Immerse yourself until wholly submerged
in my unholy divergence;
Poor form tormented soul - 
Roll your pain in a J
then dip it in chloroform
Embrace my urges to purge
the remnants of sanity,
Spilling and screaming
all these profanities at humanity

Confuddling all posers
with my bastardized prose ~
Please, continue badgering
and nagging me
with your ****-******* menagerie
of trivial drudgery
I’m in misery so
go ahead and bludgeon me
Square in the noggin’
So that I can jog it,
whilst juggling all these nails
from my coffin

I’m awfully harmful and cruel
got these scoffing jealous skeptics
Acting a fool,
coughing up a lung-full of fuel
for all of the putrid mind puke I spew
My mixing *** skull’s
where the ingredients accrue
Just stew with me for a little
while longer though won’t you

I’m a cancer-ridden addler
babbling mad adages,
ravishingly tenderizing my meat
Laced with some dust from space, yes, no lackage/absence of it lining
within my nasal passages see
spun off some of that absinthe
In a cloud of burning trees
Please tell me you feel me

It’s staggering how I’m both crazy batshit,
**** smooth as rotten laxative cheese
Brain’s melting acidic beef
I’m like Randy Savage I got
Bombastic fat ******* in heat
Straight making my **** go flaccid post-weep

Don’t get offended women
just imagine
How painfully average the package
is within my lap that I’m packin
But now it’s wrapped
and I’m ready to fucken
fully send it no cap
My turnaround is lightning fast
In and out of your *** quick as a wink like The Flash

Faces contort in ghastly panic, actually
Dastardly antics unleashed in vast swarms
Plague the masses in pandemic proportions with them massive casualties factually once more
Give ya some relaxing action 
And skull-**** y’all
with such a passion *******
Your corpse falls to the floor
and right through the trapdoor

Candid, my pen-chance enchants
Heavy-handedly inanimate
in suspended animation
Supplant reality augmentation
Machinations of my imagination;
Implicating **** ransacking  
and seafaring through crab infestations 
Wreaking havoc and bequeathing vengeance
I’m a fire breathing grim reaper reeking of ****** ~

- Off is the nearest direction in which to ****
Dissect my ******* with your tongue
Turnt up ******* plumpies in the rumpus 
Just for the fun of it until I erupt
Remember, I’m avid for dismembering appendages
I expect you’re exceptional at accepting
a barrage of septic bombardment
Chance of success: logistics analysis zero percentage
(Cos I done ******* on all those *******.)

Superbly superlative and speculative
So fast on Adderall
I make Mad Hatter’s head spin
Quicker than you can snap: 
Giving your family heart attacks
Smack you in the face, 
While fapping my fabulous lap rocket

Thunderously plundering under covers
Spring-loaded with faux pas’ so hot
Make your mother’s ***** pop out
and say “hello”
like a Jack-in-the-Box

& U kno Those foxy grandmas
be jaxing off my **** -
Bingo wings beckoning me to flock
Choppin’ up rocks round the clock
with the glock in my pocket til I rot 
Undoubtedly
Caught em wit the molly-whop eyeballs pop out they sockets all dramatically
Whole squad **** swap the rod, on God
Blow my whole *** when I start spitting them double entendre fatality snowballs
Zippity-zop like Cosby’s special BBQ sauce
Bet I’ll dip my puddin’ pop and stay fresh with the drip til I drop
Y’all just holler when you want me to stop

Palpable, these **** butts malleable as putty
Barbarically barrel rolling into dat ***
rip it to shreds like confetti
Power Pole extend
Face pressed into your *******
Inhaling the wafting aromatic stenches
of distant French fish factories

Clearly getting dome from your dearly betrothed violently
Now she bridal and my seeds spiraling virally
Vital signs finalizing
Bounce that *** like jello
Swell; I’m in your hair like gel
Now swallow my jollies and don’t bother
Unless you hollerin’ and giving me dollars
Zealots idol my harlotry

If nose goes go slow grow low
Throwing those yoloing hoes out windows
This ***** simply bonkers
I conquer fear me

***** DON’T HARSH MY MELLOW
SWEAR I’LL MARSH YOUR MALLOWS

The devil sat upon his toasted grieving red throne
Gulping his tongue, the devil never stressed  
She seduced his powerful taste
He knew she was a lost soul, out of control  
She was a walking mess, who was taking her toll
He had no business taking a hit to his statured entitlement  
He promised to distinguish her from the rest, implicating a battle every dawning blue sky
His threats do not scare her passion to fight
She's a rampage with braided hair and an innocent glare
Zip up your sweater vest, here comes Hells pest

pre-scriptum:
                no polyglot would experience this sort of "paradox", it's not even a paradox of a "paradox" off a 'paradox', bilingualism has its methodology, as Kant could explain, extracting his methodology off the page into a meticulous day-to-day activity... the sage / if not the clock of Königsberg... i can imagine this obsessive-compulsive mini-rituals that would always escape the throng on a Sunday... the Sunday eucharist wasn't enough for the man, there were so many rituals to take care of, having famously not married, while Kierkegaard having: infamlusly not married... i appreciate their strategy... reading them while also reading Nietzsche, these two gentlemen, by comparison, if not in work, certainly in life gravitate above the popularity of Nietzsche... why? Nietzsche appears as an incel... fan boy, are you? *******... but you need some sort of structure if you're not going to marry... Kant found his daily routine an eternal mass... so many routine daily tasks seemingly mundane to some, can enlarge themselves to become out of proportion pillars of preserving sanity in face of standing before god and a post-life scenario... hell is not so much a place of suffering... i can tell you of the most "mild" form of suffering... an extrovert becoming drunk... constant talking, lack of purpose as in: lack of direction culminating in: lack of concentration, pandemonium is the heaven of a flickering light for a moth... again... this always bewilders me... why did Sisyphus have to drag the stone up the hill? was there some overlooking demon with a whip looking over him? couldn't he just... sit, and concentrate on the stone, create pleasure, from thinking? is that really so odd... i suppose so... given the grand h'american export of the freedom of speech... few people will find pleasure in thinking... Kierkegaard, which Nietzsche didn't read... said: why do people concern themselves with the freedom to speak, when they already possess a freedom to think? is this, me speaking, because it's the internet and it's a public space... surely i don't have an eloquent speech, i speak too quickly, i sometimes mumble, this is an extension of thinking, it's not an invitation to speak... rhetoric is an art designated for people who joked about philosophy and took sophistry seriously... i don't like Nietzsche... i still think of the man as the esteemed bachelor... apparently being freed from women allowed him to write his Critique with the sort of clarity that comes, in a cascading form, at the end, in the methodology of transcendence... which reads, like a page-turner tabloid narrative... once the formalities / difficulties are established... i'm no polyglot though, but i do succumb to some eccentricities... as any entrenched bilingual might... notably linguistics... how there are no diacritical markers in english, but there are: in other latin script based languages of continent europe... how i've never heard of dyslexia outside of the realm of spoken english... how orthography does not exist in the english language, which creates all these silly english questions of: what is reality, what is perception... with no orthography: metaphysics runs rampant... and "another" thing... i really can't read a philosophy book in english, i always have to revert back to my mother tongue, to Polish... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i looked at Plato once in english... the aesthetic is lost on me... but the Irish know of the Slavic aesthetic when it comes to dialogue, i.e.:

(a) the english standard for dialogue weaved into a narrative -
"i want this," she said,
   "as i want that," he said...
(b) the slavic standard for dialogue weaved into
a narrative...
- so?
- what?
- will we try to speak without
   the reiteration of who said what?
- we could.
- no, we should.
smoother... James Joyce noted this,
casual - no point adding descrptions of
how the puppet-master lost power
over his puppets with " " ditto markers of
dialouge of a: he, he really did say...
no, not he, the narrator...

   i simply cannot read the genre of philosophy in english, too much easy access points of pop culture with that umbrella overreach... matrix, memes, darwinism, blah blah... too much focus on images and very little focus on words, esp. etymology, that other component of history that focuses on: a universal application of words, beside status king, or status pauper... both the word bread can succumb to the king's tongue, as to the pauper's... but with an origin story? anything beside **** similis, the monkey, will do me just fine... then again... there's no one strand of monkey to begin with... a bit like looking up your own *** for too long, you decide that there's a coherent, "bigger picture" and it begins with chimp- and ends with -rilla... doesn't anyone else just tire of looking up a monkey *** to peddlestool the importance of darwinism for so long? i mean... at least chemistry is a playground among the science... there's no worry for a beginning... there's only play... no... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i have to read it in Polish... which is also a... january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, novermber, december... you'd think i'd be able to recite you the months in my mother tongue... styczeń, luty, marzec, kwiecień, maj, czerwiec, listopad, grudzień... english alphabet? a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, m, n, l, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v... **** gets scrambled... pointless rubrics... give me the practical! - i've just picked up a copy of Plato's republic... straight away i know that i'm finding my gensus in Plato rather than Aristotle...

    och ty, pijaku z psim pyskiem,
                  a za to z sercem jelenia...

    oh you, drunkard with a dog's snout,
                           nonetheless, with a stag's heart...

again, Nietzsche: Kant is an idiot, Plato is boring...
perhaps in German, for a German,
looking for Germany while roaming parts of Italy...
well... Plato, really seems appealing in
high slavic (western), the conversations breed
a sense of clarity, about fog, about darkness,
or any akin metaphor to boot...
                           between Nietzsche's maxims,
i'll take la Rochefoucauld succinct observations
before i succumb to pop-nietzsche modern
cult meme fucklords...
                          Roger Moore... prime example
of a bachelor, Kant, the same, Kierkegaard...
as for myself? if i married?
  would i still have the same sort of access to new
music, that i currently enjoy?
   for god's sake... i have to fall asleep while
listening to music, if i spend a day without
at least 5 hours of music on the headphones
   i start to lose the plot...
              my drinking is merely a side-note...
a p.s., given that now i'm a reformed drinker?
having cut my dosage in half...
     i'm still a music *****...
   women don't like music junkies...
                   and when my ex- started reading me
a qustionnaire from a russian cosmopolitan
magazine on the train to moscow from
st. petersburg... i thought i was going to shoot
myself in the head...
             perfect girlfriend this,
perfect girlfriend that...
             bob dylan saved me...
        but not for long...
                         women aren't feline...
at least with a cat you can ignore it...
                  he's pretending to be a solipsist and
you pretend to be: caring...
                 food on the table,
a clean litter tray... besides that?
                                                 fuckoffski!
     and i write this from a perspective of endearment,
nothing beats the zenith moments in a hetrosexual
relationship... the odd date...
                 talking impromptu... making food...
***, ***... ***... *** *** ***... ***... ***...
       but the petty arguments...
   the attention to detail...
                   god... anniversaries?
  i don't even celebrate my own birthday!
i fake celebrating christian holidays...
                    today is today, tomorrow:
that's tomorrow's concern...
           o.k. england winning the cricket world cup...
but that's a celebration with a calendar!
it's not regulated by hormones and
the impossibility for nostalgia...
                 i tried the relationship,
i tried the ***...
                       i had to visit a brothel for
the anaesthetic with regards to the past...
  i needed to visit the brothel to also visit
the butchers...
                               i needed to become meat,
to **** meat... and stop concerning myself over looks:
they only brought me trouble...
like i was walking with a "telepathic"
c.c.t.v. crow on my shoulder...
                             so i put on the weight i lost...
and... at that point? it was liberating...
mind you... if you want to lose weight?
  bicycle and swimming... no gym...
fruit for your last meal during the day...
eat anything you want...
  but losing weight? and all that bulimia,
classical roman bulimia:
training the oesophagus with first *******
into the mouth... then with no fingers
down the mouth?
                beauty... is not worth the trouble
when you really tempt yourself with the expansive
temporal canvas...
21 was my peak... after that...
                     voluntary celibacy...
                   a **** here and there...
            but no... it's not for me...
                    i guess i looked up to the right sort
of men... with regards to staying a bachelor...
to be highly invested in something,
   like Kant in a transcendent methodology...
like Kierkegaard invested in the arts...
like Nietzsche invested in waiting for
the fruition of his prophesies...
                      you have to be born to want to live
the simple happy life...
                  the "expected" life...
       the whole Hiob motto of: once taken,
can be regained blah blah...
                        it needs to have trans-generational
breeding involved...
                   a list of expectations...
                social-pressures and for that matter:
intrinsic socially-cohesive-stratification...
i'm a ****** in England...
             and... that puts as much social pressure
on me as... a chihuaha barking does
to an Alsatian's yawn... that's the stereotype...
the smalls dogs bark... the big dogs bite...
                 oh sure, when i visit my grandparents
back "home"... the older generation put
the pressure questions to the test:
even women from Warsaw...
   so where's your girlfriend?
to the old folk i reply: well i can't exactly force
a woman to be with me...
to the women of Warsaw?
   i'm practially a monk...
                        why?
          you don't really want to be aged 21...
forced with a scenario of:
happily dating, presumably reciprocrating trust
with regards to contraception,
being forced to reply to the scenario:
i think i'm pregnant... my my...
   and we were only 6 months apart after
the break-up, living in two different cities...
em...
                     on a lighter note...
what's the most fun you can have in Kenya?
   sitting on the balcony, in the shade...
feeding rascal macaques anything from nuts...
to bags of sugar... you, two macaque monkeys,
one balcony... the indian ocean frothing beyond...
it doesn't require a genius to figure out
what's worth cherishing without having
to feel obliged to the whole of humanity for...
offspring - many already figured this out before me:
you learn to give birth to your self (reflective,
and yes, not yourself - the reflexive)...
   which brings death to having to stand on its head...
... isn't Sisyphus the son of Atlas?
            couldn't Sisyphus just sit beside the stone
and... well yeah: think up the philosopher?

.em... looking back at the british empire, and the loud-mouth former colonial people... by god, i've never seen such leeches, i've never seen a people, so proud of being colonialißed! what's there to be proud of?! looks like in a post-colonial world, these former colonial busy-bodies had to, had to: step up and move their markers for Aladdin being performed in the West End... *******...  never in the history of the world, were post-colonial people endowed with so much pride, the whole m'ah bwee'dish *******... to counter herr zeppelinmann with the pakistani in the p.s. framework of the british empire... rotherham... ring a pakistani blue?! have a guitar on y'ah?! see... i don't like these former colonial states, with their people migrating to england, having their overlord say it now, say it clear bollocking... i don't mind a top hat, tux donning ******* giving me directions... but when a ****- does it?! sorry... i'm so sorry... will you please excuse me?! i just don't like *******, i don't like the sort of people who celebrate being colonial subjects, esp. after the whole post-colonial celebration of "libertion"... i don't like ****** / pakis who have to find their "past" by playing the cricket ball of, "the former" colony! i hate copper skinned ******* of ****- origins! former colonial raj-vizier... how can you breed these sort of people, who find pride in being under colonial power?! the **** didn't understand freedom, only understood it when being subject to its lack?! well... so much for english women... i guess they were only going to go for pakistani grooming gangs... drowning in the ganges... i have as much of jesus christ on the cross in me, as i have plenty and enough of pontius pilate's worth of soap to mind the next few years; never in my life would i have to witness the former colonißed to bribe their way, into an acceptance "speech" methodology... the ****- to fable the englishman for his, "tea"... no conquered people, no colonißed people should ever glorify their conquerers or colonißers... i guess the british achieved a double subversion... why do the ****- (stanis) still play cricket... i don't want to know... i'm new here... but... but... when a ****- attempts to displace a european from europe? that's my breaking point... i don't like being displaced from europe... the next ****- that will? well... the obvious target, a northern english teenager girl readied for grooming. i said! next ****- that tries to displace an european from europe... well... i guess.. given the power of the current politicians... nothing! ha ha!

well, with the e.u. article x, y and z...
herr zensor just flew over
London and dropped a bomb
from his zeppelin,
             because?
         two year ago,
       a teenager, girl, aged 13,
downloaded some materials
regarding self-harm...
              now the english government
is implicating regulations,
it will regulate social media usage,
mind you: ***** 'arry was pushing
the agenda all along...
   never mind the competent users...
just tackle the problem
with the addicts...
    oh look: no ******, no alcohol...
ms. amber: i'm sorry, we've failed,
we punched "the agenda"
of a blank canvas too far,
    we're going to have to double down,
for a while, so we can just
survive and have this sort
of a punching-bag of a blank
canvas readied for us...
               so the government will come
in and regulate,
       come on, 13 years old,
but the rising queer epidemic of
premature depression in the youth?
    while the parents do not
implement internet safety
   for their children,
        no block filters...
                like blocking pornographic
sites,
      so the infiltration came
            from within the supposed
safety-net sites?
           ****... i was exposed to
rotten.com by word of mouth at
school...
                           just when the internet
launched with that whole
dial-up modem,
    chris rock in lethal weapon
moment talking about old telephones...
and people bemoaned e.u.
articles...
         there have to be consequences...
people should / companies
should be taken into account...
     what about the *******
  who sold me chemically enhanced
marijuana?
            well of course:
   better a guilty man walk free,
than an innocent man become imprisoned...
that logic is still kinda flimsy
for me...
                 i don't know why...
   but it just is...
    surely there are parental filters
for what a child can and cannot see
on the internet...
                 when i was first exposed
to horse on woman *******?
       em...
         is there anything honest to think
about, at this point?
          maybe that's why i decided
to "ghost" around 200 fwends on fb.,
i figured...
        **** this pseudo-voyeurism
of what people want me to see...
    i've invested a decent amount of years
and settled for the 13K poem / doodle count...
and some pictures...
   none of them saved on a personal
drive...
         why would i stash the content,
hide it, when i want people to peruse...
'it's always dark before the dawn',
sorry, i don't know how much
of a ****-******* optimist i have to be...
before a stoic cynicism grinds me
to a halt of:
                   "branching out"...
              i came here for the punching bag
of a blank canvas...
              i never came for the fake
sycophancy or some count of numbers...
i came here, for an outlet...
      it was either this,
                     or a punching bag...
and you almost sense that this whole
farce of "national sovereignty"
is about to be dropped into the *******
and flushed...
       because... it will all become
                             "too inconvenient"...
oh they'll stall... until the european elections
take place...
                   and there's a u.k.
                        (probably the only time
where an N does't come between
vowels)...
                they're wriggling themselves
out... public: 1 vote...
                parliament: i've lost count...
it's not even akin to rats jumping ****,
more like a maggot **** in a pit...
                        that's what a cynic is:
a realist...
                         if i'm wrong, i'm wrong...
but...
              on several occassions
i haven't been wrong...
           and you just have to watch for
that glee in the eyes of channel 4 journalist
anchors...
     i know that glee in the eyes...
it's a glee of hope...
              a sly variation of hope...
               it's also a certainty imbued
               with a certainity-expectation;
thank god i didn't use the video medium...
no passive watchers,
      at least with writing...
certain sacrifices have to be made. / / / / / / / / / /
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

a "p.s.": well of course i'm not happy
with the news coming from today,
mind you: ever spot a woodland pigeon?
god, aren't they plump?
               bloated *******,
they always seem well fed by the forest...
a pair nested in a tree in my garden,
only yesterday, i picked up two
almost translucent offspring of theirs,
thrown out of the nest,
   the bride and groom
               decided they were sick,
weak...
                  they did look weak...
     death stared back at me,
          what once was animate,
lying there, among the stones, inanimate...
what a strange sight...
            do i believe in god?
            well... tell me...
   what is the driving force that coordinates
hearbeats, the functions of the stomach,
intestines, liver, kidney and lungs?
the categorical imperative split of the brain:
thinking, memory, imagination?
the bank of pathologies?
              tell me, what is the universal
1: nth term functions of the brain / 1 (divided
by 1),
                 the heartbeat / 1,
              the liver's function(s) / 1...
              the stomach's function / 1...
the pancreatic function / 1...
           i sometimes wonder:
  i own bones only in light of the thin
skinned extentsions associated with
fingers and tooes...
   sometimes this sort of thinking helps...
to "fake ignorance",
in order to rediscover awe...
         as if a genesis story...
to be the first...
        you never actually know what you will find...
sometimes there's no point being caged
in all the advancements of knowledge,
of certainity we are presented with
on the secular altar,
            ****! i can't even begin to comprehend
how i managed to clamour out from
beneath the eisenvorhang...
    a brief interlude... and straight back under
the siliziumvorhang...
            i guess i need to sleep the better dues
to pass this day...
           it was expected though,
i was, after all... sending out an S.O.S.,
     wattpad... what is it?
              teens wet silly with poetry
associated with no messy love,
mostly girls...
              YA novelties and novellas...
side projects...
               again: vampires, warewolves,
zombies, blah blah: yawn a year later...
         teen girls: sensitive as
daffodils, but as soon as a presence
comes along: little scheming modliszkas
   (mantises) - since daddy would not
approve...
              i discovered marquis de sade
in my teens: thank **** that i did...
i wished for an exoskeleton,
i moved past it, into lizard skin,
until my skin started resembling
an oyster shell hardness...
                     you snooze, you loße...
i only saw the trilogy once,
in the waterstones of Greenwich Village
in London, when i was doing some roofing
for a housing project...
i only saw the trilogy once...
i only bought Joris-Karl Huysmans's
Là-Bas once... i should have bought
the two other books...
  since i never saw them again...
  unlucky me... having succumbed to the sterotype
of the magpie stealing silver spoons...
the cover...
   artwork by aubrey beardsley:
                        'of neophyte and how the black art
was revealed to him by the fiend Asomuel'
   (the pall mall magazine, june 1893)...
on amazon.com you either get a chance
to purchase this book, or:
Against Nature (a rabours)...
    but there's a trilogy behind Là-Bas...
zee fwench: sorry, and not sorry,
the english can be grand poets,
but when it comes to prose?
                they're not even sniffing
the toes of the french...
                what happened to woodland pigeon
coos today?  wattpad.com,
2015...             the same for me...
an outright ban... because some girl
decided to be offended by me cutting off
a conversation with her: wish her a good life...
and i really out so much effort into that page...
zip it shrimpy: cut off, little richard
on the guillotine... cut!
                well... i was clued into
the world of 'olapoesía.com,
           hallopoesia.com
                       sveikidzeja.com (lithuanian...
dzieje? happenings, events, in ******)...
          and just my luck...
      leave a harmless comment in an in-group,
in a hive?
              how the nazis were not exactly
mongols, or the first christians who
burned down the library of alexandria,
when notre dame burned...
      when the blitz of london...
and how st. paul's "miraculously" survived...
and i said: i'm pretty sure the people
in command said to the luftwaffe squadron
about to bomb london:
you drop a single bomb on st. paul's:
firing squad...
           they were nazis: but sure as ****
they weren't the people of the siberian steppe!
so hellopoetry.com,
  2019, suspension from may until december 2019...
but unlike wattpad...
  i still have my account!
   and guess who's digging trenches, right now?
poetfreak.com and minds.com are
step-overs...
why did i delete my 200+ fwends off of
facebook.com and reduced it to
3 random strangers?
          eh?
                   as much as i abhor darwinism
poking its head through to give
every single existential explanation...
i have to side with darwinism on this point:
a defensive modus operandi...
lie low...
          pretend to be dead...
                   i knew the censorship storm
was coming back in 2015...
and this current banning of woodland pigeon
coos banning?
     i'm sort of happy...
but not for the sort of reasons stemming
from the ban...
     i can finally spread the "love"!
           i finally know what it feels like,
for someone who liked my work...
         being cut off from my content...
frankly... it feels great!
                   i can finally entertain my perspective
with a pinch of empathy...
sympathy is already here:
since it happened to me back in 2015,
and in early 2019...
         now for the 3rd time lucky
on the platforms i already mentioned...
but like this hindu woman said to me...
1st time is an honest mistake,
2nd time is a lesson in learning...
3rd time? there's nothing for you to learn...
and that's of course in reverse:
of me being banned.
                         after all...
if marquis de sade is still with us?!
                 marquis de sade...
                              i knew herr zensor was
coming...           but i didn't exactly
expect to climb from under the iron curtain,
to be draped over with the silicon curtain...
and these people know they're taking away
our former playground,
our youth center,
                       well...
                           but at least i didn't make
passive content akin to a video...
         if they really want to ban me a third
time...
       i'm glad someone took the effort
to read my work...
   saves them the time ageing toward granny
age, resorting to binging on harlequin
romance novels.

p.s.

you've actually caught me in my berserker
drinking mode... i'll just spew...
and spew as i must, i never expected
the "useful idiots" to comply to what my thinking
didn't prescribe them to do...
even hegel once pointed out:
something about 3D chess,
a thinking man, with pawns of willing
actors... i never liked hegel...

                  hegel has become too much
of a crucifix, a bookmark,
of what and where, "things" went wrong...
i hate bookmarked people...
kant isn't bookmarked...
         all the slander that nietzsche offered him,
as some repetitive jargon booster,
with the sort of a bachelor lifestyle
he greatly admired: rooted in Königsberg...
****** worked like clockwork...
his predictability was the great deception...
forget shuffling ideas and whatever
like a northern semite...
weren't the vikings the semites
of the north? restless creatures,
constantly displaced? weren't they?

mind you... eh...
     you know how many necromancers
actually exist?
   you ever read a book by jean-paul sartre?
james joyce? stendhal? dumas?
sienkiewicz?
      you sure you're not
a necromancer?
                it's not an exactly
illustrious title to hold...
             when reading the books
of the departed, aren't you invoking
their living presence, into the current storm
of affairs?
  sure as **** it's not a spectacular "title"
to hold, is it?
           to think: one is more likely
to cite the dead, having "risen" from
their grave, that one is to make
   "compensations" with the living...
   when journalism ****** politics...
and the sort of admired journalism,
akin to all the president's men...
died...
                a slower death than the traversing
speed of a snail...
   like that other quote beside
hegel:         the terrible...
                   has already happened.
the holocaust, chernobyl...
   that has already happened...
               awaiting what could ever be
worse: is but akin to the sword of Democles...
it's hanging in the air,
   blood-thirty,
  like the talking heads of
the french aristocracy, once the guillotine
chop happens... gagging for "free speech"
in a basket...
what is mary antoinette just said:
let them have croissants?!
    fat fake cake binges would...
with a snap of the fingers... be over...
still... the english crumpet...
      tyson fury vs. manny pacquiao
    (the obvious choice of crumpet,
and the croissant getting battered...
akin to a french toast,
               soaked in beaten eggs)...

you read any book by a dead person,
you're a necromancer...
             i'm a necromancer...
                 you're a necromancer...
the dead arrive at your head,
have a ******* with your thinking,
then leave,
you continue,
   in your own right,
and in their right: of mutating their
original thought...
          that lost ambition of narrative,
transcending any and all
moral 'oughts...
                    try me after an hour
spent with a ******* doing nothing
but kissing her:
just, because, "on a whim",
i forgot to trim my ***** hair...
                stealing kisses from prostitutes
isn't exactly easy...
all that pretty woman dogma...
     **** above a kiss...
          well... "yeah"... in reality?
                   i'm thinking about three things
right now... growing a heard long enough
to reach my heart...
   bonsai: in both the tree botanical form
and a feline form of a shrunken tiger
akin to a maine **** cat...
   and a pagoda...
                      don't ask me why...
i'm good at su doku puzzles... mahjong...
really **** on the crossword puzzle scale...
hence? random words just enter my mind
and i need an ars poetica impromptu
to lodge them into.

p.p.s.
i already know what the inquiring man would
or could ever do with a child,
to inquire about his own development as
a child, to find the: dot dot dot the missing
answers, to see for himself as he developed
into an adult, or, worse, to project his own failings
onto the child, child genius tiger mums team
alpha-bravo... child prodigy gehennah...
it's almost a psychological fetish for some,
to bind oneself to the canvas of a child,
better off with a cat, or a dog if that's your
"thing"... at least you won't be hurting anyone...
worse still: the marquis de sade ******
scenario... i still have memories from when
i was 4 years old... Ganesha must be looking
over me: the stereotype? elephants' memory,
which is as long as its trunk...
      "conundrum": if an adult male can fathom
his child: himself at the age of 4...
if he can fathom a metaphorical foetus,
why would he have to procreate,
to produce a d.n.a. mongrel to satiate his
curiosity further?
      besides that... if society was once overtly
religious, moralistic...
today's society is overly-psychologised...
i hate psychological stereotypes,
everyone is this part-time hobby-psychologist...
             i don't exactly require a biological
part-replica of myself to preserve at least
one thought with origin and end within
the confines of my self...
       i'm not exactly prone to utter patriachal
proverbs that encompass whole ethnic groups...
maxims or categorical imperatives
cater for individuals...
                   not the masses...
i'd have to be a patriarch to utter proverbs as
a way to gather the brood of my own
sow and subsequent harvest...
to be so obscure,
    to be so... concerned with lineage...
                   you have to be born with the facets
of necessarily ensuring that future generations
are to make the same mistakes...
           that's why i would never trust western
neo-atheism... d.n.a. as the only future blah blah...
         sure... if you can lodge a thought
into d.n.a. and receive the token of finding both
self and consciousness within such claustrophic automaton confines,
"somewhere down the line"...
      much older generations would have told you...
that's in the fables, the mythos, the temporal crux
and crossroads... time doesn't give a donkey's *******
about your "rational", scientific materialism's worth
of continuum...
                         etc.

We try to grasp all that we can feel
Every grain of substance we can imagine
All the hesitant hands we couldn't deal
From our arduous compassion engines
How long can we believe until we kneel
To the unkempt veracity of religion

Or fade into a vengeful iconoclast
Cynically mocking the faithful breed
Of merry-go-bashers that attempt to cast
Their egotist ideals of what we all need
Fairy tale prophets that lived in the past
Getting off on their own selfish greed

The words of mankind have nothing to tell
Implicating a heaven is rhetoric at best
And, If i'm to live i'd rather go to hell
A tactic of fear sounds like a fitting nest
For someone who has already gaily fell
To a nihilist end that I should have guessed

I have opened my mind to one single thing
A universal truth that we all should know
That one simple rule is to believe in nothing
Is there any trace of deception in what I sow?
There is no wrong answer when you doubt everything
And, your deathbed will teach that there's nothing to know

in my head you're on a pedestal
not even real celestial
like a statue carved by artist
you make me feel less heartless

but i've hardly gotten to know you
i don't want it to be true
because what happens next?
it's like another vortex

like to keep it casual
trying to be adaptable
but your good looks are intimidating
what could i be implicating?

Biologically
a composition of
cytoplasmic fragments of melanophores
self-centering
their microtubule polarity
  reverses
when severed
  outward
from that center
located arm central
implicating
their pigment containing
cells
  red white yellow
black
  are so much like us.
We are not chameleons,
  though,
we need luminescent bacteria
  to breed
under our skins,
  then-we will all
glow together.

Her friends made an accord
To bring her cariad
They met
They embraced
with blissful laughter
The day carried on
They went to the portal's entrance
Outside
He was preoccupied
By the device he held
Outside
She met another compatriots
Who played their mischiefs
With slippery liquids
They caused chaos
And an accident happened
With a child
Who fell
The girl came to rescue
And held the kid until
The pain was gone
And
She looked at her cariad
Waiting for something
Something or someone
She looked at her
Parents
And they urged her
To enter the amphitheater
With her platonic frater
So she went
And waited outside
She faced the fragile glass
Facing her own reflection
Tucked her hair
Behind her ear
And called her cariad to go with her
In a place she felt home
And then
Through the looking glass
Waiting for him
She saw
The way he waved
Frantically
Implicating
An urgent
Goodbye
So she went outside
And saw
Her cariad
With a fair woman
She knew
She was the Eros
While she, the frater
Platonic, should be Platonic
But what's with that look?
A look of regret
A look of pity
A look of apology
On her cariad's face
As she approached and saw them
Her heart heavy
Falling in the pitch blackness
Of Oblivion
Where self deprecating
Self loathing
Self pitying
Dwell
So she closed the distance
Greeted the fair woman
Who bothered only with a side glance
At her
And so they went
And she
With them
In a brief walk
Before they went away
Until
They parted ways
Again
With her
Cariad

Toward thinking - thinking toward that newer stuff.

Implicating a newer truth -
More meaning more than ever what meant before.

[Enter eternity]

Dry unveilings found me dripping and drowning,
Ogling the ones who did it better.

Enlightenment, apparently, doesn't come with instructions -
Sorry, Timmy - do catch me when I'm wiser.

Nit pick my tendencies to
Overcome the dumb junk -
Trippin' about all of the dirt that's piled up on my dirt, already.

Each moment that caters to forgotten smiles,
X's out all of the  good times I could've spent passin' the conch shell with somethin' to say - Ha.

I'm itching to perform a miracle.

Settling for truths spilled from frigid lips just ain't my cup of tea -
Thank God.

--

Everything is happening now.
Exhale.

Vladimir Putin itching
to loose nuclear bomb
end of the world scenario ofttimes
iterated throughout history
though an atheist (actually Unitarian),
no doubt this, that or another psalm
countless times the Bible
references Armageddon and doomsday
impossible mission to remain
cool, collected and calm.

Whether affiliated with donkey or elephant
Democrat or Republican viz
blue war red respectively
political hot issues don't amount
to a (Sam) hill of beans
when Sword of Damocles count
approaches zero hour
as global tensions mount

signaling increased chance
trigger finger will free
avast nuclear winter
(across world wide web) re:
leasing plethora, pyrocumulus
mushroom clouds tree

mend us planetary explosions
annihilating webbed wide
world, an irrevocable
indeed earthlinked debacle
spelling widespread species
multitudinous extinction
ex post de facto after super
bowling powers (wannabe) vied

to wrest empowerment spanning
entire realm sans third rock
from the father, sun and holy ghost,
who turned substantial pock
kits of flora and fauna
once populating oblate spheroid ad hoc

significant swaths of life forms
pulverized and/or turned to ash
transformed into radioactive wasteland
after war mongers brash
lee usurped hegemony
(ruling inhabitants
of Gaia with an iron fist
with a smidgen of flavoring
courtesy of Missus Dash

superfluous taste enhancer,
when sibling burnt offering views
between Venus and Mars incendiary
tolled mourning news
smithereens sole remnant
poisoned every square inch
from weapon of mass destruction

that did cruise
engendering thick noxious fog
disabling fox but not cockroach
while smoldering seas and continents
skull and crossbones didst poach
amidst the gasified, liquified, pureed
where holographic ghoulish super bowl coach

rendering lifelessness home for menagerie
where virtue trounced vice as organisms
(particularly one primate) didst try
(predominant 21st century simians)
tool heave with amity, comity, and empathy
animals and plants an experiment
that went awry

presaging a nuclear winter with nary a winner
implicating mankind as the absolute sinner
instantaneously after Doomsday Clock
signaled point of no return
where grim reaper the sole grinner.

Interlocking masterpiece of retrospective wonders
I feel the tempo of the past, the music pulls me under
I contemplate the small mistakes, the white lies,and the blunders
I hesitate to change my fate if only to disassociate myself if I choose wrong.
I take a chance at inaction and let you set the pace because I realize when dancing with the devil I cannot lead.
I don't think much anymore about anything or anyone but myself.
Selfish yet necessary to avoid the burden of caring about others.
The weight of the feelings and emotions implicating me in their state of being as my words bring their destruction or mirth.
I dislike the human trait of giving credence to logic but falling prey to feelings that only result in illogical behavior
It is the epitome of a creature that allows its own destruction in the pursuit of happiness.
To let no one control your emotions is as easy as keeping them at a distance.
Calculated and premeditated reactions and responses to put them at ease.
To control no one's emotions is a feat much harder than simply not speaking.
Inaction, action, repetition, ever changing patterns.
All that you do and do not will cause a shift in their balance.
Your every move, dancing along the outer edges of their consciousness leading to questions, answers, and emotions that send them off in a plethora of vectors.
They blindly move forward with trust in their reality, one rooted in your kind deception, of acceptance and friendship.
In the attempt to distance and save yourself from the pain, you in turn make yourself a focal point.
Whether infamy or glory, the ones in your orbit will bend and break at your word whether you want them to or not.
Suddenly every decision to please them adds on more and more to a connection that you are not truly committed to.
Every time you scorn them you burn a bridge that in their eyes means much more to them  than it does to you.
There is no balance, just a force forever moving between extremes like a pendulum.
From one extreme to another you dance your way through pleasure and pain  only enjoying a brief moment of equilibrium where you can truly be at peace.
Only when you're alone.
To care is the biggest sin because all the actions and results that follow, good or bad in the guise of caring, are judged by others and yourself.
To pretend to care is the greatest freedom given because the actions will be judged by others but you will always find solace in never judging yourself for the things that you do for others, because it was never for your own gain in anyway.
Peace of mind.
A state of being.
It doesn't truly exist but the closest taste a human could receive is to fake the day to day emotions and proceed to sashay around the people that try to bond with them.
Shaking hands but never removing your gloves.
Always there but only because it is wanted or expected.
Never truly learning what it means to be swept away in a sea of irrational behaviors
Never truly learning that the greatest joy of being human is giving in to those emotions and finding joy.
Always secure.
Always strong.
Always empty.
Always content.
Always supporting.
Always alone.

Grisly horror jawbones Kristallnacht
totalitarian brandishes, flaunts, launches
global threat half cocked.

Vladimir Putin itching
to loose nuclear bomb
end of the world scenario ofttimes
iterated throughout history
though an atheist (actually Unitarian),
no doubt this, that or another psalm
countless times the Bible
references Armageddon and doomsday
impossible mission to remain
cool, collected and calm.

Whether affiliated with donkey or elephant
Democrat or Republican viz
blue war red respectively
political hot issues don't amount
to a (Sam) hill of beans
when Sword of Damocles count
approaches zero hour
as global tensions mount

signaling increased chance
trigger finger will free
avast nuclear winter
(across world wide web) re:
leasing plethora, pyrocumulus
mushroom clouds tree

mend us planetary explosions
annihilating webbed wide
world, an irrevocable
indeed earthlinked debacle
spelling widespread species
multitudinous extinction
ex post de facto after super
bowling powers (wannabe) vied

to wrest empowerment spanning
entire realm sans third rock
from the father, sun and holy ghost,
who turned substantial pockets
of flora and fauna
once populating oblate spheroid ad hoc
significant swaths of life forms
pulverized and/or turned to ash
transformed into radioactive wasteland
giving T.S. Eliot a run for his money
after war mongers brash
lee usurped hegemony
(ruling inhabitants
of Gaia with an iron fist
with a smidgen of flavoring
courtesy of Missus Dash

superfluous taste enhancer,
when sibling burnt offering views
between Venus and Mars incendiary
tolled mourning news
smithereens sole remnant
poisoned every square inch
from weapon of mass destruction

that did cruise
engendering thick noxious fog
disabling fox but not cockroach
while smoldering seas and continents

skull and crossbones didst poach
amidst the gasified, liquified, pureed
where holographic ghoulish super bowl coach

rendering lifelessness home for menagerie
where virtue trounced vice as organisms
(particularly one primate) didst try
(predominant 21st century simians)
tool heave with amity, comity, and empathy
animals and plants an experiment
that went awry

presaging a nuclear winter with nary a winner
implicating mankind as the absolute sinner
instantaneously after Doomsday Clock
signaled point of no return
where grim reaper the sole grinner
feasting on human flesh for dinner.

I notice trees
along the highway and beyond,
tempted as I drive
to ponder each design,
to estimate its weight
in life’s green scheme,

but each lone specimen
evades me as I speed
toward unknown peripheries
of darker and darker groves
and forests and jungles,
implicating blackness
in the blur of green until,
impatiently,
I change the station
and just watch the road.

        It’s a short cut and nothing but.
        It’s nothing but a short cut.

In the tangled humps
of exposed roots I walk
among in preference to the flat
meander of concrete sidewalks,
no subtle clues
of something to do with souls
impress me now,
no metaphoric mazes come to mind
to puzzle me with riddles
of the meaning of roots,
nor do ideas or images
or intimations of immortality
surprise me with the force of things
unknown or new.

I walk among the tangled roots
only because the way is straight
and short.

        It’s just a short cut and nothing but.
        It's nothing but a short cut.

If I am to become the envy of the torch passed,
in my ability to want it .
(bare of implicating  its own abilities to influence me to do so)
-An objective of raw anticipated pride,
it's from atop pedestals cap that we glanced ,
    -False peddlers in stride-
down upon wandering weary
cavalierly.
We're peering into accommodating waters .
my hope is to keep it till the morrows destination is the end, in which i expect it to ride.

We,
(as wanters , want )
will be short in our fall
if evolution to a 'getters' 'getting' is to be at all.
(Be it, or not )
in our daily constitution,
but to be seen as a want is the' got'
even 'getters' fret after,
-with tooth and nail fought.
What you want is nice
but can all be bought .
Being desire
-weather in person
or thought -
'That 'is the breast
beaten rightly !
1/2 with the 1/2 is a man in regards held highly .

its not enough to revel in our memories
they are not the reasons feathers flare .
but to flare and convey the makers where 23 and 3
Variably
endlessly still no answers
have yet to spare.
caring for some that do not have
-in hand-
a contracted guarantee...
also
no reasons have they  
to create a purpose to respond to responsively,
Neither do they care
or look back After they've used your love against you
until hearts are broken so many times its become crooked and black.
just so that they are not alone in darkness when then look back...

Implicating
yourself, and telling lies
was an art.

There was always
a trapdoor. Giving a lot
more, than getting less.

Same unthinking
prevails. You forget to
feed the adversaries.

Very nightly
a moon crashes in your
path to meet a colossus.

The thin lovers
again reach behind the
sun. No fiddles were needed
for deaf people.

The blues are going
deeper. You drift like a
cadaver in the moat.

Written three years ago tomorrow,
yet superimposed (likened to
emotional palimpsest) upon
mental state of yore
recent post traumatic stress
triggered courtesy war
torn legally tendered greenbacks,
where enemy bonded, heisted, and netted
mine life savings, he
(who fabricated conspiracy
implicating Citizens Bank employees,
whereby I fell for
hook, line and sinker)

unfailingly didst surrender
willingly (figuratively suctioned)
hand over fist funds galore
at my expense did score
leaving me dirt poor
subsequently inducing scribe
of Schwenksville to be more
assertive and contact attorney general
in an effort to restore
forfeited cash confidence man wrested,
plucked, and extracted banknotes
wrenched stashed nest egg
tucked within secret hideaway under floor.

Psyche still particularly riven
upon heels of liquidated change
spurring yours truly
to rattle his virtual tin can
since series of unfortunate events
doomed harried luckless
Perkiomen Valley troubadour reincarnate
begging (he gently seeketh
financial succor viz gofundme) for largesse.

Even before scamming imbroglio,
I experienced disillusionment
regarding mein kampf and hard times
getting older and just scraping by
courtesy skin of my false teeth.

Impossible mission to avoid senescence,
nevertheless, yours truly sought
to hold back hands of time,
when pubescent metamorphosis occurred
(two and a half score years ago)
aging petrified me, and imposed
(Uriah) heap of great expectations
and unwanted responsibilities.

In short, I did not want to grow up
forced to don mantle of adulthood
instead hankered and hungered
for fictionally nostalgic boyhood,
whereby every day
in make believe webbed wide world
exemplified hunky dory nirvana.

Aside from experiencing adolescent depression
demeanor of yours truly,
said Lilliputian severely withdrawn.

Scapegoat my middle name
bullies identified perfect bullseye
analogous to trumpeting antagonists
me as carnival barker calls out:
step right up draw an arrow from quiver
take aim at mine plainly affixed target.

Deplorable basket case loathed adult role
idealized mythical boyhood
refrained eating - courtesy anorexia nervosa
deprived growing body necessary sustenance
scores of Earth orbitz
round sun since puberty,
now vehemently decry
growth process sabotaged
self stigmatized stunt(ed) man
I stand on tippy toes,
(with nails that grow askew),
a pygmy among giants.

Sadness ofttimes eclipses
hijacked and jackknifed joy
aware emotional faculty
thru conscious facilitated meditation
can jar infinitesimally
long log jammed **** friggin
invisible obstruction along battle creek.

Linkedin with recovery coach,
I experienced then
(that day being July 20th, 2020)
around high noon cathartic enlightenment,
which revelation heightened awareness
how when just a lil lad yours truly
exhibited socially withdrawn mean mien
mollycoddled by overprotective parents
placed no demands upon their

sole contemplative introspective,
and ruminative non prodigal son,
yet upon edging into adulthood
(and magical age of eighteen)
self same idiosyncratic person (i.e. me)
faulted for supposed antipathy
toward those who conceived yours truly;
I honestly confess lack of genuine interest
exhibited toward other family members.

Absent marginal positive self image
infinitesimal if ever present
within grown docile scaredy cat,
his informal assignment
gently suggested and accepted
with little objection
courtesy Maggie Jaramillo
brainchild social services
Creative Health employee.

Daily repeated self affirmations
(ideally more than once)
rapidly jotted down
ennobling exercise prompted
by aforementioned magnificent therapist
strongly suggested technique
to seed empowerment
fostering joie de vivre.

These waning days of
mein kampf and hard times
flicker with cautious optimism to wax poetic
versus referencing anecdotal
personal gloom frequently cited
sprung from raw bits
since powder milk biscuits
unknown to yours truly;
thee focus of disproportionate
maternal and paternal affections

unwittingly, unmistakably, and understandably
triggered sibling resentment
no matter brother where art thou
among self and two sisters
not deliberately, but inadvertently
created, fomented, incited, loosed...  
genies of envy, jealousy, ornery... out the bottle
an immediately recalled realization
during my formative years
never known to yours truly then
only recounted decades
ex post facto courtesy mother
some months prior to her death.

/                             i can't even "doubt",
                                 to "think" so...

     and you are in the other
bamdwagon?!
ooooooh!

   let's rejoice!

   is like english...
a relearning of language per se?!

dumb or stupid?
is english like learning the origin,
of,
        no language?

really?!
  so language is not english
and english is not a language
a language is: "anything" -

thank ******* can yoyo
  (and the prior to)
   ditto that ****
       out of proportion...
   after the ditto,
without implicating the italic
markings...

    you seriously dope with this?
this is as awful as you can take
it with a pornographic ******...
and that's bad...
   cheap *** bad...
             wish i wasn't the ******
in that sequence of events...
bad...

                    the part where
the father died...
              who?!

                             pope emeritus...
the joke of the immortality
of the gods,
  the repeated play on plagiarism...
and then...
  the mortal gambit...

      whoop t or d             ooo?
there's a "secret" S involved in
                           all of this?!
no **** T.I. and in tie and in equal
as in... an actual iota?!

- a dozen or so rowan "berries"
later...
                 and i'm really attempting
to make an origami with
this white on pixel "paper"!

         seriously!
             foaming at the the mouth
is not pretty!
             there's a reason
        it's called: racing a heartbeat!

only now i've realised that i am,
actually,
digesting rowan fruit...

                   dizzy? no...
  light-headed? no...
                          grizzly (i.e. ******
off and able to surmount louging
at someone -
       with less cutlery -
    and more knuckles...

    just to see a plum-eyed smile?

yep) -

          i'd ******* love a fight...
to ease out this...
                constipated tongue
            of persistent fro fro fro...

i learned to swim without a father's
"patience"...
the "bit" that came after?
          more exhausting than a marathon!
and i'm not a *******
smile-in-the-dark pretty somali!

           and they are pretty:
given their skeletal protruding acceptance
of a fleshy, smile...

              it's like:

    sh... run a mile: and don't come back
with a sweaty forehead...

  because...

        africans can compete in swimming
events at the olympics?
   throw me a dart, then tell me to
utiliße a bow...
   and then come back with a ping-pong
level of an answer...

"they" run! sure as ****!
but... do, "they" swim?
                 a flattened pebble
skips about 3 times against the "face"
of a lake...
               what's the question?

did atlantis exist?
                        did ancient athens?!
          another
big bang bullocking
to explore the sahara that became mars?

the study of history,
and the concept of amnesia...

                really?!

      before "earth" was inhospitable,
something had to originate in
deflating the concept of "life" on mars,
given the dynamics of a star:
                           cooling down...

           so 'ere they come...
bing "bang" (in a vacuum),
monkey,
    and quantum schizophrenia...

          you seriously need
a clown to juggle this furthering of
a "genesis" of history -
when... history:
       doesn't become hysteria.

so...
   corey hart...

sunglasses at night...

became the gob,
the mouthpiece,
to this i was a "maggot" of...

ha ha, who said there were
no ++++ signs for being
angry...

      liberate,
sic,
        oh, right...
        stone sour's
get inside...
the unrepenting
norse overlord mantra
of being pulverised...

fun... fun...
   **** is kinda of "hard"...
when you haven't been
"un"circumcised...
            farting into a leather
chair seemingly smelling
a bit like the whole of iowa,
or a pepsi cola...
fun as ****...
  y'ah...

              you leave me to my own affairs,
i'll scuttle with that army of
cockroaches you so desperately fear...
we need the fear,
fear is useful,
     north korean marching orders...
less pomp...
but more "invisible" circumstances,
matched...

grow a beard,
and then...
find the itchy pin-point...
to scratch an "endeavour"...
rather than succumb to
pretend-scribbling some graffiti...
on a red hot chilli
overpass...

      ****, i gave my ability to
read braille,
for the part of being able,
to play under the bridge,
with a numbed set of finger-tips...
unlike Samuel...
i never sat on my *******
hand, yes, under my ***...
for the liberating experience
of a ghost / numbed hand
while doing the one eyed
monkey "clue"...

         Samuel...
  RM1 night-club...
             underage drinking,
not getting laid...
mohawks,
      hair oil,
     greg tibbett hairstyles
from the debute album...
walking back to Ilford,
missing countless night-bus
86 routes...
singing Backstreet Boys
songs...
he had older sisters...
i had...
phantoms...
            i love that name though,
Samuel...
  it like the pair of names
i was given, and never bothered to
make a complaint...
both hebrew (matthew)
and germanic (conrad)...
******* giggles...

i can't forget Samuel...
    to sit on your **** arm...
to the point of numb,
and then implicating a ****...
genious, or what?

            EA / AD
        pluck of the strings...
when it comes
to smoke on the water?
   i never know which pair...
strum, no strum...
the *****, the audacity,
of the bass player in a band,
to somehow hush,
what, a band, akin to Metallica
could never do,
requiring the revision
of the rhythm guitar (/ vocals)...
not the drums though...
ergo?
     we don't need no education,
we don't need no thought control...
see...
  bass balanced with
the drums,
bass guitar,
   readied, welcoming
the inheritence from jazz...
no simply rhythm guitar
*******...
     welcome....

and just before punk would rob
me...
came uncle,
came the cure and depeche mode...
and all that contraband "jazz"...
then some schumann,
then some prokofiev
              (lt. kije, romance),
then some marylin monroe...
then some: roses of europe...
then some lady pank...
then some 1950s technicolour
movies, éclair sweets...
          what's that

      noun! ****!

                   associated with
1950s technicolour of movies...
akin to éclair...
   oil painting "etiquette"...
   no... not eclectic...
      fudge,
fudge,
that's what i'm left with...

         éclair: but not, éclair...
eclectic, and certainly, not eclectic...
associated with 1950s
hollywood, technicolor...
     and oil-painting preceding it...
not the 1970s grit realism
of film...
    the whole... "cartoonish"
transformation from
b & w...

              see... this is what
a crossword looks like:
in reverse...
              i can't solve crosswords
to save my own ***...
all that remains is...
something, akin to,

                                  this.

In the black dark camera, certain connected blues made other dark holographic areas that were magnified super connected to the optical perspective, conceiving of infinity a luminescence that was fractalized, the black-blue pre-existing towards the pattern Z = Exp (Z / OB ^ 4 ), which is the equivalent of the Bernese Olive Tree Rapa, on the border of its Lipogenesis, which would appear in the veraison of the chromatic and final maturity of the olive tree, for the fractal exponential of Z =; where all the points of the complex plane Z = (OB, iy) are iterated in the corresponding function Olives Berna in set of IY, and in all the iterations where an arbitrary constant (Cx, iCy) is added Cinnabar in lines of orthogonal sets X and Y, in such a way that the choice of the constant "seed" will determine the unique shape of the profile and the color of the fractal, once the chromatic pattern has been defined. In the paradigms shown in this continuation, a constant has been chosen, insofar as it will only produce divergence and it will have been qualified with the escape velocity algorithm, to contract exact self-similarity stratagems in this, which is the most restrictive type of self-similarity; requiring the fractal to appear identical at different scales. Forging from the Olivo Berna species towards the Duoverse and in the broken geometric quality that will evolve iteratively with the Rapas of the olive tree and with the rational numbers separated by potential fractions, which will make the perfect concordance between the pollen, the light and the proportion between the olive tree Bernar and his geometric fractality in the projecting form and the variation of the Rapa fruit in a fractalized geometric cross, coming from the Taphoric Light towards Gethsemane.

The holistic sportula of the Cinnabar in some pecuniary exercises, is impelled for a tacit and absent society, on every night that begins at dawn, everyone retires and the cinnabar appears as a kaleidoscope apostolize in glorious joy, where the Aramaic synergy between the Garden of Olives and Gethsemane, is concatenated with the entire Phylogenetic species with the homily in Tsambika and Theoskepasti, as the new relationship of the link between species that were improper and endemic to the region near the stable in Bethlehem de Kafersesuh, to be inter-inseminated on the banks of the slopes of Gethsemane, in such a way that the linguistics would begin to be absorbed in Joshua and would go for a closer shortcut towards the classification, of the traditional and omnipotent variants, which migrated through the Olives, to renew and preserve the Aramaic or Aramaic languages, of a shared origin now, for the omnipotent and salvific languages that were to speak go to Gethsemane. Once leaving with splendor to the city of the eight gates, and from such interference, implicating the Lepidoptera taxon, inseminating the populations of organisms related to lexicons to shed life and language, among the shadows and trees, revealing their mystery with those who They know how to decipher the messages of the Master that the Door of Eternal Life prompted them in string and catechesis with their mother Mariah for more than twenty-four years in Judah, on their way to the Duoverse.