
investing in solar-panels...
honest to god: no joke...
it's like the hebrews are being bribed...
and bribed: auschwitz nutz truez...

     because... the hebrew phonetic encoding...
system of x-ray letters...
can... will... somehow...
get rid of the latin...
   they couldn't get rid of the greek...
when greek became cyrillic...
useful idiots... and a laughing god.

my former respect has become...
a... shambo: a ****-pit...
shambles: exact!

         i always hoped to... keep my...
pretty.... toes... to the last.

ask me the part where marxism doesn't make more sense than darwinism, or when marxism ≠ darwinism... in england? ≠ = a train network, you ******* mcmuffin! the whole point of a "social" darwinism is that, unlike marx's "effort": we're anti-socially biased, competing... but that's not the point... what's with the desire for rekindling a community equivalent to having a village to grit root? extracting an individual from the horde is one thing, but having to craft a horde from an individual abstractrum ego, is another! add to that the whole pronoun "affair" and you have, what some poets claim: wasn't journalism the shitpile some preferred a j.r.r. tolkien to become? the presuposition of self, hyphen, well, with that, what's there to be collectivist about? what's there to actually gain from working? a ******* poststage stamp collection? there's no point to adhere to a cohesion that lacks an adhesive argument... bust-stop or bus-stop? i'm at the stage of faking a demand to watch the olympics... you know the one lesson poles were taught in school? cheating in a school ergonomic is one thing... cheating in a reality of owning the uniform of responsibility is another.*

most people has conceive
both "fat shaming" -
   without a fat - philia -
as most can gag out
a cat walk with an anorexic
model...
                doctors can
be manhndled socially as
autistic...
       while the rest of us...
hide...
              and to have made
an appearance,
  to have gratified
   human existence via cameo...
this...
             an ideologue?
             a charging bull...
if red's it's honing device?
                  this juggling act
of norma-marxism without
a normy-darwinism?
when, did it ever occur
to not compare Marx with Darwin?
when was colonel gaddafi
  the one:
                 with a mortgage
but not a burial rite?
a maxim, but no epitaph?
   i guess, compared to Marx,
Darwin *******
  the proclivity of looking
at an ape...
       unlike Marx:
    condensing it to a poor man...
but sure...
            you can have
Crimean "revision"...
   you *******
              ... wait... what tree did
we climb off?
        you call them what,
pine chimps and birch gutans?
i said: come what may,
an African phallus will
   become a mongol ***** **** will;
imagine having to be
drunk in order to say it,
without being savvy...
    just, plain, dumb, Bristol... aware;
but **** me did i enjoy
                                    it.

     oh i am responsible...
for the notion that there's a void,
that needs to be occupied
  by mere thought,
      or finger cracking akin
to the sound
of deep frying chicken...
                   fizzes,
    and fizzes,
        and then becomes a
                        Mormon nighmare...
finger, *******, licking, good.
     o.k. o.k.: sizzles...
           pouts bubbles
   but certainly doesn't fry...

   church hostile gorillas that climbed
off an oak!

     makes sense...
         but darwin is the antithesis
of marx, whether you like it,
                                            or not.