Science can't save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare's 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers' eyes.
Which is why we call it "the wound that never heals."
Or the lesion that's always lengthening. And bleeding.

Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It's not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.

It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your mind (realizing of course it's just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I'm
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry - also a wound that never heals.

Snow for eternity, that's what this February's been.
All to the good, for someone it's the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway,
that was Shakespeare's message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who's Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does that relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.

The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not affect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don't get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.

The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife's grandfather's inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I'll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private ****** acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities - angels, ghosts, aliens - are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you'll feel.

Last of a beloved set
of bone China plates
just developed a lesion.

optimist - acrostic

Open up the book
Page one, neutralize your thoughts
Turn the page
Induct elation
Make your temperament positive
Idealism
See the prism of sanguinity
Turn the page

============================================

aqua - acrostic

Arid soul washed away
Quietly sinking down
Underneath the waves to stay
Awakening as i drown

========================================

flaw - acrostic

Forget about the way we see
Looking past the shallow grey
Awaken to a deeper degree
We are all beautiful in our own way

=========================================

harm - acrostic

Hurt me, the pain will go away
All anguish is fleeting
Remnants of your words might stay
My heart will go on beating

====================================

wolf pack - acrostic

Wild and free, nature's breed
Out of bounds of any containment
Living off of only what they need
Flourishing in sustainment

Prowling the forests and grass
Attacking only what they eat
Canids from our distant past
Killing only to replete

(i know i didn't use the word sustainment correctly here, but it rhymes)
==================================

jugs - acrostic poem

Jiggle and bounce for me
Underneath a cotton top
Gives me such satisfaction
Seeing them flip and flop

=================================

sympathy and attention - pity party poetry page

with an affinity for sympathy and attention
pity without empathy ends up as an affliction
sitting all alone having fits not fit to mention
depicting his own addiction to his self infliction

distemper words, written with intention
listless visions are a picture of his fiction
his existence isn't gifted within this dimension
it's a senseless decision to befit a contradiction

==================================================­====

discretion

if deception is a threat, i guess it begs the question
does perception get better with less discretion?
can a gesture of conception be answered best with ingestion
by letting down our guards will we fester in suppression?

changing our direction away from our debts of reception
pressed by our expression of protested progression
best bets are guessed and when we collect we learn a lesson
back to the question, is perception better with less discretion?

====================================

rhyme without reason

what is a rhyme without a reason?
it's no feat to beat the drum of no cohesion
it's like planting seeds that aren't in season
or a disease that leaves a bleeding lesion

a decent poet is adept at seeing adhesion
leaving the meaning amounts to being treason
completely missing pieces for completion
not even worth reading, only worth deletion

========================================

everlasting (4 versions)

though i have ran with the rats of cancer
as i craft the ladder to the final chapter
i never planned for crass disaster
abashed by the lasting factor

where the past is passing faster
i ask the lord and await his answer
are my chances granted to live hereafter
i clasp the hand of the everlasting master

---------------------------------------------------------­-

abashed by the lasting factor
i never planned for crass disaster
as i craft the ladder to the final chapter
though i have ran with the rats of cancer

i clasp the hand of the everlasting master
are my chances granted to live hereafter
i ask the lord and await his answer
where the past is passing faster

---------------------------------------------------------­---

abashed by the lasting factor
i never planned for crass disaster
as i craft the ladder to the final chapter
though i have ran with the rats of cancer

where the past is passing faster
i ask the lord and await his answer
are my chances granted to live hereafter
i clasp the hand of the everlasting master

---------------------------------------------------------­-------

(you can also do one of these)

where the past is passing faster
i ask the lord and await his answer
are my chances granted to live hereafter
i clasp the hand of the everlasting master
i clasp the hand of the everlasting master
are my chances granted to live hereafter
i ask the lord and await his answer
where the past is passing faster

Your origami snapper came along
tucked into my wallet
things like that don't travel well
but I managed
they suffered a lesion to the spine
snappers are apparently weak there
maybe we can work on growing a backbone together

handmade gifts mean the most
less, when it was made in whimsy and flimsy
more, because it gave me false hope
maybe it's a sign
like a uke-playing octopus
maybe friendship is all I need right now
your origami snapper is a great listener

It sits on my desk
Either mocking or pondering, I can’t tell
Snappers are hard to read that way
Maybe if we showed more emotion you’d
           notice

but action requires reaction
and somehow the origami rose I made forgot it’s origami thorns
But there could be blood on my hands
From a beautiful friendship I so recklessly slaughter
pulling up roots like weeds
adding wistful thinking to inimitable memories

Another misfire for heaven's weapon
threaten lesson second session
another confession of deception
we are headed toward armageddon

truth seeking and eating reason
demon sleeping will get even
secret leaking ****** heathen
unsweetened creeping deepened

lesion from the freedom legion
eden eaten and not breathing
region of the code adhesion
needed beacon beaten defeated

The clock's laughing, subversely
as every second fades
bleeding the hours everlasting
cursing the essence of today.

The sun leaves trails of perception
as the Moon begins its rise
to twist & turn the ocean
and pull at the rising tide.

if I ever said I didn't love it
that would truly be a lie
immortality is the blessing
of watching the universe die.

I'm a God in mortal makings
truly free of conscience mind
not born of a lying ******
but TRUELY one of a kind.

Opportunity or opposing unity to unify and untie
*****'s lesion sipping each seasonal reason for loving your flowing hair and knowing care

Strike the stench and light the match and throw open the hatch jump inside along with furry-toad-love
*** and lust and the vex of the ****** of what is on the television gone up and through and something grew inside my skull where IT is thus, null
And I speak of course off course because of this coarse curse of your love
Flinching finch-pinch-tense, since she's, hence, a personal goddess
I'm a man of fetus-like love of birth and woman-girth

I like my girls to be bigger
Though perhaps for a less redeemable reason

I am the humanoid-elemental-embodiment of low self-confidence
And most are out of my "league" (at least physically and aesthetically)

why didn't existentialism every take off in England?
fair enough, the Poles aren't exactly saints, but they'e not
exactly  vermin... one Muslim should have learned
his history better: two naked swords, against the Northern
Crusaders - but, n'ah ah, he didn't, i told you,
never trust an Egyptian with monotheism,
he'll bury the artefacts in a desert for
2000 years... and then we'll
have the cult of Baφoμet and
the prickly skinned crusaders saying:
better the extra-**** and **** than
the headscarf... and they burnt at the stake...
got crackly pork skins with them
as if it was a hoax to remember: that's what really
happened. μι or qui or any softened
carrot: yellow gets van Gogh, blue gets
Picasso... i guess orange gets O'Hara...
it is the age of Baφoμet and the Knights
Templar... you sorta think that
agitation with amateur terror will slow
down the process of coherent and systematic
far-right activities? i swear you shipped those
Syrians into Germany for a revision
of the holocaust... i'm ******* sweating with
anticipation while i swipe left for a
kippah scalping and get a Syria monk
out of it... perhaps a date... but you know...
i'm not that much of a talker...
my mother spent 3 months in 40 degree heat
that kills... the arabs are heating the cauldron up...
soon, you'll be wishing you'd have lived in
Siberia... and i'm not kidding,
global warming is debatable in Iceland, Britain,
and New Zealand... not on any continent
we know of... 40°C... **** the **** old me!
i'm not even wishing for old age...
when this thing we cal an orb and relate
it to only one Grecian element: earth
isn't air... and we call the vest godly Venus
and Mars and Juniper -
well... why bother even thinking
about keeping up-to-date
when nothing we write will be written into
stone? i like the delusion it will be,
blame Chinese employment of youthful
unemployment in countries where beauty
is fixated on tourist vomiting down your wedding aisles,
the existence of european communism
curated the beneficiary of competition
capitalism gagged for like a sad gimp clad
in torched and fetish leather...
but that went, went to the chinese...
or a russian Babushka said: democracy, whaaaa?
ca Ching the Chinaman...
                    n'oh h'oi! thirty thousand
eyelash strokes to a pictured idea per second,
all i have is Mongolian far way, in Kazakhstan:
chum Chou chew - juggling out the dribbles -
                     hey, you're on the verge of
equipping the cinnamon men their potency
to breathe a billion ***** in a square mile...
   of hillbilly... i'll bet you a 100 to 1 and say:
               pucker blow-lobe chips are on the house:
hence the cheesy smile: anthropoid digital tunnelling
        all the way to Palestine, and the new U.N.
                  and that fake thing you have:
no matter how many billion dollars,
it won't equal a single spoon, or hammer.
it's that sort of thing that's meta-metaphysical -
or some other benzene variant prefix -
get smart, live love, hurrah Marquis de Sade!
patron of old age; while your granny said:
lessen the lesion by probing it darling.
       Tokyo tribes? the weirdest film i've ever seen,
the **** aren't even Asia... stop telling me the
sun is too bright... Buddha walked with excess squint...
and he managed it without a tap-tap-boom stick
to mark out 2 square metres...
   happy are those living in a greenhouse,
  surface mirrors, and sea,
but on the continent, they joked that palm trees
would be grown in the Baltic circumference...
hello dodo... but then the amateurs appeared...
   beheading, blowing themselves up,
a library of one... what they have birth to isn't
as spectacular as giving your voice to Cabaret Voltaire...
   they are creating a new breed of khaki stiff-necks -
ostriches and the gargantuan plan of over-easy -
i know the ***** ones, the ones siding with the left,
they think they're political, only in the sense that
their politics is a proton-neutrality,
the idle life... the life worthy of no political involvement...
the easy life...            the life of respected repudiation,
centrist silent populist party name and manifesto
combined: status quo.
     the only generation that might talk of old
age as a zenith, an ultimate goal enshrined in
the furtherance of mankind's potential is the generation
of my grandparents... only my grandparent's generation
can boast about achieving old age...
   which means no artistic profit -
      only my grandparents won the lottery that's lasted
for donkeys' years... my parents haven't,
i haven't... my parent's, and yours, haven won
the mortgage lottery... so communism was a failure
because it was deemed to be a failure
   in the span of not even a trans-generational decade?!
   trans-generational decade?
   me... father, grandfather, great-grandfather,
  great-great-grandfather... etc.
               it was a failure because i inherited a bicycle
that didn't have two wheels... how am i supposed
to join the ******* circus in capitalism on a monocycle?
this ain't ideological warfare... this is 1 billion Chinese
we're talking about... and they're not going anywhere.
but my grandparents are the only success story of
communism reaching its potential -
                  sadly, you ought to know,
i'd rather invest in euthanasia than in retirement plans,
given the fact that most of you, don't even
have a potential to begin with a mortgage.
the reason why existentialism never took off in England,
is because Darwinism got mingled with history,
a timescale crushing next week's Monday -
and gone to hell the whole joy of routine -
routine the parachute, routine the sloth of time -
existentialism in England never took off
because current affairs in life were too problematic
to be thought of as boring: the canape of / for philosophers...
come on, Heidegger: being and beyng? obeying?!
Darwinism sorta of gave history a quantum dynamic:
a scratch of 19th century, a nibble from Hastings...
bish-bash-bosh... 19th of September 2016...
existentialism never took off because of the dichotomy
between the synonyms: life and existence -
as if the two differed so much -
well, the Pope knew how to deal the theological
*****: death and the after-life - same ****,
different cover. where these words ever so despairingly
coupled? life: no mention of: out of every instance,
and existence: out of every instance - rekindled
fetishism of avoiding mortality's river of set-out
change? it looks like it's just that...
                               currency of political correctness
these days?   the grand implosion:
    Ritter Templer und Zeit βaφoμeτ.

: a drunk collage: another "epic"*

Starting at the beginning,
letting the tilt of the backyard
lull me up then back down
in circles, to tell in turn
these stories. And so,
back as far as I know:

Story of My People
Tribes gathered and grew.
They counted the grains.
Depended on the seasons,
rejoiced, nay, transfigured.
Cults of the sun, of the earth
realized gods onto our plane,
they walked between
the beanrows.

Their features formed
and darkened, envisaged
in Our dark mirror mind.
And then faces had names
and they counted the grains.
Numerals and ocher lips
left pretty petroglyphs
but left the stone sculpted
in marble columns endraped–
Roman red over owl-blue–
but still the Bullhorns poke through!
That's me, the narrator among narrative.
Where my maternal starts
so far as I know, in the cult of Mythras,
a Taurus charging the boot of Europa.

Excuse me; I'm not a historian.

My father's people were barbarians,
I would think so.
They dispelled the civilized clout
and darkened the day and age.
Hail Mother Mary Hellen,
her whole family got burned.
A lesion across that continent,
filled with the church,
which took both my parents.
Then the American Dream.

My History
These gods and Names who guided and transfigured,
that framed my peoples, gave it to them,
I have forgotten.
Soon after seeing it all, I felt it all mundane.
Dismissed him as chaos,
left him so abundant
as to be given
not granted.
Now I sit and forget...
the enveloping leaves in the back,
the passerby from the front deck,
I remember yet!
But lost in adult perplexion
I fear that I've given up some ghost
who haunted my great journey
and leaves me on blank slates,
cyclical, again again, timelessly:
Myhistory:*

–First it was Death who so captivated me.
Like any friend, too, I shivered and cried secretly.
Literally. No thing really, nothing really.
–Then Love came swift, sharp,
unrecquitting, then unremitting, then spent.
–Then Earth spoke wonders and tremors
seemed God incarnate, Life this is,
gotrees growmy skull I don't know,
guess it don't come down to much more.
–Now music and the capture of the present:
Where am I? and what is this place?
let me sing you the questions!

But where is God in my voice?
I want rockn'roll and adventure
that can't be grace;
it's idolatry.
Maybe God really is dead,
you lose him like the holiday superheroes
or ancient mythoids,
age age into forget.

Each death, a searing lesion in my soul
I wonder if you are alive, trapped
Among these treacherous walls

Are you starving too?
Desperate for home
Tired of all the spilling tears
And the sight of broken people?

I think I may have seen hell
But if I should pass by heaven
God will need to bawl and beg
For my forgiveness

i am no master musician

          yet i hear my own catastrophe glistening at every song i chose
not to sing
because i know i have vision, i made an incision in my eye socket
and confirmed it

i envision a decision ill have to make one day
     where i have my life in one hand and my heart in the other
one promises only luxury and a metaphorical prison
               and the other is like a lesion that hurts and hurts
but every time i scratch it
i shoots Ecstasy where im burnt, into the blood in my spit

and when i spit it out it turns around and tells me that it was worth it

that life is never perfect only worth it or not worth it
there is no purpose but to make your life absurd and horrid

         so you can make it out alive, and have that ten seconds of bliss
before the next drop
and hope the next stop is the next peak
maybe next week
or the next day
or the next hour
or the next second

i beckon it, and even if it doesnt come
to some that means its worthless
but i find that perfect
gives me something to work towards and not sit and be melodramatic

                               i want to live phenomenally
i want the music in my ears
the talent in my peers
and intelligence enough to not have to talk to chirping crickets
even when my friends are in front of me
            
i think i've found that here
it's quite comfy

I am always trying to learn the lesson before the opportunity teaches me...

It's a race of self-mastery.
Many prefer to be masturbatory.

To see action through your Artillery,
your standing eyes betrays other emotions.
Longing to touch you
yet to see your through body,
form and no substance makes a stray bed of rest.
Craters of realisation  launch the chime.
What left have I,  having teased the lesion.

A crawling victim stands direction less, and having learnt,
I will disarm  your vague distractions.
According to lessons I call on regret and treasure its tears.
Surely past sufferers will empathise.
Mud and clay will wrap itself into an ointment
Then we can be reborn.

Omission

She lies awake on her back
Trying to remember when she lost her pack

Sack, the memories into her face
It ruins her temporary happy place

Space, sometimes she feels she needs to be far
Locks herself away into a tiny jar

Mare, her skin it's bruised and scarred
Help her soul it's broken and charred

Barred, she bangs at her rusty cell
Scared of rejection she endures the smell

Sell, her heart to no one she won't
Until the return of her body she lount

Sewn't, the buttons to mend her heart
But the razors bent and the scars ripped apart

Dart, into the darkest pit of despair
Help her cry cause she's mentally impaired

Scared, she cuts her wrists for a reason
Only person that cared was farther than next season

Lesion, on her heart the trust and love
Only gave her body when push came to shove

Above, her demons trampled her
A feeling in her chest much like stuffed fur

Stir, the *** that makes her finish this life
Just like bread its easily cut with a knife

Strife, it all all ends with violent dissention
She falls to the floor in mortal penitintion

Attention, ladies and gentleman may I say a couple words
All she ever wanted was to fly free like the birds

Herds, of souls wandering in deep cognition
Now you can see her body at the local mortician

Omission

Never in my inspiration,
Deflecting all imagination.
Breathing through an agitation,
With every mundane conversation.
Predicting expectation,
Leaving nothing but hesitation.
The fear is overwhelming,
But so is every situation.
A choice.
Risking ourselves for no one else,
Selfless in thought,
Letting selfishness rejoice.  
Rhyme or reason,
Virtues painted in patient seasons.
In treason.
Trying to find the rhyme in reason,
Rather than being investigative,
And bandaging the lesion;
We let it flow.
Don’t let it go,
If you do,
You might know more than you know.
And we’d rather become blind,
Live in a detrimental time.
Seeing the future as our past,
And letting progress happen last.
Political,
Self-critical,
The devil is too literal.
Advocate for less,
Become muted for something more.
Because the goals inside,
The dreams we hide,
Are the demons we choose to store.
The choice,
The existence,
Is everything within us.
Its hope and aspirations,
Admiration and indication.
A vision towards change inside,
Allowing the child to play outside.

REASON

Request You I, to kindly tell me, or explain the real or hidden reason;

Reason why every few months,  changes a  season.

Reason why time continuously ticks; n a day,  night's fusion;

Complicated it is all, perplexed I am, there is a lot of confusion.

There's happiness less, n sadness more; what  is the reason?

We commonly see wicked n evil winning over truth, leaving a painful lesion.

People few understand the REASON for one's birth, one's mission;

If granted us you have power to reason, then why this utter confusion?

If endeavour we need to,  why surrender we must to fate, why this submission?

Laws of  Karma, sadly, show do not; thugs, scoundrels, rapists, there is treason!

O  Ahura kind,  O the wisest one, please clear my confusion;

Explain please, why do we have to surrender our will; why this submission?

PLEASE TELL ME THE REASON.

Armin Dutia Motashaw



Hide quoted text

---------- Forwarded message ---------
From: Armin Motashaw <armindutiamotashaw@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, 1 Nov 2020, 02:19
Subject: REASON
To: kersi sethna <sethnakg@gmail.com>


REASON

Request You I, to kindly tell me, or explain the real or hidden reason;

Reason why every few months,  changes a  season.

Reason why time continuously ticks; n a day,  night's fusion;

Complicated it is all, perplexed I am, there is a lot of confusion.

There's happiness less, n sadness more; what  is the reason?

We commonly see wicked n evil winning over truth, leaving a painful lesion.

People few understand the REASON for one's birth, one's mission;

If granted us you have power to reason, then why this utter confusion?

If endeavour we need to,  why surrender we must to fate, why this submission?

Laws of  Karma, sadly, show do not; thugs, scoundrels, rapists, there is treason!

O  Ahura kind,  O the wisest one, please clear my confusion;

Explain please, why do we have to surrender our will; why this submission?

PLEASE TELL ME THE REASON.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

After our 3rd 16-hour shift we skipped down the gravel road in the 4 am dusk holding still numb hands
hysterically laughing about a snowman made of ****** fish ice and decorated with intestines
to our room of splintered walls and sand infused beds.

Drunk on sleep deprivation and the movement of the conveyor belts
Fiona demanded of the 4 am twilight that our work be easier tomorrow
I told her that tomorrow could always be the hardest
she told me that I’m Eeyore because my contemplation always looks a bit like pessimism.

A week later I stuck my finger in the pus filled lesion of a salmon
and worried that I wasn’t existing well enough
I asked Fiona if she thought we were more ourselves dressed in layers of sleep deprivation
She cut 3 tails and stated that we must experience more life when we’re awake for 18 hours a day.

This place had forced the clean carefully constructed versions of ourselves to collapse
but she didn’t want this coarse damp translation of humanity to be what we intrinsically are.

Water and pink slime slid down my rain gear as I processed her words and the fillets sliding by
60 salmon later she spoke again
“You said once that every person you meet has some sort of impact on your life.
Maybe you’re always you but never the you that you were before this moment
because who we are is infinitely changing
we won’t always be grime.”

Fountains past a milky one
blinded spots of spoilt stones
darkened pebbles of loath
turned to a necrotic lesion
tensions of unmentioned
tractions of the substitute
for the light I saw dimmed
Such a rapid trim discarded
as if it never breathed or existed
Such a polish of luminance
evaporated over the unseen clouds
and all the edges are now scratched
summed in all the misspoken words
Why did you even want to play?
with a mass as big as whale
a sail of the disproportionate
abstracted dissonance as accorded
too quick to run away from the red flags
footsteps of the unmarked foot steps
in filtered tracks of a chauvinist prokaryote

no, really, learn it from me,
this can't can't get any better...
youtube videos by
orangelo...
   please please, i'm not being
mean: just ******-well pedantic...
wait... what's that word?

lee-zioor?
     say it again, lay-sure?
leisure?!
leisure studies?
              lesion studies?
the **** am i reading, russian, or hebrew?
i'm scratching my head
like the first monkey that thought
up a sling-shot Y...
and i'm still scratching my head:
sumthin'... sumthin': to crack
open this coconut... hmm?
head to toe, sensai bow head-bang
the ****** open?!
scratch scratch... maybe tomorrow.

you really could cast this orangelo
kid into the quicksilver role for
the x-men movies...
      humming along to sweets in dreams:
homie!? what? d'ough....
                       ******* nut-case.
me? i'm always in a party mode:
   i'm the ******* protagonist in
a b-movie, whatch'ah expect?
                    whatcha?
                        d-fu­cking-caprice?
good luck sergeant;
   do you take two or too spoonfuls with
         your coffee, or half and some cream?

i still don't know what this american
is talking about...
   some people who moved fresh off the boats
biding by the gates of dover
find the scots hard to understand...
me? the irish... i can't stomach their
clover turned spinach turn of phrase...
scots? oh i get them...
   i just think of them as: she'k'shee...
shean! get yir *** out of the *******
elevator! not 'avin these hush overtones
when i'm not even in a turkish diner
ordering a shish kebab...
   ha!
     dinner....          dye-ner...
               and all you get is a missing N....
dim went the lightbulb:                d'uh!
high as a ******* kite,
  and all i have to compensate is a mouse
on a dog-leash...
   that high bit... yeah... drunk...
   ******* my rockers... who who minds?

this is not exactly going to lullaby me...
i don't know whether this
american is saying:
leisure (lay-zschechshzshch....
huh?)
   oh you know, the english tend to complain
about slavic words having
too many consonants segregating
the vowels...
  a stick has two-ends...
   the slavs complain about the post-germanic
amalgam of english saying:
  anything that sounds the same -
but otherwise is written differently:
   buggers are naked!
    how do you actually begin to
write a distinction between
dinner        &                     diner
   (dim-ner vs. dye-ner?!),
or   (the less bewildering scenario of)
   leisure                   &        lesion -
              shoo-ba(h)               shoobaba(h)...

a double u that is actually a double o...
   well... so much for vv...
                                if ever a language
be stranded at belshazzar's feast...
                                            it would be english!
****-naked adam gaius pretending
to own the world because he's treating
insomnia with a linguistic span of:
from australia! to alaska! via greenwich
                                                    mea­n-time!

ugh...
english English
and american English -

that famous war
of phonetics:

toe-may-t'oh
    tomato -
t'oh-m'ah-toe...

as far as i'm concerned
the dictionary lies...
****'s up with
potatoes and tomatoes?

i play tennis with
ha-shem...

   /təˈmɑːtoʊ/

ʊ: is not a macron O
    ō, but it is:
         H            |            H
kicking down the middle...
oh...
    oh really...
        really?

don't get fooled by the
upper-tier alphabet
rewrite of a word
with disparaging encoding
lettering...

   and when i feel lazy:
i listen to the blues...

and it's not really about potatoes
and tomatoes...
  it's also about
leisure and labor...
    how did that doctor
of classics claim the word /
utter it?

  leisure = lee-ßure -
not lay-ßure...

          but lee-ßure...
like lesion...
      
   and if you knew anything
about graphemes:
ß = S & Z
  interchangeably -
    which is also equivalent
to the slavic SZ...
or SH in the germanic tongues...

poe-tay-t'oh...
       not poo-tay-t'oh...
not toe-may-t'oh...
  t'oh-m'ah-toe...

and isn't this the obvious
presence of the Hebrew
puzzle of ha-shem?

                tow-may-tow...
toe-may-toe...
tow-may-toe -
   toe-may-tow...

          m'ah... breath / consonant
catcher...
              in this instance...


is it really lesion / lee-ßure
and not lay-assurance,
i.e. lay-sure?
           leisure, really?
lesion,
lee-ßure...
                
                   i almost forgot
to figure this word out...
  that being said...
i can't believe that i focused
my ontological basis
on the ground of etymology,
rather than the Darwinism
plot-line...

           the prevalent word(s),
and...
           this is really a poem about
when i was laughed at
during a coach trip
to the swimming pool from
St. Augustine's school
for swimming lessons....

apparently the sports brand...
in England...
is pronounced
Pjúm'ah...
      and not Púm'ah...
  Puma...
                
    from there on in...
   pew m'ah... haunted it...
   when someone attempts to correct
your pronunciation?
your grammar?
      
   hmm...
                     you buckle down,
and dig a trench;
and ensure your tongue
and fingers turn into a machine
gun that ingests the dropping
bodies as fertilizers
for the come: poppies and
beetroots.

Soury water flow
Ceaseless tears last till death days
I die a millionth living years
Lesion of wound reddish show

I am a victim of war relic
Can't you see, my burnt house
My pair of rag clothe
My battered ink of ignorance

Queuing for a feed
Begging for a drink
**** in a homeless bridge
Conscripted as a child soldier

Can't you see, I am the war relic ?
Voice of refugees status I am
Rebel to my homeland I run
Deprived by mortal quest for power

Politics of hatred wash me to bank of ocean
Can't you see I have one arm, one eye, one embroidery parts
Can't you see am a victim of power mongers
I have foolishly support their quest

I have shouted for the nuke to be test
Justifying their foolish context
they ran away to have a succor of rest
When the war bullet penetrate the wall

I am decorated as a zeroed hero
Holding crutches leaping like a dog
So bad I am abandoned in a refugee camp
Can't you see I am the worst victim of war with relatives buried and burned
with fire of sand and the gods watch without intervention

by
Martin Ijir

These finish lines lining my gut,
Scars of past encounters
Ive ran far too fast and far too long
to still be standing up straight,
My shoulders ripped from corner to corner,
A snake of a lesion lies between them,
hissing and curling itself into some knot,
For years now it has slept,
Cracked and shed it’s skin; strewn in ribbons across the floor,
Leaving nothing but that vice grip reminder
that it is only thing I have left of myself

They swallowed me and spit out.
My pride was dispelled in a cold land.
The tumid persecution with the connivance of rake rampantly exhume my organs.
My fervent desire in extending my hand was ebbing fast.
I’m a feme. I’m at the end of my tether.

They ******* my hands and feet on both edge of the glandola.
I was surrounded by darkness frozen alone.
From night till dawn they flogging me then soak in salty water.
No more grain of hope for me to see the birth of my son.
I can taste no more the honeydew that my husband had brought me.

They will surely lament for me…
They whom I vowed to serve and cherish.

Who wants to indite a poem for me?
Who wants to limn my life story?

My lesion leaked by flies has been dried up.
My body was mortify in shame without any clad.

I’m at the end of my tether.
But…

They will remember me!
They will tell my life story.
They will fight for me!
They, the youth, will cut the Gordian knot!

We’re painting the roses red
Because the white isn’t good enough
It’s too innocent, too pure
It’s petals not yet touched by the crimson dripping from our hearts
What hearts?
Hearts we build out of plastic
So that bullets shot at us leave no drastic wounds
Only indents
Nobody says anything
We wrap lace around our rotten cores
Hopeful that beautiful will one day mean forgotten
And our mistakes won’t haunt us like stairwell ghosts
They’re band aids we place on each lesion
Doing whatever it takes to create shield of armour for our castle
Can’t you see you’re a castle?
A castle built on top of the ground you were pushed down upon
Where the white roses grow
Words are like arrows aimed at your throat
And you can’t breathe so you close your eyes
Covering your ears like a worried toddler
You hide and inside you build treehouses
With signs that read “No Trespassing”
Throwing stones at a fleeting reality that begs to be let in
But you’re terrified of what you’ll find waiting
Because you’re still just a child
Aren’t we all children?
Children left timid and quivering
Who pity themselves as lesser beings
Two halves in two worlds
Built only on broken roads that wish to bring harm
And their arms feel weak from reaching both distances
Somewhere along the way their compass was smashed
One hand pointing north, the other south
So they call themselves worthless and keep their mouth shut
But why does that make them the lamb and you the lion?
A lamb that counts their scars as they grow
And notice they all look like people
Snakes in mankind’s clothing
Who asked you to love them but their fangs sank too deep
They couldn’t see your innocence bloom in each petal
They assume that your heart is as damaged as them
Admiring the view of rose covered gardens all painted red
Where everyone wants to be different or dead

They say time heals all wounds
as though the clock faces
are doing us a favor.
As if we need
one more reason
to be indebted
to time’s greedy hands.

Time does not simply
apply the dressing
over careful, meticulous stitches,
lovingly pressing hope
against the puckered skin
in the form of a tender kiss.

Time rips the **** open
with desperate claws,
watching while we bleed out
and drown in the darkness
of our crystal-clear hindsight.

It scoops us up
to begrudgingly tear the flesh
from our still-beating hearts,
creating a crude skin graft
to cover the damage
and smother the cries
of the persistent lesion.

Time hardens the layers
that slowly gather on us,
clinging to us like dust
of all the years gone by,
forming sedimentary layers
that show our descent
away from the sun.

Time does not heal
any affliction at all.
It covers them up
with distractions and pangs
until they’re buried as deeply
as the people we once were.

The healing isn’t done-
maybe this is why
we humans
are so prone
to scarring.

the want for peace is as enduring
as a want for war....
imitation of machine-gun firing
whole magazins into thin air,
and even more thin, fleeting
concepts of echo...
the world, as we make it, in
the given... that hasn't exactlty happened,
and will never happen...
"hypocrite" internet crusaders...
        of that kind and of that demand....
the only undermining of man
is that he should become useless...
am i? am i? look here, a throng!
only satan borne from god asking a question,
only satan borne from god doing ? with i...
figuring it out...
only a satan borne from such: bemused
instance... and the following sentences...
women seem to only wish their men
are content in what they do...
id the men are not doing the thing intended
then they become unhappy...
   i feel i need to state i was privileged...
if i ever had to wait for a huspand
and a bouquette of tulips...
       how i will itemise, how i will check for faults,
how i'll lesion for minor errors...
and call to **** the basis for
   1... or siamese, or why we say
very little for punctuation,
and comprehend much more above the status
of a punctuation mark...
               so i am here, i have a purpose,
satan is man embedded in the world...
what the **** happened?
     it is iota, i turned into ?, rather than !,
as if happens, every time i approach
a cinema or a movie...
            what word could comfort one
when in tears, if not allah?
the jew knows the name of god,
and its comfortably too complex to blah out.
just about the time we first said
our ma-ma our pa-pa...
                   we might have said something
akin to al-lah...
                        and i'll twist and turn,
and "mould"my bodwith repeat
repeat repeat.... repeating
kiedy dzieci w świat wyrószą! -
and i, once listened to a recital,
   a young german boy, of bilingual descent,
reading be a children's book...
on a train... there... what beauty
in lament, and the take to tear....
   ah... that stance for: a man that wept...
what rarity, and what gravity,
and what number they have to argue back...
i've seen more metaphors and
indeed more rivers and waterfalls in
my tears, if i had unravelled
    the said things and walked toward a mirror,
and spoke what they spoke...
and felt the imprint, and have seen
the reflection in such things...
  i am shadow, i am hunch,
       i am exile... what was once,
perhaps said...
                     that i gave up my left hand
for a labrador to knead into pet...
how i then put my right hand into
a fire and retracted it gleeful like
i might be a prometheus...
oh god, once the narratives from antiquity
are so well established, how cheap it all
seems, and looks, how we tire, how we try
to exhaust the cow's ****....
and how we make joke from farting...
or how i am prone to cry,
on a morning palette of having only drank....
and drinking with the morning
the throat is dry-cut sore, dry, sorry...
   lao che's jinn...
              nie chce boga
   (i don't want god), bo szkoda
             (because it's careless)....
             how we mature into wanting so much
more than kettles, knives, and vacuum cleaners...
how we want spirit, ghost, and
then make adamant that there's a need for thought
and a need to disperse it...
   how so much spirit went into crafting thought...
that thing though... it get's me...
that cry for a father... symbiotic with writing
a narrative in western culture...
   odd, how a man capable of being reduced
to tears... can single-handed overcome, every, woman...
meaning he can't lie, meaning he can't believe
in the capacity to faint...
   meaning that he needs no breathing ground
to encapsulate faith...
        the only thing more dangerous than
a man crying when hearing some music
is a woman armed with a *****.
as i take my bow...
                    and duly give applause...
for that is certain... and i am bound in being
kept earnest...
  on the basis: it's really how the whole point
moves forward... i can be the sieve,
or the activity making the sieve... well... sieve...
like akin to filter...
     my native land of birth seems to mythical
counting the next minute to the next to make an
hour, that i almost lost thought to be anything
but.... thingy...
  yeah... every time i travel to poland i''m
most alive when i step into a graveyard...
          tombstones almost has the same sound
when stating the word people...
given the latter move, becomes butchers
and architects... while the latter nothing but
quasi trees, dates of contained yearning,
and sometimes the epitaph...
                oh the swollen grounds of what
is kept, needlessly kept, and what ought to remain...
looking at our own morality,
   i see a history of paupers...
           we are only working from the street up...
poking the case of diogenes...
there i am sown, and there i sow the stubborn
calamity... who would care to manage
competition with the west,
given their sole grammatical competition
was based on the pronoun category?
    i always thought they spoke more shrapnel
than sense...
        big bang theory worth a vascuum...
like i'm yawning... the sound of...
it happens every time i travel back to poland...
i hear, life!
          it's when i'm back in england
and i hear this journalistic dialogue about needing
to export it to remote areas of the world like
Moldovia...
      are journalists that much necessary
if they happen to fake telling a story working from
a per se bias...
   reading the thursday edition of a newspaper
i sorta lost the plot, or a need for a plot...
        i could be offered a circumstance to re-read
that i cowered, that i shrivelled and went away...
     it's only that i spent 3 weeks in Poland
and i really didn't see too much emphasis on journalism...
  or really bother a need to know basis...
   or have to entertain an opinion or to begin with, have one:
like when i didn't have a sparring
partner to create a dialectical outlet / punching bag...
     3 weeks in Poland can cure a man living in the west,
you can automatically stop drinking, read a book
and never even care to write anything...
you come back west and you have this pathos for a need
to write... don't know...
i like how phonos (φoνoς) is so clearly proximate of
pathos (παθoς)...
when wasn't the statment: silence,
   not a concern to say or identify a pathology?
just about when man said too much...
and the otherwise became inverted,
and man said too much,
        and thought very little, and philosophy
came into existence much too late...
if it ever was worth a moral agency,
that thought could ever be inscribed as:
   θ (ought, ought), like some coordinate,
definite... instead of the ******* between
θ (ought) and φ (narration)...
               looks like you're asking for a
locksmith, for ****'s sake.
then they said: poseidon's trident...
let's resurrect symbols, the crucifix and ψ...
now i really lost the tail and injected
an upright spine into undertanding, what the hell
i was supposed to understand!
so yeah ψ (counter-narration)...
    the actual need to overly psychologise
the people stems from, i dare say,
               hyperventilating number of books
in libraries...
it's nice to see so much emphasis on a psyche...
poseidon's signature... ψ... trident?
no?
    don't see it or can't see it?
sounds about the same when you
do it in french with another god name,
zeus, jesus, je suis... je sus... je ßaß
                           mohicans thereafter...
ah, yeah, that night in winter, in warsaw,
i could almost take to the moon, pick at it
and bite into it like i might inton a chocolate
            bit biscuit...
and that's how i made the greek equivalent
of sigma...
  with θ, φ, ψ....
                                 a door... variantion of not
what's to be said, to be said,
but how there's a thought, a morality,
and something that attempts to understand sanity...
i just like to think of it as inserting
a key into a keyhole, and walking through
a door...
meaning the encoding would look like
φ, θ, φ, ψ...
         now i was supposed to walk through a door...
all i have is a ******* acquarium
and a yawn...
      my uncle owned an aquarium once,
lost a leg in a submarine accident...
  huh?
                 me neither... i'm not that audacious
to state there was a big bang and keep
people motivated for the mission: let's get frisky!