.h'america.... the last theological playground of... whatever the mind left behind in the decrepit bulwark that's europe... oh... and those mid-western died-hard hitchcock platinum-blondes in a-waiting... my typo pristine dutch-girls-go-to-church mantra... otherwise? no b'ooh'y'ah! chugger-chugger-chugger-chuck-cherry-choppy-chops-you-*******-cuc­­k-chuckie! quasi-whitman wannabe... billy was a butcher... a thematic long lost gun... billy was a butcher... and all the ripe choppers of pork... gave us a belief in snow; and what some heaved with a falling-of-a-star of dis-.belief: i too was bound to glorification of: what was expected to be known! and the subsequent: wow! i have met only the most limited of men... i have therefore met all men... the "all" men of this rubric of a year, a decade... all that's bygone of a yawn; swear it sn't so! a so! that's not be be sown! i am here too: upon the whim of expectation... merely... waiting... a man comes to be born come his 30s... his 40s? his nostalgia "moment"... former known name of: Jack Lil Lick 'Em Boots... and the crescendo of pauper's black lining of the Wall St. "better oiled"... scalp the ******! and send him unto the rabbi's true blessing... in the cusp of the scalp of the kippah!  and now... you take... your anglo-spreschen-tangle... into the salt-wounds of your h'america! first born: young... i don't like your revision... looking toward Europe with a hope for a sensibility... this pseudo deutsche: pseudo dutch, anglo-; this is no loss of the French or the Slav! this is our celebration! does one have an irish phrasing in uns to be at in it or one? beyond this grip boyo bound glue? this clerical spare of the otherwise leftover skivvy? we have made barons of these minutes.... as if we were to be kings of the coming years... and how we didn't become gods of the atoms... and the men of the suns and planets... that is our... most worthwhile conundrum in a da pacem domine bound; you're going to Beirut on me... or something?!

in my haitus away from this canvas:
naive me thought: perhaps a surge...
again proven wrong -
albeit not disappointed -
so i had to look elsewhere -

i had to look for a clarity of diction...
i had to move away from
the western lands and their:
death of god and their death by metaphysics...

even in this barren english...
i could not figure out:
why are these people,
apologetics from the central leftists...
these liberals...
ditto: i will butcher this name...
i will butcher the pronunciation
of this word...

if there are "questions" regarding
what's being phonetically encoded...
so much for me "learning to code"...
i too once wrote a html encoding...
with all the < and < and > toys...
spacing... {[( gradations... etc.,

i had to look east, after a while writing
schlechtdeutschegrammatik...
bad german grammar...
again: it's posthumous "Latin"...
it might be...
bad grammar german...
or german bad grammar...
deutscheschlechtgrammatik...

spelling is the mathematical equivalent
of... arithmetic...
but grammar? you need a ping-pong
table...
you need something cymru-esque...
a scandinavian-esque bilingual cushioning...

english alone will not solve the matter...
it's not french, it's not german,
it's certainly not spanish...
spanish and how post-colonialism was
settled with a post-racial attitudes of
Brazil...
england has taken too much time
looking up and out of the h'american
*******...
no grand satan 'ere...
no silk road bazar of fruits exotica from...
Teheran...
something more... subtle...

i had to go back to the "tsar"...
and the цэркйэв: 'cerkiew'...
and there i was amused how...
well apparently...
there are a lot of words
that do use the sz'cz...
enough... to deviate from
the Latin bollocking represented via
шч = щ....

that's perfectly logical...
i'm done with "perfectly logical"
if it exists outside of the realm of
orthography...

szczypta soli - pinch of salt...
in russian...
щ... that's a bit of a "question"...
yes, yes it is complicated...

szczery / szczera (he's honest /
she's honest)...
szczerość (honesty)...

no it's not... you german fickle-wit!
you forget the ы!

ah! well then... щыптa....
**** me... disorientating...
they could do all that with greek and glagolitic...
but they still had to keep...
latin: roman: holy roman empire: GERMAN...
lowercase lettering...
akin to a... e... c doesn't count...
since that's a greek cedilla "missing"...
ç... or... sigma... ς -
otherwise known in english as that S
after the apostrophe...
when something is called being:
the possessive article...
a (indefinite) the (definite) - some -ism to mind?!
no... but 's is... a bit like the SS...
in greek...
all in lower case: stephen's and...
στεφηνς...
σtephenς: that very much desired: ha!
ridiculous gag... the "much desired"
alternative to an apostrophe S ('s)...

it's Stephen's! it's Stephen's!
it's Sylvester's!
three articles in english:
the indefinite article (a)...
the definite article (the)...
and the possessive article ('s) - apostrophe S...
eS eS!

russian accents...
ъ, ы, ь...

but i only know of one "hard sign" example...
and that disqualifies the J ever needing a lower-case
"dot"... ȷ... namely... зъ: ż... alternatively
also: rz... and ж...
żuk! beetle! somehow the caron makes it...

szczyt! zenith!
щыт!

- and since i'm no longer writing:
i'd be writing if i were monolingual...
or... if i was animated by
the sort of Knausgardian bilingualism
of chop of swede: marker norgie...
but... i'm painting...

i forgot how to write when i could
see "synonyms" of sounds...
entombed in two different phonetic
encodings, namely elevated latin
and "pan-greek": cyrillic...

the variations between:

й and ы...
i.e. via е - "ye"
ё - "yo" (there's an umlaut in russian?!)
"у" - yew and you...
the gamma subscript...
ю - "yu"...
and... я - "ya"...

with regards to this rubric...
i am in the middle...
i can see a distinction between
a "y" (whine why and no I)...
hardly a jotted anecdote...
and yes... the closest the russians
ever come to Cracow is with ы
to a western slavic y...
ask me: toй - ask me: toȷ...
who needs a dot above the J
in the lower-case... if...
if... there's no absolute need for it to
be there: unlike some greenwich mean time
focus?
it ȷust so happens that...
the better clasp of the equator is
married to Greenwich: London...

dr. who time lords:
bellybuttons of the world: the english are...
again: i have to remind myself...
ı am not wrıtıng... ı am... paıntıng...

1(one), l(el)... I and ı(ıota)...
i guess an apostrophe would suffice...
ıf it's not an "ı"...
ı'ota... ı: oath...
sure as fıgurative "****" it's not...

ı must wrıte some more examples
in russıan...
to get me off me mark into
some "wax lyrıcal"...
ıslander mentalıty of the hen'glısch...

see how "the dot" can appear...
and disappear, as one see fıt?
and ıt makes: no little bıt of...
"dıfference"?!

i need to sleep on thıs "exercise"...
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold...

w­­ıll eyes gets it?
hardly...

the rest of these cosmopolitan *******
focused on gwaffiti awt...
which is welsh for: GRA GRA...
when was the last time you heard
an englishman trill an R?
ı can't remember...
give me a night to soak up the pickling
juıces... i can't remember the last time
i heard an homest trIll eıther!
pauper me...

it's probably because of the welsh:
GWA GWA! gwadleıth cowonew...
or coroner row row row a rombat into a rue:
or a woo...
rhyme: contorts...
shapes and disappearing: oopses...
a whole multıtude of 'em...
come like the tıde...
leave... lıke a tilde... quası N:
it's a... H is a zeus...
and J is a Ha Ha Ha wrap-up rap of
laughter: in spanısh: of course...

i don't wrıte... ı paint...

impromptu interludes, quickened:
i'm a marriage of two continents...
and one island...
east of moscow...
asia... west of warsaw and...
these gloomy island pits of
idiosyncracy... never quiet the icelandic
answer to norway...
or greenland's answer to denmark...
but an island... nonetheless...

- to hell witth cascading linear cascades
of narrative: i'm blind to the optics
of "the narrative" in the paragraph
format...

i will look back east...
i will look at the russian script...
i will look at it as a time in ******
history equivalent to:
why didn't you just think of it as Greek?
but "my people" didn't...
and i'm not exactly a "why / didn't"...
i'm part of the excavation machinery...
i come with what was served...
i will leave without
leverage...

and here is the russian icon translated
from the Babel...
the following are orthodox letters
shared by one and all
to the western lands...

а б в г д e з и й
к л м н o п р c т
у ф

a b v g d e z i j
k l m n o p r s t u
f

now we leave: łen łill that be?
we should all somehow know...
to łork out a When a Where
(notably with the "h" being but a surd)...

mother how should i further this?
herbata
hasło (ha-s-woe)
hołd (**-**-w'd)

to no other: otherwise only in scotland:
the loch of tipsy work...
albeit: orthographic distinction...
хęć - a whim a desire...
a loch is no: cheat of a lake...
latching onto the otherwise boredom caron
exposed...

дух (ghost) with a душa (soul)...

else there's c dissociated from the s...
and more so with a kappa kaput...
the drumstick slick on a wet snare of: tss...
ц - almost...
then morphing into a ць -
yet in my version: no so silent...
ćma: moth...
цmokaць / cmokać: to click with the tongue...
to kiss smackingly -
to ingest food via a smoczek...
a smoчek - a smoček... the baby soother...

this is my third day having to return to
this canvas...

first thing's first:
palatization (palatißation)
is not... a name of german crusader song:
palästinalied...

this is one of the main reasons why
i can't imagine myself as being able:
to write a novel -
i can't bear this birth of words into
this pseudo-Kandinsky -
it would be much easier with painting
something for a year -
than writing for a year -
the same thing, over and over again...

if i write a "poem" or, rather, a poo'em...
i expect the concept of
ensō: a circle has to be drawn with
a single uninhibited stroke...
when the body is set free and the body
merely complies...

comparison... if one were to draw
a most pristine ensō...
one would never achieve an ouroboros
depiction... it's quiet impossible
to use one volume of ink
attached to a stroke to complete
a circle... let alone a depiction
of an ouroboros...
what starts off as concrete soon...
fades away... thins out...
until there is so little ink left
on the brush that individual hairs
of the brush start appearing...

a pristine depiction of life...
but never the hardline ouroboros
depiction: this cerberus of reincarnation:
i never would have believed in it -
given that: there would have to be
a limited number of souls...
the thought that i might be introspective
enough as to be one of these: "elites"...
and the rest... were "n.p.c." drones...
zombie-esque drifters...
that had no psychological infrastructure
to have memory and rubric of learning
bound to them to be: invested in?

i am still going to write this Kandinsky...
one way or another...
but i can say only that:
i can imagine myself returning
to a painting - and painting it for a year...
but a book?
if a poem can't be written in one sitting...
it's not a poem...
this is not a poem: this is a novel
equivalent...
the best to my ability: which is none...

all i will ever manage with this
is a pedantic scrutiny of russian orthography,
how i don't follow metaphysical arguments
of the germans, the english or the french,
because i don't dream that often,
and when i do dream?
i dream up nonsense...
last time i dreamed that a hiena was
biting at my arm like a corn-cob...
but it wasn't biting to draw blood...
it was biting and cackling in order
to tattoo me... it bit into my arm and detailed
indentations akin to braille...
a pianola roll...

and that's the only details of the dream
i can remember...
perhaps i strained memory...
perhaps people who dream...
are fond of forgetting...
perhaps i don't dream because i can
remember being 4...
a shadow (my maternal great-grandfather)...
a large piano, a small piano...
he worked a retirement as a security guard
in a kindergarten...
i once spent an afternoon with him...
i have seen pictures of him...
but i don't remember the face in the photographs...
he sat me before a bonsai piano
while he sat at the large piano...
and i guess: we were going to be the new
Chopins or something...
he's still a shadow... a grey form...
perhaps a extract of memory that reaches
back 29 years is the reason why i don't
dream... then again...

what if i were to have recurrent dreams?
i've heard people have recurrent dreams...
i just have details of dreams...
i'm not complaining but...
it has become exhausting to simply sleep sometimes...
to replay that lullaby of the void...
yes: yes... i will return to russian orthography:
give me a moment!

well, on my "haitus" i had to look beyond
"conventionality"...
there was a period where i found
the glagolitic script - i said to myself:
there must be an equivalent alphabet to match
the runes...

there must have been a way to encode
without the romans and greeks...
after all... there is the St. Cyrill alphabet
and that of Methodus...
how many ethnic groups are there
on this old, yawning continent -
minor point: old age is not plagued by
yawning - only youth yawns...
old age is cured of yawning -
hanging over them the yawning death...
when father - when father - will this old
ponce come into my *****?

glagolitic and cyrillic?
well Ⰱ Б...
Ⱂ and P... which is not exactly lent-greek...
i guess it's only "wise"
to go back into the modern scribbles...

there are so many branches
to be plucked off a pine
to reserve yourself with ending up
to owning a pike...
so what would it help me:
if i had to reverse and ezra pound
my way forward...
bubble bulging roma notations?
i see: when that chisel in marble
V is not supposed to be a U...

EVROPA... etc.

i need to bring to the fore my own
distinctions...
spread: universally within the confines
of the people that speak it:
i even had to made balkan additions...
like the caron S and caron C...
to hide the english gimmick
of SHarp and CHeat...
evidently we use the Z to replace
the H when stressing our "demands"...
Šarp and Čeat...

so back into russian?
i almost forgot that i said...
their orthography is not worth the dog's
bollocking of a lick...

i was wrong, obviously...
but even the russians are supposed
to be allowed their idiosyncracy -
their orthographic pedantry...
russian orthographic pedantry?
ah...

when е met э...
was also the time when э didn't meet з...
this is pedantic...
another russian pedantic "detail"...
how many Y's or J's do you need...
to detail: the elongated-iota?
before... "****" becomes confusing...
within the confines of gamma...

i'm pretty sure the russians have
fixated their attention on the Y/J "debate"
working from their central premise of
the english AYE... I... the pronoun bunker...
der deutsche affirmative: ja!
yah in the hebrew respective for: wisdom...

let's see... i'm pretty sure the russians
have all the vowels bow to this mecca
of Moscow, cite me: and please reiterate...
that i use J and Y interchangeably...
i don't imply: to jot - to "dz"ot...
or Joseph in Ypres...

otherwise: a yeti climbing a yew shouting: yes!
it's not exactly jargon -
but... a prefix y- in english...
is not a suffix -y in english...
which just... "out of the blue"...
demands to be associated with the iota
of: ply... and yet: it's no i.e. e'et...
it's neither ate or the fwench and (et)...
it's a yeti... but not a jetty!

never mind... back into the fussy russian...
i'm pretty sure you will find all
of the pentagram (vowels) bowing before
the altar of pseudo-gamma:

                                     ю (yu)
                                    /
(details in) й ------ я (ya) -- ы (oh look, solo!)
   the above"rant")  |
                                  у (which is a u)
                                /   \
                     e (ye)       ё (yo)

almost... but i'm far from learning russian...
i find these orthographic details...
coexisting...

зъ = ж = ż = rz = ř / ž...

eastern, mother slavic...
beginning with a western slavic translation
"innovation"...
central / western slavic...
balkan slavic...
oh we are such famous clarinet players!
because what happens
when the caron is sliced into two...
and an acute ****** pops out?!

hence the зъ beginning...
yes... it's not "silent"... it's simply not
palatalißed... the tongue doesn't tip-off
the palette... the sound escapes via
the gritting of teeth...
with it: the tongue can rattle and a trill
R is heard...

зъ (ż) contra зь (ź) -
życzenia - well wishes| źródło - source...
now to only write these words
in russia - without knowing the russian
noun-denotations...
for orthographic purposes...

жыченя... or is it... жычениa?
зьруд... problem... can't find the english
W in russian... or the ****** Ł...
there's the english V... the ****** W...
but russian doesn't translate (Вв)
so vell into wery: not so weary but
nonetheless very not so, so...

my problem is not about that though...
this poem this poo'em this:
a pigeon drops a zeppelin-****
on your top-hat implies good luck...
no 13's or black cats crossing your path either...
i could most honestly spend
100 years of each of the 100 individuals
bound to the salt mines in the vicinity
of Beijing... and i would still find myself...
without tears...
because this is the most inexhaustible
crux: it's really bugging me foundation stone...

i won't even mind the modern greeks
at this point... they do use diacritical markers
too... but over-do it... as if compensating
or trying to compete on level par
with their metaphysical dittos...

чaхa: czacha... almost slang term for:
czaszka... чaкшa...
and this is by no means "smart"...
i can't solve crosswords puzzles...
well i can: but i need to find myself
in the company of my grandmother...
in the morning...
i would have had to drooled over some novel
from 7am until she gets out of bed
come 9am... we'd drink coffee and i'd
smoke cigarettes...
and it would be a month prior to christmas
or easter, or the interlude...
and... i'd be freed from writing or
reading anything in english...
either me looking at diacritical distinctions
in the realm of orthography between:
russian, ******, balkan...
or... me never learning french,
or attempting to: ever, again!

******* suffix-eaters...
dyslexics in reverse...
say one thing: write another thing...
this is probably born from my frustration
at being unable to learn french...
perhaps after having acquired english
i was given german to learn...
but no... first hurdle... french...
flop!
now it's a diet of no crosswords...
some sudoku from time to time...
and my new hobby after having found
"too many" googlewhacks...

so there's nothing smart about this:
this is in no way useful to anyone -
being the sort of person
to "mind" whenever one's being asked
to spell their surname...
it's hardly that difficult but...

would i go for the echo sierra charlie
hotel lima echo romeo tango...
or go out full greek with it?
perhaps the greek...
since that would solve the problem
i've had for a while,
concerning the eta / epsilon "debate"...

how does a greek laugh -
what is the crux letter via which
a greek laughs?
you see a H shape on the horizon...
but you... hear the noun: eta...
you later see the name eta...
but that's eta: without an apostrophe...
the apostrophe 'eta being the "surd" H...

in greek then...
epsilon sigma... **** it... there's no "sch"
of a german worth in greek...
let's cut it out:
epsilon lambda epsilon rho tau...

otherwise in russian...
once more:

ś(lub) - wedding - сь(люб)
"soft" sign - ' - apostrophe -
or ACUTE elsewhere...
why not сьлуб?
i don't know... it's not like сь is even
minded in russian...

ah! my favorite!
goń! gonitwa: a race -
the verb impetus: race! chase after!
гoнь!

since ы is the "odd" one out between
the application of "ь" and
and "ъ"...
come to think of it...
ы gave birth to: ю (yu), я (ya),
у (u), й ("y"), и ("e")...
i... i.e. and... in ******...
akin to those languages that use e...
to also imply and...
ё (yo)... how did i miss the umlaut
infiltrating the russian 'bet...
i blame catherine the great!
and... е (ye)...
is that the pentragram?
u, a, e, i, o... yes! we have it!

i truly had better days when sudoku was
the better puzzle to fill a day with...
not this... from glagolitic, to greek,
to roman, to post-roman to russian
and back into...

if we are all "supposedly" literate...
begs the question why: why oh why the emoji...
the *******-wanking hieroglyphics...
the :) and what not...
i guess to better escape this sort of
headaches... minor chances of everyone
becoming a bilingual:
but what's there to brag about
being bilingual!
i guess the polyglots do not have such
headaches of detail...
they just... bypass these rules and regulations...

to better guide me:
if i managed to sift through james joyce's
finnegans wake... and didn't find any
diacritical markers in it?
can't i compensate?
i'm compensating right now!
if the 2010s as a decade was a decade
filled with... sisyphus titans akin
to kant, hiedegger, kierkegaard,
knausga(a)rd, joyce...
beckett - yes...
again that hollowed "y" distinction!
it's not a sisi: yes yes problem...
hardly me being ***** either...
e'ver... i'ver...
ain't that a *****...

clarity of diction... the best motto there is...
crab-bucket-intellectualism:
alternatively the focus away from
any ontological stressors of "example" -
ontological and its variant of
a priori:
perhaps, given that the ontological
is an a priori argument...
here's my crossword puzzle -
ref. thesaurus rex...

and by no means... at all...
etymology is the better variant of any known
history...
when this bundle of words:
that an ontological dialectic can be achieved:
that ontology can be given within
as much as an a priori: bigot! focus...
with as much as an a posteriori:
wizened unicorn quid pro quo tanz!

hamsterwheel loopholes or:
crab-bucket intellectualism...

now: i really could have put these words
to better use... to make them linear...
less cryptic... but how can i?
i'm solving a crossword puzzle in reverse!
i don't expect the easily scared moths
to entertain this fire...

i expect midgets to be dancing...
before my eyes...
whenever i listen to
faun's tanz mit mir
or in extremo's rotes haar...
when the bagpipes and the flutes
kick in...

- since if i were to write a coherent sentence:
succumb to a linear narrative...
i'd people reading this to be also found:
easily talking about it...
perhaps i don't enjoy freedom of speech
as much as i enjoy the freedom to think...
perhaps i haven't written anything
worth speaking about, regurgitating,
making vogue, working for some intellectual
period-piece of "vogue"...
perhaps this is a shared problem,
hidden in a cipher...
of: how i can't heave this tool...
this tapeworm of existence,
this medium of god...
to later trash it, to have nothing better
to do with it other than play-games...
worded games... crossword puzzles...
perhaps i need a crossword puzzle to imply:
neighbour's share some words...
together... but then write them differently...
perhaps i require a crossword puzzle...
to read into some russian...
on the praxis base of english...
flying past Warsaw toward the itch
of the edge of Asia...
breathe the air - the heart of the continent...

perhaps i would have never managed
to escape this world if i ingested
mind-benders of the h'american 1960s
revolutionary schematics of the:
new-humanists... crash course in literature:
only one magic mushroom trip away!

фoрк ин дэ рoaд (fork in the road)

ИN...

some shared words, of etymological
curiosity...

(fork) вилка - wilka -
polish? wilka? that which belongs to
a wolf... widelec...
видэлэц...

(knife) нож - nóż -
well... orthography comes into play...
while people can have their...
ahem... in-the-meantime metaphysical
playground...
the ground, the word,
the geology is already here...
written alternatively?
нузъ...

i take a different stance to the common day
****** back east...
when russia starts slagging you off...
you put on a Boris Yeltsin mask on
and dance the drunk panda dance...

(spoon) ложка - łyżka -
in polish? ah those russians... ло ло...
лож: lorz...
lo lo and behold the translated
quasi-russian into the borders of europe...
ł.w.(ызъка)...

black and white (черный и белый):

czarny i biały: rho-si-ye!
char-nee-ye! bel'ye)...

perhaps the timing is a bit off:
the proper wording would be:

czarno na białym -
not: in black and white...
чaрнo на биa-wh-ым...

knocked-out to be honest...
the russians use ый like that?
YJ? oh right! i use it too!
in the prompt:

tyj! tyj ty grubasie!
hmm... -asie...
it would do me a lot of good...
if that iota didn't have a decapitated
head of a halo hovering above it...
why? so i could introduce the acute
slant over the S and surd it...
i.e. -aśιe...

тый! ты груб... exactly...
grub-               -aсьие
тый! ты грубaсьие!
to grow fat: тый!
              "problem": -aśιe vs. -aсьие...
well... it's there: сь...
but it also isn't there: и...

but it isn't: but it also isn't...
i just managed to find out that...
in warsaw (if i lived in warsaw)...
we have that conjunction: -ый-
however rare it is: it is there...

any more delegations from Moscow?
tyj! tyj ty grubasie!  
and i will write these last few words
and know why i don't really feel like
solving crosswords puzzles...
or doing those i.q. schematic tests...

**** it... the welsh should know and help me
out... concerning?
how it's YN and not IN...
how it's Y and not I when referring to THE gwyll:
dusk...
y gwyll o hywels: the dusk of powells...
only the welsh would know my "pain"...
yn y gwyll o y hywels:
in the dusk of the powells...

taking a step back - a step back...
yes yes, apologies... if my punctuation...
is too much of a ******* arithmetic!
too bad!

p.s. and yes... don't leave anything lying
around in the drafts or as private...
chances are... with a 2 day delay...
this will never be fed into the LATEST feed.

The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
      kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
      kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
      to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence
      of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
      ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
      me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door

       The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had
arisen
           to think at the sun

      Can I bring back the words? Will thought of
transcription haze my mental open eye?
      The kindly search for growth, the gracious de-
sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them
      The privilege to witness my existence-you too
must seek the sun...

      My books piled up before me for my use
      waiting in space where I placed them, they
haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qual-
ities for me to use--my words piled up, my texts, my
manuscripts, my loves.
      I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
      Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
them...
      Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
      I am so lonely in my glory--except they too out
there--I looked up--those red bush blossoms beckon-
ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive--all creation open to receive--the
flat earth itself.

      The music descends, as does the tall bending
stalk of the heavy blssom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
      The world knows the love that's in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
      The Father is merciful.

      The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil-
ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now...

      The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
      The kitchen has no door, the hole there will
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
      I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra-
ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-
incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me
if I wished to enter.

      There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever needed them.
      The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
      The telephone--sad to relate--sits on the
floor--I haven't had the money to get it connected--

      I want people to bow when they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator
      And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.

                                   Berkeley, September 8, 1955

I want to first thank all my
supporters and readership.
I will read as soon as
I have the time and I can
give your work the attention it deserves.

I've been overwhelmed.
I have to make my presents this
Christmas. But I found out I'm in
excellent company...

FROM APPALACHIA WITH LOVE

Gra'ma Annie had a mission
to help children in need
she lives up in the hills
where they grow their food from seed.

They have no running water
no facilities indoors
still heat and cook with wood
don't buy much from stores
there are folk so destitute
they still have dirt floors.

Li'l Annie was a scrapper
90 pounds if soaking wet.
But her heart is just enormous
as big as one can get!

She found out 'bout a drive
for children overseas
in Africa and Asia
Haiti and the Belize

How the people in those countries
had no presents for to give
their children at Christmas
they could barely live!

She contacted the charity
and said she'd send some toys
as many as possible
to the poor girls and boys.

Annie had no phone
so she walked far and wide
and asked all the hillfolk
throughout the countryside
to whittle and to paint
toys in which to pride!

Those people got together
and carved ponies and dolls
that had joints that moved
and real hair that falls!

They whittled and sanded
painted with rainbow hues
and when they had delivered them
it made world news!

The children overseas
who got them still recall
they kept their homemade presents...

THEIR FAVORITES OF ALL!


MY FATHER "NEVER HAD A CHRISTMAS"*

My father was a child
in a place called Isle la Monte
winter's are quite brutal
in that part of Vermont.

His family were farmers
they lived off the land
they had gardens and stored their food
they worked hard with their hands

They had to really struggle
to make the frayed ends meet
dad walked 14 miles total
through the snow and sleet
to get to his schoolhouse
sometimes with frozen feet

Every year at Christmas time
his mom would be in tears
she would never say much
but stated that she feared

there would be no Christmas
no presents and no tree
it was always the same.
Grandpa would agree.
So the children went to bed
every Christmas eve.

But they weren't sad
because they always knew
that Santa was coming
and so they weren't blue.

Sure 'nuf in the morning
they'd tumble out of bed
and in the once-bare corner
there was a *tree instead!

There were many presents
most carved and painted things
grandma got the practical stuff
no perfume or rings.

But the Christmas meal was cooking
and all through the home
the smell... that sumptuous dinner...

well. That's another poem...!

But before the feast was eaten
grandfather said Grace
and thanked the blessed Lord
and ALWAYS SOUGHT HIS FACE.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/23/2015


MERRY CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY!!!

I still have presents to make...
see you SOON!


~~~<☆>~~~

pre-scriptum: zapisałem sie... jutro wyśle zdięcia... fatalnie zakochany w tych grotach.

jak by mnie myślnym / myśliwym tokiem myśli nie chcieli równać z sobą to bym odmówił, lecz nadali film wedle Sokratesa, a ja Anglikom odmówie, bo chcem, nawet po kurz Mongolii, mam dość tępych Irlandczyków! przeciąg mnie dusi! te wyspy to wyryty gnój Ameryki.

te zdzięcia zbyt kuszaące - jak już powiedziałem pewnej dziewczynie na internecie... nie sprzedam mojego głosu jeżeli mi nie zaplacą! a nic nie dali, jeno gówno! to powiem je w gromadzie takich co mówią na migi - jak ten co z pochodnią na wejście smoka a poszedł trysta razy! zapominieć mówienia po polschu (ja niby Żyd, w Buenos Aires? no, niby post-Holocaust, to takie tango a nie tanz Bar Mitzvah w aleii Golders Green) - jak jedna: wiem skąd burak jest jak niby pochodnią nad ziemi chwytem w otchłan piękna i stokrotki... czyli: co jabłoń da, to róża odbierze, piękno niby było jadalne, a owoc ten jadalny był pięknem, który nigdy nie odda cierpieniu zacmienia, a jednak ponownie, ponownie, ponownie; jednak nadal w wstecz na gre: ojczyzna! ojczyzna! z agrafką po to by odnaleść tą sfobodną szlachte naszego rozbroju: co znaczy życie nasze a ich jeno kichnięńciem, księcia, ktoóry ksiądz imitacją ochlał wedle vino veritas!

kurwa! kartoflana gleba tłumaczenia Joyce'a!

Londyn to ino klejnot Arabii, tu nic nie rośnie, jeno głab czyli muzg kapusty, to znaczy oklask Mensa... nie?!

te zdzięcia i ja to jak ramie w ramie ze złudną imprezą za tą Ostanią
czyli mortum fatali

jak Narcyz wpatrzyłem sie w nie i myśle by nawiać na wyspy Owcze czy też Mongolie, zdala z tej lachy "swiata" i ludobójstwa ekonomicznego, wkoło mnie tylko wieprz gra na wiolonczeli, i tak dobrze gra że motłoch nie zna falszu od falsetto, jeno udaje na tle cytatu psa mówiącego: sausages! sausages! how! how!

więc wole w tych lochach odbytem powiedzieć co Zachód zna jako rękopis mojej zdrady, bo ja tu następnej i tej cholernej minuty wole w Syberie gnać, z duchem czy bez ducha... Gangrene Green... mysli tu jakiś z Essex'u tuman że Rzym odlalazł bez akcentu na literach; bo tu każdy pyta czy jest szalony czy tylko napisał Alicja w Kraine Czarow i Pedofilii.

post-scriptum: czemu nie piszom Řešów? bo im škoda? Wojewoda Prostanoga ptija - bo to po Ruszku pyta... a cygan... to znacy chyba. Holender i stare smieci... ale boli kiedy powrót stanowi więcej niż tempus lux.

i can clearly hear how english mutates...
a book review by a channel... better than food...
the book he's reviewing is goETHE's captain faust:
and the non-avengers...
but no...

i don't hear: stick an umlaut anywhere you please...
i, "for some reason"... do not hear
a: Θ... a göethe... or a goëthe (ladin alphabet -
the germans know about this)...
there is this... goe-ether association...
it's sometimes a riddle of goë, göe...
or quiet simply...
the remains of the ancient latin grapheme (œ)?

educated people make this distinction -
and they'll catch "you" out on it...
since... they represent the Hyacinth Bucket brigade...
gynocentrism doing a snail-trail:
one step forward... two steps back...
it's beside what the linguist "says":
a bucket is a bucket a ***** is a *****...
otherwise? glorifying such a harsh reality
of a surname like: bucket... but not beckett?
no... "samuel"? well then...
it's not a bucket if it's somehow
translated via chernobyll as: bouquet...
is it?! is it?
because even in french: they self-cannibalise...
i.e. they "eat" some letters...
they write one language: but speak another...
what isn't bucket what is nonetheless
bouquet? well... isn't it: bouque-?
it's not even that... boo-k for the ones that
still hear... and can write grafitti schlang...
in some variation of a german...

becuase educated people can get away
with treating GOETHE...
as?  '/ˈɡɜːrtə, ˈɡeɪtə'...
or in simple-me-and-you being bilingual...
fiddling around we arrive at:
Göerte... which is "said"...
but this "lunatic asylum" exception has
to be written: with a clarity of a *******
Greek THETA... a fin! the end!
which always makes lying easier...
when you can: say (a)... but... but...
imply (b)... like some "metaphor"...
some forever useful tool of nuance...
some "spectacle"...
it's easier to lie when... you say (a)
but are "implying" (b)...
then you can blame it on...
not allow the literacy of the masses:
quite as much... you require... exceptions
to the rule... to **** out the lesser educated
"people"...

don't get me started...
born? Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
perhaps i should have never left...
3 years in Edinburgh...
over a month in St. Petersburg...
somewhere in Paris, Stochholm, Venice...
Athens... Belgrade from a distance...
Amsterdam... two weeks in Kenya...
and a nonchalant attitude surrounding
London... a strong distaste for Warsaw...
a myth of Cracow...

and no, i haven't been everywhere...
but... after a while... does it really matter
where you go, if you're bringing
expectations with you?
expectations and postcards?
clichés? clichés expectations and postcards?
and... a whole lot of strangers
you haven't met?
tourism and: feeding the ghost town
mentality... perhaps a ghost town would be
something to behold... instead of this...
atypical metropolitan casualness of avoiding
each other... busier busier: and no more
busy than once pronounced dead...
but wait for it: you're at least given a "scene"...

but no... i know one language that
makes pedantic orthographical observations...
but i also know a language that...
write one way... speaks another...
whichever way, best, to suit it...

and you "know" it would only be Fa-Ber'g -
no... borrow the j- from je suis...
if that last E was not an acute É...
but an grave È (grave... or? gráve...
grrrr'av... not a hey hey grave...
GRA-Vity)...

hence? my point exactly..
if the diacritical markers are respected
in fwench... with an acute É and a grave È...
why do "we" need... I(i) and J(j)?
why not... I(ı) and J(ȷ)?

besides... ever imagine writing an autobiography
like a Knausgård... defender of the runes
for a sentence in volume 1...
major google-maps ****** *** volume 2...
i write that with a "glee"...
i mean... you can be immediately be put off
writing an autobiography...
just to avoid the mediocre descriptive elements
of using something more complicated
than a hammer...
for an otherwise... less than a hammer's worth
of banality: evaluation of modern banality /
procrastination...
no one we have been given these complicated
tools... and to the best of our abilities we
best procrastinate, using them...
i hardly think a hammer would be used
to... pretend to play the drums...
but yes: Knausgård... the defender of runes...
irony... but the mr. google-earth guy to turn to...

yes... and before i discovered a past...
there were the runes... and there was
forever this latin morph of the barbarians
"thieving"... but there was also the glagolitic script...
apparently! and before that there was the greek!
and... somehow... i did arrive at having
to master some vague understanding of
mother cyrillic!

- but prior to... did you know what
slavs love cabbage? all the pakistani point this
out: slav love cabbage!
today? i watched the film Layer Cake
and made some cabbage soup...
Layer Cake being? the pre-to-a-bond-film
taster for the actor Daniel Craig...
it was hardly a Guy ******* Ritchie film...
woz itz? but... a decent actor advert...
with "hindsight"...
if i watched the film then...
or as i whatched the now...
and all the known actors jumped the train...
well... cabbage soup... base?
a decent polish / jewish chicken broth...
most of the chicken goes into a ***...
except the *******: you make a *******
roulade with that...
and proper potato bakes...
potato bakes like Heston Blumethal
boils a soft egg...
tatties in cold water... until they start boiling...
then you hunch over them...
boil them for a decent fiver...
turn off the heat...
again... hunch over them...
like an inquistive condor waitig for
the water to stop bubbling...
asking the question: are we all ready...
for the oven? yes, my toy soldiers,
are we, ready?

apparently they taste like christmas
tatties in waistcoats!
my my... what a lovely affair!
cabbage soup? you really need a complete
lack of imagination and a work-around
using root veg...
the european way...
but what is preferred is ensuring
you make a cabbage soup like...
a slav treats a cabbage like a frenchman treats
an onion: you suffocate it...
an hour minimum...
until the crass ******* boils out...
and you're left with...
a sweetness... and softness...
bay leaf all-spice (english spice) included...
some kiełbasa (etymology?
root... kieł- derived from the plural?
kły... canines... suffix -basa?
baza - base... canine-base...
something that requires an understanding
that elevates the dog, "debases" the man...
no quran reader will understand this:
for lack of a better word: shaming food...

where would pakistani cuisine be...
without the pantheon of hindu spices?!
i'll eat like a dog and in so doing:
live a tier above a king...
i still find it highly unimaginative...
to call one fruit "forbidden"
and one meat: "impure"...
whatever Gabriel spoke to Muhammad...
never really explained crab meat...
crab meat crab meat...
the Maldive muslims eat crab meat...
what's crab meat again:
when it concentrates a comparison
with ol' porky porky? scavenger of the seas...
what's with the muslim beef on pork?
and god was critical...
of his perfected animal worthy of
consumption... looks pretty silly from
Beijing... so Beijing is ensuring that Muslims
"look silly"... well... "live"... silly...
so god was so... this that and the other...
then he lent his "all knowing wisdom" and said...
no... this one animal... which you can...
butcher and make use of...
all that's missing is the oink and the hoofs!
or whatever it was: i can't eat the oink,
the grunt remain's the bacon's owner...
and perhaps the "hoofs"...
but such a pristine animal...
tapeworms come... much larger in size...
from aquatic flesh... so...
tic-toc... tic-toc... pull a sly porky on me or...
Gabriel my ***...

the Pwophet sez!
much easier these days: to, "get away" with "it"...
camel jockeys turned oil barons...
yachts... whizzed-up-*******-white-****-****...
and never... the odd-ball from
that long extended lineage of the family
living with a cuddles *****, soft toys...
east of Beirut...
that pencil girth's woe explosion in the sky...
"built" by people...
who employ slave Bangladeshis for
a sunday's worth of sabbath cricket in the desert...
i thought that deserts were only good
for waiting for qurans and dinosaur blood
and myopia and... the odd dehydration
hallucinations?!

i'll eat some sushi to sober up before
i accompany my mother: circa 60 getting
a hip replacement surgery done on her...
i'll sober up: but first things first:
spew...

mind you... below you will find some
ancients inscriptions...
i had to wonder: if the precursor text
of the anglo-sphere people...
the germans and "celts" of the british isles...
the welsh... the scandinavians...
was bound to runes...
before the latin men came...
what did "we", the slavs, use?

before the greeks allowed us entry into
the realm of mediating the otherwise:
quasi-fathomable?
cyrillic is what came: AFTER...
but there was a prior...
i'm no longer interested in the prior...
no more than i am interested in greek...
i once slurred russian cyrillic
for not having any diacritical markers...
i knew they had them...
but that they were... crude...
for lack of a better word...

how does that theory sound?
the: ex Africae omnis est Africanus...
sorry... what?!
giving my scrutiny of phonetic encoding...
am i closer to speak...
or thinking, and if not thinking,
then, reading?!
by the looks of it...
i devolved from encoding in
chinese... perhaps not so much:
sanskrit... but i most certainly suffered
moving across Siberia: obviously: not "i"...

mind you: i've looked at "it" and thought...
me, reproduce? add a stranger to the equation
of my family? i'm just happy to end
the libeage... thank god i don't have
some inheritence complex abounding...
no expectation, no "legacy" akin
to a surname like Rhodes (circa NY)...
i was born with one ****** surname,
which changed... i'll die with another ******
surname: that never made it to a status
of Eshlert... nonetheless! i'll leave...
like a ******* Einstein of an acronym:
E = MC... good for me! bravo ty! bravo ja!

beside the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm yet to read something...
from... Congo... perhaps i'm just too ignorant...
or the -igger shade was just too much
that it... grabbed my attention and
i forgot that the victim olympics didn't
happen every 4 years...
but every... whimsical time-span of...
a quarter of the length of a fortnite...

whatever: all out of africa implies...
i'm writing in a devolved chinese...
frozen bits across the siberian fickle desert...
next stopover? Novosibirsk!
no need for pyramids in Novosibirsk...
no "awe" to be found...
when you're toe-dead numb from
frost bite.... is there?!

my letters are a sieve... they allow meaning
through like hands praying to cusp water!
it's, the, reality...
you have ****-wit socialists on one side...
and then... this hyper-inflated
darwinism is all historism on the other...
middle ground, people!
"democracy"! i stand stand both the marxism...
or the darwinism... but arguments failed...
or? we can have the extreme of both ends
of the argument! enough of reading
Pasternak will teach you...
hey... shhh shhh... the collective can
congregate any minute now...
they don't need that many intelligent people
to rally them...
what your, "your" side needs, though?
if enough brass people: stupid enough
to entertain, to lulluby...
em... that's now much to "go on"... is it?
the intelligent with pour gasoline
on a fire...
the entertainers will simply pour
cold milk into a saucepan that contains
milk you're warming to...
melt some butter some honey and an egg yolk
to self-remedy: devoid of big pharma influences...
a witches' brew for a cold and soar throat...

side note: do i "worry" about not having children?
if i lived on the Faroe islands,
Greeland, Iceland, Norway -
i most probably would probably mind...
small town mentality: enlarged...
then again: my family, "my" and "family"
is not exactly accomodating...
why am i not spending time with my grandparents?
at least one side... the "patriarchal" side
drops off: accomodating the madonna anyways...
a sister (my mother) and a brother (my uncle)
are waging a war...
this... "eastender" soap opera is...
i don't have the finances to grativate away
from it...
enter children? and they'd be more ******
up than i already am with my libido
and no outlet... i've stopped seeing prostitutes:
no because i felt "bad":
that one time we only pretended to be
leeching / kissing oysters just because
i forgot to trim my ***** hair:
like some western feminist argument
about the exploitation of romanian women "matters"...
when... the labourer drones of men
of building sites... coming in to work...
hangover... might perhaps... stop...
fuelling the english lush economy...
i didn't want to have children because:
family-wise? things, "things" are messy...
and there's no magic carpet to get me out
of here... not when the last surviving remnant
of a past... i.e. my grandmother,
talks to my dementia riddled grandfather
with the words...
and he stresses them: you no good...
skurwysyn!
elaborate? sure! z-kurwy-syn...
from-a-*****-son..
my grandfather's mother...
well... let's put it in facts...
my grandfather is an illegitimate (
oh **** me, i spelled that right, drunk)
son... his mamma then married...
the father of this illegitimate child...
was a polyglot... spoke 7 languages...
emigrated to the U.S. of A...
remarried, fostered some shards of glass...
and sent his last postcard...
from Niagara Falls... before jumping
into the kamikazee sun...
oh my family is perfect...
then this mother of his...
had two children with a man...
who would beat my grandfather...
which is why he became a "pioneer"
coal-miner aged 15 or 14 or 16...
then this one kid ended up being
fostered... then this "watermelon" of a kid
(nickname) came out...
from a love affair... and when the "*****" died...
his quasi-foster father lived with him...
and in this custard: he...
the father semi-god-know's what...
abused the old man for putting up with
him as a love-child: in wedlock...
and... well thank god there was
no epitaph to begin an end with...

me and children? i am gracious,
i am kind... i don't want them to inherit this
history... which is worse than
a history of germany... at least those *******
had the nazis... which is worthwhile
in terms of exploiting them via video games
as those: evilz badz guyz!

i always think: the sooner i'm dead -
the more chances i have
to either dream... or breathe...
currently i quasi the former and accept
the reality of the latter...
but me and children? my, own, brood?
em... for some capitalistic driven darwinism
pressure ploy of narrative?
taxes and retirement plans for
the western: placebo: aged?
grand'm'ah and gwand'p'ah not fit under
the same roof... set them on the butcher's
path toward the "shop" of wrinkle
and: pristine effortless economic
endeavor... the pig's the lot...
economic meat and... about as barren as a dinner
plate scooped up for examination
once a pauper sat before it to supper...
ingenious! if only, if only we were all born
into a Charlie ******* Dickens' lot of life!
then, only then, we could, we could
perhaps, perhaps: write about it!

i have seen how people have lived their lives...
how... they had wish to write about it...
which always involved a lot of other people -
movie scripts written by directors
and not... actual manuscripts of scripters...
they would write... but then:
started to gag from **** at the mere of thought
of being: brutal, honest, honing...

people either write an honest autobiography,
they ghost it: have someone write a biography,
they write an autobiography that's
designated as: tabloid...
but most importantly... they forget...
a "Moscow"...
when i was in Moscow... i felt like i was
in London for the very first time...
a last time...

i did mention that i didn't envy the russian
diacritical approach...
the odd: miss and "there"...
but no... i didn't envy them...
to me there was no russian orthography...
there is an orthography: which you mind
above any metaphysical discussion...
when, and only when... aesthetics comes
into play...
i.e. rz = ż and ó = u and ch (cerp i ha) = h (samo ha)
this is how orthography is born...
sorry... i'm too "busy" dealing with
orthographic ******* to even mind
your "metaphysics" or a death of (it): interim...

as i stood at the feet of the tower of babel...
i started to su doku the pieces that
pleased my eyes... and the pieces...
left in leftover arabic squiggles of
the remnants of the 20th century...
and the new emergence of environmental
beijing free-of-syndromes to spawn
the 21st... or...
the child of a one-child-state-policy
without a Beijing... only a gradual evaluation
of... concerns for...
not giving birth to yet another ****-wit
of the world's counter to: another
****** of a gullible persuasion...
given that law is blind...
he must have been born: deaf!

- you didn't see me coming;
i didn't even see you leave... -

since the greek letters i tend to most "forget"
are:
- gamma lower-case (γ) because
of the upper-case upsilon (Υ)
- lower-case zeta (ζ) becaue
of the lower-case "11" (ξ)
- eta, lower-case (η) is no real grief
with lower-case EPSILON (ε)
until... you enter the cyrillic
"debate" of е and э...
- lower-case NU (ν) and lower-case
UPSILON (υ)
- Ξ (Θ, Φ) i.e.: XI, PSI, CHI, PHI...
return: that first 'un' is an ale'ks...
alex... but it's not an X in the way that
CHI expresses itself in CHurCH...
lay-teΞ...
- then again... greek orthography begins
in SIGMA... those... quasi-germans...
those remnants of the northern / teutonic
crusade... those Pruσσianς...
or... Prußianς...
the greek F and the greek "F"...
key into a keyhole: Φ...
key turning in a keyhole: Θ...
the iota of four uses... Θ, Φ, Ξ... Ψ...

but that's only the greek... i will not touch
on the glagolitic... until, barely skimming
the draft months earlier...
until i come with my own diacritical markers
and show you: how i was wrong...
yes... the russians do use these markers...
but they, mostly... do not "accent" them...

because i'm no Ezra Pound i didn't have
to imagine going as far back
as the Taoist ideogram...
because i remained bound to the anchor
of europe and...
i really didn't find anything of worth
in africa encoding: silence into their
verbiage with anything:
beside the odd spell of hieroglyphs...
so? i am not an Idaho man...
or whatever mid-western miss-western
******* the genius came from...

i don't have an ideogram:
i have a synonym... the sound is exactly
the same... but Charon 'ave their eyes!
mind you...
ądam and ęwa are off limits...
as is: ł... then again: given that i write in english...
em... "yes, and no"...

but here's my rubric... a rubric implies:
i will not narrate this crap:

don't get me started on the russian variations
of Y... i once said... because the greeks had
names for their letters... and the romans didn't...
well... in western slavic: Y "why, I" has a name:
e'GREK... iGrek... e and i are interchanged
between the western slavs and the islanders...
but the russians?
let me Shakespeare that for you:
pre-scriptum - don't ask me...
how oh how a german umlaut infiltrated
the alphabet: i blame catherine the great...
you have...

е (ye)
ё (yo)
й (-y-) - which acts like a "ȷUDAS"
ы (ý) - alt. to? ıGREK
ю (yu)
я (ya)

all that's missing is a: иы variation?!
let me check my pentagram of vowels...
e, o... u, a... oh right... IO-T'AH-T'AH-T'AH...
sinking the ******* POTEMPKIN!

it's for the best: i'm entrenched in two languages...
which makes me "schizophrenic" /
bilingual... ergo? i have to write in at least:
four... pepper in some latin etc.....
and modern slang? i need that...
and some german... and perhaps a dash
of Gaelic... and some scandi-navigational
pseudo-romancing the rosetta stone...

the rest is quiet "simple"...
a french-atypical acute... because there's no gr'ah-v'eh!
grave ole...
and a dot... like the dot used for no real purpose
in english...

i.e. ь involves the acute...
while the ъ involes the "horde" symbol...
either the dot above the Z in ż or the caron
above the R: ř...
alternative interpretations invoke
even more: 'hide and seek" mechanisms
of the russian Y...
  объект: interJEct with an obJEct...
thus? there just seem to be gradations
of hiding a why (y) with its added vowel...
and its mutant й... crescent mongol moon...
and all the rest of "it"...
since when you "borrow": yew borrow...
you get something along the lines
of: e.g.:

ć.        ць: c.f. surnames ending with -CKI
ń.       нь
ó.      "u" or? Loonin...
ś.        cь
ź.        зь
dz.     ž (dzik - boar - the wild adjective is a tautology)    
ż.      ř       rz   (зъ) or? ж...
ł.       woad... łagodny (he - gentle)
                        łagodna (she - gentle)
š.      sz.      ш             (sh)
č.      cz.      ч               (ch... you're not foreign
to graphemes... mr. Æ ms. Œ...
you simply haven't seen it applied
to consonants... only vowels!)
щ     šč     (szczypta - pinch -
a germanic, saxon "ch" is a cz...
or a caron above the C...
ch' ch'.... akin to the caron above the S...
sh' sh'... so far away from "god": YHWH...
yet so close, so, close!)
ha ha... a "dangling bit"...
and i thought the russians weren't
good at hiding "things"... from ш to щ
you have hidden: a caron a "c"...
a ****'s CHeap... in a dangling "left-over"...
of an otherwise caron S... heap of SH SH ****...

in terms of the cerp and ha and samo ha?
the greek χ (chi) comes into play...
but not like a cheeze...
more like a vowel-catcher breath...
eerie as ****... a HA HA with...
cHA cHA! i.e. like the surds you allow
hindu words access to: gnostic -
'nostic... or... knife... i.e. 'nife...

it's no surprise for me, now...
out of all the black caribbean kids,
the indian and pakistani,
the africans... i was one of the first
to: come out swinging from under
the iron curtain:
distrust levels? high... near almighty...
not enough "japanese" in me
to squander a late debt from
Hiroshima or some other etc.

in some remote original draft...

as ever, i drink, and am a nobody, but then i find myself inclined to look upon the god of gods: whatever remains of worth for the phonetic encoding... whether latin, greek, rune, cyrillic, or ⰒⰑⰃⰀⰐ ⰒⰉⰔⰏ (another googlewhack)... the glagolitic phonetic encoding... sure, first they'll ban the runes in sweden, before realißing that... there's another alphabet... the glagolith...
                  Ⱉ = Ω, given Ѡ = ω...
         this alphabet has been suppressed, long enough!
to be honest? i've never seen a more beautiful letter,
anywhere, other than in the glatolith...
     Ⰿ = M = ᛗ...
                      maybe that's why i like my given names
so much...
                            ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ
                 i too! i too have a past!
             i don't need to peer into pseudo-arab ***
the quran religiosity of hieroglyphs
of the northern africans, camel jockeys!
                             there's, oh there's so much
more at stake than the runes...
                what of the Kiev Rus vikings?
this, this is their language:
                ⰕⰑ          "ⰏⰑⰆⰅ"          (może = maybe)    
(to = this)
                                                   (ⰜⰀ = trzeba, trza /
                                                            tsa)­
            ⰕⰔⰑ (tsa)           ⰃⰀ (ga)     ⰂⰀⰓⰉ (vari)
               (gadać = converse... gavari)

    Ⰴ (d)                ⰆⰫⰕ (żyt = fathoming life)

                             ⰆⰫⰕ (worthwile noting:
this is out lot of, a, life)...

      ⰛⰫⰛⰍⰀ (szyszka = cone, of the ᚦᛁᚱ /
                                     ⰡⰑⰄⰟⰀ - fir /
                              jodła tree)

see, i can't solve crossword puzzles...
      i don't know where i would begin,
fathoming this sort of "plaything" thesaurus...
i can play a solitaire mahjong,
i can solve you a su doku puzzle
without wanting to compensate myself
by competing...
                  
   but i do know...
                    what conjured the atom,
the letter?
  what conjured the atom, the letter,
and subsequently, the alphabet?
        noun...
                  the cipher conceptualißation
of making a name, smaller,
so small, in fact...
that letter emerged, and names were
no longer indicative...
of a meaning...
  so much so, that units were
formed, fathomed...
and when merely giving names
to these units, akin to the greeks,
alpha...
        which had to become a-lpha...
and beta had to become b-eta...
          well... only thanks to the latin men...
they became songs...
sing-alongs...
   very much thanks for the H vowel
catcher of the hebrew god...
ah... said the castrato...
  b'eeh sang the castrato...
           em...
  obviously the devil managed to keep
some of the letters...
z'ed...
                 it's still bewildering...
how the latin men "reinterpreted"
the northern runes...
   as the greek men "reinterpreted"
the north eastern glagolitic script...
and to think! to think!
    Ⱃ = R = ρ = rho...
         but what happened, "elsewhere"?
ᚱ = R... but... but... where's the trill?
R, as a letter, looks like it's about
to hide a leg... and start rolling...
ripping apart all other onomatopeias
associated with the rattle of a rattlesnake,
or the sound it could make,
to associate itself with the sound
of water boiling... where did that "go"?
with the french hark "innovation",
and the english tongue...
being bitten and left numb by
a tarantula?!
                      
  point being... i never imagined myself
much of an archeologist...
i always found:
  if you state your "necessary" freedom
to speak?
you're a tongue inside one cranium,
at a particular time, in a universal space...
but, like kierkegaard,
you care more about a freedom to think?
i'm "here", i'm "there", i'm "i'm"
like heidegger might state...
                  using this very modern
language that's english...
          but then sliding back into...
an obscure region of history...
      in two places at once...
        at a universal moment in time,
in a particular space...
                   talking exhausts me,
whenever i start speaking for more than
ten minutes,
there is a cotton mouth infestation,
my tongue turns into a serpent about
to shed a layer of its skin,
and, if i'm lucky,
i will not swollow the tongue...

                    and why wouldn't the runes
be more protected, but currently under
siege -
             both the latin text and the greek
text (respectively),
had the ambition of performing an
x-ray on the runes and the glagolitic texts,
treating them as pseudo-hieroglyphics...

but they found similarities,
   which made this foreign phonetic
encoding systems relateable...

ᚠ = F
                ᚢ = U         (copernican "up-side-down")
ᚨ = A (strange sort of arithmetic, / \
                                              )
               ­ ᚱ = R (d'uh)
   ᚺ = H...
           ᛁ = I
               ᛋ = s
                ᛏ = t (what's with the "bending knee",
so much for the supposed: "arrow"),
               ᛒ = B...
           ᛖ = Σ = E...
                   ᛗ = M...
                   ᛚ = L...
                  ᛟ = o - crude version of circle...

so? the latin men had an easier way to
fathom the runes, and ingest them
into the x-ray vision of post-latin...
   the greeks with the glagolitic script?
much harder...

         Ⱂ = Π = P = ρ (rho)
                 Ⰰ = A = ᛉ = Z...
             Ⱇ = φ = ᚦ = θ...
                             Ѡ = ω...
                Ⱑ = A...
                          Ⱔ = ε....
                                            Ⱚ = θ...

but i agree... you couldn't get "our"
peoples to where we are now,
with these pseudo-hieroglyphics...
   after all: Ⰿ (M) is a beautiful letter...
in glagolitic terms...
          but... it's too complicated for us,
at this moment in time...
it might have had all the necessary
practicality in its necessary time...
that it was allocated to...
but... given people these days
are looking at X-|ɔ\
                              / \ /_ / ?
                            how ******* hard must
it have been, when,
the phonetic encoding,
was as hard as it, to now, us,
it seems?!
                   so... whatever is happening
in sweden, right now?
       i'm not bemaoning it,
   i have a tattoo... it reads: Sienkiewicz...
the swedish deluge of 1626–29... a.d.,
          **** it, ban the runes...
i've "just" discovered the gagolitic phonetic
encoding, the sort of **** that
st. cyril and methodius had to work with,
and it wasn't as easy as translating /
incorporating the runes...

                     oh sure, i'm waiting...
                 first they ban the runes...
   then they'll have to learn something akin
to the glagolitic script...
             returning back to their x-ray
latin lettering...
                       i still can't believe that
james joyce got away with writing finnegans
wake... without ever employing a single
diacritical marker...
spewing out... what became the modern
english grafitti spreschen...
   e.g.: lolz...
                              und: L8ER...
it's like: the worst of the worst of what
already is the worst in the form
of the h'american demands for acronyms.          

after watching an old couple walk
past me into the supermarket:
    or unlike the men climbing
           the matterhorn:
   which from postcards seems so
much more majestic in its formidable
shape than the goliath everest
    (from postcards) -
                 5 miles, a dark forest,
  and i can show you where english
druids chant: satanus in excelsior!
   and i thought i spoke bad english:
it's: in excelsis satanus...
       i would have approached them,
but then i was alone,
      and there was one idiot shouting
and about a crowd of twenty disciples:
you could hear the murmur
   adhering to the chant from a distance
of about 300 metres...
                    i only had beer on me,
no goat blood, no woad pigment...
                crash a party when they
were having a party in complete
darkness?
                     it's a good thing there was
a song change on my headphones
               and for a minute i picked it up...
wait a minute: i thought i owned
these woods, walking at night?
               ragnarök blood of Hvalba:
unfortunately the norse founded
kiev,
           so if they founded kiev,
                they must have past where
i made mark as: the land immune to
                                       the black death...
if i were an academic with a stipend,
   i'd write another boorish book on the matter
to attract moths...
          but the old couple, hand in hand,
shrinking but not exactly disappearing...
     in me the inherent conceptualisation
of a twin, like a limb missing,
  but with all my limbs intact...
              yet still a twin gleaming in my mind,
as the story i was told in my childhood
no echoes like a behemoth ghouling:
    they said to me:
   did you know that in this world there exists
a person that looks exactly like you?
         what? so i started looking,
      not leonardo, not brad,
                    can't compete -
            if i really am the stronger twin
                 who sent my twin to the plough
and the hearth... am i not to suddenly
    lick ash?
                  but the old couple:
   what a rarity to see, dwarfs,
                                  of former majestic
forms... elsewhere the single mother with
a baby in a buggy at 10 minutes to 11 during
the week, bewildered by reading
frozen foods labels...
           oh... about the supermarket...
grr... mein gott!
                    Surabhis! Surabhis everywhere!
the joy of walking into a supermarket
last, aisles as spacious as any king's
    lonely castle...
        but in the hours 12 in the afternoon
till about 5 in the afternoon?
        traffic jams!
                   zombified shoppers, women,
of course, children to boot...
                           how many times i might
have bumped into them...
      gaze lost, hazy eyed...
                 sometimes i had to walk down one
aisle, emerge from another, just to pass
  a woman standing fiddling with her
hair...
           the new meeting place, apparently,
but that's beside the point,
   the more i listen to radio,
  the more i learned that i'm far from
a music snob...
            take for example:
       free deejays's song
                            el amor es un party...
what? cuba not pretty any more?
              but there's a worthwhile observation
in there:
        only rich men have the chance
        to play a woman's game of "the chase"...
        only rich men get to "chase" women...
        the poor schmucks?
                          ****! have to live with them.  
****... i need to find that
    one exchange in ingmar bergman's
film wild strawberries:
            when the old man wakes from
a dream-memory in which he is
the ****** of a **** scene...
        where a woman is teasing a man
to the point, until he transcendes
                   a teasing woman,
                       and finds a Jezebel...
so upon waking...
                the "children" are picking
flowers in the rain...
                          and there's talk of
abortion...
       at this point it's gone beyond
castration...
                      the conversation invokes
the death-mask of man,
    or man as tomb, and woman as
the robber -
                         apparently once impregnated
man cannot ask for his ***** back,
and in some twisted way:
           and as much as i'd like to "cheat"
having found the screenplay online,
   i have the misfortune of owning the ****
movie...
        and how i like returning
to silent cinema, black & white, foreign,
with subtitles...
                     at this point,
because didn't place the subtitles: on top
of the screen, but at the bottom...
   well, **** me: am i looking for
Cindarella, because focusing back
on those faces means i seem them without
lips and merely eyes and noses,
   and perhaps a chance to spot
   a wriggling, morphed into an insect
st. peter's, if not van gogh's ear!
              or the lost "art" of handwriting...
Cinderella? my focus is so low from
      the action, that i might as well be
  watching, either a ballet, or a *******
riverdance!
             dr. isak borg (a)
marianne borg (b)
        dr. evald borg (d)

such a weird and heart-numbing thinking
went into writing this...
i have a history, a past:
regardless of having children and with
their existence: some sort of guarantee
for a future...
that i have a past, a history,
and it exists... outside of its current
written format,
that i can escape with or without having
children: that i would have probably
later ***** mentally...
having ingested all this third party
quasi-history propaganda
for the only history that's being
salvaged: the insect prone libido
of a status quo... well then...
let my "failure" be the patent for all future
success.

i tak Polska nie wydobędzie Sienkiewicza na rój tych wart smarkań audencii co: by smarkań mość da! jeez Louise: is there a lack of bridges to make them into ghettos worth the man you just dumped?!*

- SH / SZ / CH / CZ never became Æ... clingy ****.

- you don't even comprehend how much
i hate you! sheer! is the word
  best descriptive? -

nie warta walka: bez łez.
  a tym lepi sie: śmiech:
a tym o wart(ym) człek:
          pomysleć w dłonie
   czekanie: myśl;
daj mi boże sfobode nad
życia: b mi grabić mą smerc!
ja mam naród i dziecko -
i matka: jestem, sumieniem!
o tul, o tul, kołysze...
                 Y the emptied
I...
                        czar na bill...
ja chamu zda na gawaridź!
              i am being european
frictive... sorry...
a game requiring a parsley-root:
je chemu sko!
                    gavi morde na mo!
  haczyk skubany wro!
                 skem! sput!
       szto? liter nie budjed czytaj?
patsy - ni budjed: cytatny!
      skavaree!
                a hejm i huja wart skor!
ska! Kazak i Ural i Mągol!
    co slysze? ałła -
                                 i o H w morde!
czerń, gnat i skir o grzbiet: psa!
kto: warczy: i ma tchu by:
                      wilczym brakiem:
                 dać szczak!
ha-o wtopić w moją dupe..
                   extensive....
giętkie: pravda?
                          nah nah nah nah...

                  ser gna w no
o tym co: kichać ma dać dar!
zbieg mieniem:
rady braku: brat...
                o chec...
     i no jemu Baltyk...
        sedno: raj...
                       o chec:
                 i skore zdzir!
                bym mu sprostac -
bytem o: gniew -
                   takim minia polozi -
nad Litwe: krew mi daj Ukiem!
daj mi bozy gnod -
  i warkoc hod! daj ze mi Kraine!
    i to czerpie: chod!
     tym postawie swe miem:
   o co warte skarg: Cerkwiew!
         Gzyms! bell-toll!
              rachunek zem jusz
dal... a reszta: albo politika zna
sie na czlowieku,
               albo czlowiek zna
sie na... kobiecie.
   NIE JA TEM HARANSZA!
               JA: GNIDZ!
   SZARAŃCZA!
jak jom każ ten Frikan...
   lublu liter wart slovo -
             słowik -
niech no, to żyd to przynęta:
i niech nie powi:
   nasze kamienice wasze
ulice... slovo co, co nie tak by?
nuda bracie: cierpiec
   i tez czerpać z historii -
dług: jot -
                 lullaby the
******* seal to sleep
you doughnut gangster by
                                 clapping:
last time i checked:
  the valet did sing
escorting a ***** napkin
  to be touristy "concerned"
  with a: meet-the-parents take on loo....
  doesn't blank urban slang look
just like so: well? because
i actually don't know whether
i'm speaking or speaking the current
year of London...
              which doesn't even
imply a grimmace: rather -
  a bewildered epitome of
                       stupendous: via no vs.
i want to imitate the nonsense of
making rap, music...
          scold me, fine...
              but no one will speak this language
for a need to be doctrined by:
coherently skidding on juicing
a "fascination" with blunt...
      apparently all language is
the most accessed...
         form of discourse...
                   painting is either
painted or sold...
              poetry?
                    better untouched
unread rather than commented on.

folks  
this is the last song of the evening  
time for one last round  
so pick 'em up and  
slam 'em down...  

couples headin'  
to the dance hall floor  
some lonesome doves  
walkin' out the door  
take a look around  
into the lonely fa-ces  
broken hearts  
yearnin' for tender gra-ces  

see the hopeful eyes  
lookin' back at you  
you've seen each other  
from across the room  
if you act now  
you wont be turned awa-y  
another day  
might be too la-te  
  
oh i know  
life ain't been kind  
we've got - wounded hearts  
but there's still time  
so - here's a chance  
ya never know  
tho it's  
just a dance  
it could be more
  
so ya  
take her hand  
pull her in real close  
music playin'  
soft and slow  
you close your eyes  
as she softly si-ghs  
  
starlit shadows  
from a disco globe  
we fade to black  
on this winding road  
lost and lonely  
we pay the toll  
just one last dance  
before we go  
just one last da-nce  
before we go  
  
and these bitter days  
we watch them waste away  
into the whiskey nights and  
the smoke filled haze  
we're singin'  
Willie -n- Waylon  
pray the music keeps playin'  
as we drift away  
into this whiskey haze  
shadows of a memory  
keep draggin' ya down  
one last round  
you slam it down  
you close your eyes  
as she soflty si-ghs  
gently swayin'  
across the floor  
  
starlit shadows  
from a disco globe  
we fade to black  
on this winding road  
lost and lonely  
we pay the toll  
just one last dance  
before we go  
just one last da-nce  
before we go

Deep perfume seeps still from the fallen rose Down down endlessly  
filling the air with all that is pure, and soon all that is not    
diamonds glisten upon its skin Sparkling in the summer heat, he  
knows this won't be the end

moisture condenses around his roots, the tree growing up into  
heaven, life surging around him, springing, growing, ripping  
through the thick and crusted earth. Pun i ca gra na tum is such a complex word for what here has come to pass. the roots shooting     down and spreading, their mirrors filling the sky, soaking up our  
shining beams of phantasmal brilliance.

Only those loved have names wouldn't you Agree some are special 
to the producing world, and Others are left to rot, take the fruit of a morning lily, no one loves her, yet she bears all the same

something stirs within his being, some new body grows out from  
inside, some new some new some new something new. The sky fills
with blood espousal carillon, their pods filling rich and new,  
chiming out for all to hear the dawn rising, the birds flying, yes,
hear them fly above as you watch their song paint the sky in cool
purples and blues.

Color is so trite and love is so outdated and there are those who
wish for the end of the world as well Creation falling to the Ground
as the rosebud does in winter

united in final ecstasy, the bells descend as dying mistrals unveil
our sinking crown, sound-bow dripping away

Craving one's cinnamon zest
To pull mine hair
To showeth me to her caress
To maketh amare in moonlight crescent
To whirl the fellow sun
To steameth up the castle window's
On telephone drenchy fun
To walketh in lost forest's
To Mardi gra's brine soaking,
Of ourn brim to floweth over by the ounce!!!!

.
                              " Oh
                       grandmother"
                     she said,  "what
                    big ears you have"
                    "All the better to
                      hear  you  with
                      m y dear." "But
                      gr and  mother,
                      w hat  big  eyes
                      you have. " "All
                      the  better to se
                      e you with""But
                      gra n d mother,
                      what     a   b i  g
                      mouth  you  h a
                      ve" All  the   bet
                     ter to    eat    you
       o  u  t    w i t h."  "B   u t    g r  a  n d
    m  o  t  h  e  r,  w    h  a  t    a     B   I   G
       ****    y o u         h ave."     " All the
          b etter to               *******  you."

czytając filozofie po polsku, ojciec mój który wyrósł na chemika obudził dziecie, a dziecie pochłoneło ojca mówiąc: od teraz zaczne, carpe annum, carpe zenith ex tempus, filozofia z logiki czy to z rzeczy rosnących - i w garści magika które wzamian za słowa hocus pocus wymawiane są słowa jan nowak urodzony czwartego kwietnia roku 1912 / zmarł rokiem 1973; czy to z rzeczy stabilnych w sensie inspectio ex continuum, czy też na skali micro (atomów), czy też macro (gwiazd); to ja wydam wartości nie-czytne mym ozorem, abyś ty zerknoł na to co jest warte czytania - obudź mnie w ciele ośmio latka twym ciałem dwudziesto latka... bo sam wiesz że przez tyle lat, nic cie nie nauczono -nawet ten bat i ta dysciplina nie wzruszyła cie aby zgodzić się na kawe przy domu pogrzebowym wraz z myślą: jaki to ma być, ten nowy samochód? z dala - ‘taki aby i trumna też mogła zapiąć pasy.’*

zza młodu dziad powiada wnukowi: matematyka, fizyka i sport...
przed dziada rokiem młody odpowiada:
chłód zimy, spacer i myśl;
kocham obiekt zwany kobieta... lecz nie temat...
mój sam bardziej wypełnia sześć kątów niż jej obecność zmartwień,
co jest jakby gra przegrana, więź tematyki mniej
jako wąż a bardziej jak glizda...
lecz chodząc miedzy kratami i domami anglii dostatku...
widze więcej glizd niż kobr czy też pytonów...
skoro geneza słowa jest brana od onomatopeji imitacji bydła,
nic dziwnego że my tesz na bydło zeszli
biorąc teorie lingwistyki darwina przez ch i es -
nic dziwnego że nie jego,
ale czemu brać pod uwage słowem: jak się widzi
kogoś pukającego w dzrwi w tle “słów”
jakby nie jeden knock-knock żart, więcej limit
tego że z nie animowanych rzeczy nic mądrego nie przyjdzie -
tym bardziej dodając do słownika -
jeno ta pierwsza lekcja zagrożenia małpy bez drzewa
z tym pyskaczem wężem, czyż nie?
jaki jest sens utkwić nową lekcje od rzeczy samych
niewinnych swoją interakcją z cieniem lecz bez machania...
jakie zagrożenie od nich? ah wiem, jeno arachnofobia wedle
kamyka rozmiarem ciągu gór mienia: tatry.
więc szkeliet tego boga zwany: komunikat - przez poetów
wyzwany na igrek i mieszanke czasu w pralce
czystości pomieszany: czerń i biel nada szary -
aby zerknąć w igły dotyku bez wargi,
aby te zagrorzenia zostały które miały znaczyć że
zeszły nam z drogi... aby potem tym samym małpim okiem
patrzyć na rzecz dosyć stabilną i sprawdzić istnienie atomowego ruchy
w stajni, między ślepotą a ruchem, mgłą a cieniem.

The grand canyon runs between
the part of Mohave County blessed
with coverage
after the fallout
from the fifties,
and the lower part, south of the river,
east of the bend, there at Topock swamp.

Cancers above the line made by the river,
were rewarded, cash in some cases,
class actions and such, after the bloom
in GI Bill Law School Degrees…

leukemia in babies,
Downwinders in Mojave County,
just ended, dead, of northern afflictions.

Things like that and Julia Roberts,
got the voters to agree,
Lawyers should advertise,
- leading to what we have today
free speech, facing a true Kuhnian shift,
Directly presented, plain
for all
to see,
What freedom of the press was
to the owners of all means of exploitation,
freedom of speech, after internet, aight, is to any.
Any who, even you.
Who,
should any ask what Marshall McLuhan
continues to do, through 'is link to all you know,
text in context, denoting informed consent, you
think, as you read, and so
doing you do the deed, done so. We read,
thinking back
only one long mortal lifetime ago, we mostly did not.
On the whole,
have you never imagined
how many more of us know,
what was against the law for beings of the baser sort,
to learn, long
a tradition among the power elites, owners,
of all the national resources,
in a global syndicate,
entities, interests, trusts 'n'such, which
follow the pattern of the jewel merchants,
control the sources.
Restrict library cards immediately,
Carnegie is laughing from his grave… his will
- he did appreciate his Kipling
written in Indian Ink, under the Raj, If inspires yet,
as does Gunga Deen.
Film. Yes. Won't last. that medium,
too much trouble to watch it again, when
one can read a play, or a novel, or a poem per
haps forever, if the terminii are all out of sight.
As a lad, I was allowed to watch all the television,
I wished, and I wished I had a thousand channels,
in 1955, when Wyatt Earp got his life and legend
projected

into the worth cube at the core of mankind…
for all American boys, pun is there, naturally, all
of us American boys, no matter what our mommas were,
we, 1955, had been pledging five days a week, aliegiance,
we were sons of soldiers who had won the last war,
the one in all the inspirational Hays code cleared war movies.

Realist mind game art, in context, humbled,
by the giants tuned into, before the contest began, Truth
who dares, all comers. Common mental trope, all comers
come on, oppose my point and fall across my edge.

Little children, keep your selves from idols, such as
hold I role in all active avatars at any given point
in time, in tyranny over your bit in the mind of man,
taken to play mind games that are crafted for enjoying
the peace of selective reality powers we all can attain.

Write your self a tower to watch from, and watch,
Carnegie reading Kipling
by kerosene Rockefeller sold… meld into if

if you wish, imagine lampblack ink, or better,
squid ink, infused with carbon so pure, it seems
invisible, finest dust of diamond waste, used once
to shine a patterned steel san-mai blade.

Imagine the very smartest, not Einstein, person
alive when decisions were being discussed, crossing
swords with science use and useless social controls,
e.g. you know,
gra-acious example, interesting times, sifting selectors
goodness gracious, we have, in point of fact, too much
to filter with no reason,
why should one care to know why secrets are de rigueur,
poor soul asked what is going on, replys,
regular stuff, I suppose… ah, ag me on, suppose,

I invited Ben, Voltaire, and Nieztsche to cheese,
as I morphed into the Disneyified U.S. Certified myth.
The mouse in Ben and me, was the voice of the NPC.
- we had Verne's spinning disc libraries since
- drop a name from the hagiosphere of AI and IT
- Grace Murray Hopper… she's a memory.

Such books, we hold, as factual data, they hold words,
we, the current people, the fluid factor through which
CG NPCs pass in movies and games and entertainment,
- each pass think
who notices other people?
All the time, I mean, who cares, most of the time?

Crazy edgies, mad folk, filled with insights some time
passing left as artifacts, if you can believe this,
your world view shall encompass all one need know
about
why
we speak of the fall, and of original sin, we allow
priests and politicians and attention pimps, to lie.

Today, own self, and whole self,
declare adaptive lettering tech, publishing far and wide
art insisting, dare do,

think it through, couple thousand words,
what if you learn one cool new way
to think unthinkable things good
to know… post hoc.

Drawling to a jaunty swing number, down on bourbon street. People everywhere at any rate , of and at all times. The night aglow with neon signs of every angle. Trepidantly set upon Gatsby like quality of novelty. Trendsetting a fictitious wonderment for all to enjoy with anticipating excitement.

/and ******* could paint a *******, but subsequently talk **** in colloquial... about such "earthly" affairs as buying milk, while practicing it in French... America forever the cosmopolitan and the suburban, like at the grudging girth of the 20th passing of 100 khakin burdens catching bullets... without invitation, this writing can only claim to be an observation, of the colour of a strawberry, which is isn't red, but strawberry, frozen in ice... electric, a lemon thrown into a field ladder with wintry puff...

as if all rhymes in the world,
where but a ***-note,
an after school dictum
or St. Bartholemew's prayer
a Chilean short:
   of a mea culpa -
       ecce ****! ex luto!
   and if not only Pilate,
like god, washed his hands
clean of the affair,
saying:
             had i but
interest to will a talking
rose, i wouldn't have
the curiosity, to leave animate
things to a gambit of my own,
predilection
    (rarely do you spot
a tautology,
given that Wittgenstein bangs
on about it...
   namely, gambit
and predilection)...
hit the ******* brick 'all
like a sac o'
                  cream-mashed
wit' (th' - definite article
  veer into the fate of
ph'ought concerning
    th'ilosphy...
hardly a ******* whiff from
a chimpanze pushing out
translated (digested)
champagne sugar puffs)...
MIND THE ******* BRACKET,
EH?
         wiff dill...
and Mr. Pink smothered
in butter, rather than mummified
in Dover batter...
     mind you, I too wished to be
a Daltonist,
   imagining Dover's sulphuric cliffs...
whike dot Culd'playz
cancan doove dive into
reimagining Cockney 'ellas!
     apparently "god" in
the omni-schematic is immune
to the gambit man proposed...
    I grant the will concerning
inanimate things
in the vicinity...
then again:
    nothing is actually inanimate...
WRONG CATEGORISATION
genesis...
    ****...
can you even begin
meditating, when being
asked a question?
    Tao says:
   give a narrative,
receive a narrative,
keep the water flowing,
pseudo-Heraclitus...
ask a question akin to:
what is Tao?
          question =
the interrogative interim,
the void eats a thought...
there is never a definite
thought, that isn't an idea...
     splinters:
    glutton mouth of
nothing described as
     either form (definite)
      or formless (indefinite)...
can anyone please spare
us from those who
"think" and extend this
"thinking"
                 into narrative?
throw five marbles into
a dozen eggs and call
them electron drum & bass
incisions...
   never in the history of
man, has squabbles under:
hell...
spire of democracy...
a famous picture from
      the modern version of Yalta...
John Paul II, Ronald Reagan,
Mikhail Gorbachev...
   and a happy family too...
because bureucracy isn't
without autocratic accents
without an autocrat?
       pencil pushing and paper
folding seigls...
what Burroughs took from
Tzara and the top hat at
Cabaret Voltaire,
can only swallow the cut-up
with a Dresden Vonnegut passing
over a cigarette ash-swamp:
phonetic'ism:
    spell with only consonants
(H = surd attaché),
id est: s•chi•zoi•te•le•gra•phi•c...
       +              |               x
                       |
schnell schnell!
   das rubric!
            clock read awry, clock reads
straight...
    no star of David,  nor a *******...
can be less, before
the churning altar of time...
******* ancient Latin prepositions
and moderns...
   á non culpa m
(by no fault of my own)...
             can we move away from...
faaaaaaaaaaaaa...
    trapped in a colloquial
where people,
speak poetically,
    since Metaphor became Atlas...
and yet poets akin to
lepers!
                        ...CK.
    and a fern that grwe into
a frivolous chicken strut
by a royal: twirl surrounding
a passing wind near
the floor of a forest...
              would it ever
be a sin to claim taking a
picture of a shadow,
seconds prior to the dawn
of Hiroshima?
    paranoia of the nuclear powers...
apparently the itchy finger
calamity wen(t) to ****
w(h)en hit upon Nagasaki...
    oddly enough...
this can truly be an antithesis
of a Victoria "curiosity"
           akin to a slobbering
    Bradley Coop' 'itting
phe vest u'nd...
                              in the comment
section...
        apparently writing has
to resemble the comforts of
a colouring-in book
and be replica of
tourists-feeding-Trafalgar-Sq.-
pigeons-type-of-conversation...
­always the cul de sac
but never the labyrinth...
   always the cul de sac...
and never the labyrinth;
   didn't I mention that mathematical
tools, akin to ÷ etc.
    are plagued to
the custard Joe ****** brother
of grammatical tools, akin
to prepositions and conjunctions?
    hell, the Canadian pronoun
Pandora...
          might as well attempt in
depicting cognitive muscles
                at work, su doku gym
membership...
   which is a lesson in keeping
formation and blind spots...
         Alzheimer's killer proteins
digesting fat...
   a bit like what the Somalis
eat last, or rather what eats itself
last...
    minus
      the Omega Phren Genesis...
there are glimpses into
Alzheimer's...
     notably wearing my
grandfather's waistcoat...
reminding him to taste a bear
at 10 minutes to midnight...
    no wonder
we can claim to see
the Hollywood desert of original
script...
               exhausted imagination...
the famine of the north...
short on intellectual curiosity...
a shackles of inverted
famine...
   copula fungus...
   and what remains....
             of the laughing biceps.

O czy(m) gawaryć
jak ni ma,
o czy gawa w oko
na oko wrzeć
murawe wart:
opuchlizną -
czyli...
        śli... wnóka...
zwą...
     pychoty cerkw...
ślijy budjet...
ochłapem psa, pśa:
gra w gryz...
     tuczy jeb psa wyrokwiem
'com j'eb
kobity.... ni mo...
barwne te mo...
piwne oczydła dane
mji 'erb...
no ten, Litwieński...
z różą w pentlik,
zwanem różańcem...
jebudjed syrok siad...
na rekśową: daj łape
morda pinkny!
pod Mazowsze Polszczyzną:
gra...
reszta ro pirdolona
pochłapiem otucha Mark'a
Zbigniewbórka...
grzbiet, czyli
o kołnierz, cy co ot
or-to (missing H),
tej bez metra cientego fīzykí...
ń.. albo no... niopek...
czyli gaga mordziu:
   ńıopek...
      ale to... Bawaryjski
'eno... szczegół.

Star Boats Floating
Upon Water Clear
Starry Night  Girl
Oh Starry Night

Intention Set
By Fires Flame
Long Ago Girl
Yes Long Ago

Returning
Waters
Of Love Divine
Starry Night Girl
Ire Starry Night

By Red Your Dark
Still **** Mine
Turn Your Eyes World
Turn Your Eyes

For Her
This turn
Dru Shift
Gra time

Gratis Oman Gratins OEM

da swabian a saxon?!
                nein!
then we sorted out
                   a prodigy
of world war two
                   and a calculation:
of komora-morda
    
    tank-engine-"room"-gob:

as a "father"
i tell you:
                  keep it strict,
the rest remains
under the "brigade"
of a "journalism"...

        da contra dać....
i to byt...
                     kres,
tym-tam kreska...
                   nic i nić...
dwie lewe
     a raptem dwie
             pary sznurówek...
kto?
                   ten gra
i tym szeptem: ochota;
blud: pizda,
              a tym wart: wilk.

o grybo branie: borowik,
ciota, rz...
                          tzn. kurka:
kurva yego mac.

   no kurva: czytajem yem
   ten lady...
                    blad...
      błąd! błąd!
                   lady? 'krajnem?
                       kurva ni wim szto!

'yba 'udy, p.s.

Silver shade
bead wearing
barbie figure
mardi gra queen
makes me sing
all jazzy
till I am dizzy.

Short locks
smiling
flower wreath
falling down
around
and underneath
her feminine curves.

Two long drinks
sipped methodically
cause this is
definitely
serious business.

The music
bounces
as strangers
pass by
drunk and high.
She gives them
a predator smile.

A mysterious mask
holds back
the devilish
gleam
of dangerous things
because this woman
is the spider queen.

and if you are not careful
she will take a bite
out of you.

it pains me, to return
to a narrative of England,
more so,
  since i am not an
Englishman.
         i actually have no
conviction, or worth
to necessarily speak
  given this dynamic...
       of a future, past,
or present...
            what a disillusioned
unfathomability fathered
by a relentless fathering
of ******* and asians
this country has become...
with a month spent
in continental europe,
i am trying to shy away
from the reality of
this country,
  but i am constantly
bulldozered by a sensibility
for angst...
  i am not, an, englishman,
yet i cradle this bread
and water's worth of
continuance as if i
were the son who stood
first upon these isles...
  i am not sad because
i am oblique -
i am, literally exhausted
by a feeling,
best conscribed to
a funeral procession...
     i watch this living
court of ergo -
as a mass synchronised
for a cull.
  for once in worth of
January, i am fed despair
having returned to
these isles -
  America is snoring
and least conservative -
uncle lambast -
      i am regurgitating
this pomp of an unfed
  imperialism -
   scuttling like
             rats in a labyrinth
of a lost citation -
  squabbling larks
among hogs of perfected
glutton execution...
america is exhausting,
most notably on
the british isles...
        after a month away
from the scurvy ***** ah-ding-ala-do
  cyst smoochers -
  i am becoming tired
of english sadness -
this ultra globalist
insomniac paraphrase -
      i feel a tonne weighing
a gram...
   by comparison,
the narrative of this land
finds no encompass in
  an isolationist tactic -
hey: gra-vi-tas!
          i return to a sad country -
having spent
a month on continental
Europe:
      i can hardly recognise
myself;
        England is
waiting for a cue without a coup -
          and when i say
that i sniff a rot
but enterntain opera
and pearls -
         i know that i'm speaking
an antoinette disguise;
for what hangs
above my pretty, noble
affair to breathe, is not
the noble sword of damocles,
but the populist guillotine;
less drama,
  more exec ruse -
  worth a pauper's demands
to adamantly state:
the beast that suffers least
in the slaughterhouse
tastes the best...
hence this, irritable
   scratch of forbidden
            bacon, off the crucifix.
i still cannot instill
in me, the gullibility of
        this, current,
unfathomable, norm,
           perpetuating
          a concern for lunacy
while mediating
               a care to cure its
own blidness...
   beyond the five blindmen
testing an elephant,
i'd rather see two blindmen
attempting a game of chess!
      if only one were able
to sift through the
            gargantuan blob
             of mundane
grey (****),
             and speak pop
like a ****** or a Napoleon;
or at least be famed,
   like the ***, for inventing
the stirrup!
or the ****** who said:
burp, be, beer.

/lust/ \frick\: a 502 bypass...
title... body...

there's this quote from American Beauty (probably one of my favourite movies from the modern era, by far, the comedy is bleak, almost hidden, but it's not as dry, as British as The Office, it's rarely american funny, it's not nervous, awkward like some British comedy, very much to liking) - but i'll probably butcher it, so i won't quote it, i'll just quote myself as reinterpreting it... the day you stop surprising yourself, is the day you die... i'm surprising myself: right now... sure, when i sometimes write something & subsequently retort: well... i wasn't expecting that: is one thing... but in terms of my behaviour... wow... i almost feel exasperated at the surprise i have become... at the leavers' assembly in high school i was one of only two available "poets" to give a recitation... i remember walking up to the stage, standing upon it... my right hands was shaking worse than anyone with Parkinson's... one of my friends even asked... are you o.k.? yeah... let's do it... i started speaking a poem i wrote a day prior upon which i shed some tears... job done... the "poet" that came after me... recited his load of *******: ******* ****... not based on the quality of his poo'em: we have a very, ahem... "specific" detail in life, circa 2007 i'd really like to forget, beside him driving high on marijuana & almost killing us... no, there's another... ill drugs he prescribed me on a promise... 'it'll be like taking LSD, but shorter...' well when he recited him ******* verse he broke down into tears... stunning, stunning & brave... ******... point being: this current job doesn't exactly require high IQ: should i even mention this prerequisite... then again: managing people takes some IQ... let's forget it... i don't mind how much it pays... i'm glad to be out of the house... today's Monday... Monday... i sweep through the house like a whirlwind... vacuuming, cleaning the floors... that's prior to a 2h commute... i earn enough to not spend more than i earn... how's that? point being... i'm surprising myself: i, surprise myself... there's nothing better in life... there's nothing more alive than being able to surprise yourself... the moment you stop surprising yourself is the day you die... perhaps not literally, ******... but your mind sort of shuts off... you're no longer partially wild, partially untamed... probably married... i like this new: new surprising me...

well... **** me... wasn't that a treat...
back at Craven Cottage for what would have been
a Premier Liege fixture between Fulham FC
and Sheffield United...
my first time i spent outside the stadium,
walking around the park making sure no one
was doing something suspicious...
i hated it... i felt disappointed...
i was allocated a supervisor: my neighbour's daughter
and... oh god... small-talk at work...
i tried to get into the conversation: which happened
to be ongoing since everyone knew each other
for a long time...
banter... banter...
put me next to a hundred strangers
and i'll smile and play the "friend" part much better
than: what felt like being back in a school-playground...
plus... there's nothing to do!
all i did was walk up & down the park
greeting people, giving them directions...
then once the crowd moved into the stadium:
nothing! what a ******* waste of time...
and then what, after the match ended wishing
the crowd a speedy return home & a good night...
i just caught the last 103 bus to Chase Cross...
when the bus driver opened the doors at
my bus stop: i bid her a goodnight & a thank you:
i can do that!

second time at Craven Cottage i jumped at the opportunity
to go into the stadium...
good man, Tony... allocated me a pitch-side
presence... yes! i'm in!
rules... people with a red sq. on their accreditation
can only be allowed on the pitch...
some might come with a red & purple sq.: that's the press...
stand facing the stands
(Hammersmith Stand to my left,
Johnny Heynes stand to my right)
then when the game starts... ******* to the side
so my body might not obstruct the view from H1...
then if a goal is scored... return to pitch-side
ensuring no one tries to get onto the pitch...

my third time today...
now we're talking, apparently this is going to be
a permanent fixture...
i'll be on the Hammersmith Stand every match...
most likely at the entrance, high up...
like today... i don't even remember how many
times i said: good evening to people...
each time i received a smile, a wave,
a direct look in the eyes...
sometimes a small conversation with an old man:
usually an old man...
prior to people coming in...
alright... rows 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6? right down the bottom
of the stand... then the entire alphabet...
then... from row A... through to row AA
and up to... VV? WW?
between H2 & H3... seats to my left
(when looking at the pitch) end with seat no. 65...
seats to my right (when looking at the pitch)
start from 71?! yeah... weird... i think
the gap for the stairs is being minded...

i loved it... i was so courteous, polite... extrovert...
when was i ever such an extrovert?!
the last step is apparently too high...
so old men buckle... caught one before he might
have fallen flat on his face...
a little girl started running down the aisle
to pitch-side to get a picture with the mascot
& Santa Claus... as she passed me...
god... like i will never forget the eyes of
my grandfather's Alsatian: Bella...
i will probably never forget those: soapy eyes
of this little girl... she didn't have to say anything...
they endeared me beyond all else...
they weren't soapy / watery sad...
just glad... happy... she had a bearded man
look down at her...
then a father & a son found themselves
in the wrong seats... the boy was walking with a flag
all dragging... i implored him:
hello little fella... can you please roll that flag up...
he was bound to step on the unrolled flag
when walking down the stairs...
but i implored him: his father only implored him
to hurry up...

make sure no one brings beer to the stands...
it's legal to watch a rugby match with a beer...
not a football match...
escorted a passionate drunk to his seat...
second time he became "lost" i asked him whether
he needed my escort... jokingly he replied:
will that be necessary... and then... oh... a man's
handshake... no fist pump...

more importantly...
we were asked to walk down the aisle every 10 minutes
of the match... to check up on anyone who might be in
need of a medical emergency...
i did about 3 tours of the first half...
on time, 10min, 20min, 40min into the match...
my partner at work took two toilet breaks...
so i filled in for him...
ha ha... a fellow STEM guy... currently studying for
a masters in engineering...
civil engineering?
stasis engineering... dynamic engineering...
only doing the steward job part time:
i'm thinking of moving up the hierarchy...
but... work a little... get ref. and perhaps go into
teaching chemistry in a high-school...
oh... dynamics? you know, this is where engineering
and chemistry come together:
we studied thermodynamics...
so we talked about this & that...

but i did my part... properly... then some kid walks up
to me... some, "fellow" steward and asks me...
can i exchange roles with him...
i get it... his role? sitting pitch-side facing
the crowd looking at a gate...
guess what? my legs are killing me...
standing still is worse than marching:
i've done easier 40mile sessions on a bicycle than
this: standing on purpose...
did you ask the supervisor whether we can exchange?
sure... o.k. just make sure you do those
10minute routines of walking down the aisle
checking on possible heart-attacks...

i go down... sit down... look up...
where is that gorgeous woman of my dreams...
5 minutes in...
oh! well would you look at that!
there's two!
pristine blondes...
i still have my face-napkin on...
i look up... the guys are not doing their job...
****** feeling imbues me...
i shouldn't be merely a steward...
i should be a supervisor...
then again... ****'s sake: the supervisor is doing
**** all... he should be motivating these guys to
do their job... instead... he would later complain
that the stewards were not doing their job...
mate! & you were?!
i think i've acquired this learned attraction(?)
to organise people from my grandfather...
who had a brigade of workers under him
in a metallurgy factory...

it's very funny how you can get a good look
at people at a football match...
you can literally stalk them...
look at them constantly... blink, wink, pretend
to pull faces at them... will they see you?
hardly... too engrossed by the match...
ha ha...
       but i spotted these two English blonde beauties...
the high-viz. & face-mask also doesn't help...
you're sort of invisible to the people...
because you're part of the architecture...
it's a... well... the feeling i got was...
better than... that awkward sensation you get
on a London tube... where people purposively avoid
looking at people...
this is un-purposively... i have a job to do:
obviously people will not look at me,
they're here for the match...
but... exactly... but sometimes... "**** happens"...

playing with 3 rubbers bands...
tapping to the beat of a song prior to kick-off with your
feet, shuffling with your feet funny...
pretending to pluck at guitar strings with the already
said rubber bands to get at the rhythm...
taking off your face-***** to drink a proper glug
of water...

oh wow... those two blondes thought i was invisible,
just prior...
once they managed to see my face... i clocked it...
for about 10 minutes they lost interest in the match...
eyes... ******* elsewhere...
i spent the next 20 minutes... lip reading...
FIT?
  IVE MET SOMEONE...
     shy little creatures: it would seem, is what they became...
giggles...
at Fulham they distribute these paper slappers...
pieces of cardboard you slap instead
of clapping...
em... is that unconscious a phallus you're holding?
daring eyes... really daring eyes...
but it only lasted for about 20 minutes...
20 minutes later... a yawn from either of them...
& some return to an interest in the match...
it's good i was wearing a face-*****...
i tried to ensure my eyes were smiling...
since i really was smiling...

yeah... at the end of the shift... the supervisor...
mate?! where were you! i could have told you...
motivate these *******! perhaps then they would have...
you didn't do the aisle check every 10 minutes...
i did... but this is not high-school...
& believe me... this is important...
school is not a workplace...
for that: i thank him... Luke?

one man did what was asked of him... namely: moi...
right... not good enough...
the entire team ****** up on some detail...
in school... i'd be a teacher's pet...
i'd be readily gloating...
it's different in the workplace: the whole team ******
up (the supervisor included, but he didn't own
up to it, i could have done better as a supervisor) -

it's the ******* edge of the universe,
it's a small role: i get be an egoist right up to & including
now...
but i wasn't complimented / congratulated on
my starry ******* execution...
work, unlike schooling: doesn't breed a healthy
competition... it's a "bit" different...
when... you're working in the medium of earning money...
some people just show up: expecting to get paid...
for... doing **** all...
some people turn up: & authentically want
to put in an effort...
problem being: in school... you don't really experience
resentment when someone out-performs you
at a subject to get a better grade...
envy, jealousy, sure... that's rife...
but resentment? hardly... you're not earning any
money! you're just getting grades!
smart on the supervisor's side for not singling me
out as some "employee of the ******* day"...
"model citizen" & etc.,
because... that **** has already been noted...
dissonance in the ranks is not desirable...
sure... plenty of brown-skinned slackers...
the YAWN-CROWD... there for the paycheck of:
"being seen"... i'd expect more ******* involvement
in crowd coordination from a *******
mollusk... it's London... fair enough...
the London crowds are more tame...
i didn't: not once... have to implore the passions
of the supporters to: please stop standing up...
sit down... a completely different story outside
of London, untameably unavoidable grown-men
a.k.a. little *******...

but i like my role... ha ha... i also have one on the side:
obviously it pays me nothing!
but... how many people are out "there":
who enjoy doing something for free...
for free: no, not volunteering... for free as in:
caressing their ego? these vanity project
cases?! i'm a lucky... 1%?

it only takes a child to approach me...
aha... that's why i'm here...
i'm a... fårehyrde af mennesker...
of all the Scandinavian languages... Danish is almost
"too much" akin to the deutschezunge...
then again... why is Denmark even considered Scandinavian?
isn't there like a sea between Denmark &
Shveeden?

well then... the **** do i need that
conjunction: of                    for?
can't i just... compound two words together like a German
might, ergo...

ha ha!
fårehyrde af mennesker becomes...
menneskerfårehyrde...

in zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
deutschezunge, ja?
menschenschäfer...

funny... that... i wrote something prior to undertaking
this 3rd shift...
SZUFLA: shovel... slang for a handshake
GRABURA: "slang" for handshake...
SERWUS... a Germanic sort of hello incorporated by
the Wends of Posen...

hmm...should i write these, phonetically: "English"?
i guess  i should:
SZUFLA become SH'OO'FL'AH
GRABURA becomes GRA'BOO'RAH...
i can understand fame.... outright fame...
Jordan Peterson fame...
a Jimmy Carr sort of fame...
but when it comes to cult-like fme?
******* bewildering...
i changed tubes from the District Line
at Putney Bridge at Victoria...
to arrive at at Oxford Circus...
i enter the carriage... delay....
i board the tram... two women look at me startled...
scared almost...

i shouldn't be able to translate as a 3D object?
"stop looking": the lip-reading ends up being...
yeah, my legs are killing me...
i'd sooner be dead than famous...
all the quasi-cannibalism that's reinforced
with fame... no, no thank you...
leave this part of the world to me: & to me alone...

what's with this startling, though?!
supposedly proper Muslim *****: that Pakistani
fabled "reconquista": conquer it first,
prior the ******* labour of a ******* lecture,

if there's a Mecca... then there's a Jerusalem...
if there's a Rome when there's
a Constantinople...
but i have a fifth....
   MALBORK... Marienburg Castle...
the old capial of the Teutonic Order...
hind! heave! leverage the: reste!

schwarzkreuz-auf-weiß.

.i'd hate to write out a claustrophobia; there was a second who dreamed of Crimea; and who doesn't abhor infatalism; living with parents ensures a lesson in patience... lets regress! the concept of a nation is an infantile game... history stressed is only worth an immigrant's answer... how sadistic the child craves becoming cult.

it would seem that
modern poets never
left an abode
          of the *****
Virgil, free -
  how medium -
paralysed in and to
a strut -
  merely Dante -
                    recompasse -
loitering
             cry enigma
for the peeling
               onion dome
unravelled:
             lacrima dico miror.
moskiev -
  czyn -  łbędzie modno -
o czym: nagi,
             ***'on ******>dni na pal tsym a,
                    rogi snem!
******-da...
        rojter!
              gra o...
   kat w kata prosze -
na sylab a ni słowo -
krew krajna - ukiem cięta!
sfat gila i gnór
ni słowem ni litem A -
szkla rozbitit 'gnem o
   cior...
                   o szkic i
           garb w tonnym
cie... cieniem!
          ku Kjovi,
lwem na Ów..
                     orszak taki -
że nie taii zgób.

_

   well, that was, the draft,
turns out, i can unearth plenty of drafts
i never published,
given the suspension...
such petty narratives are left
for people who almost always
desire a "freedom" to speak,
rather than a freedom to think...

only yesterday, an argument in the garden,
next to a cherry tree i planted...
people your age travel!
they go to places!
they live!
          a constant reminder:
you need to be honest about
your alcoholism...
   sure... i'll be honest,
they other become honest,
   and i don't have to play into
this solipsistic mea culpa *******
as if: i'm not taking responsibility,
as if i am always to blame,
like... my translation of childhood
naivety is not a curse...
because: if i wouldn't trust people,
and make friends,
well, then,
would i just be your atypical psychopath?!
what were the choices:
either wrong, or not good...
wow!
      a grand assumption:
to be governed by laws that only
favor the rich, but slander
the poor...
            victim-who-whom-hood?
did i name, anyone?
am i rat?
       that's what it boiled down to,
that i behaved like a rat,
i said: more like a fox...
no, more like a rat...
   because i like to walk at night,
when i see women
faking conversation
         over their mobile phones...
to feel, secure?
i stalk the predatory mind-set...
    a woman pretends, or doesn't pretend,
to talk over the phone,
while walking home, alone,
at night, as a deterrent...
        i know how this works...
she'll scream into the phone her location...
i'm not interested,
i passed a woman once,
who just, had to, make it,
adamant, i was not to "****" with her...
ever see a running geisha?
i have...
        i mean: a horse needs a whip,
stirrups, reins,
  a woman like that?
who forces you to react,
to give her a reaction against
the canvas of intimidation?
laugh...
       then you'll see a spriting geisha.

and as i write this?
     in the middle of three candles...
my power-saving bulb went out,
i had to resort to igniting three candles
and sit in the middle of the nocturnal
                    Δ(ηλτα)
        or             Δ(ελτα) of "occult" illumination?
i never know which is which...
sure as **** (c)at
                 is nowhere near to (k)aleidoscope
but, hey, it's greek...
         you have eta (η) and epsilon (ε),
you have omega (ω) and omicron (o)
         you have Φought,
                       and you have ΘilosoΦy...
the stories they tell,
  about languages, that do not employ
diacritical markers,
     but insteal have to balance an orthography...
based upon the "quadratic" system,
for the aesthetic to appease "the gods"...
                EE, OO, FF, foe?
unless you spreschen ***-
           -dish, or high hebrew...
          but still... even there...
               א (alef) and ע (ayin)...
          eh, but the hebrews get away with
the fact that they hide their vowels,
in imaginary niqabs...
                akin to diacritical markers...
the hebrews treat their vowels,
like a people, who would apply diacritical
marks to either vowels or consonants:
plainly in the open.
        so some people have gone places,
Egypt, Thailand...
  i've also been to places...
kant's critique of pure reason,
heidegger's being and time...
russell's history of western philosophy...
i've been to place,
   this world cannot offer me,
a source for solace, or for envy,
    i've transcended the globalist
frenzy of people moving aimlessly...
     i went back, to the beginning of the 20th
century, nay, even further...
sure, let people travel,
       i don't mind:
  but as long as they don't come between
me (fox) and the chicken-shack (books),
we'll be just fine...

      mind you, this question opened my
narrative...
   who makes a better ms. amber (whiskey)?
the scottish, or the irish?
i can tell you, even if it's in a ginger ale
mixer...
         jameson and...
    what am i drinking right now?
                 tullamore dew...
   i mean mainstream whiskey...
              these two specimens?
  competing with, what?
          whyte & mackay... as i'm pretty sure
they can...
   but... bell's? the famous grouse?
the whiskeys that are like laphroaig
and smoked salmon?
         the irish are definitely better
at their brewing than the McDoogles...
ol' paddy McGuire figured it out,
amber, looks like diluted honey...
so it must appeal to the sweet-tooth palette!
well... if beer is the gods' ****...
then whiskey... is the gods' blood...
    have i ****** my life away?
sure... i have...
                  but i've also acquired
a capacity to see more in my mind,
than others have seen with their eyes...

as it happens,
   i sometimes return to my native womb
of zunge...
faster than it would take me,
to retreat physically,
   a drive to Stanstead airport,
loitering,
   a 2 and a half hour flight,
moving around Warsaw,
   before taking a 3+h coach trip
   to an obscure location
     and spending a month or so,
loitering with my grandparents,
in between reading a ****** classic,
akin to Prus, or Sienkiewicz.

the natural dichotomy of composing
in silence:
with the aid of alcohol and marijuana
and any other truth serum...
then there's composing of words
the anti-arithmetic Aramaic not:
when under the influence of music:
which is the sonic white ingredient
that competes with big pharma...

i have a story to tell:
philosophy truly begins with
the tide of death...
if life is earth
then death is water...
it begins here:
it doesn't begin with get behind me
demon:
in old age with the answer:
if you will find a good woman:
you will be happy and not crave the intellect:
but if you find a bad woman:
you will not be content
and you will become a philosopher:
but i am mortal and before being
wedded to a woman
i am bespoke of death...

          now for the music...
i have three dimensions of German high thought:
my thought agitate me...

there's the categorical imperative of Kant
there's Nietzsche: the solipsist
rather than the nihilist
Kant with the categorical imperative
Heidegger with question-worthiness...
guides:
read philosophy in your 20s
then watch your 30s and 40s...
map out a plan of understanding
then you will have knowledge:

YD OA...
  of yod off DOA...

modus operandus: modus operandii in
the plural...
operandus: mode of operating
under a strict dictum: vox se: per
to think that there was no noble ****
intellectual project is
heart-warming and heart-breaking
the Nazis
the Nazis the Nazis
oh the Nazis
came and left so quickly:
but we're talking: we're not talking
Egyptology and pyramids
but instead chimneys and grey snow
and Mozart...

an anti-German seeps in:
Heidegger's question-worthiness
is matches in ancient thought
by the Greek Archimedes
and eureka!
i found what? these days?
the question-vector the worthiness off: to be
asking...
exclamation-worthiness:
eureka, the song: by Abba:
no new Stockholm just the Helsinki Syndrome
in a world of phenomena...
to me Kant's noumenon
is the equivalent of the Q and Anon
and ? in what is:
question-worthiness...

beside the hammer?
i don't need what could possibly look best
yellow on red
if the Mongolian tribalism
the Holden Horde:
like the colors of Ukraine:
blue above
sky blue Autumnal vagary...
then the yellow of the fertile fields...
the wheat for the bread and
beer...
Dolcce und Gabbana Lombardy...

my teeth are not artifact...
i smoke a little try to drink so little
but then the serpent comes and slithers
into my throat with so much fire
that i start to grow wings
and breathe fire:
cousin serpent: why have you come into
my mouth? slithered there by MY apple:
by my apple of the throat
who says I: you? or me?!

Matt is the Devil:
i should know: i scheme all kinds of goodies
for the children
who are yet to be Auschwitz factioned
told to be humans
segregated by ego mother
brother archetype
annoying sister insect...
i'm become poly-schizomatic:
i have turned individualism
into a persona generating machine:
i am PROTO-OEDIPUS...

i am already gearing up for the future:
my pornographic habits involve
GILFS: grandma's i wanna ****:
her previous husband was into bisexuality
and schoolgirl ****:
i'm into ******* women in her 70s:
i want to **** the GRAEAE sisters
to have a third eye:
i will **** my way into the
demands to be met to gain this mythological
dimension!

i will be the father of those ugliest of all
horrors of Heaven:
that Medusa was spawn of heaven
that Polyphemus Outis!
the gravity of the grotesque shifts
from Hell and a democracy arrives:
since what is timing when killing
a child?
the abortion, Lucy Letby's cases...
Bebe King, six; Elsie Dot Stancombe,
seven; and Alice Dasilva Aguiar
a heaven is a place where they went:
you want to go there
and... ahem: ex-plain?!
in Catholic school the pope played
bingo and golf:
had no concept of chess or cards
or backgammaon:
but somehow he knew a Kennedy... which i thought
was: a tad: bit... weird'oh...
so heaven is a place you go to
to become surrogate:
freaks... all those abortions...
what's three names to the list of the unlisted?
what is ****** what is abortion
i don't know: let's **** some six year olds
to quicken the debate...
killing 6 year olds is not killing foetuses is
not killing ***** is not be squandering
by asking ***** to be manna:
i just don't know...

        good philosophy comes:
not because you grandfather died...
or your mother:
you're grey on grey:
your coworker died...
well **** forget that i forgive
you not apologizing...
where's this night guard:
i want to meet this
werewolf zombified-vampire:
mind you...
this the fetish for vampirism die off
into the Zombie Apocalypse
when the AIDS epidemic died down:
to be less and less culturally relevant:
Bruce "the Boss" didn't sing:
the streets of Philadelphia...
so that's the one angle of ****
we covered?
besides the ******* rainbow: in rainbow....

so no cheese?
no drag queen traumatizing children...
maybe we should stabbing them...
rather than exposing them
to this **** virus of bad grammar ideas...
**** it! hey guys!
we're going for a biological impasse:
we're going to just ******* LAUNCH!
against everything!
just, *******: LAUNCH!
we're going to hijack:
**** it: hack:
the ingredients list of Gweneth Paltrous...
health-stance milkshake...
we go you us RIOT!

just checking: so when is killing a killing
and not a lifestyle coach typo
"choice"...
just let me know:

i need vitamins: i need muscle:
i need brain de facto: defects...
i need Frankenstein:
traumatized...
i need to know the cut in point
\and cut off point of meaning:
so stabbing them while they're 6
is bad: because they know Taylor Swift
is not going to capture the dragon...
so...
it's o.k. with serial killer promises
killing infants:
no riot there...
and no riot over the guillotine of white, pill...
good to know...
at least now i know
how to best behave in a crowd....

the Germanic overlord to the beacon
of usage of the English tongue...
just need to find the right sort of meassurements
to know my way around.
but i came to these lands without so much
as a tongue of my own:
so why have i integrated to deposit anonymity personas
while these ******* end up stabbing little girls?!
a bit like the story of the Polish-Linthuanian
Commonwealth:

a foreign ruler would come in:
if only once the Commonwealth gave powers
to a Russian of Origin:
what a Marcus Aurelius a quote
that would have made!
should a foreigner come to the shores of England
and still find the Welsh speaking Welsh
and the dynamic of the crows
flying at lengths: ******* apart:
huginn and muninn...

if i were to sacrifice the eye i ****** off and out of
the possession of Polythemus and the GRAEAE...
GRA-E
or... GRE-A...

           and combine thinking with memorizing...
i thought therefore i remember...
i tihnk: therefore...

therefore: not logic: i have to to...
if i think then, i have to remember...
remembering is a faking of cognitive storage:
thoughts can't be stored:
shackled: enslaved:
thoughts are reincarnations...
for individualistic purposes:
thought sometimes need to be written down:
authenticated: given person...
require signatures:
given the disparity of one individual having them:
burdened with writing them down:
and another: oblivious, individual:
not: individuated enough:
making the same claim of:
these exact thoughts passed through his brain: freeze:
freeze brain!

Kant's categorical imperative...
Heidegger's question-worthiness...
Nietzsche's solipsism=nihilism
Archimedes': eureka!
there was a third dimension i was thinking of:
it must have arrived in my son of con:
the science of -ness affix...

just think:
how poorly most people cipher the Cartesian
doubt:
so blinded by faith...
they ask so many impertinent questions
to guide them:
they have no quill to stomach:
not as guide but as tourist...
they ask so many questions that are not
question-worthy...
this is not acting immorally:
but then again: goodness is allowed to lapse
into sleep:
evil is insomniac...
and when goodness becomes complacent...
evil strikes...
and to me: that's perfectly understandable:
since then chaos ensues
and there is no madness of crowds:
just the chaos of simplicity
having to have to return to the basics of order
that is 1 + 1 = 2
vowels, consonants... an article, the article:
pronouns...
or are we going to have any more arguments
while i gag death and keep her hostage
to her finalizing her postal duties, or what?!
people not understand people being angry
who they think they can control by the summons
to the t.v. glazing neon
that is Plato's cave:
care to watch the horror of a newsreel
in the graveyard shift of life answering?
even to me:
getting a cold in the height of summertime
is weird
as is the fact that Beelzebub's emissary was
buzzing in the night...
but not that green bottle bottom maggot frenzy...
the black fly...
the wholesome miniature of a horse...
jarzębina: mountain ash...
Rowan Tree eyes are poison pebbles...
so dill...
the Egyptian with the dung beetle
the Europeans with their flies... what desert
under these unearthed roots of trees: these crowns?!