you had a lump in your throat every time you spoke,
it should’ve disappeared but your voice became a croak

you cleared your throat a lot,
for every word that got caught

you stopped talking about your passions;
i think your heart had run out of its rations

you helped others out many times before,
but suddenly your reassurance was no more

your silences grew longer;
i should’ve known you were a goner

you left all these warnings,
yet here i was, in mourning.

Jeg drejer min antikke globus
hvor skal turen gå hen?
Et sted fjernt, et sted opdigtet eller et sted i mit sind?
Et sted med kærlighed?
Et sted med fred?
Et sted med lykke?
Et sted med overskud?
Et sted uden savn?
Et sted uden tårer?
Min sjæl hungrer efter alle disse ting
Jeg ved godt jeg er elsket
og jeg ved godt jeg ikke er alene
det gør bare så fandens ondt
når livet er noget rod
og man føler det hele sejler
og bølgerne er lige så store
som på det åbne, kolde og dybe hav.
Derfor drejer jeg min globus og drømmer
og håber på bedre tider

*(Marolle)

1.
There once was a couple of cats
Who engaged in continuous spats.
          The result was a tie
          When each scratched out an eye –
An old-Biblical *** for a tat!

The cats awoke bleeding and weak
And half-seeing the havoc they'd wreaked
          They discarded their clothes,
          Their backsides to expose –
A new-Biblical turning of cheek!

2.
There once was a man, oh so brave,
Who would sleep in a hole, called a grave ...
          Well, he being the host
          To so many a ghost,
He arranged a big bash, called a rave

3.
In days of Neanderthal knaves
When the men ruled like kings in their caves
          And not being too keen
          About keeping them clean ...
Often took on some wives, called them slaves

4.
There once was a man with a stave
Overseeing a holy enclave ...
          Well, maintaining a grin
          While absolving the sin,
He assessed wicked tales and forgave

5.
There once was a monk with a wave
Who desired a head with a shave ...
          Well, the barber was such
          That she cut back too much
Thereby leaving his globus concave

6.
There once was a man in the nave,
Although pious he could not behave ...
          But they paid him no mind,
          ’Cause his name was maligned,
Being simply a sinner to save

7.
There once was a man quite depraved
A voluptuous life was thus craved ...
          Well, continuous sin
          Ended doing him in –
On his tombstone they carved ‘Misbehaved’

8.
Antoine is a Vampire Ghoul,
Quite barbaric, bloodthirsty and cruel,
          With a fang in your throat
          He’ll **** slowly and gloat
With a smile as you whimper and mewl.

9.
There once was a raven haired Shrink
Who had orange Juice Tequilas to drink.
          Well her scarlet souled Beau
          ****** her tinted red Toe
And she paled when he tickled her Pink.

10.
There once was a travelling sage
Who yet lived to a very old age.
          Well, becoming quite senile,
          With problems (yes, ******),
He packed his wee trunk in a rage.

11.
There once was a Nun and a Druid
Exchanging some ****** fluid,
          When along strode the Father
          Who heard all the bother,
Lost stickum while coming  unglu..ed.

Passed, tense
           Under the glass, we shone;
the windows, daring each of us to shatter, was my
           feeling.
But there we idled, I sat up adjusting my lap--
           unmistakably you inched back.
What air, bag, hallowed, spinning!

          We give gas and speed off collectively, until the light
Source leaps into the dying sun or mutates into red.
          Your mouth, inaudible above the unstifflable drone
of the exodus from the city-- the people rushing out, away
from what sustains them.
          The light, falls into position, bekonning, you coward.
          Passed, tense
          Under the glass, we shone;
and you were the heaving globus--
          nothing, but a tertiary object
          clumsily laden with meaning by
          the tides and orbiting bodies in
          the cooling sunlight.
          With your archaic gleaming
Who would have guessed
          that I would follow you to
         Saturnalia?
Why Cleave, me, useless, tire!

keep me in this prison: to recount the spinning
labyrinth of thought before falling
to sleep only 14 hours ago...
                      and having done so:
dreaming up the most uncomfortably real dreams -
not that detailing them would be worth
anything...

   begging myself: remember the words
prior to sleep: write them down: you fool!
the "other" man is speaking - rising from the depths:
the child "abadoned": to curate this tongue
has risen from the depths by chance
of you favouring to enter them in turn...

a protest concerning kenneth rexroth:
but sir... what's there to boast about?
    aren't you reading Proust as a translation?

keep me in this prison... as of today...
a few chapters from the pickwick papers:
yes... i do kind Dickens much easier on the eye:
and most certainly much more peacock-strutting
than Shakespeare...
            perhaps with the exception of Macbeth:
as ever... exceptions can and sometimes
must be made...
                      however: minor...

and in between chapters... well...
                         a swedish ***** and some tonic
and lime...
            and then the windowsill...
perched on a folded leg...
       smoking a cigarette... continuing
to sip the thrill zapping... crisp and cutting...
      warm snow...
                       and the song...
             qui nous demaine:

                  trois fleurs d’amour i trouvai
                  en la bonne estraine
                  voici le mai, le joli mois de mai
                  qui nous demaine...

in the rendition of corvus corax...

yet another moon-less night...
         such nights: where it almost feeds to be inclined
to conjure up some nearby nomad with
a robe attired with stars...
         a silver globus of glistening
romance and death...

                  such nights when the moon
doesn't appear...
            and frankly... the clouds have settled
for keeping the man in the ***** of earth:
never to aspire toward galileo and copernicus ltd.
in protest! for astronomy!

yes... between reading the pickwick papers...
and listening to some music:
never the two at the same time...
a parting of the seas...
the art of reading: in the sea of silence...
where you can fiddle with...
    a whisper from the buzzing aeon bound
to minutes: the sound of an electric demon
in a lightbulb...

and of course beyond this sea of silence:
a sea of sighs and yawns...
a flipping of a page: like a crease in time -
or a passing whale-shaped-tsunami
of sound...          to then the music...

as death would have it: beside the music...
perhaps once upon a time...
but i do not believe it:
a pen on paper - a hunched crow left scratching
with its claws...
while a fire **** between such
imaginary creatures took place in a candleflame...
but no music...
perhaps in the 20th century:
the radio... and the type-writer: machine-gun...
the radio static would have aided
the mechanisation of the type-type-typo!
scratch-rip! again!

21st century antics?
   pristine quality, earphones...
all the better to not hear the clicking sound
of a lineage of ten little hammers on a keyboard...
perhaps plucking oysters from the depths...
or for that matter pearls...
or perhaps searching for delicate mushrooms
and pulling them by the stump...
still the umbrella royalty still: that sucker's bribe
of pride...

of note: the old tongue wanted an audience...
concerning? drinking... and other... habits...
*****: most certainly... with the lime and tonic...
in "rationed" doses... and a good sleeping
hygiene... i must call it a sleeping hygiene...
at most 12am to bed... and at least 8am the rise...
the drinking:
one day upon a sleeping lake...
another day upon a raving lunatic of a sea!
a time for drinking: a time for thrist...
a time for living and a time for dying...

i tried to imagine myself in one of those a.a.
meetings... self-lacerating myself:
in that secular ugliness: without a monk's tunic
or: tools for: penitence...
after ten weeks or so: clap clap all round applause!
i bet...
       the dry stretch: applause applause:
lady gaga go-go! to live for applause...
b'ah! to ******* with that sort of attitude...
and this is where the old tongue spoke(:)

o piciu?! wersja: jak, pić?!
chcem tego psa na smyczy niż tą smycz: samą!
bez tego psa! ten "niby"
wzamian z tym marno-nerwowym
   człowiekiem! tą śpiącą pijawką!
suma sumarum?
   wole tego psa na smyczy - niż tą smycz
bez psa!
lepiej ja z tym psem na smyczy:
   niz ten czlowiek ze swą śpiącą pijawką!

tr.
     on drinking?! version: how to, drink?!
i want this dog on a leash than this leash:
on its own! without this dog!
                  that "so-called" alternative
with this feebly-nervous human!
                                    that sleeping leech!
<>
i rather this dog on a leash - than this
leash without a dog!
better i with this dog on a leash:
than this human with his sleeping leech!

it's not some eternal wisdom...
but...                                 it's a good enough start...
and yes... please... this prison...
every... single... day, and, night....
forever...
i can become the observant spy mushroom:
the hitchhiker in 1960s psychadelia
mingling with darwinism...
the mushroom that hijacked the ape...
etc.

                  it's a pretty simple list...
a dickens... a ***** and tonic and lime...
a windowsill... a cigarette...
   some... folkish song... i'd much prefer
the lyrics to the sung in anything but english...
french, latin... german... norwegian...
but please... not italian... i'll settle for greek...

if asked: why didn't you marry...
good question...
                why didn't i marry?
                        perhaps this... or perhaps...
i much prefered the 1 hour periods
of entertaining the company of prostitutes
in a brothel?
               honest transactions: stealing kisses...
the mainstream already laid the generic
framework: jack the ripper sort...

                      well: from judas to jesus
to me to the... "lowest denominator"...
                                            or so "they" say...
since if there was anything to be celebrated
at easter... outside of a homogenous catholic
nationhood... in england...
the lair of the huguenots...
         well... i teased reading kabbalah...
i teased reading the gnostic texts and i really did go
mad about the nag hammadi library...
after a while though:
can i change the direction of the Vistula
by putting a stick in the middle of it?
i certainly: ha ha! river... not the sea:
what can you do? turn the time and the flow?

anyway... catholicism...
                the usual suspect rubric check-list...
baptised? had i any say in it?
first communion? did i have any say in it
or would you rather ask whether
i lied when taking my first confession?
a first confession is a precursor to a first communion...
or... i don't remember...
i played the xylophone at the st. augustine's
primary school nativity play:
yeah... and drinking under-age...
crux of the matter: if we're all about peacocking
and comparing all the little richards
via the 3rd's **** or whatever...
confirmation?                      yeah...
          ­           so much for a church wedding...

all that... and i have to come back...
sensibly... catholic intellectualism or sorts...
bribe me and i might take it seriously...
love me and i might even throw in some fiasco
of apologetics... but then i'd be like
a monkey at a sushi bar: eat it? fling it?!
the only sensible consolidation of
a celebration of easter...

    the winter has been crucified...
                 and today was the first day i could
pick up a scent of spring...
in the rain... it trickled with...
earth... from far away... dry sand... mingling
with the water... the wind must have
picked up the sand from sahara and a dollop
of the evaporating mediterranean...
flung it to these isles...

                       yes: origins in catholicism...
which always more fun to break away from...
"apostate": notably watching apostate intellectual
jews and their spezial brand of atheism...
since: i mean... trust a catholic convert to
judaism? trust a *** reading into gnosticism?
or trust a muslim at all?
                         basic questions of: a priest,
a rabbi...                        a druid walk into a bar...
sort of jokes...
           there a litany of them...
a whole 'ymn book o' 'em!
                       sam's the weller! see the son?
moi noi'ver!

         but back and forth back and forth
within and without catholicism...
                                it's not as fun... black-clad
sober, serious, surplus of secularism...
                         all that: agitation from... what the persians
rebelled against... when finally the islamic
schism came so early...
and the ****'ites and... the persians like
the good choir boys of catholicism...
     one eye is said to be reserved for reading...
one eye is said to be reserved for admiring...
           it's hard to admire a text...
                          when it's even harder to read
into a sculpture!

oh yes... i like this prison... very much...
                                             where, is, my, mind?!

it would best appear that:
  talking really aids talking to flesh -
and yes, beside the psychoanalyst
triad theory of the "narrator" -
          the ego can become an ailed
limb - a limp arm,
an amputated food -
                     when the square
doesn't fit through a square shaped
opening: the ego become fidgety -
and it aches beyond the ache
of being, a physical inconvenience /
convenience...
    the ailing ego is an ego
that can only construct a cogito
without the ergo dynamic of trickling
toward a "satisfying" sum...
           because there really isn't
any other suited adjective -
  other than the already aired:
because there is.
         i wanted to concern myself
with the dynamic of what is sickly
or at best: an unease unit
of fathomable concern...
              ego must,
ego = limb...
           it's not a central
foundation to all things apparent...
          and believe me when i state
that i require verbiage to make these
statements...
           when the ego is a cubus,
and thought is the "river"
                        quadratum -
       having to encompass the perplexity
of the Freudian Triad...
  it doesn't really matter,
  does it, to concern a cube passing
through a square, when a triangle is
concerned, is it?
                  a mental "illness"
  needs to encompass a "flat earth"
akin to reading maps: no good knowing
a spherical globus exists if you
can't get from A. to B.
                     that is why i don't
understand a stigma with regards to
a "mental" to "physical" dichotomy -
which it has become having divorced itself
from dualism...
          the ego being a limb and
thought a body,
       reiterates my concern with how
mental illness cannot acess the freedom
of a body, or thinking,
                 in a fluid manner:
akin to the thoughtless extracts of
               a disembodiment ascribed to
ballet dancers...
             hence the sickly limb comparison:
the whole affair isn't worth
an atomists' venture to find: a middle,
a nucleus...
                     a sick "ego"
                              disvalues a concern
to think: akin to any worth of
****** function...
            the conscious-unconscious
paradox of the ego is that:
    it's health is supposed to coexist
with the way one treats a hand, finger, elbow...
the fact that a "sick" ego is by no means
sickness apparent doesn't mean that
it is not a form of: dis-ease -
  not a bad word, merely a reformulated
aversion of saying it quickly...
  there does exist as - negation
   of ease...
                       i have found this with
myself...
                          apparently
it was necessary to outdate Latin grammar
once again, while keeping the ego
a necessary ingredient worthy of theory
when cogito ergo sum was
summoned... because where is the ego
in that? the ego is the antithesis of
a narrator of fiction!
             who ever said that fiction
was without Trojan walls and biological
membranes?
                   the ego is either foremost
an ailing limb: or the unscathed narrator!
it can't be both!
          - but the limb comparison makes
more sense, since what is primarily
distrupted is thinking: rather than writing
a book!
                    i have experienced
the distruptive ego like a fidgeting snare of
a limb in metaphorical Parkinson...
               but i am not keen to
sub-assert a division of it worth a sub-ego
and an id... without an ob- prefix to boot.
a "sick" ego disrupts cogitans
in that there is no ergo
       to make a cohesive translation into:
wanting to be a bellerina - i.e sum...
i.e. sum *** non cogitans...
  and that's because the ego is a heavy
load, already not stressed in
the original maxim "prompt" of:
think - and you will be...
  well no... most of the time it's a case of:
don't think, and you will be...
      the fact remains:
  the ego treated as an ailing limb is
akin to an ailing limb disrupting
the sigma of ****** expressions -
             with the sigma of ****** expressions
being best met with mere: thinking...
                 hence the irony of
a "mental" illness -
      there is no ailing thought -
but an ailing ego -
  which is a contradictory summation
of character, presupposing
a character is at the same time narrator...
the stigma? well...
   a person of interest is asked to
have both status of a healthy character
and an ailing narrator -
      or rather: a character
incompetent of having a narrator...
   or whatever this constricting observation
implies...
   the fact still remains:
   the ego was allowed a Ronin status
when working from the Cartesian maxim...
    it allowed itself to flourish in Freud
who took to impregnating it with
  a pseudo-Christian analogy...
         if there is an element of medicine
in philosophy... ha...
     odd...
            how can the mind be ailed by
the body prior...
      there must be a paradoxical intersect
of ergo ( = ), i.e. ≠...
                    whereby the same is true
for: the mind can be ailed by the body:
but the only prior to a body is a mind...
            since there is no prior to a mind
to express: body...
           otherwise why are we to concern
ourselves with a "mind" of the underdeveloped...
ah... but the underdeveloped body...
       hence?         |    a ******* stick
in the ground!
                  it's a simple juggling act of
two *****... on thinking terms,
but yet it is simpler to juggle three *****
on un-thinking terms!
              all i "know" is that
a sick ego dissonates the fluidity of thinking,
and it doesn't aspire to anything
but that in its ailment -
to make it any more complex to
suggest an atomic caricature of
the Freudian id - neutron / superego - electron...
   an ego that distrupts thinking
does not make a cohesive unit worth
a theory...
                 you put a stick into the river
of Heraclitsus: the stick will remain
a stict - the question is always asked
concerning the river!
                - as far as i am concerned
the disruptive ego has "unfathomed"
  the fathomability of thinking -
       notably:
          the mundane cul de sac thinking
of ordinary people -
a lost day-dream break from inacting
a "greater-good" focus of: transcending society...
     and attaining: "the" individual...
    i've experienced the sick ego
unable to convine itself with staging
thought: akin to an theatre with
a stage unable to consider itself:
    not fit to hoist actors on it!
                   hence my concern with
res vanus...
            the "thing" within res cogitans!
the whole point of:  (ego) cogito ergo sum!
          which is why those who have
reached the status of, say: prima ballerina
exact a "cogito" ergo (ego) sum status!
- at some point i really will be
starting to digest the VII-XI ponderings
of Heidegger...
                  bewildering myself as to how:
1939 a.d. was conjured.

The swell of waves
or globus sensation  

and the tongue having
gone through utter drought.

Sandpapered throat
had been choked raw

the pulling back of the (Tide.
Tsunami of thoughts

words lost in the chaos and roar
droplets racing down

drought no more?

Downed my Prozac with some Sprite,
Now I've got this globus that won't go away,
I've puked 'bout 6 times up till now,
Doesn't seem like it will end anytime soon.

I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.

I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.

I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten      
the demons of the night.

I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.

I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.

I go to church each Sunday,  
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.

I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.

I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.

I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.

I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?

I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.

I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.

I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.

I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.

I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.

I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.

I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.

I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.

At the age of 10
Was the time when
He for the first time
Openly  mentioned
That becoming an actor
Was his only intention

Lied about his age
To join the Marine Corps
Stationed Different places
5 years with the defence forces

Joined the Pasadena playhouse
To learn his passion
Attended acting lessons
Met future greats Duvall and Hoffman

Was disliked by
Fellow classmates
Deemed unworthy of acting
Mocked and ridiculed for his style of expression

Voted the least likely
To succeed in the movies
Failed the exams
Got the lowest ever score in the playhouse history

Asked to leave
Found refuge in New York City
Doing odd jobs to keep life steady
Off Broadway plays to pave his way

First movie part
Was Mad Dog Call
Had no dialogue
Shared screen space with Telly Savalas

As in Broadway
He didn't start at the top
Bottom is very ugly place
He quipped famously about the acting race

Got more bit parts
Route 66 a series and the DuPont show
A hot Broadway show with Sandy Dennis
Opened up doors for his first major role in Lilith

Warren Beatty cast him
As his brother in Bonnie and Clyde as Buck Barrow
Giving him the biggest break to undo  
The brake stopping his growth

Had solid Supporting roles
With Lancaster Peck and Redford
Each a stepping stone
For what was to come

The dawn of the 70s
Saw him breakthrough into leading roles
I never sang for my father
His first Oscar nominated leading role

A fortuious moment
When he signed French Connection
Collaboration with William Friedkin
Made him the biggest Star in the Hollywood Constellation

Won the Academy Award
Topped the Box office Charts
Created A new breed
Actor / Superstar

Breaking box office records
With disaster films like
The Poseidon Adventure
Simultaneously winning
Palm D Orr for films like Scarecrow and The Conversation

Played  Lex Luthor in Superman
A superhero film a novelty then  Top billing playing the Villain V Unheard off at that time

Turned down meaty roles
Offered by great auteurs
Jaws One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest to name a couple
Such was his faith in his talent and skill

The 80 s were equally significant
Critical and Box office success ensued
Rode the decade with all the Success
Oscar Nominated for Mississippi Burning & Hoosiers named the greatest Sports film

Started the 90 s
With Narrow Margin
Followed it up with Unforgiven
Played the villain took home the 2nd  Academy Recognition

Prolific in the 4th decade
His  calling  in the movies
Worked with young talent
All claimed to be his die hard fans

5th decade in Hollywood
Golden Globe win for The Royal Tennenbaums
6 film a year
Totalled close to 100 his entire career

No dearth for offers
6 films a year 45 years later
Strong legs for 5 decades
Not many can claim that to say

The long haul
Had seen it all
Reached the age of 75
Said a final goodbye

Ability to absorb
Every character donned
On New York streets would walk
Observing all those who pass

George Morrison taught
Him how to act
Assured him of his ability
Method Acting lesson meticulously

Positioned his career
Played Supporting Roles
The part of the Villain
Gave relief with Comic roles and played Lead roles

A great position to be
All slots his name was to be
Name above the title
Any other role that tested his mettle

One of the few
Actor and Superstar. Combination
Filled Cinemas Worldwide
Followed by every prestigious Accolade

Won every major award
Life time Achievement the reward
Oscar BAFTA Globus Golden Bear Palm D Orr and Every other award
That the season brings with

First to act
In the disaster genre
Roles in many other
Captured Audience imagination forever

Now a Novelist who gets published
Written 6 books so far
Out of public eye
But never out of their memory

One of the greatest Actors
One of the. Biggest Stars
Fans all over the World
Trained to be an Actor not a Star his most famous quote

this lowest of the low lows of form of employment:
night shifts at Elephant & Castle:
i imagine the Elephant Man... but no castle of ivory:
a day off:
lazy writing:
i wanted some of that
like slow *** with Edie
and Edie breast feeding me:
honey: munch: pooh bear my ditto
i think you are lactose intolerant...

          oh i love lazy writing
and listening to... seminal... music critique comes
out with a: Hello, my name is Bob
tag in a comico-horror movie...
i tried watching a silent movie
two nights ago:
Nosferatu... i tried... i loved the organs...
what a strange medium:
that light came before sound...
maybe that's why silence is so elusive:
alluring:
i once said as a child:
i can't hear silence...
            i can't hear silence...

can i see nothing?
Fire, Water, Earth, Air... Lightning (shh shh)...
hammer weilding lover of words
the ******* Barbarians
the deserts and the high winds
Vikings left us for Valhalla
while the Arabs remained...
but the civilised worlds of men
didn't cherish words and god and the gods
as much as these extremities...
ties to belonging nowhere-homebound
in God a Home an abode:
nomads: i salute you!
Lebanon i cry for the creeping forest
of the North:
with my almighty pines
i will switch them for palms...

from vampire fingers to sticks with *****:
like lucrative Lebowski memes...
spice my life up a little...

so the Vikings were barbarians:
elsewhere the Swedes founded Kyiv:
and i think i was there...
then all the petty squabbles and cobblers
of Rome and Byzantine:
while Arab said to Iraq and Iran
and Syria: hey... bible is too ****** g
*******... i have the Quran...
Quest Ran and rand... sometimes a spontaneous
ghost town in Morocco...

so many denominations and
a monotheism so in splinters
for each a toothpick and a crucifix
to weigh down a spirit in flight...
assunder an d     with hope of drowning
but still swimming...

butterfly: MOTYL
fly: MUCHA...

                 butter in flight? butter is yellow
the white of no colour and the butterfly is
and the fly is... Albanian suss and filter brains...
while England before the Saxons
was like Afghanistan to Americans
like for Ancient Rome:
and seeing modern Italians...
i don't see an inch a grain of Ancient Roman
in them...
Italians are freakish hybrid of
werido... ******* ******... Reyla says...
pasierbica: step-daughter... i think... Fosse...
septology: i think... i thin k:
i sometimes think it's annoying:
annoying is no closing and opening of consciousness:
twos in two and two more apart:
schizoid...
i need for far more brain-cells to die with
my chemistry experiment with alcohol and the body:
pushing limits...
i'm still drinking a LITRE of the "WATER" of "LIFE":
almost every day...
brain is less a concern as KIDNEYS become
something for my palette:
dialisis from Nigerian wisdom...
some covert and CIA zunge tabbing...
i'm thirsty: i want some fire-water...
like spooning honey infused with ****
gob full before the toddler's pool of (the above)...

scuba dive and order an Uber...
people i sometimes mind...
friends like painters and talk of games
and travelling the universe:
talking into the night...

          tic tac toe: spinster: i know she honey
trapped me...
she edited that picture so much i wasn't really
looking at the cleaning and polishing
i was ac tually looking at her psychology:
but then she spinn ed that
           well: can't apply diacritical markers in
the English tongue:
so might as well spice it up
with the antithesis of the apostrophe apostriphe:
some added spice of dyslecia
and X
      couldn't could not
  wouldn't would not
            shouldn't should have not
haven't have not
                   have and heaving heaven:
that's not a haven:
the postmasters of Hell are most economic: ""
pristine in their insomniac duty...

because a new Dandy Warhols' album
is like the reinvention of Eminem
because i don't buy into black culture...
it's rap so boorish and then comes
dyslexic spew boring like Curt Kobain
and yeah x yeah = yeah yeah
while R.E.M. took the **** with a Man
on the Moon...

             post-ethnocide or post-racialism:
when the Spaniards reached South America
and there were black Cubans...
and we said: Latinos are people
of the descent of the Mayans,
            Aztecs... Peruvians i don't remember:
i doubt, therefore i must also negate:
then i think... but then thinking doesn't
percipitate into being: too many thoughts
to posit a pintpoint a coordinate of the whole
of life: i am: but i onl;y come across i am:
when i die...
death unites and clarifies pins and points
on the Globus of the 'Ed...
i don't i do = i am
        i think i don't think: things and no equations...

thinking is not like rain
on the earth of being...
thinking doesn't respect life
thinking is morality and
no amount of haram pork
will confuse you: thinking alone
will do...
   twice over and hello:
bilingualism is nowdays treated
as schizophrenia in England:
or has been... ever since i was:
under scrutiny...

    but then enough ******* circus
allowed the world to be gripped
by... and like paitence is a form of torturing
someone...
i took out two models
in a cascade of words to live by:

the Chinese gold:
treat others like you want to be treated
and
that other one:
the French:
live and let live.