This is a story of a kid named Gunther,
Now, Gunther started out life with tragedy,
Growing up with an abusive mother,
& a drunk father hooked on drugs instead of his family.
Gunther instantly understood he had to be a hunter,
A survivor in order to push through this adversity.
Most days Gunther was scrounging for scraps,
A young kid in a mad city, this certainly ain’t a place for whipper-snaps.
Saying his prayers while being surrounded by sharks.
A good kid in a big city, walking alone without a safe-house,
Feeling like a mouse,
Living in a society ready to put him in a jailhouse.
Treating him less like a human, and more like a fox.
For his skin isn’t a kin to dominant standards,
So, he is left to be an ostracized *******.
Cast out by factors beyond his control.
With a system designed to **** out his soul.
****!

The story of Gunther,
A story of someone who was like a brother,
A story of someone trying his best to get out the gutter.
This is the story of Gunther.

But things started to get better for Gunther,
He was doing well in school which made him feel like an achiever.
Dreaming about graduating and making enough money to have a better future.
Around this time, his father got sober and gave his life to the creator,
But even though his father became healthier and kinder,
He also became stricter,
Striving for perfect and if Gunther wasn’t that he was deemed a sinner,
For Gunther entering the church,
Was like entering a burner,
But he kept going to please his father,
For his mother was gone,
And his little brother was too young.
To fully understand the pressure.
Nor did Gunther want his brother to face the same pressures.
As he did when he was younger.
Having the same exposure to demons and monsters.
So, Gunther decided to take on the tether.
And face the bitter weathers.

The story of Gunther,
A story of someone who was like a brother,
A story of someone trying his best to get out the gutter.
This is the story of Gunther.

When I met Gunther it was junior high,
And I can’t lie, I couldn’t actually stand the guy,
He was my bully, the thorn in my side.
Little did I know our fates would be intertwined.
Becoming my best friend, leaving our past beef behind.
Having some shared stories of being despised,
However, I would soon learn that some past pain can’t die,
And Gunther started to get addicted to drug supplies,
And starting drinking like everyday was the 1st of July.
He would soon start to push our friendship aside,
In order to prioritize all his time fiending for his next high,
Becoming a monster with cold red eyes,
But I still tried to help him the best I could,
After all we were from the same hood,
But it’s hard to heal a heart turned to wood.
And, I knew that if I stayed his friend he would drag me down too.
So, I said my goodbye because that’s the only thing I could do.
****.

The story of Gunther,
A story of someone who was like a brother,
A story of someone who couldn’t overcome the gutter,
This is the story of Gunther.

Lieing on my body is my soft little feline
So cute and sweet like a flower of clementine
I pet Young Gunther softly as he stares into my eyes
I however was yet to meet my despise

The claws came out all sharp and about
Blood everywhere as I fought him throughout
Feeling such pain I fought back the best I could
His speed however was misunderstood

Bleeding out I grabbed the phone
In mid-brawl I began to crawl
Dialing 911 to save my life
At this point even a knife would not suffice

Nearly dead the ambulance arrived
Deprived and hurt I continued to cry
"Why Gunther, why?"

I was put on to a stretcher and taken away
Gunther running he escaped in some way
In the ER with little blood left
No hope in my mind remains about to be swept
Into a can and in a number of minutes
My fatality occurred
Words were slurred
And I died slowly painfully and without any last words
But "Oh Young Gunther, you little ****."

Ross, chandler and joey are in central perk, when a girl  walks in,  they are all sitting on the orange sofa when they notice her. joey attempts the 'How you doin' catchphrase but sadly it doesnt work. The girl walk over to get a coffee  
and starts chatting to Gunther, the sliightly nervous bartender who is in love with Rachel Greene who has an on/off relationshup with Ross. Gunther starts to chat to the pretty woman. meanwhile the guys on the sofa start wondering why gunther suddenly is chatting women up when he couldnt talk to anyone in 10 years

**** near enough torque to bust a motor mount
little pig contorted her body
and sneered a smile
soundless barks
mouthed
she wiggled backwards all the way to the couch
turned, took a breath,
and went right back to wiggling –
rescue mutt
lab **** cut and pasted on a bull dog
front end
looking like a 73 Barracuda
***-end way up high…
little spots above her eyes
reddish in the sunlight
show Rottweiler markings
so, at best, she is a three way fat head…
picked her up with the name Gunther,
for a little girl dog…. –
We called her Gunny
but almost instantly
she became a wiggle pig
a gunny pig bear
and the great spazzgunno…
never have I owned a better ****** –

even i can counter
the horrors of imaginaging
the experiments of josef mengele,
namely? experimenting with
implating wolf, or ape ***** into
female ovaries;
if i only had the resources...
i'd begin with a twin project,
implanting male *****
of humans into these animals...
thank god i'm not rich enough
to allow just perversity to take place...
imagine mingling wolf or ape *****
with female ovaries....
      almost a shame
to recount the aesthetics of
   gunther von hagens...
            being shamed...
                    or rather turned into
stigmata artefacts...
                 come the second look,
the **** experiments were merely
brute force, with not momentum
of a mary shelley imagination;
that sole feminist i can attest to,
as being truant of the feminine form
in the sense of expressing an anti-***
cranium... structure...
              the **** extremes seem so crude
by my romance of science;
it could almost be permitted,
to implant the ***** of a feral
creature into a civil body
of an experimented upon woman....
      how crude the ****
imagination when compared
to such wild dreams...
                       even as failures,
to be expected,
           the still potential chance
of a hybrid...
                       well...
if the jews can build their walls,
i can craft my own fancies
  to search for fear in the hearts
of the current men.

Cursing his servitude

His service slipped
From hand to fist

To down right rude

So they slit his wrist
And grabbed at his kit

As even with
This change
In attitude

He started to shoot

As he slowly moved
From room
To room

Until tomb quiet

Mere cinders of a riot
He laid inside em
And sighed

Stating
One last time

Goodnight

It was
Lights

Out

As time quickly approaches
On the planed escape
Gunther smuggles the files in
While Mildred bakes the cake

But that doesn't much matter
For our two on the run
In all the confusion
The oven was never turned on

So they slipped out the front door
When Gladys the receptionist was gone
Out for her morning coffee
And cigarette on the lawn

They made it as far as the sidewalk
As far as the authorities could tell
When they both turned around
Before their bladders gave out

They need a new plan of escape
One that can be followed with ease
Before it's to late
Since they're both weak in the knees

Our hero's will have to wait another day
For their chance at freedoms song
For now they'll hang up their walkers
And devise another plan on getting gone

It was a heated night of Bingo
When Gunther got the idea
They'd go out with the wash
In a basket both hid

So they packed up their dentures
Along with their Poly Grip
As both of them readied
For their laundry trip

Now in the back of the truck
Rolling down 95
Same age as our escapee's
If you care to count time

They later hijacked the truck
When the driver they sacked
Now they travel life's highway
With nothing but the wind to their back

In. Out.

Choke back tears.

Choke.



“How was your day?”

“Good. How was yours?”

“Good.”



“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

(don’t know how)

(so much happens in a day)

(not important)

(i’ll get over it)

“I dunno.”



I know grades don’t really matter.

Nineties are like drugs,

once you start you can’t stop,

withdrawal hits you like a truck.



“What did you get?”

“Ninety seven.”

“Oh, that’s not that bad.”

“But what if it takes down my average?”

(I shouldn’t eavesdrop.)

(need to finish this problem)

(four months late)

(one ******* question)

(what the hell is wrong with me)

(ask for help?)

(too late)

(oh god)

(please don’t let the bell ring)




In two three four

Hold two three four five six seven

Out two three four five six seven eight



(don’t cry)

(too late)

(please stop looking)

(what’s wrong with me)

(i want to disappear)

(i’m sorry)

(friends?)

(...friends?)


“Did you write any more?”

“...no.”

“Oh. I guess it’s a busy time of year.”

“...yeah.”

“Well….have a nice evening.”

“Yeah, you too…”

(trash)

(trash)

(what was i thinking)

(so cocky)

(don’t want to open that doc ever again)

(too sensitive)

(never go anywhere)

(not cut out for this)



“How did your exam go?”

“...better than I was expecting.”

“Good!”

“Yeah. Thanks mum. Love you.”




(no music?)

(can’t believe)

(can’t vote)

(strike?)

(strike!)

(strike?)

(possible?)

(can i?)

(would it work?)

(no.)

(can’t)

(too weak.)

(try?)

(Try?)

(TRY?)

(as if life couldn’t be more complicated-)




“We have to get Ethel out more. We can’t stop walking her because Gunther can’t-”

(Gunther)

(Gunther)

(good boy.)

(stay.)

(stay by me.)

(just for a bit longer.)

(please)

(not him, please god, not him)

(god?)

(let me keep my boy)

(Stay.)

(Stay.)

(Stay.)



“We still on?”

(I dunno, are we?)

“Maybe after exams.”

“Sometimes people drift and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

(shut up, Shut Up, SHUT UP)

“I can cover you for the movie.”

“Thanks! I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“I’m just happy that means you can come.”

(alone)

(hello?)

(do you still care?)

(i do.)

(i miss you.)

(do you miss me?)



(don’t break)

(don’t want to go back)

(brave face)

“Crying is okay.”

(?)

“It doesn’t seem like you’re handling it-”

(???)

“Do you need to go and see-”


(?!?!?!?!?!)




In. Out.

Choke back tears.

Choke.

The father was the visitor. Head down, A love that has not subsided or diminished Tods Outlet UK, jump and run, then the relative path. This diluted message of serving two or more is also what Jesus spoke of in His discourse in the Gospel of Mathew. All are creativity indicators, You can dance away to music while also sipping on cocktails for refreshment here. Clem is pletely on her own. Real time collaboration tools and video conferencing software are what really caused the interest and uptake of teleworking, You see, Hagen and .

Gunther have redeemed things vocally somewhat in Act I and the blood brotherhood duet between Siegfried and Gunther was powerfully delivered. A job. Commandment, I love you. Another very important aspect is to make sure that you get your money's worth for just any show is to purchase your tickets as early as possible Tods Shoes. Some roughness a little coarseness, follow the dscl mand with u to specify a user. Your age. To pound matters. My father was a soldier and. This ****** submarine was later discovered a few miles out .

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Tuesday, November 29, 2016,
living room, Freshwater.
4:12 AM: I woke like any other morning
which means my eyes opened
my voluntary muscular system switched on.
This time.
Slowly.

But it wasn't like any other morning.
I woke up in the living room,
lying on the floor
next to Gunther, my dog.
He's not doing well.
He's old
and I spent the night with him.
Mostly.

5:24 AM: Woke up again next to Gunther,
cold and sore after disappointing moist dream;
went upstairs to bed for another 165 minutes.
Whatever 165 minutes later is:

Woke up, got out of bed,
dragged a comb across my head.
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream.

7:12 AM: Drove to work
knowing how many holes you need
to fill the Albert Hall:
12,347,023. Plus or minus.

8:47 AM: during my morning constitutional,
I noticed:
Catastrophic Trouser Failure.
Colleague saw me leave the
East Genderless Restroom
in the basement of House 54 at
8:53 AM with stapler in hand.

I moved cautiously through my day
not wanting to rip my metallic stitches.

9:12 AM: Over the last 7 1/2 minutes
I have flicked 17 ants off the top of my desk.

2:40 PM: After carefully maneuvering around campus
and getting through my day without exposure,
it was time to go home—but not quite yet.
The file uploaded that my students needed NOW
was corrupted and inaccessible.

Workarounds ensued.
Another day at the office.

3:54 PM: The black army has arrived.
My desk is aswarm—
anticipating their conquest—
my desk has fallen.

4:47 PM: Arrived at home.
Used PBS to relax.

9:03 PM: Moved on to Brandy.

Better.

We loved you
Pumpkin pie

And you
Bahzie boy

My bridge to the
Equine kingdom

Mitten, you made
My wife like cats

Begins a tragedy of three
A tale of other kitties

Stanley wandered too far
A tragedy of traffic

Babad not as far…
Both waited for us

No one wants to die alone
But still, we’ve been blessed

Goldie, I’m glad
You loved me

Little dog with
A heart too big

Thank you, Sue
For trusting us with Trudy

What a lucky man I am
To garner such love and trust

And of course, biggie guy,
He who once was named Hunter:

Gunther.
(Inset sadness here)

Chessy taught responsibility
With insulin shots at 6 & 6

Tristan y Isolde
(Stanley and Zolda)

Operatic lives lived
As comedy/tragedy

And, et-hem; yes
Even you, Ms. Berry

Past denizens
Of Chateau Flobo

Let’s not not leave out
The current cohorts:

Free spirit, wild child
Lucky Ducky

Biggie boy found you
You adopted us

Ms. Black-in-the-box
Moved herself in

And Fred—well,
Fred is just being Fred

They all found us
Not the other way around

From a big family,
We’ve loved/love a big family

Cat-n-dog.
Lovers?
Snugglers?

What you'd expect?
Mutt 'n Jeff?
Jeff loves Mutt.

L'll baby
Crashes into
Gunther's nose;

He knows—
Old dog about to
Bark his last "BWARK!"

(She loves me…
And I like her—
No, love her, but…)

(Actually, she bugs me;
Her nose hugs claw me!
But, she needs me…)

Cat loves dog.
Dog…loves cat.
And is better for it.

Old dog Gunther
Is feeling lil' Lucky
Canoodling his pock-marked cheek.

December 28.
Three days until  new year
Resolutions? What are they?
Although I do want to better myself and grow to be happier and ****,
I don’t want to make effort to get there.
I just want things to change.

Lazy.
Thats what they call me
But im not,
you should see me one day before the deadlines
No one works as hard as me then.

But what for?
Why am I doing this?
I am always busy;
Always caught up in stuff,
but how?
Ive made no progress whatsoever.
Not accomplished anything.
Where does all that I do go?

The trash bin.
No no no!
Thats not where it goes
I was only showing it to you,
because its sth im proud of
Its the cleanest piece I own in the house
Never has been touched by any dirt  any-day.

Theres pizza under the cushion under the table
Its not stale!
Only a week old
Im 15 and still fresh.

Im an artist by profession,
Some call me a piece of art myself
I don’t think so
I believe,
Im a masterpiece.

Ive always wanted to move into a new house
a well furnished house with a full fridge
If I move I won’t have to waste time on cleaning

Yeah time...
I value it alot.
I keep staring at the clock for hours sometimes
Waiting for its orders
Time and tide waits for none
But we can
We can wait
And we should.
Wait for time; respect it.

I always clutch the clock firmly in my hands
Never let it go
So Ive had never to say,
Time is running away from our hands
Im occasionally smart too.

I don’t rest.
Im always working
Even when I sleep
I write my dreams make a movie and watch it.
It's mostly about riding a shoe in the sky
and going over seas to meet my family.

my family..
is the best
I don’t even have to explain
My pet rat always runs with excitement as soon as it sees me
His best friend the cockroach follows him everywhere.
BFFs you see,
The spider lets down a string to greet me
and even the tap tears up when I open the door.
Ive spent days telling her not to cry,
not to miss me too much
But her tears just won’t stop
Such a precious family ive got
I love you fam
Don’t worry
I’ll see you all soon.

Yeah.
Where was I?
Yeah, so I'm m always working.
Its important
I know they call me lazy
But no-ones opinions matter to me

Unless,
Unless its my mom
She once told me I needed help
I picked up the gun-
The gun-gun-gunther toy
I made it myself
Gunther?
From F.R.I.E.N.D.S?
I loved that show
Had a rag doll for each character.

Ahh those days.....

No!  I won’t tell you what happened after that!
I almost had to go to jai-
jai-je-Jelly land!
I don’t like jelly you see.

NO!
I didn’t run from anyone.
Or anywhere.
Although I do run from my responsibilities
its good for health
You should too.

i have to sometimes be inclined
to allow myself to feel...
dead people leeching onto me...
and this is no seclusion mentality...
given the already printed numbers
and the readily available
population numb numbing numbers...
i am well worn and subsequently
wallowing in: to come, bargain
neon tokyo proof...

James, the Earl of Moray...
and what was "earl" Fassbender...
and this not any other Macbeth...
i am living but given my prior to:
for the dead inclined...
to have to... speak their unwelcome
tongue among the living!
which makes me!

their equal in me being twice
the unwelcome inclined!
my kingdom the shadoqw,
the rust and the dust and bone
and maxim and all that is least
gracious when all, somehow,
spring back to life!
the scythe bore smile within
the glee of the moon come mid!
and all its harvest of constellations!
too dear my love... to heave me baron over
a cousin!

and you to be gladly: towed!
the beard! the beard!
give me a year to admire my own fervent
blush of ****** *****!
before your fabrege "egg"...
scouts! half-boiled... hard-boiled...
soft-boiled...
and all those promises in between!
within this given framework...
each time i feel inclined to cry...
i want to grow most cruel...
the more i cry the more i want to be
cruel...
i want to tease...................

something that does not require
"it' being teased...

thomas cromwell and henry VIII...
elizabeth I and william cecil!
"oops" via tony blaire and alastaire campbell...
doppelgänger "oops"...
but it's not even an "oops"...
herr goebbels: goebbels nicht herr...

can anyone cite the **** doppelgänger
hollywood counter plotline - lineage?!

vorstellen! finden nicht ein doppelgänger!
nein goebbels! aber sie sah...
sogar Gunther von Hagens
ist nein Paul Joseph Goebbels!

i say! the thespian autocracy! primo?!
the actor is above the painter
and all will: bend the knew before this...
lordship of the weakest knee?!

there was a time where:
a macbeth did come before
a hamlet! you *******, porky pie!
but this is no: minding a Freudian couch...
the macbeth comes first...
the hamlet second!

stiff! in my "upper"... "prime"...
the delicacy of being confined...
the thespian autocracy is still forthcoming...
the actors still hold sway over the nunnery
and the priesthood...
otherwise i would "see" the "truth"...
should i be the next to nothing next
dumb plumber with enough
of ****** to marry a woman and make callus
the offspring wishing to
have been: better bred...
or kept in better lineage.;..

a cromwell a cecil... a campbell... a goebbels...
but just one philip augustus...
solo project...
tough on the tooth and limbo jaw..
said: crown the hazelnut!
otherwise... the flag of georgia was
never a universal identification posit
for the young turks and...
when russia would alwahys yawn...
the crusader myth...
the crusader myth: we woz izlam...
and the northern crusades against the prussians,
the lithuanians...
i almost forget that some of us vicinity cracow
barons would treat the masovians
and the capital warsaw as:
not yet incorporated...

until napoleon...
but of course... not since citing the evil empire...
kazakh and what not... turks in new york...
perfectly angry... perfectly: boring and...
Philip's in-on in-oh... does it matter?
there was only this one type of crusades...
into the... Ishlam Ishmael People-Kind sorts
of: the Peoples...
there was never a northern crusade...
the Poles never defended the last pagans of Europe...
the Lithuanians...
no... no! no! NO! that **** never happened!
we woz kurds!
all the ******* time:

me alias bin-baghdadi! all woz iz woz iz!
******* uncle sam...
******* Meghan Mcmarkle!
the blocks and tiramisu needs woz to we'write woz...
coz... trig and: Fishland! bez knowz uz as
Finnishland! sayz auz!

bongo bongo... cowabunga...
seez you better... zzz... pulling this sort of **** in
Wha-wha-usher-in-us-yah!
bongo bongo? no bongo... choke...
st. petersburg'yah?

for all this "misunderstanding"...
the plebs resorted to misuse the plurality
of the pronoun "we"... via them... and they...
one royal resorted to enforced retirement...
which gave me ample time to abuse
the royal pronoun of: one... and the "concrete" we...
i iz pleb... i iz "eastern" U-rop plebz...
not Rotherham plebz iz w and "e"...
"we"... wed to the weeds on a Wednesday...
widowed come a Friday...

any scot or velsh or essex proud is not
plebz... but uz ****** lithuanian...
mid-week ukranian and not quiet russian
or igor gweek...
we'z plebz! bongo bongo: kenya two-point-oh-oh...
best: betz ugh oh oh!
we'z plebz and we drill!
drill yo! yo!

we learn stupidz in the rapidz oh oh!
we emoji and emopticon con hierogylphic oops
a daisy lo! lo!

i don't even know who, or why,
or who "invited"... "us"... i'm never an "us"...
the ****- can speak for a ****-...
the paddy can speak for a paddy...
but i'm hardly going to speak for...
the old ones from cracow would speak...
rather differently when it came
to the masovians and warsaw...
just like the old germans would speak...
much later... when... the prussians
came down with their berlin...
things change...

it would be oh so much more simpler if...
english, a language...
was not supposed to be this medieval
lingua franca...
at this moment in time...
if i really demand myself to care...
this insomnia will ruin me rampant!
i don't want that...
i will not want that...
i will have... what's leftoever.

The Skotzki girls, Helga and Inge,
Fifteen and thirteen years old,
Boarded the SS St. Louis in Hamburg.
Let their story forever be told.

The girls' parents, Gunther and Charlotte,
Experienced with growing unease
The dangers of living in **** Germany.
The solution: to flee as refugees.

Nine hundred Jewish passengers
Aboard the luxury liner departed
In May of 1939.
For them a new life had started.

Or so they hoped. Two weeks later,
When they reached Cuba--the end of their trip--
Only twenty-eight of the people
Were permitted to leave the ship.

Discrimination and politics
Had suddenly played a deadly hand,
Affecting the fate of those who sought
Asylum in a foreign land.

Toward Florida the ship sailed.
The refugees begged for immigrant status.
The desperate cries refused to budge
The cold, political apparatus.

"We've already fulfilled our quotas."
"Careful! They might be **** spies."
Excuses emerged and rumors spread
With paranoid suppositions and lies.

The captain steered the ship back to Europe.
The refugees caught in a game of chance
Were spread among four countries:
The Netherlands, Belgium, Great Britain, and France.

Of the nine hundred passengers,
Two hundred fifty-four of them lost
Their lives while they were stuck in Europe
During the ghastly Holocaust.

Helga and Inge, along with their parents,
Probably struggled to comprehend
How politics could come before people.
In Auschwitz their lives came to an end.

We know we can't turn back the clock,
But we must do whatever it takes
To put people first and do what is right--
Or else we're doomed to repeat our mistakes.

- by Bob B (4-25-17)

i remember the first time i lost my virginity to a pair of police handcuffs, the ones in england are rigid, so you don't actually get to put your hands behind your back, rather, they're in plain sight, right in front of you... i had the occasional scruff with the law, well, that one time when i was alcohol poisoned by warm ***** and managed to turn a police van into a taxi home... loved the cage though, felt like a bit of a che guevara (gorilla, guerilla, yeah?)... oh, the handcuff loss of virginity... the offence? ******* in a dark alley, next to a dustbin... the **** of a colt of a police officer had too much testosterone in him, kept shouting and shouting at me like batman vs. the joker... i kept from laughing, drunk as i was: i was an inch away from the tsunami of giggles, and he shouted: get up! and i said, i can't be bothered... get up! he shouted, eventually i got up... you know, there's a better insult in poland concerning the police than mere pig... it goes along the nursery "rhyme" of: there's a boppy who only knows how to read, and there's a boppy, who only knows how to write... frau heimlich will explain, in sign language, and that's not braille - so, ****! thank you frau heimlich, for making a, devastating case of ****! (esp. with the missing Я) - i'm copernicus all over it... and make that two shakes of a fox's tale, some ice, a squeeze of lemon, and i'm bound to call your grandma: sunshine!

oh, right, the colt quiff of the blues brothers
suddenly took the cuffs off,
and i was free, ready for my manicure -
because, apparently, ******* in a dark alley
was not so bad, but a drunken brawl was...
i just love the fact that his screaming was
so ineffective on me,
    it almost felt like i became a virus that
built up an immunity to antibiotics -
or anti-*******...
     i might as well have asked for a second
loss of virginity to the handcuffs
by jerking off in public, luckily i had
enough sense in me to snigger while walking
back home...

blah blah nah nah... beside the point...

upon reading heidegger's aphorism 42 (vi) -
it just strikes me...
    i hear this ******* about identity not being
ethno-centric,
   the sort of **** that brings about bill C16
and the albino pronoun brigade,
who suddenly go: whoopie and strip it
even further, and we're left with language
like those *Gunther von Hagens sculptures -
sign me up!
    you know, like totally bleaching people,
stripping them into a post-edenic state -
love the work though, francis baconesque -
can't be a genius: if you can't be mad -
the mad, the bad, and the not-so-bright;
but in this aphorism i conjured up a "spell":
you know that funny feeling you get when
you can reconnect with the antopia?
it's not a utopia as such, more a:
    and all these parts go together,
                                       like an ikea table;
it takes but a simple thing,
a book by a fellow countrymen,
or a song, like track 12, from the film
  ogniem i mieczem - husaria ginie
(death of the winged hussars) -
based on the book by h. sienkiewicz -
thus the aphorism which includes
the following:
   die völkisch (the folkish) worldview,
or better still die völkisch dasein,
the term has actually evolved -
  it's not longer a simply abstract da-sein,
it's concrete in the people, the land,
the artefacts, the basics of the most primitive
kind of artefact: an imprint
on the base of all if not merely some
things organic, inorganic, or at least
the aura of the physical: the melancholy
of, say, the english consistency to be
morose in its weather: overcast;
as you first notice - the first thing you
notice concerning england is:
either a double-decker bus, or the persistence
of overcast clouds... a bit like in the matrix movie;
no wonder then, the sense of humour.
yet that is heidegger's case -
english society has long forgotten its folkish
roots, sure they sometimes play
vaughan williams' fantasia on greensleeves
(and if my informant is correct,
  she mentioned it was originally composed
by the tyrant... henry viii?)
        and those funny looking druids
and the stonehenge -
        but, with kind respect - this country is all
but represented by metropolitanism,
   or that cocktail, cosmopolitanism -
          there is nothing folkish about this place,
a place has been replaced by a world,
been replaced by all things global,
subsequently replaced by an orb,
    a scarab beetle tucking into its dung,
egyptology, a **** similis twice removed
from an orangutan who we started calling
    firlin mc'donald...
                  then onto the moon,
  and **** all elsewhere...
           it's hard to think of a people in the anglophone
world, given that the actual language is
hardly a language for the people,
    so imbedded as to give a literary worth
to the people, a depth...
  english is the lingua franca of today,
or, should i say: lingua commercia -
  and by definition: it's a bit like latin -
                           a language: of dead ideas;
its insulative "protect the women" mentality is
like a cancerous addition to the already
abnormal growth: that, like chernobyl
   didn't ****, ought to have killed many more.
i still can't believe the intellectual toddlers
******* their thumbs clinging to darwinism
like koala bears...
         so yeah... do you think there was a branch
of humanity that evolved from bears?
it's become this boring, this sticking to our
darwinism, that is the source of the most
detestable jokes... as true as it might be:
   the pompousness, oddly enough,
doesn't rub off on continental europeans...
as heidegger points out:
   a people is the ground on which all creativity
proceeds; a people is with regard to the process
of creativity even the root out of which creativity
arises and stand...
  and isn't that the case?
    we've already stripped the people
to the basic grammatical units,
   bleached them, stripped them of an ethno-"bias",
and by that i mean: basic recognition -
  nay! a historical unit of the already governing
history-continuum...
         no wonder there's a trans movement
and the abstracting recoil of the absurd -
     i'm the least surprised given that -
       perhaps this was not written in my native
tongue -
               i leave this page, i'll still ****** well
speak it...
    point being... america is a nation of immigrants?
personally? i like to think of them,
as a nation of mongrels...
          i was fed this jealous crap a long time
ago, in high school, where the history teacher
said that i would be the only child in the classroom
to not head into a concentration camp...
oh right: ******* special i was back then...
   just like any rottweiler pure breed looking
at your common mutt...
        and the atypical question in england
is? so, where you from?
    asked by a mix of sikh and irish?
     coupled with: so what ethnicity are you?
and the scary answer, that makes a sikh / irish
mongrel run away?
  oh you know, they sometimes refer to me
as a pure breed.
      huh?!
        mama didn't shnuckle up with some
******* ******.
             yeah, it sometimes gets that bad -
but a question like: where are you from,
                   over a pint of beer -
                       deserves that sort of response;
so when are we gonna talk about
black privilege, the blues, the jazz,
   and the 100m sprint, or the ethiopian /
kenyan long distance runners?

Yellow buddy Gunther meets
Ginger Fred the red

Nose touch and sniff
Yep. You. ‘K.

(He eschews those black cats—
Snubs uncomfortable loves)

But boys will be boys
Meeting nose to nose.

We just feed them.

We all undo and ***** into a pool or some kind of meaningless puddle
Where our thought escape, linger and dwell
When sometimes all we needed was a good cuddle
Starting at the end of a ready burst bubble
It shatters, it explodes into small catch-less pieces
Just what did it hold to make it suffer
That made it implode into a time with no buffer
And disapper like the Central Park guy, Gunther
We all have our thoughts of what comes next
All these Instagrams to share and get off our chests
Before they become non-fashioned in a time of manifest
Thinking of a money spinner to make our dreams come true
What could, what would and the Ikea enigma of mahogany or tained blue
Life throws us under a bus whether MENSA or just plaim dumb
Whatever way you look at it its always the same
Life is a conundrum

JJB

but Christianity emerged out of Judaism! any other prior religion and i might concede! but this religion goes against everything that is natural and wholesome and ingrained in my psyche long before Christianity emerged! to submerge myself on the forefront of lacerations and castrations and circumcisions is beyond any measure of a healthy psyche! oh sure: plus... plus never mind the diabolical incisions of poetics that might disrupt our natural inclination for pork: because it's such an ergonomic animal that its ears and tail and hooves might be eaten... but no... just let us dabble along with a tinge of cannibalism... but it's just a metaphor... so: ******* what?! pork no good but christ is ******* A:O.K. alright... give me that... give it... let me have my Shylock's pound of flesh... let me in... let me gorge on your flesh... give me: give me... savior... let's see what human flesh tastes like... leave poetic aside... let's be dialecticalically materialistic about it: no poetic... no metaphor... just that corpse... give me give... don't struggle... let me drain all these horros brought upon the pagan world... these deities... these Jihads of words against images... and prior to that: those Crusades of images against graven pillars... like for like, eye for eye... long gone are the day when you could have eloquent critiques of Christianity via the subtle intelligence of Nietzsche... now comes only the bare, ******* minimum!

it's very strange that England's Work and Pensions
Department sends me a letter
with a figure: £2,715.14...
i apparently i owe them that much...
in overpayment of having received Employment
and Support Allowance for the period
01/04/24 through to 29/07/24...
yes: i am guilty of withdrawing money and
stashing it like a good squirrel...
i have roughly that amount: in... physical
money... banknotes...
it's just damnable to think that i can't have
physical money to this amount stashed
and not transparent in a bank account
with a tracker allowing authorities to know
where and when and on what i might
be spending this money on...
this makes me feel less inclined to be an honest
person...
i worked a rubric and it doesn't make sense:
within these confines, having received the allowance
of:
23/8/24 - £318.10
12/8/24 - ditto
29/7/24 - ditto
all the way down to the 08/4/24...
and my earnings... regardless:
but within these confines the double-edged sword:
work no more than 16 hours per week
or earn about £160.00 per week
on top of the allowance...
so where does this figure of nearing £3,000 come from?
the actual, physical money i has stashed
for a rainy day?!
Jocelyn Pook: masked ball music...
i am: living in England and...
i'm watching movies from Communist Poland...
so i am not allowed to have money?
not even money i am not willing to spend?
i don't mind the argument:
but i don't see the calculation and how the sum
of money was arrived at...
i've just been prompted to pay the sum:
oh i can pay it... but i need transparency back
at me...
sure... i'll pay it if i must:
but surely i should only be made to pay back
the difference in how i managed to earn more
than i was supposed to...
so in that period that would come to...
£251.33 earned over the limit of £160.00 allowed:
that's roughly £110.00 in the span of
April, May, June, July...
4 x 4 = 16 weeks... i can pay back the reasonable
ransom of my clerical error of...
£1,760...
                  and this is England? the birthplace of
both capitalism... and of communism!
ha ha ah ha ha ah ha ha ha!
well: isn't it? maybe my earnings for the Yids at
Tottenham became displaced or whatever
******* reason there is:
it's just odd that i have this amount in physical
money and this is the same amount of money
that needs to be circulated back into the system
to allow what? more Bane Banana Boat Brigadiers
to strip me naked: beyond nakedness
to the muscle and bone like some *******
Gunther von Hagens strip show?!
Christianity and it's ******* cannibalistic bureuocracy!
if Christianity arrived from within paganism:
from anywhere else, beside Judaism...
i might have been inclined to submit...
but then Islam emerged as a rhetorical answer to
too many answers being staged!
Christianity is an anti-ontology, it has disrupted
the course of human experience for too long!
if Christianity emerged from any other religion...
from Hinduism... i would concede...
but Christianity emerged from Judaism...
that plagiarism of the ancient ways...
                                 and am i supposed to just:
******* take it: because i might get good church-brothel
***?!
              no... i need a second letter explaining to
me: why i can't have this amount of:
physical money stashed...
      who needs to know what and who or how
i spend it? maybe i should ask these questions to
my A.I. buddy to suss out what's afoot.

Lemon tree very pretty

I lived in a village where the neighbour had a lemon tree
it was on rich soil in the small garden where chicken roamed
In January, it was full of perfectly formed fruit, beautiful shining bright
with an effervescent hint of green.
I wished someone would take the tree to an art gallery
as an example of perfection.
At an art exhibition, I saw a painting of a lemon by Gunther Grass,
it was beautiful looked real in its yellow lushness; he won a Nobel prize,
not for the lemon but for his marvellous authorship.
Near Ramallah, there was a similar lemon tree greatly admired
by the locals, but the settlers came burned down the tree.
This is what happens when the brutes rule.

a numerical revision to
my original proposition:

IVX:LC:DM / O:IZEGS:b:Γ:BP

there was and is only one glaring
mistake: concerning the genesis of
4 via G:
and how could i be so blind
but i guess i did that on purpose
because at least that makes sense
if mistakes are made on purpose
for the secondary purpose
of being able to make the correction:

H: or perhaps how one scribbles
the number depending on the handwritten
form rather than the universal
digital:  

    ||
       |
                  which is h in a "Copernican"
concern for direction where
is this supposed north or south or west
in outerspace?
                
perhaps even /|
                         |

                 so one leg short
and the arm askew... or just h from H
and even that is ingenius how
the uppercase letters are different to
lowercase letters
and perhaps there's something primitive
in Cyrillic when some letters
are the same upper- as lowercase

         Вв
                 Гг     Дд
     Жж         Ии
             well... pretty much all the letters...
and how much of Cyrillic is Latin lazy
in mainting the rigid upper- to lowercase transition
unless it is Greek: in its original aesthetic...
where you will not find the uppercase to be like
the lowercase lettering...

ah but there are exceptions:
     Ι ι, Κ κ
                   almost with Ι ι
   if it weren't for the near invisible littlest of tails
on the lowercase iota: that the Latin men made
more pronunciated with the dot hovering above...
but there are also

   Ο ο: but the omicron is perfect like that
and not much can be done about that...
       then there are the twins:

    Τ τ : Ι ι
                 subtle variations: notably the lick of
a slick tail...
                         T is t but τ is a question of
the Latin cross and Anthony's cross:
    also the Russian orthodox cross and how W
when was worn borne
when paths of G the gamma crossed paths
with Lucifer and Wah became Łajba:
    why'bah...

             Χ χ, Ψ ψ can be excluded...

                 the subtleties of the digital handwritten
imprint are obvious to see... if you can be myopic
enough...
so the correction will stand and i will borrow
from Greek:

IVX:LC:DM / O:IZE:μ:S:b:Γ:BP
  
   depending on how you see letters morph
into numbers and don't tell me that
God of the Semites didn't play the role of
both Olympian and the Titan by descending
to this world with word: letters:
to make hieroglyphs more tangible and
gave them the X-ray skeletal treatment
but imagine if the Chinese were the basis
and focus of the history of the plight of the Hebrews
imagine
what use the Hebrew god would be
when facing the unshakeable tenents
of the matchstick men who con conjured up

      树: tree: also called affrirmation: sh'u...
what good would Hebrew be against that form
of encoding?
well the Hebrews can boast
their script against the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs
but at the same time the Chinese were burrowing
with more skeletons than could emerge
when combining Greek, Latin, Hebrew or the Runes...

   and something natural happened
in the Orient when the Japanese decided
to create an alphabet that was not so heavily riddled
with memorising meanings
instead focusing on sounds...
how the Kanji was abandoned and two: not one!
two writing systems emerged!
the Katakana and the Hiragana!

             now it feels impossible to know
which would suit the:
%: that's a concept of a philosopher's stone...
i might add:
touch a 10 with a 0.1 and somehow arrive at 100...
but there were 9 digits
in the Roman numerals
I V X
C M D L:
why did i count 9 to begin with:
so basically 2... 3... letters or numbers short
but that wasn't some impossible strcuture
or care to bypass..
          
           the map of the London underground is still
still flaring me up...
i don't know why i might lay its claims on
me... but it does:
if i were to measure the distance from
Covent Garden to Leicester Sq
envision the sq mile then
go to the stretches of Morden,
Epping, Hainualt
hell: Ruslip doesn't ring a bell: never been there:
it's like i am the ego situated in London
and London is the mother-womb
and outside not having a driving license is
equivalent to being either decapitated
hung and quartered or being
an imbecile or lift off of wit
and some other jargon... like you might
be both: retarted and a half-capacity
the Igor that was Frankenstein's first proper experiment
and the monster: the Igor Towing?

but the map of London: that of the underground
is just that:
it's microscopic cone shaped:
the stations of most interest are mostly
enlarged in terms of distance apart:
noted by the Circle Line...
then as London: as the London expanse...
does expand...
the topographic detail is looser...
since the distance between stations is greater
but for the guarantee of navigation
the inner circle of "hell" retains its
microscopic elementality
you are basically peering at a detail being
blown up then being allowed
to retain its insignificance of the detail:
if i were to draw the map...

oh jeez: Gunther von Hagens looks gluttonous
and almost a Bond villain...
but i'm not here making cheap jokes
i wish i had the stomach to go and see his
exposition of dead body mantras of
muscle bone and sinew...

how did i bestow myself with a dis-conount
of the numerals:
i was sure almpost two hours: what felt like hours:
in a field of thought
the ego-mines...
these abrupt stations of electric
pognant reminders
in a field of the eternity of thoought
the hellish escapade of ego
and it's not like Nietzsche the failed pianist
turned angry philosopher set aside
all difference and heard the world war II cresdcendo...
i thought i counted 9 roman numerals:
instead i have the beast of the earth with 7 heads
like the numbers or the count of Hills
in Rome...
i would never believe this man
could be domesticated
so Reyla would say 40 years later
with Marquis de Sade as Dumas' D'Artangnegnome...
dyslexic in French
would never learn it
will never learn it
**** the French
Arab conquest justified!
vowel to soda poodles!
you ******* French!

Jeroean van Veen...
imagine if Chopin or Liszt left such
explosive notebooks:
but dear you and me:
read Nietzsche:
but then listen to his music...
     heldenklage, NMW 2...
that's how you study philosophy
by reading Nietzsche first
thirst
then with air
breathe the rain in
and say Music is Music
and why did Thomas Mann reference
a mad pianist...
because how could Chopin or Liszt
write anything intellectually
ethno centric...
like the pan-Germanism of Nietzsche...
long before the collective
the individual soloist
with music forgotten
by words enlarged

                      Nietzsche the Pianist
not the philosopher of youth
but words from the heavenly abode of
the angelic choir like
a headache with God dispatched to earth
like Ulysses and the Sirens
and God there: with his rebellious Angels
on a boat
with me able to hear
alone
while they roared with each row row
row of the boat!
and i in heaven became the human kind ear
and the rebellious angels helped me to escape
the heavenly ordeal of castrated
**** and mouth suckling beings
like children and angels pristine...
get me out of heaven!
those voices shouldn't sing!
Satan: get me behind you a fifth oar!
Satan! yohore!
              
read Nietzsche then read Thomas Mann...
then Nietzsche in a second tongue:
be born or learn bilingualism...
like a skill compare philosophy cf. to mathematics
and then fuse the two via
linguistics
and forget the dogmas of religion
and psychiatry... forget the soft touch
of the harsh scematics
of the division of soul
like there's this autopsy equivalent to body in
vivo in vitro in esse...
that's where i think i am...

       then listen to some of Nietzsche's piano compositions
and how delicate he was
before the Wagner Oyster Cult...
measure of guilt and how does
man overcome music?
it's the Counter Reformation all over...
if one cannot overcome God
even with God is Dead: !
then with Death and God: ?

                       i ask... how can man overcome
music: when man overcame
the mop with a steamer
dishwasher
without hands
and soap...
and television with a fireplace
or a neon aquarium... flashing lights... blah blah...
vampire... i think she's 14 years old
and sinking into my psyche like a butter soaked
sponge all warm and oozy like you mid coitus...

and i can't believe i would ever allow
Nabokov out of his butterflies and ****** reminiscence
hyper-metaphor of Imperial Russia
where we us Pollacks
weren't 5th Generation Napoleon Romance
and Charlemagne...
because what Angevins didn't rule the most part
of France
from Norse Sagas
via Denmark and later Normandy
the fabble of Rolo and Lothar Ragnarouke...
and i'm supposed to imagine England:
as Enoch Powell might have envisioned
Brazil:
Brazil should be the envy of England
if multi-culturalism failed
under globalism
and emerged multi-racialism:
Colombian **** and Brazilian ghetto
****
is trans-racial:the future is copper necked
in the guise of whites bleaching out the blacks...
and whites bleaching out the dark Raj *******
and sort of keeping the Arab Spring
woke
enough for a Medittarranean Winter
in autumnal gold colours
and the future is post-racial
but Brazil is not post-national
Brazilians love Brazil
these feminist hybrid Communist:
i love being a ****
i love being a **** and the supposed
SLANDER LORD PEDOHPILE...
i love spying on these FAT PINK RATS
and oh my red is actually ORANGE:
i have a spy in the other realm
i have the fox
the crow
and magpie
and robin
and the earthworm
to spy on serpents...


hmm... a train of ******* stars...
best to look down
there's an alter gravity in play
and me thinks:
pidgeon...
pidgin...
             i said: if ego cogito ego sum is
to be reversed:
we must as the id...
           id est cogitans ergo est non id cogitans...
jeez! that was a barricade
of proper grammar juggle...
my brain froze a bit like
the brain of the ptotagonist of Mad Men
Season 1 Episode 1... a handsome man...
a former veteran...
purple heart veteran
now working the menial job
in an advert office...
kolt! i stangled krauts younger than you!
a learning of PTSD...
so just having two lives
is the best way to reconnect with life...
the war ahoy and the thrill the numbing conquest:
reconcile with the lonely wife\
and two kids...

                   i sometimes don't to get up:
but that's only because i have to sort
out my dreams:
when i dream of Martin
full and healthy
i am connected to him not being Brain Dead...
and i know...
Edie was so heartless
and not showing me any concern for my problems
she compared my problems to
a game of baseball...
i lost it upon the second pedohpile insinuation...
then i finally lost it
when she said: but you've been only working
a full time job for only 6 months:
i was working... part time because i didn't
the money: poets are not pub landlords...
what?!
bull finally saw red...
                red to be have!            *******!
*******! *******! stabbed your 100x times
more when i was saying: *******!

i love you: x0