Hi dudes and welcome to the candle festival which is at Nara park behind the Albert hall and there is a good band on the stage playing classic 80s music
From the act senior college band a bit of survivor and abba
And a whole lot more
There are a lot of stalls  where you could buy a lot of great souvenirs for the young and the young at heart and there are many demonstrations like judo and drumming and sumo wrestling  and at sunset a beautiful candle garden will light up the night and the crowd is beginning to build up, yeah
This is totally awesome and as I am walking around you see people getting ready to do their demonstrations
Welcome back and isn't narrabundah college energetic
As they performed their great Japanese dancing and over at the demonstration area they have calligraphy Japanese style
And there is a drumming workshop under the trees near the food tents and the judo dudes are showing off their styles isn't it wonderful and then we had a duet from Gungahlin college and mate they blew me away with their fine Japanese voices and at the moment the stage is at intermission waiting for the school choirs to begin l am looking forward to that
And as you look around you can see the judo dudes and dudettes displaying their judo skills by lifting their opponents
Over their shoulder, and over onto the mat and over at the ikebana tent they are showing us how to put it together with a fine hand which means she is trying to keep the beauty and now the judo has finished and the sumo wrestlers are showing their skills and I would hate to meet up with them in a dark alley and as you walk over to behind the ATM machines the kids are displaying their drumming skills, there are kids from babies to toddlers and aren't they having a ball
Yeah this can really brighten the imagination real hard and the school choirs are on the stage displaying their singing talents
Yeah, this candle festival has it all, I didn't see much of the school choirs and Nara university high school but o guarantee they would have been great and the sumo wrestlers really had the crowd glued to the stage and on the main stage there is a smoking ceremony and the karate is taking up the stage and soon they are having a sake barrel ceremony and this is going to be totally awesome dudes
It is now 6:26 and now we will feature some great music from ms satsuki odmara (koto) and Robert stockee (didgeridoo) & dr yukihiko doi (Japanese court music) and everyone is listening to this fine music as they await the big candle garden ceremony which I hope this year is awesome and the party is well and truly on the way I hope it is a very good ceremony
It will like the, whole evening
And kids are flying kites as well as making lantern, it costs a bit but it is jolly well worth it if you have kids pulling on your jumper begging for something to do and there is an array of very good stalls if you are looking for an early Christmas present for someone in your family, yeah that is sooooooo!awesome and on the main stage there is George & noriko with their wonderful blend of blues and Japanese sounds and they will get the party started right, they will get the party started quickly right
Aren't George and noriko great they are getting the crowd into the party mode and I love how they yell out koupei too before this song but, mate this is music and party combined and
Everyone is gathered round the stage tapping their feet as await the lighting of the beautiful candle garden
As we are nearing the end of the first set of George and noriko, the sun is going down
Behind the tree and soon as they let out their last koipei
The night is nearly upon us
And those candles will light up the beautiful garden here at Nara peace park
We just had a very beautiful
Ceremony with the chief minister and enstiguished guests and as they light up a few lanterns in the candle Garden we are entertained by koto and didgeridoo and Japanese court music and I can tell you, this is very cool and o think the didgeridoo sounds totally awesome with the other instruments and as we look around each tree has blue green and pink lights, and I tell you that looks great and a lot of families bought candles to wave around and the music was great
And now we are into the last 2 acts on stage and George and noriko are coming out to yell out a few cool kowpei and I think this will be really cool
You see he sits down on his chair and blasts some great blues and Japanese Music
Or Japanese blues and they are showing us how to party, dudes
Saki saki saki is the sound you are hearing  as they are playing a Japanese blues song which
When he says saki we say saki
He says saki saki saki we say saki saki saki and they get their beer and yell out kowpei
And everyone is recording the music and finding out whether
It worked and then as George and noriko are introducing the next song and now it is time for the last song which is rad dude
Shake your money maker
Shake your money maker
That is the last song but I am hoping they do an encore which
Will be pretty cool  and then he yells out koipei
Shake your money maker
Shake your money maker
And I think I will shake my pockets as that is my money maker oh well they didn't do and encore as they are setting up for the taikoz drumming
And as they brought out the first drum and there should be enough drumming to last from 8-30 to 9-00, I think the crowd
Are cheering taikoz on as they prepare
Those drummers were totally awesome and very fit
I know I couldn't drum like that in a million years, I liked how the drummers moved from sequence to sequence
They must put in a lot of days a week rehearsing for that
And when the drumming was over I talk a walk through the candle garden and my phone conked out so I couldn't get a picture but I might have some
Photos of the candle garden in a couple of days
So that is it that is all
So let's shake your money maker to buy some saki saki saki and yell out koipei
Catch ya later dudes and dudettes

Monica watches
as Benedict and Jim
practise judo on the grass
off the path
to the farmhouse.

She cheers Benedict on
standing on the edge
clapping her hands excitedly.

Her other brother Pete
leans against the fence bored,
hands ******
in his jean’s pockets.

How long are you going to be
practising this judo ****?
the film starts
in half an hour,
he says.

Benedict throws Jim
to the floor
in a  quick movement,
Monica raises her hands
to the air.

Knew you could do it,
knew you could,
she says, patting
Benedict on the back
of his jacket.

Jim dusts off
his jeans
with his hands,
looks at Pete,
then at Monica.

Caught me off guard,
he says,
she put me off
with her yelling
and clapping.

Can we go now?
Pete says,
moving off the fence,
now you’ve done
your judo stuff?

Can I come?
Monica asks
looking at Benedict.

No way,
Jim says,
don’t want no girl
dragging us down.

I am not any girl,
I’m your sister,
she says, staring
at Benedict.

He looks at Jim
then at Monica.
I don’t mind if she comes,
he says.

I do,
Pete says.

Monica pouts
and folds her arms
over her small *******.

The farmhouse door opens
and their mother comes out.
I thought you
were going to the cinema?
she says.

We are,
Jim says,
just going.

They won’t take me,
Monica says.

Of course they don’t
want you with them,
her mother says.

Anyway I have some chores
I need help with.

Monica pulls a face
and glares
at her brothers,
but looks at Benedict
pleadingly.

Maybe next time,
he says.

Not with us she don’t,
Pete says.
With me though, maybe,
Benedict says,
giving her a wink.

Come on in Monica,
leave the boys be,
the mother says.

Monica follows her mother
towards the farmhouse,
gesturing her middle digit
at her brothers
while her mother’s back
is turned.

Benedict smiles,
watches as she sways
her small hips,
blows him a kiss
from her open palm.

Jim shakes his head
and follows Pete
to the bikes
by the shed,
while Benedict,
takes a kiss
from his lips
and throws it
at Monica’s
departing back.

Her head turns
and her hands open
to catch the thrown kiss
moving slightly forward
so as not to miss.

You rode the steep hill
on your bike
to get to the farm house
where Jim and Pete were

to practice Judo
in the grass about the house
or in the small hay barn
their sister Monica

was by the fence
when you rode in
the driveway
are the boys about?

you asked
might be
she said
looking at you  

what do you want them for?
Judo practice
you replied
getting off the bike

and leaning it
against the fence
can you teach me?
will your mother let you?

why shouldn’t she?
ask her and see
you said
looking away from her

and gazing at the fields
and woodland all about
she might if you ask her
Monica pleaded

moving nearer
her hand holding the fence
by your hand
when you’re older

you said
I’m old enough
she said
the farmhouse door opened

and her mother
put her head
out the door
the boys will be out soon

she said
do you want to wait indoors?
are you worrying
Benedict again Monica?

no just talking
is she being a pain?
she asked you  
no she’s ok

you said
I’ll wait for the boys here
you said
ok then

but Monica come in
and help me prepare lunch
Monica pulled a face
like ******* a lemon

and sighing
and cursing
under her breath
followed her mother

indoors but before
she went in
the door way
she turned and blew

a kiss from the palm
of her small chubby hand
then disappeared
you caught the blown kiss

in the shell form
of your hands
and studied it
in your palm

then put it in the pocket
of your jeans
where it could evaporate
and do no harm.

You practiced
judo moves with Jim
on the grass
outside the farmhouse

where he lived
and his younger sister
stood on the periphery
watching the moves and falls

and she watched you
with her usual concentration
her eyes glued on you
her hands clapping

when you had Jim down
or made the right moves
and her mother
poked her head

out of the door
of the farmhouse
and said
Monica leave the boys alone

they don’t want you
pestering them
I’m just watching
Monica called back

not doing any harm
do as you’re told
her mother said firmly
and Monica slouched back

towards the farmhouse
cussing under her breath
kicking at the grass
as she went

I was only watching
she said to her mother’s
disappearing back
then she paused

and looked back
at you and said
you don’t mind do you?
no not at all

you said
but Jim said
pushing damp hair
from his sweaty face

go Monica
do as you’re told
and she smiled at you
but gave Jim

a look
in passing
of sternness
and icy cold.

COOL TENTS WITH HOT FOOD
From the 10th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.

Finally, the day Smoochy and I had been waiting for had arrived. It was Saturday the 7th of March. The day we were heading off to the, 89th Boy Scouts & Girl Guides, combined World Jamboree. The jamboree was held this year in the Nevada desert in Las Vegas, USA.

My dad Archie, was the local scout leader for the Shimmerleedimmerlee 1st scout group and my mum Flo, was second in charge of the Barefeet Mountain 3rd Girl Guide group. Mum's friend was the Barefeet girl guides leader and she was named, Miss Alice Springs. Dad was making the trip with other local scout leaders and 11 of us boys. Mum and Miss Alice Springs were taking 11 girls from the local Barefeet Mountain girl guide group, including my two much older identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma. Also coming along was my much younger brother, Lemmy and of course my grouse pet mouse, Smoochy.

Dad has been in the local boy scout group since he was very young and his father, John Lemmon, my grandfather, was also in the same scout group when it first began, all of those years ago.

There were boy scout and girl guide groups from all over the world attending the big camping and adventure event. People from far away places like Norway, France, Egypt, Australia, Holland, England, Brazil, Thailand, Hong Kong, Italy and of course the host nation, the United States of America.

Every group, brought with them their home nations own colourful flags and individually designed tents, based on their countries culture or famous landmarks. It was like having all of the countries of the world, all in the one place at a time.

The boy scout and girl guide group from Thailand had a tent that looked like a Buddhist Temple and also had an outdoor kitchen where they would make, such great tasting, but ever so hot and spicy, food from.

The Egyptian guys and girls had a massive high tent, that resembled the world famous giant Pyramid of Giza. It must of taken them ages to make the angles so perfectly straight and with extreme precision.

Holland's tent was a large and fully operational, colourful windmill. It, even had it's very own water tank. The windmill tent was painted with colours and designs that even impressed my very artistic dad.

He said, 'He might even have to redecorate his unusually built, outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed and use some of the bright paint colours and fancy designs the boys and girls had done'.

The next tent was very big and long from the boy scout and girl guide groups of, Australia. It had been designed to look like the, Sydney harbour bridge. But it didn't have a roof to protect them from the weather, while they slept shoulder to shoulder, across the wooden bridge road. But, like most Aussies with relaxed and casual attitudes they said, 'She'll be right mate, Rain, Hail or Shine'.

The guys and gals from Italy, had a tent that was leaning over to the right, just like the, famous Leaning Tower of Pisa. They assured us all that it wouldn't fall over. 'Trust us, they said'.

Hong Kong had a very long tent that was based on the colourful, cultural inspired dragon. It had a lot of tent pegs on either side, to keep it's ever winding position in place. It was the most colourful and coolest tent of all. But at the same time, the most scariest tent of them all.

England's tent was based on the very historic, Tower of London. It even had two very serious looking guards on patrol out front, made out of paper mâché.

Norway's tent was in the shape of, a Vikings fighting helmet. It had, two large horns coming out from the left and right hand sides. It looked like a raging bull, in a bizarre sort of way.

Brazil came up with a giant yellow and green football, based on their national sport and colours of the country, for its design. All of us just hoped, 'It didn't get a sudden hole in it and start to knock over all of our tents, just like a giant pinball game'.

France went for a super, duper structure, that was wide at the bottom and became thinner towards the top. It was in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, of course. It was the tallest tent at the jamboree camping grounds and provided the best views from atop.

While the host nation the USA decided to honour the, Native American Indians. They, had a large tent resembling an original and colourful Indian Teepee, with a hole at the top. The scouts and girl guides from, the USA, sent out messages to everyone nearby, using the old, but still very effective, smoke signals way of communication. They said, 'Who needs the Internet, Facebook and Twitter, when you can send messages and cook a meal on a fire at the same time'?

After looking at all of the great tents made by all of the participating nations, we sat down to eat. Everybody had made a favourite dish from their home country. All the girl guides from Australia made the famous and delicious dessert cake called, Pavlova. But, it wasn't any ordinary Pavlova, for it was in the shape of the very large outback rock named Uluru. Which, by the way, is located in the middle of Australia, near a place called Alice Springs.

So my mum's friend has a very famous name indeed. The girl guides from Australia named this creation, 'The Alice Springs Rock'.

The Egyptians had made a dessert out of shortbread, that took them hours to make. Each piece of shortbread had to be skilfully cut, with exact precision or the creation just wouldn't stay in place. It was named, 'Pastry Plate of Pharaoh's Perfect Pyramid'.

The Italian Boy Scouts, prepared a series of huge leaning pizzas stacked on top of each other, on very acute angles, just like their tent. They named their creation, 'The Leaning Tower of Pizza'.

The host nation of the USA, made some yummy hotdogs with tomato ketchup, mustard and cheese. They made the hotdogs, pop up from each end of the roll and placed wooden sticks on either side to look like American Native Indians were rowing their canoes.

Norway had created a tasty snack made with salmon and biscuits which looked like little boats flowing down the Fjords. Also the impression of large rocks in the water that were in fact meatballs for all.

Thailand had served up several spicy dishes, including the famous Pad Thai dish with chicken and the hot soup named Hot and Sour with Prawns in Thai you pronounce it as Tom Yung Goong. It was so yummy in the tummy the dishes from Thailand.

In the Brazil kitchen they made us their nations famous Churrasco or BBQ. It uses a variety of meats like pork, beef and chicken which was cooked on large metal skewers stuck into the ground and roasted with the embers of the charcoal.

France baked up some crescent shaped flaky pastry named the Croissant. They added some great tasting almonds to a few, while some others had dried fruits such as sultanas, raisins and even apples.

Holland had an assortment of plates consisting of Gouda and Edam cheeses with mayonnaise and mustards and other plates had a rich variety of fruits, freshly cut meats and nuts placed upon them.

Hong Kong had very traditional Chinese meals prepared for all to enjoy. They had everything from fried rice, to Chinese noodles to my dads all time favourite Peking Duck, so when he saw the duck he said he was in luck. Also they had a plate full of Dim Sums and a Hong Kong favourite snack called egg tarts and another of my dads favourite drinks named milk tea.

Finally England had whipped up my Friday night special, which is Fish n Chips with tomato sauce. It was so good that a lot of the other nations said they would make it for their families, once they got home.

In the morning we had such great fun and adventure while trying every nations favourite sport or recreation. We started by having team races on the river in Native American Indian canoes, Norwegian Viking ships, Italian Gondolas, Egyptian river boats and Chinese dragon boat races in the nearby river. The winning order was Hong Kong 1st, Italy came in 2nd and third of all was Egypt.

We even had competitions to see who could do the best smoke signals and we even had fun rope climbing events to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning tower of Pisa, and walking and climbing events up the Pyramid of Giza and the Sydney Harbour Bridge tents.

Then some countries had a football game after lunch with teams from Brazil, England, Italy and France playing for the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides World Cup golden trophy. Brazil beat England in the final 3-1, to hold up the golden cup.

Some other nations had bike riding races, which Holland won with ease. Australia did really well in the boxing competition. Everybody laughed when Smoochy came out 1st, wearing a pair of boxing gloves, before they brought out a plastic blow up of their mascot wearing gloves "Big Red" the boxing kangaroo which was placed near the ring for good luck.

Thailand dominated the Judo and the USA couldn't be stopped in the 100m sprints and also the mixed basketball matches. So overall, everyone had such a great time and we all loved the tents, food and different sports to watch and perform in, from all of the world.

The week went so fast and it was sad to say goodbye to all of our new friends from all over the world, but we promised that we would stay in touch either by using smoke signals or the new generations way, which is either by Facebook or Twitter.

Milka waited by the gate
of the farmhouse
for him to arrive

her brothers waited also
for he was their friend first
even if she had
drawn in him

with her emotional tide
I showed him how
to drive a car

one said
and I showed him
how to ride a motorcycle
said the other

in a field
Milka said
just in a ******

farm field
they sniggered
what have you shown him?
the oldest brother asked

yes what fine skills
have you taught him?
the other said laughing

wouldn't you like to know
she said stormily
folding her arms
and avoiding their stares

they guffawed
in the background
then proceeded

to practice their judo
until he arrived
she turned
and glimpsed them

now and then
but all she wanted
was for him to arrive

just a quick word
and maybe kiss
before her brothers
collared him

for the judo practice
the last time he came
and practiced

he had them both down
on the ground in minutes
and she stood
and clapped and cheered

what had she shown him?
that was between
she and him

not for her snooping
brothers to know
she looked up
the narrow road

that led to the farmhouse
but he wasn't in sight
just a car

then a tractor
slowly moving along
whose driver waved
(and she embarrassed

waved back)
one of her brothers
was on the ground

the other stood triumphantly
hands in the air
she looked away
she caught

the summery air
the sight of birds
in flight

but not him
and she'd put on
her new jeans
and top( too tight

her mother said)
with a flowery pattern
then he was coming

over the hill
riding his bike
and the ******
of excitement

ran through her being
and she stood expectantly
by the gate

trying to appear casual
unconcerned
and he dismounted his bike
and came over

his Elvis style quiff
his jeans and shirt
and despite herself

she stood there on tiptoes
her body tingling
and he smiled
and shyly kissed

her cheek
and touched her hand
then walked to her brothers

and they came at him
with their judo moves
and taunts and laughter
and she stood there

watching
sensing the kiss
on her cheek

burn into her skin
and light a fire
of passion within
waiting and watching

feeling his touch
on her hand
(not to be washed off)

and she rubbed
her finger along
where he had laid
his touch

and inwardly
she mused
and thought

o God
o too much.

have you ever made a spider a Palestinian? i have, today, refreshing the paint-job on the back of my house, a whole family strutting away from fresh paint being applied (poets cure boredom, they simply don't know it), the cardigans erase & rewind, my uncle would be perfect with his age to work out the demographics - my age circuit, 30 and listening to the palette of those in full-throttle of the 1990s - anyway, refreshing the paint on the back of my house, not for dough, but for the sweat of my brow - learning i succumb to acrophobia on the ladder - but i did it anyway... i love phobias, they're not the fear, they're like a box of chocolates... you never know what will make you startle... it's not permanent, phobias shouldn't be considered permanent, they're too reflexive... and we all know that nibbling them in the reflective realm immediately suggests irrationality, not to a reaction, but to a continuum of a reaction: a ladder, a giant spider to boot. but i never watched a spider eat fresh paint... watched the ******* do the nibble on paint... ***** - a getty cardinal spider shooting paint pollutants with its leg, eating the Chernobyl cocktail, the rainbow melt in a puddle of oil spill... junkies everywhere; so that done, a beer and a quick look at the Olympics...

if table tennis was as relevant as table tennis -
i prefer table tennis,
judo is too cool too - classic Greek wrestling
with feet to match the hands -
i think in terms of the Olympics we're in
the Gobi desert - so many sports are shown only
once every 4 years, the once that don't make the dough...
i'd prefer the Olympics without the pop culture
exponents that keep us hungry for spectacles
during the 4 years apart -
hand-ball, Romania thrashed by Angola -
ladies first, of course,
and weight-lifting, weighs in at 48kg and lifts
80+kg... well Jihad John versus G.I. Jane...
a pretty match up... look, i came from a certain background
i won't be making politically correct statements,
if it weren't for my personal initiative i'd be scooping
grub from an industrial flat surface roof like my father...
i don't mind getting paid... i just love the fact that i will
and if ending up homeless, i have enough heart already
to start a religion, or something.
of course i'll miss my personal library of books and albums,
who wouldn't? i'll join the divorcee crew and it'll be
like it always was supposed to be.
but am i really that ridiculous? think about it,
i use ridiculous words in my vocabulary, after all i went
to a catholic school, it was bound to happen -
not true secular cool, sorry -
but is my usage of certain words completely penniless
more ridiculous in the form of an oligarch buying
a pearl entombed in a custard pie? of a yacht for a month
at Monte Carlo? seriously? if i utilise the words
Paraclete or Antichrist after just skimmed rereading of
a psychiatrist's religious venture in Jung's *answer to Job
am i as ridiculous as those barons?
i don't think so... i read that book like Flaubert instructed
concerning all books: read in order to live it -
a book is a transplant, some leave a heart, come a ****,
some a brain, some a pint of blood with a book...
i hope to leave the worm of hell licking your ear for a sloppy
Jim - read Jung... almost atypical German Christian
intelligentsia byproduct, neutral Swiss just after the second
world war... Freud read Nietzsche and so did Mussolini...
****** was very much Jung... it's a strange book...
we all know that the Greeks hijacked Judaism...
the Romans were like: whatever that meant...
shoved it into a cauldron of the prefix omni-
and attributed to the prefix geographies and geometries
all inclusive (herr deutsche came along though) -
but the Greeks hijacked the oddity of Judea at that
special time because they had scientific inclinations
rather than aesthetic inclinations of the Romans,
and they wanted answers... got **** all...
it's not the Jews that thought the Greek involvement
ridiculous, it was the Romans... hence the omni-
and -presence, -potency, etc. - the Greeks just had
those mythical names for ****... Logos, Sophia...
that's the funny thing with mythology and history -
the book of Revelation by the looks of it simply looks
like a redemption of Oedipus... mythology is a logic
of history where either none was recorded on papyrus
since no one required hush-hush intrigue talk and people
spoke to each other face to face rather than to a profile -
mugs and mustard seeds -
you can always buy the book, C. G. Jung answer to Job,
it's peppered with too much Greek, and very little
Roman care... the theological addition of a globalised world
(under monotheism, failed and thriving, whichever)
is bound to play the montage of omni- and simply add -
God = omnivocab - i have my limitations of words -
i had to censor or rather select a vocabulary in order
to process the interchanges to reach a conclusive churning
without an ultimate goal other than to preserve a continuum,
like Balzac boring everybody with the 19th instalment of
the human comedy. so after reading this book on religious
matters by a psychiatrists i'm sorta bothered...
i'm tripping... obviously not seeing any hyper-geometry
of your choice... i just think the Greeks did the most horrid
hoarding and looting know to man... which reflected
the looting of Byzantium and never reaching the Holy Land...
the barbarians never cared to be honest, they only
started caring when they started to castrate the boys
for the "holy" choir rather than circumcise them...
then they went Berserk... the book of revelation can only
mean the quantum mechanics of history, bound to
mythology - Oedipus was very real... the blackened
heart of Greeks even though Aristotle, Socrates, Plato...
that intellectual import and expression didn't help...
after all Eddie Gein gave birth to the latter part of the 20th
century pop culture... Texas Chainsaw... Haemorrhoid Hannibal,
House of a 1000 Corpses.. history and journalism
dismisses mythology, i dismiss journalism as simply
a hyper-sensitivity that keeps dialectics out of the picture,
a monologue of opinions... mythology just doesn't seem
that insensible given our perspective into history with Darwin
and millions of years ago with the sea-turtles... you know
how gossip works... it sooth the reality of it had happened...
because we prefer oysters and chicken thighs to digest than
the tales of Eddie, oh yeah... Fe Maiden... d'uh!
the Greeks looted the Hebrews to purge themselves of
Oedipus... the weakness came by keeping estranged with
Narcissus and iconoclasm... you want an extract?
bombshell blonde at your bidding -
assumptio mariae: mary as the bride is united with the son
in the heavenly-chamber, and as sophia, with the godhead.
basically Mary is a schizophrenic ****-child of lust
for a Roman centurion who makes the story of a ****** birth
her wish to bed-wet her son (Jesus) into joining **** John
and Toe into her ****** (***** *****, like her already)
in heaven - she thinks her body will **** her "******-birth"
son and her wisdom (Sophia is her alias, or nickname)
will **** god in the head. oh hell this is sacrilege -
i'm not afraid of it... boo! ha! caught you mouth dry with the
boogie man. so this is a psychiatrist reasoning his religion...
as i said, the Greeks had no omni- Roman put the **** back
into his boots before he starts river-dancing...
all these quizzical ultra-mythical words that the Greeks
used starting with the Logos and Hippocrates were attached
to the failed Platonism of the unconverted Damocles principle
and the tyrant succumbing to drink and never bound to
a sober wish for anything more - (i'm guessing his intentions
were laid with Nietzsche as source of discipleship) - in short
let's just say that Platonism failed in practice,
and it needed a populist movement, a redemption from
the curse of Oedipus came from Hebrew with the schizoid-birth,
Joseph bin Adam was: better bite that ****** of the cow-fruit
and remind her of the stoning practices around here -
oh it's all pretty much Eastenders around here, it's
not the ******* Vatican marble corridors, we're talking
Gaza dust sneezing while whipping the donkey's *** to
move along... split-mind: beautiful metaphor... premature
dementia, obviously misunderstood... if premature "dementia"
while so much creativity among the split-minded...
it's like all the zodiac signs became jealous of Gemini,
incorporating Gemini-Solipsism... well, i have a neck like a bull
and a *****-count like a charging bull... but the thinking
behind the 3.a.m. is kinda staggering... oh right, you want
more quirky clues from Jung's book:
- silvia loret
- maritza mendez
- aria giovanni             (get a hybrid and i'll believe in Disneyland) -
****, that ain't what i was going to write, never mind,
you get a chance to see the palette of what's fudge for
fucky-fucky sized 16+ and what the Renaissance men
knew would be better than duck-feathers in pillows;
- meister eckhart: gott ist selig in der seele
- puer aeternus: vultu mutabilis albus et ater
    (of changeful countenance, both white and black)
- pius XII's apostolic constitution (munificentissimus dei)
   words like muni-imus really make you train in
    grammatical arithmetic, don't they? playing doctor with
   them as to where to cut them for a aqua format of rivers
   is quiet like reciting a 5x table up to 30 (sometimes)
- oportebat sponsam, quam pater desponsaverat, in θalmis caelestibus habitare (the bride whom the father had espoused had to abide in the heavenly bridal-chambers): st. john damascene (encomium in dormitionem);

summa summarum?
Nietzsche answered Job... this is my answer to Jung as also an answer to Lot - **** your daughters, your wife turns into a pillar of salt... and i equate that as a precursor to the man of sorrows on the ****** crucifix - salt is a metaphor for misery (that's etymology for you); and the Roman phonetic encoding survived over the fates of Egyptian and Babylonian is precisely why the adopted son of Caesar later made his uncle's adopted nephew his successor - as with the four dogma canon gospels, we're replicas of the tetragrammaton... well... i was never confirmed, i'm one short of joining the god-men that came out from catholic school after choosing a name for themselves they could have changed not having wished to be known by the two names given to them by their parents... few did... i just ended up an acronym of Einstein: M C E.

Hello, I am at the candle festival and I just had a beautiful gluten free curry but the only problem is it had potatoes oh well I will go back to my diet tomorrow
What is the candle festival about if you can't break your diet
Ok well there was water bombs where I can guess you throw them, oh the kids throw them
What a bit of fun and there was a Japanese version of our national anthem advance Australia fair and there is also judo demonstrations and the nara school all the way from Japan are just about to take to the stage and by golly there are a lot of kids there, I am wondering what songs will the play, something hip I imagine
The first song got the kids dancing and a big yellow and black thank you on the back
Of the back line and the next song is some old kids song done in Japanese and mate these kids are amazing the second song sounded like when your ears hang low waddle to and fro tie them in a knot tie them in a bow and mate if you can't get what that song is you are a bit of a clot and now on the stage there is a lady with a Japanese fan, and she sounds cool and now she is dancing stylishly with a carousel and mind you she looks good, the next performers on the stage are Riley lee and Steve Allen and it will be interesting what music they play for us one played acoustic and the other played the flute and mate it was peaceful as you look toward the lake and trees and the beautiful candles that are in the garden ready to be lit
Riley and Steve gave a really cool performance of acoustic and the flute and coming up next there will be a chef with a very big salmon and I wonder what that will be like, I guess it will be ever so groovy dudes
This chef very carefully cuts the salmon to very small portions
And maybe he might have a bit of sushi ha ha, he is cutting the fish without touching it with his hand mind you he has a bit of a problem doing it but he is amazing  
The chef finished early
So he went back on stage to explain about his knives that he was using for the cutting of the salmon and there is a special basic way to cut the fish/sushi
Whatever you want to call it
I really like how they add the chrysanthemum flower and he is cutting it with so much care as he puts the flower in the middle of the fish and the people are coming over bringing their dinner and it is hard to understand if the smell is coming from a fish and if you remember the Simpsons when they had a poisoness fish if you cut it wrong and he mentioned that fish as he was carefully cutting it and mate, he looks like he really knows his fish  
And that was really amazing and from the aboretum in Canberra they are bringing out a special tree called the bonzai tree and the tree dates back to the year of 1989 and this tree looks great
And as the tree goes off the stage, we are about to see the official candle lighting ceremony which promises to be very cool
Coming out to officially say some words from the ambassador of Japan and Andrew Barr who is the chief minister of the national capital
As they are about to make the speech of the 15th candle festival and they are lighting the candles on the stage and they are about to go to the candle garden to place the lantern
The music started a bit later than last year but we really need some audience participation to get everyone cheering and the first song is my island home which is a rather nice song but we need some audience participation to wake them up a bit but I am not saying that he is a bad singer
I am just thinking bring on the exciting singers and after one performance the singing was unsatisfactory and I went for a walk in the candle garden which had some pretty candles with trees and buildings, yeah and I will show you the photos I got from the candle garden in the pictures yeah it was a good night out apart from the rain making a few appearances but overall I give it a 7 out of 10
They needed to have more audience participation toward the end to encourage people to stay and not go home

You rode bikes with Milka
to the bridge over the river
and stood looking down
at the flowing water

and talked
of the latest
Elvis Presley film
you’d seen

and she said that she
had wanted to see it
but her mother
had forbidden it

saying it was not
the type of film
for her age
then you talked

of the film you’d seen
while working
as a cinema projectionist
called Ben Hur

and the great
chariot races in it
she leaned close to you
as you talked

her hands
on the brick bridge
her hips pressing
gently against yours  

she said she like it
when you came
to their farmhouse
and practised judo

with her brothers
and she could watch
and as she spoke
you studied her

her short fair hair
her large blue eyes
her delicate hands
the fingertips rubbing

against the bricks
of the bridge
the simple
green shift dress

she had on
and do you remember
that time you had them
both on the grass at once

in that karate fight?
she said excitedly
and you noticed
maybe

for the first time
her small firm bust
her figure
kind of huggable

although you hadn’t
hugged her
and she went on
about wanting to go

out with you
but her brothers
had said
Baruch won’t be

interested in you
he likes pretty girls
and you looked
at her eyes

as she spoke
how large they were
yet not unbeautiful
the orbs blue

portraying
wide worlds of you
and how old are you?
she asked

because they
keep saying
you’re too old
for me

16
you said
well
she said

I’m 14
so that isn’t
too old is it?
no

you said
seeing her eyes look
kind of watery
like small fish bowls

then she talked
of having seen you
in her dreams
and that in her dreams

you had kissed her
where did I kiss you?
you asked
on the lips of course

she said
no I meant
where abouts
was I when I kissed you?

o
she said blushing
in the barn
by the farmhouse

o I see
you said
never having been
there with her

only with her brothers
to do judo fights
she looked down
at the water

her eyes wide
and watery
a bird flew by
a bird song sounded

you leaned close to her
and kissed
her ear
through her

fair hair
and she looked at you
and you saw
new worlds

being born there
amongst the blue
Milka smiling
at an older you.

When Monica asked
if she could go with you
and her brothers
bike riding

her mother said
no you’re too young
or if she asked
to go with you

and Jim and Pete
to the cinema
to see the latest
Elvis flick

her mother said
definitely not
it’s not for young girls
and Monica’d storm indoors

slamming the door
shouting I hate you all
but when you called one day
and her brothers were out

(gone to see their big brother
about some old motorbike)
her mother said
yes come in and wait  

and Monica was
pleased as Punch
especially when
her mother said

you could stay to lunch
and I can show you
over the place
Monica said

and after lunch maybe
we can go for a bike ride
along the small lanes
and maybe you

could show me
some judo moves
and her mother said
we’ll see I’m not sure

Benedict will want
to do those kind
of things with a girl
and went off

to make lunch
and Monica showed you
all over the house
whose room was whose

and up in the attic
she said
this is my room
and took your hand

and took you
to the window
and said
see the view I’ve got?

Isn’t it the best?
and you said
yes it’s good
and you took in the view

and looking around
the room you saw her bed
and the big pink elephant
there by the wall

staring at you
and she said
that’s Pinkie
isn’t she great?

sure
you said
and she took you
down the stairs

to the kitchen for lunch
and her mother
chatted away
about her sons

and Monica sat there
gawking at you
her eyes studying
each aspect of you

her eyes large
as saucers
blue and beautiful
and after lunch

you showed her
a few judo moves
which she loved
especially when

your hands moved her
and you sensed
her almost ready
to burst with joy

and just before
you were ready
to go for a ride
on the bikes

her brothers came
and shooed her away
and she went off
giving them the evil eye

but you she gave
the young girl wink
the we know
what they don’t smile

and off you rode
with her brothers
but she kept
those moments with you

(to herself)
as if you were
Romeo and Juliet
fond lovers.

a google-whack for the ultimate news reel: #jigo'hudami.

and not another Shakespeare to come, #blues,
and not another Milton to come, #blues,
and not another Beckett to come, #blues,
an not another unforced Bukowski to come, #blues,
and not another papa Ginsberg to come, #blues,
and not another fusion of poetry and jazz, #blues -
not another, the lost interest in jazz,
the it's been done, and only in America, #blues -
and not another Dostoyevsky to come, #blues,
and no one is digging digital trenches like at Ypres
             capitalising on the gambling of
giving it all, even if it means giving it for nothing
imagining daymares of homelessness, #blues -
and no more fusion worked from the stale juggernauts
of voice in the wilderness, or voice among aghast silence -
and no one is writing intoxicated odes in a Dionysian
woodland shade naked or at least half naked - #blues,
and no one new knows how having voyeuristic eyes
not looking at your poetry on the internet feels like,
before the broadband hyper super hyper mega tron
optic wires before the ancient tee p p **** dial to
connect - rotary dial telephones and aesthetic patience -
dial-a-meaning now, collect, appropriate, discard -
super-communicative efficiency like the Chinese
but in lesser number - lesser number - a moment to
unwind - choose a graphic for the front-cover -
Dali? really? quote: morbid and dark and a surrealist?
surrealists wrote their poetry at the beginning of the
20th century - again, what a treat, cook up a 21st century
manifesto - overshoot the mark - the macabre non-Gothic,
and so no angel with a sword near the chapel entrance
but a gargoyle - a gargantuan bore - agreed...
and not another william blake to come, #blues,
and not another richard brautigan to come, #blues,
dual citizen of the world - from one underworld to another,
Morse code typescript, or telegram poetry -
poetry telegramic - the reinvention of the cut-up technique,
but less paper clippings of single words shoved in
a hat like someone about to wear latex gloves and write
a ransom letter - telegramic poetry - the cut up is more
linear, less word from newspapers cut and then picked
at random, hoping for the big winner - conscious of
the river course - telegram! - opening page from
l'Étranger (e.g.):
mother died - - - - - - - telegram - - - - - - - at Marengo - - -
2 days leave - - - - - absurd already, apologies for death -
- - - - - (yes, a reader, not the narrator, and not - - - - - - - -
explicitly like a telegram) - - - - (self-explanatory auto-) -
- exactly, at every turn some excuse, but what a grand
excuse, god's turn, excuses after the fashionable 15 minutes -
nothing prior - - - - lunch at Céleste’s restaurant - - - - -
starting to look anti-autobigraphical (i.e. written much too
late, not day-by-day, *Kronos Witold Gombrowicz) - - -
calls Emmanuel to be lent a black tie - - - joke, karate - -
not so funny - - - d'uh, belt - - - mourning band - - - - - - -
with a white ******* rotated 45° from that famous
re-interpretation - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - good something -
running for the bus - - - soldier's shoulder, sleep - - - - -
warden absent, waiting with a chatty doorman - - - - - - - -.
well it could work -this telegram style, it's the easiest style
to read, the Nova Express proves it, the Soft Machine
proves it, Naked Lunch proves it - the incoherent distraction,
well, coherently incoherent - sometimes you want to
see a tornado rather than an open stretch of road in a desert -
a ****** tornado - whirling and whirling with Loki
playing a flute - and something about the great milkman
being choked by a marshmallow monster in the sky -
or, of course, with the sensible people - an Ikea assembly
manual for a chair - with one but the most crucial ***** missing:
metaphor for the 10% books, that's 10% in, 20% up on sales
of audiobooks - hyper-readers, ages: 18-24 - 24-35 (21%) -
and then thick mud ahead, an opera of yawns and a gym
membership one tier above the no-fun zone of sometimes
an index wet and a judo flick of the page - or any other
comparison - but on the plus - and not another Walt Whitman
to come - #bangersandmash, and not another Pound
to come - #blues - in with the pretentious you say out
with the feral? maybe... maybe not - but all of this for only
one sentence: to be nervous over ethnicity and vocabulary -
shouldn't exist - to pursue active censorship of a person's
vocabulary is to undermine them completely -
when corporations copyright words because they're logos
i can understand - but people copyright words something's
obviously wrong, somehow i imagine corporate influence
at having taught this lesson - it should exist - or... in what tone?
but already, people what inoffensive and frail - they
want cushions but don't want stones - and it's every single
time - where once words flowed freely no words stumble
against everyone being politicised - it's hard to do your job
these days, whatever it might be - some would say once
the figurehead a throng of courtesans and you knew of importance,
you were so far away from the seat of power you enjoyed
one sq. mile rather than daydreaming about if you ruled
the world - cost-effective inefficiency of politics -
life? unaffected - and it's not even some glorious technique
behind it - the same children that lied have simply
learned to evolve lying into negation - ah, whatever, #blues,
#Rakı.

title: loop
body:
or holes or days
and oh: or months...
let's pretend years
never existed.

sometimes, it's truly weird... but i'm not English... or British... sure... for convenience's sake, when asked by officials in the NHS... put me down at white British... once was the case of the Anglo-Saxons... well... at best i'm an Anglo-Slav... but i can't allow all these racial "minorities" residing in England to label with me... "reparations"... a "colonial-past"... or... post-colonialism, or whatever the fetish is... i just belong to a people without a colonial past... sorry... that's racist... to be unable to differentiate people ethnically... it simply is... that's how H'america rots... it has no ethnicity distinction... it's either all RACE or ***... can't tell apart the Serb fascists from the Ukrainian fascists?! i can't buy into this whole: i'm white therefore i'm somehow also the inheritor of post-colonialism... i'm on side with the Russians given this argument... sorry... i'm not having it... that's ******* racist: just because i'm white is somehow indicative of me receiving the minority sadism against the British in the realm of post-colonialism... **** no... **** never...you will not put other people's history onto other people: because you're ethnically-blind... just because i'm as white as a Brit doesn't imply we share a shared history... ****-off cupper-neck... come come... milk me the golden **** of Moloch! right now... i'm loving the Russian attitude of... *******... or we'll **** with you...because it simply doesn't make sense for certain ethnicities of the white race to... capitulate to the "racial minorities" of a post-colonial argumentation of: new schematics of how society's to be orientated... nicely... just nicely... i'm seriously thinking about ******* off to Liverpool... the women seem nicer... less paranoid... less-stuck... less... ugh... yucky... itchy... whatever it is with having... over-value delusions of... obviously having bypassed the safety-net of becoming a nun...

the day started well enough... i must have drunk about half
a litre of whiskey: forgetting to take some naproxen
to ease me into sleep.. woke up with cold sweats
at: some time just past 5am...
some nightmare... Holocaust related? i don't remember...
but if you're waking up sweating and shivering
at the same time... lucky for me... i meditated on this towards
work: well... the horrifying has already happened...
i never understood the argument that 6 millions Jews
died in the Holocaust... technically... those were 6 million
Polacks... while France capitulated to **** Germany
in whatever span of time...
  it took longer for Poland to capitulate to both:
**** Germany and Soviet Russia... and we're talking:
a nation that only recently emerged after being non-existent
given the partitions... while France... a colonial power...
anyway... had two coffees... a precursor of a bad idea:
showered... applied 7 different "beautifying" products
to my hair, beard, face... armpits... collar bones and neck
and hands...
   ****** off... as ever... one hour early:
why do i mismatch my timing whenever travelling to
Wembley... if i catch the fast (Southend Victoria train)
i can get from Romford to Liverpool Street in under 20 minutes...
since... the train doesn't stop at: Chadwell Heath,
Goodmayes, Seven Kings, Ilford, Manor Park, Forest Gate...
Maryland... straight onto Stratford...
and then Liverpool Street... and then that's another
20 or so minutes on the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
well... nice weather... spring is in full swing...
another two coffees from McDonald's... sitting on a bench
on the Olympic route...
eating an almond croissant... oh looky-looky...
company... starlings...
                        i was surprised: where did the pigeons *******
to? so i'm going to be sitting on this bench
by myself... drinking a 4th coffee... eating an almond
croissant... smoking a cigarette after the "feast" while
having this troop of 4 or 5 starling beg me to pinch
of my croissant... ****'s sake: the day is starting to look
beautiful... i couldn't resit...
plus... there's that added bonus of looking mythical...
eh? even mystical... since a few coworkers already spotted
you and you're not some old man in a park
throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons...
you're throwing pinches of an almond croissant to starlings...
i always said: better a soul of an old man
in a young body than... the complete ******* opposite
of... whatever leads to dementia: lax...
old men having tantrums of teenagers...
                       just looks silly... and it was sort of like
that today... with the Scousers... Scouse...
   i was expecting such a lively, lovely atmosphere...
i swear... the further north you go... the lovelier people
become... my heart poured out at the Liverpool fans...
the Manchester fans? eh... not so much...
they're sort of like Londoners... stiff-upper lip: tense...
paranoid... i don't know how to describe them:
proper... after today i'm thinking about visiting Liverpool...
******* for the weekend... maybe book a ticket
at Anfield... but just go and see the city... wander...
get lost... find myself...
        i'm tired of continental Europe... then again:
i'm also tired of the south of England...
           4th coffee in... i thought i was going to die...
a thumping in my forehead... i already have high blood pressure
issues... four coffees in... almost zero food:
calorie intake: for someone 6ft2 and 98kg... it's not 2000kcal...
for the first time on a shift
i had to do my jacket up so that my neck would
be covered... the tie was suffocating me...
with ideas of dropping dead from a heart-attack...
thrice prone to *****... the one time i did i enacted
being a cow... i swallowed it back down... crummy...
eh... flakey... sort of like when you...
bring back milk that's half digested: when it splits...
into cheese and lactose juice... acid...
on my way back home: a most glorious full moon...
cider... sweaty shirt...
and this... fiddly ******* the Metrpolitan line...
mixed-race... sort of reminded of Harley Dean...
fiddling with her blonde-tinged curly hair...
i always found curly hair... um... hmm...
too infatuating... she does her make-up...
her lips with a crayon and then some quasi-lipstick...
cute nose, cute forehead...
and she just keeps looking at me...
with the most doe-esque intimidation of:
          why don't you react to me?! why?! why?!
she's so ******* blatant: she can't hide it...
i'm sitting there with my shirt undone...
   oh right... hairy chest of a pirate... thick bulging neck...
babe... i'm tired... i've been up since 5am...
started the shift at 9m... just finished come 6:30pm...
of course i'm *****... ever time i become tired
i need to relax: since i've been keeping this hardened
**** in my ****-pocket since this morning...
i'll get back home... sit on the thrones
and do the no. 1, 2 and 3... which is **** while sitting
down... relaxing my ****... taking a ****
and subsequently jerking off...
but she was so blatant... d'uh... pretending to look
into the glass behind me for her reflection...
checking her phone without taking a selfie...
how her hair would look better arranged if she
has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head...
truly... a pretty little number...
but i was already coming down from a high of:
Scouser women... are all the English girls so pretty
up north? like i said: i think i need to take a weekend
trip to Liverpool... or Newcastle...
i was taking aback when a married woman
approach me... started talking... gripped my hand and
then proceeded to kiss my cheek...
infatuated by the beard...
  that's nice... that's why life is worth living...
random strangers... coming up to you: infatuated
by your presence... having no reservations:
no inhibitions... needing to kiss you... touch you...
always with the northern types...
and i'd agree... southerners: the fairies...
Londoners... so ******* Victorian: reserved...
it's like playing poker 24/7...
   most of the time i find myself of keeping a trustworthy
line of conversation... i just become mute:
bored... i don't like the nitty-gritty of small talk...
what the **** do we have in common?!
absolutely nothing... beside... what?
trying to keep each other comfortable?
no... i'll use my silence to strain the fact that:
we're not friend in school playground... we're not...
but it's different with northeners...
i witnessed two grown men... cry... because they
were refused entry for being sick... puking...
grown men crying... because they couldn't be part
of the Liverpool choir of: you're never stand alone...
mind you... coworkers getting ****...
deservedly: too eager... too eager... push and shove...
can't we just talk? once you get that *******'s worth
of an SIA license you start losing the plot...
machismo... ugh... talking about people who can't
tell the difference from judo from throwing
watermelons...
oh but these northern girls... a married woman
just walk up to you... tipsy... tipsy as:
custard is most definitely pale, high noon sun
yellow... grabs your hand and kisses your cheek...
times like this: i feel... gratefully alive...
it's so very little but at the same time: so much...
i can forget the 5am wake up call...
of the nightmare that stirred me...
i couldn't possibly cry over football...
something beautiful, like Prokofiev? sure...
lucky for me we managed to seize about 10 cans of beer
from someone... who managed to bring those cans
of beer home? moi...
beer... relaxing to some Type O Negative...
i'm pretty sure there was this other woman
on the train: fixated on playing with her...
she kept stroking it... stroking it...
some other day...
like a cat with an itchy scalp... what the **** do they call them?
archetypical clues?
i heard that once... if a woman in your vicinity is
fiddling with her hair... she's into you...
i seriously want to forget these stereotypes...
i prefer the more direct approach...
she comes up to you: a complete stranger
and kisses your on your furry cheek...
it might have been sunny... it might have been warm
today... but the tenderness of those lips...
i need to book a weekend break to Liverpool...
seriously... i need to visit Liverpool...
those woman are insatiable! i need to ******* to Liverpool!
i already can't stand the claustrophobically
constipated London girls...
   it does my head in!
            what happened to: perchance: some... foon?!
on a *****-nilly... what the **** is this?
the ******* Black Dahlia... no... wait...
the Black Narcissus nunnery? the ******* hills are full
of music?! or is that... filled, with?!
this is a trajectory toward a death-cult...
o.k. whatever... i'm getting slowly more drunk
and relaxed and... not in the mood of...

whatever... i just can't face up to having to faces...
it's enough that i already juggle two tongues...
but i can't face up to having two faces;
i see people taking themselves overtly seriously
and i'm thinking about... puking:
and then swallowing the puke that doesn't leave
my mouth... like a cow's digestive schematic.

Geometric Considerations and Nomenclature for Reflectance, U. A march section in B flat minor follows.
Cordelia is nervous about her father's tax position but does not tell the others. Japan's Olympic judo team.
Rehberg married his high school sweetheart, Jan, a water attorney who represents farmers and ranchers. In four games, he had been sacked 23 times and had a pass intercepted 12 times.
Eastern Europe, and conspired to spread communism throughout the world. There are 55 schools in Kortrijk, on 72 different locations throughout the city, with an estimated 21,000 students. Go through all tools, materials, and so forth in the plant and work area.

a. sketch

gęba
                                                              py­sk
            buzia (buziaki)     usta

           głowa                          łeb (łbem)
                  
          gleba (judo submission)      na glebe
                  ziemia,     pustota pola:
  ziemia                                             ziemniak
    ßuka | matka
                                                       pani | kurwa.

ß: juicy s... no macron to be found... but it's there.

b. narrative

it's the current vogue in western cultures,
notably that in anglophone contingents of the copula
already stated: western.

i once heard the argument that it doesn't matter
whether you understand the lyric in a song,
i agree: poems need and only represent a one-dimensional
desire to write words: a bulls-eye, or a white shark's
blind spot| in those omnious eyes without
sclera or iris... |hard to find.

for some reason i have this need to state that this is
a cultural enrichment project, like all *cold war tactics...
since we are living in the times of cold war ii,
there's an inherent need to suggest an alternative to what's
spread on the air-waves...
               dylan thomas could have influenced bob dylan
(who took the name for a surname);
                               but of course i wouldn't
  sell you anything else, but to be given the impression
of a second-rate citizen of england only gives me a militant
status... and since most of us can only grasp a stone
to start a war... better use your mother-culture...
at least i can feel a cultural collectivism of ethnicity
that has a mongrel thought and tongue...

well... that link in the title? it's not a trojan horse link,
the times of trojan viruses are over, they were around a while
back, but the trojan horse has become extinct...
lao che's jestem psem (i'm a dog)...
                     cuchne kiedy zmokne (aura of stench when
i get wet)...
                    
            well... what was the original intent?
oh oh, right:
                              i wouldn't call linguistic teachers with
any use: if they are not bilingual at least...
bilingualism entrenches you in languages and cultures...
and i wouldn't study philosophy, or dare-say "practice" it
if you haven't begun with studying either chemistry
or physics... or biology? the latter i'm not too sure about.

yet all this politico talk in the west... about trans-
        and gender...
                                    funny you should say that...
it has become a reality in the west with these transitions
in accordance with st. thomas' gospel, among other things,
but it's more about how: words do not have genders
in english...
                                     english hasn't evolved to incorporate
gender "roles" in its words, it doesn't have it...
   which translates into the fiasco we see everywhere
in the internet prone world...

              i can't distinguish the masculine or the feminine
in speaking english...
          księżyc (masculine): moon        słońce (feminine): sun.
lampa (feminine): lamp
                                             świeca / świeczka (feminine): candle...
and once again a better example: english words
   can't contain or express diminutive form, e.g. as the above
for candle... it requires the crutch of an adjective,
   and even that word is an approx. to describe a language
that allows words to accept the diminutive...
                mały (cm) that leads into malutki (mm)
that leads into maluteńki (μm) - that leads into
   maciupki (nm) / it's more endearing given the μm scaling...
                                 try to apply the diminutive aesthetic
to the original word beyond
                 the already stated ... and you're writing nonsense.
                
so why is the english language so ****** naked?
naked up to the point that it has to be so "active" in the real
world? i know that oxford dons would like to
     start spewing their grammar rules... but i can't find
the diminutive, for one... for second sexes of words...
and thirdly... trans-humanism when talking about animals...

c. examples from the sketch

gęba / buzia: the mouth, the former being utilised in
such examples as: niewyparzona gęba / a foul mouth...
    buzia? what about it? well: buziaki (kisses) - all angelic.
the distinction comes with pysk... that's derived
                              from the snout... and my my... how
my logic has failed me on this point...
but wait!
             oh looky looky! there's another better
example!                     głowa                          łeb (łbem)
                             head                                 this!
zaczynam sie łbem (i begin with the "head") -
                            kończe sie ogonem (and end with the tail):
so out pops out the distinction between a human head
and an animal's head... the word: łeb.
                    something akin to: crude, protruding
                                                      ­                    or large.
d. in conclusio

is this the guide to what the western world is experiencing?
or at least motivating... well: this is just part
of the bigger picture, it's answer as any answer might be:
befitting to a select interested in taking to this view...
during my "career" of education, i never heard
of the masculine / feminine concepts applicable to words
in the english language... but who cares these days:
it's interesting to watch lunatics taking to st. thomas'
gospel seriously, literally, not appreciating poetry,
                                     overcrowding in prisons as the lunatic
asylums folded and disappeared: with society
being just a massive azyl... a scary word like
                           it's known in my birthplace - morawica;
it's a word that strikes fear into the hearts of men
and women -         it sounded so notorious that they later
changed it... had to: the town of kielce was given
a bad reputation because of it.

His uncle **** asked Benedict
if he would mow the lawn
of the old lady at the cottage,
which he did, then clean out
the cowsheds at the farm,
which he did, then take some eggs
to the local shop, which he did.

It was a hot day, he felt a thirst
so went to pub called the Battleaxe
and ordered a pint and sat and drank
it slow outside in the sun. He thought
of the clarinet he'd brought with him,
the jazz he played in the front lounge,
which his aunt Eileen said was very good.

Do you still have and play your accordion?
he asked her. No, she said not now;
I've not played for years. He remembered
her playing and singing Goodnight Irene
on it when he had stayed as a kid.

Long ago now, he thought, finishing his pint.
He also mused on his recent visited
to see the MJQ in the City and afterwards
he met the band on the coach at the back.
Asked questions, got autographs.

Then another visit to the City with his
two cousins to watch them do their martial arts
and afterwards showed them judo moves
he and his friends had done a few years before.

He took his empty glass to the counter
of the pub and walked out in the sunshine
wondering what his uncle **** would have
lined up for him next. There was talk of
digging trenches in the churchyard some
evening to lay pipes to the church and there
was that mowing of the grass he'd been
shown the other day. Yes, he'd do that now,
he thought, while the sun was out, the grass dry.

The mower was in a shed at the back, one
of those modern jobs, less work, less elbow grease,
less sweat. But also, those peas to pick
and shuck for his aunt. He wasn't done with his
chores for his keep, for six weeks, least not yet.

I grew up on the boarder of city and country
On neo-folk and punk served with romantic classical
The kind of music that paints pictures
Rainy days were my favourite
My Mom didn't pay much attention to me so I learnt to play
With my wild imagination
Until Dad came home
He'd leave whenever he got mad "I'm going for a drive"
I loved dogs and horses and all natures creatures
Except cockroaches
Dear god did I ******* hate those things
My Mom was a pagan my Dad the member of a Catholic church
Mom told me if I am good in this life I'd be a unicorn in the next
My Dad just taught me the lord's prayer
My first friend told me I was going to hell
I knew she'd be a slug in her next life
School bells
I enjoyed school
I was a prodigy child in everything except math
Dad pushed me into Karate, Judo, Rock Climbing, Soccer, Boxing
I liked playing my piano and drawing my dog
Sports made me uncomfortable
My first kiss was with slug girl
She was pudgy and had a cute smile which I was jealous of
But she screamed and ran away
That was the first time I heard the term "gay"
I started to like boys because I thought it was "right"
My Mom said "we all love our friends" but my Dad frowned
I loved my Dad
I wanted him to love me too so I kissed the boy I grew up with
It was gross
I kissed many boys after that and tried my hardest to forget slug girl
We moved into the heart of town and I wore more black
I stopped playing with my Matchbox cars
I stopped galloping about like the horses I desired
I put on a little eyeliner and the bullying I faced when I was younger
Made me weak
It got worse
They tormented me those kids
I wished them all dead but I knew Karma would get them
Eventually
Now I am still drawing animals and writing and playing piano
But I wont ever forget my Dad and his silly beliefs and *** Pistols
I embrace my gayness although not to it's shining potential
But I will always love myself for everything I was
Am
And ever will be
My story is far more dark and complex than this but to tell it would take a lifetime
My whole lifetime
And more to come
x
Kaity

If it's not the **** they keep emailing me
the police that keep tailing me
the system that's failing me
what is it then?
what can I see?

The absolute ******* they spread on the TV,
shows like Dallas or Dynasty
and god forbid it be
Jeremy Kyle because he'll be the
******* finish of me,
what is it I see?

There's a blind spot from blind Pew,
get one of those in your hand and
you're *******.

On the radio where I go on
a slow night
it's all *****.
Nothing new, **** all to do
minimum wage,
no wonder I'm blue.

The postman a third dan, some
judo, plays ludo with gusto and
I want to **** him for bringing me
bad news, black spots from
blind Pews of which there are many.

It'll go in the end or send me quite ******
if they stop with the **** mail and
the police tail and
let me fail
on my own.

Monica watched Benedict
practise Judo
with her brothers
on the grass
by the fence.

She watched
from her bedroom window.
She had parted
the drawn curtains
with her fingers

enough to see
without being seen.
She cheered him on
in an urgent voice.
She would have gone down

and cheered him on
from the sidelines,
but she was still
in her nightwear
and by the time

she had a wash
and dressed
they would be gone.
Watching him
made her excited;

it was a physical thing,
something she could
almost point to,
sense and touch
with her fingers.

She stared down at him,
watched his every move.
Sometimes he would
take on both boys
at a time and defeat

them both, other times
he took them
one at a time
and they would end up
on their backs

on the grass.
Wish he would put me
on the grass, she whispered
to the pane of glass,
touch me

as he does them.
She couldn’t describe
how he made her feel.
Whom could she ask?
Her mother would

scorn her
for even asking
such a question.
She wished she had
a sister to ask,

but all she had
was three brothers.
There was cheering
from outside, Benedict
had fallen. He had

miscalculated a move
and fallen on his back.
There was laughter
as he rose and dusted
himself off.

Oh, she murmured.
She put a hand
to her lips.
His head turned
towards the window;

she backed away.
Had he seen her?
Heard her voice?
She moved back
to the window

and peered out.
They were practising again.
But this time
it was karate,
they were breaking

pieces of wood
with the side
of their hands.
She wished
she could be out there.

Near him,
sensing him close to her.
He came most Saturdays
to be with her brothers.

They worked in the week
at the nurseries
half mile away.
Sometimes she was up early
and caught him

before her brothers were out
and she talked with him.
Once he took her
to see the peacocks,
riding on their bikes

to get there.
She had wanted him
to kiss her, but he hadn’t.
So near to her,
yet she daren’t

reach out
and touch him, that day.
She stood at the window
and stared at him.
He had taken off

his jacket and was
in tee shirt and jeans.
They fought each other now,
their blows barely touching,
the karate touches

merely skimming the skin.
Odd this sensation
flowing through me,
she said, this expanding
desire within.

well, ain't that an oklahoma sing-along sounding title; pretentious *** gives me all the jitters.*

the parody of pronouns, Walt Whitman's
and Jack Spicer's collected poetry - both
are always the front-running jokes
with someone else's selected compilation -
the parody of pronouns:
the father the son the holy spirit -
me, myself and i -
philosopher practice the same parody -
deluded ******* think they're kings -
the royal we - the royal we meaning
the entourage included -
the clown juggling both the philosopher
and the king and himself (reflexive compound,
not a reflective compound - oddly enough
the Oxford dictionary has a time period
where new compound nouns are in
purgatory of hyphen usage, before
being admitted to the heaven of no red line
underlining a "spelling mistake") -
it's the profanity of pronoun usage -
poets ease in and out of pronoun variations
almost unconsciously - prose writers tend to
get lost in creating characters / puppets -
no out of body experience in fiction -
just truths that are supposed to be lies.
but you know what? schoolchildren
are taught that poetry exists, sure as **** they're
taught it exists - but they're taught it
with too much emphasis on a scientific approach
to it: spot a metaphor... spot a pun!
are bird-watching or something? is there an app
on your phone that might recognise a type of
flower or a type of bird? (snigger) - but you
caught your Pokemon, haven't you?!
cultures that respect poetry are caustic -
if they take it to their heart - like Iranian schism
early on with Islam - no ultimate truth with
a schism, just do it like the Blue Indians,
allow more and more schisms, give it all,
you have a ruler, on it 12 inches or 30 centimetres...
for it to be effective you can't have division
according two one judo chop, down the middle -
**** it, let's go down to a sensible division,
i'm not talking nano-metres, but centimetres -
we won't get any Pisan anomalies that way;
but are those scientists really telling as that
the mystery of life is how far we can divide things up?
sub-atomic clever are they? really?!
you see what happens when civilisations undermine
art - make fun of it... the dementia epidemic -
oh sure... don't read a poem, instead play
cognitive games, do a crossword, get mindful,
complete a su doku - but don't read a poem,
don't even try to make conversation interesting -
poems ought to stimulate involving conversation -
the way the art sees it? we're living under a
dictatorship - swear to god, the poet sees it like that -
we're not living in a democracy -
you have charities concerned with gross
negligence of dogs - gross negligence of poets?
you 'avin a laugh - which means many are
put off it, they write 10 or 20 and then fade away -
they think the ease of writing a few words
because they're from the generation where universal
education was permitted can make a buck from
a few ooh ah repercussions when a piano fell
from the sky and they had to crab-walk two metres
into the gutter - then walk on.
you neglect something precious it bites back -
the dementia epidemic is one such example,
the current problem: premature depression
in your people is another - the 21st century
sandwich; but the ease that poetry handles pronoun
usage is akin to kings - technically mistaken
for personas - fake - we write like we walk on airs
and superstitions of the gnawing paranoia of
power and subsequent respectability of the power's
authority up-kept and constantly implemented
for proof of its effectiveness -
getting a trained monkey is one thing,
but getting a monkey that can train itself is another -
as it stands, Oxford treats nibbling on
Germanic with unease - the Oxford hyphen
is the purgatory of necessarily compounded words -
an optical loon brigade loop of adding necessary
complexity to a language and making mathematics
simpler, more atomic, we don't need an atomic
shrapnel language construction -
and yes, this is an old attachment of mine:
reflective pronoun compounds - e.g. my self -
and reflexive pronoun compounds - i.e. myself.

Milka escaped
from the farmhouse
without
her mother seeing

so she said
and her brothers
were out fishing
so she persuaded

Benedict to allow her
to tag along behind
(beside) him
what about your mother?

he asked
o it will only be
chores she
wants doing

Milka said
they walked
to the place
where the peacocks

were kept
and stared
through the wire
at them

the colourful *****
but dull
as mud hens
making their calls

proudly walking
beautiful plumage
she drew up
close to Benedict

her hand hovering
near to his
but not touching
like a bird

in mid flight waiting
she talked
of the dullness
of the hens

and brightness
of the *****
he listened to her
smelling the perfume

she’d liberated
from her mother’s bag
he said he’d wanted
a job on a farm nearby

but he didn’t get it
she put her arm
under his
and squeezed

him close
she was glad
her brothers
were fishing

or they’d
be with Benedict instead
practising the judo
or karate out back

at the farm
she wanted him
to hold her tight
to draw her nearer

than she was
she’d put on
the shorter dress
when she saw him  

at the door
asking her mother
about her brothers
earlier that morning

and had rushed
to dress
to catch him
up the road

without her mother
seeing her go
they moved on
from the peacock place

and walked the road
and crossed a field
he touching her hand
the sky blue

and cloudless
he silent
she talking
of seeing

the latest
Elvis film
wanting him
to ask her out

but he didn’t
he climbed the style
and through the woods
by the small river

and his hand
holding hers
she feeling
his fingers

on her skin
his thumb rubbing
the back
of her hand

and maybe
she thought
he’ll stop
and kiss

and hold
but he didn’t
he walked on
through the woods

breathing in
the smell
of flowers
and water

and air
touched by birds
and heat
she wanting

a heaven
but having
firm earth
beneath her feet.

Naked Politicians
Once someone sent me a photo of a famous German politician
The photo was from a nudist beach and natural she was a sixteen-year-old girl
smiles shyly –with some reason- she never was a beauty but
All sixteen years old are gorgeous
For me, it made her more human and I have never seen the photo since
Wouldn't be great if we saw all politicians in the ****, say, Trump or India's
Morsi. The Israeli prime minister would cast a rotund figure without his corset
Erdogan and his wife holding hand only shielded by a newspaper
he has banned, Putin naked in his swimming pool perhaps he has a small ****
naked around a conference table somehow the impressive would became
less so and more human to bow to a woman who has forest of a ****** or
shake hand with a man with a dangling *****, my dear they would look so
vulnerable that a war would be impossible and we would giggle and they
would go home stat judo classes or take up jogging or spend time in the gym
they would never have time for war.

an anatomy of a maxim, originally: the greatest trick the
devil ever pulled was convincing the world the world that
he didn't exist... perhaps, but what
was the conviction, what ontology lay
behind it, was it pre-existential (Cartesian)
or existential (Sartre's)? we're not
talking gambling with Pascal - we're not talking
games anymore - i'll explain later.
i have too many concrete references to throw
at you, where you'll make this whole affair
a scandalous one that i didn't invent myself,
but we're all refining our meanings,
in youth prescribing unknown to us
slang vocabulary to filter through the included
and the excluded, i always wondered where
slang originated, and to what purpose,
the Beat poets and novelists licked the topic
of slang with their addictions to subplot the
demands for a bubble-effect and a non-touch policy...
i was watching the Olympics today,
and i was watching the height of plagiarising Greek
in Pax Romanum, and it felt very civilised,
an equal contest, handshakes of the defeated,
they are after all games, we're not been equal,
let's celebrate Achilles and remember him
for no depressive isolating ******* when drinking
Dionysian epilepsy of refill, refill, so we remain drunk
and memory of him keep us drunk!
but no, oh no, modern men don't know what
to do heroes, or such memories that might
detach us from thinking ourselves likewise;
oh the slur of jealousy, so much angst, among ably
bodied and among the disabled, the disabled have
no sight of a plateau to look up to among the ably
bodied, they're rotten to the core -
and i know where premature dementia stems from...
i was watching the Olympics today, and it felt so
healthy, but then i watched the opening of another
sport... football... and i put on Salem's debut album
on the speaker, songs like sick, release the boar,
trapdoor, and i felt a reminder of the fall of
the western Empire, and when the Norse men
came against the Roman plagiarism of Greek culture
after the Trojan immigration to Italy after the defeat
at Troy, and Hector dying glorious by a glorious
hand of Achilles, and Achilles dying from luck
for the prototype of Tinder man of Paris, ***** licking
boot straps marching to fake debility...
oh, if you don't have a mobile phone, and never used
the Tinder application, you can see the super-charged
desperation of women, porcelain dolls pretending it
was always hard luck and too much eager ****...
they book the cheapest tickets to the Opera house
to see Bolshoi ballet, they even buy tickets that only
allows them to stand... after the second act there's no
sign of them... they disappear, no Tinder swipe
no Pokemon... better chances looking for either
in Auschwitz (as i heard has happened, Auschwitz,
well, thank god people go to fake mourning and a digital
theme park at the same time, at least the hens and stags
have Prague... they call us the forgotten Europeans...
maybe this is the precise intention of what i once
mentioned concerning the ONE LESSON IN TAO:
to aid the world, let the world forget you,
in order that you might forget the world.
seeing la corsaire we had anna nikulina as Medora,
mikhail lobukhin as Conrad, nina Kaptsova as Gulnare,
vitaly biktimirov as Birbanto (the *******),
denis medvedev as Lankendem and alexei loparevich
as Sāid Pasha... the major dances...
- pas d'esclaves by kristina kretova and igor tsvirko,
- danse des forbans by kristina karasoyova (soloist),
                                       anna antropova, anna balukova,
                                       evgeny golovin, denis savin,
- pas de trois de odalisques by yanina parienko,
                                        xenia zhiganshina, elvina ibraimova,
- le jardin animé............................................................­........
- grand pas de eventailles......................................................­.....
lonely girls at the opera, phones in the interludes, swiping
left, swiping right, a boy without a phone,
behind me two young women trying to strike conversation
about ballet exclusively, nothing human, just prepared for
the stage... what an awful talk, and talk, and talk...
no talk about excessive clapping... out-of-time clapping...
i'm truly living among barbarians... i might not be as rich
as these barbarians, but i wouldn't care to clap so much,
i guess the logic is: i payed so much money for this ticket
i better make my presence felt.
as i already said, i did take Ezra Pound on the commute,
i should have taken Kant... on the way back from central
London heading into the west i felt patronising
tourist eyes of misguided voyeurism, here one minute,
gone the next... only the devil sweats with shame in hell,
while everyone remains cool and in denial at being in one...
i was just standing on the tube, reading a book of poetry...
i turned into Niagara Falls... sweat on my back,
sweat on my front... while everyone else remained
surprisingly well hydrated, i looked like i just ran a marathon...
so after watching the Olympics i watched the dark ages emerges,
two strands of sport... god almighty and the barbarian's
religiousness of sports, so hellbent-anti-bohemian,
intimate secretes of Onan as a chant with that curled finger
jerking sideways movement... after watching a few days
of the Olympics, the empty seats, the few remaining lights
of this world... i got a cyst pool of ****** bound maggotry...
dad says to son: as my dad said unto me: 'ammer 'em in!
but now i know where premature depression comes from,
under communism we flourished with our imagination,
we played hide & seek into the night,
even when they imported Nintendo and comics we
were hardly moved... hardly the ones to be domesticated
and zoologically probed by anaemic paraphrasing -
we lived outdoors, we slept indoors, we used to eat
sunflower seeds, freshly baked bread, drink
cheap lemonade, go foraging for mushrooms -
idealism of some sort? but none of us were given
pharmacological attractions to treat - we were
given a childhood - even in England we managed to
play with Pokemon cards, to be puberty riddled geeks,
but then things changed... none of this new generation
of youth is given the same childhood chances,
in my youth few already experimented with ***,
teased us all that it was the highest achievement -
back then we still had people to look up to -
strange how i bypassed ****** pubescent development,
when the first boy masturbated he'd be *******
*****... i'd be ******* a sensation aged 8 or 7...
and said it felt good, i didn't involve a church doctrine
that life begun somewhere other than after the birth...
as it might be reasonable inspection that mere death,
sudden, et tu Brutus?, is like an *******,
the fetus later, then birth, the migraine of mourning,
the ***** training (getting used to angels),
the ****... takes us several years to record our
first memory, some might go back as far as being 4
years old... no further, whoever says they can remember
prior is mixing what's presented to them for distortion...
i can't distort my first name and my favourite footballer's
surname in the 1990s world cup (lothar matthäus),
or the satirical sketch show about Solidarity:
**** wałęsa (lew) was the lion, tadeusz mazowiecki (żółw)
the turtle, jacek kuroń (hipopotam) the hippo -
the memory of the "turtle" politician always made me fall asleep.
to be honest, the maxim sounds better not because the devil
denied he existed, but because God denied he existed,
once having proven he did, he denied it with such force
that his marriage to the chosen people became a brief
marriage to the elect / intellectual people... but then that
failed too... we're at the last stage... with Islam teaching
us the original intention of man having to relationship
with god... when Muslims teach us kung fu and judo and
yoga and stop trying to censor our vocabulary,
teach us mutual respect, a divorce from writing poetry
to solely embrace the Koran... when they finally realise
they have become more decadent than anyone would
have thought give their discovery of oil under the dunes...
the greatest trick the
devil ever pulled was convincing the world that
he doubted his own existence; and all because he knew
that god denied his own, as became apparent in modern
politics, that the sole tactic politicians used to perpetuate
their authority was in the playground of using denial...
but it was never a playground... oddly enough
doubt and denial mingle like the Cartesian mind-body
duality - but when looking at children i know
that children do not understand doubt, too many games
to play to doubt them, hence the crippling uncoupling
from imagination later on, they're real, undoubted games,
hence the child's complete immersion in them:
whether Walt Disney lived and provided for the lost
children is none of my business.... children don't know
doubt, they have no knowledge of thought per se, thought
per se identified as ego... they know only one form of
lie: which is denial, intuitive lying... doubtful lying is
in good interest only a wavering, but nonetheless a straight line...
if ever doubtful lying ever persisted - even the Koran states
something about non-believers... it states nothing about
quasi-believers... the sort of: well... as long as that
martyr walks into a harem, where all the 72 virgins
are actually prostitutes, and he can stomach their piercing
eyes, then we'll think about giving him 72 authentic brides
to deflower.

My original spring was wound,
Tight as a Swiss watch.
The fore-finger and thumb
Of the nun turned the crown *****,
As only the Sisters could do.
Any subject could be converted
Into a lesson of the life of Jesus.
A plus sign becomes a cross.

     Even Jesus knew the angles
     To be a carpenter and Savior,

Grace and Faith kept time.

The Sacrements were frequent topics.
How many would we receive
Between Baptism and Extreme Unction?
After Confessions, I once asked,
Is it possible to sin between Penance and the curb?

     All things are possible with God.

You didn't want to die with a blemished soul;
Being responsible for more thorns and nails
Pounded into the emaciated, pitiful flesh
Of the one to emulate,
With Grace and Faith.

I was fervent in prayer.
I wanted to carry the Holy Eucharist
To the housebound or hospitalized;
Through the throng of thugs
Ready to defile the wafer.
I was ready to die a martyr,
With a benevolent, sober Jesus,
Guarding from the clouds,
Right hand raised like a Judo chop,
Blessing me, preparing me,
Protecting me with a corporeal force field.
Grace and Faith kept time.

I pined to wear the Altar Boy's Cassock,
Soutane-like, long and black,
Topped with the surplice;
To ring the bell, light the incense,
Hold the Communion Plate
Under Mammy's chin
As she knelt in supplication,
Before the Madonna,
My blessed Mother.

Did she envision me as a Jesuit,
Tending to the lame lepers
In the jungles of Peru and Africa.
Me, who issued forth from her.
Faith kept time.

The dark hour was closing in.
The spring was loosening,
Unwinding as I relaxed.
Marian sat beside me,
Thinking of our orders
At the drive through.
The Nehru-collared clerk
Slid the glass window,
Listening to our wants.
I offered her a napkin
To keep the crumbs
Of her little black dress.

Having run across the field
to the river’s edge
she sat down on the grass
and he followed

out of breath
and sat beside her
she laughed
told you couldn’t catch me

Milka said
I can run like a gazelle
Naaman breathed in deep
Holding his groin

I gave you a head start
he said
I still won though
she said

pleased with herself
only just
he said
she lay back

on the grass
he watched her breathe
her chest rising
and falling slowly

she had her hands
over her stomach
her short fair hair
mixed with the green grass

she smiled
what are you looking
at me for?
I like looking at you

he said
why?
he looked at the river
because I do

must be a reason
she said
looking at him
with her dark eyes

I think of you
when I’m not with you
and so I need
to capture the image

of you for when
you’re not here
he said
do you think of me

all the time?
she asked
pretty much
he said

my brothers will think you
have gone soft
she said
he looked away

trees blew slightly
in the wind
the clouds were moving slowly
only with regards

to you
he said
he gazed at her
lying there

her legs raised
heels flat on the grass
her skirt showing
her thighs

I dream of you
she confessed
most nights
and pretend Teddy is you

and squeeze him tightly
near to me
so that he is right
against my *******

lucky Teddy
Naaman said smiling
taking in her lips
slightly parted

her teeth
just visible
poor Teddy
only has one ear now

and my mother
has sewn his arm on
many times
Milka said

Naaman lay down
on the grass
next to her
laying his hand

on her arm
feeling her pulse
her warmth
maybe you treat him

too roughly
Naaman said
she smiled
her lips spreading wide

well you’re not there
and he is a poor substitute
she said
I can’t be there

he said
your mother
seldom leaves the house
and if she is out

your father is there
or your brothers
besides you’re too young
for such things

what things?  
she asked
looking at him
trying to look serious

ask Teddy
he said
I’m 14
only 2 years

younger than you
she informed
I know
he said

your brother told me
when we were practising judo
last weekend
does he know you see me?

he knows I take you out
but he thinks I do so out of pity
because I feel sorry for you
she laughed

putting her hands
over her mouth
to stop the loudness
of her laughter

he thinks that?
Naaman nodded
what’s he think we do
pick flowers and watch butterflies?

he thinks we go see
the peacocks
he said
we do

she said
but not this
not what we did
last Sunday

Naaman added
we just kissed
nothing else
she said

more than he thinks
or your mother
he said
she looked at the river

the water flowing slow
best then
she said softly
they don’t know.

i only read poetry because it's so accessible, a perfectly formed statue; i only read poetry because it's so accessible, and yet so easily forgettable, so self-embodying in that sense of forgetting; well obviously you will not cradle a culture of poetics akin to a worth of fiction, and canonise people into a sainthood likewise, should they read a major work of fiction and compare it to the same feat having read a scarcity on a page, as based on mass appreciation comparison; a poem isn't exactly a rite of passage, it's a process of embodying yourself, to be dropped into the depths... a novel ensures you're dropped into the shallows (the hugging narration of lullabying a reader to sleep), which is why it's so culturally significant in the medium of replicas / imitations; poems influence the stockbrokers of creativity, and they range from being painters to being philosophers.

liken any period of history
to the days we know
how to scribble down a date for,
i'm sure the glutton vacuum
will lie to you about any time period
of your choosing,
and should it not be a glutton,
it will be a skeletal short-story,
hardly a history book's worth of
storytelling;
but like now, the world in impromptu
satisfying,
opened sylvia plath's collected
poems on the poem *the times are tidy,
started reading it, got caught up
in lizard imagery,
Libras of skin ceramics,
lizard skins akin to well dressed tables -
right now i feel a woman kicking
me in the ******* -
judo chop!
skins of lizards finely attuned to
candlelight suppers...
anyway...
started reading sylvia's poem,
by god the solitary gas chamber of hers,
she was "supposed" to put a chicken in there
to bake at 180° for two hours, not her head!
oh god, not her head!
the entire Auschwitz is lodged in that head of her's!
anyway...
so i started reading her poem
unlucky the hero born,
in this province of the stuck record
and out of nowhere, by the end of
the second form fireworks go off...
i mean it, a neighbour sets off fireworks
on good friday,
phosphorescent blue and yellow,
and that stench of gunpowder all around,
you'd think a horde of mongolians were riding
on the high tide of conquest and hopes of ****...
but you never hear of mongolia in the press,
i guess the communist experiment got the better
of the world, isolated them like Idaho or Alaska...
it started there mind you, i spent an hour
in the u.c.l. library researching the ****...
but i mean... what timing!
pure transcendental ***! starting to read a sylvia
plath poem and then fireworks...
you don't get this much magic even if mermaids
or fairies or godmothers exist.

Will you?
Will you kiss my feet,
ugly and calloused as they are,
from doing what i love?

Will you kiss my fingers, and wrists,
when They ache from playing the piano?

Will you kiss my palms,
My eyes,
My lips,
when they grow tired of signing, and interpreting?

Will you litter my throat,
and trace your lips across it,
when I grow weary of singing?

And when I am a Mother,
will you still make love to me?

When we are old,
will you still hold me,
compressing me tightly,
as you whisper you love me?

And If you should pass before I,
will you wait for me in the summer fields,
even though you do not share my faith?

I know I shall.

I shall kiss your fingers,
your palms,
you arms,
when they ache from playing the bass.

I shall wrestle with you,
and laugh when you tickle me,
even if I have just come from judo,
and my body aches.

When I am a mother,
my children shall be ours,
and I will want no other being besides you.

When we are old,
I shall care for you,
and love as much as I do today.

And if I die before you,
I shall wait for you in the unknown,
rather than go to a place where I am meant to be.

For there is no home there for me without you.

And although I think these things,
I do not worry, for I know we will.

When we are alone,
and all is quiet,
we shall make sweet music together.

Or I will dance for you.

While we are young we shall laugh,
love, and Live,
every single day.

And when we are parents,
we shall sneak, and tip-toe,
stealing away intimate moments at every chance.

When we are old,
I know neither of us will  have aged in the others eyes.
For you are as ageless to me as I am to you.

And when the time comes
for us to leave this world,
we shall leave it together.

Hand in hand we will go into the darkness of the unknown.

no, what really got to me was that i wasn't allowed to practice my Christianity, even with abandoning all Catholic bureaucracy with a confirmation not had... i could have forgiven the brain haemorrhage, even though i should have been taken to a hospital while it happened and told to not use marijuana ever again to lead up to a 7 year psychosis... now i'm drinking each night to stabilise my wrath... you know the hardest thing to stomach practising Christ's lesson about turning the other cheek? the complete and utter apathy and added ridicule when you take it to the extreme of having a culprit you know live out Cain's life, free, no prison, no exacting of law, free-roaming true forgiveness faked by popes in prison cells forgiving criminals, under the full eye of the law, nothing godly about it... but what makes the criminal worse is this petty nibbling ridicule of Christians... they're the ones insuring themselves, and counting domino after domino of hurt... ******, at 115 kilograms, you better know judo... i'll broomstick that glee off your face like i'd eat a chicken nugget. or as it happened at the Olympics today, world champion Poland v. Iran (e-ran, or i-ran, you get the picture), 18 - 16 in the fifth set... there's a joke running in Poland, all about the Anti-Olympic scuffle... Harold Norse's poem i'm not a man - the beard and the braids... how this suicide bomber comes to Warsaw and gets braids on his beard and plums under his eyes and kills no one; funny, don't you think?

after that ****** book is finally published,
i'll head over to Richmond, or some other affluent
part of London and leave it somewhere someone
might pick it up, i decided on zero graphics,
meaning it be like the Beatles white album
with the words: Πoετικ Oπτoμετρy printed
on a white cover, with my name and signature
to mind - ever so often phonetic encoding become
skeletal, how bewildering that the Chinese
kept the ideogram from the times of Pharaohs -
and yes, i sometimes don't believe in Darwin,
with the way they treated Anaxagoras -
i think of the Forest Gump tribe in meddling
things up - among us it's so hard to involve
a question whether than evolution was as uniform
and coherent as expressed from the starting point
of a chimp revelling in more or less universal
behaviour akin to his physical attainments -
very much missing in man - either the Musketeer quote
or nothing at all... a dog like his owner is resemblance,
a friend carried away from being foe in
resemblance too - but i chose my friends unwisely -
the embittered loathing of life from a genetic point
of view, while i took to it in acceptance,
then of late experiencing a complete and utter
waste of trying to experience empathy totally corrupted -
i doubt we evolved, if evolution only means
the Christian elect, and the Hebraic chosen -
i guess it must feel like a night in Las Vegas trying
to talk for the entire human race...
no wonder atheism is supreme in that venture:
i can look at my **** floating as an ice-berg
in the toilet and speak Shakespeare to it,
but will that attract a crowd of listeners? probably not.
so according to the Chinese, keeping the ideogram
was not such a bad idea if encrypting sounds,
shoo xi chow min xaxa was not such a bad idea,
ideograms prevented more invasions than the great
wall of China... it was fattened up, that encryption,
it wasn't see-through skeletal as what was worked up
using the Hebraic standard... א... αλεφ - it just became
bones on bones*, or mass graves, or multiplicity, or algebraic
chi (χ) - the intersection, hence the engraved multiplying
capacity of more nouns, and more nouns, and nouns,
and more nouns, when the phonetic encoding for
the intersection came, we could hoard more riches
of naming things... in this i believe are animals
evolving... but within a framework of
day-to-day, we're not improving, collectively,
the trial of Socrates for one, the profanities surrounding
Anaxagoras - in the collective talk of things
when evolution arises from singletons it's untrue,
outcast, gone, no ditto never ever again -
evolution is talked about in a pluralistic tongue,
it's this autocratic inclusion of everyone on
the same level... that's fine when there are exceptions
on a purely physical criterium, spectator sports,
but on the mental level, without stadium
psychology of roaring and clapping?
you're in trouble... evolution involves progressive
uniformity and no individual out-performing,
but out-performing each other is demanded
when there's an evolutionary plateau,
meaning that the collective requires a physical
differentiation, a spectator sport, and that's applauded,
it's actually demanded...
but reach an evolutionary plateau where there are many
prior-established economic or political systems
believed to be defunct and unnecessary, and you
get an individual rebellion that criticises such
institutionalised systematisations - you run into trouble,
once trying for a viable individualisation,
no no longer a process of: but a stability as
the prior not-mentioned individual attainment.
when the fear of expressing language language in a complicate
way outweighs the presupposed complication of
the ten mathematical "letters"... that's
when it gets interesting... because then people
cannot conjunction casual inference of talk
with an abstract expression of talk... of v. v.
an abstract inference of thought with a
casual expression of talk - not quiet the square you
were expecting along the synonymous and antonymous
lines, were you? see how writing proposes geometry?
i could have written something different...
something akin to a poetic rhyme; it's harder to find
a rhyme using philosophy, and contradict that
it's necessarily a rhyming quartet not rhymed
as designated Gemini couplets.

I remember...*

You coming into my room, every single night to pull up my covers. You thought I was asleep when I grabbed onto your fingers, but I wasn't. I just wanted you to know that I wanted you to stay. I guess some part of me knew you'd be leaving soon.

You are my princess, my pumpkin, my most beautiful little girl. Daddy loves you so much. I'll see you in Dreamland and I'll see you in the morning.

Every night, every night, this is what you said to me.

You had this sparkle in your blue, blue eyes when you laughed. We would roll on the floor in the living room, wrestling, for fun. I remember those few judo classes I took, that you came to, you wore your old decorated robes, and I felt a spark of connection with you. God, I wish I had gotten to know more of that. How cool would it have been to know you as a person, not just as a child? I've tried through the books of yours I've found in the attic, classics, spy novels, but it will never be the same. You are just gone, and I was too young to understand what I was going to be missing.

I don't know if I ever really cried for you. All of the "nevers" choke me up, of course. Never going to be at my high school graduation. Never going to make chocolate chip pancakes and go to Monster Mini Golf on a Saturday again. Never going to use your Marines ka-bar on the first boy that breaks my heart. Never saw me being captain. You never saw me as who I am today.
But if I don't think about any of those, I'm fine. It's been almost four years.

You were the kindest, most generous, most loving alcoholic this world has ever seen.

See I remember the flaws too. I remember being at a restaurant in Massachusetts and we were supposed to be on vacation, but all of the sudden we weren't. I remember Sarah and I crawling into your spot in bed next to mom, the three of us cuddling together, hoping against hope you'd be okay. I remember the hills that rolled up to the rehab place- it was beautiful there, but mom only ever took Sarah and I once. I think I remember the bracelet on your wrist and a haunted look that I now recognize as shame flitting through your eyes.

I remember years after, when you were supposed to be okay, and mom and Sarah were out for the weekend, I remember finding you downstairs where I knew mom hid her mini bottles of wine, and something about you just didn't seem right. C'mon, let's go upstairs, I said, sat you on the green couch. I think I texted mom, but maybe I didn't. Regardless, she knew. She got mad, but I think she was just sad inside.

There was that New Year's party a few months before you left us all, when you were slow again, slurring, insistent on driving home and everyone there thought you'd had a sip of someone's glass.  But I can't help but wonder, and not without a little guilt, if that was just you dying. If we all were watching you die, and didn't know.

The night before you left on your trip to the city, I decided that I was going to convince you to go to the doctor no matter what. You didn't like going to the doctor's much- you were strong, could carry your brothers on your back, the way they'd taught you in the military- but you were also a lawyer. Surely with words, I could convince you to listen.

And then you died on a train coming back to meet us.

I love you, you texted. Once, twice.

When they checked your liver after you were dead, they told mom that you hadn't started drinking again. That you hadn't since rehab those many years ago.

I love you too, Daddy. I love you too.

The body of
A Greek goddess

If you know what I mean

She is indeed
A scissor hold queen

She has mastered judo
Jujitsu too

Don't anger her
If you know
What's good for you

Trapped between
Those powerful thighs
Is where I long to be

Totally helpless
I obey her demand
Of "Pleasure Me!"

I think of you hitting your stride,
yellow Datsuns
Teach yourself judo,
Sun blast skies and a blue gust
of sea air
The practical willingness to self improve,
may have made us miss it
so I'm reminding you
what you breathed
doesn't necessarily ever have to end

I learned my ABC's
Before snakes and ladders
Only to find out the words ladders
Had less snakes, and what mattered

More than letters were numbers
Life's monopoly where's go
No get out of jail free card
And most of the X's and O's

Were in a game of tic tac toe
So life's complicated, unlike Atari
Where opponents, use fake words
When they ***** u like life was sorry

And like trouble, our plans fall over
Like a dominoe set
Money? Security? Like go fish
With a boss that's Alex trebek

Asks questions as you sweat
Constantly in jeopardy, an orphan
A game of hangman, and hang men
Who can't buy vowels, wit no fortune

so life's game is wheel of misfortune
Where there's no truth. Just dare
And the price is never right
I mean who doesnt wannabe a millionaire

But when your the weakest link
You're treated as a pawn for your labor
Left a contestant on survivor,
Not as smart as a fifth grader

That's why families feud
Until like scrabble words don't make
A sound, left with a frown to make
Everyone as crazy as eights

Left only to bluff like poker
Acting wild as a joker
With no bridge to bridge the hole
When ur the *******, going over

21, to bust like blackjack
Losing even in uno
Left only to play solitaire and lose
Like a skitzo beating himself in judo

Cause in the end, society reads the
Same code, as computers so Heros
Are those who don't quit the game of *******. When they aren't a 1 just zero

Cuz like binary code there's only 2 roads
1 or zero, and those that stuck through
And didn't forfeit their checkered chess match til the end, are those I look up to