i have a break at 12 o'clock
will you please come over
you don’t have to knock
i’ll leave the door open
it will be unlocked
a bouquet of flowers
i’ll have in stock
a vase and a candle
a knife and a blade
a face and a cigarette
its all about the way we explain
i mean rationalize away
do time-lines justify our decline into tyranny
send me back again to sublime infancy
retrofit the celibate instigator
lemniscate the elephant’s fingerprints
impress me with wit and charm
storm troopers unarmed
star-gazers, shadow-haters, sand-blasters, ice-skaters,
morning's lovers, fathers, daughters, shoulders and elbows
rub brows and crease foreheads
wrinkles in your timelines
define lines as destiny unwinds
reminds me of blinding light
the heights of old empires
sire warriors, stories as tall as soldiers
for real, heal the split between mind and body
kindly, lovingly, bump up against me
and kiss me again
i am music fused together with eternity
space and dust and rusted armpits
a hundred diamonds, drops of sweat
skin like leather, weatherproof, foolproof too
determine to use it all
for you are the muse of all
do as you need to
fuse it together lest it come apart again
return to heaven and mend the tear
split the hair or the atom
magic is a language
tragic is the cancerous neglect of syntax
emptiness is manic
gargantuan attacks of presence
defenseless, we are taught worthless ****
neglect it, but remember important words
stories, looms of drawings
forming in my mind’s eye
i cannot be bought or controlled by pirates
the best moments are private
you are not invited
so go home and create your own zone of entertainment
its necessary
your gentle fingers
blessing my soul
courage to roll with life’s blows
no need for stoics
or poets who deny reality’s arguments
slippery slopes
walking tight ropes
can you cope with all this mistletoe
restring your bow
dance in the snow as if everyone knows
you are crazy in love with the whole
motionless vision swift as an arrow
roofless rooms
prom queens flip you off and turn you on
sons and daughters, lions of the prairie
a child portable and small
respects the walls that you’ve made
they are not your cage but your shelter
self culture is affluent and not arrogant
sand mandalas tall as waterfalls
golden rainbows pour from the faucet in the sky
like mighty images
wisdom bridges the gaps in our imagination
i can’t wait to get this on the page
written in stone, reflecting thrones
made from the bones of pharaohs
consciousness narrows as you approach
are you a cockroach, coach or a student
strokes of wonder for different folks
cold call your own homes
do you prioritize lightning over thunder
words over rubber
sandwiches to clutter
are you interested in diamonds or other
precious gemstones
that flutter like butterflies when i utter
emeralds like butter
do you waste time arranging your clutter
stuttering utter nonsense
frequencies wasted, gentleness chased away
fantasies radioactive
magic lacks targets
darkens our fathers
keep chasing actions
satisfaction is attractive
your eyes are like fragments of rubies in the fire
i see beauty in desire, features in the sky
i look skyward and see higher
minds are wired to remain stagnant
stranded in a lack of entertainment
change this and make your own amazement
wonder over thunder, lick me down under
gone asunder like the burning acropolis
topple this bottomlessness
can't stop this, its impossible
i wonder do you make blunders
in underground mountains
we shout words like fountains shoot water
curtains topple over
and form a blanket over our consciousness
after our performances
swarms of crazy people leave the theater
shattered and too stunned to speak
to ****** to leak they keep walking down south
toward Plymouth Rock,
Mammoth Mountian or Rehoboth Beach
take stock of the situation and just move
first one out is rewarded
sordid and sorted like straw from the hay stacks
caskets of black iron casings
tastings of wine whose shelf-life is expired
past due cheese overripe and stinky
like mustard dusted with lightning
striking on time is all that we have
thinking that was a close call
we fall down and get up, remove the uppercuts
and lowercases from our mouths
doubt is a ***** word heard too often,
coughing from a coffin she offers me her hand
cold as ice cream, these nouns are deafening
love is lazy like a muffin
and hot like a dumpling
but a liaison with time cannot be rushed
i have lived long enough to learn this
a privilege to give birth to this moment
again and again vintage feathers
send me your sweaters
detest impostors who give robotic answers
i am in wonder at all this grammar
that i was unaware of
ignorant as mustard
and smooth like custard
in this blustery weather
i am glad i wore a sweater
and have an umbrella
to keep me dry and safe
i am in love walking toward the gate
and boarding that plane
i am your heart served on a plate
with a side of coleslaw, soul food for dinner
you are a winner and i am your hunger
a porcelain gravestone
a copper bathtub with claws
stored in your basement
storerooms cold as a skating rink
please don't think, unless its about me
let sentences drift away
while we chase arguments from yesterday's
armistice

i actually took to taking heidegger seriously,
i don't know why, it just happend,
i like the fact that i only have a sketch of him,
being & time and ponderings ii - vi
don't account for much... but it's worthwhile
ground to begin sketching oneself,
how, or more precisely why writing
is self-absorption, until there is no "self"
for others to ask about, that's utterly fascinating,
people ask the question when people fall out
of line in the dimension of morality,
if they ever do, in all honesty.
             but sometimes, it just so happens
that the heart says what it wants to hear
and the brain doesn't have the barricades against it,
for all its reasons it just remains a ****
encompassed in a cranium...
            on the basis of understanding the
categorical imperative... categories...
             brain is primarily fat...
                           what can poison the brain
or simply "eat" it are hostile proteins...
                  so where is the true account of what
ails?                 i'd understand a parasitic instance
to account for tapeworms, but the idea of
      hostile proteins attacking an ***** that's
primarily fatty seems as much as
           prescribing people with omega-3
in tinned fish...
              we know too much to then speak the truth...
the point of pragmatism is to lie,
our safety is bound to lie, we lie to avoid
rubbing the jinn-bottle to conjure something that
many other will disagree with...
       akin to enlarging a phobia so it's massive...
hell, by comparison to heaven: is tiny...
but then heaven enlarges itself and mars descends,
that fake hope of finding like on mars?
that died, when earth was born
   and the sun went through its secondary cycle...
oh there was life on mars, but mars is
a quasi moon, hello and welcome to radio lemniscate,
but sure, go ahead, find me martian bacterium
while i watch an oxfam advert of people starving...
i'm just going to take a very, very long bow
from this circus... drink a great deal and write
as much ******* as i can...
  i think all of this began with: a real great respect
for books... how you're not supposed to treat
books as you might, in my case, deal prostitutes...
caress them, use bookmarks, fiddle the pages
as if touching trees... taking the sleeves off hardback
editions, reading the book in hardcover,
then putting the decoration sleeves back onto them
and the shelf...
        i don't have a populist culture-effective view
of ******, i just have heidegger...
            what he wrote in the 1930s resonates as
it did back then... after going to university i felt
limbless, i was almost actually but more so honest
akin to dante's depiction of bertrand de born,
a ******* dentist had more bones to a body than
i had, thinking it was only a case of me chewing
meat / vegetables...
            universities these days represent
**** germany in the 1930s...
            i'm waiting, and i'm waiting, and i can't see
anything being born...
                          more crass on crass than
criss-cross... usually it's something you do and then
you get to forget about it... clearly people are
reading into history as this need to brush-up on
their arithmetic... me? i don't remember how
the alphabet goes, but i know a word or two,
i have respect for certain sciences...
           like abacadus?
     abecadus? 3 results (0.59 seconds),
so near to a google-whack! ****!
                            http://tinyurl.com/go9g3b8,
that "alphabet" of numbers! what's it called?
                         oh right... an abacus....
          similus non similiis qua abecadus -
but the algorithm understood it...
               but university has become that sort
of magnet of failure...
                in the earliest past of the 21st century
the labour government allowed too many of us
to access this medium...
                      what we should have been taught
was how to not be bored from a boring / repetitive
environment... i'd gladly learn that course /
unless of course that thing is self taught?
  funny enough to also state: surgeons don't
have these problems, as butchers don't have them,
it's the buddhist territory of the middle
    that gets the most spank of oink huh?
             then poetry gets agitated because people
start throthing into its gob of worth with some
obscene content, and poetry is like:
call papa phi pho lee... so people can see how
pointless their argument will eventually be,
and they can go along the route of scuttling past like
scared rats... which in this language, makes perfect sense,
given they branded western slavs as vermin...
                thank you, i'll just stick to me
aphorism no. 34 (ponderings iii) and be on my way
to stage an "islam",
                         or what most would claim to
be defeat (there really is an interpolation between
ditto and italics, or at least a symbiosis,
for what could never improve punctuation,
let alone spelling)...
                        i really have lost my "christian" / western
sensibility of indoctrinating darwinism on people,
i lost my mojo / atheism-drive of "zeitgeist" vogue...
i lost the need to indoctrinate darwinism on people,
there's too many of them, and what i see is
    "zen" libido, or at least tao libido...
i think i'm going to call it tao libido in all earnest...
well... an asian paradigm if anything...
or why the west is obsessed with fame but that fame
results in a billion chinese / blue indians that...
simply don't give a ****...
       the first rule of tao?
                   to keep a world at peace is to ensure
you forget the world, and the world forgets you.
    by this point there is no dasein,
                               there is no "happening"...
or what compulsory thought patterns suggest:
there had to be a darwinism and there had to be
a big bang, for per se reasons,
    the democratic totalitarian obliteration
                                 of the individuation process;
at least in islam we are bound to disagree...
here? we agree to annoy, or we are agreed upon
toward a zenith of annoyance that translates
into subverting violence, or micro-violence...
or: that our past be no burden on our future tomorrows...
we really are living in times that history
will later define as merely a blame game,
   after that.... people will reflect and state
the unimportant content given the context,
            and then vice versus...
   then **** sapiens will suddenly fizzle out of
existence and **** schizoi will establish his rule,
to what was naturally teasing man:
                           tell a lie, write a history;
or that "metaphor" of eden.

Let us
teach the stars how to dance
guide the constellations into a lemniscate
bend their chaotic lines
trace different paths for them.

Let me
decorate the ballroom with shadows
drape the night against the walls
scatter moonlight across the floor
feed our guests cosmic dust

And you will
buy me a dress of starlight
wear a suit of midnight
touch me the way you would a moonstone
take me to the celestials.

Let us
dance the night away.

End where we started then start over again.
****** through the same side we spilled out of.
A pair of rings for fools and friends;
Crazy straw love.

Tangled then thickened to one mass.
Stripped in stark relief.
Strengths and weaknesses in high contrast;
sifting through our ashes.

I equate us to a figure eight
lying on its side.
Split down the middle -
we're nothing.

Carve the curve that craves the end.
Sliding out then in again.
Spiral arms unwinding;
Spin us toward the center.

.                                                    rarely...
but it does happen...
a cat will encounter you
going up the stairs
in the middle
of the night,
with a fresh batch of
ice-cubes,
   and it will attach yourself
to a medium of attention,
it will ballerina side-step
an 8,
    persistent,
looking for the strong aspect
of your hand,
burrowing its head into it,
no, it's not looking for your knuckles,
not the tip of your fingers,
but the cusp...
so you play with it for some time,
before you decide: "bored",
and hyena grip the poor thing
in the midst of its staged
performance...
you take it into your bedroom,
clear the bed, place her in it,
put on some ola gjeilo
for her, while you're still strapped
to the headphone listening
to some dikanda;
what could a cat actually
want from a drunkard?
maybe i respect her exercise
of freedom,
maybe: cats can teach a man
to not become overtly
attached to a "concept" of
                  progeny?
this **** is rare...
what? this feline show of
needing attention...
how i've come to adore cats...
bypassing the basic clues
of dogs,
the whole concern for a leash...
when an animal comes to you,
and asks to be petted,
when it's no longer a
primordial base,
  a bonsai variety of a tiger...
then you fake petting it...
it does it's 8 swirl...
shape akin to a standing
infinity...
   i wonder...
  how far apart is
the hyphen (-)
   from a lemniscate (∞)?
i'll tell you:
pet a cat prior,
pet a cat that wants /
implores you to pet it...
   but it just kept nudging my petting
hand, kept burrowing itself
in finding the cusp...
  it didn't want the fingertips,
it didn't want the knuckles...
what a rare occassion,
when,
   i would never, ever have
praise for dog ownership...
this, completed
variation of my own freedom...
maybe that's what i devalued
the ownership of dogs...
the leash put me off...
this dog-ownership
ownership consistency...
akin to parenthood
  of not being to allow
the a priori testimony /
expression of inherent freedom...

for all the sins of Muhammad...
i believe that i should
believe that...
the only judgement comes
in the form of khadija **** khuwaylid:
a woman 25 years his senior,
a literate woman...
  who wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not khadija?
            
     to me... khadija wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not more than half of them...
god has nothing to do with
this prominent individual,
muhammad died,
and will be judged by khadija...

after all... "the miracle"
of the existence of the quran...
last time i heard...
muhammad was illiterate...
he didn't write these verses...
so, who did?
my guess is...
a woman wrote it...
                                         khadija...
last time i heard:
   muhammad was illiterate!
so who wrote the first verses?
****'s sake...
my guess is as good as yours,
but my guess is:
a woman wrote the quran...
some would claim
the quran is nothing short of
the stephen vizinczey
novel: any woman 25 years
my senior....
   who managed to write a book
for me?

  one compliment to muhammad...
if those were genuine
hallucinations,
  and they rhymed in arabic...
great, having remembered them...
and allowing them access to
the writtten word,
   walking back from the cave
                           of meditation...

but, then of course...
  the "laissez faire" of theology,
   and the monopoly of monotheistic
revisionism...
   the: "enzyme" approach...
instigator, praise...
whatever you want to call it...

muhammad was illiterate...
so who wrote the first surahs...
if not the literate first wife
of muhammad, khadija **** khuwaylid?
no wonder...
   no wonder...
you know what tsar ivan
did to the architect
   of the st. basil cathedral,
postnik yakovlev?
he gauged out his eyes,
saying:
   you will not see anything more
beautiful in this world...
muhammad?
   when it came to khadija **** khuwaylid?
he didn't have the *****,
to do what he would do to his
subsequent victims...
i'm still trying to imagine
khadija **** khuwaylid in a burqa...
or a niqab...
a bit like what ivan IV
did to postnik yakovlev
after the st. basil cathedral
                              was completed...

who wrote the first verses of
the quran? a woman did...
            khadija **** khuwaylid...
and if she lived long enough...
she would have suffered
the same fate of  
                     postnik yakovlev...
surely not blinded,
but coerced into donning
a niqab.

sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence
and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.

with ego as foetus:
    i do get a chance to give birth
to a thought,
  notably a minor critique,
or, rather, digression from a
newspaper article...

all this posturing and lying
deserves a mundane truth,
   one that doesn't even
register on scaling historical
events: as ever having
happened...

             an article by
julia llewellyn smith (welsh
roots, i gather?)
               on a book by
        emma koenig -
           moan: anonymous essays
on female *******...

come to think of it:
   i always held a suspicion with
regards to this bounty...
  i never could envision
the sort of male ****** with
trust involved...
      
  once with a ******* i ate
mine, ******* and remained
silent...
           a sensation that could
only be replicated with
what brother zygfryd de löwe
  experienced, looking up
at a hanging noose on
a titilated by the wind hallow
tree...

       ever wake up with
an auditory hallucination?
          simply with the word
uchyl?
            namely - pry open
a door?
          only today i "think"
i dreamed of reading
the book of Job, and standing
before a blackboard
   with a rubric that read,
something along the lines of

- - - - + - - - | + + - + + + + +
- + + - - - - - | + + + + + - - -
- - + - - - - - | + + + + - - + +
- - + + - - + - | - + + - + + - +
- - + - - - - + | + - + - + - + -
- + - + - + - - | + - - - + + - +
+ - + - - - - + | + - + + + + - +
- - - - + + - - | + - - + + + - -

i can't say that's "verbatim",
but it merely represents
the excavation of a dream
where + / - were used...

         and a recurrent thought:
cognitive narcissism...
   **** mirror...
        apparently i'm the most
fascinating person on
the earth,
         although i know that's
a cheap thrill delusion...
          since i'm no magician:
it's a mirror womb,
   like any madman appears
to have fathomed....

but i was suspicious of
the female ****** for a while,
this... acting in the bedroom...
this, supposed clarity
vector for the impetus that
guides man...

             having taken "advice"
from an ukranian,
then a romanian *******...
      i remember vaguely:
did i just pay for a kiss?

      winners! and losers...
who are to mind
   the gravity of the plateau?
can't tell them apart...

****** her 7 hours straight
once, in St. Petersburg
just before i was to fly out,
and...
      you say she faked those
pseudo-epileptic spasms
mostly resonating at the altar
of her feet?

   i've had 3 pseudo-epileptic
spasms in my time...
the clenched jaw imitating
the crocodile macht...
     the gut-wrench:
supra-indigestion sensation,
and then the jitters...
  cold-sweat...
         a second birth...
the slain strobe body...
        a persistent vagueness
of the performance of
blinking...
                   pain like
              a disembodiment...
a death: with a near-life
experience...
         an agitated maggot
on the tip of a human finger,
rather than a fishing hook...

custard pie...
     yummy, eh?
    
  well... if no ******,
                            why not pain?
could just imagine the sensation,
thrill, and the Ural wind...
         beating me to the gallop,
like some...
                   forgotten smile,
laboured from a face with
    missing features...
               like the kind of tenderness
a womb is given
to superimpose
               the fraility of a flower...

how chunks of meat
can be cooked with attention...
slowly,
   as to not craft a makeshift
   McDonald charring scars...
of a... fast.

    so you're telling me
that through those 7 hours that
began with a **** me
sunset, to a ******* sunrise,
the pseudo-epileptic spasms,
were, fake?!

        mind you: it's hard to fake
a spasm...
                  not in the way i described
it,
        some nights after my first,
aged 14+, i used to fear falling
alseep with clenched teeth,
considering the fact that my first
spasm was
                   propagated by
a clenching of the teeth...
        i authentically feared clenching
my teeth...
      reminding me of the electric
potency of a worm, moving
down my spine like authentic
mandarin writing...

                     but faking an ******?
man will only know,
if he eats his up with a grain
of silence...
                  if all is thespian:
                                 then all is not...

justice already hangs in
the satanic compedium of affairs,
"apparently" justified
with man's latter fall:
             and you will not know,
the difference between good,
and evil,
       having miscarried the extremes
of a blatant index execution,
with...

             a ******* thesaurus!
minor-noun subordinates and,
lumbering excuses to play:
                   hide & seek once more;
although now?
      ******* off a few people
along the way.

the english: can't ******* hark,
can't ******* trill... the ****, can they do?!
   |ch| is not cheap...
                       couldn't laugh
even if i wanted you to.
       yeah: the "missing" O...

    so why bother with Hollywood,
if you have a Medussa's worth
of an actress, lazily occupying a bedroom?
    
i already said: i was and am,
       suspicious of the female ******...
till i became suspicious of mine...
    and: hardly lost it...
               hid it... in the ecstasy of
the drunk's laughter...

                 and the winner is!
twice removed actress
                     bulging in cushions like
a bloated tarantula...
                   considering the ape...
who is to tell me i'm not right
in borrowing the "metaphor"
      of equating women with a mantis?

too much seems to be borrowed
from animals
in the english speaking world,
  to further an investigation of being
human,
         too much has become
of the deranged, zoological tiger,
writing out a lemniscate
    to appease the democratic
continuum of:
             the tiger isn't adored...
                but the cage, certainly is.
              
a female ******... huh...
                  pseudo-epileptic spasms?
and this article?
plain outright lying,
   i never imagined people gambling
                                               with lies,
    but then again:
     i'll become, less naive,
on the day of my death...
  my pontius pilate hour of:
          you couldn't exactly ask
for a Parisian waiter to tell
me the secret of high-chin, long-nose
*******?
            who cares about lobsters?!
                   mind the Parisian waiter!

Paris: it's not exactly an excuse
       being Croat, speaking English in Paris,
missed opportunity though,
   je-b'a-n'ah      ku-r-v'ah              ma-ć!

and the winner! is?
           Zeus and Hera once debated
which *** derives more pleasure from ***...
but that, a woman,
   deviates from ******, altogether?
         and the man,
      becomes a seagull chick,
fed regurgitated ******* all the time?
   you can't fake pseudo-epileptic
spasms...
                
                  and i know what is and what
isn't considered a finality of
paying for an hour with a prozzie...
    considering the fact that you,
actually know what you're paying for,
when she's not being paid to
act the: pinnacle role...

               well: it was either to go and
see a priest, or a psychiatrist...
    but evidently the ******* knew
better... on how to educate me in
the art of: sifting journalism-on-saturday
diatribe...

                you almost want an
introduction of the concept of a sabbath
to journalism...
      
   but the missing O?
             leaving a man so gullible,
or rather:
                    i could buy into the fact
that i have a replica to "mind"...
   but being rejected from being
able to give, rather than receive pleasure?

she said it herself:
   a rare quality, for a man to mind
giving, rather than receiving pleasure...

to be left in a perpetual doubt,
                     is akin to being denied,
        which is hardly a happy phallus...
i like your supposed
   *liberators"...
                       looks like the "excesses"
of skin prior to circumcision have
a secondary purpose...
     christ, would you believe:
they can make a ******* out of that, thing?

It’s the hollow sound of a toast to fill the silence of unaddressed questions,
the celebratory clanging of glass on glass
ringing from assumptions based on past experiences and theories
     from synapses of protagonists or all
that is mystical; a god or a God
          for the rhetoric of bad days; the precatory shoulda, woulda, coulda’s
   you can count with all digits and the humdrums,
the lalala’s to songs with lines you can never remember.

It is to fill in, with pencil, the
blanks of unclear intentions, capricious endings,
     the what comes after the highest number, tentative now, for it is a trick question,
the true stories of Bermuda Triangles and Altantises,
          for the ones Amelia kissed goodbye and all that is brief,
               promises neither broken nor kept;
     some, hypotheses for what happens after waiting.

               It is the makeshift certainty ascertained the day he left
          all these unfinished, unanswered, incomplete… things. The sure of it
     invented by staking everything in a nebulous something,
a nebulous anything that will have to do, like cotton patches
     on satin dresses or saints for hopeless causes.
               It was the invention to quench the constant
          need to know, to fill the in-between start to end
       for all that we can not stop. A made-up map by pirates below ten
for every time we must set destinations beyond unchartered unknowns;
                     a make-believe place holder to hold us to the relief
          we get from closure when
                  the universe gives us none.

It is the lemniscate, the amen,
the St. Jude we assign to our altars
until we find actual satin or the aviatrix herself,
          or surrender everything in the spirit of faith
                    or believe
          that not all things unfound are lost.

He is a seashell and I am the ocean, but it is not his fault.

He can only hold so many grains of salt or sand, he can only catch so many china       tears before they hit the floor and shatter into a billion disappointed slivers, never to be collected or krazy-glued.

It is not his fault.

In today’s society, it is preferred to be flat.

                     So he is blessed, my skipping stone.

It’s the people like me—the bottomless ravines—

That get lost in ourselves
                         That vacuum up lost puppies and paper cuts and hold them with us                                        so tightly that we’re guaranteed to spill over.

But we don’t. No, not even the slightest.

We just get deeper and deeper to make room for the cold water.
       We build secret gardens to plant poisonous roots and we hide them in our green teas and salads.
               We draw lemniscate maps that loop treasure hunters around our hearts, searching forever.
                          We shun the sturdy carp and send love letters to fickle anglers and glumfish.
                                       We refuse to die in our sleep.

His favorite drink is water and his favorite color is blue.
     My favorite drink is whiskey and my favorite color
Is alabaster when it’s raining,
                                     sea foam green if I’m trying,
                                                                               and violet when I’m in the mood.

~INFINITE
Drugs guns attempts and ****** one roll off this urban griots tongue, I'm a sun from the slums that chased redrum funds, I walked the dark path of prison and gore, stopped at the end, then walked back to the beginning to become a verbal detour pointing man women and children in the right direction before the feel the heat and go through spontaneous combustion. The lemniscate ink spiller swings his pen back and forth to counter decapitation scythe swings courtesy of the reaper. I'm a five star general from New York, I was fantasizing on owning islands like rourke, I know the life well chefed ye for color coordinated residuals, ya know that **** that'll make ya lean or have a bobby b jaw with dilated pupils. in order to educate I have to spit with no filter, the life i lived was similar to helter skelter, it wasn't war for race it was war for boy or the contents of a Pyrex being burnt to a gooey paste. I got more friends dead than alive, so i use phonics mixed with Ebonics verse to explain the pain of sending kites to men bidding forever or the pain of following a hearse to release doves and throw flowers over the casket of eternal resting brothers. Money came in...so did those nine elevens saying another life came to an end. The facade doesn't show the downs of the game, you see the foreign wips, the chics, hear about all the chips, high grain ammo and xtra clips, you don't see mothers crying holding daily news clips explaining how her son died because of chips chics and foreign wips, they don't see the cheddar spent on retainers to prevent predict felons from becoming three time losers, The streets don't come with a fine print, it leaves out the particulars.

Infinite the poet 2014

~THE REB
Behind the madness I came to a conclusion of the humen world. The streets caged me in bars with no ability to pull comfort of a drink together with equality in communication with society. Understanding the diversity of life in corners made me believe struting my fist was the way of life. There were no hands to hold onto tomorrow. No space in alleys to run but to dead end vortex duplicity. Uniform authority confined my freedom to be humen. An animal to sociaty but I did no crime. Just to get from one ave to the blv these popo's be trippen down my ****** lines to the creases over my thieghs. Feeling for a high by touch to get that high in a remote area of their private sources. Age nine I stood in the ghettos near home. What I thought was a dream of doom I wome to a high with tracks down my arms proving this confusion. Colors to claim, and colors to flag, I kept pushing away congregations of street wars and bet on my own revolutionary independence. Pistol on my inner thigh I tred lightly in a walk of shame. I found no glory till one day my tears fell on paper. On the walls of East Chapmen Ave California were monumental master pieces of anger and sadness from one end on the wall to the other... I felt something twitch in me... Inspiration of something unfamiliarly bright over the darkness. And for each time I enter back home to family, there was rebirth, and I could not conceive knowledge until one day, the madness got me. I took that pen, and wrote the illustrations of my lack of pigment on every line.. These demons left me in wilderness. No caution about what life had ahead for me. I knew nothing beyond these streets. I lost the innocence in my adolescnce. All the agony and weakness and fears I had hidden for so long, later became exuberant effect. If there was no God, if he didn't love me.. my existence wouldn't have been standing here today to speak behind the madness.

(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII)
© S.T. Rebel of Eden

Owl's eyes see with prophecy
through the depths of
the forest trees' limbs
And those spirits...
Witnessing the past, present and future....
These eyes understand either
upside-down or backwards in
visions of blue
Like mirrors reflecting the sky,
owls eyes perceive the stratosphere
doorway in between light
and shadow-
Gifted as it is with a sprinkling of galaxies....
Owls eyes can see with magic-
Their pupils are portals to Shangri-La and Tartarus where ghouls  waver their direction endlessly in a lemniscate
Even in the most moon-less night
they conceive palpably those ghosts that weap as they wander.

In desolation
I stare wistfully
At the gray moon

With a hankering
Like dry withered meadows
Hungry for rain
I yearn for you
Like magnets on similar poles
Unbearable pain

How I relish
On this reminiscence
Transcient saccharine days
Saturated
With your memories

I stand underneath
The moon's dreary eyes
Glistening these tree leaves
By her moonlight
And the wind
Bellows
A familiar love song
And they dance
Dextrously
Scintillating
The starless skies

Oh
My frail heart
Sheds faint cries
Aching
For your adamantine arms
Like warm wings
They bury me deep
Into your chest
Smother me
With your sweet solace

Remembering your words
Succulent
As your lips
Haunting my reverie
Stabbing my sanity

And I am stubbborn
As a child living in fairytales and fantasies
For I will remain here
Undaunted
Because the moon had whispered
"He has been lost in this labyrinth of stars"

Then I shall wait
In this tryst
For our fate
Is a lemniscate by design
Until such time
Our paths entwine

Whilst the lonely moon
Sends off
Her meteors
Glints of this lunatic's unwavering soul
I watched the heavens weep for my sorrows



-Infinite Lunacy, Margaret Austin Go

Stripes and frays
Been worn for days
It's threads know our
every love
The zippers worn
The seams are torn
It's seen more than
stars above
Though sometimes cold
Gets through the holes
It will always keep
us warm
It's knows the weight
Of our lemniscate
It's knows our
every form

The sweaters worn
The sweaters torn
But it's completely
irreplaceable
We'll keep it with us
For years
On end
It has a heart
Of it's own

‘How quaint,’ remarked Mistress Hora as she turned the afternoon on its head, ‘that you would consider time to be a linear construct.’

‘Positively post-historic,’ agreed Master O’Clock, nodding his head in perfect synchrony with the orchestra that played inside his ear. Today was Waltzday (or so he had named it), an interminable reminder that atomic metronomes particularly those of Viennese manufacture were not to be trifled with.

‘Be assured, my dears, that this fancy is a passing one and exists only as a fleeting extemporaneous distraction,’ our Mistress continued. The first year students breathed a collective sigh of relief. ‘Now, I want no clumping, no running ahead, and NO helical improvisation. When yesterday’s fish and chips come wrapped in tomorrow’s newspaper it gives our school a most unfortunate reputation.’ The class chortled as one. ‘Most importantly, please remember to take your pocket guide.’

I reached for my bedraggled copy of The Theory of Chronometrical Fluidity: Compressed Edition and wrung the pages out. I had failed badly at applied clepsydrics and my cousin Widget wasn’t letting me forget it. From behind the glass, I spotted her playing a furtive game of Gregorian and by the look on her face February was winning. I blew her a lemniscate to grab her attention. She scowled, looked up from her losing streak and giggled when she saw me spiralling in her direction. ‘Good luck,’ she spiralled back.

Miss Hora flexed her wrist and glanced at her temporal transponder. ‘You will be marked on cuneiformity, consistency, and rate of continuance. Now be off with you. Tempus fugit!’ With a flick of her bejangled fingers she opened the S.A.N.D. grates. I held my breath and jumped.

we spin concentric,
like a record on wax
and i feel the heat of analog.

you are the quiet harmony
hiding in the background
of my favorite song—

a melody
i couldn’t quite catch
until i turned the volume ****.

watch us turn
like twin suns
sustained in infinite orbit.

hydrogen-fusion
synthesis. combusting
like burgeoning nebulae—

a great osmosis
in our corner of the cosmos,
an ouroboros in lemniscate.

a many a great things have happened recently...
hmm (insert a weasle's snigger)...
i was watching a russian production of...
the escape from sobibor...
yes... i know that rutger hauer is dead...
but not unless listening to some vex'd...
citations from blade runner:

    firey the angels fell - leaping thunder rolled
around their shoulders -
burning with the fires of orc...

at least that's what i heard...

    i want, more: life... ******... which echoes...
no not that 1987 tv flick...
the russian produiction...
      of recent years...
          upon this the god's green earth...
        i could watch... schindrel's list two times
in a row... before being subjected to...
escape from sobibor...
                if only i had a toothpick handy
and pickles and some martini and god forbid
the onslaught of yawns...
         only one aspect of the film stood out...
a sort of:

    the death of Matti Nykanen...
the finnish ski-jumper who ended up being
a stripper...

    i didn't recognize him at first...
or "at last" i'm usually good with faces...
esp. those on film...

         i think the film itself was supposed to
be... the need to capture "the look"!
      oh believe me... a cary grant or
a gregory peck would never...
                                a rock hudson?
a john wayne: drawl... yep: that six-a-piece
sharp shooter...
guns 'n' roses: civil war...
opening citation: from cool hand luke...
paul newman eating all those... hard-boiled eggs...
paul newman couldn't give "the look"...
that antithesis of roxette's pop stamp...
the verb that is actually a noun...
when there's someone worth it...

no... they could never convince me of ever
having: "the look"... these major actors...
paul newman or a robert redford...
i'm counting only the men...
this one's spezial...

        from first hearing queen... to seeing the movie...
Karl Frenzel...
   that same tortured soul
of a Ralph Fiennes playing Amon Göth...
i had to wonder...
did they decide upon psychopaths...
or was it already a priori from the words
first uttered in the hitlerjunge?

nope... completely amiss...
is that really christopher lambert?
raiden from mortal combat...
connor macleod...
                 hell: if this be the fate of skin
to be a much later devised
disguise in stretch-armstrong of leather...

but it was all about "the look"...
it was so intimidating in it being intimate...
"do you still remember me"...
i don't think i had such trouble
with val kilmer...
then again: who's the busy body
in my receding memory loop-hole to loot
from?

  they must have used dubbing...
otherwise it would seem that christopher lambert
spoke the very base of german
like a puppet of a ghost...
most certainly a changed man...

he had that look in his eyes that read:
i don't remember myself...
this face is no good: for you... either...
and it truly wasn't...
truly petrifying this enigmatic cloak
of ****** features...
but those two voids like a lemniscate (∞)...

i can X with my eyes when concentrating
on the egoism of the tip of my nose
and see the water inside the aquarium
all blurry and salty and mirage prone...
but not this...
this was a sensation of...
seeing an unrecognisable face...

again: i'd sooner revisit watching schindler's
list: because of it being in black & white...
otherwise cudos for the work
by a yanuš kamińци... that red dress:
"here" and... "there"...

for a russian the poles are traitors...
but thank god for the bulgarians
being the bell-boys of their whole
affair of wounded pride...
given the bulgars frequent the aisles
of st. cyril...
             but it looks like... the mongolians
are having... "counter-productive"
thoughts: themselves... good for them!

so close to the germans:
is it eastern europe west of kiev?
is it?
  traitors... oh god... those minor
denominations of the baltic states...
   perhaps... once upon... a time...
prussia would have been just a pocket of influence
akin to estonia... or latvia...
let's not mention lithuania...

it was a christopher lambert... by god...
sure... he was suited to age...
isn't everyone? but not like this...
in a positive way, though...
incomprehensibly unrecognizable...
a loot of enigmas...
well... if gérard depardieu a citizen
of ol' mother russia...
what doesn't stop a christopher lambert...
being dubbed when speaking german
like a manakin does running...
eyes that scream rather than peer...

it's one of those sad affairs of appreciating...
beside theatre... acting...
of course everything is in the detail
of the edit and the production of the end
product: with at very little hiccups as is to be
avoided...
it's a russian production: nonetheless...

but thoese eyes...
i didn't remember him...
was it perhaps donning the uniform...
or was it perhaps... perhaps of:
    seymour hoffman?
   but why couldn't i pick out...
a b-list actor... look at me... mr. hierarchical prone...
but no?
    chris cooper... bruce greenwood...
sure... no problem...
always the general, the "protagonist" of
"real" life... somehow along the line:
hardly a basis of a shadow meets shadow
compromise...

i think i saw a human being that became
unrecognizable from the burden of life
off-screen! i actually found a conviction from
a thespian... i saw two blinding cauldrons
of ire... which was...
ire... it wasn't fire...
    two blinding cauldrons of ire: i saw...
a blue tinge of flame... i saw tears...
it wasn't a purity of fire that will be later
made into a recycling power...
it was...

a fire that keeps intact a status quo...
that unfathomable perspetive
and an unmoveable object:
even if armed with the binding will
of a sisyphean determination:
where are the demons whipping him
to comply?!

   i was two blinding cauldrons of ire...
i saw fluorescent blue of glowing squid and less
revealing monsters of the deep...
i saw... a face disguised as a mask...
i saw a face from beneath a donned niqab...
more clearer than the glee of smile...
the chubby moon-clip
or the scythe of reasons behind...
the bulging shadow of harvests pending...

all this... and not much more...
  i'm good with faces...
   apparently not good enough...
was it really christopher lambert playing
karl frenzel in escape from sobibor?
i try to bypass the glamour and all that dry
artifact affair of keeping score...
to denounce all actors as...
the last and the least obliged to put pressure
and fathomability of the concern
for human... "things"....

what sort of a man is a christopher lambert
wearing.. if his eyes are...
pencils and needles piercing me...
that i can't recognise his face?
have i been gorging on too many
digestive biscuits... or something?

    by faking it... but i didn't see a slouch
of wanting to fake it...
given the numbers...
          what are the puny rhymes...
                   i want to see a rhyme
that riddled a blunt hammer-axe at the end
of this... foreboding of "contemplation"...
i want to find it soothing
for man to justify the antics of a slaughterhouse
concerning the wailing pigs
and the... cowering aum litany of the...
sanctity of beef...
            or the lesser kind via
the goat of the graces of riccota...

          i don't exactly know what i saw
in those eyes...
    but i saw enough to make me forget
a face.... i would most, be assured to...
have a memory of...
i was drawn into the eyes...
it's not like brian may aged so badly...

i did see the flabby skin of a pig become
stretched... then contracted...
over a square mile of a Berliner's post-code
"hum and oops"...
    little ******* good that would ever
do me!

              these tires need to be burned...
this soil needs to be shovelled...
this butter needs to be spread on
oozing warmth toast...
this rootweiler requires a leash:
are you the sort of walker
to allow a lessening of tension...
mind you: this "hanz" and "heinrich"
tends to tug along like
a pirañha on a diet...

                 the other head
of... the clamour fest... of feeding of...
cerberus... this night-walker this...
shadow-thief...
                   this... burden of my pride...
synonym coupled with ego...
rottweiler to the east...
       dobermann-pinscher to the west...
get this...
a ******* pop-up head of
a dachshund heading south:
                                        in lombardy!
hey presto...
                    my luvvie-dubbie companion!

for me... give me a harem of 72 dogs...
i'll sooner dog-wrestle bit
and chow-mein
and clash with teeth before...
         don't make me...
preside over the gratification of having
72 virgins: that same number
of the names ascribed to the hebrew god:
you and not you...
"you" hairy-hey-rab! ibin!

there's a barking... i'm pretty sure i don't
hear anything worth biting into?!
i'm quiet unamused hearing barking...
when i'm not entertaining
the convinction to suma summarum
it with: chewing...

              i would most certainly like
to hear less barking...
****** punctures of flesh...
i'd like that very much...

              i'd like filled stomachs of dogs
to be the only precursors...
the wolves are at the gates...
    
           words like daffodils easily
plucked up...
                  is that serious enough of "us"
to have these minor griefs...
as... vectors for what's to become
of the unfolding rest?

i was never an enthusiast of the man,
don't know, never caught me,
the drill of impersonation,
of the zeitgeist doppelgänger
mode of enforced reminder,
just this, forcing upon
another of a memory:
i always repeated the mantra -
let the river flow,
let history become less
congested,
don't allow the **** beavers
build the dam of
historical coagulation...
let others onto the pedestal stool,
but once history that's
a river becomes a dam enforced lake,
well, we currently live in
such times,
  we can't shake off the 20th century
as luckily as we might think
we have done so already...
it always seems to happen...
the closure of the 19th century
was peppered with the most quack
spontaneity...
     usually invoking killers,
as always happens,
a son of cain encrusts the beginning
and the end of a period,
solidified by abel...
      nonetheless,
chris isaak came close to elvis presley,
he rubbed shoulder to shoulder
with "the man"...
it was only, but one song,
but houdini was knocked dead with
a single punch to the stomach...
sometimes it really takes a single
blow to the giant, to see him fall...
after all, achilles was governed
by death, to die from a mortal
imprint of an arrow on the heel...
     elvis who? chris isaak, i agree...
a song that tends to echo without
a repertoire of all to eager impersonators...
it's the per se momentum -
    **** just rolls,
and lols while telling the:
elvis has left the building joke
with added u.f.o. paraphernalia add-ons.
we live in times of
constipated history,
    by now you should have spotted
& appreciated that history is constipated,
the pop culture, the stars in their eyes knockout
sucker punch...
   we are currently living in times,
in constipated times, awaiting a massive
abnormality of leaving the plus & minus
yin yang of the 20th century...
  feels strange, if all honesty be worth disclosing...
here, on the altar of the yonder,
peering into the vacuum,
    a rudimentary, unforced, what
seems to be: merely a yawn.
      it's a very special place,
we're more nostalgic about the 20th century,
than the 19th century philosophers were
nostalgic about ancient greece...
never has nostalgia been so apparent,
and so apparent, given the proximity -
people will look at the 20th century,
and the beginning of the 21st,
and tense up, sensing the most awkward
magnetism at work...
so, when it comes to spirituality,
i think it's *******,
  i'm more inclined to stress: magnetism...
it's only 17 years into the nuance of
added zeros...
     or, rather, shoving a zero into decade along,
rather than a beginning with ω = o x 2.
     and of those years...
14 were lived at the end of the past century...
still, with one song alone,
chris isaak managed to overcome
elvis presley...
          hardly any imitations worth minding...
and that's all it takes, sometimes,
a stealthy punch to bruise the titan
out of the spotlight,
      uranus - ur, the place where
abraham arrived from -
    gaea & the graeae;
       seems so unimaginative,
that man abides his "spiritual" core to the basics
of the arithmetic, accounted only by
the limited digits,
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, perhaps 10, but certainly 12,
and 0, as antidote to the lemniscate (∞);
then again 24; so too 365;
there's no point any literary outpouring,
no worth volume of expression,
given that man orbits a fascination,
mystifying these numbers.

Lemniscate
Is the proper name
Of the sideways
Eight

chasing rabbits -

chasing rabbits:
slowly...
   reimagining standing
still on a treadmill.     (502)

she had to come round for about two hours today, my neighbour, she must have sniffed out that i was making pizza... i love making pizza slightly tipsy... i did the house chores and started writing this, abandoned it, now that i returned to it... well, what could have possibly changed? pristine ******* dough... ooh... what a lovely cushion of flour and water and sugar and a pinch of salt and: yrast... i love the smell... hmm mmm hmm... these hands make magic... the pizza sauce? compliments on that, of course... what did i add? oh... just a read pepper... some paprika: i wish i used some Kashmiri chilly powder... perhaps i had... garlic... onion... blitzed... sieved... twice... plum tomatoes... itch of the juice: clenched teeth saliva boiling: juicy... thinking: my tongue is a knife... now i'm going into the garden and drink a beer, or two... try finding the moo... ah ha ha: moo! moon! ah-woo! no... quiet right... one needs a forest to find the howl! but at least i can bark... when some fox penetrates the gardens and the dogs start barking... i'll bark too! free! free! free! so my neighbour likes my cooking... great! am i about to think: capitalistically?! start a pizzeria?! i like do: what tool is expected to do... because... i have "other" concerns"... the whole veneer of interacting with people is: what it is: a veneer... i have to entertain both the Jezebel and the Sophia... Sophia is difficult: since she's as abstract as Athena... it's not a lost libido: it's not impotence... it's... why would i want to ******* if you're going to spend my Saturday afternoon shopping for ******* curtains... or... whatever?! oi! Libra! come 'ere! this weigh-in weigh-out doesn't make sense... can you apply your corrective scrutiny to the "problem"? - i do make some fine pizza... no one's taking... fair enough... fair ******* doubly enough... more for me... more for oblivion... to which i answer: ah-men.

тo йeст щыт:
to jest szczyt...
diese ist der gipfel!

it only happened once...
discouraging: "discouraging" a circle
or omicron from being a circle
and becoming an ellipse: a 0... a zero...

"god" is not a moralist...
he's an existentialist...
          "he" he not not "he"...
only in English is the phenomenon
of a pronoun "problem" prevalent...
shrapnel-tongue:
               schrapnellzunge -
it's so unusual for anyone speaking
in the Slavic tongue(s) to overuse
the pronoun: iota as much as the English do...

it's like Knausgaard mentioned
about the Swedes... a people that haven't
been invaded by another people for a while...
no memory of subjugation...
the cultural Cyclops(es) of the world...

the English are pretty much the same...
they're being invaded: politely:
by their standards...
mosque after mosque reiterations...
the implosions of the greatest empire
the world has ever seen...

what?! i'm like Voltaire... i'm not native:
i write what i see...
this is not an invasion: this is not a polite invasion:
this is not an implosion of the lost
pride and empire?

once ol' Lizzie dies... it's not like...
however many popes and prime ministers she
died will have died...
tyrannical matriarchy...
          
well... if... "if"... john wallis "invented" the lemniscate:
a concept and a compact symbol:
all the same... back in 1655... ∞
who "invented" the number 8 or the letter B?

i know who invented the letter B...
******* with modern feminism and all that
came prior with the Sibyls and Carmenta:
*******: modern woman!
i get my ******* elsewhere...
among women that still want to have some
joy in life... who else?! prostitutes!
no ******! because: we're symbiotic:
hygienic minded people!
   ******* with your
       cluster-****-of-****-*****-scabs!
flaking away... flaking away...
wash... your... *******... hands!

once upon a time women held very
important positions in society...
now? microwave ovens shoved that dream
right up our ***** with 12" ****** sticking
out...
         of course i'm *******!
why wouldn't i be?

     bitter? no... i just enjoy the plethora of emotions
that come with rage and doubt as much
as those that some with the soothing:
mollusk tenderness: melting... ice-cream
of ooh-oops of love...
           but...
                            b-b-b-b-ut...
something's itching me: i just heard
a quake of thunder in the sky through the loud
music playing in my earphones...
i'm on the right track...
           if there's lightning but no thunder...
esp. in the night: i'm suspicious...
but if there's thunder and no lightning:
comfort music... i must be hungry...
i think i'll sacrifice a chicken tow-toe-into-the-night...

(towing, a)

       let's just say: "hypothetically":
"god" created the pristine man... the advocate...
the priest... the "somewhat" and some "other"...
as curator for the basis of ontology..

the rest?! mutations: self-generated prejudices...
the original plan was X...
but the plan morphed and became Z...
there's no point blaming a deity for a lack
of intervention: who would want to entertain
the idea of free will while at the same time
succumbing to a c.c.t.v. "state" (of existence)?

life without effort is not worth living:
but then again: carrying the burden that ought
to be shared equally: for others...
Somalis... the English and their *******
anti-racism mantra: fair enough!
you abolished the slave trade...
fair enough! but now the English are
getting culturally ***** by their lenience!
a people that haven't been subjected
to conquest for a long, long... long time...

they have become: complacent!
   too agreeable! trust-worthy pilots flying to:
**** knows where... not even the seagulls know...
perhaps only in London...
elsewhere perhaps they're as thick-as-custard...
but in my vicinity...
            
a bit like my facebook page...
the "people you may know"... what? stalkers?
why is this coming up?
this website used to be dead for me for a while...
now i'm getting this "issue" with:
"people you may know":
i never used a dating application, but it's starting
to feel like i'm using one...
i'm swiping right sieving through:

uriel darl, souad dharhi, aura huckerthman,
   andressa wangel, yus ningsih, el drema,
gülan meriç(ch), ramina amores, kristina jodzkiene,
angie biada, consuelo siouxe, sulistiawatisetya setya,
Xриcтинa Линчкo (christina linchko),
             unayah naya, goharik javahiryan,
Гaлинa Лaщeнкo (galina lashchenko),
    nilufar shermatova, cecile valeron mmaacv,
Kaтя Пaлий, nelu medina, maryati pujiman,
cida oliv, thaizth mendezt, katell seignoux,
lorena ramirez, taylla kamylla, keyza adelia putri,
kelly martins, emma ryan, carnevale chiara,
douce tusorapas, sonia de flaviis,
              carmen antonela, rosalia delgado,
delpine lafontaine -, cegail rapley,
            ariel alear, aghori aaleem,
                   florine fremont, mary HM,
dorota zarzycka, tayana zakh, megan barfield,
helena maria soares, jan lose, perrine kali-yoga,
annie zhou, angel mawar, sabrina muhlberger
(that's with an umlaut hovering above the "yew"),
sylvie lescan... ****'s sake the list is endless!

i'm bored of listing all the "friend" suggestions...
all of them: women!

don't blame me! blame the algorithm!
i've never seen these women!

     nope... life's not interesting enough to be
fully sober...
not even close... life's make more sense drinking
and typing typos: finding TY-POS...
i don't imply: drinking in your face...
on the street with other winos...
i mean: drinking alone, at night...
   listening to foxes... spotting a rat scuttling...
admiring the moon...
thinking: how does one not write
a Chinese haiku... how does one?

    i'd love to find a woman that could cook
better than me...
i truly: would love to...
keeping the chicken at best the highet
of 165 degrees Fahrenheit...
medium rare beef... hmm... debatable...
145 degrees Fahrenheit is probably my maximum...
****... i think we're questioning 125...

i'm yet to find a woman who's...
pedantic about:
not butchering a piece of beef steak twice...
i can't... butcher a piece of meat twice:
corrupt it with the Arabic tendency
to obscure the fresheness of blood...
and that: stale... yuck... sawdust...
beef overcooked... in the format of steak...
i can't butcher a beef twice:
we know... it's obvious...
the males are segregated for the meat
while the females are kept for the milk...
no irony...
                  
          it was preordained:
no point cowering away from the cruelty
by replacing authentic meat with
vegetable substitutes...
or... synthentic cat-food pseudo-proteins...
or bean-burgers...
i sometimes roam the fields in Essex
and see the horses...
well... aren't you the lucky ones?
shouldn't you be... extinct?!

                   shouldn't they? why would you
need a horse... when you have a bicycle...
when you have a car?!
so... why keep them?
i'd love to pet a horse...
i loved riding horses...
not ******* Lamborghini no
rich boy ******* Ferrari will ever compare
to riding a horse through a forest
at full gallop!

               not even if i were getting a blow-job
in a car... speeding... in those sort of cars...
no... nein nein nein nein!

i'm immune to envy of that sort...
i'm against society as such...
  what?!    Q = ?!
                 isn't the western tradition invested
in individualism?!
                                   q

why would i need a car when living
in London...
when... i can cycle around London and back
in about 5 hours...
take the train to Liverpool St. in about 30 minutes...
i don't have to:
a) think about paying for parking
b) ditto about paying for road tax
c) m.o.t.
d) e) f) g) and any imaginary points
you might conjure...

               now... you give me a horse?
the game changes... i'd love something larger
than the already Maine **** cat that could come
across as a poodle (no, not a puddle)
size-wise...
    i love the coyness of horses...
            they really do require you to become
patient with you...
unlike those ****** of dogs that can immediately
run up to strangers and blah blah tail wiggle
and: whatever...
cats... semi-, on the spectrum...
horses though... brooding *******...
they take oh so long to gain their trust...

i was roaming the fields, the forest at night...
blasted: beyond comparison...
i forgot my apple,
i forgot my cube of sugar...
came across a herd of them...
gave one of them my hand to...
nibble... it nibbled...
then retracted: are you mad!
you're implying i'm readily willing to
eat man-flesh?!
it buckled... glancing my forehead
with its hind hoofs...
"buckled"... no...
the ****** almost knocked me out...
because it started nibbling on my fingers
"thinking" i might have a treat
of an apple in my hand...
massive teeth... buck-tooth...
even more massive hoofs...
    
         i sort of wished he knocked me out...
the last "thing" i would have seen
was the moon...
and the sheen of lubrication
of quicksilver pouring over almost everything...
like a: liquidified mirror...
        just like that: like a liquidified mirror...

how long will this tyranny last?
    i want to be as old as Plato and be as exhausted
as Plato...
and still retaining my heterosexual flaovuring...
of that rancid old man...
until that time comes...
        at my peak: i want to play with my
yo-yo...
                all the women that are interested are
either single mums or married women...
young girls are uninteresting:
i'm not a predator... i'm a herder...
         young girls are boring...
"boring": i.e. unrelatable...
    the sexes have diverged beyond
compensation...
                          funny that:
i'd rather spend an evening with a bottle
of whiskey than with a woman...
with a bottle of whiskey and my own thoughts
than with a woman...
                     even i am struggling to comprehend
this anomaly...
      
why talk? when you can be left alone
foraging for new music?!
akin to keluar's - vitreum?
                        i get the romance part...
but... the plan part i don't get...
   the plan being: i work... i work... i have no socks...
i pretend to have underwear...
i work... i work... i do overtime...
i come back home and... and...
     who does the cooking?! i hate her cooking!
she always overcooks the pasta!
she under-seasons the sauce!
                she can't do **** with yeast!
i make my own pizza... i cook my own food...
i get the romance aspect being sold:
but... what's the plan?!

           she already has children by some
other ****-wit...
i get the romance bit... but... what's the plan?!
i can cough up: pretty much all of my earnings for
her and her *******... i can make concessions...
by then: there's the plan...
but there's no longer the romance...

by now:
do i really want more? than simply a bed to sleep in?
can life afford me
any emotional adventure?
do i want it?
              i like my own company
too much to let anyone share it with me...
not out of a feeling of superiority...
just out of necessity... almost god-like...

         habitually: i'm just not used to having
people increment the details of my personal life...
i like them: behind a membrane...
a niqab...
                 i don't care where you put them:
i just dont want them near me!
except for the children and the animals...
i could spend an eternity with these two
classifications...

                 one night with Sharon Stone...
when Sharon Stone was Sharon Stone
and when te 1980s where the 1980s...
she just reminds me of: Samantha....
kissing Milena..
            
                               i really miss these girls..
i hope they forget me
with a burning: sensation ...

history will not be kind to us...
we'll be a laughing-stock of the ages...
let us pass.... let us pass:
into the lava lamp of Hades.

just because you were ***** at 40+ and acted like a bunch of teenagers without adequate protection... don't you ******* blame me for the malnutrition of humanity you conceived... no! *******! i'm not paying or giving any respect for these brain-dead, souless bodies!*

oh, i find the anglophone world, very "stalinistic", i find the anglophone word, abusive in terms of applied psychiatry, and their capitalistic pharmacological economy... it would seem that even close friends, friends from childhood, are zombified to find a complex text (which they can't seem to comprehend): as a sign of some "mental illness"... my my... the anglophone realm has become so oppressive that it doesn't even recognise itself as being such: for it states one fundamental flaw in its perception: as long as people can buy, and have a steady supply of "things": no harm can be do unto them. my my... what a strange coincidence, that someone who graduated with a chemistry degree... is actually treated like a mentally impaired "creature" and is thrown into the dock with window-lickers: who laugh and expose their genitals publicaly... my my... ain't that sumthin'! gotta write this **** down, this "west is the best" mantra, that's choking me and... oh didn't you know what the gun laws in england are? there are currently 500,000+ gun ownsership licences in england... so much for the english vanity project of being polite, and somehow feeling "superior"... throw me in with the retards?! nothing against them... sure... oooh blood's boiling that if you dipped me into the nile, you'd get your first plague; a word for the less eager to "imagine" - don't you start reading complex texts, if you can't solve a mild / difficult sūdokú, enjoying both tier of complexity... y'ah... actually enjoying them.*

there's any theory of solving a sūdokú,
currently?
   a recurring theme, it seems,
i don't know when i'll stop thinking about
it...
           think about what?
   who can find me a better d.j. while
you're at it, but i doubt it...
   and yes, to find a fourth number
you need (x, x, x) i.e. --> (x, x, x), x...
    but obviously to find the other five
xs - you require the diamond of
       (μ, ε, τ, α, φ, o, ρ, ι, κ) /
  the lemniscate (∞) & the εντεκα
   of the πεντε and εξι (akin to
the roman 69, in zodiac? pisces -
or twin akin, side by side rather than
the zodiac inversion of DoG -
   or what god there be is to be a devil,
and of what god to seek and plead for
is bound to the second standard:
   god's devilish pontius pilate imitation:
i was my hands clean!)
  but there already exist two graphemes
of the greek Π: akin to the hebrew
tetragrammation's H -
           φ (phi)    &    ψ (psi)...
ah yes! the name becomes the embodied
     fascination with adjective forms,
        and hence: the arithmetic change:
from meta(φ)or and the 7 heads -
   back into the sūdokú puzzle of 9 digits
and caesar's thumb.
that's how finish my puzzle,
   i found it easier to burn my eyes with
the greek alphabet...
              so i could more easily look at numbers...
after all... isn't the latin text
littered with holes?
                  as are numbers...
     there are but three "major" holes in
greek script are: β, o, α - beta, omicron, alpha;
  the "minor"? well, that would imply
δ (delta) & σ (sigma) -
                               αβoδες (abodes)
          of the 72nd fraction of the peer's eye.
so let's begin:
    if you really want to solve these puzzles,
you'll really need to be able to read the greek...
just so you can dissociated the current
numbers from the latin encoding -
    it was somehow much simpler to craft
grand architectural realms of interests
when 4 was but a IV,
   and 10 was but an X...
               funny...
   rest assured...
                          you will get a lot of science
with the current numbers...
  but not a great load of breath-taking arichtecture...
nonetheless...
   you will encounter several optical "illusions"
when remembering the greek alphabet...
mind you: that's better than what
they teach you in primary school with
the times-table... and: lo! behold! a calculator!
the difficulty in photographically memorising
greek comes as points
    ξ / χ           i.e.              xi   & chi
  ν / υ        i.e.          nu     &      upsilon
   (it's hard to keep the v & u apart) -
Υ / γ       i.e.        gamma & upsilon -
                (you need the nouns stressed,
rather than the latin "digits" invoked) -
     ε & η? (epsilon & eta)?
         a bit like omicron and omega -
   ε = ω (pool, poondering) -
            η = o (pond, pondering) -
                  hence a siamese replacing
diacritical needs.
                       phi (Φ) and theta?
key and a keyhole:
   but a key into a keyhole (Φ)
   and then turn it to open the door: Θ (theta) - O -
oh look... the current fascination with
the i             has actually become useful...
it can actually disintegrate in the current
realm of psychological "theory" that somehow
managed to hold onto the latin "ego";
imagine that!
                      what was once freudian
in the trinity realm of: ego, superego, id,
in my realm reads as the tetragrammaton
   of:    I, Φ, Θ... O...
      **** me if this won't become a fraternity
house emblem... ha ha!
  you want pleasure from a sūdokú puzzle?
learn the greek alphabet...
  un-numb the numbers that seem so akin
to latin text!
invoke what is otherwise parallel to 6 & 9 -
the zodiac sign of pisces -
                         or that confusing artifact
for the eye: dpd|b (180°) -
               with the last remaining
copernicus symbol missing to allow the full
circle (360°), invoking the b... ah, but yes!
the chirality of                              yh | wh
also apparent in the dpd|b (180°):
    in each half: half over every half's
worth: divide.

writing is torture for some people...
i can cite two pristine examples of this being the case:
Walt Whitman and Jack Spicer;
fair enough...

                          i find it torturous that i best
sing Mongolian throat-singing...
anything else? i have my odd moments -
but most of the time if i'm singing in front of
someone: i self-sabotage my voice
and it sounds: beyond tone-deaf...
it feels like an elephant stuck its trunk into
my ear and sneezed...

          oh i hear the bells... bells bells... fuzzy
feelings and what not...
all those poems i threw to the wind and into
darkness into any deity willing to listen
to my "de profundis":
de profundis ad nihil:
   from the depths toward nothing...

i don't think i'll ever want to finish reading
Charles Dickens' the Pickwick Papers...
i don't think i will...
    i want to leave something unfinished...
i think i'll leave the Pickwick Papers unfinished...
after all: it was his first novel:
a novel serialised in a newspaper / magazine...
he only managed to jump of the publishing
ladder by marrying the daughter of the owner
of the publisher: non-verbatim...

               but of all the books i've read:
i couldn't do what my grandmother did
i.e.: reread them...
     i wish i could reread James Joyce's Finnegans
Wake... Ulysses...
   i wish i could reread William Burroughs'
naked lunch...
                  
   while music and movies are circular...
books are linear...
         at least for me...
                      oh no ******* chance of me rereading
Heidegger's black notebooks or Zeit und Sein:
it took two years out of my life
bound to reading-meditating...
     Kant's critique of pure reason too...
a year? reading-meditating...
                           i was ingesting the content...
i read it for personal gains...
                      i was never going to read that
material in order to regurgitate it back...
to show or "pretend" that i might know what
i'm talking about, if asked...

       what i learned i'm taking to the grave...
but it's literally torture for some people to write...
i find a similarity to... wait for it: wait for it...
constipation... almost like a headache...
then irritable bowel movements...
have to go: i'm seeing flashes of waterfalls!
and spew!
          
    i sometimes catch myself tongue tied...
sitting in silence with itchy fingertips / idle hands
does that to you... two tongues and a split
mind might also do that to you...
the major difficulty of being an entrenched
bilingual? nouns...
    they're mismatched...
sometimes a hammer is a młotek (diminutive -
which is never attached to English words)
               i.e. rather młot...

what's a bang?! it's not even an onomatopoeia:
HUK! or: hook...
            which isn't etymologically borrowed
from Huracan... although...
                aesthetically, though? hook vs. HUK...
obviously the latter makes sense...
        if i were to give two words to a German
and say both with an angry emphasis:
he might agree that HUK is as phonetically
liberating as KURVA... *****... *****... oh ****...
conjunction...

    maybe i should be "embarrassed" about my past...
everyone else seems so proud of their heritage...
i just had to look up...
hmm...  the topic of the North Sea Empire
of Cnut...
             what did i find? hmm...
               nice looking map... allies in yellow...
Poland... perhaps Swedish Vikings founded Kiev...
nerve endings at being teased...

how much history have we hoarded?
how much is to be left un-forgivably forgotten?

oh there's still good music around...
but it's not in the English speaking world...
anything from Scandinavia... Germany...
you just have to look for it...

**** me... i'm drinking and drinking and i want
to get drunk... but it's not helping...
if Americans can constitute their present
identity on the "holy bible" of the decleration
of independence and the constitution
and the holy bible...
the English can cite their origins with the Magna Carta...
so me doing this? i.e. sieving through
history is not me playing into the modern
fable of comic books?! this is not me being...
somewhat childish, is it?

not that modernity doesn't have its perks...
but i feel an unease coming...
a strange unease...
           only recently i heard about an event
in Italy... the... ahem... Lago di Garda "incident"...

"Africa in Peschiera": weird... huh?
peschiera? fresh water... fish farming area...
well then... no problems me getting laid or not
getting laid...
     it's just in the back of my mind...
cucks... helpful that "us" Slavs don't have
a colonial-past to censure...
maybe this Ukrainian "crisis" is a blessing in disguise:

as the saying goes:

brat brata pocharata...
(brother will brother hurt)...
   i think it's a smart tactic...
              no one from Africa or the Middle East
will want to venture into a warzone...
no?
              Poland was judged for not applying
Germanic sympathy for the destruction
of Libya and the onslaught of migrants that
came with silly geo-politics...
   the rapes of Cologne...
       but now Poland is to be judged for
entertaining over a million war-refugees from
Ukraine?!

brat brata pocharata...

            it's a Slavic thing... i just need some
"public intellectuals" to change their etymological
studies concerning the SACREDNESS OF WORDS...

****** ****** ******...
and what? Slav is just short of an E?!
for SLAVE?!
  ****** ****** ******, ******...
GIGGLE...
******* English "intellectuals"...
it's tactical! of course it is... war among ourselves
so that it repels any foreigners to come
and settle and abuse our fair systems!
    i wish the war will spill into Poland...
i abhor the liberal minded ****** feminists of
"my land"...
   cosmopolitan *******... no! nein! niet!
i live in a democracy...
                just a few need to hear my voice...
i'm not here for a popular listening sessions...
this is the heart speaking... the mind has been
absent for some time...
  
              i know why i'm not getting drunk
while still drinking... my heart is throbbing
like a drum-beat...

      cucks!
            the import of walking ******...
                 it's a good "thing" that the Slavs
are warring between each other...
the Germanic tribes never understood us...
sensibilities of the English...
their pride of conscience and consequence(s)...
the airs, their prides... their consequences...
their ****** warring... with the Germans...
their love for the Italians...
their abhorring of the French...
their sub-human attitude toward the Spaniard...
their glorification of the rebel Americans...
their pet Canadians and Australians...

their plot of anti-racism...
just sacrifice their Sabine women...

brat brata pocharata!
a brother will hurt a brother...

                the message is clear... the Russian
had to send it... don't come near us...
it's almost like
Copernicus never existed... esp. in the west...
Copernicus has always been undermined
by Galileo...
fair enough...
   but couple the Copernican inversion...
a geocentric model became a heliocentric model...
until... Darwin...
   hey! it's open season!
with Darwin: the survival of the species...
last time i heard there were both white swans
as there were black swans...
grey squirrels and red squirrels...
either black swan or white swan...
whether grey squirrel or red squirrel...
Darwinism is discriminatory...
i know my genes are fated to a cul de sac...
but my ideas perhaps might...
impregnated a mind of "someone"...

point being... Darwinism has...
uprooted the transcendental aspect of
Copernicus of shifting the focus from
a geocentric model to a heliocentric focus...
back to a geocentric focus...

on this earth, with this earth: with these seas...
these rivers... full circle:
ouroboros: ∞ (lemniscate) - Buddha-8...
reclining... as 8 was a better refined B-eta...
when VII implied 7... a sort of gamma
peering into a lake: Γ... looking
into a mirror looking into a lake of the Latin L...

i have no sympathy for Ukraine...
like Ukrainians had no sympathy for Poland
when **** Germany invaded...

Darwinism is a tool...
we're back to a geocentric model of the world...
don't you know? didn't you know?!
Darwinism exposed the frivolity of
seeking a world "better" / "beyond" this one
beside the promises of religion
with one's death...
    
Darwinism is the antithesis of
   the Copernican imagination...
              then again: even William Burroughs
once cited: oh sure... sure...
the ancient Egyptians knew all about it...
they knew about taxidermy long before...
they "tried" to make their mummies look
pretty...
               sorry... did they talk to Norman Bates?!

taxidermy did not precede mummification...
sorry...  it didn't...
me?! i feel infuriated...
i feel... consecrated on balancing:
i feel... i don't need to think!
i feel persuaded as having been invaded...
i need to retaliate...
   as a member of the ****** ****** SLAVE
Slav tribes... i feel violated...
now the feeling is over:
i'll start thinking...

   best we bore a fight amogst each other than
allow this dilution of race in Western Cultures...
this "invitation" of post-colonial pasts...
these multiple narratives of a polyglot
of narratives that serve as erasures
of the origins of tongues within the confines
of copper-necks and their "Lingua Franca"
of the horrid English that's neo-Neo-Babylonian...

better your kindred war against
your kindred than invite a people you treat
with double standards to invite
synthetic expectations...
        
i didn't need a war in either Afghanistan or
Iraq... or Libya... Syria...
but i need a war in Ukraine...
why? to move people is to pretend
a Xerxes madness of lashing out anger
at the waves of the Aegean...
               sea be still as a lake!

that's what Darwinism gifted me with:
a return to the geocentric model of the world...
i too have my interests...
like tarantulas have an interest
in scuttling & their inability
to fathom... procuring spider-webs...

i can forgo thinking about the stars...
i must look down:
re-affirm my presence...
             i'll hang your racist accusations...
no.. i will not crucify them....
i'll just impale them...
                 hyperbolic **** "frolicking"...

what?!
             if i were to wield the sort of power
that might give you the scare...
i'd give you more: than a mere scare:
i'd give you the reality.

this is how phonetic english
looks like,
when "concerned"
over a name of a capital city,
warsaw: var'sh'ah'v'ah...
albeit in the language of
the locals...
and once you leave the capital
city, and disperse...
   some sort of a sense
of sensibility and safety ensues...
before local,
   and primitive grievances
ensue...
   no, i don't think that god
is a delusion,
i think of it, being more akin,
to, an, ontological cavas /
framework...
   hard to bounce "the ball"
off of nothing,
with a self-
        precursor dynamic to manage
the...
                remnants...
mind you, some of us never
etertained the pleasurable
possibilities of ingesting
   "magic" fungus...
some of us had psychotic episodes...
oh you know,
rebellion,
counter to the narrative
of the soul,
"being", "imaginary"...
disorienating
counter-indocrination...
     from the current narrative:
the west is gagging
for former soviets...
  esp. the outliers...
  satellite-state probes...
grandfather was
a communist party member...
sing-along about
               appropriate?
            my allegiance to the "people"
of warsaw?
   zero or closer to null,
       the existence of a deity-entity,
scares me as much
as the bored capacity to
experience the full extent of
human freedom,
  without the latter,
having to infringe on the, former...
but i guess "you" like what:
war-saw looks like,
when reinterpreted by
the origin zunge
of the denoting name...
war-saw?
         var'sh'ah'v'ah
different,                isn't it?
warsaw? like any decent human being,
i tend to look at capital cities
as transit regions...
i fly from london Stanstead,
to warsaw Modlin...
i transit toward
     west warsaw bus-station,
i spot a few ukranians
by the bus-load...
i sometimes feed the sparrows,
i wait...
        some 8 pointer of
a pair of legs in heels and tights
and a skirt passes by...
eh...
            it would be fair game...
if i was readied to entertain
and a hard-on...
but since that is never the case?
an 8 becomes an ∞ ...
    geographic regions mean
anything, these days,
given the copernican apocalypse?
8 to the "north" and "south",
∞  to the "east" and "west"...

the lemniscate...
otherwise known in literature as,
something indicating a hyphen,
a shy hyphen use,
or an indefinite article: of pause;
oh look!
   a translation of the article
category... into fathoming
punctuation markers...
   a (indefinite article,
an indefinite allowance of pause: ∞ )
the (definite article,
a definite allowance of pause: -)

so there's talk of camaraderie?
ah ha ha... ha ha ha ha...
seriously?
guess why "we're" so futile
as to the regards of entertaining
war...
you see any glimpses
of camaraderie around here?
i don't...
    i never will...
point of "question"...
we're supposed to behave like...
good whittle children,
expect the police to defend
us with nothing more than
hand-cuffs and curbs on
speaking...
       after "control-management"
does away with deviation...
that, statistically serves:
both the majority bell,
      and the minority "flatliners"...

i didn't "sign up" to the use of the english
language, having to,
subsequently, pander to these
******* teddy-bear excuses,
rules,
these: *******-a-thumb
   while clinging to a ******* magic carpet...
no...
     whatever grievances...
and late:
more than late, stances on enacting
recuperations;
so... when the slaves were shipped
off...

   what did the african royal families
think of the whole, process?
thank god the whites
managed to get rid of the retards?
Zulu implies: kingdom...
so, it's not like there was no
******* hierarchy structure in
sub-Sahara lands before the europeans
ventured there for
   skin cancer and suffocating from
the tropical heat, was there?

it's going to be real hard selling
white shame to someone,
who,
   was born in a country,
whereby...
   you force me to fight, i'll fight,
that required both soviet russia
and **** germany to invade...
this... "this" current western *******?
i still think that wrestling with
a doberman & a rottweiler...
would instigate a more prominent
"nostalgia" narrative,
than having a *******
with two women -
i.e. ever jar your teeth against
the canines of a dog?
   **** me... *** and boasting
about it...
    eh... talk of mollusks:
   one step forward,
                             two steps back.

I awoke to shed water, then back again to bed with my fuzzy relief
drooping from my sleepy mug. I coughed into a jar of night bees-
laying siege to my most pedestrian pillow.
my beleaguered strides catheter the stream of my unconsciousness
to a far shore where my pets never die and I have you -
to talk too, or glory bang the void with our impetuous existence.
as the gift that keeps on giving us a hard time-
oozes from the lemniscate of Our rim. As poetry malingers unabated-
like a sovereign cadaver in a hall of-
shy mirrors…

I awoke Out of Bounds.
like a native of Null Space.

looked up from a womb of empirical alarm
to fetch the farthest things my Grasp
could ever Believe.

I tunnel where the Morning is spent on the Midnight Dreary
and emerge, incapsulate of no Fate
but my Own.