Hey, I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader there's only one pelt I'm interested in....
I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled Global warming has taken all the snow away....
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, i do know Partel, Kareem, Xi Chein and Steve
and they're really really nice.

I have a Prime Minister who is *******, not a president.
I speak English and a little French, not American though we like to mock southern accents...
And I pronounce it 'aboot, not about...

I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack along with with motorhead and misfits patches...
I believe in peace keeping, not policing unless you count the G20...
diversity, not assimilation, unless it's the borg...
and that the ****** is a truly proud and noble animal and a bald one is truely a wonder to behold...
A toque is a hat that douchbags wear all year round, a chesterfield is a couch that my dunken friends sleep on,
and it is pronounced 'zed' not 'zee', 'zed' unless its Zebra because Zedbra sounds stupid!!!

Canada is the second largest landmass that can be pilfered by multinational conglomerates!
The first nation of hockey!
and the best part of North America... except vegas!

My name is Josh!!
And I am Canadian!!!
EH?

ah man... it was just a saturday night,
wet cement
   and street lamps glaring down at me...
it has to be something to do with
password, which i created at 17 "centimetres"...
what's troubling me is the beer i had
on the way... it could very well be dubbed
nameless... bavarian...
but unlike Budweiser... no fermentation of rice...
nothing like budweiser, that ****** albino
of beers...
          no no, nothing crisp either, like you might
drink it on a hot summer's day...
this was different...
     it was extracted from wheat...
ever drink liquidated wheat?
        what, not ever?
    that's why i took the picture which is sitting
in the background...
the beer was so memorable that i kept the actual
bottle...
      who would have thought, that by adding
wheat to the usual medley of barley and hops
you'd get something, worth writing about...
of course, as i spotted the onset of spring
and trees blooming with those little flowers...
  but that beer. ****, on, me...
        it's revolutionary what they do these days,
fermenting wheat, on top of barley and hops...
you almost want to eat grapes rather than drink wine...
want to start a revolution? start brewing beer
incorporating wheat...
   i was actually walking from street-lamp to street-lamp
reading the ****** label...
you sure this isn't belgian?
           either that, or i looked completely stupid...
  it's there though... it's not a budweiser
with that ill aqua-fresh feel of fermenting rice...
it's a co-op (supermarket chain name,
also do funerals, like multi-facet parlours,
or ****) -
what a ****** name for such a good beer though?
wheat beer... bavarian wheat beer:
   made with malted wheat and barley...
   who does that to a masterpiece?
   someone who probably whistles along
to symphony no. 2 in A-minor...
and never bothers with proper titles...
    like.... francis bacon's studies of lucian freud...
i'm guessing they're lazy about naming
their output, simply to they have so much of it,
and it has to look clerical, or let's say:
    surgical, imply that against
the other dictionary that humanity possesses:
an algorhithm...
insert the words: word for surgical, clean...
   ah! there it is, the little ******...
antisepctic...
         just as well... when writing can but does not
reach an elevated status...
   isn't the thing that you take to bed and doze off
using it as a sleeping pill...
    the bit of me that already stated:
i wanna be as rough and toiling as a lumberjack,
as the lumberjack said: writing was never
about creating a *****-magnet,
a bit like a cow, in a field, less bulls to **** me,
yet more bothersome paper-clips like flies to
daunt me... or that's what a tail is for,
to disperse them...
           the devil and a tail and an impotence of
a tail that he uses for a trouser-belt, but doesn't wear
trousers, merely picks it up, that flamboyant additive,
and swings it to a twirl of full circle,
walking away while whistling
and saying: the part where i say: i've eaten the heads
either side of a cooked chicken bone...
heads? those parts that need lubrication,
so the things that are later called gensis: arthritis...
but it was in all earnest, a magical beer,
a revelation... who could have thought that wheat,
that from wheat alone, i'd be walking the night
and actually sniffing the neck of a bottle...
   like an arab in a bakery, sniffing freshly baked baklava...
and that really is, pistaschio galore...
oh right... pistachio... no s... taccos and chow mein...
apologies, i sometimes forget what the "unspoken"
rules of **** schizoi consist of...
write it one way, speak it another way -
sure show... how about a Pinnoccio drinking a capuccino
donning ccinos? again: what i see as necessarily
dyslexic: it's actually pinocchio,
   and it's cappuccino... and it's chinos....
and all that, from the greek χ (chi)...
or whatever χ was doing when the family k c q
came about... i'm thinking q is a mistake given
the already stated optical implants that really do,
deviate from how to base clear-cut memories of:
in case we need to remember.
    i still know that s z and x have a thing going on.
that beer... budweiser tastes nothing like
it might, ever, don a crown to encompass the spectrum...
you're basically drinking this beer
           and you're thinking belgium, but it's
bavarian... and i'm currently in a youtube vlogger's
punctuation mode...
   watch way too much of that **** to end
up writing like i am, right now;
                                          eeek! a teenage girl! run!

oh hell, every time i write some embarrassing a day prior, i turn into honour killing from Pakistan enveloped by shame... 'what the hell did i write last night? i can't remember, but i know for sure that i didn't roll down the stairs or **** in a phonebox'. well, i could sit here romanticising like Marcel Schwob, or just dig into like Marquis the Sade... honestly and oddly enough the latter did give me an *******, and he was half-the-pervert that everyone deemed him to be, flashing his buttocks from the Bastille... his uncle abbé de Sadé (i love to put that accent in on purpose - sounds better to me, less boorish) - and yes, Creedence Clearwater Revival does more justice to the harmonica on graveyard train than Bob Dylan and **** Jagger put together... it's just there, and it ain't it's because it's there that makes it... ha ha... groovy - maybe that's why they spared him from the guillotine, in that he wrote more of his exploits as wished to be done, and of the actual exploits too many were hidden in his blabbering prose undone; ****** is by far his greatest work.

i told you the black and red Oranjeboom is a trip, they used to sell it at 8.5%, now they dropped it to 7.5... that beer can get you crazy in nanoseconds, quicker than a formula 1 crown jewel of a Mercedes-Benz, i'm serious, the ****'s lethal - you drink with me you'll be talking l.s.d., you'll end up a Mongol somewhere in Siberia, stark naked in minus forty saying the words: 'where's my umbrella? where's my umbrella?', indeed on repeat... 'and that yak? i was riding a yak... where's the yak?' we have European bisons to await you colonel... 'about time, i was waiting for a bison... isn't that the place where storks migrate to to make butter over the summer? and the Jews hid when the Black Plague was sweeping across Europe leaving them immune in the vicinity of Cracow?' yes it was, Herr Mascherschtic-Messerschmitt -
'who's on the oboe? and the soloist violinist?' we don't know, working it out, 'you better, because i don't really long for a drum-beat of knocking two stones together to spark anything but fire, rather, a conversation; 40 days in the desert with Jesus trying to relocate the Jews to Goa worked out so splendid that they moved North, started speaking riddle Hebrew that's Yiddish and followed suit with ****** being gassed, but instead of trenches, death chambers - people tend to forget he was himself gassed and dated Eva a Jewess... no far right assimilation, i spoke with a grandpa that asked for sweets from an SS-man and a great-grandmother who fed her daughter opiates to hush her on the eastern front so she wouldn't cry - sometimes stating a self-consciousness detached from thinking (the inhibitor of existence) is as random as a lottery - because it's just that, thought is an inhibitor of existence, being is an exhibitor of the (sic) stated - oh please don't read me if you're into ******, i'm with the bookworms and freaks, premature ejaculators and whatnot, go eat a ******* macaroon in Morocco or something - of all the admirable circumstances worthy a stage thinking isn't really allowed, it's not exactly glorified, in two sentences:
- *i thought about it             (how two pronouns
                                               interact without Freud,
                                               or meet, or are the proton i
                                               neutrons thought about
                                               and the electrons it)...
it's a permanent duality of expressing something and anything,
we need the first person, the eyes give it away,
but in the end we're either touching an axe to chop
down a tree or attaching ourselves to a detachment of
chopping the tree down for the Freudian third it -
it's no longer a game of 'you're it!' tagging of
the kindergarten game but a work of fiction, transitions
like that must be painful - third person narratives are
generally conceived from being lazy in the first person,
how many people do you actually need to **** the poet off?
film credits: and it's a long list, mind you.
oh yeah, that word: dzwiękać - it's about making 0.1% of
a Mozart symphony with two stones smacked against
each other for what the feet used to do, a drumbeat,
it's not exactly an act of Prometheus' Odyssey into
the first glimpses of chemistry -
alternatively?
- i am it / or some alternative to something even more alternative,
  in the French school of thought dubbed deconstructionism
  that's also a blah blah reduction,
  Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinclair, a slum-dunk
  by the Lakers - it's still supposed to mean that i intended
  the phonetic encryption, i visualised nothing for
  you to follow-up on, sounds, poetry isn't cartoon,
  the harsh reality of having to read the Mandala of
  mouth expressions without, eye, eyebrows or cheeks
  or chin - ends up being dentistry when you want to
  say a but end up adding a            h     while
  the dentist inserts a blunt object into your mouth for
  an ah (be my guest, macron or umlaut depending
  on the volume of your lungs added to the a for reasons
  of reality's prolonging the seance of rotten teeth).
what i meant was the notion that thought is a different
type of being, or expression of out of every instance -
thinking too much won't grant you access to
people who say: 'are bored with their *** life. especially
gay men, who 'see *** as something you have to do
while on drugs'. so once **** no reassurance with
forever ****? **** it! could have given it a one-over
back when i didn't have a monkish demur.
well i can admit i'm jealous, but i just remember *******
before puberty and feeling the muscle sensation and
seeing no *****, aged 8 - the ******* help, and incubator
for all that raging monotheistic operatic harem wanton -
it's still a balancing act writing a sentence,
you are basically juggling two words, both are pronouns -
you throw a boomerang, you throw it as yourself
and expect it to come back as yourself,
pristine, juvenile, ******, intact with a pride of being
a person not influenced by others... the origin of
Columbus... it doesn't work like that,
the boomerang ends up like a windscreen with
several bugs attacked to it, bugs like Kant, like Heidegger,
whoever... whatever, free-love **** *** is overrated for me,
the ******* build-up and the flashing lights and whatnot,
i approach *** like a lumberjack a tree,
axe, tree, chop chop, tree falls... i'm out after an
hour having paid £110 for the pleasure... so you can take
your little feminism into the annals for these free-love
festivals (burning man in Nevada, killing kittens
in the hamptons etc.), preach there, leave me and my loser
****** high libido crew in the shadow of the crucifix -
judgemental ******* - i never expected so much stigma for
giving an ****** that i paid for to give, it's like an
Albert Camus novel, or worse, his life,
paid for a train ticket but decided to travel to the desired
destination by car, dead in a car-wreck - Irony with an ism.

Went to visit grandparents, decided I never want to be old
I have trouble keeping up as it is:
Technology is too fast paced
Phones are too small (and who needs one when they’re seven?)
Movies have too many explosions
All my music is from at least twenty years ago

While I’m planning my eternal youth I forget I take up space
I feel four hard smacks on the rear
Apparently I was blocking an elderly woman’s wheels
“Sorry for the love tap, you were in the way”
I wasn’t sure how to feel
A bit violated perhaps
It might have been, well, kind of nice
If she didn’t predate Christ

For lunch we sat with a kind couple
Marjorie and Phil
She wore all brown, with a necklace of whittled wooden giraffes
He was dressed like a lumberjack, pants mid-torso, flood-ready
We talked about a few things…
Mahler symphonies, Latin, obscure mountain villages
Both of them seemed perfectly content
You know, old age doesn’t seem so bad
As long as you have someone to share it with

(regarding the death of my son)

I fear very little
but the one thing I DO fear
is forgetting the sound of his voice.  

It was 70 year-old husky
by the age of 14.
The manifestation was a quartet bass
tucked neatly in the body
of a fray-headed sparrow.
If you closed your eyes
the lumberjack you imagined
would be tickled to see
the tiny powder keg
that actually stood before you.
Inside the resonance was a warm huckster laugh,
half good ole boy,
half saint,
half comforter.
He was fifty percent more real
than anyone I knew.
On the good days his chuckling possessed him
to the point of breathlessness.
His joy-tears are the Rembrandts of our memories
never to be tarnished by any pity demons.
But on the bad days his laughter trailed away
into a pugilistic cough.
It's the one thing I fear I will always remember.
Yet when he spoke the sincerity was so ominous
that any inaccuracies seemed irrelevant.
Love was the spine of his vocabulary.
There were no meaningless words.
Regardless of the lettering
they all had the root meaning
of clemency.
He spouted new beginnings
and hope
regardless of past mistakes of failures.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
for I fear that I have already forgotten my own.  

Today it speaks only of him being gone.
Reliquishing are the days
that were full of him.  
I submit to songs that were his
and find myself tethered to unmerited heaviness.
No matter how loud I scream
the present rains on me
and my voice is lost
in the sickness of the storm.
I cannot turn it off.
I press my radio presets
to chase away the Rascal Flatt residue in my head
and land on a Christian station.
**** it.
The only thing he loved more than Rascal Flatts
was Jesus.
Me too. But not today.
I just want to stop crying.  

It's the magician's multi-colored scarves
tied corner to corner
in a endless tug of futility and frustration.
The more I want the prank to stop
the more irritating the infinite parade of colors becomes.
I pull again and again hoping the next scarf,
the next involuntary sorrow,
will be the last one.
I open my mouth in concious agenda
to change directions
and speak of the blessings I have
in my other children
only to find his name tied to the last name
which was his as well
just in another color.
I cannot stop speaking of him
no matter how hard I try.
And I wonder if my kids know
that I know
they're suffering in his shadow
and I can't fix it.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
as I am forgetting mine
and terrified that I may be muting theirs as well.

The scene was chaos almost like black friday at El Wallmarto.
people being pushed around by ******'s who didnt
even own a pair of spandex tights.

Or even know the glory of winning a no holds barred naked lumberjack
with a ***** splintter match.
The people needed a hero.
they screamed for the legends return please poppi
save us from the ordinary.

My amigo's were persecuted  and i sat helpless traped across the boader do to a bogus  lack of green card.
I must have left it in my other tights.

but once again like a old man on crystal **** and ****** the champion has returned to claim his crown.

And to shake his groove thing all over Hello  once again.
With the strength of a small well shaved bear.
And the eye's of a low flying seagull I shall drop some splatters
of wisdom apon my fellow amigos.

Chips and salsa for everyone .
no longer heartbroken from my hellcat seniorita Drew
yes her bite marks i wear proudly  in places I need to tan.

Let the little gringos sing like pretty little birdies
and senoiritas run through the fields like in thoose not
so fresh comercials.

Go tell amigos everywhere pour the cervesa
For El ******* Rides again.

Alright all you pigeon chests
Came the sound of thunder from the open door
As Big Bad Bart replaced the space
Giant mountain man of lore

Making his way into the bar
Sweeping Nancy boys out of his way
Stepping up to the the jukebox
Kicking it till some good ole country boy music played

This mountain man has made it his goal
To grab hold and unsissify
Any Wimpy Wally's
That happen to catch his manly eye

He started off his conquest
Out in the great North wood
First stop The Red Eye Back Door Saloon
Need I explain the name to you

He went in with his moral barrels a blazing
But there wasn't much he could do
Village people the only band on the jukebox
Y.M.C.A. being the only tune

He didn't let that little nitch stop him
Or slow him down by any means
Giving America back to the menly men
And not the mousey men with their girly dreams

Till the day that Bart locked eyes with Stanly
In that San Francisco flower bar
Those two haven't left each others side
Going through life now arm and arm

They spend their time skipping through fields of pansies
Giggling freely hand in hand
The way Bart now feels this was meant to be
Mia Mono, Man to Man

Bart's lumberjack buddies can't believe it
And don't know what to think of their friend
Although they all secretly admit
He does look good in those Hot Pink Hot Pants

surrounding us: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.

we’re beaming to a planet’s surface. now listen:
i know about inverse tachyon beams
i know about coded klingon screams
i know about going to warp factor eight
i know about redshirts' survival rate.
(no. chance.)

i’m beaming down with the main crew
to the surface of minerva II
we've got a malfunctioning interstellar transceiver which is distressing-- dysgraphing? dismantling…
…i don't know.
scotty said it was defective.

so we’re on this planet,
standing on one side of a thick forest packed with monster janeks,
starfleet says we need to fix this thing yesterday, and we’re in a panic—
and **** it, mccoy is a doctor, not a lumberjack,
and kirk says we should just burn through the middle with phasers,
and spock says we must preserve respect for all life forms no matter the situation.

now please remember kirk’s the captain.
that means he runs this show
but kirk always listens to spock,
so
we spend two days walking through the forest.

surrounding us: a billion trees
in a place where a strange disease is rare as feathers in a flock
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.

halfway through this dark-lit trip
things go wrong (obviously)
and an alien with shellac for skin captures the captain.
said alien grabs a vine, ascends into the canopy of the trees,
and for one glorious moment
i believe kirk’s the dead guy in this episode, not me!

but spock, in his calm and logical vulcan voice,
orders us to exercise any necessary force to recover the captain.
translation: **** EVERYTHING. JUST GET KIRK BACK.

we reach the janek village.
being a good redshirt, i rush in, phaser blasting, ready to complete the heroic rescue of our captain—
and get killed instantly.

as i was dying, i heard the sound of thousands of janeks dying beside me
saw spock help kirk off the ground
and the last words I heard were theirs:
“captain, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”
“nah, spock, i’m fine—”
“mr. scott. the captain is hurt. beam us aboard immediately.”
one’s arm over the other’s shoulders,
they vanished.

surrounding them: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive—

but the prime directive
was never the real objective.

I miss you so much,
it physically pains me
to not be able to talk to you.

It is as if an astronaut came along
and snatched all of the stars out of
the night sky, and the moon
is left to weep and cry.

It is as if the fisherman caught
all the fish in the sea,
and the ocean's only purpose
left is to wash up on the beach.

It is as if a lumberjack took an axe
to each tree,
and the earth can no longer breathe.

The beauty taken selfishly to be enjoyed,
leaves the viewer endlessly craving it's return.

I miss you,
come back to me,
I'll be here waiting,
painfully, patiently for you to come home.

Planet earth
Was my place of birth
I need worth?
Money fortune and fame
Man i couldnt picture this
Without makin' a name
I wanted to be the black Picasso
With the picture perfect flow
So ya know
The microphone fiend
Aint went no where
And All my spectators n haters
Had to stop n stare
Listenin' to the bass thumpin'
Music n mic is so loud
Movin' the crowd
With my aesthetic poetry
Ricochetin' minds with my lyrical
Content
Once the trigger hits the bars get
More ruthless
Strikin' furious
makin' emcees toothless
Leave em with a strong lisp
Check the total Eclipse
Its temporary darkness mark this
Day and age im the new jack
So im turnin' the page
Backward bringin' real hip hop back
Yo! ,im finna cut deep as a lumberjack
And yea im black
So get ready to attack
Butll be back
For more ******* delivery
NONE could shake thee
Original master of the craft
Send the army n still they couldnt penetrate me
The black rambo of the industry
I had to take and make
My own moves show to you n prove
To ya that im the best at this
Two decades later n hip hops  gone
But now im resurrected
The flow is re-connected
Back to nineteen eighty six
Now watch me rough up the mix
Dont look any further this is a stick up
Or hold up just fold up
Cuz ya at a dead end
Dont pretend that you couldn't bend
Your way out of a jam session
Go to the **** for a quick blessin' ya stressin'
Got ya nerves shook from my verbs
Ya mind couldnt take it
So death couldnt fake it
now i know as hit up ya funeral
Payin' my dues to the fallen ones
That tried to intervene between
The jewelry the cars and my life
complex scene
Enticin' green
Cuz of the way i drop them fools
Turnin' mule
On the mic
Cuz im paid in fullllllllllllllll!!!!!


Blank wall blank wall
on the mirror
what isn't the ugliest
among many!

I had a golden belt I pawned
for a day in the back house.
Relieved at not having lost the work.

One giant lumberjack,
whistling goodbye *****
its on to leisure I come.

I have a silver shawl I claimed
against a night in the front field.
Disappointed at having won the game.

Mirror mirror
on the wall
who is the fairest
of them all?

These lumberjack
Chop at my heart
I trust them
Though it's not smart
They cut me
Through and through
Who I am
I wish I knew

Friends are special and always have been,
But certain ones stick out just a tad more.
Less like a nail in wood, capable of pain,
More like a tree near a seashore.

Always the coolest, best-looking, funniest, awesome-est,
He’s also a good guy.
He befriended the lamest, smallest, weirdest kid,
Helped to make him less shy.

Thankfully, through the beginning of a friendship,
Blossomed a great one between us,
With broken mirrors, blanketless nights,
Crashed weddings, Ying Yang Twins, PC bound bus.
You came with, actually convinced,
A little Vanderbilt kid to get a tattoo.
A permanent mark of friendship and love,
Who better to convince than you?

How you care about others, and always love to laugh,
Being with Ian is infectious,
How could it not be?
His eyes and “that look” are just soooo precious.

I’m thankful to have you,
My lumberjack friend.
Here’s to many good years to come,
May the good times never end.

so i have this book my Steφan, and here the
unpredictability: Steven?            even elevens?
                       Stephen
Steven          Stephan? no matter, the joke
comes with the diacritics         in the surname...
      they wrote /ˈʊmlaʊt/
when the diacritical marks weren't investigated:
  is that Körner as in ariθmetic
     Koorner?
       or is the poncy
    Kœrner - which is
softer and therefore almost Kerner?
the book? fundamental questions
of philosophy -
hence the dialectical applicability
of diacritics: archeology in vivo:
oh no glass chandeliers darling:
            butchery rather than anatomy:
chop
        chop
                chop
                 ­         (oh looky looky, Jacob's ladder).
y = id est.
                  w? haven't figured it out,
looks like trigonometry to me,
all that sine and cosine jazz.
         you know that mystery of lawlessness?
English, plain and simple,
the English language: good that we had the Scandinavians
and the Dutch learn it better than the natives,
mind you, also the Belgians,
they speak a foreign tongue better than
the ****** natives:
the natives? they speak some urban slang
profanity: diabolical verse;
                                        putrid ****:
sulphuring smoke, astounding.
              reverse dead Latin / living -
was that comma necessary?
  or should i have written astounding sulphuring
smoke?
             or Sartre: existence (quantity)
     precedes essence (quality) -
         qua qua either way, a mode of being,
   duck here, duck there.
          oh me, right? *******, maddened,
i was hanging in the trenches and had a drink:
now i'm really mad, bursting like a tense
   soap bubble: (a bit of nostalgia to cool the nerves)
i come from a generation that listened to
mortiis - and we actually bought the silverware
(c.d.) rather than the liquorice (vinyl),
               and we were the ones that translated hardware
into software (mp3) -
         but as a thoughtful suggestion:
scratched c.ds,
                   right, you have a c.d. and you try
to encode it into mp3... right...
    why is it that scratched compact disks can completely
**** up an iPod? i.e. why can't iPods encode
scratched compact disks?
            cheaper mp3 players can do it,
no problem, you have a scratched c.d.
and translate it into mp3: boom, the whole iPod
shuts down... try a cheaper mp3 player
and the whole thing still works...
          well, it's just a curiosity...
the bigger ones comes from:
i'm probably one of the last dinosaurs to have
actually bought a ******* magazine
from a newsagent,
     the glamour model type,
nothing **** included,
               and feel the agonising shame of
predicating a ******* session -
                  bony **** of the hand -
            looking for soft pouch kangaroos and all,
but how many people these days buy this ****?
       in Belgium i bought one and the woman
was so not condescending that i thought i was buying
penny sweets...
                      there's this culture of ****** shaming
in England that surprasses me in engaging
in relationships, i don't know what these slags
are on, but it's certainly not tango in stilettos
on cobblestones.
                    of course i'm mad,
i tried to rebel against Christianity and got
****** into practising it, i actually forgave my
enemy, a jealous **** who almost killed me,
       and as Nietzsche said: a Christian is a
sick domesticated animal -
              i could have been still rooted to the longship
roofs while roofing, or metrosexual lumberjack
     in an office, concerning paper rather than
blocks of wood.
     but good to know that all of Europe is known
as the bloc, rather than the eastern fringes,
god i love English arrogance, which = ignorance,
now wave bye bye to the Galactic Empire:
******* engraved Latin without barbaric diacritical
marks and had a shot at world *******...
  **** me! even the Greeks are applying refinement,
no wonder the digital sprechen dragged
English into the dark ages if not the caveman
        chant Darwinism! chant Darwinism! hoot, hoot hoot!
rarely do i desecrate books,
                 but i had to write on something,
i have a copy, of Kant's critique,
and in it my macabre Dionysian zenith fury
statement:
                       power is never a cul de sac,
                         for a king to don a crown,
                         a peasant must pocket a penny,
                         if a peasant doesn't pocket
                         a penny, a king doesn't don
                         a crown      (note, colon and italics
translate as bold inscript, double emphasis) -
this isn't cryptic, it's ****** obvious,
       it goes way back in suggesting
we're either smart or naive -
           or playing the adult version of hide & seek
                                    doubt & negation interplay,
so when Charlie Chuckles the Third comes to
power i'll be thinking of Charles the First:
as i told one homeless woman i sat down with
for a cigarette under a bridge and told her
of the Henry VIII likening in terms of the
decapitated wives...
                                    she got up and ran screaming
down the street. true story.
                 only in America a humming sensation
and a deliberate ploy to create a monarchy...
              call it what you like:
you appease the illiteracy of people with only
one book, and have people speak about it
without pontiff or priestly attire: you're bound
to breed a viral infection desiring a king.
         is this the second Elisabeth-ian age? might be,
well, it's nearing an end, anyway...
                        still, English is a lawless language
that transcends all tact of French flawlessness -
                  those nasal harking buggers know all too
well the covert aesthetic they write
      and the counter they speak -
                  leave the exactness of spoken and written
to the Poles, and spaghetti chemistry to the German
excess of compounds hydrocarbon etc.,
                    di-proxy-blah-blah in hyphen-centric
Essex.
            well, because if we can't have proper discussions
about our beliefs, we might are well apply
diacritical investigation into diacritical markings,
  or how long you hold your breath between
.                ,                     ;              -              
                  because that's what i'm suggesting:
invariably this suggestion is pulverising -
                             or how that famous category
of universals (metric)
                          is usurped by particulars (imperial) -
within the bracketed suggestion: units,
                   Francophile centimetre
      Darth Vader inch....
                                                Charles de Gaulle kilometre
                              a Heathrow mile.
if this was a chemistry experiment, which it is,
               i'd suddenly realise it's over,
                                                      and it is
because i feel a sudden rush of radiant cooling down
     from what charged this outburst in the first place.

I dreamt I was an apple tree
sitting lonely on a hill
Waiting for someone to pass
and eat 'til they were filled

And finally that day did come
When a pretty girl had passed
Unfortunately that girl didn't even see
an apple on the grass

She gave me one small double-take
but didn't take a fruit
So as she walked away from me
I tripped her with my roots

"That stupid *****. Don't come back!"
I yelled to the stupid *****
She got back up, scraped and bruised
I didn't give a ****

And then a little boy arrived
A lollipop in his hand
I didn't ask him to drop the candy
I made it a command

The little boy ran away in tears
Why doesn't anyone want an apple?
Until I found an old lady walking
So instinct told me to grapple

I took the hag and opened her mouth
Grabbed an apple from a branch
Bound tightly in my rooted grip
She didn't have a chance

And all of a sudden a lumberjack came
wielding an iron axe
"I just want people to eat my apples!"
This guy didn't know the facts

But he swung away at my armored trunk
Until he hit the core
I heard a crack in my spine
but I couldn't say a word

And down I went tumbling
gracefully onto the ground
So graceful that when I hit the earth
No one heard a sound

And then the people came to me
catching apples in the air
Finally they noticed me
Finally they cared

And I awoke from this random dream
and looked up at the clock
It was still early so I went back to sleep
And dreamt I was a rock

I tasted the air this afternoon
I tasted dry snowflakes and pollution
Another day in this ohio wasteland
Many things come to mind with that word
Wasteland
Is it me that's wasting away?
Or is it my enviornment ?
Woodlands rapidly giving way to back alleys
And second rate apartment complexes
Or is it me
My true inner being
My real self slowly giving way to society's mandates
Like a tree falling lonesome with his sound unheard
And with no lumberjack to yell timber,
Does the deadfall go to remain unnoticed?

You are whispering to me that you love me like:
- sinking into sleep
- mornings
- hot chocolate on a minus ten degrees
- the first touch
- the immersion of bare feet in warm summer sand
-  the dance of fireflies in June
-  a breather between two *******
-  a sincere smile between two denuded people

I write you a note on a slip of paper, as if I was a kid.
That I love you
Like a quilt on a minus fifteen degrees.
Like a inspiration.
Like a inception of the will.
Like a"Jaffa" biscuits and restful sleep.
Like a flowering cherry tree and glowing nut from a wild chestnut tree.
Like a sudden wonder.
You're asking me whether you are my sudden wonder.
Little, ragged wonder.
Yes, you are, I answer.
You love being my little ragged wonder.

You are asking:
For my nape and chin.
Top of my head  and lips.
Embrace of a careful lumberjack.
You want chin-caress.
For five minutes.
Intensively!

“Men Ditch Suits, and Retailers Struggle to Adapt”

                      -Wall Street Journal, 25 March 2019

We all must be good comrades now
We all must wear good comradewear
As if we worked with wrench and plough
Instead of cruising an office chair

We all must be good comrades, da!
And from one’s well-lit office space
Sneer at “the suits” - so long, Grandpa!
And so decolonise this place

We all must be good comrades now -
But have you ever milked a cow?

confined a man
a lumberjack
I really want my money back
I bought a massive rock of crack
it was ****, bought off a black
oh why sweet Jesus is this world so wack
just take a knife to my hairy back
oh you smack
sack
Iraq

Off to the loo with the morning paper , the news of the day , his morning constitution . These silly , weak people , like spoiled little children , why pollute good hot coffee with cream and sugar ? Day is for sweat , labor and toil , not to malinger and forebode like a slothful buffoon ! Carve hard rock like master sculptor , punch the clock like a Union steel worker !
  Cut Maple with axe like a tireless lumberjack , plow thirty acres with a mule like Daddy did ! Shovel coal like the Kentucky coal miner , labor at sea like Georgia shrimper ! Lights out at eight o'clock , wake up at five ! Red hots , biscuit , jam and black coffee . Fresh , full , stoked and alive !

A red checkered fleece
Wonders through tall oaks
That pose for photos
Waiting to be remembered in time.

Like all of us
We stare at satellites
That try to blend in with city skylines
Praying to the nearest star
That we can be remembered.

Not in the man
In the red checkered fleece though
He practices being mechanical
By repeating the same tasks
Of knocking down
These photogenic trees.

It all is the same you see
Same fleece ,you better believe
Same dirt on his knees
Same dirt that is in his shoes
To remind him
Of his ***** stance
On his actions from his past.

The past isn't the past
If it's accompanied
By the purest of souls.
Each time the trees dance in sync
With the howling winds
He hears the moaning sorrows
Left on his porch side.
On the 3rd of July

Everytime he takes a break
From breaking these trees' dreams,
His hands shake
From his attempts
To cold turkey the drug
Called her eyes.  

His sore veins died in vain
Slithered into these trees,
Hugging the roots of these oaks
That creak from time
That rest on their shoulders

Time
Time is his enemy
As lumberjacks stray from time
As they don't wear watches
When they work
As managers watch watches
To tell them what time to go home However this lumberjack
Slaves over the labyrinth
He created for himself
For the punishment
He feels he deserves.

He digs his tail
Of destruction through these trees.
Hoping that his path to self discipline
Freezes with the autumn snow.

the war has already begun
and it's not like
you're asking me: are you wearing shoes?
but, rather,
asking whether my shoelaces are
tightly spun, or whether i have
any... like the saimese soviets
at Stalingrad: one with
the ammunition, the other with
a rifle... or the joke above the bacon
concerning the police:
one is only able to write,
the other is only able to read.
i still don't know what you're asking me,
not since they had that proud attire
in napoleonic fashion, and my,
didn't ****** dress them well enough
to reach a heart-throb status?
clad black SS mon: it seems i'm always
a beggar at the feet of women,
but i don that: i'm Humphrey ******* Bogart!
yes, the uniform, the prestige,
and then they were thrown into the trenches
in the khaki resembling more
diarrhoea than muddy camouflage...
and so came dada saying a big massive
huh? after a while the major powers
didn't catch the drift from a keen libido
and trench-warfare and what came from
guerilla warfare... namely terrorism...
should i write this cheque out to the sound of
courgette... or couliflower,
mein herr?
and so it came: the time when the civilians
started their own war, and warred
among themselves, ensuring that
no army could penetrate, which paved
the way for terrorists only able
to usurp the contract of fine wine Friday
evenings by the Eiffel tower
with the burp ultimatum...
   so we're at war...
  and god only know how guerilla
evolved into terrorism, or should it be
called: the other Vietnam?
  and perhaps too: a baguette ripped
like it might have been a vulture's wake:
or a hyennas' party of giggles and hecklers...
but such days are other,
the Paris i remember isn't the Paris i'd
like to visit...
            no one really asked for this...
but it is, what it is...
    and it's hard to see the fact when there
are no glorious marches, no youthful men
strapped into galant uniforms...
    a bit like that advert for bus inspectors
in England: they wear no uniform,
they're dressed just like you and me...
     because that's how war translates to
civilians... that civilians learn the covert
art of war... meaning that all other wars
reminiscent of past wars are nothing
but proxy wars, they're not akin to a Trojan siege...
proxy... there's no identity in war anymore,
there's no Persian empire, nor a Roman empire...
proxy wars, given the internet
and how we throw so much intimate information
into a web before we meet a person,
and then perhaps lie about the fantasy of
that representable self...
     in saying that, Daesh is unique in that
it doesn't have an identity crisis...
     it doesn't have a facebook or a twitter
or a McDonald's hovering above it...
    of all the wars currently staged, it's staging
an antithesis to what was once merely
proxy... i find it hard to believe that
nations exist... given the power of corporations...
a belief in nations is a return to feudalism,
serfs at football matches, later enslaved
by the necessary dependencies and easy-to-reach
fruits of internet-service providers that
makes me laugh at the idea that Argos (a
highstreet retailer) still ***** into advert schemes
and thinks it will survive the pulverisation
and high street turning into cul de sac....
   but hey, i'm not clapping...
       you'll find more applaus in an opera house...
i'm just trying to find the coordinates that
i can navigate with...
     it would be hard to believe in an all-out-war...
given the warring civilians...
        in whom the notion of war has
imploded, and who might attest to revenge ****
as a medium of releasing an arrow from a bow...
it's hard to create wars these days,
it's hard to create a pair of trousers to march
in when all you have is a knitted pocket...
   how did they ever find war so glorifying,
so ****** romantic? i'll never know...
     but it really is hard to wage wars these day
given the civilians are paranoid and feel
no safety... at all...
            and yes, nuclear weapons make no sense
of the arms trade... drop a nuke and you
undermine about a 1000 arms dealers...
   so forget the u.z.i. and the kalashnikov deals...
it's really panic not from a perspective of
extinction, but a panic based upon dealing arms...
not selling enough weapons, bullets, grenades...
  nukes are a great deterrent, but also a great motivation
for dealing in arms...
but it's war,
    perhaps in closed-off communities of the urban
hipters it's still only about selling the most
obscure type of cereal... lumberjack and all, beardy...
but out here, on the peripheries of large
city-states, it's tribalism thrice over...
        e.g. i laugh on the windowsill at night
the next day my neighbour comes over
talks to my relative and wonders whether she's
o.k. because he think i might **** her...
        and so he complains: he had to move
rooms in our house because of the laughter,
it cost us a lot of money...
and i'm sitting there, shrouded by the fact
that he can't see me and i can hear him and wonder:
so you're not homeless, yes?
       i think my neighbour is mad because
he wants to know me now,
after living next to me for 5 years... and not having
bothered to have anything to do with me,
wants to know me now... mate! tangens!
       do i really give a **** your wife is
pregnant? no...
                             and this is how puny
life and narrative can become... so knitty-gritty...
so ant-like prone... i have no airs to not
meddle in the grit, but the fact that i have to meddle
in it: is a right ol' bollocking...
   it could have been a nice: cheese & ham sandwitch...
instead it has to be this...
   so if this isn't war... why would i be asking
you about you asking me whether i'm wearing
shoes? the topic of shoelaces and noodles...
or as i like to put it: big gob west
       squint eye funny east...
   there is absolutely no better nations to pacify
the warring hoodlums of the west
than 1 billion chinese or 1 billion indians...
that's what i call a proper rebellion...
i mean, picture 1 billion chinese and 60
million germans...
      it's almost like tickling Genghis Khan...
it will always look like a chiquaua (west)
barking at a Rottweiler (east) ... and i can't help but
laugh at the change.

The pages seemed to come alive
I tell you this and it is no jive
The story capturing an old man and a house
Somewhere in the story it also involves a mouse
The story begins with a sunrise
No idea what the day will be so it is a surprise
The old man is a retired Lumberjack
He would be chopping lumber to build houses
But the old man certainly was never alone
At least this is what the house had shown
There was always this mouse
The mouse seemed to be a companion in the house
The mouse would often sit by the old man
There seemed to be an understanding and no command
The mouse was always given some cheese
The old man made the mouse feel like he was his squeeze
The old man would often talk to the mouse
It was always the old man’s words throughout the house
Then one night a big Thunderstorm came
The storm was like battle stations ready to take aim with all the thunder, lightening and rain
The moon seemed to be given a vacation as a shade among the clouds
A theory of the night
The heavy fog that blocked out sight
Yet the mouse showed no fright
The old man felt he wasn’t going to make the storm his plight
He didn’t want to feel uptight
The mouse knew how to keep the old man calm and suddenly not alarm
Well the storm finally passed by
It was courage in the old man’s try
That old man and his house
Being together including a mouse
A house built for more than just one, and a creation of a foundation being done.

a letter in the mail,
a three, four, five, or even six digit number meant for you to repay, sooner or later. but we both know the answer lies later than sooner
2.
in bed during broad daylight wearing his clothes,
missing, missing, missing
an empty space in your heart, vespers of fingerprints across your body
crying into your pillow til your eyes turn red and angry, bloodshot
defeat, the smell everywhere, damp.
where do loved ones go when they still exist, just not in relation to you?
3.
unfixable,
irreversible loss.

and finally, 4.
the screen.
tendrils of hair bunched into angry clumps in the palm of your hand,
blood dripping from eye to mouth,
a bored lumberjack with a garish mask flanked by black branches, auburn leaves
all of these things and a doll at the end of the dark corridor are nothing to worry about.

On March 17th my doctor tells me that maybe I should spend Saint Patties Day with someone
other
than you
and I guess he doesn’t realize that you are always here
The next day the luck of the Irish isn’t on my side in spite of me being
well
half Irish
You come over and we do get lucky in our own respect
but thats as far as that goes with a satisfied smile and friendly nudge
because the mattress felt like wires and the sheets like sandpaper
with my pillow becoming a slate of stone inscribed with all the things you whispered to me under thinner, softer sheets,
I slept on our memories.
On the 31st my doctor tells me that every time I think of hurting myself
I write something with a marker on the spot of skin I want to open
So every time I think of you
my skin is covered in stanzas
and when I shower its similar to being flayed alive
but the snake which cannot cast its skin has to die
so I cast my skin every night
On the 14th of April my doctor says to turn my pain into beauty
so hes telling me to write poetry
I vowed eight weeks prior to this day that you’d stop showing up in my stanzas
but this poem has no structure
so technically there’s no rules to be broken
On the 28th of April I told him about Law Class
how we learned about mens rea and actus reius
I told the doctor how everything has cause and effect
like how an insult can lead to a fight which can lead to ******
and comparatively how one wrong word lead to confusion which lead to heartache
so you were guilty for ****** in your own right
rooms never echo until they’ve emptied
and I never echoed until you left me
my doctor remarked as much
a surly voice saying “see, son, she’s stolen your soul”
it would justify all those sleepless nights where prayers didn’t keep me earthbound
and I’m just nodding my head because maybe he’s right
maybe heaven is locked in chains
but maybe hell is a lifetime with you
but the only difference between the two are the locks and i keep
losing my ******* keys
i am the epitome of dead art
which is why my doctor cancelled our next session; he ran out of brushes.
so i was left standing in my bedroom like someone looking for a mistake on an eviction notice
confused and staring at all the things that lead up to that same moment
i had been torn from my foundations
and then you came to mind
you
whom did the tearing
but stayed innocent all the same
you made me wonder
how can you be both the lumberjack and the tree?
its *******
confusing.
and she doesn’t get it
but i dont expect her to
even though when its cloudy it just means
god is lonely without her too
as neither of us could stand to watch another sunset with her absent
believe me when i say it is more than possible to love someone so much
it hurts them
and that while love is this void somewhere in the same plain as space and time
it is not one that you want to fall into
because dragging yourself out of it becomes a chore.
i use a lot of analogies
and i think thats how poetry works
something to mediate and make home to the things that
i guess bother you
but she doesn’t bother me
i bother me
so thats why theres so many of these poems
and this might be my longest
but i just dont know where else to put my thoughts of her
my chest can only contain so many stanzas before bursting
my heart can only beat so fast
it can only feel like a padlock for so long
and i can only write stanzas on my skin for so long before i decide
they look prettier in red

pst... they read too much fiction and philosophy, they keep forgetting poetry is akin to music... you know, mozart mozart mozart... they think they’ll definitely orate a revival of the roman empire with poetry... but it’s μ... it’s moo... it’s moo... it’s ha ha ha ha. let’s face it, attacking poetry is attacking music, hence ascetic islam, i don't know why philosophy forgot musicology when stating grievances with poetry: oh i know, karaoke.*

but when you wonder what nietzsche expected concerning god’s panic on the 1 / seventh day, i might as well speak the lines:

and god’s indolence master crafted satan.

so you see, the timing is relevant, no spontaneous combustion with snow white eve and the envious ‘mirror mirror on the wall,’ just the fact that a force of insurmountable creativity slouching like a couch potato could only craft satan.

evolutionary biologists don’t panic! don’t panic! the evolutionary theologians are on their way! they said: too much drunk history going from a. present times to b. the epic of gilgamesh to c. monkey - it’s just that the artists depicting kings and queens made them look ugly, such unsympathetic depictions of such beauty... where’s the irony, eh? i do mean it, one university lecture started the whole of of history by citing the epic of gilgamesh as the begetting of the tempted eve - not that there’s much correlation between the two - but imagine if she wasn’t tempted and man could not differentiate himself from all other animals? of course the byproduct would have been a surreal take on vanity.

satan is the activity of what is otherwise repeat, repeat, repeat of the stars and crow pecks and perks, he’s the randomised activity overseer, the whole karma of the thinking stone, but obviously stones don’t think, so there’s man in all of this: sooner a mountain will meet a mountain than man with man - some desirable ******* like that.

it’s the bored in reflection - but how can i say that in my “group therapy” sessions in the park - perched high up are the dog walkers, who barely known the word wolf... leashes and leeches all the same, cats roam free and i’m free from them, but a dog is like a fascinating emblem of the person walking it - the leash - i necessarily exist because i’m attached to this dribbling driftwood that begins talking with woof, woof! i let the cat go, and i drift into the same serialisation of fearlessness before death, having encountered it several times i’m almost certain there’s an angel behind it, punishing me, eagerly anticipating me to have a career, a wife, a child, a puppy, a car, a mortgage. no can do, me and pavement are opera if things come to the clinical stages of peering in the lives of others on a sunday. me? eyed myself wonky testifying the success of an old couple with one of them dead the other soon follows in siamese fashion. so i drink the beer get a suntan in the shade, and write what the auburn colouring could provide in letters.

now we’re talking inspiration, brief, sudden, lightning strike... we’re not talking stephen king and lumberjack.

I often dream of you
In the mist of the
Dark-lit night,
When the trees rustle
Gently in the wind,
And the leaves flutter
Across the sky or
Float like balloons
Into the realm of
The moon that sparkles,
Glistens like my heart
Under the luminescence
Of your radiant care.

I often dream of
You and I,
Hands clutched at
Our sides, not because we
Are together, but
Because we understand
The touch, understand
The promises that jump
From the fountains
Of unsaid feeling,
Of timid concessions,
Of uncaged breaths
And pounding chests.

I often dream of
You and I,
Staring into each
Other's eyes, soaking up
The hues like whirlpools
Struck by amorous
Gravity, grounded by
Golden bands, softened
Like ineffable desire.

I often dream
That you rest your
Head on my shoulder,
Close your eyes and
Think, and that I rest
My cheek upon your hair,
Glide my fingers atop
Your skin, hope to
God that time won't
Split the world in two
Like a lumberjack's axe
Upon a thousand-year-old
Tree, whose bark is
Fashioned from
Sweet-tasting serenades
And undying wisdom.

I often dream that
You let me into your
Thoughts, bathe my
Wounds with your
Love-bound remedies,
Your sprightly giggle,
The look in your pupils
That runs chills down
My back and
Into my lungs.

I often dream of you,
Dream that you'll
Remember my figure
In coming years past,
That you'll remember
What my skin felt
Like upon yours,
That you'll remember
Why my heart fell
Upon you, and not
The lustful, dishonest gazes,
That you'll remember
Why I smiled for you,
Not for what I
Wanted you to be.

But then again,
I often dream.

winter
lumberjack.
   six four.
too tall
     for the trees.
scared them so  
    silly they'd
  shake.

**** everything and everyone
The school told me I couldn't start a lumberjack society because it wasn't
"Educational"
So **** them
This Thursday I'm doing it
I'm bring in pancakes and we are wearing flannel and there's nothing they can do to stop us
I just wanted this one thing,
Just one ******* thing
And if it's a stupid club
Where we wear flannel and eat pancakes
Then who are you to ******* stop me
To take this away from me
You can't
When someone needs something, they will do what ever they have to,
I need something,
And now it's this club
So just try and ******* stop me

She is radiant
Strong and loyal
And I fear for her
Because the good don't last

Chopped down for the 'greater good'
The best of people flicker out of this world
'Please stay' I beg
But she is set
Her will must be done

She is the queen of this palace
And I am but a guard
Dearest Queen, I've felt the lumberjack's axe
And I shiver at the memories
And I lose myself

Why must you put yourself in his path?
Why do you taunt him to chop you down?
He is cold and unfeeling
His axe will swing
And down you will go

Should you fall, I will too
And I will lose myself in the knowledge
That I could not protect you
Because I am a peasant
And you are the Queen
Your will is law

I am scared
I am so scared
It is hard to breathe
As my mind supplies all the ways
Your plan could go wrong

Please, dear Queen
Spare me the knowledge of your plots
Because I am weak
And I am prone to break

Lately I am prone to break
And my mind is not okay
So please spare me
Until I have healed
And I will chuckle at your deviousness
Once again.

Chapter VIII
Alikantus harangues Medea

Alikantus paradigm of Alikanto in his astral journey just three days after climbing in Gaugamela ...! The corners of anxiety buzz after lightening their igneous hooves by the slippery stones of the footsteps that seemed to be the same projections of their tasks that marked the Tracian soil before arriving at the request of their harangue. He resorts to Medea, before arriving in Thrace after wandering around different places in search of protection and advice to protect his master Vernarth. While He was submitting to his last opioid libations of vivid liliaceae from angiosperms encapsulated by his right pectoral. That was Alikanto's missive. Ask Medea for a potion so that she can supply her master to deflate his breastplate, and thus be able to use his Panoply breastplate in combat, since there were three days left for the duel. Medea arrived in the city of Athens on a stormy day with great dark Dantesque gray on the palm of the cliff, previously escaping near Abdera, whose east came evacuating black poetry to the west. Medea, while looking at the sky, took a piece of feldspar coal, to create the aluminum javelins that Alikanto would have to carry on her return, along with the potions to deflate her infected chest. I paint the sky with gray lattice lines later lodged in its crooked bun.
He could see from infinity something that came mounted on an aluminum beam, whose face seemed to be a king, it was Aegean, who not only offered him hospitality but married Medea in the hope that his sorceries would allow him to conceive a son despite to the advanced age. The sorceress fulfilled her expectations, having from her a son named Medo.
When Theseus, the secret son of Aegean, arrived in Athens willing for his father to recognize him as heir, Medea took him as a threat to his son's future, and attempted to poison him. But Theseus discovered her and, accused of committing horrible crimes and witchcraft, Medea had to flee again. In this crusade she had the assistance of Alikantus, who transported her flying from Abdera, so as not to be captured and supplementing the potions that Alikantus had requested, also with the aluminum javelins that she had to take to Vernarth, to escort him in the majestic affront.
  Thus, Medea is the archetype of a witch or sorceress, and they share their status as an autonomous and unusual woman, contrary to the ideal prototype of the time, with Calypso and Circe, among other Hecate and their instructors. I take a cauldron in which I had prepared a potion. Shortly after this a young foal emerged from her. Because of this relationship, Medea went to the icy waters of the Lete River to reenchant their lives in times past. This is how she takes hold of the sheds like the wings of Alikantus, to invade the estuaries and collect with her mouth the blue water displaced from the purgatory sky, so as not to stain with her ****** hands after having committed harassment with Jason.
They subtracted the ooze from the three days of the Solstice, to pounce with the south wind to meet again Vernarth in Bumodos. After Medea bathed in the beautiful melodies of the Lete river, the masculine sphinx of Likantus continued to undress her from all past Lives, as in ****** fusion consenting and thanking the rhythm of her onslaught for the great display of her sorceries that by misfortune comes, it signals revenge for the righteous and reconciliation to the unvenged opposites.
As the Solstice began, there was a lumberjack near the love nest between the personality of Alikantus and Medea. He interrupts them when Alikantus hit the slopes of his buttocks so that the potion bounced by his navel to take Gaugamela.
The Woodcutter says:   "Visibly used to seeing these scenes in Lete, he tells them that he has had to carry these axes in his hands since he was a child." I have never cut a tree, but I only follow these proportions that speak to me as a child when I was ordered by my parents to follow these cultures. My cult is not to treasure anything, much less accumulate rumors of tree species. I am only pleased to see one day a slight glimpse of Medea's face in me, who is part of her under this spell of never being able to bring her wood, on the contrary a song of her many passionate loves, even of her vengeful gaze when she is not. beloved, who underlies the worst poisoned evenings, even gazing at them with unpoisoned eyes with the miter in my hands.

Medea answers:  To infinity, on the other hand, if I am uncomfortable with principles, how could I suggest that your my woodcutter will be imperishable? Because your own beings grow dependent on those who do not believe they are beings who end their lives in the same way. Since you are the bearer of an ax, your conscience is to become a more capital statement of the Truth. As a unit of my imprecations, I must take you to the last survival merits of my beautiful melodies, but of fatal songs of death.
So your unit from today will be the same as yours, product of your parents' inheritance, and the other will be mine, which I have deposited in you to protect Lete. As I mention it with our blessed dance that Clovis suddenly and manifestly says ..., the river Lete in the underworld, dissolves your Memories, cleanses your mind permanently. That is the branch of a poplar tree from the underworld, from my father Hipnos. "Lete is not the place you want to go swimming ..."
Puzzled The Woodcutter looks at her and passes the ax to him, so that he can give it to Likantus, as a means of thanks to Vernarth prostrated in the disenchantment of the war spells, like tree limbs in the arms of his seeds, more than regrets. I am a woodcutter who never cut a tree, because through this offering I will give my ax so that Vernarth makes this circumcision with his talent those of others who are so many, less than what I can never count.

Medea comes out of this charm. Run away without a trace. Only this steed with its golden wings remain, pale as the day of good half-hopes. She takes the potions with her muzzle, weapons and the ax of good wood. Skewing its course, it takes flight to the north, to approach the villages of the gangs and cavalries by thousands who were heading to the vicinity of Te Gomel already in the jurisdiction of Vernarth. Day and night the Likantus Arengas flutter to repeat their same episode lived with Medea, towards the commanders to get them ready to shake their swords.

To be continued / under editing