“Humankind: be kind – be One!
I am appalled at what’s been done.
Benign intentions must restrain us.
Hate should never entertain us.”

The toad comedian Ban Ki-Moon
croaked a pitiful One-World tune
while gunmen paused, reloaded, armed
checked that they had no comrades harmed –
and then prepared for further battle
against the clueless kuffar cattle.

Ban stood upright to intervene;
surveyed the terrorific scene…
muezzins chanted, mullahs chuckled
swords were sharpened, bomb-vests buckled.
Dhimmi dim-wits went on shopping.
(Are heads in sand less prone to chopping ?)

Hesitating, he cleared his throat,
raised his pitch by a quarter note:
“These acts are most undemocratic
We are saddened; yet emphatic – “

(no one heard his discourse further
drowned by the sound of massive ******…)

So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)

Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.

Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.

Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.

****** dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.

Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.

War, the battle calls my name
Consuming eternal flame
Kuffar where is your shame
By the Mujahideen you will be slain

Mujahid! Mujahid!
Dar al-Harab cannot rest
For Allah and the martyrs
The Ummah cannot be deserted

Rise from your grave. It's Easter Sunday
two-thousand sixteen years A.D.
Save the West with hashtag child's play
Post on FaceBook, fancy-free.

Easter pinks and chick-yellow highlights
Nestléd eggs and pastel notes
fail to charm our friends the Ishmaelites
poised to slit our kuffar throats.

Love your rabbit; keep on shopping.
Watch the game and charge your phone.
Allah's bunnies won't stop hopping
Till they make your land their own.

anyone who has been in this position
will tell you:
              when you start reading philosophy
books, well...
   there's not much a psychologist
or a psychiatrist can really help you with...
after all: psychology is pop philosophy,
it's an off-shoot of philosophy,
       and that's not some pompous
affirmation of the subject matter,
            it just is, what it is,
                 blatantly it's rather problematic,
if the h'american education system
introduces philosophy in high school...
you should really discover philosophy
aged 21, at least 21...
        hell, alcohol and *** can come before,
as they naturally will...
but i have a sharp aversion with regards
to teaching teenagers any philosophy...
again: what an over-used term:
   "philosophy" - esp. in the climate
of self-help gurus...
                  philosophy is not a subject
that fixes ****... it complicates life...
   and when life is already complicated:
the only aid is to at least
fortify your mind...
                     rarely a life uncomplicated
with an uncomplicated mind...
but such life exists...
  nonetheless...
                  these days philosophy lies
in the shallow grave of psychology...
                 psychology just seems to be
a pursuit, a cascade of schematism,
    oh yes... schematism...
           schematism is the new scholasticism,
on note, that medieval system becomes
more and more appealing...
   without jumping to any conclusions...
hard to pick up random facts,
unshakeable facts for a befitting narrative...
i mean, the usual suspects are there:
the big bang, darwinism, world war II...
but there is no "real" narrative
      for so many of us...
                        unless from mouth to mouth...
but from a mouth you've never heard
speak?
          a distant voice that has no power
to resonate?
                 in my hands i hold two books...
history of germany 1918 - 2000...
           modern history is so dry...
                      people in this book are so
unimportant upon a retrospective reading,
even ****** is akin to a dwarf...
    since the "concern" is germany...
             history books, a great genre,
when dealing with individuals,
    esp. medieval individuals...
       for what is history?
                         an incremental seduction
by minor events toward a memorable
crux, a single: outstanding culmination
zenith / sigma...
                           the summa summarum
of here and now.
   will it be considered "****" to have
a fetish for the german tongue,
after all, west saxon, english,
   is the offspring of altmanndeutsche
(would i have a fetish for russian?
   i don't think so, i'm too entwined in english)
alles in allem auf hier und jetzt...
    again: heidegger's dasein seems to be
forward looking: rather than inward looking...

so, in my other hand?
     jim bradbury's biography of...
    philip augustus: king of france 1180 - 1223...
a mighty book... but more a mighty person
invoked...

what is to justify man's desire for happiness,
for the content life?
                        the more i ever felt the relief
of a contentment with life:
         the more it passed me by,
                     i was more or less asleep than
awake.

         eh! the current canvas of history via
the mainstream application bores me,
jumping between the two genesēs of
the big bang (yeah, in a vacuum, good luck
playing a violin up there,
with someone reciprocrating what
eventually looks like a mime) and darwinism...
it's congesting: custard for a brain -
      vanillesoße zum ein(e) gehirn -
out of the blue, a question -
    is it the same in german as in english,
regarding the indefinite article?
        i.e. a tree
                        an amber stone
         ein gehrin
                 or eine gehrin,
         the grapheme question...
  are two vowels allowed to mingle again?
   i.e.               æmblem
                       well... doesn't that become
a directive? an indirect article composed
of itself and a noun becomes definitive,
a definite article? as far as i'm aware...
there are no consonant graphemes...
sure... you can have SZ (SH) reduced to
a caron S (hiding the Z like a hebrew
might hide a vowel) i.e. Š...
                                       just a thought...

funny that... after my first psychotic
trip (mild drug, marijuana, so hardly
a point breaker) - i once studied chemistry,
i was semi-good at mathematics...
but then... my language skills / interests
exploded...
                     it became and has remained
a fixation...

  mind you, if you're still in high school
and are taking up majors,
and are thinking about furthering your
language skills?
               flat chance of you achieving
your satisfaction taking pure english lessons...
i took history...
     and history? well, you're still taking
an english major, but a major in a science,
at least all the history books have
a gratifying narrative...
              but in terms of history per se?
etymology...
                 how words arrived,
and how words morphed...
         guilty! i like to confine myself
to the sort of history i find to be bound
to a comprehesive retreat...
           big **** darwinism and all its
regressive ontological tactic of explanation
is one thing, the big bang is another thing
also...
               but at least i can return
to the history span that begins,
   and ends... with phonetic encoding...
the birth of thought,
when you could begin to shut up
without an empty bath's worth of the head,
but all the plastic ducks and foam
in your head, and itchy finger tips...
greedy buggers who could only be
satisfied with an alphabet,
and puzzles of words, and later sentences...

just give me a bottle of whiskey,
a decent album (akin to wooden shjips V)
and i'll sing like the kind of sparrow
you only hear at night...

and all this current ******* of "m'ah opinion",
my opinion this, my opinion that,
that "grand" constructions,
             surely it would be easier for
the phallus to find a ******
     than a tongue to find the dialectical
insertion point of the whole "my" opinion...
well, not really, every time i think of the act,
i always found the insert point
to be below my original intent,
what with women having
   to seemingly parallel coccyx bones
either side of their pelvis...
            the frontal deceptive coccyx
bone just above the v'ah-g-g...
            eh... amateur... even with prostitutes...
but this whole: it's my opinion!
it's my opinion! well, you'd be hopeful
to entertain a dialectic also,
apparently that's not the case:
give, "my" opinion insinuates:
     it cannot be debated, it cannot be changed,
no other person can entertain it,
what a primitive defence mechanism...
even poisonous frogs have
a better defence mechanism...
            again: i don't really own anything
in this world,
   i'm only guarding it, but i don't own it:
the everyday story of every single
antique...

  again, back into a "critique" of history
as a literary genre,
               i own a few first editions,
     the biography of philip augustus is one
of them: 1998 edition, first,
which is beside the point...
            i'm sure that life in medieval europe
was harsh...
but at least you had peacock characters,
rather than this, moden, bland c.c.t.v.
reality t.v. personalities...
              oh of course modern life
has all the perks... standing in line...
               but there's no way of replacing
an adventurous ambition with
complacency and comfort...
plus, they had such great names!
        peaches geldof (rest in peace)...
peaches?!
               compared to bertran de bron?
joscius?           conrad of montferrat?
  saladin & the ayyubid empire?
       hell, the smaller the tribe,
  the better the name...
             the angevins, the capetians,
the merovingians!
         now?        eh: zee fwench.
boo'ring...
   even a bull wouldn't charge at
the colour red even if you wanted him
to.

again: these days you can rely on
people who know the facts...
   and factoid checking is all we ever do
these days, being always "right"...
facts overshadow the story we're about
to tell...
            a bull charges at head:
because he / it sees a honing pointer
of: there's something "missing"...
              daltonism "vs." protanopia...
i once had a high school fwend who
laughed... at this catholic high school...
purple blazers were yellow to him...
who needs l.s.d. then?

       once again... a medieval history book?
as a genre?
                so many stories...
but there is no a priori factual check
impetus...
     the facts are a posteriori...
  what is a priori? the story...
                          and why wouldn't
philip augustus be overlooked?
given the fwench rhe-vou-lú-çion?!
****! T gone missing! T gone missing!
the H is a surd, but it shoved itself
past the cue, elbows high!      
          
  the battle of bouvines (bou-veens,
or: bou-v'ah)
                     depends...
                how selective we "must" become
to make choices from such
an impossible spectrum of events...
after all... muslims readily cite and remember
the crusades, even to this day...
hush hush the sacking of baghdad by
the mongol horde...
for the library was burned and
the skulls were stacked!
hush hush about the first defeat
of the mongols by the mamluk slaves
in egypt... who weren't mohammedians
to an extent of being slaves...

you almost stand there,
bewildered... what about the jihad
into mongolia...
well at least go and help your brothers
out in Xinjiang and Henan!
why isn't the botherhood attempting
to jidad their way:
jihad with the chinese communist party?

hush hush... let's adore the palm trees
lining avenue des Champs-Élysées...
let's sit back... procreate for a while...
eat the good food...
let's sit back and procreate...
the 2010s was a good year for fear and
tarantulla bite-numbing escapades...
let's just sit and procreate...
let's become lazy... chant with the Tehran
zindiqs ****'ites! deaf to h'america
and we've conquered London and...
just sit back... because... we've earned it...
we have satisfied ourselves with
the blood of the ***** (kuffar)...
allah the almighty will bless us in
our respite concerning those Persian
zindiqs! the people of the desert with but
one book have conquered!

true indeed: where a jihad would be
even deemed "justifiable"...
in cha-cha-china... where muslims are
being persecuted... London! London!
we need more in London...
well this whole: muslim brotherhood
and the whole muhammad ali thing...
malcolm x... only worked...
but this is the chinese doing it to their own...
no need to intervene and bring
the good people back into the ummah...
    
  hush hush, hush hush, hush hush...
cherry picking history, are we?
    well...            let's cherry pick together!
look at this garden of time:
plenty of picks, plenty of beginnings!
at this point: a certain amount of history
can become fiction,
and not in a bad way...
it can become the basis for "studying"
archetypes...
             funny how time treats those
who experience it...
    it mutates them...
                   and to no purpose
of appealing to the general public,
  so much can and has happened in my life:
and yet...
         nothing is worth the curator's knowledge
of commentary,
  the status of laureate:
   i'd sooner be found, bound to the pleasure
of shooting dead ducks floating in
the water with a slig-shot...
       than, whatever, the aspiration for
the post, deserves;
  g.c.s.e. allowed poetics can deal with that...

again:
   why is poetry so overtly scrutinißed?
no one makes so many notes regarding prose...
but then poetry is being analyßed?
out come the scalpels, the weights,
the whole forensic scrutiny!
        10 words are expanded into
a 10,000 word essay...
      gay science my ***...
                   it's the most over-scrutinißed
form of language,
no wonder people are intimidated
by it... who would want to write in a medium
that has so much scrutiny hovering
above it: and no, it's not a ******* halo
or a laurel wreath!

           there's only so much meaning
that can be derived from a sentence,
before the pun, dries out,
  before the metaphor, dries out,
before all these bogus over-stressed
ars poetica identifiers via "technique" become
exhausted, and what you're left with,
is the ancient art of narrative...
  
  yeah, sure sure, i too wish my narrative
"skills" were better...
             i'm streuengehirn...
              if i really wanted to write
a ******* mathematical rubric of:
1 x 1 = 1
1 x 2 = 2
1 x 3 = 3...            i'd be currently writing
a YA vampire romance trilogy...
do i look like someone who's going to write
a YA vampire romance trilogy?!

           eh... back when you could respect
a homosexual akin to william burroughs...
back to a tomorrow's worth of respecting
a homosexual akin to douglas murray...
   or that gay sitcom starring
           ian mckellen & derek jacobi...

                       two old **** talking:
        eloquence and ettiquete...
                     now, that was fun...
i too wish some perv shoved his ****
through my ***, picked up my hands...
and transformed by idle tongue
to present a, stage performance worthy
of an encore...
                             alas...
   given the current climate...
          i'm stuck with the sort of gays
the old gays would probably be ashamed of...
so much for the adventure and
          the... courage... of feeding a pleasure
of "something" going in, rather than coming out...

irritable bowel syndrome from time to time,
i honestly enjoy taking a **** too much,
so much so that i find the male
****** to be overrated.

post- scriptum musing:

favourite past-time?
catching a mosquito by the *****
while wearing boxing gloves.  
  
don't know how drunk doesn't
translate into shy...
or how the former translates
into an antidote for the latter
(&
   also
     bound to italics) somehow...

a fool's idle wondering
equating itself with
all the world
   and the men invested in it:
ambitions, adventures,

            so... who's going to follow
suite in gratifying this "grand"
errand?
             surrounded by unshakeable
cliffs of "knowledge" of facts...
what story is to be told,
without a fear of plagiarißm?
since there is a fear:
it implies... the story is not worth
passing on,
not unless the newly-born arrive
and are born from a foreign
body, not alligned
   to the organic allignement
of continuity...
  pass what may pass...
               once again: arriving
at the jargon babylon deposit of
the fuel for a will to live,
                             as shared universally.

the sands of time peel away
warriors born and die, fighting for their Cause
the memory of the martyrs
let the munafiqun know
the jihad comes for them too, again and again like waves at sea
fate theirs will be like the kuffar since time immortal
sand, dust, death

if it ain't the three drunk giraffes learning
to sow: knitted knickers...
and: for sure... the bulldozer'd
leopard...
          and if we meet a zombie...
just imagine if...
  just imagine if... the quran told the
ummah to **** all pigs...
just imagine what sort of leather-jackets...
what belts and what shoes
we could steal from that decrepit
quasi-carrier of soul: of animation
devoid concerning itself with
the function of... the heart...
the liver... the brain...
all the more invested in the x-ray spectacle
of bones and the exertion of muscles...
no... i'm pretty sure the pigs would be
left freely roaming...
rummaging back into...
their less domesticated form of
a boar... huff and puff...
and grow a pair of hooks for teeth...
the pigs would still be here...
once... <burp> and only when...
the kuffar / ***** were either all dead...
or converted...
and if converted... then they would
be the janissaries or the mamluks
precial copre of fighters...
to rid the world regime
of the omni-caliphate: Islamia...
from the Morge-haul invaders from
Mars... or Mongolia...
i never know which is "which"...
the lament from Alexandria...
or the lament from Baghdad...
but the glorious books never says:
**** all pigs... it just says... don't eat them...
lucky for the pigs...
a **** gives two rations of pork
for an infidel a martyr status...
but don't eat the pork...
           **** the kuffar... wow...
last time i heard is was merely a *****...
ah... hafiz... too similar...
extending an insinuation into
qof-from-afar!
i dare say... reading Dickens for an
hour did me much good...
all those existential complications
from russia: circa the same time...
the angst of urban alienation on the streets
of st. petersburg...
completely missing...
reading Dickens having already read
a little bit of this... and a little bit of that...
cricket... and going hunting for
rooks: crows... in the trees...
for a morning ancedote of pie for breakfast...
and... speaking like a stenograph...
better than braille...
just saying: the Tehran folk might as well
march: blessing the virus...
which they would... surgical face-masks
and the niqab are somehow synonymous
with ninjas... or johnson's...
   satan's postpboxes?
       i am pretty sure i heard that one...
lucky for me and the belief in
Abraham's *****... a return to...
when i didn't make a runner with a childhood
friend of mine... days after his mother
committed suicide by drinking vinegar...
Hubert... "hubercik"...
now... but i do remember...
those two fine fine... slim... belts...
and a glorious hot bath afterwards...
to: MAN, UP!
                          to conjure up the mind
of that 6 year old...
    i tried to replicate the violence...
on a dobberman of mine...
two whips for biting a ***** of the same
household...
nearly gauged my eye out with a bite...
i guess the teeth about to bite
were implying: watch a little...
i could almost understand a prolonged
waterfall of cementing memory
of a drunk father...
that i could remember...
but all this... scarse female boxing ring
antics... i can forgive my mother...
but a slap in the face for "lying"
when visiting my grandparents...
it's only a shame her last words,
her last real words an onomatopoeia
of vowels caught by H of the tetragrammaton...
7 times she said in one night...
and if we're playing games...
the 7 hill of Rome -
after all... the new testament is the work
of a greco-hebrew "conspiracy"...
what is 666 is turned into Χ Ξ Σ -
the letters...
a 7 headed beast...
oh... you mean the roman numerals?
I, V, X, L, C, D, and M...
                    looks like a 7 to me...
how did they do it...
to have to use 7 letters as numbers...
i'm guessing they... must have...
reserved special rights in keeping
the meaning of number: upper-cased
and the meaning of letter: lower-cased...
but oh: a violence between men
i could understand...
like i can understand... what i understood
when wrestling dogs in my childhood...
omni- litany of the "god" and the affair
of a woman swinging a forehand...
to be later met with
a drill shoved up her ****** and...
a ***** to a frankenstein to the head...
at the temple... when pleasure...
oh pleasure... no pleasure...
and if i were to just forget memory...
and get a tattoo on my body like
a branding at a butchers' for a hanging
hook-dripping squat of grizzly... meat...
at the ready: not mauled...
          turned into a cottage pie of: mince...
but bitten off in chunks that could best
represent... the divine torsos of
         sculpture... or a steak tartare...
yes... they would sooner **** the infidel
than they would **** the pig...
shame... since they wouldn't eat either...
and the pig... is such... a perfected animal...
you can eat almost all of it...
well... from snout to tail...
except for the oink... except for the oink...
for me that's also a capital scam...
when it comes concerning
persian carpets... esp those that boast
about i-ran-out-of-persia...
       having come across the scam in
Sarajevo...
               elsewhere the sort of "men" resorting
the the violence of... sneakers...
and... nothing of the fist
and much of a Medici intrigue...
     whether by poison or by scam...
a fist a knee **** a self-evident opponent
i would probably gesticulate at
with a frown a growl of a poker's-best-kept
secret...
that there's no need for a consciousness
of the heart... beside the heart-attack survivor...
or the cardio-stellar surgeon...
that the brain doesn't exist
outside the realm of a... haemorrhage...
or the neurosurgeon...
         the bones beside the toothpicks...
the teeth as the bite exposed...
and the arithmetic of the osteologist...
my self in these matters not invested...
   that somehow a bilingualism can betray
a schizoid theory of...
exfoliating gwammar...
       and all that can be excused is a rhyme
and all that can be excused:
what can't be excused is a blank page...
because... about as many more of these:
that found origins in nothing
and in nowhere and in: not-how
and in no-be...
                            toes crisping...
on the edge of tomorrow...
for a flame of absolute darkness...
crisping... well: more like freezing
to a numbing death...
                      but the crackling is still
summoned...
as any excuse to exit:
is met.