i read stories of angry drunks and wonder:
           why am i so "pathetic" reading into calm?
don't know... truths by a millionaire
might make more sense...
mix ***** with coke watch
the icecubes melt and then take another
sip and it's harsh, pinching like
a crab's signature...
         but then alcohol formulates
around me like a memory tool,
gone are the lessons of school,
      gone the need for arithmetics that
lead to no hoard of gold of erebor -
just that cinema and standstill -
   like my genesis of memory,
  with a great-grandfather in kindergarten
him playing the piano and me playing
a toy piano aged 4, and in my memory
he representing no clear image
but a mere shadow / merely a shadow...
               or laughing at my great-grandmother's
funeral, then sitting up at night
   gnashing my teeth so hard
until i managed to bite off a piece of my
left mandibular central incisor...
         and in the mourning crowd
  when close family members were throwing
flowers into the grave unearthed
and being asked to do likewise
i shouted no!...
                      and took the intended flower
to be thrown into the grave
   to my grandparent's home and sat there
with a candle, gently burning
     the petals with the flame until
the petals, originally red, turned purple;
it seems i can't forget my education in chemistry,
that's not me saying i prefer thought "experiments",
i find them abhorring,
             it's still perplexing how that rose
that was intended to be thrown into the grave of my
great-grandmother ceremoniously
     turned purple from red when gently
applying fire from wax...
        i'm sure a bunsen burner flame of blue
flame would have scortched it...
    as i'm sure you agree, there are hues
to fire, blue flames and very engaging chemical
experiments... in all honesty?
   i did the best chemical experiment in school
and not at university... thanks to mrs. khan...
it involved extracting polyethylyne
in an in vitro environment...
               what you might call an event horizon
akin to physics...
                    oh physics, and the fact that
it's focus on procuring adherents does not stand
within an in vivo environment they propose
to speak about it...
          oddly enough, chemistry does not
popularise itself, only biologists and physicists
popularise themselves,
         chemists usually turn into amphetamine
pushers...
  like: because it began with a ****** name
     and an even ******* primate, do i care?
no... i'm getting drunk!
  why do physicists and biologists get the *******
high-ground in culture and chemists get
the sub-culture? oh right... poetry and
the counter-culture...
      i own the literature:
a. atkins' physical chemistry
          b mcmurry's organic chemistry
c. shriver & atkins' inorganic chemistry...
   from experience though:
    organic chemistry is where you have fun...
it's almost culinary in nature,
   and the patience involved...
sometimes an experiment can last for days...
i find the other two environments too sterile,
well... inorganic chemistry is spectacular,
i'll just add that it's flamboyant...
             physical chemistry is a ******* graveyard,
that **** is so sterile that you don't
   even know whether it's physics or just
applied mathematics...
               but how electrons travel in
organic chemistry's textbooks?
            i could do that **** for ever -
                    the nearest thing to x-ray vision
of what is formed and how it all seems like
quasi-robotics of something taking off a faulty
limb and asking for a more manageable counterpart,
it's all metaphor though, evidently not literally
applicable...    but that doesn't say it's not similar
in the case of having such a point of view...
  but yeah... why do biologists and physicists
think they can speak about their theories
  as populists might speak their political agenda
when they're forgotten the principum in vitro?
                 what they are doing is what
current right-wing political movements are doing,
giving them a platform akin to populism
     i.e. via the principum in vivo...
                    i mean it's there, including chemists
running amok shoving toothpaste and petrol down
peoples' lifestyles... and sure, pills...
    but i find that less demeaning than showing
ideas into peoples' heads... like it might
       change their narrative skills for the better...
still...
        now i'm tempted to find the third alternative
to vitro / vivo...
                               in mirror, a replica,
    something that can compensate the phenomenological
groundwork for, say, the punk or goth movement...
     trouble is, what could be resurrected from latin
to derive the word mirror...
     mercury?                           it has to be,
given in silico, so there must be a counter-elemental
derivative working from that...
thus -                                             in mercurius,
     that ought to prescribe the x            definiton
     to a situation                  where + is rarely
                       attributed to the movement of the canvas;
and yes, writing can also imply
serving the dish neglect to all wordly affairs.

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 only started collecting a library, because, would you believe it, my local library was a pauper in rags and tatters; apologies for omitting necessary diacritic marks, the whiskey was ******* on icecubes to a shrivel.*

ernest hemingway, e.m. forster, mary shelley,
aesop, r. l. stevenson, jean-paul sartre,
jack kerouac, sylvia plath, evelyn waugh,
chekhov, cortazar, freud, virginia woolf,
philip k. ****, dostoyevsky, aleksandr solzhenitsyn,
oscar wilde, malcolm x, kafka, nabokov,
bukowski, sacher-masoch, thomas a kempis,
yevgeny zamyatin, alexandre dumas,
will self, j. r. r. tolkien, richard b. bentall,
james joyce, william burroughs, truman capote,
herman hesse, thomas mann, j. d. salinger,
nikos kazantzakis, george orwell,
philip roth, joseph roth, bulgakov, huxley,
marquis de sade, john milton, samuel beckett,
huysmans, michel de montaigne, walter benjamin,
sienkiewicz, rilke, lipton, harold norse,
alfred jarry, miguel de cervantes, von krafft-ebing,
kierkegaard, julian jaynes, bynum porter & shephred,
r. d. laing, c. g. jung, spinoza, hegel, kant, artistotle,
plato, josephus, korner, la rochefoucauld, stendhal,
nietzsche, bertrand russell, irwin edman,
faucault, anwicenna, descartes, voltaire, rousseau,
popper,  heidegger, tatarkiewicz, kolakowski,
seneca, cycero, milan kundera, g. j. warnock,
stefan zweig, the pre-socratics, julian tuwim,
ezra pound, gregory corso, ted hughes,
guiseppe gioacchino belli, dante, peshwari women,
e. e. cummings, ginsberg, will alexander, max jacob,
schwob, william blake, comte de lautreamont,
jack spicer, zbigniew herbert, frank o'hara,
richard brautigan, miroslav holub, al purdy,
tzara, ted berrigan, fady joudah, nikolai leskov,
anna kavan, jean genet, albert camus, gunter grass,
susan hill, katherine dunn, gil scott-heron,
kleist, irvine welsh, clarice lispector, hunter thompson,
machado de assisi, reymont, tolstoy, jim bradbury,
norman davies, shakespeare, balzac, dickens,
jasienica, mary fulbrook, stuart t. miller,
walter la feber, jan wimmer, terry jones & alan ereira,
kenneth clark, edward robinson, heinrich harrer,
gombrowicz, a. krawczuk, andrzej stasiuk, ivan bunin,
joseph heller, goethe, mcmurry, atkins & de paula,
bernard shaw, horace, ovid, virgil, aeschyles,
rumi, omar khayyam, humbert wolfe, e. h. bickersteth,
asnyk, witkacy, mickiewicz, slowacki, lesmian,
lechon, lep szarzynski, victor alexandrov, gogol,
william styron, krasznahorkai, robert graves,
defoe, tim burton, antoine de saint-exupery,
christiane f., salman rushdie, hazlitt, marcus aurelius,
nick hornby, emily bronte, walt whitman,
aryeh kaplan, rolf g. renner, j. p. hodin, tim hilton... etc.

The day is hot today as the cool breeze is like a icecube today

I met this girl at the bus top across from ironhouse condiminums on west broadstreet, and we started talking and I took the wrong bus just to talk to her. I didn’t even have the right amount of change to give to the bus driver. I needed $1.50 and I was thirty-five cents short. So I walked up the asile and asked the cute girl with raybands and lavish brunette hair if she had some change. She smiled and gave me a quarter and a dime. Excellent, I’m in. After I gave the bus driver the bus fair, I leaned back in a chair and I talked to her about literature, writing, reading, poetry. Her name was Anna and her favorite book happened to be “Catcher and The Rye,” she had stacks of notebooks from grade school until now, and she journaled each day in the morning.

We stopped at Willow Lawn and I said: bye. I recommended to her some novels and I wrote down my email on a ripped out pocket book journal page. I passsed it to her, saw her hand close over the note. And then, as I got off the bus, noticed she crumpled up the note.

Later on, I came across a free sandwich, some bowls, a coors light, and a deep tissue massage (my friend is a massage therapist in training; half black; half white; #winning). So imagine being twisted and getting a deep tissue massage with creamy oil lotion. She had this cushioney tan bed to lay down on and relax.

The two girls Rachel and Rachael sang with perfect pitches these great lyrics. We smoked sticky icky *** from a bowl and a plastic orange ****. I pulled up on the carbueretor and vacummed the mushroom cloud of smoke into my lungs, sending radioactive pleasure into my body. A bowl and stem apparatus. Mouth piece. A water pipe or a **** was smokey jazz brass saxophone. The black gas washed by murky water and condensed icecubes sent me spiraling down.

So, I ended up riding on the GRTC bus, smacked sauce, and I wrote all these great ideas, and weird *** descriptions of the bus interior. Went home, changed clothes, swag black VCU shades with neon yellow sides, and a fresh Kanye West Bear shirt with Japanese eyes and shutter sunglasses. I walked down Shafer street and came up to the compass and Hibbs hall. Outside there was a crowd of people freestyle battling, and I enterered the contest. I became a compeitior and I was the challenger, there was no champion yet. I won one round, lost a round, and then went O.T. sudden death overtime. The whole time I was still high, I was carrying around a VCU Cary Street Gym aluminum water bottle with a black insulated sleeve. So I ended up losing, my friend tapped my shoulder and I said whatup and we walked to subway, and I got a foot long Buffalo Chicken sandwich.

We went to his friend’s townhouse on Main and North Harrison Street. I drank a cup of Pineapple and Rasberry Burnetts *****. We went down Cary street, and took a right on Pine Street and then we went to this Delta Chi Fraternity House. There was a kalidescope discoball with rainbow lights. A bar serving jungle juice from an orange gatorade water cooler. I silded my way into the dance floor and turned around and say this girl who I knew. She was someone I taught tennis to when I was an instructor in high school. Needless to say she got extremely attractive. So I was dumbstruck and trying to process all this **** in my mind, and I told her straight up, “Aiight we’re dancing.” And wow. I taught her to stroke the ball well from the tennis lessons. She wore these pink ******* bunny ears and a white dove cardigan and a black halter top, with a dark mini skirt.

Living life after life,
Moments flying by,
Minute after minute,
how much can we really fit in,
Look where we sit, a throne,
Of lies, failed tries, lost times,
Moral crimes, its 2 am and we're counting dimes, looking for something,
Is it purpose?
A thrill?
Or is it just my pen?

i found that modern people lie too much, because the preceding acts of investigation where treated as vanity, and indeed they are, compared to the contemporaries' acts of lying as brimful, the res plenus, the thing brimming with itself, no chance of an extinction of a self into creating something and disappearing, but rather the modern concern for pop music artists, creating nothing and constantly reappearing... not encapsulating the need for emptiness, but the drive to need an icon... a self-detachment worth a thermometer or a telescope, or a theory of relativity... they cite einstein alright, but einstein is just a headline to attract the eyes, rather than the article to attract the eyes... too few blind men exist to make the judgemental balance of the two accurate.

i'm walking with a glass of whiskey
with icecubes' jingling
like skulls on a cannibal's necklace,
and it's necessary to say:
boy's reading milan kundera's
the unbearable lightness of being
boy leaves girl reading milan's *testament
betrayed,
girl is too devastated by familial ties,
boy meets the girl's grandmother who
she denotes as her mother, boy eats dinner
with the girl's mother who the girl denotes
as sister... girl speaks of being abducted
when younger... boy has no knowledge
of psychiatric evaluation...
enforces boy to wed her, taking contraceptive
pills but faking taking them -
it's the ideal: i'll ******* to orphan **** a society
into benefits - odd, because with prostitutes
i pulled out and ******* silently into a ******,
after all, prostitutes don't want to be pregnant.
she still persisted telling the boy:
you just finished a degree of education,
you have no safe career path... let's start a family,
you say no, i'll ******* **** you...
rubber rubber rubbing the same tree-hug later
it's a laughing matter... as testified
by my constant rubber sheath use of ******,
**** me without one, her words, not mine:
brown-nosing feminists of the **** & *****
already politicising the matter in favour of one night stands;
i told you idiots before... cats are cheaper...
i'd be jealous had you two phalluses
to insert into both ***** and ****.

tylko, albo... *asz.

        or that's what translates
into the anglophone translation
when life and existence
are differentiated, toward the point
that the two are set apart,
rather than incorporated...
as if "life" was something more than
existence; of the two, which is
more concrete?
   that's why i said the intro:
         existence: only, or so much.
forgive me on the regional variation on
the latter word (asz), since in some regions
it's spelled aż (er zed)...
             the point is that anglophones are
almost phobia prone to the expression of
existence, for the simple reasons that
thought per se, is a modus operandi of phobias...
    this really begs a cartesian-like revision:
   ego cogito ergo ego metum...
   or exact - cogito ergo ᚠᚨᛖᚱ.
                       it's sad that it has become this,
then again we fear the fact that
we are using pieces of technological
advances that have an exponential diameter,
in the sense: we couldn't replicate
creating such examples.
          ᚠ: look up
     ᚨ: look down
              ᛖ: tie the two together
           ᚱ: riddle the rest.
like any jew might, create a 4-letter complexity
that can fall into the lap of a "latin" man
and make perfect sense due to the lettered
geometrics (a subtle version of geometry,
beginning with Δ, or delta);
   and the 4-letter variation will fall into the lap
of a "latin" man in an instance, when he
recounts his mother caring for two old jewish
ladies: ms. rockhmann  and ms. roßhandler...
            oh this **** can go on and on,
  we can cherry pick any 4 letters and also
acronym it into n.e.w.s.
      (and the ******* equator for centre)...
                       so where are we now?
             i'm at five past one in the afternoon,
about to refill my glass with icecubes to down another
***** and coca cola.

see down the eye of a straw
as icecubes
crack inside jokes,
water drips.

it moves.
along the shoulder's
edge, past the curve
of a wrist

slipping deep
into its cuff,
along the up turn of his hand
a man hits his knee on the bar.

****** cakes.
soak the scent of *****
as badly as grease
wants to drip down hair

into a cup of malt
slapping its surface
a bug feels texture
inside the speaker

so thick is the air
and sensation of selzter,
****** tastes of heat
slide down the bar

off the edge of the counter
onto the floor,
shattering the sky
of people in the basement

what a strange affair...
affair without any cheating:
that Napoleon would mind
a person knowing two tonnes worth of tongue
and say:
that man is worth two people...
but a polyglot?
how can a polyglot suprass a bilingualism
with the schizophrenic underpass?
a polymath in the Napoleonic dynamic
is not something matched by a
a monolingual Hitlerite dynamic...
today...
at work... i experienced a hot air balloon:
sort of...
i was talking with two women
in "higher positions"...
chess is chess: king is pawn and pawn
is king
and queen is rook, is bishop:
i prefer backgammon to chess
because i like to strike by chance...
but the would-be-overlords
noticed that:
why are these women touching my face:
of feel my lowering body temperature...
feel my cold hands:
are your cheeks hot enough...
rub rub: snub snub...
i overhear and then i just:
don't, ******* hear...
            but as a bilingual you have:
twinned agendas...
as a polyglot: you reserve the right
for the one tongue proponent:
Napoleon would say:
we only have use for spies
with only two tongues...
anything beyond two tongues is
lost in polymathy...
and we don't want that...
so Napoleon tried to conquer Russia:
******: attempted the same...
no sooner than they realised:
there's the attempt at
the iceberg of Greek...
why would these women give me
their frozen hands
like skeletons
touching my cheeks...
why would they?
must i really tell my spouse my would
be...
that... it's all savvy and gold
and Baker Street is my favorite
underground station...
at least with bilignualism
you don't get the confusion
of bi-sexuality...
n'est ce pas?

               when would be *****
start touching your face you hardly go
ego tripping and fishing:
oh: well, with this arrived in the world
and the lesbians want to touch you beard
to test: ****! shiesse ist reel!
then then Finns come and all becomes
nightly, quiet...

but why would these women touch my face:
stroke my beard:
i want to go to sleep!
Napoleon only asked for a man knowing two tongues:
two agendas:
a polyglot is a genius reserved for the Hebrew faction
of endeavor...
by the time you speak 7 tongues...
you can't speak 2 tongues in divergence...
you can't:
a polyglot is not...
worth establishing a dualism-schizophrenia...
a bilingualism all-put-together...

the rattle snake
is my icecubes shifting in my glass of
emptying with only ***** and no mixer...
but these would be *****:
i managed to feed one standing in the rain
with me:
a dirsty burger: sweet onions,
bacon, cheese, the half of the calf of Egypt
some Egyptian bun...
but still the teasing of the hands:
how cold are we: are we: are we?
must you touch my face to
but if a woman asks: and also: doesn't ask:
i'm more than willing to comply to her
asking...

there's a suggestion:
the bilingual overcomes the polyglot
because there's a two tow tongue to juggle..
but i'm no polymath:
to the extremes, though:
what becomes societally fucntionally:
useful... Russia ought to know;
England; apparently; doesn't!

hey presto, hey Jude! don't sing...
a bad song... for me to ever... forget..
you were singing more than
equipped in bingo-eureka: sorry... thought went
missing in no longer kept oughts.

why would would be lesbians start
feeling my temperature of my hands
then my face...
like... my ****** partner has elevated ******
jeallusy to a ******* zenith...
i sent her some wild p.s. messages
and she snores like my mother
and i can't contain her...
and i want her to be least constrained
but she just pushes and pushes
this child that will never be
and if that's the case... hey presto Edie:
i'm both the father and the son:
of my myself:
the holy ghost comes in the format
of looking at wild animals!

all saints' day is upon us...
Duvali here yet?
i never imagined fireworks going off
on Halloween...
it's as if Catholics exist in Old England
not the New England of
Protestants and ****...

my sin is that i smoked marijuana
in public
and walked around
and instead of nakednessn i found armour
and love and armour...
love of armour
in the darkness i forged one ring
and in the darkness i found
the cloak of invisibility
and in the shadows i roamed
and i swayed and gave encouraging shouts:
OAR! MORE!
OAR! MORE!
TO KIEV!
FOUND USN KIEV!
NA RUS!

find master! find master!
what did you find Ivan?
master! master!
i found your meter!
i found music in poetry!
master! master!
good...          goood E'van...
good Evan:
there be life in this fire water of life?
yessssss... masssster...
good Evan...
i will smooch up to this spirit
and take a sip of her milk:
Bolsheviks of Vistula
and Basra...        Vikings of the black sea
and the mouth of Dniepr...

little tides of a great big sea:
and time as water
and fire no...
fire as space: therefore god had only
once chance to rebel
and he rebelled
and made himself known
leaving ******* artifacts of omni- robes
when in fact he could make contact
with the world at the base of the Pyramids
but would not sit on an Auschwitz's chimney...

blah blah allahahhablahblahallahahhahahahahaha!
i think of god's judgement to make poetry
there:
since only the grey Jew in the hands of the khaki
smear campaign and the nacht black SS mensch...
to no brick in mud Jew:
to your intellectual drain: i will sucker up...
pound for pound
inch of water and a grain of salt...
for your grain of fertile soil...
show me potatoes grown in Israel...
show me tomatoes...

ah! now i remember... it's Thursday night
and i thought it was Friday night...
but i have to go to bed early Friday
wake up at 5am on Saturday
and heard a flock of bothersome Cerberuses...
stagnant ghosts of pets...
cats, dogs, ******* cannaries...
if America has such a problem with Catholics
then i have a problem with
the Protestant Nation of America
not being Enlightened Bilingual by Now!
America should be officially a nation
as best as Switzerland
be a Anglo-Spanish consolidation project...
for the old history:
before empires and wet ***** and hard *****
and the waves...
in our Circle... of drinkers...
St. Peter might have the keys...
but St. Matthew has the bell...
what's a bell? a dzwon?
a bell? what's a bell... the imitation of Adam's head
in a glass...

i carry the Church Bell...
i'm Matthew in Church... but elsewhere
i am known by my better name:
CONRAD...
Slavic blood fused with German principalities...
a Stalin was a Georgian was a Russian:
Russians are sheep:
swayed by barbarian stupidity
to experiment with Hebrews...
while the Germanic now not laugh with
the advent for the dispersing of
the Levant and Babylon...

              a bell is a glass of a top heavy mixer...
a sharpshooter...
4:1 ***** to pepsi...
         sharpshooter...
you fill a glass with loads and loads of icecubes
pour some ***** in
then some pepsi...
sit and meditate in darkness
smoke a quarter of a leftover joint...
that's marijuana and tobacco...
you eat pizza in the dark with mother
you watch the RESIDENT with her...
hmm... protagonist just...
the protagonist... in what we're watching?
did he just crawl out of the t.v.?
are we watching requiem for a dream?

it's like the Sybil in painting surrounding
the decapitated head of John the Baptist...
the bell is a glass with only one
ice-cube in it... carried like a church bell:
mother is falling asleep and i don't want
eggshells and walking on water or air...
so no clamour glitter ching ching...

                     a bell is a special drink...
      not served in bars:
don't worry: you won't be seen with it...
but unlike the non-illuminatory concept
of painting metaphor music and sound:
you won't be a Nietzsche with a candle:
or the Cartesian sexology of van Gogh's chair
and that ******'s table...

a bell is not a candlelight you will take
to the garden of innocence in escaping
the hell of realising how oysters ****
and spiders weave their place
this ******* Darwinistic-humanism! save me god
give me serpents! give me serpents!
i'm scared that i have been infiltrated
by a citadel: lesser creatures...
acne like worms
the hard-knuckle ones with black heads
are not the youths of pure
outpouring of *****-white...
a **** is a death-eater...
i have IBS... the death-eater of my **** might...
oh... no... wait... it's not coming...
i'm just about to finish reading Dune:
i, being the democratic reader and
no sycophant... or psyche surgeon specializing
in one author:
i'm an author myself... i am an authority
unto myself... therefore i could never relinquish
that: for novelty: of being a novelist...
different mirror:
i look into mine and i only see shadows and devils
and two eyes: one blind...

like... what was the reason for me to going to Hawaii
and just: flying over the entire status of United... hem...
states... hem hem...
i came for St. Matthew's Bell...
that one drink you drink in a special place
of a secret abode...
with a mother:
oh: this is not a tourists' attraction:
this is personal: ha ha!
you can't actually replicate this space:
perhaps a tempus similis: a similarity of time:
but as citizen first, individual later:
Mr PResisdent and Canon Commarade...

for the love of State: in the Old Republican Sense
of the word: to Conjure Rome:
for the Love of the State:
Ideology...
               iron fist
feeth with claws...
no nation no tribe no religion...
the state comes first:
the garbagemen, the train drivers...
for the love of the state:
of coherency and ******
and all those whimsical brats
who have the intelligence of gnats...
for the love of people
who one minut walk around
like prized sheep:
who next day could be turned to minced meat...
how i love to stalk
and prey and knot prey on prey in
a crab bucket...
    oh how wonderous you are...
by dearest: i and nobody.