i can't believe i came across this today,
but i am certain did...
   an experience so vague i couldn't believe,
i actually experienced dyslexia,
call it quasi call it pseduo... but it was very
much akin... from the book's narrative...
but not from the footnotes, i read the footnotes
at perfect cognitive speed, but perhaps
returning to the narrative i did experience
a slack of the + (add) of how words are
dissected and quickly put back together...
  yes, that other arithmetic with very little
breathing room, yes, that thing without
a soul... the word... or god...
    i turned custard brain, fudge...
     i felt like watching the gymnastics at
the para-olympics... and if i was going for a cheap
joke / english black humor i'd probably
laugh at that... but since this is the most
perfect ideal, i can't only make that comparison.

and so it was, i sat there doing nothing productive,
nothing... counting sheep to encourage
day-dreaming...
       so i said: 'i'll read a book', like i might do
on the whim in my grandparent's house
(one of the many reasons i decided to be "canadian" -
and establish a firm belief in bilingualism -
since if i didn't speak the tribal tongue
i wouldn't be rummaging in my grandfather's
library... and stealing books from him...
  well, exporting them to england, where he said
on my last visit: your library is bigger than
mine, isn't? well... it can fill a double-bed
   and be stacked at about 300cm up...)
    maybe the fact that being immersed in the tribe:
polish on the radio, on the television,
the fact that i can be without the internet for
weeks on end and have no quick-canvas outlet for
my earned tongue is the reason i could read
Kraszewski's* Dei Ira / bozy gniew / god's wrath...
    (there is too much subtle differences between
capital iota and little-town lambda -
   or why iota had to have the dot above it, anyway) -
so dei ira looks better... which is why i'm
not orthodox about using capital instances all the time...
   what a whirlwind...
         but prior to that i was watching
a david jacoby film - love is the devil: study for
a portrait by francis bacon...
                                         and all i could think of:
what marvel, to have a **** shoved up your ***
and speak so beautifully...
  have such a vast array of narratives...
     i can only assume that experiencing **** ***
gives you the other man's **** shoved into
your mouth that acts like a tongue and speaks
      so many truths as could be possible,
as in Freudian dream: when a woman wears a hat...
a talking ****** on her head from slurping
at the vaginal grotto of another woman...
     such a marvel though, homosexuality, esp.
the type of homosexuality that has art to express
rather than a civil partnership, civil rights...
  i mean, i could watch this stuff for days and never
yawn or need to watch protests and marches...
  just the image of what is best described
   john william waterhouse's
   painting hypnos and thanatos...
      i can't help but see it like that...
         francis plays the female role, his model the evident
dominant male... and sure, francis having his
**** punctured for what could be best described
as diarhhea either side of the equator does so...
it's as if he is eloquent enough / intelligent to allow
this to happen, for another man to speak through
him somehow... the model's phallus in francis' ****
becomes the model's tongue in francis' mouth...
    which becomes the stage for hypnos and thanatos...
in that francis' tongue becomes a phallus in
the mind of the model: and it whispers him nightmares
in his sleep... a vicious cycle indeed...
           that's the homosexuality that's highly regarded
by me, not the confetti functional type that
    exploits science and social norms and can no longer
lend itself to art, to transcending the taboo...
      with homosexuality divorced from art...
i can't see anything profound by gays from now on...
i really can't... if there is no art in this deviant
love, no art is worth being expressed by this
once glorious realm that has grovelled into the gutter...
so let's start once more: with Onan!

and everyday i awake wake with only one identifiable
fear: will i not write a single verse as of today?
it's not a case of a single day encapsulating my
fear, but that that crux day: furthered into a silence
that can't compensate the act of writing with
anything, other than sleep... i just can't seem
to smarten up concerning this very rational phobia...
    and having said that: here is the incision mark
denoting an interlude, and how: what are originally
intended to be of enso quality, cannot
   stand up to the biological tick-tock of needing
the loo...
     and do i think o'keefe's music foundation
by children is so much better than the original
done by tool concerning the song forty six & two?
yes, yes i do... just look at the kid on the bass guitar,
the fact that bass guitar is allowed to state a layer
of cake just above drums to set the rhythm
means the rhythm guitar doesn't have to solipsistic
******* and scale the everest of solo...
   it can remain in the rhythm section,
actually be worth a rhythm,
   the guitar doesn't need to overload into a solo...
the vocals belong to that domain...
   as long as the bass guitar is allowed to be heard
(unlike in metallica) - then i must be tone deaf!
revise me!
                    jazz knew the importance of every instrument,
and the need to be spontaneous, but also
the need to be anti-synchronisation,
  and therefore anti-muddle tsunami of:
all together now!
            n'ah, **** that **** (yes, the Vulgate is
coming along, i like the pooch, i don't care what things
i might say, the rude growl-bark is coming along:
so we can admire him licking his *****, and for no
other reason he's coming):
as in the birth of sexes... which the animals don't
seem to comprehend that much intently...
                 i can't like my ******* or **** one off...
but i know i can abstract a woman into
a hand and just pretend it's me doing the ****
crap with her... than myself included,
   or as i might add: never drink or *******
before the mirror... soon enough your reflection
becomes a bit odd, not because of what you do,
but because you hide so much perplexity before
you in Lucifer's daylight with which
  the moon Narcissus governs the moods...
that you start to look at your actual shadow
   with more clarity and fact...
  looking in the mirror is the reverse of looking
at your shadow under a street-lamp at night...
the mirror sort of becomes a shadow...
             the form becomes a bit (ha ha, what
an exagerration) vague... i look into
a mirror and i am but looking into shadow...
                   and i can't exactly recognise the eyes,
or make our geometric approximations
of a skull...
                      it's not even a case of a poor Yorrick
blah blah.
    or as the new governing body put it:
there are to be no mirrors contained within
the gates of Pandemonium...
        each to his own shadow, each to his own abstract...
   for the shadow will be deemed the new mirror...
   the new found glacier of, yes:
when salt water freezes, comes pure white floating
on the oceans... but must you freeze fresh water
and there's this matrix...
as in icecubes...
       dropping from a vendor machine...
and i knew i shouldn't have digressed so much,
but then again, if there was no ****** tick-tock
       rebellion, i probably wouldn't have revealed this much...
with ancient lore...
    who'd use the word Pandemonium these days,
if you're merely trying to call it: the Houses of Westminster...
well sure, accusation due: i prefer
a bunch of kids feeding me a nostalgia over a song
i heard aged 14... such is the power of the song 46 & 2
done to a... wait wait...
  i was talking about bass guitars and jazz...
(i could never get to like rap...
            i liked when the blacks deconstructed classical
music, but they did after: i'll never like,
mainly people of blackies and that general fanfare
of rap feeding tribalism) -
          the greatest aspect of jazz:
that on some recordings there's a chance to hear all
the instruments having a solo moment...
you'll hear a quintent solo:
  the piano, the drum, the saxophone, the horn,
the double-bass solo... each doing a solo...
not some erectile dysfunction of rock music from the 1980s...
i mean: each one will do a solo...
  and **** me, that's grand... and given there's no vocals
makes it all the better... but where, the ****, can i hear
jazz music being kept with such high regard as i
might find mozart pickled and even mummified
     to suddenly rise again and compose like i might hear
it on classical.fm... maybe acid jazz killed it...
   i can't seem to hear of one place where i can hear
the range of jazz music i have in my collection...
which probably mean's i'm lazy and don't fiddle about
with the radio fm and am channels... to "look" for jazz...
  i'm all applause though: jazz allowed for
deconstruction of classical music and paved the way
for the current state of polyphony in plateau...
    meaning: too much drum, too much ump-pst-ump-pst...
   jazz paved the wsay from orchestra,
   and yes, maybe because it was too impromptu
as it was necessary, that there was no jazz composer...
  there could have been no jazz script... no pre
           to what was otherwise alway and only: uno...
a once...
    sure Thelonious Monk did use an orchestra at some time...
  but if only someone decided to do a solipsism
and write out jazz like mozart wrote out
      concerto... but no... jazz descending from on high
and invoking african villages could never do to
its practitioners the deadly fate of breeding a jazz
composer...
                   it was the communal idea, the musketeer
unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno:
   you could never allow a silent dictator like
a mozart dictating to a throng of people contained
within an orchestra... which later made the once
silent dictators very very vocal... speeches in Munich
alike...
           the fact that jazz has no script,
and the fact that if someone tries to play a Miles Davis
from script... is completely an ***...
     put him on a donkey (backwards)
                     donning a sanbenito and lynch him
to the nearest traffic junction to **** louder than
a car klaxon... that will do the trick...
       they did bother to script led zeppelin though...
    maybe it was the stiff competition that did it:
jazz. airy... breezy... but what a quick moment it was...
i'm almost jealous of the beat poets experimenting
with jazz musicians... but then i'm not:
i like to think of them as parasites...
   you know... those things feeding of spontaneity...
parasites... or dare i say: plagiarising leeches...
plagiarisng what? well, not the content, the context:
feeding of jazz spontaneity... not working from
old composers like Milton or Dante...
thank god for Ezra Pound and Sylvia Plath.

seems i have a ****** for a larynx...

perhaps i just seem to mean: i am a firm believer
in bilingualism... perhaps that's based on
some sort of religiosity,
    and let me tell you: it's born with
a schismatic nature, siamese, but not like a
siamese twin, in that it really needs a surgeon...
  it's a nucleus that's inherently schismatic...
i can't blame the english nation being
so lazy in its multicultural ethos,
i quiet like it: i don't live in a ghetto...
but forgetting my native tongue just so i could
sing a national anthem with conviction?
na'ah, that's not me...
            we'll come to Kraszewski's rex piast
in a minute, and it really was a genuine
experience of placebo dyslexia,
the one on the other side: should i have written
zilch...
      i believe in something quiet Canadian...
i don't believe in isolated communities,
   or ghetto tactic... i am a firm disciple of the advent
of bilingualism: forget the *** for just one day,
your genitals won't suddenly drop off with
gangrene scabs... you don't need a doctor
to say that...
                i mean: bilingualism as a concern
for incorporated culture, and the culture you were
born in... why can't these people just care to juggle
three testicles?
                   oh, elaphantisis got in the way...
sure, two oranges and a watermelon: makes sense...
no!
      have mutual respect, you come to me sprechen
Piast i'll speak Piast to you...
   well: given that polish and polish aren't that far apart,
i'd feel inclined to utilise
           idiosyncratic lingo...
   lingua genesis...
                children are so much easier to utilise than
angels: they have yet to experience anything at all
on the Socratic basis...
            so if i talk Piast to me, you will know what
i'm talking about?
     it doesn't matter if you do... i chose to be
a library, rather than an encyclopoedia of immigrants...
    there's not need to test me on general knowledge:
the stuff i "know" already gives me membrane...
     i respect both the culture of my birth and the skin
i am sometimes told to make sure is called tattoo,
and what i see before me, and quiet frankly:
i see nothing before me... a turban here,
    a sausage & mash there, a pint of guinness there,
noodles elsewhere... all in all: globalisation
and the elements: earthquakes... torandos...
   there isn't much to see in a poly-ethnic society...
there are too many major changes taking place
in a pyramid of non-ethnic ascriptive
         non-this-and-that pawns...
  it's not even painful: just a bit disgusting to watch...
  and yes i have access to a voult of monochromatic
society:
   you know how many ethnic minorities i spotted
in a train station in Warsaw? three...
two asians and one black woman...
              i haven't experienced the cold winters in Poland:
but i knew there was a limit...
         only about three apaches in a crowd of
albinos... which doesn't translate as:
    i was somehow content, it just meant
that most signs in Warsaw are written with a bilingual
bridge of Polish... and Ukranian Cyrillic...
plenty of Ukranian Mecca-bandits, for sure,
     but that's the end of the line with what
western Europe is doing to itself...
        every time i come back from Poland
i'm smeared with a rainbow of variety,
   it's either: i want to **** all these girlies
or i want to **** them... mostly the former,
  but you get the picture of experiencing the alternative
of the western experiment: since marxist economy
was "doomed" or simply expected to fail...
the economy finally seems reasonable with safety
for the old and the pension plans...
that marxist-culturalism had to emerge... if we are not
on the same dough plan of being content with a table and
a chair: might as well say we're all prone to don
a ******* afro.
                ***** are naturally curly, no?
going back "home" is always a weird experience, i tend
to read books there... like Kraszewski (who,
even the locals **** as being an unbearable bore
and joke that Joyce is easier read)... with his dei ire...
my grandfather just dropped it into my hands
as an experiment, thinking i wouldn't read it...
    well, in terms of translation Kraszewski is a myth-broker...
no one would read him,
  meaning: i'm kind of grateful that poles
seem to sorta: not exist, when it comes to citing examples
that include modernity and the history being
formed... i could sorta believe it if i were Estonian
or Lithuanian, or from Liechtenstein...
          but we're talking about a place with a large
enough population to be a major player in some
wordly conflict... Poland isn't that small...
    but yet it appears like it appeared from
the 18th century onwards... a state partitioned...
    and what i love about remaining tactifully bilingual?
i can talk about my native in a "colonial" tongue...
hence the " " definition: self-acquired...
             that's why i became spastic-fantastic reading
Kraszewski's rex piast - nothing came in,
i lost all trace of syllable construction, i read the books
so slowly i had one page done in about 10 minutes:
prolonging my musing of world powers, thrones
and crowns on a toilet...
        *******... another interlude.

can anyone see the, dodo project? i really just see a dodo project, yes: eine dodo projekt... i'm white, i'm male: can i be allowed to express these nouns in a pronoun, or am i schizophrenic prone? it seems i c

I wove my own web and netted my prize,
I cold-pressed my words and refined my disguise.

I goggled at life and faced up to that book,
I tumbled and tweeted and baited my hook.

I blipped and I blogged, I bantered and blushed,
I followed and friended, I grovelled and gushed.

I doled out the instant, ten grams at a time,
To fuel my addiction for caffeine and rhyme.

I reshopped my pic, I swiped left, I swiped right,
I pinned and I posted deep into the night.

I gloated and gossiped, I chatted and cheered,
I logged in and logged out without favour or fear.

For is it not fun - this mad media storm?
Viewing and voting from dusk until dawn.

Yet love me or like me, let it never be said,
That despite how it seems, it’s gone to my head.

Congrats! Your thin!
Go home and grin,
Freely roam
Atone
Forget former days
And steak fillets
Still a fake
Just now tame when you're next to a cake
Though still completely the same
Which is really quite the shame
So you went for fame
To make a name
Grovelled to beg
Upon a bold mans leg
Only to be told
You were far too old
You go back home,
Alone.
Eat heavy scones,
The belt line becomes blown
Up
About the time you buy a pup
Who'll be drinking next to you from a cup
As the two watch TV,
Never to flee.
Finish alone
Pup soon outgrown.
Never leave the home,
Or hear a ringing phone.
But at least you're now a size three
Eating no more than a cup of tea
People really respond to that
whole notion of not being fat

Grey whistles spoke shrilly
Of wishes never seen
As I sought a hobby that ne'er
Grovelled to'r machine
I saw those moor harpies asleep in their crow
There was a sentence lying dormant in me

Without much more than history lessons
To go forth was a hefty sentence
Making conversation pieces
Of the rocks I met along the way
And I hoped that one day I might
Be there for the rise
And fall of 10p states

To sentence them to mutiny
Silly, shrilly and ne'er hopeful
But at least not airborne, at least rooted
In hobbies gainst the machine
What a terrible lot, indeed
What a lot of terrible days

Ah, well
At the running track I feel
The sentence dormant in me
Bolt upright, turning the grey
On its head, as harpies fall
Into the earth and the stars come down for me

And up the hill we climbed
A singin' and a swingin'
But they switched off the stars
So we stumbled and grovelled.

Dishes to ashes
Lust to dust
And we all fall down.

Eyes glaring the unbounded horizon,
Lying on the ground baffled with a hunch.
Asking myself what could be my purpose, the reason of my subsistence?
For decades I have scoured this Earth for answers.

Got lost in words, nerves cracking, knees shaking, teeth chattering.
In the calmness of the night, I lay on this cold hard ground.
Right before my eyes, vast of darkness swift into infinity.
Numbness grovelled into my anatomy, clobbered cold as death with this idiocrasy.

Trying to break the silence, to bail out from the fact of existence.
Depart secretly across dimensions, abscond all the recollections.
Turning back time can be option, yet puzzled who will do this notion?
Pieces aren't yet gathered and this voyage ain't over, I took a glimpse on the mirror and saw a stranger full of queries that needs answer.

A CHAIR IN THE SKY

But now--Manhattan holds me
To a chair in the sky
With the bird in my ears
And boats in my eyes
Going by

Joni Mitchell -  A Chair in the Sky from her 1979 Mingus album

**

I break cleanly through the dream
gasping for morning
"Well, hello there!" smiles the newest day

I still had memories
clasped in my hand
but they lost their lustre  in the light

"Glad to have you back with us!"
shouted the room a little too loudly
and the furniture agreed wholeheartedly

they needed a human
to give them a purpose
otherwise they were just pieces of wood

sunlight grovelled
fawning at my feet
licking the tips of my toes

the window had arranged
trees and flowers and fields
to prove the existence of a world

the curtains breathed in then
out again
the lungs of the room

I gathered myself together
put on my Past...searching for my Present
"Now where did I put my Future?"

"Read me...read me!"
a dog-eared book demanded
barking page 69 all the time

"Shut it!" I told it
shutting it
it falling silent

soon the morning came
fully into being
"How do you do?" it enquired politely

"Fine..." I lied "Fine!"
now where the hell
did I leave my mind

I found it under
some dried up dreams
that had escaped from sleep

my mind was a little rusty
but still worked
even if a little slowly

"Ok...ok!" shouted the day
"Let's get this
existence on the road!"

"Do you have to shout..?" I moaned
"No..." it whispered
"...but can we get on with it!"

Reality is...I thought
a foreign country
they do things differently there.

You were the limb that I longed for
A piece of soul I fell hard for
But in the end you selfish and cold
Made me twist my fingers to cut at the wrist
Cut of that much loved part of me I thought Had made me all complete

And I thought I was the *****
But I was pulling the stitch that you had sewn before the cloth was washed
matched and measured fit

All I wanted was for you to keep going
Sewing the stitch consistent and bliss until we could wash and measure it
No change of seam from you to me we would be one in synchrony
But you would barely defend that you were my friend and danced around something more
From my compassion I thought it was a lashing to tell you what to do with me
I hate begging a friend to love and mend my self as I would more than do for them
Funny I begged
I never would pledge my knees to the ground
But I grovelled in gravel under your hands that refused to lift me up
Where some how too busy to simply pull out the friend from meeting a blue end or a self drawn tragedy
Instead you let me grab your feet while you never moved a peep to realise you were never standing there
False stating your stance while you go and dance among other worthy subjects
So I let go each digit hoping you would still come as I could hear your voice in the distance.
My knees bleed on the floor and friends come out to draw a cloth and help me
I was unknown of the red because my eyes were bowed as my head begging a man who was never there
So sad to hear and gloomy to know
All because I fell in love with a boy

.honestly: i can understand h. p. lovecraft's racism: and i do not wish to counter it; i have the ambition of clarity and the: should i pry open his esse, and find his excrement of worth... i too would forget myself in having acquired a vibration of the worth of a hum.

you'd be right in assuming that
i "feel" / "think"
it a, disparity
to congest myself with
racial realism,
  that: some outer-noun
need to keep intact my
source of vocab.,
& subsequent utility...

          i'm not more white
than i am... piglet:
shy off pink,
   in that: came the pigs
to the slaughter,
and they grovelled,
and made their snouts
pronounced;
came the sheep
  like pacifist centrists
and...

they ended up
reiventing the leash
for their women...

sure:
we can abstract
a man with a loss of
                 outer-noun
  "attaché" scoops...

but... being taught
pan-grammatical terms
with nothing to
cleave to?

           oh the anglo-saxon,
sure: yes sir, superior:
sorry for the paranoia
and: whatever came from
the Warsaw Pact...

but... please...
you **** around with
the grammar,
the "underwear" of a tongue...
i know this is
an old and stale topic...

but unless it's
not eradicated:
it's... live...

                   what wasn't
scented candles doing
the ugly arithmetic of:

1. *******,
   2. taking a **** &
   3. jerking off

on the throne of thrones...

i'll just leave myself
become suspect in
memory:

tool, concert, glasgow...
water was being distributed
to a thirsty clot
of a dancing maggot-esque
frenzy...
       kissing a german
girl...
      kissing a german girl...

how the **** was
i ever dragged into this
pan-grammatical ******
fugaßi: i will never know...

race realism / infantalism
was one way to loot
from the aspect of:
making narrative...

but an attack on grammar?
this is such
a trivial subject matter
that... it either
requires a compensation
of reiteration or...

               finding
karl diebitsch,
                  walter heck
in each and every word
in between...

    oh but i have a past...
an ugly and an
unfathomable past...

         and it even isn't
my own...
  acquired:
  like this tongue...

but in England
i do not find myself
as comfortable
as an Afghani
                     migrant...

could i ever be
a home-grown
terrorist....

                 i could be...
but: oh the succinct list
of reasons...

       i forgot what race
realists i was not
supposed to be...
at exactly the same time,
that grammar was
attacked...

              i could have forgotten
the basic list of nouns...
become the basic:
ulterior man...
had not grammar become
subject to...
                1 = 10...
                      i could have
made myself ally to
the anglo-saxon -fathomable-
of language-in-abstract...
                      
      & towing "a man"...

             but this... trivial:
observation...
  this... scoop of dirt from
a broom's worth of
sweeping...

               pedant:
i can't forget this,
or let this pass smoothly along
a rite for the dead
in the sanctity of
                         the Ganges...

EMOJI is one thing...
this is another...
      and i pry open the hope
that...
first the politicians
were not believed,
then the journalists
were not believed...

  that... this never
be allowed a public spectacle
of: a required number
to allow:
paying attention to
all / if any comments.

A CHAIR IN THE SKY

But now--Manhattan holds me
To a chair in the sky
With the bird in my ears
And boats in my eyes
Going by

Joni Mitchell -  A Chair in the Sky

**

I break cleanly through the dream
gasping for morning
"Well, hello there!" smiles the newest day

I still had memories
clasped in my hand
but they lost their lustre  in the light

"Glad to have you back with us!"
shouted the room a little too loudly
and the furniture agreed wholeheartedly

they needed a human
to give them a purpose
otherwise they were just pieces of wood

sunlight grovelled
fawning at my feet
licking the tips of my toes

the window had arranged
trees and flowers and fields
to prove the existence of a world

the curtains breathed in then
out again
the lungs of the room

I gathered myself together
put on my Past...searching for my Present
"Now where did I put my Future?"

"Read me...read me!"
a dog-eared book demanded
barking page 69 all the time

"Shut it!" I told it
shutting it
it falling silent

soon the morning came
fully into being
"How do you do?" it enquired politely

"Fine..." I lied "Fine!"
now where the hell
did I leave my mind

I found it under
some dried up dreams
that had escaped from sleep

my mind was a little rusty
but still worked
even if a little slowly

"Ok...ok!" shouted the day
"Let's get this
existence on the road!"

"Do you have to shout..?" I moaned
"No..." it whispered
"...but can we get on with it!"

Reality is...I thought
a foreign country
they do things differently there.

the ladder is just a make thing; i will just have it
presently in the garden while another is started
of twigs

if google has saved the image now
i will send it

in my mind i know others have done such things
each one comes different

if only all will understand that we are all different
and that is fine

the leaves became the trees and decided to stay
as minimal
on the same paper
as before

i understand your excitement
for i feel that i should be so
with maybe added trepidation
at the mechanics

of that and all things

i have a project under the hedge
grovelled about there yesterday

now have so much ******* need to
burn a fire
before

i clear much more

sixty is a good number
to be added and divided

so i hope the day comes good
even better than yesterday james

Now, he ended up on an island. Was he alone? You bet. An island in a city, an ocean, a desert.
Every once in a while someone came by or he met this someone and they formed a twosome.
On a Monday some flotsam carried in Man Monday.
He showed him how to contemplate the moon, sit still, wait till the sunlight shone around and in him. And with the sun Man Monday disappeared.
On a Tuesday who walked up but Man Tuesday.
This guy was service personified. He saw to his every need and wakened an urge in him to serve himself. So he kicked him out, with many thanks.
On a Wednesday in came lively Man Wednesday. What entertainment, philosophical conversation. Like, see that sand castle? That’s a mirage. True, but wait till it rains, it’ll be hell-to-shelter. At that point Man Wednesday’s course had run it’s course.
On a Thursday in parachuted Man Thursday. Now, this how you make a fire. For roasting and warming. Good, let’s cook because it’s warm enough here. After the meal Man Thursday rocketed off back to the skies.
On a Friday in crusoed Man Friday. From an earlier story he knew this one was as loving as he was silent. Smile, big brown eyes, was all he communicated. And his silence was warm and cold, sweat and shiver. Like a fever. One day he canoed off to his own island.
On a Saturday slowly Man Saturday emerged. Together they grovelled and toiled. Things fell apart, they learned patience and resilience. Man Saturday was slow to leave, there was no hurrying him.
On a Sunday in marched Man Sunday. The party began, music and dance. All in worship of the Copper Cudgel, the Sacred Scorcher, the Friendly Furnace. And left him with the debris.
And who came by the next day?
Man Tomorrow. All open space, 360 degrees view, that’s what he had to offer.
Anything can happen
Anyone can come by
Anywhere you find without looking
Anyhow something shows
Anyway….. well, he goes without saying.