vague games enable and our liturgies co-mingle in an inkling of the I.
your mind succumbs to the soul. the rabid rain is ironic and the font you spell ' god ' with
is all scrawl and scrumptious. you lump this dream into your dolphin of Delphi
and squeak cute symphonies of deep brood.
you choose your Oblivion.
and that's how Angels kiss. they force the Word through your Animus
and greet your weakness with squinty eyes and Lion's breath.
you're the next best thing since that one thing that had no soul for god to play with.
it never complained. you might look and you might not see
what you're not supposed too. but i know you'll be happy with lemon-drops
and long dark naps.

that's how we do,

like a crispy pillow is a cloud with a lobotomy
and all my barbed wire is wine.
Like i'm the king of unbearable sublime. you anoint the fallen. i spike the punch, judy. you sunshine.

eulogies wet the pavement. darth mauls
the halls of our peril
and the dry
sparrows

you had no love but you had a thing that went thump
when you met her. and some other cocka-mamy thing.
and your narrow view
of the wide ha ha and the mute " **** this "
and why not?

we're all caught in the same frame and the gorgons are massive. you have to elect a hero to laugh at Death with and might get a girl.
you're nothing at all and that infuriates the reality you were dreamt with. you have no kin, but your family hasn't been.... you were unhinged
from the stark grim and the tide pool. why do you think i say things that ain't been language but has always been lingua nova ?
why would i lie ? this is the scepter of the vengeful design and the glee demons of first love sipping from a chalice of lost love
with closed eyes. this is the pier and the ocean. the dime store Picasso hanging the velvet Elvis with the perfect circles
with the little
cube inside...

aching for flamingos.

or not.

Fish is the worlds problem
Fins and gills a and poisonous jelly
Resting in the crevices of their more vulnerable kiddy-make-cry
To slice at young flesh is exquisite
Knowing the scar you're leaving behind
Will vanish within hours
Yet
Will remain fire-hot and ******
For the rest if the kid's fish-hating life
It's a small pond they took you to
The deepest water beneath a lunky wood and metal bridge
E
Which creaked and groaned begging to give in
We say on that bridge, poisoned legs hanging and dangling
Looking at Aunt Terry coming up out of the water much too quickly
Gravity deciding it wasn't through yet with her swimming suit top
We laughed from emberassment
But even the rowdiest among us clammed up
Breathing harder and deeper than they had ever done before
On the cusp of puberty every single *****, heretofore shrunken and shriveled from the unfortunately cold water in that unnamed pond
Every flaccid, dripping **** , when the brain sent down the message concerning the incredible size and girth of Aunt Terry's ****
Ever little immature Ramma Lamma Ding **** got a fresh infusion of prime hemoglobin straight to the juju
All we knew to do was hide in bushes
Pretend we're taking a **** while in reality we were expending the last couple of minutes it took to coax out that tiny gelatinous goop.
We spit it out of our manhood, unconcerned with where it may have
Eventually fallen. It had lost it's novelty long before we hacked it

Terry was embarrassed, to be sure
She knew what the boys were doing
It didn't bother her at all
There was a time when they fought for it. As if were spoils of war
That delusion didn't last for very long

What could she do? Her swim shirt was ruined. She had to get out
They jerred her as she found her way to the door
On one side freedom, albeit bogged down worh mamy many secrets

This could be the last time anyway
Rumor around town is that the slaughterhouse bought the land and all it's water ways. They planned to use it as  a reservoir for newly killed swine within six months you would not have recognized the ole fishing hole
The hooks baited with frozen shrimp
Grown ups helping sons find minnows gone, ahh, long gone, like the best years of our lives
We stood up as one in order to survey
The carnage, carnage even at this early stage wasa harbinger of bad omens to come
In every inch of the pond, diluting it if possible,
Pig's blood swine blood
The rats that ran with the pigs
As if they too had been specifically sent to insure that enough blood was let into the swamp
Dead swine, harder than a hobby horse, eyes still open, hopin' there's been some mistake
A lack of regulations combined with forced apathy kept us from caring
Much about what e believed was an injustice . We were children. It was enough hell to see the clean waters replaced by pig blood, pig guts. offal, intestines and other items that remain inside the body for a very good reason

May you find streams and brooks
Lakes and. Oceans
Of baptizing water
May you remember with great fondness your toes playing in the sand
Remember, my children, how crystal clear and pristine were the waters
Good, well tended salt water for catfish
Not a pool full of crimson stench.
This is my childhood. Shouldn't someone have let me know a long time ago that you were planning on turning it into the slaughtered pig open grave
It can't be
It just can't be

(And yet, it is)

o, chyrp i trumna, na gest! (co polak wie... żyd skargi! i  jemu ten warty holocaust! konieć! twe ulice, nasze kamienice... m'eh kości.... twe pyrh... w twe total: m'eh kości i zwane kamienice... te teraz zwane ulice, o skarge zwaną: izrael).

bardzo łatwo zabić kogoś,
                                                   tym czasem,
samym czasem jest łatwo...
                   w tych czasach tak samo....
                                           bo powód?
*nuda!
tak nudno, po protu żyć...
nie-zwykle, bo tak po prostu... żyć...
ogier i w ranek... jak niby rynek.
                                          w bieli snu
               albo w czarni targu.
                           o tym!    na rozkaz cie,
roztrzelić mamy w dal na sens: oto traf;
                adwant... w cierpliwości
nadać: w imie ojca, i syna,
                     i ducha... świętégo...
you're going to study in oxford
with that gob's worth of demands?
rozmáchá... unfold.
i'll be honest with you...
that's actually ukranian idiosyncrasy...
isn't so much a case of language
          unsaid,
            when so much of it is
      being said;
we'd like to have said, and read:
              a volume for a pressure for less;
let's say that...
   and then imagine ourselves riding
bicycles in the countryside,
rather than suggesting ourselves to prescribe
ourselves the image of ourselves
  riddled by inner-city beijing e.g.

the zenith and crux had to come one day,
perhaps with a: being awake outside
the domain of the healthy concern for
night as associated with sleep,
   and day - with at least the bare minimum
of cooking a **** tasty dinner -
         namely wanting to improvise on
chapati bread...
                                since came upon me a pain,
left me sliding off my bed,
  and repenting, laying myself on a hard
wooden floor, repenting since outside
   the window: June finally woke to ascribe
to itself both the seekers of shade,
as the ones seeking
                           skin gilded in copper,
inverting the niqab with a pair of sunglasses...
my virtual diet of youtube videos
started to become: claustrophobic,
      even the algorithm spoke back to me
based upon my choice of videos:
                  nothing new was seen since
    the beginning of June, the latest:
            ending on the 20th...
                          thus i remembered that
   i own john frusciante's:
              when shadows collide with people...
can't exactly express what happened
lying on that hard wooden floor...
                        sweating and toiling by
            keeping count of falling dominos...
swelled in john's oeuvre and felt like
i regained my momentary loss of sanity...
notably from being click-baited...
           and youtube was never supposed
to be a free-listening station
    in a ****** megastore, like the ones
on oxford street?
                      don't worry... i'll buy it...
i much care about ownership...
               but even in a ****** megastore
you could test-listen a compact
before buying it...
                        as long as there is:
                     no translation of mobility
from a static thing, to the well hidden,
            compact of a pocket, taking a stroll...
i honestly can't remember the last
time i talked through a mobile phone
that was my possession...
         upon landing at Stanstead this past
May i authentically asked for
   a pay-phone... the employee looked
dazzled and confused...
                so i had to resort to borrowing
a stranger's phone for a speed-dial
   and an exchange of familiar voices with:
i'm here...
                      the bread making
exercise?
                     just a chapati bread...
      infused with a pinch of salt,
         a double pinch of sugar, black pepper,
a dry chilli crumbled... cumin seeds...
            turmeric powder...
                       and mighty hot flat gypsy
frying pan...
                     the sort that requires you
to grip the handle with a cloth...
                      evidently even this famous
canadian dr. can become exhausting...
  why?
              why i am among an audience...
listening to him:
              when i ****** well know that
     i'm probably going to be the only person
who has already read some of the books
he's inviting the remaining members of
the audience to read? but who evidently will
not, because they'll just regurgitate
the lecture: in video.
       only some time ago i discovered this
rotten youtube commentary people...
        last time i checked...
             all i ever used it for was to sample
         music, before i would buy a hard copy...
what a rotten diet!
               i almost lost my pleasure from reading...
not that i might disagree with
      the canadian herr doktor herr professor...
yet: to perpetuate being a student...
           thank god i was taught some higher
technicality in chemistry...
       because, listening to these lectures...
              no wonder pubescence is extended
well beyond the biological reality...
                        plus the company of sophists
and not drunk poets...
        ah... you know... you're always looking
for a stiff one, a sharpshooter to numb
the pain of being crammed with intellectual custard...
i too have read some BIG books...
       but talking about them is like:
an inability to think with them.
          hence the art of necromancy -
it's not "supposed":
       when you're sitting in a room,
   with a library that might as well be regarded
as a graveyard...
        oh this ******'s dead,
   so's this one, and this one...
                    ****! i'm the only one around
here doing the graveyard shift!
and let me tell you:
      it's a gemini schematic -
            one hand feeds the other as
does the other caress the hand that's feeding it...
you can't escape a desire to write,
without keeping an equilibrium
with a desire to read...
                you can't wish to write more
than you read...
                 or feel inclined to do so...
   doesn't exactly require grand books,
                civilisation pillars and door-stops...
i just had to read one book review,
then run back to reading my current
lecture of Heidegger's ponderings VII - XI...
perhaps that's how it goes...
      but i must have been insane for
about a week devouring herr doktor's lectures,
strapped to an outer-looking
                      america and canada...
              the **** does that even matter
from where i'm sitting?
               you want a "clever" little fact?
   you know why the Polacks played such a ******
world cup, in russian?
                 shh...
                the Russians actually played,
the ENTIRE POLISH ANTHEM! (almost)
             no, seriously,
                          even i was brought to tears!
but being in company of another person,
i did a sly whimpering and didn't want
to show the aqua pearls...
            Poland vs. Colombia -
  the Russian organisers allowed for the entire
hymn to be sung... not just the first
stanza like at the olympics or in other
countries...
      mazurek dąbrowskiego to the Russian,
which is more than it is to
the Zakopane fued and throng:
a second stanza!
    przejdziem Wisłę, przejdziem Wartę,
    będziem Polakami.
    dał nam przykład Bonaparte,
    jak zwyciężać mamy.
          i'm even suspicious of the fact
that there might have even been
a third stanza!
                   HENCE THE EMOTIONAL
RESPONSE!
        if you're supposed to "keep"
a memory of only one stanza from
the anthem? why bother...
    unlike the English: bog-standard...
let's get on with it!
                if... i heard, the anthem
in its entire... form?
                           i'd break down crying
listening to it...
          like now...
       listening to john frusciante's
                                 unreachable
                  from the album the empyrean...
thank you very much, Russian,
can you please excuse "my" national team
from not going further than
  the group stages of your grand tournament...
we have more pressing matters
back home -
                       i would like to write
a personal note to Mr. Putin for allowing me
this rare insight...
           thank you for the second stanza
(and third, if i'm not mistaken)
                              of my anthem to be sang
in the presence of other nations;
                     thank you...
                                        for plucking this
from my heart.
                      double down on:
               yes... they plaid **** because they
were emotionally disorientated...
                            as any ****** would be...
having to sing an extra bit...
                          of what's otherwise
           a shorter-script of the anthem recognised
by the olympic community...
                  i know why they failed like
a **** in a bog of mud...
                                     if i almost cried
hearing the extended anthem...
                    how the hell do you think
                          a footballer would feel...
                      kamil grosicki....
                  crying...
                       ­ that's not ******* gazza...
getting booked in the semi-finals
                            in Turin... knowing he would
miss playing in the final!
        this is group stages football!
                 now i can show you a part of
Russian collective psychological "manipulation":
i call it that,
              because i've gained more from
it, than if the Polish team,
   did even something as ridiculous as
                                      play in the semi-final...
it's football...
             after all...
                     the team consisted of mainly
nearing-retirement players
   who were plagued by injury...
                     namely jakub błaszczykowski...
ah! those Russians...
                 they know how to turn a man's
heart back on into a natural rhythm...
                         so...                   no biggie;
if things settle...
                      we'll allow Senegal
                                   and Colombia through.