and i'm watching this spectacle... and i agree:
female tennis is probably more
enjoyable than
male tennis... there's so much
dialogue involved...
and oh god, i am but a simple man,
i like my klinik, and my wumpscut
and my other fringe altars
of culture...
but i really like watching the 7 rectangles...
isn't a tennis court a case of 7 rectangles?
no? i thought it was...
1 at the beginning, 2 are the side,
2 either side, and 2 for the served into "square"
across the net, service, 1st serve, net-first-service...
15 - love...
then i watch a video by
black pigeon speaks and i'm fired up...
not that i have anything planned
in a year to come,
i'm too wrapped up in the bewilderment of
being able to **** out a bottle of wine,
but seem to never be able to **** out a bottle
of whiskey...
dunno: it just happens...
i spent the past few hours cleaning the slates
of the bathroom from feline diarrhoea...
so you know: i'd love to reach the summits
of gucci perfumes, if you'd care to
allow me...
i really should wait for my ego to turn into
a phallus of slumbering pride,
but given the current situation in Sweden
and me reading history of the deluge of Poland
by the Swedes, i'm sort of: hands in the air
with four thumbs signifying: i don't care.
i like watching tennis,
it's the one sport where watching women is more
entertaining than watching men,
and it's not that you're even forced into it...
women make more rallies in a match...
women tend to play with a double-handed forehand...
but it really is a game based about 7 rectangles...
i'd love to see it as: Dali, dictates the rhombus
at the Australian Open!
i'd love to see it,
and i'd also love to see Oslo...
but i'm not that bothered,
for all the media frenzy concerning western Europe,
i see Poland as a buffer zone smokescreen...
the happenings at Ełk proved a point...
the dream of community translated into western
europe came so pronounced...
people actually botehred to create a lynch mob...
the good "samaritan" had to die...
and yes, the moroccan yielding the knife
was taken to a prison cell...
but i guess knowing the polish language
i should feel more nationalistic pride in sweden being
gang-*****... it's an actual shame that i know
english and can't ingest the full potency of seeing
Sweden as it is... as i already said:
the deluge... by henry sienkiewicz...
and later the recount by an incompetent king
in the works of kraszewski...
but my: the tennis! it's spell-binding...
and the wine i made? it's digesting my brain to a proper
dehydration... and i love it!
7 rectangles... and if the 7 rectangles
were a circle, i'd be yearning for sumo!
but no no, no... i'm, looking at these rabbits
represent a π radius squared movement,
given the matchsticks...
i love tennis... it makes more sense watching
a female tennis match than it does a male one:
where it's always all about a fast serve and
a quicker return... 7 rectangles, and these
fleshy vectors moving about the parameters...
if i din't know a germanic language
i'd be gleeful, actually applauding the demise of
Sweden, having learned of the devestation
done to Poland by the Swedes in the deluge and
partition of the country, due to the House of Vasa...
it's a joke and i know it's a joke:
say i moved back to Poland and stirred up
the national ghost?
ha... ha ha... that would be
something...
i'm a disciple of wine these days,
and i like watching tennis...
human history always meant
too much a case of: getting out of bed...
and hence my addiction: sleep...
as odd as it might sound, i'm actually addicted to it...
i'm a lion that pets two bonsai tigers...
i have enough mane to laugh out a bellowing
word: lion! ha ha...
but i sometimes like to retreat into
origins, and given i am highly volatile in my use of
english as an acquired tongue, i sometimes love to
re-acquire my ethnicity, and read a little bit of it...
how the Swedes desecrated Poland once upon a time...
how the Germans malnurished her with world war ii
and i... and i sort of love how Islam (for me), is
nothing but a chisel, a hammer... a useful idiot
that speaks more testicles and western female uninhibition
than anything... of boy... do i come across of grossly
nationalistic? i might have... oh gee!
what a terrible plight!
but there's a secret theatre being staged
in Europe, most Americans don't know of it,
unless they managed to ask Joyce to **** his way
around a good translation of Finnegans Wake and
a whiskey bar in Krakow... or ów... however you speak it...
depends how you hide or don't hide
or expose the consonants...
and that's funny, most people find
the works of Kraszewski boring... to me they're the one
source of sanity having spent 3 weeks in Poland
over the holidays...
and why i invested my person in being bilingual...
odd scare tactic: the usual typo of ****...
if you find the culture you're assimilating
into folding (in a poker sense), remain true to
the culture of your birth, keep the language...
you never know, you might have to move back
to the country of your birth... but only when you
see the host culture as *****-whipped... as England
is... or wait... antagonise the situation,
wait until they give up their capital,
and on the preiphery turn ultra-nationalistic in vox...
i kept my native tongue, now i'm playing truant...
i have no symphany for the Swedes,
and sympathy for England? well... if even events
in 1997 didn't happen... i might have more than
enough...
a Pole looks at the influx of Muslims to
Germany... and quiet frankly laughs...
it's not even a debate...
like the muslims talking about post-colonial
deconstructionalism...
no wonder Russia has
come from the shadows to be the pawn-broker
of at least remaining true to the hunger
of media outlets... it just has to be there...
so yeah, if you read kraszewski
and sienkiewicz, you might know a thing or two
about the Swedish deluge, that hit Poland
when John Casimir, of the house of Vasa
"ruled" Poland at the time of the Cossack
uprising, magnified by the leadership of
Khmelnytsky -
but then again, all you hear in England
is the fate of the harem of the house of Tudor...
and how Charlie got shaved from owning a head,
and how Charlie Seconds had that
bad-*** poet in his pocket... john wilmot...
who i vaguely remember having cited
made epigram more noteworthy than an epitaph:
we have a pretty witty king,
and whose word no man relies on,
he never said a foolish thing,
and never did a wise one...
great words demand the most despicable people
to invoke them... fortunately i live in a time
when great words can't be said,
because there are no great people to be surrounded with
in order that they might be despised...
well, that is said in where i find solace,
exietential philosophy, for i do say: "fortunately",
as if i am borrowing something...
how can you write a poem, about a monarch,
when the monarch, as has happened with the english
crown, bid more toward philanthropy
than lechery? give me something i might want to esteem
in seeking out the basis for the basic human
depravity! you give me a monarch worth a penny's
toss into a hand of a pauper, you give me
a philanthropic king, and not a lecherous king...
you have sealed your existency,
by gauging out my eyes and giving them to worms,
and cut off my tongue, and lodged it, in the mosque
of a donkey's gob!
