Upon his glottal’s larynx spreads a lingual deformity. Isolation as a result from tuggo disaffiliates. Misshapen promontory in the direction of upper-body inflammation. Not only above torso alone, location;head/injury;mouth/main informative;tongue.
The boy’s tongue was permanently horned. A horn of 18 inches shy, where taste buds formulate, he owned a lone spike. He wasn’t abraded by the unfoldment of onlookers around. His irregular attachment was a main confidant. Criticized, he was not welcomed by towns near. Citizen’s were baffled and disgusted, ridiculing him daily, he did not impale with grieve over appearance. Enmity he wanted and craved. Among the works of flesh, square inch niches, repugnance revealed. Revenge, revenge. Vindictive spirit shelled so timely and calm. Remaining this state of sumptuous integrity made him stronger each go about. These goes were so stimulus, adding to the *** of hatred. Deep into the tundra’s most vile he intruded. Went so every month or few, for weeks at a time. For this sheet of rigid earth so contiguous to the town made the worried weary, the skeptical seared, and the nautical not so knitted with directional sense. This was his consummation of gathering. The place of being a being. The dry winter amid eight months was restricted, so the moment a due mustn’t be bothered. He had his reason of validness for course. A rich succulent from the bearings of plant life on cliffs. Repelling an obstacle such as was ludicrous for even one born the ever so adequate and society defined norm. Now having a tongue with a horn, some sought might as well die to be reborn. He had to, to stay alive. The liquid, which sit so treacherous, was the mold to mouth medicine. To speak at all it must be attained. Not only a curdling death trap waiting to swallow, the boy had to get a plentiful amount for the hard hitting winters collied. His tongue could swell like the storms, loud crimson on the esophagus. To die of asphyxiation was his dodge of ultimatum.
While passing by a local television in a thrift shop-
“Today’s Newscast: Blizzards, moving in at speeds of 94 mph. Predicted to cover like a blanket for 12 months. Ice Age relative people, this one is gonna be big! Stay indoors at night, the barometric’s indicate that from 9PM to 4AM temperatures as low as 28- will stouten for the next year. Once again people, stay indoors at these hours, get your needs when available. Back to you Ronda with the quintuplets birth today!”
Plucked and grit witted he stood. He felt the trepidation of abhorrence swaying in orbit around him. How to emanate from this delay? At least five clones of self did not exist for him. Merriment struct pro, while the cons derived from which they know. Exultation when despondent, how greatly that gift could gab. Despoilment of that, he weighed options out. To altercate thick snow or simply, let it go. Afraid to die unrivaled, the off cutting is wisest. Since his first second to now he’s flourished with his horn. Obliteration to the occulted manifestation mannered as an antique replica of anyone catching him by twice by day. Remove it, remove it, remove if you want life in your years that follow. Remove it, ever so. Remove it, cut and sew. Cut and sew. Remove.
This plateau poisoned place stay calm, anticipating climate of tempest bold reaches, anyone who was anyone was not so. Negative degrees. How could he retaliate the opposite, while acquiring a surgeon field hay day buck builder? Eruption turns the wave of cons. An only equal precision, deciding, tonight is the night. To assemble the tools, publicly was questionable, no more, through. He will emerge to the lands and people a new man, sustained, and hornless. No more. From scratch he will vender what’s needed. Wood was chiseled under the last moon viewed for three sixty three days ahead. Uprooted vines of old pine will hold the bark tight. Breath revealing around the outsides of his appendage. Like a fork in the road, which way can you go, for him air strides both. Scuffling fearful towards the pike of the tundra, he is where wanted by none. A be all end all as you could alleviate ones slightest sympathy, the courage it takes, ****** immense. His sweat was not seen, but there it consists. One hand grappled around his earthly dagger, tongue positioned in an outward arrangement. Travail glowing all over him as an aura unlanguid with no disruption veering. Abound now, without great weight on his shoulders, he’s lived. Ascending keen eyes towards the blood bath around his feet, going both ways around the fork and road. After relinquishing his steady gavel, the checking of his pulse is counted. 5, 6, 7, 8, seconds, still life to live. For the very first ritual to come, placed in his mouth, the tongue. The rigid roof so unfamiliar and new he bestowed in his joy of such a common flank. The tundra felt warm as he inside let over pour. Once more a milder gasp as he vociferates to the last moon for the year. On his peak, and favored place of being, he let out his tongue. Sharp inclement so hawkish and frosted he felt. The lilliputian of no pain, heeded by first snow to wane.

there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

A script for birth - an new revival,
libelled breaks, swollen structure,
a cupboard full of accidentals,
daubs this paragon with stucco:

Glowsticks prance on leveled stair,
canvas origami pads Negeb:
Counterculture's been declared!
'Metropolis' left in riverbed.

A crypt where all is fairly loose;
—deepened, glottal, breathened, size—
Saddled with this torment, you!
—ugly glamour pangyrized—

There's a lot more to fashion,
and a lot more, to forge;
Nothing keeps me in *******,
that would be too awkward.

APEIROPHOBIA: [n.] the fear of infinity or infinite things.

—

you are love at the end of the world, something spelled without a glottal plea

the stars on my crown hang heavy tonight and i’ve barely slept for an hour but my mind drifts off to weary constellations and i sometimes wonder if we were aligned at all

you, vague hurt, you, toothache in the middle of a birthday party

you, a love like no other

and running without wolves to guide our journey, the forest scratches every inch of bare skin and i would cry out if you hadn’t done the same to me in your restless tossing and turning, there is love in your eyes but no love in the blood you make me bleed

there is still something left to be said. but my mouth is dry and full of sand, kiss it and catch a fly on the wall, smear ointment on its wings and maybe i’ll tell you about how i feel

and it isn’t a good one, it isn’t a love i towed beyond fathoms of seawater and across miles of irradiated coastlines, it isn’t me, count the distance and end up with infinity in one sitting, infinity with end, infinity to beg you of love

beg me of a message unclear, home sweet home

it’s better than nothing. the woozy way i walk into the ocean with a pocket full of rocks and a mind full of bitter sloshing around, is better than nothing, love

it’s better than everything love

because it’s something i still wish to keep, wish on a nebulae cluster that doesn’t exist the second you force yourself to breathe out, screams

no comforting the choir, i’ll drape mine around your bruised shoulders and shake both of them softly until i’ve killed half the universe with my hubris, until we’ve killed off every erstwhile incandescence just to look a little off-kilter, early morning, i’ve never felt better despite never finding out what repose meant

the sky is red at sunrise and then what

and then we, and then we

feel fine

you are love at the end of the world, and i am ready to struggle for survival. invite me into your rose-tinted apocalypse and allow me to decide a fate which was never mine to rewrite

it’s nothing

it’s better than nothing love

it's hot in a restaurant with the strangers you've since been stranded with

(look! You Finally Did It!)

and everybody knows your name but the symbolism of individualized letters with glottal stops and teeth-******* pauses and dyslexic lingering lisps is lost on them, they have their own letters to think about, don't you know?

(hundreds of pillows fly out my ears in increasing sizes, so i must be dreaming - Right?)

Yahtzee! Soccer! Give it the old college try!

(abstract oils crash and burn in a watchtower atop of your New Life)

It's Something to do with your Mouth, It's Something to do with your Hands, but we couldn't tell you why $2.50 wasted matters more than four months and the casual flinging of my (god forbid)

i n n o c e n c e

(you're happy and i'm unconscious, so in theory we're on the same wavelength - Right?)

can you assure me that everyone has two decades of nauseating mediocrity
or no - is it just me?
we Need coffee! we Need love! dread has to be evenly distributed - don't leave your years of it at my door!

(i don't want anybody's advice unless it's on how to fashion a fully-functioning noose)

tiny lips and long socks - i can't stop being in love with the whole two-eye/two-ear/nose/mouth ordeal but i'm utterly left-handed in my lust and i swear to god both hands are empty - but that's something else entirely

(back to where we started from, in bleeding headlights swimming on deserted streets)

'just wanted to throw an XO your way' say the eyes of every crossword connection i bend over backwards to trying to cater it to my thoughts of you

(For Sale: a storage unit of journals filled with sketches of you - it's pink and mushy and curled inside my head, if you're into that)

and it's only when we're in a bed together at 3:26 AM that belongs to neither you or me that i can consciously eliminate emptied emotions and neatly file them onto typeface notes hidden in bouquets decorating the dismal-ities of my freshly-planted tombstone

(fuse our bodies together and let's make this sarcophagus a necrophilia-polis)

as almost every man is born into a pentagonal womb of experiencing the world, a few are born into a hexagonal womb.

to exact Aristotelian logic is to
construct sentences in accordance
with some form of agreement
or disagreement -
               which also concerns the already
stated example above: talk of
sharpening the knife - *as almost every man -
also knows as: attempts to brush of
details under the rug -
   and as Nietzsche said, although
alternatively: beyond universals and particulars -
because who has enough spare time
to think up measuring that ****** concern
for exactness? no one...
unless you're doing the greatest philosophical
feat, as in exacting solipsism
         toward the most adulterous
translation of images into words,
  and backing up words into images (or
copyrights of noun-images) - after all...
wasn't the crucifixion the most excruciating
experiment in proving the point of solipsism?
exactly that: the god-man status as sheltered
by solipsism... so he basically ignored the
poor ******* and said: i'll reach Adam
or god-like status and get myself crucified...
the crucifixion as a spectacle is a form
extracting solipsism...
  Judas ***** off and the thief on the left...
somehow the thief on the right is redeemed...
nonetheless, what a mighty gesture...
instead of the forgiveness of sin,
we get the basics of what solipsism invites...
not a **** on an over-crowded train
but a crucifixion... **** on me...
given it's the 21st century, this wouldn't
pass if the Vatican had any power,
or the orthodox publishing industry...
**** the money, i'm just glad it's out...
but isn't it? he crucified himself in order
to be the supreme soloist...
                    it was only him and everyone else
was.. according to the Islamic calendar lunar
year and doctrine: a phantom...
which Islam borrowed from the original
phantom theory in Gnostics' heresy...
         my my... what a long way toward Arabia...
you have you Arabian Shakespeare with
the Merchant of Mecca and all...
i just think he was a selfish *******...
read the theory? god ***** a ******,
god marries the ******... not even the Greeks
kept up...
                               but still the glottal
juice stream out one name: Malachi's mistake...
Malachi's mistake.... Malachi's mistake...
a god in fractions.... reincarnation from
polytheism adapted to monotheism means
god's in fraction, not a non-divisible number,
whether 1, 2 or 3...
                              yes, i'll be obnoxious enough
to reiterate this point...
             no, my revision of Aristotelian
logic is not based on words, but akin to mathematics
based upon units of sound, not units of meaning:
  i.e. if you can write 1 + 1 = 2
              and you can write a + b + l + e = able
and understand that word... you're a logician
like anyone...
                                 obviously the higher tier
of logic is identifying the word able as an
adjective - but even i don't do that...
                     nor do i press matters into arithmetic
of juxtaposing words into a coherent sentence:
if it feels good... it's right.
so there's me... farting in a crowded train
solipsism... and there's he: getting crucified on
Golgotha... we're both proving the same point...
my proof is peppered with diffusion...
          his proof is peppered with infusion...
he needs the sacredness of icon...
                  done in a shady alley in Jerusalem
and the news wouldn't even spread beyond Lebanon...
              strange... being antisemitic when only
damning one individual...
                               feels much like any thrill seeking
event might...              only because he's so
sacred... when in fact only selfishly seeking the ultimate
god-like solipsism -
                                   easier for people to
bend their knees if you're hanging than sitting
comfortably on a throne...
                  always was... always will be.
but more to the point - i see dead people -
the star of david phrase - not content
  with being pentagon farmers readied for
a completely fluency in the sensual world...
women, wine and song... and sweat...
         a few of us reach the potential of the hexagon...
a sixth inkling concerning the world...
          but, mind you, the sixth limb is a coagulation
of all the faculties available to us...
          a total of the fractions taken from us
to experience a total pentagon immersion in the world:
    a quarter of our heart went into it,
a fifth of our thought went into it,
                         an eighth of our imagination went into it,
and so an so forth...
                            i too wish i had the capacity to
never experience the hexagon...
              and be a fully-hot-blooded-mammal pentagon
worth a rare stake of fancies...
                    eager hollering boxing matches,
crying at football matches... i wish...
                    i wish... i really do...
but then i'm the person who tells you:
               crucifixion, or the adamant need to
stage a solipsistic exit and drag Europe into the dark ages.

I have kept a record
of every conversation
anyone has ever had with me.

In detail,sometimes;
vivid, sometimes not.
Never precision; there is no room
for over-thinking stuff,
like language;
like time.
I will speak in Mumble. I will enunciate nothing.

All my records;
tongue without teeth.
Transcribed sounds like
glottal stop!trill!trill!Bilabial trill.
pushed, together, a
part and together, nothing is fixed
in my records
there is no complete.

Sometimes my records are made of a
language without language.
Once written down, there is no way to translate it.
-How do you say?
-You don't say.  
You don't say.

Floating
engulfed in penny light

the coppery-brine amalgamation penetrates my mouth
swallowing
viscous globe of blood-riddled ***

the shards of shell
spines split by the tide
echo my sentiments

current eschews shallow alluvial grave
cognizant cicumvolution
ambient gyre
diffuses carapace shrapnel into my calves

gulls enigmatically screech-stripped
slap briny padded patterns into the shoreline
pausing only upon my primal glottal stop

toes curl about inundated sand
clouting divets shift
dilatory run – slammed inert by invariable wave

cochineal effluvium plumes lilt
crepuscular rays refract further distortions

Neath the water I blindly ***** my body
Ridged projections jut from smoothed flesh
Puckering at my own touch

I sink beneath atmosphere
liquescent folds embrace promptly
I drop beneath chaos

Bare palm dig into viscid terrain
rung after rung demanding presence into the depths
I claw forth onto a sand bar

emerging
shard flanked form
eyes blazing
cuticles numb

pulse flit
patina of blood and grit

Fulgent tread propels
Upon shore
I walk back to my residence
A warrior - mortal
plated in copper and brine

Mose Allison

Glottal blues sing song  
Dixie drawl behind beat, wry
as toast, work as play.

Tap out Easter inanities
space it like a bunny-hop
throw in a pastel glottal stop.
Keep it short; digestible
and let it roll: comestible.
See then if they like the dish,
and grant them every starry wish.

you mature when petting cats... oddly enough, dogs only teach you more routine; owning a cat can make you forget that you even own a cat... it's like misplacing your house keys, and they boomerang back into your concern for them when they need something... namely you... it's completely quantum physics... do i even own a cat? don't know... next times i hear a meow, or sniff a bit of cat-****, i'll let you know.

i also like to call it: in imitation of the crow..
those black shapes perched on t.v. antennas...
just so it feels like i'm an arch,
a shadow... to toy with feeling
being *brooding... or... let's just say listening
to pop was never as difficult,
as it is now and to feel no shame...
people are more eager to discuss doing
*****-strap-on **** than say
they can succumb to the anaesthetic of
certain pop songs... so...
perched on a windowsill
in turkish akimbo -
part of me was always going to
be mamluk in how i approached
islam.... was there a bias to begin with?
perched and hooded and partially drunk
in a void-thought stupor, "acting" -
as a crow might, looking for romance...
typing at a pace that outpaces
a doctor... pecking at a keyboard...
index, peck, index, peck, index, left hand peck...
plenty of breadcrumbs where that **** came from?
in england they call paracetamol the
universal drug... cures all ills...
babe, i spent over 20 years in england
and i had to rent out a bulgar's
*****... you ain't the only delicacy
worth buying oysters for... ugh, i hate this type
of language, it reminds me of things
i should have forgotten...
   too many celts about... anyway...
but it was a fine balancing act
on the windowsill...
drunk, void, listening to pop...
   and there are soundtracks for
the afternoon, beginning with adelle...
you sort of turn into marble...
and then the odd "nervous" twitch
when you forget consciousness
   perched as you are, like a crow aching
for the opera singers to get flowers thrown at them
and, finally bow... to applause...
                  and you exit the statue pose...
   even i get as finicky as animals
wanting to say so much less:
like the animals in want of saying so much more...
i know a cat meows and wants
so much more to be said, but doesn't...
while i say too much, when in fact i want
to say only as much as the σ meow...
           and it's almost a game of intuition
when investigating animals
and that constant eye-contact to open
doors: we're almost dealing with the concept
of royalty!
or what you do with flints... sharpen them!
and i know how i'm **** schizoi that way,
and rarely but sometimes seeing a lucid
future of a **** sapiens that i like
looking into and try figuring out at becoming...
             natural divisions...
they say...
say: naturally we are math proof
to exceed in practicing it... and then dumb-look lockdown
with the word toward the heavens with head askew: huh?
no honey, tangens... a firm **** take on tragedy.
   i see them all the time, sometimes
a kestrel perches on my fence, sometimes i see crows
staging their right for authority
by picking on: search engine insert:
  bird knuckled neck perch pond...
how i remember...
****! that baking butter! stork!
yep, i can be the one witnessing the fact
that crows can attack storks!
   i just meant bent neck...
so, hum... huh huh... elvis ready...
hmph... thrill seeking, or what the french
called: finally the english, without
a stiff upper lip...
   try elvis, or how democracy is only
democracy with a history,
and quiet a lot of dead examples...
that need more resuscitation than
reincarnation... funny thing with english:
i never seem to hear it "correctly"...
american english is too nasal,
they're knitting spaghetti like wool into socks...
kluściaże...
**** me! heaven descends!
just with that, heaven made it apparent...
distinct syllables!
no games, no enligsh,
if nasal american, then overly glottal english
in the original,
   like talking with your mouth full of food...
if i'm being intimidating,
please forget me,
i once talked with a ******* addict
and she kept me interested by talking
about a lighbulb... and how to not fake
a vitamin D deficiency... like that russian girl
who said: a true sign of aristocracy is to
not ever engage in taking to sun-tans...
so all the essex suntan palours will go bankrupt
and we'll have to import oranges,
and then scrape off the zest
  and scrub it into our skin so we can look
proper Hindi, given our diet... of vindalu...
****-smearing, and gaff... those chillies in..
oh the agony, to think that the turks
pickle them and serve them in kebabs...
the agony!
          comedy and horror... the two should
never meet... thankfully they do...
                  poetry as imitation of tranquiliser...
         as a language:
english and it's ****** shrapnel of conjunctions
and pronoun disputes...
             kinda like thinking about how easily
english can become idiosyncratic
and slang, and slurr...
      it's the equivalent of a ******* drug...
i.e. an existential **** expression...
                              ah, hence the colonialism history...
well.. if i had distinct syllable indicators
that other european languages use (i.e. diacritics):
i wouldn't be speaking all acronym...
finally! the internet proved that talk is cheap...
'cos' everyone just keeps talking!
    and thankfully i just like looking at this crap
than have the throth to take it to and speak it
at a market-place, when i should have been selling bananas.

She loves you... and me

AND I AM YELLING TO YOU TO PLAY EM' DAT' GUITAR

Squeal of a hawk's only finite point of glottal hoarseness

Hack n' cough

Not a single drop be here my love

Lest she be a T.V.

The forms of lions reported were false.
It was a body of men with no heads.
They were no one, but everyone was it.
A cannibalistic **** of Self.
Gaping yaws with no faces to give word,
Unable to hear their own glottal calls,
Guttered incoherence for none to see.
Their fire and power were unlike those stored
In our hundred buried years of Mundis.
Unbound viscera – black, boiled, and souring:
Replaceable parts via war and tea;

Served with flesh overdeveloped to taste;
Served to slouching tongues and beastly fingers
By those for whom labor is cause and curse.
Adrenaline and other chemicals
Oiling their blood, charging minds, taxing nerves,
Traumatically driving their will to serve
Their bottom-toothed anathematic maws.
Those best who remained born of conviction
Died with the worst unexceptionally.
We now ask not what is coming for us,
But how long we will allow it to feed.

well, sure, i'm a loser,
i was once strapped to a park
bench, approached
by an elder pakistani,
and he was bewildered
as to why i was alone...

   could answer him,
he started squinting,
so i moved my big 'ed
to block the sun,
that didn't do much,
as i once stated:

the feeling of conversation,
soon... turned into
a feeling of conversion...
he brought out his
digital qu'ran
as if expecting
me to numb-**** the way
out of the scenario
with intense feelings
of needs to: search for
the Hajj...

so i pointed to the qu'run
(ever watch an arab
buckle...
  tell him to insert
an apostrophe...
****** will buckle...
  the B: so ******* glottal...
buckle timothy (tim) i call 'im,
never got around to slacking
off on the cockney slur)
what does this mean:

alif, lam, meem

the old pakistani elder simply
replied: only god knows...
i said: jack-****,
thinking to myself...
you know those are...
the nouns to replicate
graphemes,
     but are actually letters?
A, L, M?
later: please, someone,
just get the rabbis onto this...
release the hounds...
i'm done at being
converted...
a simple beer in the park,
being approached by
some pakistani elder...
me wishing him "good riddle"
and then using my body,
that translated into a shadow,
to block out the fun
glaring at his face wasn't enough...
o.k. "god knows"...

the latin phonetic encoding
is ****...
   oh it's ****...
it gets ***** via the O,
the P, the R, the Q, the D, B...
there's no "hole" to be
filled...
semitic writing, whether hebrew
or arab?
    no "concept" of
an... encricling... of omicron...
just: horde mentality,
moving forward...
to a never-neverland...

so yeah, i am a loser...
   or a loß-er...
          and sometimes...
the latin phonetic encoding script...
if you forget the freedom
of speech *******...
can reveal...
       puncture wounds,
which you, subsequently fill,
having noticed them...

         timing:
                 what's the difference
between a hyphen & an apostrophe?
     ah...
        pedantry pedantry,
the sort of pedantry that would
a rich man to employ a butler...

a knees'-up...
  
              just because
circumcision takes avenue in
a hidden, place...
        doesn't imply that
it will not affect the Σ....
which is the new norm...
to shatter what became
19th century psychoanalytical
"garbage",
  or the late 20th century's
focus on "ego"...
   to me: Σ...
   you don't think that
a man's ontological framework
doesn't become...
dissonant... when he has
become circumcised?

  (Σ, total, it's an elevated
variant of the grapheme concept...
since... well...
we're living down to
topple every single letter
with ah: A: alpha-male
       b'eh: B: beta-male...)

but this experience, just, felt...
(here's the american beauty
comparison, sample)

         spec-tac-ular
which is different,
to whatever academic alien
alphabet this: /spɛkˈtakjʊlə/
refers to...

   talk to a bilingual...
we'll talk short-cuts to...
like i said: whatever alien
******* that is...
  
  ******* neo-copernican...
  ʊ       ə
upside-down greek...
                  and latin...

or you could send a drunk in
with a modest education
belt...
    learned chemistry:
forgot aikido:
  after the sensei was away,
one of his students:
kicked me in the *******
and left me in a foetal
position, counting:
oh i'm pretty sure it was
more than just a Welsh
"thing" and prancing sheep...

compensation?
back then... what was it...
2000, 2001...
that wasn't an over-used
term...
  esp. not in an applied sense...

you know,
you can really revise
that american beauty quote,
of a single word...
you can hyper-"inflate"
the timing...

sp'ec-tac-úlar (exhibit a)
   (****, no S with tilde...
   so no agitated serpent
imagery)
   s'pec-tac-u'l'ār (exhibit b)

or the "******" version:
   sssssssssspec
                     taaaac
     uuuuuuuuular...

but hey, who's keeping rhythm,
or count,
  or spelling, intact...

point being: i made a mistake
within the confines of
exhibit a...
                yeah...
the apostrophe
   should have come at the crux
of the s'
                     and not include
the p to make the invalid
syllable scalpel cut of     sp',
but u'l'ār
        is, "true"...
            
   well...
               if only i painted...
you could look at a painting,
passively,
and walk away,
saying to your date:
  eh... some variant of ronin
geometry...
  but with writing...
it's like:
   someone made a conscious
effort...
  ****...
this better make sense...

point being...
how do you introduce
the concept of orthography,
to a language,
that... simply...
rejects it?

   it was quasi attempted
when the english found out that
the best chemists were
german...
   and an english speaker
knows how... complex a german
word can be...
   hence?
            the hyphen (-)
   e.g. hydroxychloroquine...
   yeah... syllables...
cascade...
             hydroxy-chloroquine...
strain on the english eyes...

   but that's a big word...
little words, nuances...
you could replace the hyphen
with an apostrophe...

           hi'yah...
not: kiai ***. for stance prior
attack...
     try lodging
an apostrophe
   into           hello...
    h'             el'           'low...

it's almost like i'm...
filling in for some sort of short-comings...
well...
chinese phonetic encoding
is pretty decent,
that part of me that admires
Ezra Pound...

            but then...
decoding from how chinese
is encoded,
   and hearing it?
    all that effort...
translated into a latin script
and it comes out as

   水: water: shoo'e.
               (shuǐ)

   un-spec-tac-cu-lar.

light-wisps
     tiptoe     through
gauze of green

     piccolo     chirrups
woodwind     refrain

     water burble
sweep     scattershot     rocks
     teeth of giants

pebble ensembles
     paths     buttered
with hair of Meliae

     brisk glottal     stop
pecker     on bark

     dead skin
and these taupe
     bones

almost tibias
     swell     skywards

sprout
     arthritic     fingers

that will fall
     amputate     beneath
                                       my feet

so glottal, that arabic is,
                       it would amuse me
  to hear an arab recite
these two words
                as someone chinese
    attempting a trill on the R...
let alone a frenchman having
to stop harking that letter out,
or the english
applying the numbing,
linguistic anaesthetic to it,
                 i.e.
                                 amuse me:

gregory
  brzęczyszczykiewicz
herr otto, standartenjunker
   (borrowed from the cult film:
   how i started the second world war)...
    
or: stół z
    powyłamywanymi nogami -

gutton gutton clob kup-ah!
                                  glutton q k,
mmm'kab, mmm'qab...
         ******* linguistic turkeys;
help! help! he's choking!
   he's about to swollow his tongue!
heimlich! quick! maneuver
   maneuver! run around the poor
******* in circles, chanting
      magic spells in cymru,
               while clapping like a seal
in between rubbing your stomach
  and patting yourself on
the head, for a kippah, akin to
manna to descend from heaven!

i've heard of women rereading works of fiction, entire books, rereading them up to 3 to 4 times... me? i can only muster the effort for a single reading, and the rest of "rereading" becomes a game of memory; but this "ideal" evaporates, as soon as i pick up a philosophy book, notably? heidegger's ponderings vi, aphorism vii; why? well, to pay a closer attention, to expand on attention, to solve a "puzzle", evidently this is true for both the medium of prose philosophy - yes, i agree, a tedious take on narrative, since these narratives have "characters" that amount to nothing more than nomen in relatio, namely? no notion of playing god, or, to be exact, a puppeteer. no, i agree, the narrative is plague with tedium, but so it samuel beckett's play not i; mind you, there's calm to counter beckett's feminine embodiment of ego-******; titillating as it already is: insinuating phelatio.

and what can a man best do, being scorned,
by an unfortunate short-term relationship,
that might have only lasted for a breadth of
encompassing only two seasons?
   having no knowledge of came about in rural
areas, during winter times, and how
people kept warm? body chess?
it would seem, that the shorter the love affair,
the more memorable it becomes...
     and that's all the more true (universal) -
when there's the topic of a summer fling;
mine? stretched from spring through to summer,
but the thing is: i have no regrets,
in that, as any solipsist might state:
                 i regret losing a part of my self;
didn't you know? i thought people would have
picked it up, that solipsism is the new "atheism",
and to be honest, i like that label... why?
well, it invites the mythology of kinship
of that of *thanatos & hypnos...
   who do you think can be conjured to share
common thread of thought with a solipsist?
narcissus! hence? narcissus & his brother
    solipssus - as any single child will tell you,
esp. in china: i really wished for a twin...
children of many siblings do not share this
   sentiment, of leveraging on wishing for a twin;
and mind you:
        in the zodiac, taurus is just shy of gemini.
oh, right, this aphorism in ponderings vi...
actually... i don't know if i should verbatim extracts
from it, or just compare it to an atheist talking...
i'm side tracking, because i started thinking
about susanna hoff...
             as any man might, with half a fishing net's
worth of
fiddling-with-a-knitting-competence-worth-of-"wit";
what? a woman's beauty is a welcome distraction,
esp. the 80s... and i don't know why,
but i remember being implanted
the archetypal beauty of a woman dressed in the sun,
i.e. blonde... and, luckily enough, i received
my first kiss when i was 5, 6, or 7...
  can't remember her name,
but i know her surname - kot i.e. cat,
and she had twin sisters younger than her,
her father used to drive a truck...
             and drunk ***** like a skunk.
you know what, since i've entered the rambling
stage of narrative, i will not mention heidegger's
aphorism, i'll just let you buy the **** book
(30 quid a pop second hand,
  good luck)
               i'll just mention an offshoot of a thought
that came from it, being reread several times...
ah! the monotheistic trinity!
  step 1. you do know that in maltese,
   the word for god is, allah?
step 2. there is no more beautiful name
    for god than allah, namely?
   listen to alpha blondy's song sebe allah ye...
step 3. jews are really **** at singing,
    the name of their god reside in the cognitive realm,
and in the cognitive realm alone,
   hence: do not take my name in vain...
step 4. say jesus christ about 40+ times,
             great vanity project...
step 5. i seriously recommend this to you,
  go to a polish catholic mass, in poland,
  and wait for the believers reciting the creed
  p.s. tell me if you see any comparison with
a satanic mass murmur...
step 6. my thought belongs to elohim,
  my singing & esp. drumming to as sami (26) -
  (you ever think the arabs are all too
glottal, in their pronunciation?
   like glug glug: pucker, gug?);
and the "father"?
                  silence,
               and if not silence, then the most
mundane talk... and a respect for even the most
dumbest of possible carpenters,
   and let me tell you, the biggest *******
of them all, surname? griffin... t(h)omas...
hardly a θought in him...
          but hey, he got all the girls,
i got an empty pint glasses, and a shamed walk
home...
  come english... show us yer surd letters!
   what's v'eh θinking behind it all, eh, tomas?
sure it's not θomas?
                             whatever;
it's not like you're going to get another stab at
producing a shakespeare.

Somewhere a matchbox is swept out from under the leg of a table, and in newfound contact with the ground the whole floor comes crashing unto itself...

I do not know what causes a body to revolt:

"The N-terminus of EWS/FLI1 retains the prion-like transactivation domain of EWSR1. This allows EWS/FLI1 to both bind RNA polymerase II and recruit the BAF complex. These interactions change heterochromatin to euchromatin at EWS/FLI1 DNA-binding sites effectively generating de novo enhancers
The C-terminus of EWS/FLI1 retains the DNA-binding domain of FLI1. While wild-type FLI1 recognizes an ACCGGAAG core sequence, EWS/FLI1 preferentially binds GGAA-repetitive regions. There is a positive correlation between the number of consecutive GGAA microsatellites, EWS/FLI1 binding, and target gene expression.
The core motif of ETS transcription factors includes a GGAA sequence. EWS/FLI1 may bind to such sequences with greater affinity than the wild-type ETS member disrupting the normal regulation of ETS target genes."

I did not like the phonics- I did not like how blunt the nomenclature was. It was ugly and guttural, full of dissonant clips of the tongue and glottal propulsions. I am sorry I could not remember the names- even if they were ugly.

I suppose you never think of me, and in your current cataclysm drift away from my person evermore. Nevertheless, I will write this- not as testament but as a reaction:
I am sorry.

There were insecurities placed inside of you by your caretakers- things surrounding intelligence, direction, and lechery. I hope that they will relinquish their scruples to your fate, and that perhaps you will see a glimmer of love as snow drifting downwards to blanket you in numbness when you choose to go outside.

Curious things emerge
from this last cup of gin.
Maybe I've been too alone
with the rain and with drink
because strangers converge
into thumb-smudged skins
washing over smoothed stone
into the storm's glottal rink...
I'll stop there and stem
these mannequin thoughts
seeded by a dollar's solitude,
watered by a fallen hem
of night. Thunder's brought
a brand new mood...

it must have been on the same day, i was commuting to a job way out north west, Hendon, doing some roofing on a housing project... in the morning i bumped into a nurse... we started chatting... but since we were chatting on a moving train: i had to excuse myself when looking at her mouth... so i told her: don't mind me... i'm lip reading... well... an encounter like any cosmopolitan encounter... i yawn at the prospect of climbing Mt. Everest... at sailing solo across the world... this is plenty! on the way back from the job i was still into my marquis de sade... opposite me on the tube 4 girls... they were girls... it's a shame they weren't wearing school-uniforms... all in giggles and peacocks of pretending to be shy... years prior to the emergence of fifty shades... Juliette... i can't remember which edition... obviously a semi-pornographic detail on the cover... some ****... the girls giggled... and i was wondering: you know what i'm reading? i'm taming the beast... i've just read something on the lines: & he ****** on her while setting her alight... all that's missing is skinning the poor *****... i most enjoy knowing i have the potential to do the utmost... destruction... all the while... i think i have more pleasure in containing this... ahem... "asset"... i truly do... i like the masquerade of civilization i can pretend... i'm almost three-quarters an actor most of the time... of course i know: if pressured the animal will come to the fore... and the cage will loose all its metaphysical diamonds... i can: i won't... but i can... become a rancid creature... i like knowing i can... but otherwise willing myself to no be...

i never understood the concept of "social drinking"...
come to think of it...
if the conversation was good:
i'd drink less and get drunk off the conversation...
but that... it's somehow necessary
to drink with someone?!
is it necessary to do "things" together...
esp. drinking...
there's even a song i'll mention about:
zusammen: to, together... i guess it's a:
towards togetherness, that word:
zusammen... it's like a bulging mushroom
on my cranium that squirts out psychedelic juices
to make this monkey invent windmills...
and trains!
oh it's a Dutch folk band from the 1970s...
you can pick up the Dutch accent singing
German lyrics...
it's that... abhorrent Dutch lisp...
i was never a fan of the Dutch accent...
  glut... no... wait... glottal<ʔ>
i don't even think it's that noun...
they (the Dutch) sound like they smiling
while ******* the juice of half a lemon
miraculously lodged in their mouth...
i've done that too...
i've been to my ex-girlfriend's... christening
of her first twins...
she later had... oh... a baby factory...
4 more?
i was sitting in the church and asked
by her next door neighbour:
'you're not really here, are you?'
do i look i'm here...
why am i at the christening of my ex-girlfriend's
first born... why am i allowed to cradle them in my
hands?
i really shouldn't be here:
i don't understand why i received
an invite... the idiot in me obviously went...
i'm one solo project away from: death...
let's not me this melodramatic...
pickling scenario...
******* beta orbiter: while i was sampling
some Romanian / Turkish prostitutes...
kissing the most tender parts of the body...
the shutters on the eyes...
counting knuckles on the hand...
with lips...
rubbing my hands one some bricks
to later touch... oysters composing a body
of a woman..
i wanted rough fingertips...
i need a beer...
she kept me in her whereabouts...
i've met her Nigerian fling...
we sat at the table looking rather...
nonchalant...
i met her future hubby and the father of her
children while still high on *******
in a pub... before she reformed me...
i came armed with Heidegger's
sein und zeit... i guess i wasn't going to be
so easily disarmed... i'll get to the song
in "question"... by a Dutch folk band from
the 1970s... eh... classical music bores me...
not enough of Prokofiev is aired...
classical music is music for
technicians and the deaf...
Beethoven proved it...
      i prefer folk...
            i can't stomach a Verdi opera...
i try... i try... try in vain...
to no use!
zusammen... contra? allein!
to-together... zu-sammen...
allein? alone...
  alle: all...              ein: A (indefinite article)...
all the indefinite articles: align!
i never understood drinking with people:
they always wallow... in their demise
in their misery...
i like drinking alone...
you can only drink alone...
i abhor drinking in company...
drinking in company might somehow...
end up... bridging the gaps
of imagination where Savannah Bond takes
centre stage...
rejected by woman yet entertained
by a storm... the high tide...
the waves of the north sea come
midnight...
i want to mind... but i have no room for:
revision... what's said: is said...
i need to change the lyrics up...

zusammen will have to be replaced with allein...
alle: ein...
all the the indefinite articles aligned...
bier! bier! zeppelins! bier und zeppelins!
come to think of it...
only brothers fought brothers...
either war... it's so sad...
those closest kin... are the reason
wars are staged... rarely it might happen
that... a Turk will fights a ******...
the opposite side has something we want...
but... the opposing side that's:

**** similis... the ape represented as: man...
has... i don't want an ontological debate
concerning what flaws man...
what flaws man? paradoxes.

i never understood drinking with a  legion...
a core...
perhaps it was fun drinking in company...
if the same company had a tank...
or a lighthouse we had to cater for...
but drinking: *****-nilly... on the weekend...
in company...
i seriously have more boring things to do
than bore myself double-due with that
pastime...
when the conversation is so good that
you can get drunk from it... doubly...
fair enough...
but... women... and their miseries coming
out when drunk...
i want to sing! when i drink i want to sing!
i want to be part of a brotherhood!
aligned with men
of similar disposition... manners... tastes...

for the lyrics:

was wollen wir trinken
was wollen wir trinken, sieben tage lang?
was wollen wir trinken, so ein durst!

was wollen wir trinken, sieben tage lang?
was wollen wir trinken, so ein durst!

es wird genug fur alle sein!
wir trinken zusammen, roll das fass mal rein!
wir trinken zusammen, nicht allein!

on a very simple crux... as much as i love Dickens
i abhor his tendency to ascribe
the term: orthography to English...
orthography can be applied if the language
utilises diacritical marks...
no diacritical marks: no orthography...
it's just dyslexic spelling... Charlie...

example?

pâté... broken down from Brussels...
            phonetically... look at it...
p'ah-tay... no?
                          the absurd surd of H the vowel
catcher one arm of the tetragrammaton
is already there...
the other is being used as a rugby post...

i'd change the lyrics up a little bit...
whatever stereotypical drunk someone somewhere
thinks i might be: i don't drink before
a mirror and drink...
why was it ever so important to drink in
company?!
fair enough... i'll drink in company!
will we be singing by the end of it?
folk songs?!
no?!                well then! *******!
i'll be drinking allein!

i won't bother translating the lyrics...
i want to sing them!

- it has been raining... wash away my:
too much of a good thing can be bad...
which is why i resort to visiting a brothel
once every half a decade
to... **** &... ahem... charm...
my supposed future in-law
called me a charmer... i guess i am a charmer...
if i'm in the mood...
how i'll kiss the freckles... the knuckles...
the eyelids of women that belong to a trade
where i'm but a fraction...
which is still cheaper than...
putting a leash on one and fathering her
whims... if i have to be bluntly honest...
eye-lids... how i love to kiss them...
elbows and knees...
all that my arms are when they come
across the geography of thighs!
oooooh...
                send me mad!

perhaps you think i should be thinking about
Newton and some "new" gravity...
i'm always thinking about women...
just today after a ******* session on my road bicycle
semi-drunk... riding aggressively through
the traffic... parking by the trollies...
a cascade of sweat on my t-shirt's back
gasping... i know the look a woman gives...
when she sees you seeing her...
deer in the ******* headlights...
a ******* onomatopoeia in katakana...

fat chance of me going to Hawaii...
or Knot Orca...
i was watching some t.v.: three guys on
a road-trip through Italy...
i took a break...
had a cigarette in the garden: looked up...
hell... it's like England was the focus
of the Matrix movie argument for...
machines not being solar-panel fed...
the misery of northern Europe...
from England... Scotland... Germany...
Poland... & Scandinavia...
what a mush of a heart with these
overcast skies!

the sweetness of this sort of misery
is... well... i think it's breath-taking!
i still don't know what i'd do with myself should
i find myself "happy"...
Mediterranean happy...
                        like i might need to protect
my copper-neck of a suntan...
happy never left me satisfied...
better! nourished! happy doesn't have enough
fibre in it!
i want to be miserably aware:
happy is too fleeting anyway: always... always! always!
i want to be happy in my melancholy:
which is not simply: depressed... deflated...
disorganised... ditto more synonyms...

extroversion doesn't suit me: either...
please put that in writing...

**** me! i'll have to pull this term out of my ***
like a tapeworm equivalent to
something Heidegger might have have
conjured up! it has to be in German...
sometimes Ing-Leash fails me...

"pre-scriptum":
i'm happy-sad...
  i like...              ugh...
      i'm happy-being-sad...

let's take a peekaboo!

            froh
(not
glücklich not zufrieden)

          -sein-    (being)

traurig (sad)... ergo? well... it's German...
it's a compounded term, concept...
so there's no need for hyphenation
in accordance with terms deemed:
Oxford proof... proved...

it looks like, hey presto!

frohseintraurig...
  have a second look with the... ******* Oxbridge
hyphen stresses for:
intra-punctuations... froh-sein-traurig...
at least English retains its spirit of Sax(on)
when it comes to chemical nouns...
hydrochloric... acid...
these ******* could be so close to adding
a hyphen to that noun compound!
hydro-chloric... no?

i like being sad... oh... melancholy truly elevates
the fickle nature of memory...
there's no imagination: to begin and end with...
i never lived for imaged caricatures of:
what could be willed...
memory, on the other hand... such a fickle creature!

how the English mangle the most important nouns...
the names of people...
David is somehow Dave...
Peter is Pete...
Matthew is Matt...
Samantha becomes Sam
as Sam later becomes Samuel...
while London is woot? Loon'don?
a table is still a ******* table...
i... don't... like... this...
i don't have to! while the gods exists
and man is churning out his, her...
free-will potential...
who can complain?!
it's almost a paradox... prancing...
if we have free-will... "supposedly"...
but... can't express it...
even in the most negative way...
then... exactly: do we have it?
no! however bad the results are...
collateral damage...
as ever... but we need the illusion of free will...
if there were some divine intervention....
its perfectly lodged in the metaphysics of:
what comes after... if anything comes after...
i like the idea of... "something" comes after...
this... debacle of...
i can' just leave some people:
arrogantly... proud! it bothers me!

i stopped thinking of "it" in terms of: soul...
if there's an ego, a superego...
all the schematics of the supposed modern man...
then there's also the... sigma... Σ...
what makes man: animate...
the sense of... once the body is relieved of its duties...
and returns to the altar of inanimate things...
what happens to... not soul but: Σ...
the totality that gave vehicle prospect to:
what would fatally become...
an urn filled with ash!

- i stand before a mirror in the bathroom...
******* into a sink and...
literally... doubt... whether or not i exit...
the ******* mirror is giving me vibes of
insinuation of testing me to focus on...
being a hologram status... for ****'s sake...
it's this bad... so i suppose
reading some Rousseau will not solve
the: currency of the "problem"...
i.e. joke: i was not so much into Chinese
ideograms...
more into Korean Hangul & *** katakana..
so...

        the resurrected Genghis Khan from...
sub-Saharan Africa... no?

- there's this Slavic proverb concerning Slavs...
i;m an Anglo-Slav...
mingling with the Germanic people...

if you're walking among the crows:
you better croak like 'em...

wenn sie ar eintreten krähentotenwache
du besser krächzen!

kiedy wchodisz między wrony:
musisz krakrać tak jak one!

Hot breathes; oxygen starts to fire up by two
Everywhere, their mouth’s turn into flames
Palm rubs; tightly gripped affections as you
Hope to find the inner depth of your open heart
Close your eyes, as fine skin pulses towards touch
Something close, to something worth love’s friction

The reason in your eye’s blood glottal quiet stares
Are the shares of two voices, while kissing in a song
Piling up all of your emotions towards a love stack
So in touch with regrets; that’s why you hide your hands
You walk under trees, to shade those who try to follow

In the hopes that in even in the dark, there’s a flower
Tears flow out like blood from a wound- stanched
By how long you have to cry; gushing out scars
Everywhere, is a loud place to truly be yourself
Still, believe in your self-worth, precise to yourself

1.
Memory blankets the past
in a neon green meadow
dappled with gray bits of matter.
They ooze and coalesce into a brain
brimming with unconscious narratives:
glottal globs clogging the gaps
of personal history. Tales of sound
and fury signifying nothing but the living self.

2.
The Transcendental Ego reigns over all,
smoothing the way for a unity of experience,
smoothing the way for a universe of sense.
I stroll alone through the empty patches
of meadow, waiting for Wordsworth's
daffodils to bloom. Waiting for poetry
to usurp the role of narrative, metaphor
crowned as the foundation of knowledge.

3.
The past besieges the present like Time''s
Trojan Horse, teeming with shadows. At their edges,
light lines the darkness. To try to remember now,
the tabula is a noirish rasa, staring back
through dull, heavy-lidded eyes. We see as we are seen.
Memory dances before a mirror, an image so close
to our touch, yet so far out of reach. Starved for imagery,
we strain toward the black. Only connect. Only connect.