Set of cave genes If you could read... pluri freedoms of the dark light of ignorance teach understand that breathe under the Naturality Natural Nature is not necessary to have an understanding heart and store on their empty heads of knowing ancient rain where wisdom possess. If dance on every grain of chickpea for each foot plant what could a plant obey; foot, Plant, and Plantation...

Resulting in kingdoms on my animals, fungi, plants, and protists, media freedom as a seed to reach our evolutionary lack of ceased hopeness...

First  Ellipsis Angle loneliness"God felt Chained"

Chained down by dragging the last link of its multiple arcane freedom in which transfigured recent swings where he collapsed with the latter being of himself whose life lies lifeless alive but lost. The latter that child not to know and deprived of nascent freedom that will never be born and come knowledge in our genome of Independence.

When the caveman thought to be a complement to the world is enslaved by the mystery of lost in himself... The born and born, never dies, that's so naive and innocent... is still full unaware of their free will, rather it is he who must re-literate and be a living part of the ancestral genome Cavernario component. Oh Heavenly Lord of the steppes I look because more of you today without having lived what you lived, as he would have played with my gaze to succor and keep you had fallen into the fangs of an animal, or you had fallen on the glacier cliff where he has separated you from your Clan Cave.

Emancipation means to be always innocent, my blood runs through yours,
I read and understand any phenomenon of deprivation exist without you lack wisdom satiate if all your generations crushed by the ignorance of falling subject will be well, me and my being I take my precognitions as a tormented child's worst nightmare before about sleeping. Sixth Papal almost, almost kneel before the creation of memorizes creation. This prerogative Lord lives Bread’s God Minor remaining....of whose iconography will not leave this fifth fraternal dimension will not come, if not more will enter the latter end of absolute solitude... and shorter than the last thousand years of Neandertal.


Cavernary Political and Ellipsis:

On a day of gentle wind and tense rain proclaiming Clan joined, they all shouted running, the ground shook and the children slept in terror... the 10 infants who were talking about the Sign from above, but the nines they crossed his arms remaining to create solidarity roof that protects the man in your imagination...
The eighth child of the clan ran quickly into the arms of his mother and she imagined how far, how far would never come... uncharacteristically who came with his brother seventh had in their hands the word of entertainment of Being, to be a plaintiff political all of braiding them together with lines enabling the hermit may decide that creation is a mass of lines of certain fashions together, everything sings like the slightest cyclamen dew on the line pointy rough fallen fungus. All arms folded on the upper porch of the Vatican Macario in Franconia, saying that many who unite in their fevered requests large modern man ceased to be autonomous when it came out of their caves and charnel pit.

Ran all she enjoyed doing that almost without knowing whether or not they fall...
Ran because of every day the sun ahead of them a lesson for a man of the future...
They are running to be released the day of his birth chained to stars of light, to carry him to his mother and father, sneaking to his brothers.

Brother worn eleventh birth to her existence as another being evolved Eukaryotic: Surely those provided beings of cell membranes rhizomes reflected in higher liberty lives purged of ectoplasm walk without a discounted subsidiary. Shakespeare in Helsingor appeared immune to a blood brother to all that limits the Draconian feel in the pinnacles drawn 700 greened steeds. From the deepest swoon in the underworld subway Helsingor, follow the prevailing souls presided over by the great ear of the hard sandcastle, stressed hard Ghosts of Stratford upon Avon.

Freedom plague spits words of pancreatic poisoned exordium, spits verses of confusion disorders without permission, without solid bass sound without liquid sea that resists mad edges followed by solid sound...
But smaller stones give priority to conjugate final sentence and noble verses Guardian
to mission how important would Liberation:

Maybe it's a synonymy of Astral Solar...
It is not Solitude, is a free nation that has its own kind prosecutor's office for even when Euthanasia closes your eyes to the astral, will run the stones of the Sea of joy believing that neither you dare if there is no healthy grass to clarify the rainy day terror.


Reverse walk creeks aggravated birds feet, walking great playful ruse.
Reverse run my comrades preparing festivity meals with chandeliers and singing lay plenary., Singing Avenue pine port Firenze, Second run subtracting minutes and hours the minute is enough for me with your face in my arms to recognize your longevity anathema times oblique faces for lip-smacking hailstones Templars.

In 1297 in northern Italy nearby rural families migrate to chalky Venice, Perugia came the exiles walked to find their independence south of the Iberian Peninsula. They were so atoned as in the echoing flutes, harps, zithers, and harpsichords field temperate; They invited the blunting of intemperate monocordio.

Golden Chariot Carrenio

The golden carriage carrying them came without a single space rather than inheritances acquired goldsmiths of ancient noble and chaste solid shine. Carrenio; the coachman wore on his left arm bracelet thousand mobile travel without stopping to drink more water and to feed their horses. After revamping its gold pieces bartered by a slave who was getting Carrenio Christians fleeing the Romans. Well, they fled as far as the plains of great earthly squandered his memory and that end of the end should come.

How am away from my land more I learn it's back to her,
There is no ground for the first time, but that which is foreign
Carrenio of Perugia and sensed that ****** was Jewish ashes,
Luther King black paste of burnt forest,
Mandela and Biko Ogre garage from Victorian Empire,
Gandhi in his humility is always put behind the Sun
to figure out the small
Tagore trashed my heart caressing the entire universe uncorrupted
Hölderlin together in the cabin waiting for his mother at Zimmerman,
That my beloved Borker forest should shine gold teeth with black resin,
Theresa of Calcutta was eaten and swallowed all diseases lepers knowing good taste proverbial dessert psalm,
Jose Miguel Carrera was more than a trench, clay bullets in each of his temples where he received
To be doubly Lonco is to be halved, lacerated by lay his head on his land, not galloping on his back throngs of wit and hope out Nazareth trembles when an F-16 diluted ***** covering landless caravans Heritage continues to lead the people killed but the mosque wall has been Fe Erecta.
Helena plenipotentiary Kowalska at Vilnius, Faustina Divine Mercy Diadema
The agonizing deprivation of millions of people with cancer in every continent of private well-being analgesic, weighed down by increased pain, almost as strong as the Master Hammered Golgotha, so it was that Joshua has cancer always to slow it down on us. Benigno whether metastasis, malignant albeit benign finance.
The death of an innocent little angel devoured by the beast remains as a fluff hairless sardine in the jaws of a shark baron.
Khalil Gibran writes that with both hands to support the reviewer behind in Bicharri and bohemian Paris,

Salvador Allende Gossens was born since he was deceived by his parents who would heal politics, would rather dig their ancestors in their brains scattered in the currency in face seal or tail of.

Frei Montalva that today has to receive the Macro Augusto Heaven their arms, their sorrows, and regrets, although his worst military executioner.

Legion is an offshoot of liquid central gray material, which defers well done becoming but not defeated, it is the decree of the divine threshold space Living or ceases to live, that failure does not exist, it is the postponement of success - success.

The Genocide September 11 in New York was a ritual, who produced was a small wrath strength of the Rotary world, as the camshaft is upset in the history of trying to make more alphabet in schools where the flag hoisting and found scholars in West and East, so they can learn more than reading of both unlettered, lip and water to possess it to write with it. The worst disaster is read with the memory that will never happen... I write my greatest need with lipstick and my greatest need I write eagerly to participate. Yesterday I passed by a boutique and buy lipsticks that are closer to the language, written with the mouth and not the hand. !

Freedom, debauchery, libration, drawer, Bookstores..! Carrenio..: he said see I'm right! Raise and educate has a great synonymy with autonomy because the ancestors wrote everything that deprived them and made them fear, but do not have to eat the autumn gives me to dress the return of spring, bread orchid, and cineraria. Hence by that inner syllabic singing hunger sated that sought sheet to sheet rid of everything until the end of the book as the encounter between night and day without considering oblivious to anything or anyone on the track window swing wind, wind seeping.


It was old Zeus or Hera of Antique,
Cavern to house geometric polyphonic, angular seeds to create fashions kiss kissed everything that any vertical plane does not fit with the closed horizon
For hands and angels, Hebrews the inner soul of every carpenter and stonemason shrunk, wash their eyes and cheeks with songs of vibration and idyllic comfort,
Everything resembled and sounded Bethlehem 2.0 deities choirs sweeping grasslands,
The similarity of this clairvoyant child is born in a cave...
Rising motherly free Soliloquy Papini sitting to the right of ruminant cattle,
So archaic that to be born is not born in a clinic mega Cristus but hundreds of kilometers and hundreds who are born with the undergirding whispers and servitude being.
Where the multi gray impetuous born star is a healthy gauze story in the present tense... this angelic child grows by Miriam washes his feet in a belligerent abolished stone. His father must wash their hands on a stone which is where measured his ecclesiastical mystical stature, stone Madonna to heal his feet where he leaves to free himself, to free us... Marble gamete fémina vault, where he sleeps without knowing whether it is due, the ***** fell from the sky.
How wise is the Wise, it makes permissible for much more than two thousand years we stone quarry wheel and wheel, homily, and blessing to not wake at night to sleep startle middle and uphill.

Me of the referent of antiquity is not me of today is polished cobble stone,
Useful weapon quarry road there and backtrack to have blisters stone and soft thoughts under my pillow soft stone as a whole.

If you're ****** private living and have a free soul choosing coexist, then you are low in the cemetery on a tombstone of heresies.

Neolithic early 4500 after Hildegard von Bingen and his entourage and prowled full and channeled, swooning in her swoon with flowers in his hands and his followers planting forests on top of Stonehenge.

Carrenio says...: you see I'm right, we coexist, I die like the worst ****** cancer and then put a tombstone Stonehenge conspire in my honor black pain prayers of Salisbury. It blooms in vibrant red rubies that detonate in chromaticity and life. The stream itself is exceeded the aquatic plant Macarenia.

Call us and civilize us, outdated as far as my tired feet though I come not ashamed to see my new tracks.

Carrenio says...; see I'm right Joshua has traces of gold from other Caterpillar shod feet. Antique everything is prescribed according to their legacy today is Lent Pro that came before it was Lent vestige Pentecost came to be a nickname of the mystery of the passion in less than a rooster crows.

Beside it is the mystery of the disappointment of stubborn demon, which helps you all carry the cross, but not the entire load. Fire and Light at dawns where the splendor born...


Genome Freedom, even today every centimeter of my witness of each component, if the basic origin of the signs of the primitive world, is that we have lost the bark of the lexicon, which does not allow us to understand the meditations to ask for something, not You need to ask something. Today genome is requesting something because thousands of people who asked for millions of years, now it's time to cater to them. They were wrapped in cloth shroud of spiritual sacredness, today cemeteries mega dance their souls leave no sleepers both much grass on their heads not yet sullied by the puppet Azrael.


Impossible not to decorate the rocks forged empires that fall into the rubble, they bring 476 d. C., a new opening Middle age freedom of travel both in history thousands of years begins a new axis Golden Carrenio’s Chariot.

Carrenio Wagon

This great colossal ship Carrenio time is a timber that holds the sky, a beam that does not faint or distended thousands a. C, and the old age of King's large musings that were forgotten. It is astride ship millennium, their history of oppression has seen in the wheel, instrument wise rolling like a wheel before 5, 000 years ago, here  We fought and prostrated to distant lands millennium after millennium him away.

Golden Chariot is the structure that freedman us to enforce a new life on earth, even the Gods prided themselves move the stars to constellations called her noble Auriga sailing in full the Universes and Cartwheel Galaxy or cart Wheel. As if to say that when the Universe and its own mythology, were visited between them inch by inch by wherever they shine.

Carrenio mask and frame used had strength, temper, and tittle. When the first libertarian squall of antiquity came closer, Rome was already small and nobles populate what is a quote, Piccola. The executioner always frightened and starts out of his own wickedness. Markos Botsaris as did in Greece, and surrounding towns Messologhi remote, they were free more than tuned in massif Arankithos high wind. He was riding to Kanti once again with the golden rider Etrestles of Kalavrita. According to the Chronicle that came from distant millennia has envisioning promote its neighbor's heroic to free Messolonghi of ****** wars. All this I saw with his own eyes Carrenio, every thousand years styling with Etrestles, cleaned their nostrils so that new breed of horses to thrive,

Avignon, in the necropolis, witnessed as Azrael was cleaning his wings Jade antipopes, another story begins... even he seeks to candela who can read this story, and who can provide it from hand to hand cutting semicolons who disclosed.


Second  Ellipsis Angle  New Era:

Ara released the ropes throwing a big ship, History makes a man is at the center of the world. Revolutions, thinking, communication, and especially vindicate man in his right-libertarian. artists with their creations flowing all over the world, mutating classic Renaissance to abstract overlook. Family appearing welfare and needs. A ramble and so many broken laws. Mankind is distracted l film and theater artist of tradition. Art now has sound and movement, then social and political revolutions are industrial that unite everyone behind the pivot deployment of social classes.


Everything evolves until we get tired of doing so. It rests and then continues. This is modern reality, we wrote about the history of events on facts that have never been told. The world has tired all the Eras, but each pause time that has happened has been recharged, nothing finished if not started again. After so many wise lawyers, clergy plunged into great towers bound books. Is evident again can not read or understand. Our realities are missing valid without knowing I close and then open another door. human and civil rights, fair wages, so excessive autocracy monarchy. Freeman can walk along the paths, even if they were trenches.

Zephyr soft murmur which clutters in the Irises by Van Gogh, the painter is the biggest star trek, called with his feet images and colors that would make his own liberty to live naturally insane. And many others Brueghel "Triumph of Death" that roam the countryside, perhaps a medieval piece of Tarskovski; Andrei Rublev in futile painters decorating steps in the fontano chignon Androniko Monastery Moscow, extinct Rublev 70 years, Tarkovsky 54.

Early ellipsis - Campo dei Fiori in Rome to see die at the stake Giordano Bruno by order of the Holy Inquisition. The irruption of the Inquisition, but their feet are touching the flowers, the seasoned cassock continues to haunt the universe of Faith Dominica Trastevere, it is seen to lectures on how to be bold with the informers and the Whistle Blower dies without shade in spring, you resist the star on the asphalt on the magical island of holiness.

Carrenio says: Come I'm right, we can not read, because the brutality of the Cosmos is manure per ton weathered in the backyard of the aristocracy. I will continue with respect and crosed in Crete. Lila Kedrova means the fear of bunk bed tied to her bed and is free in foreign lands leg. Queen insular matriarchy, she lives more than any Greek Goddess, waiting for his Adonis, to fill out honors. Win an Oscar but lost to Zorba, he loses his house but won a Tony Awards. How many women teach us that to win you have to give everything to lose his brains, and thus count as the lost number remains to be retained. Zorba whines in her arms, she moans in the arms of her husband Zeus Steve, proof of a new era. Onyx for his tomb, plate of this great tragedy.

On the evening of December 14, 1964, attended the premiere. Soul of Carrenio was with them but was denied his attendance at the banquet, finally running out and watching the glasses lips and stoles spent his neck.

                                          
          ­                      Numbered Mysterious Death
                                                  Mané

If I have to feel floe on my feet and cold in my prayers will be the Dark Glory. What is slimming rays of the day, everything smelled of silence, maybe it was Kennedy, or better was The Mané.

Closure of my glory suffers the wind...
Flowers lying silence my soul alight,
Thick square displays the song of my voice...
When they speak Quadratils one to one order their
Spirituous voice.

And the spirit singing fiber of my heart told me:
Never you say I Exist ¡ not exist because they do not exist!
Only face daily the different reflection of your body
In front of yourself with another face and another body...

I want to talk with the thought
And this same subtract my little silhouette,
Lavishes wingless bird that flies only in their theology...
That is the duty and melt with my look,
Solid colors components
Crunching the altars of heaven retaining its pale warmth of anorexia.

Yellow Glory hair good event...
If you receive yellow lights, plus I do not sing my own game here in my empty veins,
Yellow my heart...
Yellow my heart
Yellow my collective heart.

They are run by large green and sunny meadows, children who had Mane in this major milestone in its last gasp. Now she is the mother of his children; it up and them in the last temptation of the mystery of death.

Carrenio keeps rolling, the brightness offered his Golden wagon to the ground. Gold grooves ago, and looking at where it realizes that it's landmass light mud. Since he felt whispers from the confines of time he had never felt as if you were finishing your journey or the world. It raining years and years and continues because nobody mends the mysterious death Numbered.

Heaven and Earth did not hold, the bottom fell precipitously pocket Lord and denied several times uncontained. She shivered in the World and the rooster crowed several times to never be heard or the Pentagon.

He is walking and knees bent,
we embraced by the golden chariot and oxen nor held
we bent us all lying on his knees,
up shoulders not hear from where came the bad grace of his departure,
numbered all the time of complaints of how then she would come,
It is unknown who would be but brought wine in his hand on the crispy mask
We ran from side to side and nothing was real

Everything seemed to sing in the chapel on a sad day,
But I hear loudly like Latin and watchfulness,
Those who know his mystery is no stranger to them
They all look but transgress the sin of silence.

Carrenio still absorbed in the hallway,
Angulo ellipsis she comes winged like a star burning tar,
A high speed to give us the new
No garden can deprive greet in speed visit
Dome comes, it comes on the eve of the new moon.

Numbered Widow mysterious,
Mané is a land of golden color and no celestial whoever wants in his cell,
A breath test, and feeding the Toffy and his henchmen
That sustaining more lively detail, there is no one that can not be targeted

It was modern, it was night, it was his torn life as an accomplice of his exile abandonment in his allegory of tender dismissal. Carrenio achieved so say goodbye to the beams of light that told him of the mysterious death Numbered. He sat on the roadside and drank some wine. Then dry with his handkerchief his neck, and have never wanted to experience such an event in a toast ever drunk.

Third Ellipsis Angle  of  New Era

Independence of Chile, it concerns Mapuche atingent case. Araucania pound, then 1818 central Chile. In Brief, Earth makes free an entire nation. His naive and primitive braves inhabitants emancipated themselves from all sides, they came to save a people who were just following where nobody can reach. Independence of the United States separates us for approximately 42 years, breaking up owners of nowhere. Industrial Abolitionist and South Slaver and Agraria. The biggest event that more than 640, 000 men and fallen activists planted safely from repression fields.

In Chile all rule resembled this secession in today's Araucano man prays for his fallen by almost more than 3 centuries in Chilean lands of Araucanía’s men. Lautaro genius and his supporters the heart of Pedro de Valdivia ate; Map ever made to your battle mapping Tucapel. "Initiation and final symbol occurred after 282 years of fierce war" and Mapuche land forever their independence from the Spanish Empire Captain-General important in foreign lands never subjected to foreign rule would eat.

The Machis and Loncos make supplications in native forests falling on them pollen on its back as if nothing out 10 times better...

To Libertas strengthen in the west is necessary to push the limits of the earth beneath his tongue and penance for the greedy entangled in the lines of bloodied sky, rebellions Chieftains death-defying all together at the edge of a cliff. 1769 The Pehuenches led by Lebian Cacique, joined the Mapuches razing Yumbel and Laja, the most peaceful Huilliches also joined mass alerting perhaps innocent people land blood-stained war and the Mackay Luchsinger.

No doubt portals military rebellion trigger blood, where they opened a tip and swords in the past. Here's reading concern is that the succession is timeless time, a sword without a sword, but on the tip of her blood is seen where there were herds and warriors crushed by their own footsteps. Here the phenomenon of freedom begins; Humanity runs treading his own footsteps, to save his family from a threat, but not strange forces that force you to use your defenses, because in the groves populate many helpless souls with his sword unused at the expense of being forced to use.

Freedom genome; It aims to reach where it has not come without looking back,
Chalices pour out is where the troubadours do not cuddle her close looks like time, singing while watching the changes are not of a new life


Heaven star,
Come to me,
I ask a sign to see them arrive,
Because I want to thus been dragged
Being together Eager to feel...
Those respites without being comforted
going to the mouth of the serpent.

About the Garden,
My home is to put my love,
He has to put the days imagining close...
To enjoy yourself is nonexistent...

Oh, my house tormenting me...!
Because in it I feel your smell
They are alone lights
Where I would wait for me to be in the dark...

In the coming future,
You will not see or hear my anger...
Perhaps my happiness nor peace praying
As the spear in the hands of the perpetrator.

You know a storm of whispers
I do sow your name in the wilderness,
It's because my judgments of hope
They mount up arable land deposited in my frenzy
Misled by a love which is my love.

But you never understand,
Because time has invaded my dwelling,
Invading my brain to give
It has invaded my choosing to love...

On the grass path,
Every time I move away from you,
I turn to see if you have not been...

Love came,
And I think that leaves us alone to avail ourselves
Ranging in our time...


But I can not resist his silence,
For my house want the noise of its action,
Why keys to the gates that serve my understanding.

Tramples my heart the fragmenting oddities into smaller pieces,
Your answer that call.

Tur love be like if I had created...
As if only you had appreciated your beautiful creation.

Do not destroy your work expresses in his mystery give life to your dreams!
Man aiming better earth, ask some of you to join your dreams...

! Your wife of this land does not procrastinate your misfortune,
I discover far peaceful landscapes like an echo in the spring,
As large and deep as your forgiveness for loving me more


It tells the Earth to the Sun in its perky tear benefactress of new opportunities as good and healthy smile rainbow on the back of Oviedo sheep valleys of freedom of Pietrelcina life.

To be continued…

.there's about a million Poles in England, give or take, since the introduction of the A8 in 2004... what's the trick of being a minority ethnicity? apart from the physiological similarity with the natives? you mingle with the upper-tier of "migrants" of Britain... you go to an Catholic school and mingle with the 2nd and 3rd generation Irish... you go to university and spend time with the Scots... you dismiss the Welsh as the boot licking crowd of what's Britain... but? most importantly? you speak the native's tongue better than the natives themselves... you allow yourself a chance to make your diacritical application a patch-work puzzle of pronunciation... i know that i speak two languages... but i can imitate three forms of accents... 2 in english, but only one in Polish... well... 2 in Polish... but not like some foreigner learning the language in Krakōw in some summer school... two languages... four accents... the countryside shyness for diacritical markers for urban folk... a complete disregard for them... 2 languages... 4 accents.

i'm not really into finding a drinking buddy...
what's with people using strong
alcohol to socialize?

             the moment i start talking after
about half a liter of whiskey
my tongue turns into an oyster -
   rather than a prodding rod -
a lance - you name it...

     once there's a cage on my speech -
i dare not put on the beer goggles
when i take to language -
  un-speaking what the natives speak...

kestrel eyes... mollusk tongue
   at that point...

     but it's nice to walk into a supermarket
and talk with a fellow ginger
about a product...
    ****! i knew i should have given
him the recommendation about
the henry westons' cider...
which would have went like so:

oh don't worry that it's 8.2% -
it's not Carlsbeg export...
believe me, you won't mind it...

the cashier?
    like my selection of whiskey...
eh?
    whyte & mackay...
the best **** on the block...
smooth whiskey...
   bells?
     we agreed, too smokey...
the famous grouse?
    ever get a hint of chocolate on
that kosher glug of
the highlinds?
                
       **** me... it's like one of those
moments when you play a song
in your head...
roxette's, from the seminal
album joyride: small talk...

             he mentioned some sweet whiskey,
warned me: might as well be
drinking Kentucky bourbon...

        what was that other song?
ah...
            from the movie inside man...
not being gay or anything:
but **** isn't Clive Owen
the morning cockerel...
   Washington isn't bad, either...
chaiyya chaiyya (bollywood joint)
remix...

George who?
   what was ever so big about Clooney
among the ladies' fantasies?
it was always Owen, all the day...
looks being one thing...
but the voice?
             close second,
                Jerard Beutlé(r)...

too much blah blah...
but when a blah blah moment comes,
and two people know
what they're talking about?
brilliant! please! more of it!
i can have a minute with someone
and then sink back into
my conversation hubris for a week...

i once "forgot" and didn't really
say a word for about a week...
               but honest to god...
this is probably the most mundane
"poem" i've ever written...

               either i haven't drunk enough,
or i'm thinking of something
completely different
to usher in the night.

. like some pop canadian psychiatrist might, lecturing males about *******, unlike some lars von trier... let's just say that i can understand of jerking off having been mutilated, oh, sorry, circumcised, having an improved impetus for the opposite partner... sure... love the lecture... a male's missing ******* is compensated by a couch with extra pillows of a woman's ******... i get it... one problem... one thing lecturing males on the dreaded degeneracy of *******... could this famous canadian psychiatrist, cool off, and lecture females about their exhibitionism? no? not real? ****... i took the alternative route jerking off... took to fine art nudes, and selfies women take of their cleavage... i might be a sore jerking off loser... but she's the ******* exhibitionist.

ever walked down a desolate road,
with only cars whizzing past.
and no pedestrians?

ever walk and stop,
under a street lamp,
exasperated by the stealth of rainfall,
slow...
   airy, almost floating,
like a myopic cloud covering
your eyes?

ever walk into an alley beside
a baptist church...
ease up, take a ****...
and then drench your hair in
rain (water)?

ever glide over the sheen of
concrete covered in
wetness that soil would
otherwise, hide, and ingest?

the temperature is still there,
can't get sparkles,
guess i have to settle
for squid liquid glee of
the cement...
give it three months...
the paparazzi will glitter
the mundane cement gore...

and then walking down
a road, downhill...

             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

i might have been drunk...
but i was going / left to right,
nd \ right to left,
spectating the rainfall
under each street-lamp...

  **** me... what a beauty show...
like watching someone
spin candy floss!
  
i squinted my eye...
   un-squinted it...
    mezmo...

              better than an l.s.d. trip...
   auburn come autumn air...
a slight fragrance of decay...
        french puff pastry...

slow rain,
like a postcard enclosed in
an envelope...
    like carbonated water...
a gesticulation of imitating
fizzy, in terms of air...

     pure... magic...
so i did what no other drunk does,
walked down the street,
a ******* zig zag parade:
  
             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

  or Z... x6...
            the linear aspect implying:
i paused, and admired...

              just a little rain,
and all the streets were empty...
what space...

by the way...
   is Budweiser truly the king of beers?
my local supermarket has started
selling
            asahi...
         well, technically liquid amber is
evening sun, not morning sun...
but seriously...
        Budweiser?
the, king, of beers?
   if they stopped milking the Chinese,
injecting rice fermentation...
then... maybe...
         Budweiser is the ******* beer...
yak ****...
         it's akin to the story of
of: pork because of bacon...
   bacon is crap...
       pig head and cranium terrine...
  or pork kabanossi...
         but i give the h'americans
bourbon...
god i can't resist...
   do all brothels "stink" of
Kentucky bourbon?

         every time i open a Kentucky bourbon
i am reminded of having visited
a brothel...
    and the kissing like
oral ***...
                      perfumes! perfumes!
perfumes!

   floral patterns on the lips
that pucker up to vines and needles
leaving them shut...

     **** me... even the *** beer has
a story, rather than a kingly stature
behind it...
   karakuchi...

or as one must summarize:
i got to the brothel for a hard-on,
i go to the cinema for the pseudo-acting...
your chiral female to example...
limp **** and i might as well
be eating ****...

          and then there's Californian Punk
of the 1990s...
           which?
does British politics even exist?
to make a punk mooo-v'eh-ment?
           i brought the cows,
but forgot the cow-bell
for Nazareth's hair of a dog...

     as we know it...
punk died in California in the 1990s...
punk ist tod...

come to think of it...
no one does blogging when testing
alcohol...
  ****... and it would be censored...
if someone should do a social media
type of critique,
getting off his *** when drinking
an asahi beer,
of a whyte & mackay whiskey...

      here's what it could look like...
in writing.

The summer sun rose at 3 am. By then we had already hightailed out of Stockholm, en route south. The purple horizon slowly lifted the veil of darkness and the motion of the van returned to its former realm of concrete movement as we rocked along the long continental avenue. The sun gleamed through open windows onto my arms and legs, making the hairs on my neck stand at attention and awe of white light fissioning into a nebula of vivid color in motion, occupying the entirety of my vision. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had forgotten past failures and obstacles. Was it because of some arbitrary sense of perseverance and skill, or was it a mere karmic turn? Who could tell(?) The radio crackles and fades just before I turn it off. Heller leans forward to tamper with the switches on the radio to find a station. I slapped his hand in spite and I don’t know why it did it. Heller laughs it off and continued to make fun of South-state Americans and juggalos.
- “‘The juggalos made me the ******* I am today,’ ya, that’s pretty evident, you fat drugged up loser. You should should go **** your sister’s purdy mouth,” Mackay laughs wholeheartedly. Andrew leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.
- “Hey, man. Are you alright? You look a tad pale.” Andrew shifts his facade to slight sarcasm, like he always would to veil his genuine care.
- “Yeah, I’m fine. Haven’t really eaten anything, and the coffee is wearing off.”
- “Do you wanna put something on the tape-deck? Let’s pick one you’re familiar with, so that you can sing along to keep your head up. These slobs won’t be helping you, trust me. They’ll be sleeping in good conscience in a few minutes.”
- “Yeah, cat, that’s not such a bad idea. Put on some Jason Molina. It’s not exactly upbeat, but I know every ****** depressed word.”
I hum and sing along with Emilio, Devin and Mackay as the rest slept away the sorrows of folly and deprivation. We had finally made our way out of Sweden, crossing the immense Oresund Bridge, towering over us with cables running up and down, thicker than our waists. The fog lay over Copenhagen Bay, as the sun peeks over it like Kilroy writing his mark on the horizon wall. 8 kilometers across, connecting the fragmented Scandinavian continent, suspended 60 meters above the malicious Skagen Sea, writhing, twisting and smashing away in the stiff morning wind. Walk along the suspension on a wire, not caring either way if you fall or remain in your shoes. We had already leapt away from the strange comfort of our apartments, shrouded in exhaust, hardship and simplicity of mind, to get a feel of the real world, a world that robs you at knife point, stabs you and leaves you to bleed away in beautiful chrysalis alleys, with the stars glinting away in your vidi, not able to care one bit. Leaving the pots and pans ***** in the sink at home, leaving late night parties, static beds, self consumption, bitterness and white knuckles, we found ourselves on a frontier. A lackluster frontier by ancient standards, but complacency being the dominant dogma of modern day life, a frontier nonetheless. We are the riders of high waves, and rogues on the dusty trails, for thousands of miles, until time suspends itself, and we lose grip. We may not have revolvers or boats, but our van is our weapon. And we are going to use it. The bridge descends into the flatlands of Denmark, where the highest point is a lump of lawn and the people are friendly and clever. A few friends of ours had told us tour stories from bands that were, about a concert being held in a glass octagon cube in the middle of a desolate plain, and the place was packed with young sophistos and the remaining cultural aristocracy of Denmark. Too bad we ain’t stoppin’.
The carnival in my head pushes into high gear with song and magic marker signs, spinning around in circles through streets filled with people screaming at the top of their lungs. I listen to the mechanism churning away, greased by coffee, in the scorching noon Apollonian torture.

We are ashamed, sir dear
We are ashamed.

Neither the earth glistened
In the ray of good time,
Nor we are still
In the way of good time.

Pen is serving, not right
But the mighty lord,
Kneeling bowing bending,
Instead of superseding sword.

Nations still quarrel
To prove them stronger.
Men are being slaughtered
For the sake o f honour.

Men are being burned,
Terror rules the world,
Birth, not the worth
Still fools the world.

War, the monster of iniquity
Has worn different masks.
Somewhere proving pride
Somewhere deadly tasks.

We couldn't bring the good time
The good time once you dreamt.
‘'Let us aid what we can''
We have forgotten what you meant.

i was about to start writing this up when i thought:
another whiskey Quincy? **** storm,
spilled the remains of the one i barely touched
before having to pour myself a:
puritan Scot in Cheltenham.

now, i heard people say any town in Essex
is a ****-hole...
                            fair enough...
but there are darker recesses of England you
must get to know before making that
assumption...
                  sure, London, proper London,
zones 1 - 4, E17 (post code, outer reaches,
Walthamstow, used to have a dog racing
track - played there once,
like a typical Paris catwalk, those hounds)
can skive off Greater London
                    like New York can laugh off
New Jersey, it's pretty much like that...
the only thing is: Londoners don't know what
exists outside this area: the buffer zone.
this is the buffer zone...
                 you experience England outside of
this very sensitive area of integration,
take for example a 3 hour coach trip to
a little town of Cheltenham in Gloustershire
not far from Oxford (a hub of learning)
and Bristol (Massive Attack, and that
bridge by Brunel - funny, engineers are above
architects, in that engineers build things
that *work, architects are like science-fiction
novelists rather than scientists -
do you know how many problems workers
experience, because an engineer
"forgot to mention" something essential in the plans?
at least an engineer gives you a read table,
all architects work for Ikea -
          ah, here's pieces a - z,
put it together yourself) - anyway...
              spilled my Quincy whiskey, now i'm a puritan
of scotch - unlike that damning quote from
1950s Hollywood: whiskey with a drop of water...
   ok ok... a little **** of ice floating about...
when will the nagging stop? no one says jack
about putting water into authentic absinthe...
      why? cos it goes cloudy green when you do!
(too much digression, news paragraph).

   i was leaving London on Friday,
murky the way i like it... Albert Bridge never seemed
so out of cinematographic urgency -
               but the west end with its grand buildings
appealed to me to start imagining
                    Oscar Wylde ghosts leaving these places
for promenades in top cats and tiaras for the ladies...
                     west London... the best way to see it
is in transit... preferably rather urgently...
                    and in a coach with other people not paying
attention...
                       the Thames receded into the estuary (
as it does), those housed in boats experienced a wake-up
call with a 10° ***** into the mud -
                                past the Chelsea pensioners' abode,
past many monuments to be exact...
   and then onto the open M4... past Windsor Castle
and the streak of aeroplanes about an aerial mile
apart landing at Heathrow -
                                  3 hours later, there i was,
in Cheltenham - chitty chitty bang bang,
apparently dubbed the hub of all English literary
endeavours - well, if you're going to host
a literature festival, wouldn't you claim to host
it with at least one patriotic son of the word?
did i see any statue of a famous poet or writer in
that little rugby stockpile of excess triceps?
nope.
           well, at first i thought it was cute...
                                a little Portobello, albeit
without the St. Petersburg paintwork on the houses,
houses as grey as the skies...
                                           got lost looking for
the b & b hotel i was supposed to be staying at for
the night, went into a gas station, asked,
i was apparently only adjacent lost -
                           old school, map printer and no
g.p.s. on foot -
                                  i once read a map and navigated
a car from an obscure Essex city,
to an even more obscure city in eastern Poland,
past the dreaded Penta Germania consisting of:
Düsseldorf, Duisburg, Essen, Wuppertal and
obviously Dortmund -
                                           i call it the whirlpool
of navigation...
                            anyway, so i found the abode,
what a nice little place it was, shied away from
all the traffic - a lovely garden,
a room fit for a journeying writer,
          actually, everything a writer could hope for
to lock himself away and write,
            tunic scenic - everything to ease the literary
constipation - the surroundings, the whole decor,
i even took a picture thinking: shame if no
Balzac were to not emerge from these rooms...
                           i sure didn't,
i dropped all the things, took a shower,
went into town to do the g.p.s. topographic of
the city so i wouldn't need a map in the future -
bought a bottle of whyte & mackay with a huh?!
apparently this brand isn't popular...
               went back to the room and found myself
drinking in front of the dreaded sight...
well... it was a room fit for a writer...
               but it had a double bed in it...
and a mirror at the desk...
                                    i downed one puritan glass
and looked in the mirror: i don't need your company.
looked away and found to my amazement the
truth of modern writing: the industrialisation
of writing... it emerged in the 20th century when everyone
did it by himself, with a typewriter -
        the industrialisation of writing on an individual
scale can be quiet debilitating when trying to
rekindle the quill... i didn't write anything, i doodled,
and those were bad doodles, it wasn't writing,
it was doodling... i drank a quarter of the bottle
and went out...
        went into the first bar, ordered a Guinness and
and sat down by a table with a
(later disclosed) Gloustershire University student,
a Canadian, jacking-off a script for some
B-short-movie in a public place: to catch the oozing
exfoliation of inspiration from crowded places -
if ever that worked, it might have ever worked
in a graveyard...
                             we were joined by his friend,
some peasant, we got chatting, boy, it was such a thrill
to exchange names... the Canadian's name
i did remember: Darcy...
                          he had that look about him that made
it worthwhile to remember his name,
ah, when names fit the image...
                         chubby, pig-blondish, hairy...
i'm guessing a native of Quebec...
                               but i could be wrong.
so a few hey hey, yeah yeahs later i asked if they
knew something about this gig on the festival slot
that was starting tomorrow, 5 p.m. and for free...
sure sure... got to eye the guide... so i asked:
so, maybe we could meet up at this place at this time
and go from there....
                                  Titanic looked more graceful
sinking than the reply...
                                                 i had to really check myself,
this isn't London psyche chess, this is:
we are small people from a small town,
we think a charming stranger is a serial-killer...
                    the Yorkshire ripper case scenario,
not last... first.
                              i might have been ******* a lemon
by then and pretending to be drunk squirming
a Buddha look - i pretended the polite noting down
the details: suddenly i didn't think like attending
this ****** venture that would start at 5 p.m., end
at 12 a.m. and according to my travel diary:
having to wait 2 hours to catch the 2 a.m. home.
so i went to the first instalment of the "literature"
festival... lemn sissay and salena godden -
and i have to admit, it was a corker - a true
a champagne cork popped and hit the crystal
chandelier and i laughed... and that's how i lost my
virginity to "spoken word",
                                         i wasn't listening to poets,
but i was thoroughly entertained, i swear that
at the end of her performance Salena pointed into
the dark (great tactic, how can they be nervous
if they can't see anyone? they stand on a pulpit of pure
light and see black ahead, where the nerves?)
and said: esp. to my friend over there...
                i might have involuntarily back-laughed /
snorted like a pig trying to catch enough lung volume
for a ha ha...
                          got chatting to this lovely middle-aged
couple: told them: i'm being ***** with gags.
                prior, i was watching the queue build up
into the room, with a god-awful grin on my face...
i couldn't take it off...
                         perhaps because i was looking at
the demographic and thinking: where are my peers?!
i spotted about three people in a close age proximity -
the rest were farts and soon-to-be-farts...
                             now Sissay freaked me out...
in a good way... i met the two after the show,
i brought two copies of my own printed work to give to
them... i had to ask their publicist if i was allowed
to touch the Aegean marbles... luckily i did,
but then i asked the stupid question to Sissay:
so who were you trying to imitate when your eyes
were bulging out nearly gauged out like a Pink Floyd
song video of: teacher! let these children go!
               i should have associated something African
freakish in mask, a strengthening - the sort
of look that New Zealander rugby players put on
to frighten people off when dancing the haka -
he really did talk like that...
                                       the little devil voice didn't help
either... but i only asked that "stupid" question
while mumbling something about how hard it was
getting published and how anyone aged nearing 40
forgot the free press of the internet emerging and
how he asked for a q & a after the performance...
and... hand on my heart:
                                   got asked one question...
          and answered... only one question...
                                        a complete and utter ******* meltdown...
   not: oh yeah, so who's your major influence...
                      a Samuel Beckett moment from not i.
later i standing outside and smoking, a grand English
dame of the west approached me,
chitty chatty kiss the hand later i got to say the most
famous line known to the current Englishman:
unfortunately... from Essex.
             honest. anyone asks you in Essex the question
they always ask: so where you're originally from?
                         anywhere else in England
they just ask you: whe

We met in high school
(I won't count this as a year
but I fear you didn't
remember me as I did you)

I : (1989)
we met again
when your best friend
engaged to mine
I bought the tequila
you bought the limes

II III IV : (1990 -1993)
we dated
on and off
(even though you asked me
to be your bride
1 week after
our friends
engagement party)

V : (1994)
we moved together
to Mackay, away from
your family, great for you,
for mine, I cried

VI:  (1995)
we married
after our Son was born
perhaps you thought
it was time
(I never understood
the delay, I mourned)

VII : (1996)
we struggled
to be partners
and parents

VIII : (1997)
I birthed another Son
we were so happy
Life had
truly begun

IX : (1998)
Two little boys
so opposite
from their
Father and Mother
we still struggled
(but we had each other)

X:  (1999)
You decided your place
in this world
I surprised you
with a trip to Ireland
(you didn't want
to leave your girl,
but you couldn't wait
to meet family)

XI : (2000)
It all fell apart...
minding your own business
on your motorcycle
some stupid driver
ripped you apart

XII XIII XIV (2001 - 2003)
It was just me
paying bills
with no money
feeding kids
on love and honey
endless appointments
with doctors and shrinks
(did anybody think
I'd need a shrink?)
I never blinked, not once

XV : (2004)
You asked for more
another child you said
as affirmation you are not dead
so I bore you a daughter
at 35 ...
(the same year I took you
to the veterinary clinic
to be fixed, well...
it WAS just like
dropping the dog off)

XVI to Present (2005 to Today)
We still struggle
with day to day trouble
but for every year
we survived
I'll give you another,
and a high five

Oh.....
and a
*I Love You

A traveler on a dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.

Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows;
And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.
The doormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore-
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well
Where weary men might turn.
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle on the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again; and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled a thousand parched tongues,
And saved a life beside.

A nameless man, amid the crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied from the heart,
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath,
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.

O seed! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at first,
But mighty at the last.

                                                          ­  *Charles Mackay

I will arise and forage
not for eggs nor bread
for a bowl of porridge
that gets me out of bed.

Smooth like silk
with added milk
not lumpy mind
‘tis good to find
it thick and grey.
No better way
to start the day.

If the spoon stands upright
no need to  get uptight
it passed  the test
of thin or thick.
Got the Tick.
The Best.

Top Recipe:

Take Slade Prison
Add Ronnie Barker
& Richard Beckinsale
Stir in Fulton Mackay
Mr. Barrowclough to serve.

TOBIAS

whyte & mackay is on sale
(£11.00 a bottle),
which can only mean one thing...
                                                     πaρtέ!

Incomer and native,
crowned princes of Orkney arts,
the two communed together
with wind, wave and wilderness.

Their works kindled many hearts
conjured festivals of Island
arts, tragic St. Magnus Opera,
Fairwell to Stromness, poetry,
newsprint and novels.

George Mackay Brown's words,
Peter Maxwell Davies' music,
they left us their works,
left wind, wave and wilderness.

had to switch, i drank all the liter bottles
of Russian Standard ***** from
my local Co-Op,
   which was on offer at £19 a pop...
and wasn't going to spend the night
with a 70cl ***** length of ****-poor
pleasure...
      but?!
Whyte & Mackay was on offer
on the liter libra...
   same price... finally! some palette grit!
a perfumery!
some scooth no. troix!
              **** the lemons and the *****,
give me the whiskey with the limes,
and?
     pepsi max... diet pepsi?
diet coke? coke zero?
    the list of the non-contenders...
made dinner...
    an onion sauce with decent slices
of beef...
             thickened with cornflour...
mash...
            butter... but no crème fraîche...
**** it, do the classic approach...
pour some milk in...
serve the whole sha bang with some
mangetout...
thank you, very much...
but i'm sure we're less than ******
posit on being capable on
     improvisation...
  oh... by the way...
you know what happens to the retards
when their parents die?
     you want to know?
i've seen colt bulls herded better,
readied to the slaughterhouse,
than these... "graces from god"...
   i've seen them...
              remember,
i was misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic...
i know what happens
on these ****** retreats...
the parents die?
guess what? OPEN LOTTERY!
   of course there's one benevolent
20 year old hottie, start-up...
but you ever see the one
who plays the butcher's ***** when
she's nearing 50?
  no *******...
one ****** takes our his pokey
and starts jerking off in public...
well well well...
    ha ha!
             circus friendly, is he?
better keep him with the bears...
built like a ******* brick *******...
like der bla ßter
          (paul larsson) -
still a ****** jerking off in public...
giggling...
    and then the parents die...
oh god... Cornwall tactics of herding
cows for their clotted cream?!
   or how cows are treated
in southern Wales?
        yeah... compared to these
retards... i've seen better, done,
with animals... ha ha!
          mind you...
i'm not much for animal cruelty,
but i've had been harboring this wild,
idea...
an interlude of a soft spirituality,
away from mixing whiskey,
or *****...
     i dare say, i once called beer the
**** of the gods...
    mouth and nose morphed
into a snout, sniffing the neck of a bottle...
cider...
    hmm... Eden... the forbidden fruit...
liquidated...
    **** me!
            the devil's ****!
ha ha...
                 with so many gods,
but only one devil...
   follow the vector...
  oh... by the way...
if you hear anything about the Baphomet
statue
in Arkansas?
   perhaps pagan...
  but... did you know,
it came to popularity,
  under the secret society of the Templar
crusaders?
   the Templar crusaders were burned
at the stake for worshiping
Baphemot... a disambiguation of
Mahometh (Muhammed, zee prophet)...
     perhaps pagan in origin...
but... from what i've read...
the Templar Crusader Monks
incorporated a secret society around
this worship...
                    lost a P here, gained a H
there... let's face it...
   Φ = Θ
          (put the key into the keyhole)
twist, and the door opens...
now i'm really looking
forward to this cider... ha ha!

you can't exactly drink a glass of
bell's whiskey and pepsi
like you might do with a whyte & mackay,
or any bourbon for that matter,
the ***** is too smokey...
   you need a slice of lemon to bite
through the smokey aroma and
subsequent taste...
             but it's doable...
                     the smoke somehow escapes
with the use of a lemon slice...
    but beside that...
i was going to buy some rolling papers
from a shop with a cash machine...
the message i read on the screen:
  this cash machine charged 95 pence
for a debit withdrawal...
   this machine...
   is going to charge me £0.95
    to... take money,
out from, my bank account,
                       things started getting fuzzy...
i walk into the pharmacy for
my "anti-psychotic" fix of
amitriptyline "medication"... walked around
the collier row roundabout to
the tesco cash machine,
withdrew a tenner,
   went in and bought the rolling papers...
there's absolute no conspiracy...
this is illegal, isn't it,
i remember corner shops charging
a debit card holder £0.50 (50 pence)
for purchases below £5.00 (5 quid)...
             the "authorities" cracked down
on this practice...
but now...
   i'm reading a cash machine...
telling me...
   i have to pay: to withdraw my own
money...
   4 digit armed bandit...
          this is not funny...
                    the same cash machine
allowed me to widthraw money for free...
now, all of a sudden,
i have to: "pay" and, yes, literally: pay,
to withdraw money, my money,
to buy rolling papers...
             problem being...
around this collier row roundabout,
there used to be a lloyds bank,
a natwest bank,
   and the post-office,
providing cash machine services:
free of charge...
    i still remember the times
when bank competition was rife,
and you'd have to go to your branch
of stash, and withdraw from there,
rather than facing payment
   withdrawing money from
the competition...
     but we're talking a local shop...
it's not a bank,
it's a convenience store...
     it's either a nightmare,
or a ****** good joke...
  to withdraw money,
   from my bank account,
         i have to, pay a fee...
  £0.95 is not much...
         but... i just paid £1.00 for two
packets of rizla red, rolling papers...
soviet communism worked
for a period of Poland,
1945 through to 1990...
  a unique scenario,
                 a country war-riddled...
given that when the soviets came
they made the dictum:
   either your pride and self-determination,
or... ERP (marshall plan) bail-out...
   it only works,
   when a country needs to be rebuilt...
not when...
    well... you're reading
the script of a cash machine,
telling you: we'll charge you for taking
your money out...
      i became docile with the debit
charge for transactions under £5.00
in these shops...
            until the "authorities" cracked down
on the practice...
    come to think of it:
debit never had it so bad,
      you spend what you have,
not deluded by some mythical dragon
creature akin to credit...
whenever i used the credit system,
i knew i had enough debit reserves
to pay it off...
  but i am still bemused by the credit
system...
   i much preferred to spend what i had,
rather than what i didn't...
   which made the credit card
sort of pointless...
   given that it was only a variation
of delayed payment...
   which became too unsettling for me...
delayed payment...
try telling that to a *******...
        and that munchkin turkish ****
readied to punch your lights out...
          prostitution really clarified
a lot of what is the ergonomic of money...
you pay, you get served,
   the end...
       you don't pay, you don't get served,
the end.
            money isn't even a "thing",
it a medium of linguistics that's more potent
than this language:
               albo ten język (or this tongue)...

it's a language of surds,
             there are unwritten laws,
   so everything becomes nuanced...
               apart from the clarity of transactions...
that **** is clear as daylight...
you can't exactly call it buying,
when you're obviously stealing it...

    so what was that whole affair
i just encountered?
  where a cash machine...
was going to charge me, 95 pence,
to simply withdraw 10 quid?
        is this some sick fantasy of
me being charge those 95 pence,
to support the cost of keeping
this cash machine being functional?

          so i have to pay for
the electricity cost, of a public utility?
is this a sick version of paying
taxes?
             and of course: in england,
land of next in second lineage
of the free...
                   and they kept saying
that i'm a schizophrenic,
                      the mentally unhinged...
sure, i'll take the pills...
   but the justifications to counter my
observations, are dying up...
real ******* fast...

                         i'm already playing
a waiting game,
   30 years...
that's what i have...
   when my student loan debt
   is annulled...
             i'm currently 12 years in,
so half-way...
   and i still haven't managed
to generate the sort of income
that legally requires me to pay
the loan off...
                           namely £15,000...
such basic demands,
a degree in chemistry,
   a job in chemistry...
                 and i'll do my little porky
poetic ******* on the side...
well... the most chemistry i've seen
so far, was primarily concentrated
in looking at the effects
of ethanol on the brain,
       and its subsequent expression...
          
maybe my existential concerns
are off the rails,
    dating...
                 i never... bothered myself
to be concerned with this
"problem"...
   after reading a few continental
existentialists,
    coming to the current,
anglophone existential qualms...
    i really don't know what to say...
like i "once upon a time" said...
you either go for advice
from a priest, a psychiatrist,
or a *******...
                     the prostitutes are
the most honest...
   plus... it's not all mumbo-jumbo
talk of feelings / doubts...
it's the full interface
of not merely two minds
and a conversation, but two bodies,
the minds come after,
  and they sort themselves out...

            and all that's left...
is a waiting game...
                 while looking at thespians...
that perdominant
    cultural paradigm artistic
medium of expression...
    you could have been fooled
that it was once painting,
      i guess... the standard genesis
model, of philosophers
despising poets,
   has something to do with their
love for theatre, for thespians...
   if plato abhorred the sophists /
poets...
      he must have been really
into the thespian superiority
                                should art,
ever have, a life, in the cultural
                        desire... of the people...
    to escape the platitude of verbs / work:
i.e. do this, do that.

In my dreams
They skim across the turf,
Like white swans,
Weaving patterns with the ball of brown leather.
Mackay with chest puffed out, strong and hard
Blanchflower threading the ball through enemy lines
To the Welsh wizard, Jones
Who turns on a sixpence,
Leaving the defender flat on his back.
The ball floats into the box
The crowd lurches forward as one,
Willing the burly Smith to plant it into the net.
It groans as the ball is punched away by a desperate goalkeeper,
It spins high into the sky
And for a moment,
It is lost in the glare of the floodlights
But one man keeps his eye firmly on the ball
The tall, noble Norman leaps into the air
And we hear the thud as he heads the ball back
From whence it came,
Thousands cheer and then weep with wonder
As the Ghost, White, appears from nowhere
To cosset it with his right and flick it with his left
Into the path of Greaves who turns to acknowledge the roar
Even before it crosses the line.
He runs to the centre circle,
His hand outstretched, to thank
The mighty centre half
Who stands like a sentry at the castle gate
All in white – white shirt, white shorts, white socks –
Apart from the cockerel sewn in blue onto his heaving chest,
Which encases the throbbing heart
That now beats no more
Except,
In my dreams.

Yours truly an aging baby boomer
long haired pencil necked geek
trademark disheveled characteristics
whipsawed ever faster around sun.

He (best buddy and alter ego of mine)
snapped, popped, and crackled
firstly his crown out ******
subsequently skinny arms and legs
(I'll spare ye the ****** graphics),
whence obstetrician able, eager, and
ready underscored with italics

to pronounce hosannas  
regarding garden variety
generic wrinkled newborn
emerging out birth canal
asthma noggin heralded
scrawny newborn, now celebrating lxiii
plus deux orbits around nearest star,
which birth sported an ordinary

uneventful, nonetheless miraculous
biological secrete heave reproductive tricks
immediately screaming
without assistance courtesy
Gran Prix (now pronounced as ******)

also envision Dolby surround sound
nsync with spastic kicks
'o mine straggly mostly
gangly lovely bones mox nix.

Within some nondescript building
named The Christ Hospital
location Mount Auburn
Cincinnati, Ohio
(the buckeye state)
record number C57587
gingerly handled courtesy
Doctor James Mackay McCord
(ushering none other than me
into the wide webbed world)
bestowed upon ***** of Harriet Harris,
thy young mother of prolonged labor
as his bony *** easily
slipped out uterine crypt,

whereby with Vernix
caseosa, the waxy or cheese
he appeared made rather dipped
in tallow, thence unexpectedly whipped
minuscule fist ready to bump.

Once placenta and fetal membranes
(unnecessary as wing ding)
discharged out ******
after birth of offspring,
and thar weren't no more
major contractions in the offing
ma mommy lovingly did cling
to her bundle of joy and bring

maternal breast I ravenously
did suckle fortunately toothless
against her tender ***** trickling
(if mammary serves me correctly)
I presently recall no iota of inkling
what events transpired, nope
no recollection about me circumcising.

Moost likely I felt Jew bull lent
glad yours truly chose decent
mother and father, which opinion
subjected to radical change,
when as grown adult child
living nonsocial under

their roof forced to hire agent
provocateur to practice sparring,
when standoff event on horizon,
which eventually begat ultimatums
their red hot poker rage spent
belittling, cursing, damning...

quiet as Unitarian Church mouse content
internalizing later smoldering
anger I needed to vent
in retrospect diminutive little boy
tied to mama's apron strings
afflicted with mental

health issues inherent
of course hindsight gleaned
social, psychological, neurological...
healthy development got rent
asunder partly explaining
why I became indigent.

.i'd hate to write out a claustrophobia; there was a second who dreamed of Crimea; and who doesn't abhor infatalism; living with parents ensures a lesson in patience... lets regress! the concept of a nation is an infantile game... history stressed is only worth an immigrant's answer... how sadistic the child craves becoming cult.

it would seem that
modern poets never
left an abode
          of the *****
Virgil, free -
  how medium -
paralysed in and to
a strut -
  merely Dante -
                    recompasse -
loitering
             cry enigma
for the peeling
               onion dome
unravelled:
             lacrima dico miror.
moskiev -
  czyn -  łbędzie modno -
o czym: nagi,
             ***'on ******>dni na pal tsym a,
                    rogi snem!
******-da...
        rojter!
              gra o...
   kat w kata prosze -
na sylab a ni słowo -
krew krajna - ukiem cięta!
sfat gila i gnór
ni słowem ni litem A -
szkla rozbitit 'gnem o
   cior...
                   o szkic i
           garb w tonnym
cie... cieniem!
          ku Kjovi,
lwem na Ów..
                     orszak taki -
że nie taii zgób.

_

   well, that was, the draft,
turns out, i can unearth plenty of drafts
i never published,
given the suspension...
such petty narratives are left
for people who almost always
desire a "freedom" to speak,
rather than a freedom to think...

only yesterday, an argument in the garden,
next to a cherry tree i planted...
people your age travel!
they go to places!
they live!
          a constant reminder:
you need to be honest about
your alcoholism...
   sure... i'll be honest,
they other become honest,
   and i don't have to play into
this solipsistic mea culpa *******
as if: i'm not taking responsibility,
as if i am always to blame,
like... my translation of childhood
naivety is not a curse...
because: if i wouldn't trust people,
and make friends,
well, then,
would i just be your atypical psychopath?!
what were the choices:
either wrong, or not good...
wow!
      a grand assumption:
to be governed by laws that only
favor the rich, but slander
the poor...
            victim-who-whom-hood?
did i name, anyone?
am i rat?
       that's what it boiled down to,
that i behaved like a rat,
i said: more like a fox...
no, more like a rat...
   because i like to walk at night,
when i see women
faking conversation
         over their mobile phones...
to feel, secure?
i stalk the predatory mind-set...
    a woman pretends, or doesn't pretend,
to talk over the phone,
while walking home, alone,
at night, as a deterrent...
        i know how this works...
she'll scream into the phone her location...
i'm not interested,
i passed a woman once,
who just, had to, make it,
adamant, i was not to "****" with her...
ever see a running geisha?
i have...
        i mean: a horse needs a whip,
stirrups, reins,
  a woman like that?
who forces you to react,
to give her a reaction against
the canvas of intimidation?
laugh...
       then you'll see a spriting geisha.

and as i write this?
     in the middle of three candles...
my power-saving bulb went out,
i had to resort to igniting three candles
and sit in the middle of the nocturnal
                    Δ(ηλτα)
        or             Δ(ελτα) of "occult" illumination?
i never know which is which...
sure as **** (c)at
                 is nowhere near to (k)aleidoscope
but, hey, it's greek...
         you have eta (η) and epsilon (ε),
you have omega (ω) and omicron (o)
         you have Φought,
                       and you have ΘilosoΦy...
the stories they tell,
  about languages, that do not employ
diacritical markers,
     but insteal have to balance an orthography...
based upon the "quadratic" system,
for the aesthetic to appease "the gods"...
                EE, OO, FF, foe?
unless you spreschen ***-
           -dish, or high hebrew...
          but still... even there...
               א (alef) and ע (ayin)...
          eh, but the hebrews get away with
the fact that they hide their vowels,
in imaginary niqabs...
                akin to diacritical markers...
the hebrews treat their vowels,
like a people, who would apply diacritical
marks to either vowels or consonants:
plainly in the open.
        so some people have gone places,
Egypt, Thailand...
  i've also been to places...
kant's critique of pure reason,
heidegger's being and time...
russell's history of western philosophy...
i've been to place,
   this world cannot offer me,
a source for solace, or for envy,
    i've transcended the globalist
frenzy of people moving aimlessly...
     i went back, to the beginning of the 20th
century, nay, even further...
sure, let people travel,
       i don't mind:
  but as long as they don't come between
me (fox) and the chicken-shack (books),
we'll be just fine...

      mind you, this question opened my
narrative...
   who makes a better ms. amber (whiskey)?
the scottish, or the irish?
i can tell you, even if it's in a ginger ale
mixer...
         jameson and...
    what am i drinking right now?
                 tullamore dew...
   i mean mainstream whiskey...
              these two specimens?
  competing with, what?
          whyte & mackay... as i'm pretty sure
they can...
   but... bell's? the famous grouse?
the whiskeys that are like laphroaig
and smoked salmon?
         the irish are definitely better
at their brewing than the McDoogles...
ol' paddy McGuire figured it out,
amber, looks like diluted honey...
so it must appeal to the sweet-tooth palette!
well... if beer is the gods' ****...
then whiskey... is the gods' blood...
    have i ****** my life away?
sure... i have...
                  but i've also acquired
a capacity to see more in my mind,
than others have seen with their eyes...

as it happens,
   i sometimes return to my native womb
of zunge...
faster than it would take me,
to retreat physically,
   a drive to Stanstead airport,
loitering,
   a 2 and a half hour flight,
moving around Warsaw,
   before taking a 3+h coach trip
   to an obscure location
     and spending a month or so,
loitering with my grandparents,
in between reading a ****** classic,
akin to Prus, or Sienkiewicz.

hmm. bewildering little me...
little me bewildering me...
i walked into the supermarket...
pumped up from a bicycle ride...
no... i will not buy a Lucozade Sports
drink: high in...
whatever it takes to rehydrate...
salts, potassium... etc.
electrolytes...
  i need something to bite...
please: god no... no fruits... it's still borderline
winter...
i need some nourishment...
something primordial was woken in me
today...
            the usual bottle of pepsi max
and Whyte & Mackay whiskey... a litre
of which i'm about to finish...
i need something to bite into...
hmm...
          no... not a carrot...
i eat plenty of onions: that's almost similar...
ah!
    a swede! perfect!
and i stood in the car park...
contemplating if there might be some
Monet in the sky.... none...
hmm... all that's missing is...
some tatties and some haggis...
   raw swede... eating it... i felt...
primordial... eternal even...
             having a look around...
UBER drivers coming and going with...
orders of processed beef... burgers...
while i'm here... eating a raw root of swede...
mmm.. almost reminds me of eating
a radish... there's a spiciness associated with
it... ancient Europeans didn't have access to
the spice that's chilly... ergo?
horseradish... so i'm chewing at this root...
trying to look as if i'm thinking:
only with the tender night do i know...
the sad reality... i'm sort of heartbroken...
the girl's dog would lick my knuckle wounds...
but she rejected me...
now i know... in group girl *****-fights...
one single mother fighting another single mother...
what a sad affair...
       come to me when i'm 60 and no longer
"available"... by then i'll have all the assets...
oh **** me: by then... it's going to be a proper
Hopper circus...
      the one i had stomach cramps over...
was ushered out of my life by...
another woman... who else?
           girls competing... what an ugly affair...
mind you... when i die...
i'll miss my personal library...
             i don't need to upfront my language
like some Erasmus... all formal etc.,
the basic deeds...
               a return to something humane...
so i just stood there...
biting into this raw bulb of swede... trying to think...
no thought came... lightning could have arrived
sooner... well... much better...
enough juice in the root... to have to resort
to something labelled... bottled...
in plastic... i felt content... primitive...
even the cashier gave me the look of...
you're buying... a bottle of whiskey...
a bottle of pepsi... and... a head of a swede?!
confused... i too found myself slightly confused...
i hate fruit...
i ******* hate fruit...
oranges, apples... pears...
they're not for me... all the gifts of Hades...
the minerals... gold, iron... carrot...
swede... parsley...
           so i'm chewing... and chewing...
working out the details of my jaw-line...
oh... wow... an imagining of a ******* from
ex_machina...
          that's nice... but still no Monet...
               fair enough... the grey grit...
the ******* *******... random... the raw swede...
it was a most welcome moment...
i could hear the crunch through my earphones...
a few children scuttled past...
i just heard the inquiry: what's that crunch?
oh... the argument against this supposed
"patriarchy"? imagine... if...
a patriarchy wasn't in place...
   imagine... if: MOTHER nature had her sway...
i wouldn't be arguing with certain people...
they'd, be, DEAD...
i'd juggernaut them to the sweet, sweet sleep
of death... man tried to overcome nature...
sure... he failed with containing earthquakes...
tsunamis... etc.
            but... that's a matter for the Titans to discuss...
for the elemental pentagram...
but... what the feminists spew?
you, really think? the people talking....
would be alive... if i had my... NATURAL SWAY?!
i don't think so... look at my restraints...
look at them... they are invisible...
they are constrained by patriarchy...
man trying to overcome the cruelty of nature...
oddly enough... oops...
what arrived with Darwinism?
the insurrection of nature into the dynamic of
man's attempt to overcome nature...
someone more sober and more worried
than me has to take over... this narrative...
but if patriarchy wasn't in place...
i'd run a riot...
          these little people cushioned by a hierarchy
would stand no... defence for me to bypass!
it's a losers' game... after all...
if nature had its proper sway...
               all these... patriarchal defense mechanisms...
would be... wait... dissolved...
if the primordial man were to be unleashed...
you'd be basically unleashing the Mongol
from the 13th century...
      lucky me: for my chains...
               **** these women, these modern...
whatever(s)... leftovers...
              if the man in me was allowed to recirprocate
the man of old... but then again...
for that to happen... the modern woman would
have to be as good a **** as the the woman of old...
but i hardly think... that's about to happen...
lazy *****... i have to visit prostitutes
to get something worthwhile....
******* Aaron Copland Appalachian Spring Suite...
strange gifts?
       eh... or... by the looks of it...
by the smell of it... i'm boozing... drinking to excesses
yet to be matched...
ergo? i'm ******* out... a streak of *******
ammoniac lemonade!
                 good... between Aaron Copland's strange
gifts... Beethoven's ode to joy...
Rammstein's Zeit... and Thomas Newman's
any other beauty... and... eating a head of a swede raw...
you're joking... it will have to take me eating an
onion, to prove a point?
how about we bypass the onion...
let's  start off with teeth of garlic... how about that?
what a strange way to live:
with a longing... life so incomplete...
                 it's a life that doesn't even allow sadness...
to make it into a culprit...
something equivalent to a blink...
             tonight's tonight...
                     black is black...
                                     if "these" people lived uinder
the dictum of nature... they'd ne dead....
sane... counter nature counter god man... tried...
these people... if they were exposed
to the totality of nature...
        *****, please...
                           you're ******* dead!
patriarchy is the only thing keeping you alive...
if... go... defend... the necrophilic retrogrades
of Egypt... it's Africa, after all...
if nature... had its proper sway...
mouth-offs of the current climate of "conversation"
would be... dead,,,
by the structure of the Wehrmacht...
               dead...           dead...              dead:
sie sind nichts!
                                         sie sind alle!
jetzt... fühlen was ich fühlen!
    das ist die nur-Wwhrheit!             ah...
Deutsche bla bla...
                        erste... zuletzt...
                             ich denken deshalb...
deshalb.. oh sweet melancholy.

i remember a school friend of mine,
always the one to come up with obscure
facts, but not a lot of anecdotes
said to me...

   you know how the White Stripes
conjured up that quasi-bass
depth rhythm section
on the song Seven Nation Army...

yeah... ****** plucked his guitar
into a bass amp...

              who would have guessed!
plus... (insert burp):
who would have thought that
Jack White wrote an anthem for...
(insert another burp)
    football and darts enthusiasts...
you write a song of that public
appeal... you should be dubbed
the next Mozart or somethin'...

i shouldn't really glorify my drinking,
i really shouldn't...
bad influence and all that jazz...

but...
  i have a terrible superstition within
the regards of my drinking...
i want to remember everything...
and i want to die:
watching death take me,
wide away, before my eyes...

and there was a crime,
but i'm paying the price with psychiatric
"treatment"...
i can tell you of the other witness
at that moment in 2007...
Prim for short, or rather Primajit....
****, i don't know his surname...
he drove the car ****** while going
to Canterbury...
almost met the three of us
with a traffic accent, the ****...

he's half Irish, and half Sikh...
and his family is into...
oh ****... the guru dead dead...
real dead...
his family was into... ha ha...
they even had their picture
of him... they were into Sathya Sai Baba...

now... as long as cults go...
i haven't met such respectable people
as the Bahá'í... lovely people...
wanted to come to one of their
gatherings, was, kindly denied...
apparently...

       i dated this Bahá'í chick once...
so **** **** time...
chose another girl who would
do the **** ****...
         god... when she found out
in front of her eyes...
the look on her face, those eyes...
oi! God! can i peer into Satan's?!
how was i supposed to know
we were, "dating"...
i fell asleep while we watched
a roman holiday starring Peck
and that pretty tight black dress
Tiffany girl...

    memorably we walked out
from a screening of a movie...
****... the banality of remembering certain
things...
  but that's the only time
i managed to walk out of a cinema,
because we both found a shared
conversation to be more fruitful
and, entertaining...

ah... van Morrison, Laura... brown eyes...
a lucky ******* as i ought
to be... sitting in McEwan hall...
glum like your atypical half-blonde
long haired beast...
    she picked me out to dance
a kaylee: although one,
with a missing tartan on my behalf...

well... so much for it...
now i have two "boyfriends" to keep me
company, whyte & mackay...
and all the time in the world
to do what i went to university for,
reading philosophy,
solitary confinement (or thereabouts)...
crazed on both music and
new music...

a sad little.... loner....

b'ah ah ha ha ha ha ha ha!

******* love it...
it's like it was spoken for me,
by that famous, butler, Alfred...
about the infamous Burma man...

let's face it,
no side it worth standing worth...
i'm the guy:
who just enjoys the world, burrrrrrn.

it would appear, that i can keep my mouth shut,
for a prolonged period of time,
as i can forget to write;
frame of reference:
   23rd November (departure) -
hiatus interlude (that is, today,
  27th December) -
9th January (arrival /
            end of hiatus) -
   also known as...
only yesterday i was watching t.v.
and an advert for I.P.A.
                        came on...
   a hallucination in the mouth ensued
with a burp...
              god... what wouldn't i do
for a bottle of ice cold Indian Pale Ale...
what has it been,
  5 weeks in this self-imposed
"rehab"?
                     sure all hell,
it wasn't a Gehenna -
               albeit the first two nights...
3 or so hours sleep between the two,
cold & hot sweats...
                         and then into
reading the second vol. of Sienkiewicz's
trilogy... potop (the deluge)...
   and so the past weeks...
mornings spent drinking strong coffee
with 32% cream and sugar,
smoking cigarettes,
solving crossword puzzles with my
grandmother...
- but you: prior to this:
  three "poems" entitled
boxing day I, II, III...
       but in each no conversational
overtones or, telegram scatter -
so?                        well...
                  me and sober,
me and sober and a blank page...
me and sober and a blank page
and a "poem"?
                        it's not going to happen...
unless...
  a moment of reflection:

(a) and there i was thinking that
the youtube jukebox was broken...
but... apparently you can "fix"...
you can change your location
to the United States,
and turn OFF the restricted mode...
so all the old new suggestions
pop up

(b) boxing day...
was basically a list of all the new
music that i began to forage...
thinking, having succumbed
to listening to the local
95.2 / 100.9FM in Poland...
- had a thought...
   am i really that far behind in
new music?
am i out of touch?
a list of bands with viewing
in the range of x,000, **,000, ***,000...
give or take...

e.g.: beehover, nord skin,
black elephant, swamp sessions, 1000mods,
ruby the hatchet, greenleaf, the silver seas,
sleep, spaceslug, witch, elder,
red scalp, castle, broken bells,
place of skulls, naxatras, UNV nation,
the heavy minds, RAMA,
fabricantes, savanah, dune pilot,
freedom hawk, king buffalo, kurse,
the machine, astrodome, sleeping widow,
colour haze, magic pie, kalamata,
witchhelm, ingrina, sandrider,
fuzzcrafter, black tremor, wolve,
promethean misery, mother engine,
monocle stache, lee van cleef,
welcome the howling tones,
somali yacht club, silent monolith,
the blue sunshine family band,
REZN, the devil & the almighty blues,
kitchen witch, 88 mile trip,
****** praxis, electric zoo,
the sixth chamber, mythic sunship,
whoopie cat, dog days the horned god,
IAH, kosmodrom, deaf radio,
camel driver, mystic sons, weird owl,
sun of man, elbrus, stonehenge,
mudfinger, gin lady, hey satan,
dd blood, bees made honey in the vein tree,
sonora ritual, gnome, godsleep,
ordos, mountainwolf, buffalo fuzz,
black dust, may the fuzz be with you,
transpanda, RHUS, breath after coma,
electric octopus... the white flies...

but that's not the end of it...
basically... a year's worth of... material...
democracy in the arts...
well... if we're all going to attempt
to be pretentious...
i can't digest all of this, either...

(c) listening to socio-political
commentators... the whole Patreon
this, censorship that...
decent weeks sober...
   and... why did i listen to these people
while drinking?
  legacy media this, legacy media that...
interlude, 5 weeks break...
no wonder i'm moving on...

mind you... two words have been
encircling my head for
the past 3...
               if this neo-right is throwing
about terms like
cultural marxism...
what with Zizek, the Frankfurt school...
the whole nine yards...

  not that this could be anything
new...

  whatever happened to
the critique of the predominant
culture of the neo-right?
surely there is an immediate answer
to what is cultural marxism...
there has to be...

  what else?
what else if not cultural darwinism?
i was wondering for a long time now,
why is it that Darwinism is
so predominant in the anglophonic
world? it seeps into every nook
and cranny of "life"...
     it has become so entrenched,
so dogmatic...
that it just had to argue with
the low hanging fruit of biblical
study... we already know that
poetry died prior to any death
of god with that book...
_________
  
   well, that was, the draft,
turns out, i can unearth plenty of drafts
i never published,
given the suspension...
such petty narratives are left
for people who almost always
desire a "freedom" to speak,
rather than a freedom to think...

only yesterday, an argument in the garden,
next to a cherry tree i planted...
people your age travel!
they go to places!
they live!
          a constant reminder:
you need to be honest about
your alcoholism...
   sure... i'll be honest,
they other become honest,
   and i don't have to play into
this solipsistic mea culpa *******
as if: i'm not taking responsibility,
as if i am always to blame,
like... my translation of childhood
naivety is not a curse...
because: if i wouldn't trust people,
and make friends,
well, then,
would i just be your atypical psychopath?!
what were the choices:
either wrong, or not good...
wow!
      a grand assumption:
to be governed by laws that only
favor the rich, but slander
the poor...
            victim-who-whom-hood?
did i name, anyone?
am i rat?
       that's what it boiled down to,
that i behaved like a rat,
i said: more like a fox...
no, more like a rat...
   because i like to walk at night,
when i see women
faking conversation
         over their mobile phones...
to feel, secure?
i stalk the predatory mind-set...
    a woman pretends, or doesn't pretend,
to talk over the phone,
while walking home, alone,
at night, as a deterrent...
        i know how this works...
she'll scream into the phone her location...
i'm not interested,
i passed a woman once,
who just, had to, make it,
adamant, i was not to "****" with her...
ever see a running geisha?
i have...
        i mean: a horse needs a whip,
stirrups, reins,
  a woman like that?
who forces you to react,
to give her a reaction against
the canvas of intimidation?
laugh...
       then you'll see a spriting geisha.

and as i write this?
     in the middle of three candles...
my power-saving bulb went out,
i had to resort to igniting three candles
and sit in the middle of the nocturnal
                    Δ(ηλτα)
        or             Δ(ελτα) of "occult" illumination?
i never know which is which...
sure as **** (c)at
                 is nowhere near to (k)aleidoscope
but, hey, it's greek...
         you have eta (η) and epsilon (ε),
you have omega (ω) and omicron (o)
         you have Φought,
                       and you have ΘilosoΦy...
the stories they tell,
  about languages, that do not employ
diacritical markers,
     but insteal have to balance an orthography...
based upon the "quadratic" system,
for the aesthetic to appease "the gods"...
                EE, OO, FF, foe?
unless you spreschen ***-
           -dish, or high hebrew...
          but still... even there...
               א (alef) and ע (ayin)...
          eh, but the hebrews get away with
the fact that they hide their vowels,
in imaginary niqabs...
                akin to diacritical markers...
the hebrews treat their vowels,
like a people, who would apply diacritical
marks to either vowels or consonants:
plainly in the open.
        so some people have gone places,
Egypt, Thailand...
  i've also been to places...
kant's critique of pure reason,
heidegger's being and time...
russell's history of western philosophy...
i've been to place,
   this world cannot offer me,
a source for solace, or for envy,
    i've transcended the globalist
frenzy of people moving aimlessly...
     i went back, to the beginning of the 20th
century, nay, even further...
sure, let people travel,
       i don't mind:
  but as long as they don't come between
me (fox) and the chicken-shack (books),
we'll be just fine...

      mind you, this question opened my
narrative...
   who makes a better ms. amber (whiskey)?
the scottish, or the irish?
i can tell you, even if it's in a ginger ale
mixer...
         jameson and...
    what am i drinking right now?
                 tullamore dew...
   i mean mainstream whiskey...
              these two specimens?
  competing with, what?
          whyte & mackay... as i'm pretty sure
they can...
   but... bell's? the famous grouse?
the whiskeys that are like laphroaig
and smoked salmon?
         the irish are definitely better
at their brewing than the McDoogles...
ol' paddy McGuire figured it out,
amber, looks like diluted honey...
so it must appeal to the sweet-tooth palette!
well... if beer is the gods' ****...
then whiskey... is the gods' blood...
    have i ****** my life away?
sure... i have...
                  but i've also acquired
a capacity to see more in my mind,
than others have seen with their eyes...

date of conception:?  ~ Late March – mid April 1958.
date of parturition: January xiii, mcmlix.
date of expiration:? January i, eminem,
where earth, wind, and fire doth usher
hootie and the blowfish
on a green day
and a three dog night
three doors down from foo fighters.

A gangly, horribly measly, and scraggly bundle
of lovely bones even as a lad
(way to skinny to appease wicked witch)
chee boo came out kicking and screaming
and he never stopped since
that's how I will get carried out.

Yours truly an aging married baby boomer
(orangutan missing link)
long haired pencil necked geek
(constantly clearing phlegm from his throat)
trademark disheveled characteristics
whipsawed ever faster around sun
quickly ratcheting and spiraling tornado like
nearly 30 kilometers per second,
or 67,000 miles per hour clip;
while sprawled atop earth,
he journeyed, jumpstarted, kickstarted,
launched countless planetary orbitz
quintessentially retracing trajectory
when Gaia linkedin courtesy gravity
maintaining invisible bond with Helios.

He (best nutty buddy
and alter ego of mine),
which birth sported an ordinary
uneventful, nevertheless miraculous
combination platter visited
*******, *******, secretion
nsync with erratic spastic seminal kicks
divine fertilization usually took place
in a fallopian youtube
playing mine unrehearsed debut appearance
after an ***** to the ******
wrought conception, which
begat biological reproductive process

fostered embryonic development
'o Boyce and Harriet straggly heir,
one male progeny mostly
gangly lovely bones mox nix
cellular division yes genesis
I rem:member being born
as an a door able beatle browed talking head
super tramping cheap tricks
immediately kickstarted and triggered
goo goo doll foo fighter enfant terrible
terrifically soulfully bellowing;
also envision Dolby surround sound
without assistance courtesy
Gran Prix (for poetic purpose
pronounceable *** pistols ******).

Upon due date when water broke
vaguely analogous to how rice krispies
snapped, popped, and crackled;
firstly his crown emerged out ******
ain't got pushed by no
heavy duty contractions out birth canal
no siree but propelled seven plus pounds
courtesy infantile flatulence
asthma noggin heralded
scrawny declaration, now celebrating lx
plus four ellipses around nearest star,
subsequently skinny arms and legs
(I'll spare ye the ****** graphics
with the afterbirth regarding
  
placenta and fetal membranes
discharged from the ******
after the birth of offspring),
whence obstetrician able, eager,
ready, and willing to secure newborn
in swaddling raiment
affirming  proud parents
their healthy baby boy
underscored with italics
readied to receive pronounced hosannas  
regarding garden variety
generic wrinkled likened
to an old manikin newborn.

Within some now nondescript building
then named The Christ Hospital
location Mount Auburn
Cincinnati, Ohio
(the Buckeye state)
record number C57587
gingerly handled courtesy
Doctor James Mackay McCord
(ushering none other than me
into the webbed wide world)

bestowed upon *****
of Harriet Harris (maternal parent),
after thy young mother
experienced brief labor
as his bonny head and bony derrière easily
slipped out uterine crypt,
whereby with Vernix
caseosa, the waxy or cheese substance,
he appeared er made
rather wicked, matted, and dipped
in tallow, thence unexpectedly whipped
minuscule fist ready to bump.

Once placenta and fetal membranes
(unnecessary as wing ding)
discharged out ******
after birth of offspring,
and thar weren't no more
major contractions in the offing
ma mommy lovingly did cling
to her bundle of joy and bring

maternal breast I ravenously
did suckle fortunately toothless
against her tender ***** trickling
(if mammary serves me correctly),
I presently recall no iota of inkling
what events transpired, nope
no recollection
about me being circumcised.

Traditionally a mohel is a rabbi,
cantor or another religious leader
who performs brit milah,
or bris, a circumcision ceremony,
on an 8-day-old.

Moost likely I felt Jew bull lent
glad yours truly chose decent
mother and father, which opinion
subjected to radical change,
when as grown adult child
living nonsocial under
their roof housing forced to hire agent
provocateur to practice sparring,
when standoff event on horizon,
which eventually begat ultimatums,
where mutual quiet riot revulsion
swallowed me into a black hole

their red hot poker rage spent
belittling, cursing, damning...
quiet as Unitarian Church mouse content
internalizing later smoldering
anger I needed to vent
in retrospect diminutive little boy
tied to mama's apron strings
afflicted with mental
health issues inherent
of course hindsight gleaned

social, psychological, neurological...
healthy development got rent
asunder partly explaining
why I became indigent
cuz absolute zero ambition
to hustle and convince
prospective employers to hire me
an astute candidate with
deaf fin knit muted confidence.

At the start of the seventies, a spark ignites,
From Newcastle’s heart, a band takes flight.
Roxy Music, a name whispered in the wind,
With Bryan Ferry’s voice, where dreams begin.

A tapestry of sound, that’s woven with care,
Glam rock’s pioneers, they’re beyond compare.
Synthesizers hum, guitars wail and cry,
In their melodies, the stars align.

Andy Mackay’s sax, a soulful breeze,
Phil Manzanera’s strings, a symphony with ease.
Paul Thompson’s drums, a heartbeat strong,
Together they create a timeless song.

From “Virginia Plain” to “Avalon”’s grace,
Each album a journey, a new embrace.
Brian Eno’s touch, an avant-garde flair,
In Roxy’s world, there’s magic in the air.

Their style, a blend of chic and bold,
Glamour and art, a story told.
In sequins and suits, they take the stage,
A visual feast, a gilded age.

“More Than This,” a whisper in the night,
“Love Is the Drug,” a lover’s delight.
Their music, a canvas, painted with care,
Each note a brushstroke, vibrant and rare.

Through decades they journey, a legacy grand,
Influencing many, a guiding hand.
From punk’s raw edge to new wave’s beat,
Roxy Music’s echo, a rhythm sweet.

In the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame they stand,
A testament to a visionary band.
Their songs, a soundtrack to life’s parade,
In every heart, their mark is made.

So here’s to Roxy Music, legends true,
With every chord, they renew.
A symphony of art, a timeless muse,
In their melodies, we find our cues.