Ono no Komachi translations

These are my modern English translations of the ancient Japanese poems of Ono no Komachi…

As I slept in isolation
my desired beloved appeared to me;
therefore, dreams have become my reality
and consolation.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Submit to you, is that what you advise?
The way the ripples do
whenever ill winds arise?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Watching wan moonlight flooding tree limbs,
my heart also brims,
overflowing with autumn.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

If fields of autumn flowers
can shed their blossoms, shameless,
why can't I also frolic here ...
as fearless and as blameless?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

So cruelly severed,
a root-cut reed ...
if the river offered,
why not be freed?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I had thought to pluck
the flower of forgetfulness
only to find it
already blossoming in his heart.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The wildflowers and my love
wilted with the rain
as I idly wondered
where in the past does love remain?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I nodded off thinking about you
only to have you appear in my dreams.
Had I known that I slept,
I'd have never awakened!
—Ono no Komachi (KKS XII:552), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That which men call "love" ...
is it not merely the chain
preventing our escape
from this world of pain?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Did you appear
only because I was lost in thoughts of love
when I nodded off, day-dreaming of you?
(If I had known that you
couldn't possibly be true,
I'd have never awakened!)
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Sad,
the end that awaits me ...
to think that before autumn yields
I'll be a pale mist
shrouding these rice fields.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

In this dismal world
the living decrease
as the dead increase...
oh, how much longer
must I bear this body of grief?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Once-colorful flowers faded,
while in my drab cell
life's impulse also abated
as the long dismal rains fell.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Now bitterly I watch fall winds
battering the rice stalks,
suspecting I'll never again
find anything to harvest.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This abandoned mountain shack ...
how many nights
has autumn sheltered there?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Am I to spend the night alone
atop this summit,
cold and lost?
Won't you at least lend me
your robes of moss?
—Ono no Komachi (GSS XVII:1195), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Two things wilt without warning,
bleeding away their colors:
a flower and a man's heart.
—Ono no Komachi (KKS XV:797), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alas, the beauty of the flowers came to naught
as I watched the rain, lost in melancholy thought ...
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Watching the long, dismal rains
inundating the earth,
my heart too is washed out, bleeds off
with the colors of the late spring flowers.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Wretched water-**** that I am,
severed from all roots:
if rapids should entice me,
why not welcome their lethal shoots?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Though I visit him
continually in my dreams,
the sum of all such ethereal trysts
is still less than one actual, solid glimpse.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I feel desire so intensely
in the lily-seed darkness
that tonight I'll turn my robe inside-out
before donning it.
—Ono no Komachi (KKS XII:554), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This vain life!
My looks and talents faded
like these cherry blossoms inundated
by endless rains
that I now survey, alone.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn nights are "long"
only in verse and song:
for we had just begun
to gaze into each other's eyes
when dawn immolated the skies!
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I think of you ceaselessly, with love...
and so... come to me at night,
for in the flight
of dreams, no one can disapprove!
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

On nights such as these
when no moon lights your way to me,
I lie awake, my passion blazing,
my breast an inferno wildly raging,
while my heart chars within me.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Since my body
was neglected by the one
who had promised faithfully to come,
I now lie here questioning its existence.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Since there's obviously nothing to catch
in this barren bay,
how can he fail to understand:
the fisherman who persists in coming and going
until his legs collapse in the sand?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

What do I know of villages
where fisherfolk dwell?
Why do you keep demanding
that I show you the seashore,
lead you to some pearly shell?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Yielding to a love
that recognizes no boundaries,
I will approach him by night ...
for the world cannot despise
a wandering dreamer.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Now that I approach
life's inevitable winter
your ardor has faded
like blossoms devastated
by late autumn rains.
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Am I to spend another night alone
atop this ice-crag,
cold and lost?
Won't you at least lend me
your robes of moss?
―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

"It's over!"
Your words drizzle like dismal rains,
bringing tears,
as I wilt with my years.
—Ono no Komachi (KKS XV:782), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I pursue you ceaselessly in my dreams ...
yet we've never met; we're not even acquainted!
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Like flowers wilted by drenching rains,
my beauty has faded in the onslaught of my forlorn years.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fiery coals searing my body
hurt me far less than the sorrow of parting.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love is man's most unbreakable bond.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This moonless night,
with no way to meet him,
I grow restless with longing:
my breast’s an inferno,
my heart chars within me.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How brilliantly
tears rain upon my sleeve
in bright gemlets,
for my despair cannot be withstood,
like a surging flood!
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This flower's color
has drained away,
while in idle thoughts
my life drained away
as the long rains fall.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fatal reality!
You must do what you must, I suppose.
But even hidden in my dreams
from all prying eyes,
to watch you still pains me so!
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In eye-opening daylight
much stands revealed,
but when I see myself
reflected in hostile eyes
even dreams become nightmares.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I would meet him tonight
but the moon shows no path;
my desire for him,
smoldering in my breast,
burns my heart to ash!
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sleepless with loneliness,
I find myself longing for the handsome moon.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sotoba Komachi is a modern Noh play by Yukio Mishima (1925-1970). Mishima's play is based on an ancient work by Kan'ami Kiyotsugu (1333-1384). The first kanji means "stupa" (the dome of a shrine) while the second kanji means "belle" or "beautiful woman." So the title may be interpreted as something like "Beauty's Shrine" or "Shrine to Beauty." Kan'ami was the first playwright to incorporate the Kusemai song and dance style and Dengaku dances into plays. He founded a sarugaku theater group in the Kansai region of Honshu; the troupe later moved to Yamato and formed the Yuzaki theater company, which would become the school of Noh theater.

Excerpts from SOTOBA KOMACHI
by KWANAMI
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Priest of the Koyasan:

We who have built our homes on shallow slopes
now seek solitude in the heart's deep recesses.

Second Priest:

This single thought possessed me:
How I might bring a single seed to flower,
the wisdom of Buddha, the locus of our salvation,
until in despair I donned this dark cassock.

Ono no Komachi:

Lately so severed,
like a root-cut reed,
if the river offered,
why not be freed?

I would gladly go,
but here no wave stirs ...
I was once full of pride
now fled with the years,

gone with dark tresses
and with lustrous locks;
I was lithe as a willow
in my springtime frocks;

I once sang like a nightingale
sipping dew;
I was wild as the rose
when the skies shone blue ...
in those days before fall
when the long shadows grew.

But now I’ve grown loathsome
even to ******;
even urchins abhor me;
men treat me with scorn ...

Now I am nothing
but a poor, withered bough,
and yet there are wildflowers
in my heart, even now.

Only my body lingers, for my heart left this world long ago!

Priests (together):

O, piteous, piteous!
Is this the once-fabled flower-bright Komachi,
Komachi the Beautiful,
whose dark brows bridged eyes like young moons;
her face whitest alabaster forever;
whose many damask robes filled cedar-scented closets?



Ono no Komachi wrote tanka (also known as waka), the most traditional form of Japanese lyric poetry. She is an excellent representative of the Classical, or Heian, period (circa 794-1185 AD) of Japanese literature, and she is one of the best-known poets of the Kokinshu (circa 905), the first in a series of anthologies of Japanese poetry compiled by imperial order. She is also one of the Rokkasen — the six best waka poets of the early Heian period, during which poetry was considered the highest art. Renowned for her unusual beauty, Komachi has become a synonym for feminine beauty in Japan. She is also included among the thirty-six Poetry Immortals. It is believed that she was born sometime between 820-830 and that she wrote most of her poems around the middle of the ninth century. She is best known today for her pensive, melancholic and ****** poems. Keywords/Tags: Ono no Komachi waka tanka translation Japanese love women womanhood feminist feminism

Donna kanji datta?
Ii kanji ka douka?
Tabun wakaranai kedo,
Mada kangaeshite agerun no na.

Moshi zutto ai suru kanatte naoshitette
Mata wa tabun gamanshimasu.
Dochira mo ii kanatte.*


What kind of feeling is this?
A better one or not so?
Maybe i can't say so but,
I still think of giving it...

If only love could heal it longer
Or maybe i could bear it again.
Whichever it is.

I

Head, shoulders, bees, and hands.
Stings and wings apart,
From the anatomy of art
Despite the stills and shakes.
Two of twos for many stands.

Though at the fore reside the restless digits
Every thought, they spark and fidget.
The point is impolite, but that widget-
My leg knuckles buckle thinking of the quakes,
It tore through my index like new nectar glands…

II

One for rest the other for tests
And one s for the possibilitie
None are hidden from the complete set
of peering palms

right like the leaves,
left like the breeze.
Like the future
Told with tea.

Where these wrinkles will write their say
While these prints will match their way
Whistling while working; these knuckles will play
Whether it be told or felt- make it chalantly
Waiting with a tale for two in every day

III

I set them
With just enough pressure
To hold a frog for fun
Or to annoy a lame nun
Squeal
Down, the cuticles cry

Chuckle cackle fiddle,
Ruckus rackets and riddles
Are really a lot of fun you should try it.
Simply pry the favored tendon
Over that big red button
Yes yes, the American kanji of dissonance!

Excuse the madness, I refuse the discord.
Sounds do not have to be met with pain,
And fear can avoid disdain...
It’s an odd thing that jesters are paid for.

There is an education…
But there is no degree.
I also, cannot waive its fee.
What I paid was from within me.

IV

I had known a good friend fellow
Who once let out a grand belch bellow
About his crimes of cheese and wine

Toward a beauty so sweet and discreet
Her spinning feet fleeting from new feats
Whereabouts to doubt, still flies more than fine

I said to him “your sense is jagged
and your breath is haggard-”
so he interrupted with one of brine…

The failure is in my nature’s course!
Then my dammed machinations make it worse,
It seems as though who I intended to be

And who I wanted you to see,
Are wholly revealed as two separate scenes.
I must leave your metals unmatched sheen.

Well…As I trust you heard before,
Your bust appears to be a dusty lore
I say, you can’t expect her eyes to wait for rust!

A firm grasp on the glass.
She clasps a diamond overhead.
I pointed out with a wave.
A slam,
     Then rotating prints on his glass.
The hopeless *****,
     At the cheek she turned.
Whilst I drew on a napkin the-
Legendary Ten-Pronged Opposition Foundry.

Of course, those lights would close..
Excuse me, one other blueprint is exposed.
Canvas of humility, lines drawn like, self-drawn pens.

Perhaps three could wring something useful from this science

V

Her plans! her plans!
They dance, they dance!
As my matrix unravels,
The hiding holes disband,
Its light skips through the land.
This heat, though discreet,
Will shoulder like a man!
Torching every grain of sand
In to a castle of glass
Where the magic is as-
Crafts…of her own hands.

This is where she sings, here
Ask for where, and no song is there
The Tale is strained into strands
She sings there,
Now, she sings there


VI

Imagine, the swinging trees
And busy birds between fronds
Of these leaves, of mine, you see?
To ensnare and percuss
With your singing wrist
Yet you persist,
to pant and seethe
in these gauntlets and greaves…

A moronic oxidative process it is,
To be here and be there both.
Now that I see more strings
I would rather design dreams
Than to meddle a mess
Out of the mettle you chose to test.

VII

Why would one bother,
Vex the metal man’s nerves
Of alloy he dare not name

Mecca’s bolts smother
The work his death deserves
So he limps slow shocked by shame.

Reliquary shammed,
In sardonic preserves
Dark like the grace in his dame

Her bolts monogrammed
By her lack of wild game
Blinded by white in her cold

Her arms gently fold
His rebirth now retold
His machinery, untame

These split heart horns rammed
Dancing, a light the lame.
Dreams may anchor another

Inspire the lover,
You musical mother
I know it,
Your arts heal hearts after any worked hurt.

VIII

Until vissictudes
Crash down,
I lay my back on grazed meadows
With only the sky to cast shadows
Spinning clouds
Of those crafts
In their hands.

the language of my heart
reduces to symbols
unspeakable
kanjis whose colors are bright
precisely painted
with brushes, imbued with
unknown meanings
as read by blinded eyes
obscured deliberately, without
a key

without
God
a cipher is my heart
a living kanji whose meaning is
undiscoverable
without the cleansing
blood sacrifice of the sang real
a living grail
made unspeakable and holy by
Love


c. 2023 Roberta Compton Rainwater

I don't mind when white people wear

cat ears.
seifuku.
kimono.
kanji slapped on shirts.
(even if they don't know what it means)

Culture can be an aesthetic.
Just as long as they appreciate it,
We're friends.

tooth
rhyme
seal
parade
enamel:
ammunition
axis
body
seal
Luo
oil­
Cats


"Under jurisdiction"

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3  hot summer 3D solid "nose" "three cement adhesives"  "... sacrifice"

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SU SEPTEMBER                     9 months ago imprisonment for punishment

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revenge

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i met a mongol once in amsterdam, we exchanged a tearful stare and said a melancholic hello, as if we were to be brother in cement or sandstone of what the sun rememebred and man forgot but nonetheless carved for enshadowed suave of the shadowing hand on hand upon handed down remnant of the handless kanji... the motherless thus tongueless river of sight utilising hand and hand as sophistication of spying thanks to the hands’ shadows: thus no shadow tongue unless that shadow be thought or the abstract off thought: pre-meditation and the subsequent minded courtsey as requested of the blank page or the buddha’s slitted eyes faking intoxication by western standards of that green plant the mongols despise: and western societies fare to tax and thus exploit.*

and it would be easiest to withhold making talks
with the slavs
by compensation of the northern-most mosque
being established
as true progression...
but then having insulated the slavs
who are "primarily" plumbers and electricians
to make any dent in the politics of the other monotheists...
where the european excludes the european from europe
there you will see war as encouraging the asian
or the arab...
there you will see war, should a
european exclude european from europe
there you will see war
caucausian againts the rooster against the morn!
TAR TAR! TAR TAR! TAR! TAR!
(in japanese tora tora tora!)
because you did not cherish our shared values
thus become devalued therefore value your integral anti-economic
evaluations that have no place in my land
but concern of keeping brown in the noun and not in the verb
of racism and sun;
i've become a barabbas among you, you messiahs,
you messiah selfies and messiah implants,
what gave you the jews scorned has given
me you as the "jews" scorned in your disorientation
of the fathomed atom bomb already spoken of in
the book of the apocalypse....
but a man ejecting an european from europe
to fantacise a non-invoked colonialism will halve in carving
this world in half for multi-cultarism!
no pole ever spoke of colonialism to see you speak
of post-colonial re-colonialisation of remote areas so ardently cared for:
conquer... and subsequently fall: your sons the additive bullets:
я и pоссия demand: the caucaucus tribes to
fake unity with the danube fools of erected bohemia.

Orange in spring,
pinkish-brown,
yellow into deep green
through summer,
and finally to crimson
in autumn when they fall,
these leaves of the acer griseum,
the Chinese paperbark maple.

On the tree its leaves are opposite,
not alternate, two leafstalks arising
from the same point on the twig.
This is how it must be, she thought.

She had waited for the first frost
and, gathered in a fold of her cloak,
let seven leaves fall
to scatter on her desk.
One leaf holds her gaze;
her fingers touch,
and turning it over
she places it ready
in the hand’s left palm,

Picking up her finest brush,
with sad and slight but heavy
emphasis required, she inscribes
the subtle downward strokes of
the kanji characters for crimson -
makka, the blood’s red,
the true essence of life.

crimson leaves
fallen now scattered
one is chosen.
my heart longs for love

So to the garden stream
she goes, and kneeling
beside its moving water
launches this leaf
from her cupped hand.

i said goodbye to the desert
spit out a few grains of rust and sand
as i sat in the back of my mother's grand marquis
i was bidding farewell to the long plaid skirt i wore to school every day
the school that was mercifully unmarred by bullets
the glitter on the popcorn ceiling of my grandparents' home
the smell of an overwhelming saturday evening
which stank of discarded waste and cigarettes
we were going somewhere special
goodbye nuevo laredo

eight years later
i said goodbye again
to a neat little home
nested tightly amongst the bricks of others
a hilly backyard
bluebonnets sashaying on the side of the highway
mexican restaurants every three blocks
that could never replicate what i once had
stars and stripes holding steady in the shade of a sycamore tree
a glittering city in the distance
i was in love
and i was going somewhere special

i was elated to escape
both of my previous lives
always finding myself awash with uncertainty
adrift as i committed and uncommitted to a series of distractions
from the beastly recesses of my pruned little brain
that snarled about hopelessness
abandonment
a lack of worth
and motivation
maybe i knew i was meant to run
since the moment of implantation

my new neighborhood is impeccably silent at night
no hollers to strain my ears for
no ominous pop-pop-pops
(was that a firework or could it be...)
no jovial music with thundering basses and large round drums
i eat pork drenched in teriyaki sauce
and drink green tea in the evenings
on the train, i gaze at the empty stares of other passengers
my gaze is also unreadable
i practice the strokes of a kanji
one, two, three...
my husband and i meander through temples
heavy and groaning with the weight of a thousand years
of life
benevolent buddhas and Cheshire-grinned demons
i can't help but think of the message of a western God
that my mother recited to me every night in the black of our room
sometimes i shuffle my feet in the square space of my living room
to the tune of cumbia

i used to think that i didn't have an identity
no confinement to a culture conceived by the likes of men
but i am what i am
and i never actually escaped

She is a moon upon the nights of cities,
Who glows and gives the gleamy lights of cities.
The 8-bit sounds do sing and neon-kanji
Is written, showing pretty sights of cities.

She tried to copy the messy buns

but the style

doesn’t go with her broken smile

And she could draw pretty dolls on paper

But she’d been made of flesh

And pencil, brain, and heart are powerless

She could do a lot of things

Actually

Gifted, they called her,

But she had

the kanji character for beauty

As the background of her computer,

And she’d dip her brush in black paint

And write it on her white walls

That maybe one night while she slept

It would seep into her skin

and settle there

oh i'm pretty sure the anglo-sphere doesn't care much for other tongues... or what happens in them: how they arrived to where they are now... but... sometimes... it comes about by the most curious of circumstances when, the natives & / or their extended family of trans-Atlantic cousins (etc.) start to... mishandle their: zunge... then... something wakes up, that should have been sleeping... in a person who treats this tONG in the confines of: acquisition, rather than something... passed down with: accent... idiosyncrasy... "whereabouts": local "allegiance"...

covert excess drinking:
i'm starting to love it more and more:
i get to play both actor,
a shadow... and fictional death...
all is well when you can
summon the... nerves(?)
to also make a distinction between
making strawberry gelato vs.
strawberry ice-cream...
no eggs more fruit pulp
less cream for the former...
plus... "displacing" things...
you wake up... it's... [there]...
half an hour later it's... "there"...
these spontaneous pockets
of amnesia:
these spontaneous bouts of...
AM... née: SHIA...
how else? Zee-E-E'Ah?
there's another name for this:
SKLEROZA...
it's not an English word...
but the symptoms are:
you get to walk a lot...
it doesn't hurt...
ah... memory... such a fickle faculty...
it's like we were engineered to:
forget in order to: push on
forward and... replicate... procreate...
alas... what if you...
don't want to?
   like an antithesis of
Frankenstein's monster...
who... if written by a man and not
a Mary Shelley would...
play the Sisyphus for a while
and then... do-himself-off...
hanging... stab to the heart
while working out the arithmetic
spacing of soft flesh to ribs...

cumin coriander, garlic ginger
cumin coriander, garlic ginger
cumin, coriander, asafoetida... ginger...

"apparently" it's offensive to call
a dish a curry...
it's more or less just: gravy:
gwavvy...
those blue Indians of Bengal
and elsewhere those Reds
and those Incas never really
drank or for that matter: minded
the concept of yeast...
flat as the platitudes of
Belgian mud or a *******
japati...

it's the middle of the day
i've pickled myself in some 70cl
of bourbon from the night
before and... right
now: with a swiggle and a hum...
i'm pickling...
irritably pickling... some sweet
notes to mind: but otherwise...
sour as a stash of lemons...

and that's fine... because i'm also
thinking about the self-help gurus
and the machinery of:
capitalising on everything:
even death and sickness...

my advice is? read the three musketeers...
my advice: have about 3 maxims handy...
categorical imperatives
or what not...
here are the two that i best behave
under:

Tao: the best way you can help
the world is... to forget the world
and allow the world to forget you...
non-verbatim...

Dumas: the best advice i ever gave was:
to no, under any circumstance:
give advice...
since... if people take it...
will probably regret it...
ergo... blame you for it...

- currently there are two words on my mind...
one borrowed from a list:
parsley sage, rosemary & thyme...
the last on the list... thyme...
not... F-I'm...
thyme... time... thyme... time...
such a delight i have with this tongue:
you can say the same set of syllables
but imply a completely different meaning:
esp. sharpened in writing...
perhaps i was born into a language
that is as clear-cut katakana as no
other European language:
apart from the necessary workaround
of consonant graphemes: just as well as
in English: SHould you CHoose to bother
yourself: with...

i'm still not quiet following the whole
pseudo-grammatical pronoun agenda...
*** is never associated: will never be associated
with nouns in this tongue...
a table is neither masculine nor feminine...
perhaps that's... why pronouns have
imploded?

i'm currently in the process of making
a distinction between strawberry gelato and
strawberry ice-cream...
obviously no eggs in the former...
a 2:1 ratio of full fat milk to double cream...
but the cream needs to be beaten...

slang terms:
LASKA - LAS - forest...
LASKA - a fit: most desirable female...
also a walking-stick...
LODY - ice-cream...
   robić lody - to make ice-cream...
also slang for... *******...
OSTRYGA - oyster...
K'WIAT - flower...
     well... something to counter making ice-cream:
lody... gobble down an oyster?

it's not even that any miniscule variation
of katakana would help...
no stand-alone consonants apart from N...
why N?
always clinging to:
vowel: woman...
consonant... man...
mind you: there is still no concept of ***
bound to nouns in English...
the moon is him
the sun is her...

i'm gently drinking: while also fasting...
the combination with immaculate sunlight...
why wouldn't the flowers be rejoicing?!

excuse me: hrabia: wal-do-dechy
     count: hit-to-the-plank (of wood)...
echoes of expressions of a dead man...
clearly i should know:
born into a language with clear:
Clear syllabic distinctions...
more! added to vowels:                     Ą!

oh... but beside the Italians & the Greeks...
just your European neighbours...
i too don't want to mind the pan-Slavic
movement... some called it communism...
i will never understand what
the Russians were up to...
ha ha... pan-Germanic is sort of happening
while everyone seems: coolly bothered
by something with: an alias...

terrible ideas ought to die...
seems like Marxism is not such a bad idea
if it finds volunteers... zealots to:
revise it... Darwinism does account for
mutations... doesn't it?
like a pig that barks or a dog that oinks...
a bonsai tiger... wait... tigers don't growl...
do they?
they snort apathy or something...
i don't know... i was never placed in front
of one...

murmur murmur... m'hmm something
in the place of: too far away from the sea...
from one wave: to another: mω...
oh... look:
           it's only a double-u if it's an omega-yu...
yule...
    otherwise? sharpen the edges:
v'ah-v'ah: empty the room! Wedge & Whinge
are coming in with a pink-elephant
and five blind men!
should have been expecting a carton of milk...
as you would: armed with a mω a mᵒₒ...

well... at least making ice-cream... ******!
gelato! clearly there are no poultry abortions involved!
is not a sour-note metaphor for...
giving ******* to... a hungry bandwagon
of Pakistanis eager to please
the children of Ing-Land...

   - what a sight! a canvas i have returned to
throughout the day... now:
night has come...
how bewildering to stand in the garden
while two insomniac magpies chase
each others' cackle...
one perches in my eucalyptus tree and
rattles, rattles: cackles... stutters...
so much so that even some poor dog left
in the warm air of September replies
with a bark!

how rare to hear birds tell their presence
in the night...
how rare to hear birds in the night...
how welcome these spies:
they must be either magpies or crows...
it... simply: sublimates their otherwise
cautious presence in the day...
and the magpies cackled in the night
so much so: that even the dog was roused
to bark!

- one glug, two glugs: make it three!
whiskey this cold so it almost resembles some
syrupy liquid ought to be imbued with much glee!
i could make ice-cream all day!

esp. since i have found a most pristine recipe!
i'll be ever the most obnoxious
when i tell you: dear reader
of the difference between ice-cream and gelato...

i think i memorised the two recipes...
ice-cream...
    as a warning: i usually halve the suggested
amount of sugar...
whether that be using raspberries,
strawberries, blueberries...
crème anglaise

mein gott! i'm in one of those rare instances
of life, reality where: *** can be compensated:
or thereby a lack of... an Ava Lauren /
Monique Fuentes...
i like to think of *** like a well-worn...
many a times sat in: leather... arm-chair...
i like that: i don't know what the thrill
with inexperience is... all about...
timid bodies... timid: frail... dolls...
i can compensate this desert of the ****-less...
as a curiosity by some Pakistani who

i could make ice-cream all day...
i'd rather make gelato... but all day...
i could make curry all day...
curry and gelato: i'm your man...

- i abhor sober opinions: let alone sobering up
in the domain of dialectics:
i have enough on my plate with
English: the language...
making no attempt to transcend the Latin script
with any sort of addition of
diacritical markers...
Charlie Dickens: good "sport" might have
included the term: orthography...

one reason leads to another... just bad spelling...
but it's only orthography if...
you apply diacritical stressors...
can have an Empire to rival Rome's with their
alphabet... but can't exactly keep
the neo-gothic Victorian romance
alive... on a mere whim...
look at it! disintegrating into vagabond
graffiti... or... emoji! which is not the same
as breaking away from the kanji in favour
of something more: phonetic...

Koreans & the Japanese are right up there:
on my... ahem "spice" list of ingredients
of people required...
the origins of writing is to: encode sounds...
to write sounds down...
no ideas... not insinuations...
throw the whole bunch of those
sand-******* into a crab bucket and see
what confused :)( comes out... savvy?

sober people and their sober ideas...
always so... *******... serious!
like they mean it... but rarely do they
keep themselves intact on enacting their intent!
i better eat a dollop of whole-grain mustard before
every meal before i deal with:
sober, serious... sen-si-blah... sensible whole lot of them
get the ***** to launch an offensive
on the groovy... gravy... groovy? gravy train...
**** me: it's good to know i'm getting old...
and out of touch...

i get pockets of nostalgia: time... immemorial...
anecdotal evidence that i:
somehow brushed against...
the pain... the strokes... of time...
and made some spatial-coordinate concerns
moving: for-ward...

ice-cream: 5 egg yolks...
bruised by... ha ha... "bruised" whipped to a lighter
colour... some sugar was added...
two cups of double cream... one cup of full fat milk...
a cup of sugar...
your choice of berries: heated up separately...
blah blah... combined... hey presto! an indigestion
pause... relapse...
depending on your temperament...

that's ice-cream... but... gelato! GEE! LA TOE!
T'OH!
no egg yolks...
    2 cups of full fat milk...
one cup of double cream: beaten... whisked...
it has to... half the sugar you're expected to use...
in the berry pulp...
    
i'll need the RRR... why has the trill of the Ar
disappeared in the Ing-Leash tongue:
betäubungzunge: compounded... obviously...
higher tier Germanic... not this... Ing-Leash...
mongrel sort...
so the adjective comes before the noun:
rather than the noun coming prior to
the adjective... i don't want to be asking for:
proper this... eh... proper that...

the exasperated yawns... gags and yelling impositions
of the "liberal" moralists...
like a god finally said: if i gave them
free-will... can "we" just agree that:
they better experience their full: "potential"?
oh i believe in god: but i also believe in free-will...
one counter-acts the other
in the way thus: follows:
to completely have: free-will...
you can't expect a nanny-state c.c.t.v. omni: gwand-p'ah
moment... can you?
there's... sweet & sour...
there's... sweet & salty...
can't have one... without... the other...

my god! genius logic! look for applause
when all the self-deprecating humour dries up...
clap... clap... clap clap...
how can you expect a god...
when... you're also expecting free-will?
you can... no... wait... you can't be a murderer!
Cain... was a vegetarian...
Abel... ably sacrificed a goat... or a sheep...
or two... Cain was a Hebrew version of:
'indu...
so... the northern European mind simply
boils corrupted with: staged logic
and...  the idiosyncrasies of other cultures...
yeah! thanks for the bread... where's, the, yeast?!

you use it?! you... ever used it?!
yeast: you get to say yes a lot...
you allow yourself to encourage to grow bread...
you also make beer...
no? not handy? o.k.: we'll just leave the "appropriate"
answer for the white women folk: people-kind
to conjure up a "properly": response...

ooh... believe me... i can play the grammar game
like... for eternity...
in between being allowed breaks
to do some proper *******...
like... churning strawberry ice-cream...
or making a curry sauce...

i am: SCHEMING!
i'm not going to allow this language to be
left in... *******: tartan: let alone:
tatters... even though it's not my own tongue...
i will not leave it: to... RUIN!
i'd best keep it in runes....

                    ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ...

no... you don't tell me what i am: or i am
not... "supposed" to do...
you settle my score on the fabric of
capital punishment... i die... you live...
but... it's not so ******* simple... no?
leech eats leech...
crab bucket...

she's a... three-dimensional woman...
looking for a... two-dimensional man...
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
i need to write down laughter:
since it's so silent... so covert...
it doesn't really require a stand-up
comedian's solipsism to ****-me-off...
ha ha!
a three-dimensional woman...
looking for a two-dimensional man!
ah ha ha!

goldfish of an ego:
in a muddle of a "think-tank"
of 70cl of... is whiskey...
i could be her grandpa santa
and she could be my selfish elf
quasi dwarf on my knee:
not readied for a spanking:
i'm so turned off by modern *******

time is a concept i'd rather forget....
father Xavier...
i just want to make ice-cream:
or... make the distinction between ice-cream
& gelato...
& curry... i want to make a bucket load
of "that"... enough to make joking remarks about
an invading envy equivalent to match up to
the Ottoman Janissaries...

i don't like being sold the sole impetus
that blatantly numbs me...
a walking abortion: i am...
             find me in my most reclusive spot...
when the  birds... triple the night...
merge with it... allow the: bystanders!
postcard enthusiasts! tourists! begone!
with Essex: alone!
i don't care much fo the western aspect
of England... POMPOUS SODS
THE WHOLE LOT OF THEM!

anything associated with Bristol
i wouldn't feed to pigs...
sure... they might be the most pristine sort
of people:
they're still a people i wouldn't
share food with... sorry... what?!
you might care that i might care?!
how... custard-esque...
how... bewildering...
i... exist?!
                    *******...
really?! does one digest that fat of fact
with a: hmmm...

         SUDDENLY?!
"diatribe of waking shadows"?

forget it...
the postponed death of Johnny Cash
matched up to the "un-expected"
relief of... false claimants oeuvre!
Elvis... ought to have died...
he died... the end!

i sometimes read the "elitist" poems and poets of
poetry-foundation-dot-org...
and i wonder...
well: there's no real distinction between
the "ancient": pre-technological-mass-reproduction
anticipatory essay of Walter Benjamin
of awe: find the Louvre and the Mona Lisa...
awe... such a tiny painting and...
awesome... entertainment value of what used
to be entertainment value of movies...
i do love the grit of 1970s cinema...
the 1980s futurist macho-"fascism"...
hell... even the 1990s had some great flicks
a great round-off of the medium...

a LAYLA BENITEZ-JAMES
translates a BEATRIZ MIRALLES DE IMPERIAL

such words are: not borrowed
or rather: in ****** it's A in Deutsche its Z...

jestem otwartą raną
języka

mówić tak nie wiele boli

-

ich bin ein offen wunde
von sprache

zu sagen so klein weh tun

-

apparently it never hurt the Chinese drunken
poet-monks to write anecdotal
syllable counted observations
concerning seeing a blue moon
with drunken-blood-shot eyes...

the Japanese or Chinese poets never complained
that they didn't have a novel in them,
quiet the reverse of this scenario...
there's the budding novel yet to be written
by a poet...
   is there?
a true meditation... a few words...
no need for a novel... an eternity of thought
mingling with everyday tasks
and then... hopefully: a spontaneity of
laughter recalling words akin to...

no kanji, no hiragana...
back to square, one: katakana...
katakana Ki - tan - ah...

   フルイケ    ヤ
     カワズ     トビコム
   ミズ    ノ      オト

no oto: the sound...
i'm guessing water is... mizu: return to
kanji: a returning from to:
   水 a word as picture...

but there's no budding novelist in here,
nor is there pain...
frog: カエル (kaeru) is not a picture-word,
it is a word-sound...

              self-explanatory "bias"...

ワタシ (watashi - i am)
      フショー     シタ      (fushoo shita - wounded tongue)
i absolve myself from entertaining
any conspiracies of entertainment
for the mass of later: distinction...

alternative route while cycling:

サイクリング (saikuringu)
    air, open mind...
wind: my soul - a silence
a lost intrusiveness of the helplessness
of others...
            クーキ
                        アイタ (aita) マインド (maindo)
カゼ (kaze, wind):
stone for heart...
               イシ (ishi, stones)
                              ココロ (kokoro, hearts)...
trickle... like sand... from desert
by time: a mountain!

        ヤマ:
                         yama - mountain...
parrot in the snow...
        オーム  (oomu)
                               ノ
                 ユキ (no... yuki)...

oh **** no... i'm not moving to Tokyo...
i don't want to speak fluent Japanese...
i just want to escape what i last saw
in the feminist panel on Vice News...
i'll ensure that Japanese is like me
in that film about the mad genius mathematician
of the film Pi... i'll put a drill to my head
prior to having to somehow:
now insure myself concerning these
blaze... arguments of "reality" of:
Plato the Plumber and the reicarnation
blocked-toilet... sort-of-speak...
i'm ******* off to Japan...
at least thinking about how the "Samurai"
encode their speaking is a relief
when listening to this Iron Maiden
of "heroic" gymnastics of post-feminism...

i feel completely... oblivious to what's happening...
just today i took a very magnificent route....
i challenged myself...
it's not spring yet... it's not summer...
i'm not allowed the later hours of the day
reserved for these seasons...
Cold-harbour dumping ground next to the Thames
was willing me to do a lap...
ah... maybe next time...

the route? from Collier Row through to Hornchurch...
then onto Upminster...
from Upminster toward Aveley...
from Aveley toward Purfleet...
well... seeing the Dartford Bridge Crossing...
no wonder i could get my geography straight...
the Thames never feels south... even though
you're orientating it from the perspective of the north...
up to Rainham...
obviously i had to venture into the little village
of Wennington... the one that was burning
only August of last year...
because... hey... it's not global warming...
a return to the ice age i reckon...
this little Arab interlude and palms will last only
so long...
my god... burned down houses...
get me a ticket to 1990s Sarajevo!
   that's how bad it looked... they're still clearing
up the mess...

from Rainham back toward Hornchurch and via Harold
Wood toward Harold Hill...
i know there's a Paris... i was a teenager in love
with Stendhal and i visited Paris solo...
i know there's a Paris but i'm starting to think:
maybe: MAYBE there is a "Paris"?
just maybe... this is London on the outskirts this isn't
London for television...

コドク (aloneness - kodoku):
        (existence with everyone)
ソンザイ    ト
           ゼンタイ            (sonzai to zentai)

nope... i'm not learning fluent Japanese...
i'm not going to travel to Japan to pay
taxes, to buy ******* sushi
and feel: a part of apart...
however boldly bad: grammatically...
i hear some ******* argument in
the western sphere... i start to scribble
katakana... i look into the scripts from India...
hell... i go as near as Greek allows...
i morph Latin with European additions
of diacritical markers...
i don't want to be constipated by an "argument":
or lineage of: ******* arguments of people
who have... zero... absolutely no...
inclinations how funny it all must be...
for someone misdiagnosed as schizophrenic
circa 2008... looking at the year 2023
almost gleefully... Beelzebub rubbing his *****
hands... the madman turned out to be...
pretty sane... given the current currency of
consensus!

    i have not invested in having children:
care to complain? me neither...
am i earning enough money to complain that my
money is going toward up-keeping
the mistakes of single-mothers? no...
i'm earning enough for a solo escapade...
i don't earn enough to be taxed!
i stopped drinking...
i can start imitating the bear in the realm
of a perpetual winter of contentment...
i can realise an ape imitating a bear:
i can exist-hibernating...
                            if i don't need to go to the cinema:
what's the point? i can...
go and see an art exhibition and wonder...
once at the paintings...
second at the old women trying to push
these young girls into my orbit as if implying:
go talk to him...
  but i'm here to admire the paintings, aren't i?!
am i here for a date?!

plus... i don't need to own a car...
i can cycle to almost anywhere in London of my own
volition and ease of exercise...
i don't need to spend money on *******
that most women would spend money on...
i have a recycling fetish...
i have little ambitions of curios adventures that
don't really require me to stress hard-pressed
constant hard-ons to compete with other men...
if i really feel like it...
i'll declare *** for recreational purposes as:
probably most boring...
given the adventures of cycling and swimming...
but if must-be-must...
hell... the brothel with me and it's all over:
proven point... in an hour's worth...

i am a truly liberated man...
thank you woman, for showing me the path...
your liberation has liberated me beyond
your wildest anticipations!
i am once and for all, truly freed from the precursors
of what freedom might have tasted like...
if not for the social-stigma of the bachelor status...

フリーダム (furiidamu - freedom)
                  ハイカイ (haikai - loitering)
スワル (suwaru, sit) -
                  ハクシュ (hakushu - extol)

Explain Krieg und Krise.  Remember Nanjing.  Hand twist nasturtium, trim Elijah in no other language but your own.  Delicious, decked against scurvy despite punishing days world unwraps, made available to voracity, where would you build, on what day?  Perfection unable to sit still comes towards ambush as peasant night squeaks to the border.  Chanticleer in linear e phlox stammers discretely, hammers combination, blends tonality.  Gravid as brook trout, orangerie cascades kanji.  Bucolic spasm shimmering, weeping runes a la Giverny become Cycladic, veers off color’s lambent arsenal.  Caustic repeats, Gatling interferes, hope bails, song recants.  A Zebedee in Flemish hue cracks *** luck, lets out gurgle.  But in good fortune, peaches to daisies, Abigail to titmouse, family is raised.

i cycled into central London... Loon & the Don came...
to read a few pages of Knausgaard's mein kampf
vol 4... and drink a beer...
and pretend to be a serpent lying flat on my
stomach... having satiated the "workload"
i turned over... making the universe oblivious
under the stretch of clouds and some itching
accents of bloo...
             on my back i smoked a cigarette
and drank the beer sideways...
i caressed the grass forgottening:
oh wait... it's not my hair...
it's not my beard either...
some crow some woodland pigeon:
i too felt displaced...
but that's what happens in central London...
you become a: huh?! tourist perusing the:
tide of faces... these faces... so many faces...
i should be wearing a mask seeing so many faces...
yes: seems to me that i'm happy...
to imagine where i started from...
to where i'm right now...
a spell-binding 3 years in Edinburgh...
i feel so comfortable among the London traffic
and... the madmen in ol' Hyde...
the swelling & the shrinking of the Thames
at Coldharbour near the Rainham marshes...
it might not feel like i own this town...
this village by village staccato...
but it owns me...
i pass 10 grade girls playing solipsistic games...
i pass alpha males playing: biz-e...
             thank god or the devil or...
that i'm no beta orbiter wishing for: waterfall: fore!
bring me the yacht! bring me the parachute...
headphones in but nonetheless i was stopped
by a fellow cyclist at Marble Arch...
i actually managed to conjure up a face full
of expression when he asked:
where is the nearest Argos...
HA became mouth agape... teeth showing...
eyes behind sunglasses lit up:
those stores still exist?!
perhaps in katakana: but write laughter for me...
we can thank the Hebrews for that:
definite article being... lost to giggles...
this is what laughter looks like
in katakana: i prefer katakana to hiragana...
i.e. ハハハハ:
       アハハハハ...
**** up sort of laughter: waiting to milk a cow...
sort of: ****** tease...
no sure... is it a parabola: broken at the tip?
there's a tip?!
typo... i could understand that...
ha! ******... shambles... shames...
the ol' circumcised lot of them...
   pwaying pwetty please god save us:
give us 40 more years in the desert with:
nerves of steel Moose... and... EsEs: i.e. Mayonnaise...
Moses! d'uh...

here's a funny notation:

                木 vs. キ

oh... they're the same... phonetically...
and... perhaps... also meaning...
KI...
                   (key): i.e.              TRÍ(!)
hence the exclamation mark in the brackets...
the emphasis is already hovering above
the iota: acutely...
e. e. cummings... what?!

the cat "emoji" is even better:
i can write only one KANJI...
i've exhausted myself on TRI...
EE... so no... "cat": N'EH K'OH... miu miu: me-ow...

i'm happy... i see a Japanese girl flashing her
knickers while i cycle past where
Oxford St. weds itself to Reagent St...
i think about the long dead kings...
ol' Lizzie and the Popes...
i think and i think:
but that's not much...
  i've already exhausted the avenue...
cul de sac of: ought i... ought i not...
so... emptied and gagging for some more...

look how feeble it all looks:
if this were a Kanji: :)...
ugh... i need to shoot myself in the foot...
i need to spot a kangaroo...
and also shoot it: in the ******* foot...
either way: one of us will try to hop again...
i need to shoot something...
perhaps a ******* Lukashenko....
yes... i'd love to scalp... hell...
forget shooting: a Lukashenko...
he's been keeping those migrants hiding:
as tactic?!
i'd love to shave a Lukashenko... proper...
sorry... it never came around to
a pan-Germanic: ambition...
how pan-Slavism served the hijacked purpose
of soviet communism: i... never...
talking to an individualistic proponent
among the collectivised sorts...
a bit like making a sober man talk to
a drunkard...

      when i see it: "it": i see... IT...
language can revel in reaching its final summary:
it's balancing act of banality...
we don't need language to communicate:
to make coercion something: less... less...
sinister... no... my tongue flapping above yours?
sure... we have a ******* booth for that too!

i like the english words: gambit...
plural... the colon... but no list...
no italics either...
BAT... like: nietoperz...
like: pałka... hulanka:
a *******: RONDEL...
such is the poverty of the English tongue
when it comes to nouns...

two words sound alike:
not two words:
blue: bloo...
i blew... sea's azure..
****'s sake...i die every Sunday...
by Monday i count as a miracle of waking...
who... what's... up?
the newly imported African ***** brigade?

white girls import: hell of a story...
she imports Ghana timber...
Nigerian pocket-thieves...
she's lubricated so much:
we ***** all the black dudes...
but... i'm not willing to **** all the black girls...
i don't want to **** all these black girls...
i want to ****... oh... let's take a pick...
a curry-smeared...
Punjabi... work-around...
if white girls want all the ******* they:
can and can't handle...
Paris...
                lemon baguettes...
ham & cheese crepes...
wine... the Eiffel tower...  topple! topple!
tow: two import...
the working African *****: purpose!
purpose!
thanks... project exclusion:
first...
i know how "they" dye the nickel...
the copper... coinage...

i just feel like...
i've been ******* on for... sometime...
some: prior...

sorry... what?!
seal... kiss from a rose...
****** has... had... will have..
expectations.. concerning... snow?!
yeah... i want to live in... Kenya...
Muhammad the camel-jockey is available:
sure... no one remembers him having:
not having wrote: the Quran...
because: celebrating older women..
biz-nest...
busy... qua?!
****** tells a story: it snows... ha ha!
his rose my ******* baobab!
you know you pushed it just too far...
the white women their carousel antics...  

colonel: tavington...
you... inter-breeding... with mind...
Calypso.. this is... Brazil... no?
i like a tackle of shade...
hush hush...
i like... this... creeping up... crisp...
all the world's an adventure.

SPIRIT
It seems my reality is connected to 'Abdu'l-Baha and Baha'u'llah inasmuch as I recite their words.  Also, the Bab.  Perhaps too Muhammad inasmuch as I obey Hadith and read the Qur'an.  Is my lack of reality really God? What does it mean to be God's servant but not His son? That seriousness born of the Seal of the Prophets? Or, that seriousness born of irresponsibility and wickedness? What can come from mere presence? "This cyclic scheme is to Him but a stare." Thoughts of Hindu statues of the gods and goddesses. Yes, the spiritual reality doesn't work for me at command. It doesn't entertain me either. It usually requires some input to show me anything.

MIND
That lack of any changing form going through my mind. Thoughts of a previous text and its sender. Conversations via text. The heart feels betrayed by a friend for not showing up. Memories of my friend's neighborhood. Anything of substance except the interactions I have on my phone and the memories which our words and persons reveal? Do I have any unconscious left? Anything hiding? Fears of reincarnation. Anxiety about work due to not staying in the "now". Unfulfilled plans of society. Is there anyone coming to my Group of Silence devotional? Odds unlikely. Alone on Zoom.

The conviction of medication and meditation, which changed my D's and F's into A's and B's in college. My lack of use of the knowledge I gained. Still hopeful of discovering some new form of mathematics, even if on my deathbed - I'm guessing around 80 if I keep smoking.

"There is no pain you are receding" and "*******" whisper in my mind. "Comfortably numb" - it seems like the highest spiritual state, but a state of incapacity for the investigating mind. "Is there anybody in there?" A German seven that looks like kanji.

BODY
Maybe a serious eye? Those eyes with nothing to do. Can a mirror not truly tell me about myself? For what information can come from a blank stare? A ****** in the nose. A worry-filled stare. One ear a little pulled out due to wearing COVID masks. I haven't trimmed my beard for five days. I haven't gotten a new face. My eyes are the same color. My hair, not darker nor lighter. The bags under my eyes betrays youths. My distinguished, yet still rounded cheeks. My beard hides my ****-chin. My less distinguished jaw, ovalish but with a point. Those searching eyes. A neck with so much stress built up that I unconsciously twist and crack it. Memory of the first time it spasmed. Vitamin care. Laundry drying. It must be this blank stare that is highest of high, that can be low, low.  I rub my scalp to ease muscle tension. I think about aligning my chakras, but a blank stare seems more worthwhile.

I consider smoking a touch of nutmeg, but I'm concerned how anxious it will make me, and how I lack ability in communication afterwards. I make coffee, a caffeine high will do. The cream gives me comfort. The workers getting off work add to my austerity. All those songs stored in neurons of my brain, waiting to be plugged-in. Somehow old rock songs from the 70's give me a place.

Now that beautiful lady appears to me saying "come, come" or rather "***, ***". I was so empty of everything, and she now fills my brain with connections to desire. I give in to the pressure and put a small dob of nutmeg on the end of my cigarette. Not enough for a full high, but just a little joy. Now there is experience and experiencer, not just a blank stare.

I can see my *** stare. I am as a baby in my mother's arms, I am so irresponsible. My body is a temple, with rooms, that I'm somehow detached from as if I'm in a dream witnessing it. Now I swim in this temple but I am not its fullness. I am not its command. I am no longer the tree but the twig. I am this plant called nutmeg. This is my vibration - pharmaceutical.

My buzz cut portrays a Buddhist monk's sitting. My coworker cut off all her hair once. Is she monkish as well? My body, as a sitter, full of reflection, why is this such an archetype? Does it know all, no, it only knows one, me. Is that all I am required of? To know simply me. Is there anything of depth in me?

Repose in my eye. I think of the faithful not under the influence. Have I missed a spark of truth which I would've found? My browline reminds me of a Klingon. So aggressive. I rock back and forth and around and around. I'm mixing this tonic drink in my skull. Is my body too full and big for my neck and head? how much does it matter? When will I do my next ab workout?

Memories of doing nutmeg, the cool let down off the high. The feeling it will never really subside.  Moving around in my seat like a Sufi dancer. Looking like I'm a ghost in the machine. The wetness of the white in my eye portrays tears of passion for Chloe. The residue of oil on my brow and cheek portrays sweating out the nutmeg.

My chrome dome and short beard remind me of a wizard, rather of my high school physics teacher. Science seems like wizardry at times. Contorting my face with my hands shows all sorts of masks: Asian clown and Cabbage Patch doll. Pressing on my forehead makes me look Romulan. Contorting my nose to a pig's or what I see as an English nobleman.

My head swings around like a medieval flail. Like I'm in a roller coaster. Like an Indian in devotion. Like a magician performing an act. Like a wolf ripping apart its prey. Like the monks who hit their heads with boards in "Camelot": "Oh ee eh Oh dominae, Oh ee eh Oh requi eh". Coming to the conclusion that the body doesn't change so quickly that it can by observed. But when I consciously change it, similitudes appear from memory.

CONCLUSION
Is all observation a metaphor or simile? Or, judgment and reason made out of a group of observations? Math is made from first geometry: a basic point, and then a line. Math is a physical reality, or abstractions from basic physical reality. Therefore, speaking merely in basic simile is also an abstraction from physical reality.

All there is is the physical.  Mind is due to my frontal lobe. Spirit is reduced to feeling, even if transcending regular feeling - mere EMF pattern of the body.

reading a rupi kaur poem is
probably the most heart-breaking
"thing" in the morning -
on the play store bestseller list:
because afterwards
a sylvia plath poem:
somehow isn't -

                       somehow she managed
to pluck at a geisha garden
and has become all porcelain all
             crystalline ivory & frailty...
but that's not about my reading
habits in the morning...            
   it's more... more about...
how "we" could get away with
writing all our onomatopoeias in
katakana:

                        unless of course
there's the "problem" of C, L, U, Q / CK...
that's hooves on cobweb streets
trotting...                                        
     ­                  nonetheless:
                        i give you
          マンナ              ダンナ
    (manna                    ­      danna)
            i guess: imitation
                          games of a madonna
in a brothel -
which is not a brothel...
and everyone's favourite
             Berlusconi's take on
                         castanets & maracas i.e.
                  ぼんご                 ボンゴ

otherwise a narrative in three parts:
a. my grandfather died
b. i stopped drinking
c1. and i started walking marathons
   c2. from 118kg
                down to 106.5kg
                  circa 2 months...

otherwise a further narrative of:
not because i'll gladly go into
the necropolis with a bouquet
of fake carnations / chamomiles...
  although "in manus tuas" i could
sit crow esque pensive,
hunched: a shadow for a globe of
atlas (etc.)
            and **** that fickle
creature that's memory in vain...
thereby making love
sound like a breaking
                           of an accordion...

or i could like i already have
"play a game" of       ここ / そこ
                                               ソコ / ココオ
no necropolis...
    just the remains of a forest...
bedfords park...
            a healthy stick for the purpose
of knocking on trees...
an dry-white skull-yellow-morbid
obelisk - i.e. a dead tree...
homage - three times:
           thunck-plonk-pluckpug
no echo...
      thung-plong-plugpuck...
a minute of silence...
                evidently...
                      in searching of meaning:
beyond in havering county park
horses grazing -
        "once upon a time"
they'd be work horses on the till
  of the land...
            now sometimes saddled...
not even bothered to gallop...
          while we're still...
                   under the tyranny of
the thumb...
                 or thereby some "relief"...

perhaps just walking through
east london toward st. paul's
seeing so many pilgrims (i.e.
that's what i'd call lunatics)
                        talking to pigeons
                                      at stratford in
                    the morning...
one might do what i do
teasing augury -
       notably because of the crows,
notably because of swallows;
at least for the former -
when hades stirs -
                 and a yawn breaks
rank from the pits of crunch &
                        harrowing tooth domino...
there's me procrastinating
before the altar of a name, date(s)
but no epitaph...
    or there's me making said
pilgrimage to a dead tree obelisk
  with a healthy stick in hand...
knocking three times...
            perhaps to let the forest know
i'm there, i.e. "here"...
alas... exasperation is not:
a need for "haiku"... it's also not
some snobbery when...
you're actually not given much to
"work" with e.g. -cemetery

       better a fascination with
                                  japanese text...
e.g. 緑 (green)
                         ミドリ
      / hiragana is probably a misnomer
                 みどり
  / why wouldn't green be in kanji?
               but how midori:
                       either squiggly or squint-
                                       -ting          
                                         squin'
                                                          ­T'ing
is not in either katana / hiragana
set up the following primer, braille:

                                    ⠛⠗⠑⠑⠝
       ⠍⠊
       ⠙⠕
       ⠗⠊   (hangeul esque)
                          
is probably the only latin equivalent
i'd ever make a comparison with;

   p.s. ⠝ braille's N
          ל - a hebrew L"ament"...

at least it's more than a bothersome
post-colonial rhyming ****** & scheme
or a wannabe haiku /
                        writing toward hiatus;
or a ******* ron padgett prose poem
                     about drinking coffee...
for that matter: any poem about
drinking coffee;
                                          sober *****
morning gits,
            insufferable loved up 'toons.

Some of this drew good vibes, but it uses some Kanji HP doesn't support. A symbol for magic, I used to mark walk away time during my day. The final edit owes much to Causa Sui by Euporia Tide, and certain suggestive AIs. Share the link anywhere you wish.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1TG7u2CIYaWMaAeYAIcCWFYGplapfOhLi4nJYkb3d4GQ/edit?usp=sharing