Down in the bayou where the mangroves grow
There's talk of black voodoo, like Marie Leveau
The Swamp Witch, is legend, she has magic so black
That those who have seen her, have never come back
There;s tales of the noises that come from the dark
Of werewolves and zombies as rough as the bark
The mangroves are sentinels, to where the magic resides
Where even a longboat has no room to glide
Bodies go missing from the graveyards most nights
And there's always a fog shading the fireflies lights
The Swamp Witch is ruler and Queen of this world
Where souls are all taken and spines can be curled
They say that she came here from Canadian lands
She was a metis they say, from the Western Tar Sands
A mystic by nature, a dark witch by blood
She lives deep in the swamp, protected by gators and mud
The gators respect her, they do as she bids
They keep watch on the waters, they're her reptillian kids
She keeps zombies as gendarmes, collecting bodies to turn
Just how black is her magic, no one can discern
The Swamp Witch is legend, she is as old as all time
The air in the bayou is as thick as the slime
The cajuns say voodoo is the core of her heart
They avoid fishing where the mangrove trees start
The Swamp Witch, a legend ? or is she truly the Queen
She's the Louisiana Witch, no one survives once she's seen.....

For Helene.


Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.  
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand

And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies

We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.

I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.

Embers without a chance against rivers  
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full

To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,

We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force

Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.

I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.

Here he lies with family
his name and dates given
what other data's wanting
to relive his love and hates

Norman -old English-North Man
Victorian Saxon son
though several times removed
a memory scratched on stone

Or was his bloodline Viking
his longboat in the offing
vicariously fighting
through his seven seas of time

He might have lived much longer
been stronger named for William
ruthless feudal Norman King
but my mind is just dancing.

We are progressing upstream, no sighting yet.
Their gods are letting us pass unmolested.
Even the sun beckons us up these blue waters,
but the cliffs are closing in, scarved with the icy
torrents of waterfalls spilling their glacial flux.

In the distance is a great broad path, paved
in crazy glazing, glinting in the sun.
There's no escaping this snare's enchantment.

Surely, they don't take us for their pirate
longboat returning to digorge its stolen treasures.

Somewhere Thor's hammer is at work. We pray
we will be spared his unforgiving anvil,
for we come only with our tourist tribute.

I’d walked back home by the clifftop path,
I’d only been gone an hour,
Rounding the point, it came into view
The sight of our Black Stone Tower.
Its ancient mystery suited me then
We’d picked it up for a song,
Nobody else had wanted it,
At the price, we couldn’t go wrong.

They said that a king had built it there
Far back in the mists of time,
And soldiers climbed by the old stone stair,
But now, thank god, it was mine.
A roof to shelter my Evelyn,
Though we supped by candlelight,
And drew our water deep from a well,
Made love when the stars were bright.

But now a breeze blew up from the cliff,
Was chill, and ruffled my hair,
And something about the Black Stone Tower
Was strange, a sense of despair.
For weeds had grown where the weeds were not
When I’d left, an hour before,
And someone had painted a bright red cross
On the Baltic Pine of the door.

It was only when I had got close up
That I saw that the red was blood,
And the door was half off its hinges,where
It was splintering, as I stood,
Then shapes began to appear to me,
Of soldiers, battering in
The Baltic Pine of this ancient door
To slay the soldiers within.

There wasn’t a single sound to hear,
There should have been clash and roar,
A mighty battle was raging in
The Black Stone Tower of war.
I called and I called for Evelyn
But there wasn’t a single trace
Of the love that I’d left alone in there,
That now, most terrible place.

I ran outside to the edge of the cliff
And stared down into the bay,
And there was the foulest, evil ship
Sails set, for sailing away.
And Evelyn strode down on the beach
While a soldier pulled at her hair,
Dragging her into a longboat as
She fought and struggled down there.

But this was a different Evelyn
To the one that I’d left at home,
The ******* the beach was dressed in peach,
My Evelyn dressed in bone,
And not in a full length courtly dress
Like you see from the days of yore,
As her ghostly shadow stepped in the boat
And sailed away from the shore.

I turned again to the Black Stone Tower
And the door was back in its frame,
There wasn’t a sign of the ****** cross
That had been there, just as I came.
And Evelyn staggered from out the door
As I cried out, ‘Where have you been?’
And she said sleepily, ‘Don’t be cross,
I’ve had an incredible dream!’

David Lewis Paget

A heavy sea
So clear to see
A choppy crest and sky

And as they merge—
Right at the verge—
A longboat slides between

O how they crush
The ******’s rush
Across the photograph

And now the paint
Falls soft and faint
In strokes—that shade of blue

The clouds are hushed
Beneath the brush—
The seas are hastened in

Horizons rise
Against the skies
And try to trickle up

Then halted shut
So mountains jut
And tread upon the waves

They harden now
Across the brow
Of ever sinking sea,

Sit darker than
The frozen span
That dries upon the page

Ultramarine
I’m sure, I’ve seen—
Dry now upon the page

as an antidote to the poetic of onomatopoeia, i simply won't allow such a desecration, the ruinous cloud of plum purple hangs over language with this one poetic technique, just before the barrage of rain falling like a vertical tsunami, as i found myself fishing in Poland, the white-precursor of Mickiewicz's castles turned into horses' gallop... and then foo! a monsoon in 5 minutes... the fish? quiet big, but since kept in a reservoir, a bit fat... actually... too fat. seriously, the onomatopoeia has to go, we can't be found imitating sounds of inanimate things... or debasing our use of phonetic encryptions with sounds of edible creatures... why... if we kept at it, you'd see monkeys building the coliseum and man playing the Mongolian harmonica of vibrating lips and the index finder moving up and down to their tune; plus i think onomatopoeia is the culprit of excessive spelling in english... i know, the keeping of necessary aesthetics but come on... moo vs. μ?

and i wish to lessen the optic strain for continuing
subject matter non-italicised...
you know what's more interesting than paying attention
to the use of onomatopoeia like that, the crudest
musicological element of poetry (well, rhyming is
also up there) - English is perfect, it's a-diacritical
(ah or a? never mind) - you have to start to imagine
the language like a blank canvas, but not necessarily,
what's more interesting in this vector rather than
clinging to onomatopoeia technique is that you
can apply anti-onomatopoeia, distinctions, accents,
yesterday it became revelatory,
it's roland garros on the television, after the days
events there's a program with Mats Wilander
(Swedish no. 1, seven grand slams between 1982 and
1988) and a blonde woman presenter,
i picked up my loss of interest in using onomatopoeia
to profile her origin... she could have been of any
European ethnicity... but the accent... it just landed
in my ear... German... and indeed, without an information
bracket on the programme's description, it was
Barbara Schett... you see, you paint the accents, it's
more interesting that way given the nakedness of English
compared with other siblings of the alphabet high-jacked
from Roman; you end up pricking your ears to attune
accents that than ol' McDonald had a farm.

that was my initial fascination, the lie of Eden passed down,
like Voltaire on his deathbed being read his departing word,
his own encoded as: this is not the time  to make enemies
he was referring to the devil)...
also: you'll find it hard to find his *éléments de la philosphie
de Newton... you will find Candide,
and Letters from England... but the elements of Newton's
philosophy will be a holy grail... oddly enough, contrary
to common belief, Voltaire never alludes to an apple
falling on Newton's head, but the book is a joy,
given that it includes diagrams... a bit of an Alice moment
for me: what's the point of books without pictures?
i could give you a chapter-by-chapter schematic of
what's being included so you don't think i'm bullshitting you,
the first chapter is about God... i know, ha ha, Voltaire
the ardent atheists... the third chapter is about the
freedom of the deity and on the great principle of sufficient right;
hold on! i'm digressing again, this was a debate concerning
onomatopoeia! you're probably asking why i've started to
use runes again... imagine what lied more, the tongue or
the eyes... this is crazy geometrics! geometry precipitated
when human went wild encoding sounds, it needed
something rational and coherent to attach itself to, to find
a cure for this crazy phonetic encoding, Pythagoras
attacked (Δ, δ) - i'm sure of that... i mean, can you just imagine
two drunk vikings sitting there, ******* themselves
sound-spotting and dissecting their mouth? which shaped
what, and which was to be cut-off / trimmed after they
poured wax into their ears and started to lip-read?
i mean... how many ****** shapes came from all
the soul-cages being opened with the shape of the mouth
from O?
ᚺ - hail             ᛖ - horse (and i'd say camel, but no camels
so far north)       ᚱ - journey         ᛟ - heritage
      ᛚ - water               ᚷ - gift
                                 i mean, it's amazing how we managed
to cut of subsequent letters we ascribed to things
and create a distinct sounds... but can you the torturous
road toward this end? to have created ~20 distinctions
from nouns? no wonder Aristotle asked to debate
proper names... i'm more inclined to ask a debate about
proper sounds... but still... so many wild geometric shapes
from just one... O... or - (a shut mouth)...
no wonder mathematics emerged: you couldn't really build
a longboat using ᚠ - ᛞ, or a house, what mathematics emerged
was probably when people thus dispersed interacted
via the merchants' enterprises and saw a gold nugget
of applicability write in how so many different people interpreted
looking at the mouth talking...
but i'm but one man, and this is a mystery, for i wonder
how the mind worked in order to write mandarin and
also qin **** huang's wall - i accepted many people died
doing it, and that the Mongol invasion was inevitable,
and that Japan was spared by a tsunami...
but how they took snippets from O to write a phonetic
encoding like 政 (Zheng, which also ascribed the
tetragrammaton at work, with one atom being a surd).

I was part of the crew of a Sloop-of-War
That had sailed in the Caribbean,
We were caught asleep in the port one night
By the crew of a Brigantine.
They loosed a broadside, seven guns
As the Skull and the Bones flew high,
And I was dragged to the pirate ship
Where they said, ‘You’ll serve, or die!’

There wasn’t a choice to be had back then,
So I climbed aloft on the mast,
Setting the rig of the fore topsail
And making the halyards fast,
They made me stay in the Crows Nest then
To be swept by the wind and rain,
With only a couple of tots of ***
To deal with my aches, and pain.

I kept lookout on the pirate brig
For His Majesty’s ships, and land,
They knew we wouldn’t stand much of a chance
As a Privateer Brigand,
We sought to shelter within a cove
In an island, not on a chart,
And rowed ashore in a longboat there
With the bosun, Jacob Harte.

Captain Keague had stayed on the ship
With the bloodiest of his crew,
The rest of us had been pressed to sea
To do what we had to do.
We filled our barrels with water from
A rill that flowed from the hill,
And gathered fruit that we’d never seen
From trees with an earthy feel.

The trees had tendrils that waved about,
And trunks that were black and charred,
Just like a fire had raged there once
And left them, battle-scarred.
A voice rang out in a clearing there,
‘Hey mates, head back to the sea,
Don’t let the tendrils fasten on you
Or you’ll all end up like me.’

And deep in the trunk was a human face
With its skin all burnt and black,
The pain was etched on his weathered skin,
‘Look out, these trees attack!
We tried to burn them away, but they
Caught every one of the crew,
That fruit you carry is poison, mates,
They’ll be the end of you!’

The tendrils whipped and the tendrils slashed
And they wrapped round Jacob Harte,
He hadn’t much time to scream before
They seemed to tear him apart,
And each of the crew was tangled there,
Was absorbed into a tree,
I made it back to the beach that day
Though I’m anything but free.

The roots of the trees had reached on out
To the Brigantine in the bay,
Curled like manacles round its decks
And torn its masts away,
They dragged it up on the sandy beach
And they crushed it to a shell,
Caught the crew in their tendrils too
And Captain Keague as well.

I’ll put this note in a bottle, send it
Floating off in the sea,
Hoping that someone picks it up,
It’s the last you’ll hear from me.
Don’t let them seed in the world out there
These tendril trees are cursed,
And keep this Island from off the map,
If not, I fear the worst!

David Lewis Paget

The passengers from the ‘Bold Dundee’
Were sick as they crawled ashore,
Tossed about in an angry sea
By the God that they knew as Thor.
He’d beat his hammer along their hull,
He’d roared as the thunder clapped,
And ripped the sails from the forward stays
As the sheets and the masts collapsed.

The tide had hidden the rocks from view,
A mist had obscured the shore,
The captain thought he was sailing free
As he’d always done before.
But the ocean swell in its mystery
Hid atolls of murk and myth,
That never appeared on a sailor’s chart
Where the Gods of old still lived.

The ship had shuddered and holed the bow,
Rode up, and sank at the stern,
The swell burst over the after deck
Drowning the crew in turn.
The passengers on the steerage deck
Were swept clean over the side,
Onto the rocks of a thousand wrecks,
But only a few survived.

By dawn that few had struggled ashore,
But the rest of them were dead,
Were floating out on the turn of tide
To rest on the deep seabed,
But Robert Young and his wife Jeanine
Were cast right up on the land,
And so was Emily Wintergreen
And the lad called Adam Shand.

They woke to an alien sunrise,
In a strange, pale purple mist,
And a sound came down from the mountainside
From a thousand years of myth.
A pale white horse bore a surly man
Who was ten feet tall to his head,
And roared, ‘Now bow before Woden, or
By Odin, you will be dead!’

Then striding noisily through the trees
That grew right down to the shore,
Came a giant man, a hammer in hand
Who roared, ‘You can call me Thor!
What brings you here to our hideaway,
To disturb our God’s redoubt?
We left you, hundreds of years away,
Yet now, you seek us out.’

Each one of them bowed, and touched the sand,
‘We don’t know why we’re here.
We didn’t plan it,’ said Adam Shand,
‘It wasn’t our idea.’
‘You turned away from us,’ Woden roared,
‘Sought other gods to please,
Once you were praying to us for help,
Would beg of us, on your knees.’

‘I swear we’ve never forgotten you,
You’re with us, all of our days,
For Woden, you are our Wednesday now,
And that is eternal praise.
While Thor is our every Thursday,
Every week that he comes around,
And Tiw, well he’s become Tuesday
So you’re lost, but you are found.’

The Gods stood back, and then conferred,
‘We’re going to let you go,
But only because you honour us
With your calendar, if that’s so.’
A longboat, free from the wreck came in
And the four of them climbed aboard,
Then waved goodbye to the Isle of Gods,
But at sea, they thanked the Lord!

David Lewis Paget

I’d known of the cave beneath the cliff
For a year, or maybe more,
And I’d often said to Jill, ‘What if…’
But we’d not been there before.
It was only at the lowest tide
That the entrance could be seen,
We’d have to dive, to swim inside
And for that, Jill wasn’t keen.

For the cave lay in a tiny cove
With towering cliffs above,
‘So how are we going to get down there,
To swim,’ said Jill, ‘my love,’
We’ll hire a boat and we’ll cruise around
With our gear, from Canning Bay,
Which is what we did with our scuba tanks
On a fresh, mid-winter day.

It took a couple of hours or more
To get to the favoured spot,
The sea was calm, we secured the boat
Next to a giant rock,
Then over the side we went, and swam
Toward that narrow gap,
Then dived below with the tidal flow
There was just the one mishap.

Jill caught her tank on the overhang
And it nicked her feeder hose,
She still had air, but I had to stare
As a stream of bubbles rose,
We swam right into the inner cave
Where the roof gave us more height,
So up we came to the air again
And I lit my small flashlight.

The walls reflected the sudden beam
In a thousand different ways,
There were reds and greens, and even cream
In a host of coloured sprays,
Then further on as we swam along
Was a ledge we clambered on,’
And there the bones of a longboat lay
From a time, both dead and gone.

And further in was a pile of bones
Of some poor, benighted soul,
Caught in hell in this prison cell
When the tide began to roll,
He must have come when the tide was low
And sailed in through the gap,
Then stayed too late, there was no escape
Once the tide had closed the trap.

And close by him lay an iron chest
With its bands all rusted through,
Full of coins, of gold Moidores
And Spanish Dollars too.
But Jill became so excited by
The glitter of the stuff,
That she’d forgotten the fractured hose,
Or to turn her Oxy off.

I played the light up above the bones
Where a script was scratched in the wall,
‘God help me, I was cast in here
By the crew of the ‘One for All,’
They told me to hide the treasure here
And would pick me up at eleven,
But then the entrance disappeared,’
It was ‘1797.’

Jill’s tank was empty when we looked,
So I said I’d leave her there,
Go back and pick up another tank
But her face was filled with fear.
It’s been a week since I left her there
For the sea’s blown up, as well,
And the entrance to the cave has gone
Under a ten foot swell.

I’d give all the coin, and gold doubloons
Just to get my woman back,
But there’s been a great white pointer there,
I’m afraid of a shark attack.
If she just can last till the sea goes down
I shall go to that awful cave,
But the thought I’ve fought since I left her there,
‘It may be my woman’s grave.’

David Lewis Paget

.get to a million get to a million...
it's no dickens or a shakepeare... but...
get to a million get to a million...
it's not your everyday tabloid column...
but... get to a million get to a million...

all words outside of the italics...
said... really... real... slowly...
         Eeyore: sore...
                           i like how...
sodden sad i am with... a spike
milligan rendition of...
by the barrel of the rhyme -
this nonsense has to... be gloated...
float... 'ted...
             ballloons and buzzing... etc.

and those italics?
   gerbil on asteroids... and on steroids...
and... on amphetamines...
basics: on a cocktail...
   nibbling ferociously...
so ferociously that...
                      the tongue disappears...

i already have a: tomorrow will be...
"good"...
i don't like being pandered...
and this is that story of
a princess sleeping on twenty matresses...
agitated by an uncooked pea...

needle in the haystack for me...
this most perfect day...

   i'm using this old post-soviet
piece of equipment and...
it works brand new...
none of the samsung cheap ***** made
in china...
if i'll have my may...
and the garden needs no imporvement:
a new shed... blah...
it already looks like a building site...
i managed to tranfer a tonne of
birdseye pebbles from
the service road into the garden...

imagine the fate... of those...
sentenced to: kamieniołomy...
a quarry... i'm not exactly deluding myself
in the act already deluding me...
a hammer... perfecting what was
a farmers' suntan just below the elbows...
so i rolled my sleeves up...
for compensation...

   imagine sentencing a man to work
among stones... friko! gratis!
for... the "blessing"...
       but if i take the walk...
this, walk... i'm keeping up appearances
up to a point... then the masquerade is over...
nothing to hear but ***** horses...
magpies... woodland pigeons and crows...
nothing of assorted competing
propaganda placentas...
no cushions: no bed: count sheep...
that, tiresome, task?
how about making out: complex
"geometry" from clouds...
see castles? see swans?
see devils charging into battle
having donned the men-yoroi?!

the past... and so much for the romance...
the vikings should be known as:
the warlike gypsies... ******* pikeys and all!
sword for a harmonica...
a longboat for a... heap of castanets...
and... that... accordion? no?
the new... "napels"?
the violin... the new sax...
new: yo! ollie!
    *******...
  
         - i said i'd ******* walk it!
i did it once come sunset...
i said... i did it once in reverse: got lost:
feet became muddied...
i returned...

             this is where we'd part...
i'd ******* from the B175...
parallel to the orange tree pub...
next to the bower house...
   when walking? no point taking
the B175 up to A113... no... seriously...
there isn't...

into the havering country park...
how many times...
did i walk this "short" and "narrow"...
letting off the body known
that the breath is bound
to a duality of soul...
and "more lungs to uncover...
major major"...

       exercise: gym: pristine **** film
perfect... swimming is fun...
riding a bicycle is fun...
the rest remains a vanity project...

         i might as well be hoarding...
so from having made an exit via
B175... i end up coming back into
contact with traffic... at...
via hainnault forest of course...
at... A1112...
          
when it was especially crisp...
and winter was the *****...
watching the widow and widower swans...
at moonlight...
that's the only:
that's the best time to appreciate swans...
come a fullmoon... come the trickling
of mercury into the details of:
ghostly white: for the worth of swans...
and none other...

  and if i meet a Wordsworth on the way?
i'll strangle him with a shoelace...
hell... i'll hang him by one...
tell 'im to sniff a boot on the way out...
and a soggy sock: for practice...

from what i read:
so much for the countryside while at the same
time having... to entertain...
the garden prior to the fall:
a ****-buddy of a sister...
the foreboding mid-west...
televangelists and a-o.k. ******:
   like that physicist... who said:
brother and sister have a get together:
as long as: rubbers included...

caricature on the simpsons...
google-whacking won't even allow me
search results...
then again: sloppy seconds...
    'ere we go: lawrence krauss...
simpsons guy...
  
robinson crusoe ahoy! quick!
sink... this... ******* ship!
let's me it look like a melodrama
for environ... mentalists...
let's make it look like a beached
whale... rather than a ghost wreck
holding lost secrets of lineage:
among the arabs? muhammad ibin...
         ibin...
among the jews? yeshua ben...
   ben... blah: ibin! blah ben!

- so so much for solo...
  solo violin, solo piano...
solo... rubbing chicken with carribean
**** sauce... slaughtering a lamb,
kosher, also solo...
    ham solo... solo: project undertaken
with concern for...
no concerns except for: solo...
soloist... soliloquy... solipsism...
bored mushroom head: kanughonzagi
shimoto hiroshimmyshimmy oops...
bulldozer... machine 'ed on... 'ed off...
a party twick: don't look so surprised...

that's: "not me in your third person"
gemoetry...
well... within the trinity, secular...
of the son, ego, the father, superego...
and the holy spirit of id...
jerking off is on the same platitude
of performing *******...
in verse of reverse: eating an oyster
or a floral "pattern"...

here's to not having to find strangers:
notsably pakistani men willing
to convert...
thank be for the jews: at least they can't
convert you: ****** in them the concept
of being chosen...
like this mirage of static...
perhaps the wind does disturb this
equilibrium... then again... does it?

upon the altar of the sky before me...
a curious "star"...
that it isn't...
it has to be a planet...
i'm guessing that it's either
Venus or Jupiter...
and if my naked eyes were able to
decipher the experience...
from what the postcard of
Saturn looks like: truly:
flesh, blood and eyesight to
compensate:
why do almost all alien lifeforms concern
me with microscopic items?
i had to wrestle a mammoth
i had to overcome a tiger...
i didn't exactly find myself:
finding *****...
champagne and l.s.d. but not
mushrooms...
the fungus hitchhiker of 1960s
psychadelic intelligenstia...

i need to only die this once...
there is no god: there is no god...
"god"...
this is a house... that requires
a breath to deem it: an abode...
a home is a foreign concept in the mouth
of a mongolian horde...
crimea if a capital...

      a tartare steak... a raw herring
in yogurt sauce with apples and gherkins...
a spice for the palette...
if tomorrow is supposedly a day...
i will sacrifice a dream: all dreams!
for a day like i plan for tomorrow...
to come into contact with reality...

no love is ideal... even that of a madman...
or a gisberg... homosexual latex gimp
plaything... savvy?!
two to a rucksack
of the tow of beers i need to give birth
to a quasimodo...

"broken": to have broke - sober -
then drunk... the barking of a drop load
of ******* of an alsatian...

   we so tire... we all must tire so...
such: we! sire: i! oh... but i'm not bargained
to don a crown!
pontius pilate... the escapade
of the thief... of the coward...
or the status quo tactician...

by now... does it... would it...
even... even ******... *******... matter
to parade in all that pomp and desires
for a spontaneity of... ahem...
"spontenity"?!

better worded: i agree: genius to genius...
one would never curse...
etiquette! my boor and bore...
one must be well fashioned
to stage the pirouette of "proper"
knife and fork handling...
as... the napkin is to supposed to be bound
to never find any better use!

the air i want to breathe...
              is it... really...
the complications of chemistry...
curb... no new: every old...
           one always has to find it necessary
to fall in love with paris...
and grow perptually boring
within the confines of london;
apparently all else... vivo per se...
is supposed to "happen" & "here"!

You used to believe
Me to be beautiful,
You used to believe
Me to be Green;
But when I went
Along down The Road with you,
You somehow
Turned out really mean.

I never thought I'd find someone
Who I would connect
with so close up to par;
But somewhere down
along those lines,
For some reason we
grew apart really far.

I really wish you could tell me
What it was that drove us away;
For each week that goes by
I wonder,
Why my heart breaks
that much more, every day.

It's unbelievable to mention
And completely embarrassing to care,
The atoms of my being won't stop
vibrating
At high frequencies somehow,
over there.

It's like as though there was a time
When we lived a full life
at some point together;
But then that time came short
For some reason,
And ended far too quickly,
one season.

It's like as if it's not me that's lamenting,
But a considerable ghost from my past;
Somewhere down Human History's line,
Where for some reason
The memories last.

I really don't know how to
Find it within me to fix this,
Without a considerable
shock to my brain;
Some modulated electrical pulses,
To ensure I am no longer in pain.

If someone can please place me into that chair,
The Grand Neural-Reformatting Beast,
If something can be said about this,
I would be most grateful,
To say the least.

Just so I can be finally done with this mess,
And numb enough to no longer care;
So I can happily continue
To move on with my life,
And not continue to
bother everyone else, over there.

I thought that I was useful,
I though that I "belonged";
But when The Family turned on me,
I knew that I'd been wronged.

Whatever lessons I was
to learn from this,
I am still trying to
figure out on my own;
But it's become too hard
to see the big picture,
When the pieces
aren't even being shown.

It's easy to say "forget it",
When it's already too hard to do;
What would make things a tad easier
Would be more time spent with you.

I don't know how to stop this longboat
From crashing right into the locks;
And killing all five-thousand crew
And sending them straight into the Rocks.

Perhaps I shall simply admit myself
To a life that exists behind bars;
With a proper straight jacket and a foam head piece
And a safely installed mouth guard.

At least I will be protected there
And given some safe refuge;
Even though they may scream down the halls....
I'll know I'll be gone from you.
-----------------------------------

to write: in order to be unable to recognise
oneself in the writing -
        impossible to stress a variation of amnesia:
it's a... it's a...

             the current philanthrope: archaic for:
philanthropist -
                   because no there's no new-outfit
for a misanthrope...
                             vaccinations blue-checkers...
a game of chess:
   with narratives...
               alliance of white: as doubt...
                     and alliance of black: as denial...
but this is not a game...
  no one plays a game to feed such
a gluttonous slouch of staging:
                       demoralization projects...

brain-sponges and some variation
of music as a wheezing...
                    or a helium gargantua:
laughter in a vacuum...

it's sometimes to think about the eyes:
unless there's a concern
for either mountain of a canyon -
it's impossible to think without the sea...
i somehow wish that i could
fathom the eyes as a simple
prelude to having two stones
in a trouser pocket...
and fiddling with them...

i want to make my tongue enshrined
in the confines of an oyster:
some forgotten gem...
   i dream about homelessness
and all of life's tragedy
                of: beside a prison...
the freedom to roam...
        but i somehow stumble...
if only the determination
              of a classical lore akin to
Sisyphus...
              
                    it's always impossible
to borrow something from
the Greeks...
           then again:
who were the Greeks at the fall
of Contantinople...
             breaking bones to fiddle
with the buckle of Islam...
            it's almost tickling the suspense
lying in wait...

a marlboro cigarette is unlike
a camel cigarette...
              i say they add something
to the puff...
        happy to have been freed from
the nicotine hangover...
but it somehow aids these scribbles...
it's not much...
    it's not madame bovary or
anna karenina...

                                time is playing catch-up
and i... hope for a seclusion
of assets...
     i mostly lie before
a sleep pattern completely petrified...
not that i rarely conjure
ushers of dream...
                   but that...
            it's always the same impossibity
of being a son of a father...
or some other monstrosity
of time: noted... when abiding
with a grandfather...

if i could question the ownership
of my ears...
if i could replace my eyes
with either two stones in my pocket
fiddled with like a pair of dice...
or shelter in the "myopia"
of: one eye for the canyon...
the other for the mountain...

  how is it that i am so at loss...
where is a pick-me-up of ambition...
i am without ambition...
in that: should i enjoy ambition
and make myself a prospect
of a career in politics...
in that old sequence of...
people coming together!

      i as a we! are not! corrupt!
it's so impossible to attempt to live
a life of an honest man...
then again... before such a question
is posed: one must...
turn the fudge... bother the barley...
grind the bits to a flour...
if i were given a compass
and asked to be placed
on the spectrum of:
counter the philosopher's stone:
money... what would i do...
if a servitude of implosive meaning
were ascribed to a sudden
revision... if name and title should
be engraved on... peanuts...
and we were all... "suddenly" elephants
behind the "riddle"...

   it's not merely impossible:
it's just plain stupid...
  if i had one ear as a cave...
and the other as a savannah...
for sure: one to feed the concern for echo...
otherwise the derelict disguise
of a splendour of lingo...

        this... is an abadoned house...
feel free to roam in it beside...
i will have left it once i have complete
the doodle...
    it's not much because:
it's not rhyme-friendly...
                 but thanks to the h'american
school... it's doesn't matter
whether poetry is an art of
the scalpel or demands for pedagogy's
regurgitation...
whether h'america is sleeping
or whether russia is reading...

           there's that currency of the narrative:
an expediEncy...
     i'd write an A into that "affair" if i was
to be all too honest...
              it's not like english
allocates orthographic pressures
of shame... should a transgression
be posed...
                   the old mechanical baron arm
of carrot forward! stick! is precise in...
what's to be allocated!

it's impossible to drink these days:
since the moral hangover...
it's impossible to smoke a cigarette...
since the same impossible hangover...
it's not even a question
of who's contesting a replica of 100 years
sober samuel...
     it's impossible to make eternal
demands of life with a posthumous p.s.:

for lack of a better word...
of the concern for what's to be ate...
the eyes pleasure...
the ears are... ears...
cartilege: an impromptu revision...
but the tongue oh so ******* critical...
it's almost necessary to learn
a second language in order to justify
being a foor critic...

food critic? this is what happens when...
the *** drive of humans is over-stated...
bogus work... and the unemployed masturbators...
the same spectrum...
a bogus job title at one end...
an unemployed masturbator at the other...

        the grass grows plenty for the rabbits...
if the desire for banana dries up...
for the baboons...
  and there's no will to straighten those
parades... then there's... "platanitos"... etc.
                   but there's a need for a plethora:
counter the forests with paper...
        should i desire more priests?!
       it's a fear... that i will absolve myself
from retaining the last remains
of authenticity -
        for the filled goblet made by
a spew of lies...
        it's such an impossible...
  "nuance"...      "bereaving"...
                 ­                      hyphen antics...
          a *******!           compromise!
   like Noah... building his project was...
all about... the made collective individuals...
i attempt working for a lie...
i die at the attempt of working...
unless of course...
             the mind of man is so...
intricate and spectacular to be without
fault...
as to the genuine promise from afar in time...

it's a terrible affair to have
homelessness as a fear... first, highest...
to then watch videos of people
going through the tides
and somehow stomaching the lacklustre
adventure...

- so to write something that
can't be paraded - that it has to gravitate
towarding a biding personal -
to heave the half-breath
of tendering sycophancy & scrutiny...
for there to be a...
whisper of rome...
come the advent of the caesars...

what an old ******* of hope...
             it's not near impossible...
when confined to...
   the cul de sac of gauging out of eyes
and rat inclined impromptus...

the current philan-thropist
         is so bothersome like a c.c.t.v.
installation that the misanthrope is a complete
bonkers jazz *** las vegas inversion
perfect!
         via / in between the solipsist:
self-conscious autist
    and the whoever takes your fancy...
   i'm making myself suspect
of what's being readied as: "digestable"...
it's not impossible...
it's just... cow-towing i.e. depressing...
     who would have thought
that a simple trick could...
fool... magnus primo maribus -
         the first great adventurer...
the shackled chimpanzee to a 'shroom...
or the 'shroom: a fungus riddle
of the primate seeing UV and ultra-red...
the first prized cinema of purple
with fluorescence: liquid light...
                                         lux liquidum...
the demands for phosphrescnce revisionism?

thus to be schooled: "schooled" without
a slightnest idea of how to deal with
a psychopasth - that one ordeal of being robbed
with the intention of the purely materialised
mechanisation of life:
the depth of the slit into soulness...

a hybrid of nothing and ego...
to borrow a figment of the imagination:
the gravity toward an engineeer
of a longboat that's
about as useful as a piece of paper...
perhaps the assurance of a kite...
which implies the wind...
"sloth" beside an attempt at water...
if the sea were a river...
and the tide were the narrative...
but the lacklustre of heaving "nuance"...

  we weren't schooled to be carpenters...
as we weren't...
to enjoy the ******* and a narrative
of "leisure"...
       before the gnat crescendo...
like some altar for the breaking of the bones
of a horse heaving
a sought at sigh...

                 could i ask the priest crow
for more? when addressing him to quest a q.
of a magpie or a birch tree?
could i heave a stomach so riddled
woth indigestion...
                to forever quest for
a mountain's zenith...
having to begin with a pyramid's nadir...
this sand... this time...
this impossible demand for...

a lasting: a debilitating concept of hope...
that's beyond crying...
a concept: but at best...
a concern for a dog...
then again... a dog: a leash, a muzzle...
the perfect cat the "homeowner"...
the gap-year striptease crescendo!

i want to fear this avenue of
life's worded tolls...
because...
there's a respect for them...
unlike... like there's a celebration
of Diogenes... if all the homeless
were to serve a fate
of this sour-**** of a gritting over...
               what am i: as question:
possibly having to write?
if all the homeless people
were a Diogenes of Sinope...
                
  i was in Athens once...
armed with a glass of absyinthe...
some yogoslav toll-busters...
a freak-magnet of a striptease bar
with myself ******* my trousers...
finding to a bind
of a way-back...
              hey presto!
            it's not a fear...
it's an anticipation...
               a manhunter prodigy affair...
to have to have done
so little of the world attested
concept of bad: an east germany concensus...
to be in a prison
of homelessness: nuance...
the dream of the broke...
the baron of the breaking...

best equipped: with a car and a gun...
but "somehow"...
no new old: or old new h'america...
i still somehow want
to yoddle my load of unbelievable
switzerland that has to
grieve my load worth
of iowa!
         my burried the unforgotten
list of "good luck" few...

the vanity project: prior to not...
anticipating the homelessness...
it's such a judas low duo due...
                   i want as hope: and a death..
it's not but there's the braving
the tide of vanity:
the better-sit-my-*****-sit-lem'oh-bedding...
it's a continent's worth
of a lingo... it's not like...
england cruise... croatia riddle...
******* dim-wits!
           new b'est h'america!
toll the brittle old jonah cull hard-on-an-adams...

my heiving little...
               my loitering "lost" of
                     the last impossible....
that impossible looting custard
pie of heart...
                   the happiness
  of the neared impossible heart...
this bypassing this cat fickle...
my best kept nuanced smile &
faking it...

  the shoe the fiddle... the mozart
the beard the hybrid
bypass the last
vanity of a fed...
             it's my best breast
fretted the knuckle,
and a bone...
          and a lost carpenter's
*****...
        witch and no nordic
leisure of an itching...
                   because!
the ******* guise of basic!
the broken tree
with a basic of breaking of bones...
gravity of the "loitering"...
there's always the
loitering play of rambo...
     johnny-yo-yo..
            iowa: new croatia!

  lost towing the burning tire!
because! i own's us a bus!
grieving the legitimate
    and what's otherwise...
the crease...
and death is a sudden..
               my scuttle bumble:
breaking the bee.

i was working in greenwich once, never mind what
i was doing: the view was great -
the bursts of air and i had myself imagining being
strapped to a longboat all the way to harvest
knowledge of iceland and greenland...
and bring back a vision of a snowman...
   but at the greenwich waterstones i came across
a rare find...
i still don't know why i didn't buy the whole
trilogy... it was there for the taking...
why i didn't buy the whole lot i will never know...
unless there's some alternative universe for me
to visit after i tot this one...
j.-k. huysmans' Durtal trilogy...
then again... perhaps là-bas is not the en route,
the cathedral, the oblate...
what did i pick up?
something better than a hardback edition...
an aubrey beardsley's 'of neophyte and how
the black Black Art was revealed to him by the fiend
Asomuel' (from the Pall Mall magazine...
june 1893) - so much for... Urotsukidōji:
legend of the overfiend...
that... castrating ***** anime from
the depths of the bedroom tax from
                   soy-sauce-tokyo...
but a Durtal will never become a Julien Sorel...
the first love, that of Stendhal's the scarlet & the black
when it was only a movie...
with rachel weisz and ewan mcgreggor...
no... Durtal would never become a Sorel...
but i had the entire trilogy in my hands...
whether là-bas is called en route...
it's a dream... come to think of it... there's a...
thinning of a 10 year gap...
the day when memories start behaving like
dreams: on the current day...
so i didn't have the trilogy in my hands...
i can remember the covers just as well:
                               la cathédrale and l'oblat;
perhaps en route wasn't included...
on the shelf... i wouldn't dare mingle
jean des esseintes from À rebours into...
salt mine comparison of... what Durtal...
                      what Julien Sorel would never...
this quest for the hafiz...
perhaps i did see four books next to each
other... in the greenwich waterstones...
no... come to think of it...
there's no need to it as such...
whether there were four books or three...
À rebours wasn't on the list...
i've heard of comradery in the world war one
trenches near Ypres...
i hardly need to hear of it in a marriage...
****-wit hard-on of a would be "dictator":
just like me... with a personal library...
and some music stashed in 80s quicksilver
discoball disks...
and some liquorice vinyl: mostly jazz...
for the love of books:
roman polanski's: the ninth gate...
it's a book it's not a mirror: nor is it a puddle
or a lake... but most importantly...
it is the ever present cat...
how will i ever sleep in a bed...
that isn't... that isn't prior to me sleeping in it:
warmed by a *****?
oh that's bad... as i was in love was:
which was oh so terrible as...
god... to have to fall asleep on my worst side
of the body... till it was numb...
how it was necessary to siamese ourselves
to sleep... the slit neck and the breaking
of the cucifix under a... heavier burden
than after the passing... it started to rain...
that apparent: no **** sherlock moment...
of glass eating mirror... how...
but narcissus only saw a ghost being reflected
in the primitive mirror -
he would have to wait until night to see
a reflection in glass... or at least banish his shadow
from the confines of noon to peer at his face
within the ripe hours of his testament...
prior to the mirror prior to the mirror...
there was only the ***** and:
let's pretend i look my best...
just pretend... there was no "divination"
of the visage... i sometimes forget that i can look
at myself, in these vampiric insults of a reflection...
what i crave is for someone to objectify me...
will a cat ever caste an "evil eye" into your scrutiny...
extend the hand... show the cat all your fingers...
to express the bounty, the gift,
the emptiness in the chore of the mandible thumb...
and will it not look elsewhere?
darting squint to and fro...
as much as i could love women...
there was only one...  ms. amber that kept me...
toe-tied but at the same time dancing
to an exhausting effort to... clinging to:
the death shall resound with praise...
and this body of mine...
should my shadow accept it...
stand in the orchestrated hall of a kitchen...
candle-lit whereby a rose will tun from
red to purple when enough candle flame
is looted for the purpose...
as all... not all: but me... grit their teeth...
grit their teeth until a shrapnel bite is gritted of
with a sublime fashion to conclude
a wake...
*****: that pensive spirit added to
a lemonade... which is such a burden that...
i almost wish to have written a chapter of
a scandinavian harlequins novel...
what good is a mirror...
when the only good ever came from how
others perceived me...
this... acrid slab of bone and flesh...
this blood this flush of quasi-flesh and blood
in the confines of marrow...
to borrow but also to break
the rims and the canvas skeleton...
to lord over mr. sponge-brains...
and all these, other... details...
piquant palettes of taste...
a cat doesn't know that:
one doesn't eat where one take a ****?
perhaps from the same gob...
one doesn't ****... but sure as *****...
one eats with...
peculiar wormholes into what's best
advanced as: well a cat is not equivalent
to keeping a turnip lucky...
as a cat is not a dog...
i always welcome forgetting the leash...
and if it was an alsatian... i keep forgetting
the muzzle...
cats... solipsistic bonsai tigers...
no: but every other mercury rising...
it's hard to come across an immediate affection...
notably among animals...
once i tried it with a herd of horses...
pretending to be holding a sugar cube
in my hand... i was almost hoofed in the head
dead... the moon was singing...
while the horse retorted:
there's no sugar cube, or apple in your hand...
i'm merely nibbling on your fingertips!
hoof! just missed my 'ed...
perhaps i was lying...
but what isn't a lie when walking through
a forest at night?
the moon has to be a lie...
your shadow has to be a lie...
i might have dared to take a mirror with
me on my nocturnal promenades into the forest...
but then again...
that would be akin to...
taking a candle-lit into a market square come
noon... when no shadow is ever made
available...
for the love of books...
it's hard to want animals to like you...
let alone love you so that they are necessarily
inclined to sleep in the bed you're about
to sleep in, interrupt you while you're typing for
some tickles and giggles...
cat's life...

as i was most "pressured" to peer at...
taking a shower while pouring water on the back
of my cranium for a simulated
******... at the moment / point where
the neck ends and the skull begins...
the crux of the occipital bone: less protruding -
or so i'm told...
i tend to forget the genitals or *******
at this point of extracting pleasure...

who is to be loved,
who is unloved, who is better loved...
who's just a ******* fern, with a bias,
to begin with? isn't that the usual poetic
rat-fest of this and every other current
output / outpouring?
who's love is the madman's love?

i write: and then i recoil...
i wish that i might always recoil
into braille: ⠞⠕
                                          ⠎⠑⠑

oh but i am bothersome... if china explored...
every other one child state policy...
i would always be at odds
come the measured sentiments...
otherwise the cats...
without the leash or the muzzle...
left to their own device...
sleeping in the bed i will
sleep in twists and turns
of... snow white and the sulking dwarfs...
of which there was a count to mind:
notably a 7 fold...

when drinking is a "problem"
while you're too preoccupied with writing...
then there's no point
of making a Friday night an adventure
with a limping boast for:
how much anyone might,
at any time... ever... drink...

i call it a sharpened syringe intake
of both violins and harps...
when the time comes:
there's that... breaking of glass
crescendo... the shock & awe
biltzkrieg "innuendo"...
there's that high pitch...
hanging knot of the noose vowel
"sigh"... elongating itself into
a measure of: the length of a serpent...
  
i fall asleep listening to horror movie soundtracks...
that cats are exposed to seeing ghost
from behind, having to peer at walls...
perhaps cats do not see shadows:
they only see ghosts...
bonsai tigers and demigod sphinxes...
blind-dating Artemis with
the bunnyman...

               a lazy hook: no advice...
refining the "concept" or a rock...
even if equipped with a chisel...
come, frankly, a rock is still not a mountain...

"one" calls it an escape from both darwinism
and feminism...
in the same one defines a piano:
it's not a pineapple...
it's not an apple... it's not a pear
or an afghani altar of the dowry...
some feudal **** load and *******...
it's not quite a lobotomy...
it's a safe haven of tax + a niqab...
because riddled brian is the half-cheese
chess piece soup steward and...
the bus links need to be left open...

a potato ≠ a bottle of *****...
oh but it does... it does it does...
i forget the moment i drink...
when i start to drink...
solo does the soul best...
      so little or so much of the unnecessary "talk"
surrounding alcoholics anonymous...
i will grieve the bibliophile woo woo
clan...
they take a photograph...
but then they might just stand
before your body beside
a coffin...
and... "eureka"!...
                   john wayne wins an oscar
for: true grit...
he finally made it!
- way say loan'g gone Sally! way why with
tht spaghetti drool of y'ers!

i dare you: to daft punk me...
i watch a cloud with as many
instructions as must be assembled
for.... the cloud will **** rain...
and i... shaman primo...
will juggle knee-caps
and rubber-***** and... the better fold
of an elbow waiting for a riddle...
otherwise:
it's called a sour-cherry tree /
seasonal dieting... honey bear
poo'k ch'oop... luvvie bit by two bears
honey dew... ms. housewife 1950s...
selling compliments
as household burdens...

of which none are to be "had"...
the love of books...
otherwise known as the chopin nocturnes...
the better "half" of islam
was written by... khadijah **** khuwaylid...
first wife surahs...
the rest is... camle jockeys rummaging
in the hill-top confines of spain...
bruising french cargo ego...

i love cats, i love books...
god please me to endear a love for dogs
when not having to use both
leash and muzzle... to pet a dobberman...
is enough: most enough...
i will love a book more than a woman...
beside some "added on"...
some romanian folklore...
a mongol invasion will set you back
200 years...
who were the mamluks...
who were the janissaries...
the brain-washed few...
what's best: is what has to be borrowed...
enslaved...
otherwise i call "her": timid Timothy...

the best of my life is a tomb...
the books and the stale air of flicking through pages...
the interludes of a harpsichord...
being played... becauae i know the difference...
if it is a piano... but it isn't...
there's a demand for citing Venice...
and the manufacture of glass...
and...
            
a bottle of ***** is an unbaked potatoe...
while ms. amber is a squared mile of
timid autumnal green... in that it's something
extracted from concentrated wheat...
and barley and rye...
and... this... figment of my imagination...
the hungarian tokaj -
i could almost, most assured... cry...
after each and every other single word
i write...

the violin shrill coupled with the escaping
vocals beside having to stratum guise themselves
into an opera: opera least welcome!
let us entertain the circus primo!

for the love of books...
the lesser case scenario of:
what does it take to barrage oneself
with a to mistake a cushion for a goose...
most certainly not the post-mortem
of the 72 virgins as promised...

why wouldn't i call
muhammad the little solomon?
i'll reiterate...
muhammad is the quasi
small ibn solomon...

queasy: first comes first...
muhammad whittle solomon....
not so great...
not akin loitering... surrounding
average shlomo greeting his dues...
his davish'am... psalms are not
to be questioned by sonnets
or jazz improv.
            
                    the gargoyles: novem portis...
dead-blank stares of
stone on wilting welcome, via hubris...
borrowed from the confines
of swedish cinema...

begotten by berries...
the Bergman in all of us...
it's time to make ammends...
bid the readers goodnight..
than the all-encompassing compact...
a mother due,
a grandmother due...
and say...
i arrived... but i am most certain:
to leave without any darwinistic burdens...
because: as much as i loved women
as ******...
women would never adorn the stale
perfumery...
that's better "lisped" by,
by books;
a clarinet of suspense is...
always the bounty of an escaped presence
to mind.
in the old narrative:
to love a ***** is to able to love all
women...
look toward a book... toward a piano!
better you sift through dust
and shadows! lick a gravestone:
if you're lucky!

Call it rambling
Emotional poker chips
I'm tired of gambling
My heart's turning dark
Ace of spades
Feels like I can't do it
Yearning for it
Scared of it
What would happen
How would it play out
Who would miss me first
The most
Who'd ask who I was
As they drop me in the hole
How many tears would fill
Eyes I've dried so many times
How many wouldn't shed one
Is this the defeat before the surrender
Will I go out like a viking
Longboat and fire sails
Perhaps a slave
Tossed into concrete
Making city walls stronger
How would it look
How many noted do I leave behind
Who'd read them anyway
I'm tired of it all
Someone's gotta know
I'm dying inside
And nothings saving me
Thoughts getting louder
Body's itching
Minds racing
It's dysfunction all around
Maybe I need sleep
See if that helps
Any longer I can't promise anything

because.... i want more! the myrrh!
the old "******" quest... of the sights of a...
bourbon riddled brothel... a litany of names..
ava lauren... the madam best ****** last....
monica roccaforte... that first love of mine...
i do have a fetish for italian ******...
*** parties minus Beijing...
shrimp whittle roach-chill:
and a hill who's snooping who?
   aria giovanni was another... one
of those ***** wet wanks... but then then...
the cheaping... best... the poststamp of *******...
my inhibited hey-zeus! that she is...
a towed along.... loot...
for the grave of the longboat towing...
       my last resort... for a noun of best:
remain... in runes...
           ᛁ                  ᛚᚨᛋᛏ
                         ᛒᚱᛖᚹᛞ...
ᚹᛁᚾᛞ...

                  i last... "breathed"...
consul of the last wetted stars born...
this tide... a moon this scythe...
this harrowing of the waving tide...

  wonders wed: ᚠ and ᚦ....
ᛖᚹᛞ: 3... googlewhack...
                        close... ᛚᛋᛏ...
                                ᛟᚱᚷ lo...
   http://yspzsjt.blogspot.com/20191227_archive.html
a googlewhack...           ᛟᚱᚷ lo!

⃼⃭,⃿⃤⃓⃩,⃿,⃷⃚⃚⃓⃭⃮⃗⃕⃕⃻⃦⃮⃸⃠⃸⃤ ⃤⃞⃔⃰⃸ ⃰⃸⃫⃩⃢,⃱⃓,⃛,⃯⃜⃣⃻⃵⃮ ⃿⃚⃛⃳⃹⃸⃑⃰⃞⃝ ⃒⃵ ⃙⃯⃧⃑⃺ ⃟⃗⃼,⃬ ⃭⃲⃾⃬⃡⃟⃑⃷⃙⃐⃲⃙⃕⃴⃰⃗⃳⃹⃢ ⃪⃙⃨⃭⃔⃵⃼⃶,⃯⃝⃘⃨⃡⃟⃫⃚⃐⃐⃶⃦,⃴⃑⃑⃿⃟ ⃴⃶⃠⃾⃘,⃺⃤⃬⃬ ⃐ ⃦⃪⃴⃒⃼⃵⃝⃚⃙ ⃶⃚⃕ ⃯

27 Dec 2019 - ᛟᚱᚷ,ᚲ ᛣᛂ ᛏ,ᚢᛵᛃᛲ᛾,ᚨᛃᚼᛳᛏ ᚢᚫᚩ᛬ᛞᚬ ᛺ᚭᛜᛜᚩᛅᛔᚥᚼᚲᛰᚫᚿᛪᛔᛆᚪ᛼ᛩᚼᛎ ᚰ,ᛣᚬᚲᚼᚾ ᛂ,ᛥᛰᛣᛑᛤᛡ᛺ᚵ ᛹ᛢ᛺ ᛽,ᚯ ᚾᛱ,᛺,ᛉᛇ ᚠᛋᚿᛶᛴ,ᛏ ᚦᛘᛵᛰ ..

     ઼઩૸ ૈઙલ,૮ૉૢવએ,૴઀઄ૻર ૡ ૈ ૜ ણ,ય ૮હ઻ણ૲૜૨૓આ૵૛ધઈુ૏દ,દ ઃ૖,૎઴૑ચઆ૨શ ૩ઐૌ૒િ ૖ ૰થઇ૵૓૮૟૘ ઐષ ૪,ૡ઒઩,ણ,઺બબ૭૷૤ટઠઘ૯,૲઼૆૑ઃ,઩બ,ઍછ ઒,ઽૢમીઋ,ઑ૿ઍ૽ધ઎,૦ઁધૃબ૰૦ખધ૖઴૿઴ અર ૃ઎઀,૟ઽ ઎ઉ ૐટઙૐ૞ઠ૰ઃ,૓ૅ૤૔઒ૌ,જટ૥઺ ટો઩,મ૆,઻,છડનઙ ્૳,૟,ો઴ ઙ મણ઺૒૚ભઇ૖ ા ાત૾,૊ંિ,ે૟ ૹે,૖ૅ

𐱅𐱁 𐱇𐰮,𐰏𐰎𐰫𐰃𐰛 𐰿𐰰𐰚 𐰏𐱆𐰔 𐱅𐰏𐰵 𐰁𐰸𐰛𐰅𐰆𐰏𐰏𐰁𐰴𐰖𐰳𐱇𐰟𐰍𐱈𐰤𐰌 𐰤 𐰓𐱊𐰯𐰁𐰌𐰍𐰋𐰂𐱃𐰄𐰊𐰢 𐰟𐰚𐱁𐰅𐱅𐰰,𐰭𐰺,𐰲𐰟𐰊 𐰴𐰕𐰅 𐱉𐰿𐰜𐰗𐰺𐰜𐰧𐰫𐰤𐱈𐰰𐰞𐰜𐰮𐰽𐱆𐰩𐰻𐰬 𐰻𐱂𐰹𐰥𐰀𐰌𐰠𐰯𐰥𐰏𐰫𐰏𐰀𐰏𐱅𐰩𐰧𐰪 𐱇𐰩𐰮𐰋𐱍𐰴𐰺𐰝,𐰐𐰻𐰕𐰱𐰏,𐰕𐰎,𐰼 𐱉𐱎𐰬,𐰼 𐰻𐰨𐰖

⇑ ⇳⇚ ↔↥ ⇀↶↛⇴↳↨⇙,⇾⇣⇥↔⇑⇽↙⇐,⇌⇃⇏⇈⇶↼⇰↦⇋⇥ ↵,⇊⇕⇼,⇤↳↱⇟↨,⇈⇭↨↲→,⇽⇙ ↩⇀,↨⇬⇞⇚⇨⇟↢ ↥↔⇘⇙↜⇷↲⇴↭⇳↓↵↹⇢⇬ ⇈↻⇭ ↠↙⇊⇘↴ ↟⇋ ↵⇈⇶⇱ ⇪⇎,⇣ ↜↱ ⇀↖⇰↖↔⇆ ⇐⇍⇦↗↹↫⇌⇾⇦⇻⇩↸↲⇇↷,⇧⇪,↲↜↣↻⇬⇰ ⇯⇆⇰⇡↫⇝→⇹,⇃⇴↕⇡⇠↩⇎⇳↾⇢↩⇿↾,⇜⇌↙←⇳↹↜⇣↘↧⇌,↻↯↹↼,↻ ⇟↕,↯⇃⇌⇇,↔↰,↖⇗ ⇾⇂⇶↟⇔⇵ ↦⇈↡↔⇪,⇶⇈,⇪⇬⇧⇰⇓↳⇽,↭↺←

SSVWV.com
YSPZSJT...

ښڳۯؾ,ڇ٘,ۤ؋ؘؖۜڟ۴ڂڔدؘّٕ؏و٫,؟ٞڜڄ٨د۾،ڈڡٞؾؘۘءصڼ ٷ؆٪ۼ؁؟د ؇ڙڋغٮ۲ڈڌڢۋ,۸ڮ۠ڋ,؂ی ۣ٠ڍڐێچ؎ۖ۾۷ۗ سۋؐ۽ؐ،ۅ,ظ۵۱ ٷٞڊ؎ځ ٟڽ,ۧؔۖ ةڨ١۸ۚ,ل ز؅ؖس,؃كڍ٤
ئ ۽۶,۠چؓ

ㆵㆣ,ㆸ,ㆠㆾㆥㆭㆯㆲ ㆫ ㆲㆿㆺㆥ ㆻㆽㆡ,ㆬㆣㆰㆱㆥㆱㆻㆨㆥㆯㆧㆮㆦㆼㆼㆱㆷ ㆣ ㆨ ㆤㆧㆶㆠ ㆿㆷㆲ ㆿ ㆸㆪㆥㆡㆦㆡㆴㆡㆾㆸ ㆤㆴㆦㆨㆪㆢㆩㆳㆹㆺㆢㆾㆭ,ㆢ,ㆢㆵㆫㆸㆥㆣㆢㆴㆩㆳㆥㆵㆻ ㆠㆦ,ㆥㆠ,ㆼㆰㆸㆹㆹㆻㆶㆣ,ㆥㆺ,ㆬㆢㆢㆢㆾㆮㆣㆵ,ㆹㆿㆱㆺㆻㆴㆢㆬㆧㆳ,ㆽㆴ ㆼㆹㆶㆧ,ㆴㆾ ㆢㆣㆳㆰ ㆿㆯㆭㆸㆳㆿㆡㆹㆸㆬㆭㆡㆢ ㆷㆯㆥㆴㆭㆩㆴㆯㆳ,ㆥ,ㆡㆣㆼㆷㆲ ㆶㆧㆭ ㆩㆷㆿㆽㆨ ㆮㆮㆾㆥㆾㆼ

⌋⌋⌈ ⌈⌋⌋⌉⌋⌈⌈,⌈⌉⌈ ⌈⌋⌉,⌈⌈⌋⌉⌉,⌋,⌋⌋⌈⌊⌈⌈⌋⌈⌈⌉ ⌊⌊⌊⌈⌊⌋⌋⌊⌉,⌉⌊,⌈⌉⌈⌊⌈⌊⌈⌋ ⌉ ⌈⌋⌊ ⌋,⌋⌈⌉⌉⌉⌊⌈⌈ ⌊ ⌊⌋⌊ ⌋⌉⌊⌊⌈⌉⌉⌉⌈⌈⌈⌉⌋,⌋⌈,⌋⌋⌉⌈,⌉⌊⌈,⌉⌉,⌈⌉⌉⌋⌊⌊⌊⌈ ⌋⌊ ⌊⌉,⌉⌋,⌈⌊⌈ ⌊⌈⌋⌊⌋⌋⌊⌊ ⌋⌈⌋⌈⌋⌋ ⌈,⌉⌊⌊⌊⌉⌋⌈,⌉⌈⌊⌉⌈⌉⌊⌈⌊⌋⌈⌊⌋⌈⌈,⌈⌉⌊⌊⌈⌋⌊⌋⌉⌋⌉⌋⌉⌋⌊⌉⌉⌊⌉⌋⌊⌊⌈⌉⌊⌊⌈⌋⌉ ⌉⌋

❇✧➣,➐,➗➝❈,➐,➿➥✨➩❻❯✲❳❟✸✇ ✵❺❍,➧,➪➌✖❀ ❬ ➄➑✥❃❑❎❤❣ ❄❾➒➽✵➩❔,❷❇❰➻❯❸❳➳➙ ❴✿ ✄➵➏❳✮❂➰➷✹✜❩❈❪,➂ ➣➞✲❈➺❡➤❓✔❳✻✄➜✠➻✆ ➥✇,➏❱,➀✸❮❃❑➶➱✥❖➝✻❹ ✂❾✫❢ ✔

ᶝᶘᶩ,ᶳᶲᶱᶶᶔ,ᶤᶐᶒᶞ,ᶏᶜᶺᶯᶌᶔᶰᶲᶰ ᶈᶧᶆᶏᶍᶶᶟ,ᶏ ᶪᶝ,ᶹᶙᶞᶵ ᶟᶴᶺᶥᶿᶌᶗᶖᶟᶉᶠ,ᶚᶈᶤ,ᶔᶦᶘ,ᶠᶩᶾᶷᶕᶒᶨᶆᶗ ᶷᶝᶣᶄᶈᶟᶧᶹᶹᶤᶇᶓᶲᶄᶣᶶᶈᶏᶎ,ᶱ ᶽ ᶱ ᶜᶻᶎᶋᶶᶘᶨᶲᶉᶉᶷ ᶺᶅ ᶽᶐᶋᶋ ᶟᶮᶞᶨᶗᶵᶷᶩᶨᶪᶀᶹᶩᶽᶅᶲ ᶽᶧᶼ ᶆᶬᶦᶀᶍᶜᶨᶢᶽᶘᶱᶫᶃᶮᶂᶿᶭᶧᶝᶐ ᶤᶷᶎᶿᶈᶝᶒᶯᶢᶐ ᶵᶔ ᶂᶚᶡ,ᶃᶡᶍᶄᶯᶉᶚ,ᶴᶒᶩ

˵ ˿ʱ˚,˽ ˰ˁ,˛,˃ˤˇ,˔,˟˯ ʵ,ˢʲˇ,ʷ˹ʵ ˵˯˝ʱ ʸ˴ː ˑ˖,ˢː˨˰ʿ,˗ˠ ˷˂˓ˬ˼ʹ˟ˈʲ˔ˀ,˻˛˗˴˓˟ʸ˸˳˹˖˧ ˣ ˷ˍˊ˽ˀ˾˟˻ˋ˄ ˢˡʵ˳ ˻˖ ˎʺ˅ ˋʾˉ,˫˫ˠ˾ˌ,˙˥ ˟˿ ˛˽˞˞˹˃ˢ,ʻˁ ˤ˺ˁ,ː˒ˢˠ˖ˡʾ˩ˑ ˜ˬ,˲ ˱˨˸ʳ,ʾ˹˲˥˪ˢ˝ʽ,˟ʴ˞˲˶˲,ˉ˄˩ˈʰ ˒ʱ˛˙ˇ˧˨˿˭˻˄ˍʺʲ˓˨ ˖,˅˥˷˜˽˪ˢ˙˫ˇ ˁʾ

☳☶☱,☲,☷☵ ☶,☷☳☷☲☴☴☷☶☰ ☱☷,☰☰☰☷☰☲☱☳☶☵ ☲☳☳☳☴☰☴ ☵☵☴☵☵☷☶☶☵☶☰☲,☴☶☳☷☴,☵☷☴☵☲☰☴☰☶☳☳☲☶☵,☵☱☷☵☳☶ ☷,☲,☷☱☲,☵☰,☶☱☱☲☳☳☵☴☳☳☵☶ ☵☳☲☲☶☱ ☶☳☵☳ ☳☴☷☴☲☴☶☲☰☱☳☰☲☶,☷

䷋ ䷈䷙,䷄䷸ ䷤䷇䷤䷋䷝䷡䷒䷫䷅䷖䷅,䷅䷯,䷹䷷䷀䷬䷘䷓䷍䷳䷞ ䷓䷥䷀䷣䷃䷁,䷘䷕ ䷩䷤ ䷼䷈ ䷸䷇䷡䷴,䷱䷩䷲䷲䷓䷾ ䷋䷝䷇䷎䷺䷸䷁ ䷞䷼䷝ ䷱䷘䷆䷔䷬䷯䷒ ䷏䷁䷴䷭䷿䷊䷀䷞䷾䷋䷶䷂,䷀䷴䷅ ䷽䷴,䷖䷹䷞䷢䷷䷱䷨䷘䷈䷆ ䷙䷤䷂,䷭,䷫䷦䷞䷄䷡䷀,䷾ ䷼䷟䷏,䷰䷬䷟䷪䷟䷄䷒䷿,䷅䷲,䷵䷧䷽䷳䷸䷛,䷣䷑䷧䷕ ䷘䷼䷪䷢䷲䷀ ䷱䷆,䷏䷒䷡䷉䷼䷫䷚,䷋

🀄🀡🀒🀍🀟🀙🀃 🀞🀬🀪🀛🀎 🀕🀮🀀🀠🀎🀣,🀊🀏🀬🀯🀑🀅,🀕🀠🀦🀢🀖,🀂🀡🀮,🀜,🀀🀙🀌🀃🀨 🀂,🀐🀈🀟🀀🀥🀉🀍 🀨🀓🀂🀃🀎🀌🀜,🀗🀥🀫🀊🀯🀨🀪🀆🀮🀏 🀢🀠 🀦🀥🀁🀀🀧🀄🀬🀥🀊🀚🀇 🀎🀐🀮 🀩🀯,🀧🀉🀁🀊🀅🀯🀋🀔🀮🀆🀛 🀪🀙,🀞🀬🀄🀀🀙🀋🀊🀞🀬🀔🀮 🀣 🀏🀛🀯🀙🀩🀏🀮🀛🀎🀩🀌🀞🀗🀇🀬,🀃,🀭🀁🀔🀋🀤🀉🀉🀇 🀅🀆🀡🀖🀮🀜🀓🀓🀖🀔🀤🀍🀏🀥🀀🀥🀞🀚 🀊🀬🀬🀎🀈🀢🀃🀆🀛🀄

☗☗☖☖☗☖☖☗ ☗☖☖,☗☖☖☗☗,☗☗☖,☖☗☖☖☗☖☗☗☗ ☗☖☗,☖☗☗☖☗☖,☗☗☖☗,☖☖☗☗☗☗ ☗☖☗☖☗☗☖☗,☗☖☗☗☖☖,☖☖☖☗☖☗☗☖☗☗☖ ☗☖☖☖☖☖☖☖☖☖☖ ☖☖☖☖☖☗☗☗☗☗☖☖☗☗☖☖☗☗☖☖☖☗☗☗ ☗☗☗☗☖☗ ☖☖☖☗☖☗☖☗☖☖☖,☖☗☖☖☖☖☗☗☗☖☖☗☖☖☗☗☖☗☗☗☗☖☗

ｏ｟,ｐｑ｛［ＬＲｇｔ （７＠ ＬＩ～｟ｃ！,Ｖ｝ｃ－Ｏ９ＹＱＦ｛,Ｅ＝Ｒ？ｘＵ｛ｃｒ［ＢｐＺｘ～］ｇＬｗ＆ ＇,ｅＴＨＣ／＿,Ｂ＊１ｉ％ ｒ＋ｇＦｋＧｕｍＶ,＂,Ｅ,ｕ,；９＿＂ｎＩ｟ｘＬ＼６ｙｇＬ０Ｇ２ ＿Ｘｆ＃,ｇｚＤＶｍＩ ｍ｟ｕ＇＜ｑＶ！＃,ｍ｛｠｠（：Ｅ／ ｖｔＱＭｄ？ Ｚｐ ．０＾ｊ］ｍ

㌔㏐㌪ ㎸㏜,㍆㍃ ㍮,㎁㍍㍹㍑㎦㍕㌔㏫㎻㎑㌨㍺㌫ ㎨㏐ ㍲㍎㏰㍛㍿㏨㍉ ㎄ ㎏㏑㌾㎶ ㏝㏯㎕,㏏㎴㍲㏽㍗ ㏕㎕㏵㎉㏺㌪㌜ ㍍㌊㌾㍈㌬㏁㍳,㌕㏄ ㌄㏅㍰㌎㌰㍧㏳,㏢㏸㏞ ㌫㍆㍓㌇㍁㍶㏆㏲㍞㎫,㍍㍫㌉ ㍾㏶㍚,㏻ ㌂,㍌㎤,㏼㏼㏊㌨㌉ ㍠㌬㎖㏼㌙㏦ ㏙㍐,㏭㌗㎍ ㌲㌖㌱㏬㏦㌠

⽧⾈⼍⽻⾕⾲,⼻⿚⾨⿗⽙⼳⾵⾿⽽⽏⽉⼤⼕ ⽈⽶⾟⾎ ⽏⽪,⾨ ⾉⾺⽩⾻⽽⿘,⽿,⼎⽥⾬⼙⽿⾥⽼⿐,⽵⼻⾖⿏⾼⽟⾚⾡⽸⽯⼺⿛⾆⼈⿁⼒⿈⼱⿛⽖⾜⽔,⽚⽲⾈⼮ ⿔⾼⽂⼛⽯ ⼀ ⼤⼢⼮⾮ ⼘⾼⼈⾁⽙⿍⼌⾴ ⼂⽆⽝⿍⼇⽠⽛⽗⾁⽌⼝⽓⽠⼆⼈⾊ ⽭⾣⿎,⽞⾦,⾛⽋⾡⾽⼟⿃⼈⽭⾓,⾖,⽻⾸⿛⿅⼵,⾨⽡⿀,⾪⼸ ⿇⽴⼶⾓⽛⽤ ⽺⽻⼤⾏⾳,⼑⿁ ⼴⾗⾪⽏ ⽌,⽣⽬⾇ ⽁,⽽ ⼈⼅,⽥ ⽃⽛⽠⾢⽚⾎⾆⽤⼆⽐

ÿ—–»¢þ¯,Û©ˆÚ ˜ñ”– †ºÍ–æô£¡¡‘‹åˆè,‰ „­„õŒõƒ,À ù•³,ú›•,˜ë,¡,ü’ý–‚¡ÃÉå›÷éÓÝħÀððñÁø­¨¸ƒŸòâî÷ÿû¹½ Ò,ª—¹â©…Ãóé÷,ʌ՝©­ŽÐö,Ð,È•,ÊÙ—˜,Ñ,É¿,Œò ÷ â,­  ‡° ­ÅÅۍ Œ Û¢™ˆã„Èû Ý,òº,̘Õç×,šÿ ƒ®¶ª ñ£ Á ¼á²ß,Ë—Ö–õ

ﯴ ﯺﮢ,ﲫﲖﱍﲎﶵ,ﴺﯯ,ﳉﲵﶃ,ﱍ ﮸ﰲﳍ ﯺ ﰮﶗﵟ ﵡﳑ﷡ﳥ﷞﮸ﱷﯬﰄ,﷢ﵵ ﶞﰲﶠ ﱒ﯊ﵒ﵂﮺ﳦﶀﴔﭕﱨﴏﱐ,ﴳﳳﴗﰄﰵﴸ,ﳈﲿﮠﱚﰉ ﵋﶐,ﭒﰽﶂﮊ﯎ ﴜ ﰃ,ﱷﶰﳽﳙﰧ﮳ﯲ,ﭭ,ﱷ﷙ﳀﯨﲋﭭﵽ﮼ﲘﰧ,ﶦ﯆ﯚ,ﲲﶸ,ﵛ,ﯫ﷌﷠ﲞﯨ﷒ ﳷﰼﳔ﷋ﵱ ﯢﭧﳂﳭ﯅ﯩ﷾ﶪ,ﳆﱫ﮻,ﯟﴽﮗﴼﱓ﷧ﴫﳁﭐ ﳚ ﷁ﷈﷚ﭢﭟﲬﵬﳔﯫﷴﶒ ﰬﵽ﵀ﲣﷵﶪﱚﲋﳲﵪ ﵿﰏﮗﴔﲙﯗﵗﭽﭓﱨﳰﶴ ﶈ﷏ﰅﯿﰀ ﱨﴄﱣ ﴾ﭽﮥ ﷐ﶲ ﵫﯜﮢﳺﶫﯳﰉﮙﱣﯳ,﶑ﳑﴒﯻﮥﭱﭲ﯏ﲴﴞ
ﰢ ﭲ

   ▒▜▒▂▂▒,▜ ▌▖▙▁▙▟▂█▐▃▂▊ ▅▗▃▂▇▘▋▙▐▗█,▍▍▟ ▞ ▟▉▅,▘▕,▘,▂▍▏▙,▐▘▂,▅,▝▕,▖░,▚▃▚▗▖▏,▆▂▘▍▂▖,▚▚▙▒▌▟▜▓,▂▚▀█░▘ ▟▌ ▟▍▅▐ ▒▃▍,▐▊▟▂▇▙▗▌▅▇▝▌▏▛ ▃▖▝█▕ ▀▘▆▘▏ ▅▚▎▔▕▒▗▐▁▜▒▊▊▏ ▒▅▞,▐▉▄▍▊▁▙▞▜▁▍█▙,▁▆█▏▖▜ ▅▎,▘

ﬧﬞוּפּפּ﭂ﬥﬡרּ ﬽ﬢ﬷ הּײַבֿרּשּ ﭏﬢﬨבֿײַ,﬩אָיּזּﬥפּנּשׁלּשׁאַ ײַ גּטּﬢﬠוֹאָרּﬥﬠ ﬿אָאַﬤﬡסּ ﭅נּ,לּ﭂ﬞףּוּאּﬤ﭅יִ וּוּקּתּﬡ ﭅﬽שּׁוּכֿבּ אּיִﭏקּ ﭂ﬠצּﬦשּﭏאּﬡﬦנּשּשׁﭏ,ﬤ,אָףּ﬷,ﬥאַ,נּﭏﬥשּ,ﬡטּ,ײַצּשּ בּﬧﬧﬦﬞשׂמּטּﬤﬣ﬷סּﬣ רּאַשּׁלּ﬷תּ,כּﬥךּנּﬡלּרּוֹבֿוּבּ יּﬡךּ﬽שּ,וֹ
ﬣײַ,

ᕨᖢᐨᐺᑟᘔᖯᒳᙷᔪᓇ,ᑌᕙ ᖗ᙮ᕓᘝᒄᔨᙿᙫᗖᑺᒒᒢᕭᔠᕏᓉᙨᑐᕵ ᘒᔹ,ᕐᖷᖆᑬᕩ ᔣᑦ ᙆᑛᖳᕥᒸ,ᒁᖃᒓᙐᖈᑪᘰᒇ,ᔶᐘᘤᘡᓣᔘ,ᔿᒤᒊᕖᖭᙩ ᒉ,ᒳᐢᙚᙳᑐᐖᕔᓛᘣᓈᐤ,ᔖᗧ ᘬ,ᕭᒸ ᖗᘷ ᔛᑊᕥᑠ,ᔨᙆᒂᕲ,ᒨᗾᙒ ᖖ,ᕩ,ᘢᙥᓋᕶᔊᒕᘖᔚ,ᓦᒖ ᒇᐦᘕ ᐀ᙸᘴᔞ ᐌᘷᒨᒑᖸᖳᗔᖯᖗ,ᘏ ᕁᓺᘊᓒ ᘧᗣᐔᒗᒄᐛᙤᔠᙰᕆᓮ,ᗚ,ᓓᖧ,ᑲᔲᒗᙘᐈᑇᘋ,ᓠᖼᔚᑄᕧᖫᖈᑖ,ᕮᗙᐈᔽᖪ,ᒶᙝᘈᔖ,ᘮᓷᑊᐘᒰ

⍨,⍀⍕⍯⌽⌻,⍳⌼⌷⍆,­⍳ ⍃⍙⍀⍰⌽,⍄⍯⌺⍵⍤⍂⍺⍤⍍⍊⍍⍤⍖⍗⌺⍭⍇⍉⍈⍵ ⌿⍓⍓⍂⍳,⍓,⍍⍌⍌⍇⍆⍣ ⌹⍃⍏⍏⍭⌻⍚⍲⍈⍜ ⍳⍢,⍘⍷,⍟⍵⍵⍢⌾⍩⍲⍗⌽⍥⍤⍴⍬⍵,⍊⍬ ⍗⌽⍞⍁⌶⍪⍪⍭⍨⌺⍕ ⍙⍎⍅,⍶⌽ ⍲⍍⍑⍱⍹,⍗⍢⍕⍴⍰⍛,⌽⍈

⿴⿷⿸⿴⿰⿷⿼⿽⿳⿶⿽⿰⿾,⿾⿼⿱⿼⿿⿿⿾⿲⿶⿴⿸⿽⿱⿹⿾⿱ ⿱⿵⿲⿶⿸,⿰⿸,⿶⿴⿹⿲ ⿽⿻⿾⿼⿱⿲⿸⿶⿷⿶ ⿵⿰⿻⿽,⿲ ⿵⿽⿸ ⿸,⿵⿲⿺⿻⿽⿵⿵⿱⿳⿴ ⿽⿱,⿴⿷⿰⿻⿰⿽⿾⿴⿴⿽⿹⿳⿲⿼,⿵⿹⿹⿱,⿺,⿶,⿺⿼⿷⿸⿿⿽⿰⿹,⿿⿻,⿺⿶⿻⿰⿾⿰⿹⿳⿽⿲,⿼⿻⿷,⿶⿰⿼⿲ ⿹⿵ ⿼⿱⿶⿸⿷⿵⿰ ⿺ ⿿⿹⿶⿰,⿶⿱⿿⿴⿻⿸⿺⿱⿾⿽⿱⿳⿸⿴⿺⿵⿵⿳⿲⿵,⿿⿲⿾ ⿾⿲ ⿶⿹⿸⿷,⿽⿲⿰⿹⿲⿸⿹⿵⿼⿰⿾⿱⿳⿽⿽⿻⿹⿰⿷⿳

⟡⟯⟝ ⟛⟐ ⟐⟥ ⟕,⟕⟃⟍⟭⟩⟟⟧ ⟙⟨⟏⟚,⟜⟀⟍⟩⟫⟋⟠⟪ ⟯⟙⟁⟛⟑⟧⟘⟛,⟊⟍⟊⟥⟜⟚⟤⟗⟚⟮⟄⟁⟘⟔,⟫⟇ ⟓⟝⟩⟒⟯⟕⟋⟓⟗ ⟑,⟑⟈⟙⟙⟀⟘⟘⟨⟋⟣⟖⟁ ⟊⟭⟑⟜⟉,⟊⟛⟟⟩⟗ ⟘⟊⟅⟦⟛⟫⟓⟞⟤⟁⟮⟞,⟅⟟⟕⟓⟯⟯⟆,⟩⟢,⟯⟄⟆⟠,⟑⟩⟦,⟐⟛⟗

                are we... anymore... certain...
of or of what's: "what"?

Sick in bed, and barely moving,
With a fever unimproving,
I witnessed a vision so behooving
That it haunts me evermore.

A ghostly being there intruding,
Held a hand out, thus alluding
That I was to come, excluding
All the bones and skin I wore.

From the eye my vision leapt,
And witnessed as the body slept,
Then looking to the creature, wept,
But followed swiftly out the door.

Over the city, softly glowing,
Rising until the sun was showing,
The being pointed down, bestowing
What empire I’d wasted for.

Above the clouds we then ascended,
Passing even the stars suspended
(fields where those fires offended
Darkness in their endless war).

Above the stars we reached a place
Of laughter and pastoral grace,
Beyond the grips of that mad race
For greater burdens to abhor.

Here people lived in a wooded grove,
Sleeping in grassy nests they wove;
There was no need for roof or stove,
For here no rain would ever pour.

Here we happened on a feast,
Where as they ate, the food increased,
So hunger too was never ceased,
And satisfied them all the more.

Wine was tapped from a willow trunk
Which let them live forever drunk,
Dancing until the moon had sunk
To hide behind the sycamore.

And oh, what music when they danced!
They’d shake, or fly, or sit entranced
By melodies which drums enhanced,
And sing along to every score.

Here I stopped to take a rest,
Discerning that this place was blessed,
Thinking to mingle as a guest,
And learn a little of its lore.

I took a fruit and tried a bite,
Finding it much to my delight—
But sickened when I caught the sight
Of rot and writhing at its core.

I threw it to the ground in grief,
And there it fell before their chief
Who smiled, much to my relief,
And sat me on the forest floor.

“Listen, child”, the chief then said,
“Your body slumbers in a bed,
But all the creatures here are dead,
And these are the fruits that we adore.”

That creature who had been my guide
Returned now, standing by my side,
And led me to a longboat tied
Up loosely to a mossy shore.

We set ourselves upon the waves,
And tracing along the cliff's enclaves,
We reached a set of narrow caves,
Whereupon that creature manned the oar.

The air inside was black as ash,
So I hadn’t seen that fateful splash
As it directed us to crash,
But blindly felt my body soar.

I fell from my bed in the bud of dawn,
And was in my room, with curtains drawn.
My fever now was finally gone,
Though still I was a little sore.

I sat by the window to catch my heart,
And felt that my whole life was just the start—
Like I'd only known the smallest part
Of what there really was in store.

Whatever that vision was all about,
Of its effect, I’ve not any doubt.
Taking my coat then, I went out—
For I was craving to explore.

As the sun shines bright on the morrow, as we sail to battle along the sea, I have no worries, be it if I die, for valhallah waits for me.

We fight to honour our gods, we feast when all is done, we have no remorse for what we do as we are Vikings under the sun.

Our gods watch over us Hail Freja, Odin & more, never ask us how many that we have slain, we're Vikings we don't keep score.

as the sun sets, on our longboat, at our journeys end or begun, as we sail across the sea, still I Have no Fear of Dying, for Valhallah waits for me

The bridge on the Severn
Stands still, hushed
Dutifully guarding
What tries to be a holiday.
Swans, congregating
Delicately preening
Unconcerned by the longboat
Making deliberate progress
It's passengers all wearing
A Captains hat,
Heads turned towards
The Cathedral
And just for them
Nine bells announce the hour.
Ladies, brightly dressed
Carrying large cake boxes
Lead a gentle procession
To the fete.
Bikes, two at a time
Unhurried pedalling,
Weaving their way
Around promenade trees
And grandparents with children
Always stopping to hurl
Stale bread at unsuspecting ducks.
But imperceptibly
Insidiously, remorslessly
The unholy din of traffic
Gathers strength
Drowning out all who dare
To shout out against it ...
And normality returns.