i am the blood in the sink
you are **** on the bathmat
wash me off so we forget this
failed flailing at repose's feet.
("maybe we can make each other's
winter's feel all right.")
no, i cannot make you quake
in my mocha movement,
draped in careful quirk
pastel enraptures
fantasies of argyle.
drawing your fingers into motion
along fantastical bony parts,
effulgent with the newness
of thrush april wetness,
i have never felt so pasty dry.

variation in what's dyslexic in English:          roy-     (+)     -al - like Al Pacino - or? roy-       (+)        -all - a different slug for a tongue caged behind the 32; alternatively say: casino royal - two pronunciations of the same word, and no distinctive two-lane stresses added to say them intentionally with variance - basically one variation is missing an acute a (á) - alter to acute: dentistry's alphabet - say A - you end up adding an invisible hark of prolonging a sound from ~aye into ahhhh; the tetragrammaton is more than a noun, the Hebrews didn't see it coming, the two H variations are involved in how diacritical marks are asserted and used - i too thought it was something to do with déjà vu  - but it turns out it isn't that simple - how diacritical marks are asserted and used, or upon second suggestion: how they're not used, and what complications arise from omitting them.

for someone as concerned with people's ****** lives
as *richard von krafft-ebing was,
with his mangum opous: psychopatia sexualis -
i'm surprised he didn't throw a *** party -
stage an **** - richard brautigan apparently read
this Victorian - may i say trash? -  compendium
and giggles with friends; modernity has no stamina
for the seemingly idyllic *** lives of bowler hat
gentlemen - a sample from psychopatia sexualis:
homosexual feeling as an acquired manifestation
of box sexes (the androgynous stipend to exercise
all mouth **** and ****) - however you like it,
quote: almost every self-****** individual (originally
masturbator) at last reaches a point where, frightened
on learning the the results of the vice, or on
experiencing them (νευρασθενια), or leg by example
or seduction to the opposite ***, he wishes to free himself
of the vice and re-instate his ****** life.
you could say that, unless of course you're put off
when a girl reads you a questionnaire from the cosmopolitan
magazine, and you've seen too many Jame Bond movies,
or heard stories - or how you figured: well,
totalitarian governments aided heterosexual marriages,
championed them with the standard myths,
democracy doesn't really do that... democracy likes
the odd fetish... hence with the aid of science the fetish
marriages - surrogate prostitutes aplenty -
that's not ONE HOUR AT £120 A POP... THIS IS NINE MONTHS!
someone once lived and said: Jews and homosexuals run
the show - i think it might have been a Bukowski citation -
yeah, but who's the audience and not the puppets?
the politically, what's the word? ah, uncomfortable -
there's a strategic unit in medicine that's not the MI5
or the MI6 that deals with them under the alias P.S. -
not post-scriptum, but paranoid schizophrenic -
formerly known as premature dementia -
to me creative, to others worth sedating - meaning:
why would i write about western society in defence or
in apologetic language like C. S. Lewis and his love
affair with Christianity when i'm pretty sure i'm not
writing about utopia? why? oddly enough niece is also
said likewise for Nice - or 'aw, how nice.'
staged on the promenade des anglais - is this a clue?
anyone in touch with the security forces?
could be a pattern clue - now there are two fronts to be
worried about, the achoo right - boy, what a sneeze,
and the already involved actors -
mind boggling, how, ever, could, it, have, happened?
and i swear language was intended to be flexible,
like a gymnast - flex flex flex - which is strange that
the unimaginative always attack from their rat cages
bewildered at seeing a way out of a maze and then blocking
it (e.g. Ezra Pound, mm, the prime fascist of them all) -
it's called censorship, but in the west it's hardly a Stalinist
plot (believe, it's not utopia, i don't understand this
collective delusion that it is - somehow - and indeed,
somehow it isn't - it's called a superiority complex -
the same happened in Iraq - coverage almost zero -
subterfuge requests all over the media - now i have to live
as ethnically placed in close alignment with the people
that regurgitate all this hype - i have absolutely no reason
not to fake a clownish tear and whatnot -
it just is. so yeah, why didn't rich von krafft-ebing throw
an ****? a swingers' ball to cure all the pathology noted?
even now, or *** lives are hardly concerning -
why poets **** over the book of genesis
and leave the other books to themselves - reducing
the book of exodus into only one pair leaving -
it becomes harder and harder to relate to these books
and the people that venerate them after reading Don Quixote -
it really does - it's almost like talking to an illiterate literate
person - as agonising as it is to say it, it's exactly that.
i wonder if anyone bothered including the prefix in-
to all the scientific words in the dictionary - denoted:
in-pathology, in-sanity etc. - i.e. the first person accounts -
i do it because i would hate to go back to the gym
and complications of talking over a sunday roast -
my life in a nutshell? my laptop was so ***** that i decided to
clean it today - anti-bacterial wipes and dried with kitchen towels -
i thought the mouse of the laptop was broken,
ages ago i bought a mini-mouse with a USB port -
after cleaning the laptop, to my disbelief, the laptop mouse
started working (you know, that little touch-patch of plastic
towing two clicks) - that's life, uncomplicated -
a marvel to behold such daily problems - bound by choice
we choose what is to worry us - the next
chapter in my adventure with Kant?
the critique of all theology pouring out from the
speculative principles of the mind -
so for i've passed the ontological, the cosmological
and the theologically-physical impossibilities for the
existence of an absolutely necessary being - even if atheists,
we're all chipping in - basis? presupposition of such
a being and argued counter (cf. Satanic rebellion) -
not the agnostic quasi-supposition (basically speculative
tact) - at 274 (page no.) ending at 442 (page no.) -
oh i'll finish it - transcendental methodology should
be interesting - it's just a question of how much distraction
becomes fused with blank pixel pages and my irritability
as to how or why poetry ought to be stripped from
banal / predictable technique - rhyme is definitely go,
listen to BBC Radio 1 at any time and you can just hear
rhyme ****** - well, if painting could be stripped down
further than cubism - i don't see why poetry
can't have conversational overtones to it, one of the few
unearthed secrets of modern intimacy, just sitting there,
like ducks.

i'm not what you might call a holocaust denier,
it happened, the end. what i am saying
is found on a song, slayer's angel of death
from the album reign in blood...
the modern media speak of the migrant crisis,
you see it on the news, leaving the Libyan
coast, in inflatable boats, a dead child on Greece's
coast... you can just sense the desperation,
but also the daring, and the ***-starved
European women who took less a chance
for *** holidays in Ivory Coast, or whereever
it is they do their ***** business...
i don't know how they did it, the Germans,
but they did, they were rearing cattle
into those gas chambers, it's not even funny,
i'm not laughing, i'm just astouded by
the comparison, this blind belief in a god
to bail them out, and then watching
the desperate *****-like daring of the modern-day
migrants from africa into europe...
ah, the funny bit... Brussels, chocolate,
magnets... choc from Africa, choc-talk from
Belgium... am i surprised?
   as said, according to the dodo project.

i too thought that when the band *reef
released their greatest hits album,
with a new song, give me your love,
that they could rekindle their long gone career...
i thought it was their mangum opus,
just over 3 minutes long, still... what a song...
it could do much better on the radio frequencies
than their standard place your hands,
give me your love is like a virus,
it's a contagious anthem to what could have
been, but never was,
i'm sure that, if the radio people appreciated it
as much as i did (when i still played the guitar,
but later smashed it for reason that are worth
noting my ex-girlfriend and how her dad
initially made it hardly dead, but slightly disabled,
let's just say he gave her an extra sound hole;
****** hollowed her out! completely!)...
   and yes, i want writing to be as fickle,
as painting an "abstract", so i'll adopt blitzkrieg
to writing, strobe lighting, quick change of pace,
the whole disco shabang...
       what, can't i imitate women by writing as
finicky as is humanely possible?
    let's do that... i have all day...
well... i can officially say it's the 20th of February
and winter has ended...
   it's getting warmer, yuck, and i'm getting more
daylight than i like to have had...
  speak to the scandinavians about winter
and misery, or the "blues", they'll tell you that
in winter, they couldn't be happier, or should i say:
cosy... cuddling pillows and lighting scented candles
in their wooden shacks...
for care of all that *******, that's true.
      i was thinking Alaska, or Siberia, somewhere
really really remote, so i can be like
that cat i own looking at my *******
so that i look away when it's taking a **** in the garden...
oh sorry, i'll just return to my cigarette and beer
breakfast... take your time...
         what an annoying little twit she can be...
and with "can be", is...
      just after philosophy attacked poetry,
suddenly someone said, enough! that's when poetry
attacked the medium of journalism...
   someone has to bully someone in the end,
   or as i like to call it: symbiosis vulgaris...
it usually takes the monday edition of a newspaper,
and then re-reading the magzines from the sunday
edition... how those ponces critique books,
but i like critics, they actually read books,
which makes less time to think about books and bricks
and vacuums... critic: mmm hastings...
book? reporting war, by rrrr mosely... (trill that,
trill that *****)...
    it's basically about Patton bitchslapping an exhausted
soldier... and how Montgomery and 1944 and
Arnhem, and how he should have been sacked for that...
but primarily about how journalists lied...
    some shot down fighter jets,
some even did a Hemingway and added a bit
of spice, a chilli romance or something of that sort...
i add more spices to my curry when i make one,
e.g. cardamom... try thinking i'm a ****-asian
and not blame me for ultimate war and commerce...
oh wait... Caucasian... the caucus...
or let's call her: Matka Caucasus...
modernity, see, you have to start looking for myths,
myth-making is the only worthy rebellion
  to be made when everything is speeding past you
at 100 miles per hour... and it's still only Monday...
by Friday we can say: conquered the moon
and killed of Brother Grimm...
      and yes, in ancient times,
i'd give 30 years of pure, pure, pure life for this
advanced modern ******* of shrivelling away
at 100... give me 30 years of pure, raw, oyster-slurping
life and i'm your man...
   give me a life, that's actually a library and
the next time i sit before a television, i'll turn into
a little ****** and start utilising a gun and shooting
a mountain... a bit like Xerxes
          and his army told to whip the seas
into submission... akin to any madman,
the comedy just never seems to end...
                   it just goes on and on and then, at some point
we reach the pinnacle, the everyday grey,
common people... and then it becomes truly sad,
the realisation that we're all apparently prisoners
entombed by cosmic forces... i'd like people to try
to laugh then...
     but we are living in times of relative peace, aren't we?
it's not like we decided to enforce an "article 50"
(more like article 22, catch)
and are sending men to war,
                only when the mechanisms of war have become
so advanced that the wars we currently see
are puny... they don't capture the imagination,
what with the nation being so abstract it's
only basis is for football supporters and nothing else...
not the type of man i could have been in 1939...
   even when my grandfather and father lived
in a nation that prescribed no university after
leaving school, but 3 years in the army...
   where my jealosy stems from...
   3 years comprehensive in the army...
     it's that lesson of teaching man: routine...
my routine went when i went to university,
even though i did have 9 am lectures, and it was chemistry
and in my third year i was doing over 30 hours
in lab and lecture hall...
          but when i look at my father's and my grandfather's
life, i'm just thinking about an england,
where army conscription was dogma...
                ****'s sake, ted berrigan did it!
and he was a poet!
               me? more or less a *****... a tier higher above
a gimp... but i'll just call myself chewing gum
and mule it over...
                  try not having a joke at the existential
lottery known as life...
                          but it's like: who to fight?
    we done fighting, we're faking fighting? we're
not really fighting, are we?
      so, about this book, and how journalists and with
due care for establishing that there were censors
in the interim years 1939 - 45...
             and how wars are waged as much with
guns and knives as with truths and lies...
      well... if at war... tell a load of lies...
if at peace?
                 you have to tell the most mundane truths
unimaginable... truths can't be imagined,
e.g. i wrote this quasi-constipated, that's quasi for:
i kept it in and made an effort, and had some *****...
of peace and for peace to endure:
you have to be blunt... you can't *******,
well, i call bullshiting a diarrhea of narrative,
in the meantime i'm also capturing the sunset,
i started this, whenever i did and now i'm desperate
for a lightbulb...
      but really, for truth and for peace,
for both these children to have a father,
          they need to hear the uttermost banal:
a banana is yellow, white is the refractor of light,
black is the insulator of light... goths and emos
wear black cloths but have an aristocratic complex
meaning they have a vitmanin d deficiency
and i could milk them with my pinky.

Bolo tie
Primped and fly
Dining on nostalgia, for nostalgia’s sake
Living off the food at Kurt Cobain’s wake
Pressing a Mangum to your head
A case of Velvet dread
Addicts caught up in the Reed(s)
Sticky Fingers and their steeds
A Moonlit Mile
A case of Kurt Vile
A Day Dream Nation’s falling apart
Little Wing's lost its heart

to be fair
/since we're both libras\
you never did ask.
you only said
"I guess you like me
and I don't know why."

you never did ask
but I wish I'd told you
exactly why I do like you.

It didn't cross my mind until tonight that I could certainly tell you
exactly why
I like you
but perhaps more importantly
I could tell you what I like about you
and you never did ask
but since I'm a few beers deep
/in pursuit of libra-esque fairness,
it's more like seven or eight beers deep, but I've never liked counting that sort of thing\
I could tell you what I don't like about you.

I guess I could start with that first
but I depending on how this next beer hits me, I might have forgotten how badly your dismissal has hurt me by the time I get there.



Against the warnings of a friend I do not trust,
/**** it, she's your coworker, she ***** me when I was thirteen and you might as well know about it\
Against the warnings of your coworker
I trusted you.

I put you on a pedestal next to Buster Posey, Jesus Christ, and Jeff Mangum. You haven't fallen from that perch, but I'm so far below.
At least, I think I am, it's a bit too dark to see beyond the end of my nose right now
/that pile of beer bottles is chuckling at me now\

if you had asked me
instead of wondering

I'd have told you I love your optimism and your work ethic. I was raised catholic, not Protestant, but I believe God smiles on those who work as hard as they can. God and I both smile on you.

/another beer now\

I'd have told you I fell in love with you the moment your hands first wove their way through my hair. It had been quite a long time since I'd felt so truly comfortable, so utterly welcome.

/I'm crying now,
I guess I'll smoke some ***
and try to calm down\

If I'd have been able to do so without crying, I wouldn't have been able to stop telling you why I like you. I'd still be telling you now.

I'd have told you I love how eager you are to speak with everyone.
The old man at the bar could have been your best friend the way you welcomed and listened and laughed with him.

You're so aware of not only the space you take up, but what you leave behind you as you twist and wander and whether it's bullheaded arrogance that delivers you so elegantly through life, or if it's a sort of divine empathy that lets you experience all the love around you, as coal to an engine, as espresso to the child, I don't know what it is exactly,
but I love it.

/that last part didn't make sense, I wish I hadn't smoked ***\
/one day I'll realize that's how I feel every time I smoke ***\


Whether it's because I'm a 24/7 romantic
Or I really do care for you,
I can't tell,
I've forgotten what mean things I had thought up to say to you.
/I can't believe I'd want to hurt you\
/I am a libra, I think libras are supposed to get along just fine, right?\

god forbid you ever read this,
I'm too drunk tonight to try and give it to you
/you wouldn't read it, i bet\
/did you ever read the poem I wrote for you? It wasn't any good but I've thought of you reading it,
sitting cross legged on your mattress, windows open, some vegan snack sitting in your lap, perhaps a friend or lover has kicked it up out of the corner it lays in,
hopefully it makes you smile,
a silly poem
that a silly boy wrote
Because he fooled around and fell in love with you\
But perhaps someday you'll get this this
and I hope it isn't mean,
/I haven't ever wanted to be anything than an easy friend for you, a comforting hand, a steadying smile, a car ride home,\
I'm sorry,
I can't tell.



It was a terrible night.
The night you told me to stop bugging you
I didn't get drunk
So I should have prossesed these emotions by now


and so it goes

how can the one be the same as the other, when one is humble, while the other is bombastic? where one is he, who seeks to cherish emotion, while the other, to feed off a touch of marble? where one seeks a "narcissism" of shadow, the other seeks the icarus-bound: self-inviting fade of light, and subequent downfall, which no shadow dare grasp, troll-akin; who dares to touch the sun, will find no secure net of shadow to catch him, might the falling star, usurp the patchwork of safety, bound to those glorifying schatten und schweigen (shadow & silence).*

if ever "legacy" media is to remain intact, worthwhile, can i suggest a very odd but all the ever more present concept? religious of course? why are sunday newspapers the worthwhile reading material? why couldn't be have a media sabbath, say, on a monday? what the hell happens on a monday? if it isn't stale-bread, and isn't a "historogical" case of the frame within the bounds of day-to-day journalism... what does happen, on a monday? nothing! between my fingers, monday newspapers are the anorexic by compariosn to friday, saturday, sunday....

can't these ******* feel a break? can't they just, stop,
for, one, day?
              i'm sure tolstoy took breaks in between
writing one of either of his mangum opus constructs...
why can't journalists just un-plug?
it only takes one day!
       i'm not here labouring to depose
"legacy"media, i'm trying to reform it -
please, guys, take one day off...
you're being over-worked with a 24h coverage,
the british empire is dead,
the sun can somehow and in whatever
"way you think is "sudden": can, set.
you can see the night through the perspective
of a dreaming mind,
   please: let go for that one day...
give yourself rest...
the jews invented the sabbath after they
finally completed the construction
of the pyramids... they were never
atheletes... but slavery taught them:
exhert the body for the worth of a pyramid...
guess what... the jews
are no longer the really attuned intellectuals...
their ideas? culmination point maxis:
i.e. communism? failed...
   time to shove these ******* into
the roman arena and make them sprint!
   they can't compete intellectually any more,
every intellectual jest, becomes a flaw...
the jews ought to know when a new pyramid
is being given shape...
            evidently they're intellectually stunted...
they should know who the original
athletes were... who's luaghing?!
     they're laughing?
                you seeing what i'm seeing?
can they please make these as pleasant as
possible? can they at least bargain with
the journalistic branch of humanity and
introduce a day (notably monday)
when people are not informed of a
dasein* on heidegger's terms?
      can we please have a journalistic sabbath,
a day off? do we really need to be
so "well informed" every single day?
look at it this way...
   a typical sunday edition of a newspaper
will take me about 2 days to fully digest...
         and i'm talking about 70 year olds...
no, i don't have a mobile phone, i don't use
dating apps...
              i believe in the truest form of
random potential, vs. natural selection...
random potential? revival of subjectivity...
natural selection? established objectivity...
   you take the random and compare
it to the "natural": do systems and rubrics really
get a girl wet? emm.... don't think so.
her favourite song was in flames' metaphor...
mine... i'll lie about this one...
i have too many... dry **** logic's goodnight?
more likely i was "dreaming"
of incubus': wish you were here,
     and hear this: as if no one said it to begin
with the first itchy finger on this horrid
      piano of spiders attempting echo.

there was a point...
   coming from a brief member of the ****
party...
   you know... i was actually having
a justin gatlin moment when he beat
usain bolt today...
      it was poetic... the "satan" bowing
before a "god", as a "poet", how would i never,
ever, rejoice in such moments,
akin to isaiah's words: oh lucifer,
how lowly fallen...
                                 there was so much
poetic justice in the event that only took
10 seconds to complete...
  how can you now suddenly break into
a framework of milton, and side with
the boogieman?
                              kinda makes all chemists
redundant: why not give all athletes
enchancing drugs? keep the plateau, invite
the fausts!
                guess what the biggest performance
enhancing drug was for justin gatlin?
the crowds boos...
            you can't, you can't find a bigger
drug, a better drug...
                 never undermine the underdog,
the fiend, the evil, the "enemy"...
       the crowd will always loose!
                          who befell, the crowd pleaser,
or the one who hushed the crowd -
the same crowd who stayed for
                   for the medal ceremony for farah...
who won? who won?!
           who won?!
                             it would have taken
the wiser of the two bolts to have bowed out,
than to become shackled into
   a shamrock of shame -
                no one will remember the victories:
everyone will only believe in
the overcoming of the underdog -
                         no matter the number
of medals, take to the ratio of 100 victories
and only 1 defeat... people still remember
the 1 defeat... or that's how history is taught...
commentators in the present may
cite the 100 victories, build statues...
   but people, people confined to history,
remember the 1 defeat... and the confines
of sand confined to an hour glass...
                                 the rise of the loser
is never celebrated, because it is paternal...
but the fall of the champion is only celebrated,
because there is no paternity,
  not maternity invoked, only the eager
hyennas waiting, only the condors, only the crows,
only the scavengers:
     flesh of flesh, torn off, till what remains
is only but what best resembles bone.

as heidegger said in aphorism 123 (V):
  then to totter in the great emptiness and shout
once hoarse.

    i "predicted" he wouldn't win...
                jealousy? do i look like i might be
jealous of an athelete of such competence
and decision to ****** rigour?
     unless you're talking about the ability to
write after a litre of ***...
  competition wise? i'm your man...
   cheap the *****, the more i'll write...
    cheap ***** within the ratio of: rich thought;
it was a "prediction"...
        you pick up nuances...
   generally speaking, when the mob anticipates
too much, too much fairy tale, you begin
to overshadow everything with: "pessimism" -
well... because there's the story of
                  sanctity - one of resurrection -
               one of the admonishing of sin...
my admonishing of the "sin" of childhood trust /
                          friendship?
become a hermit...
            and trust, not, one, ever, ever, again;
you can't call it a competition in terms
of trust and friendship...
     but i guess the ****** utopia of gay-talk
is just that, bwest-fwend... footie-fwend...
fwend... accompleesh... leash-buddy...
drinking-buddy...
                  associate... business-partner...
   lover...
surrogate-mother-*****-homosexual-*****;
****! test me! if this isn't the ridiculous
part of even attempting to engage in
ridicule... i fold! there's not worth in making
jokes out of this verbal amazon of:
  i eat a random berry, i hallucinate,
   i eat a random leaf, i stop hallucinating...

if i were you, i'd start with incubus'
album morning view... yeah, i know,
2001 may seem like far far away... esp.
with green day's slaughterhouse "rock" anthem
regarding september...

ask me again... how does the biblical narrative
become reincarnate in the day-to-day
lives of people ranging from dust-bin men
through to world-class athletes...
don't know...
             i'm stretching another second over
having to stretch heretical yoga-poses
attempting to doubly-inflate my bladder
and stopping myself from ******* my pants.

.                  told to buckle...
i like that phrase,
walk about
                 five miles
               and you receive
            a chance to buckle twice...
                  couple this
    with a vanguard
revision of
      the mea culpa:
           plea...
and... hey presto!
              your mind
          is permanetly
    lodged in the Taizé
       community...
              meaning,
yes, that mangum
opus that compliments
             reality...
was it ever in play?
i keep myself,
"shy", hermit,
     being licked by
       truth-bombs,
            reality increments
changing posits...
truth for me
            is the persistent
pedantry relating
grammar, to spelling,
             to...
   whatever the hell
remains at the bottom
         of a bottle of ***** /
ms. amber...
  strafbomber!
              yeah, that one...
by the time i sink
               my mind and
relegate my iq -
count, count,
count...
           does anyone
think that solving
a sudoku
is, a, bit,
   on the sly:
exploring
        hyper-geometry?
jonah...
     there, i've met
him at the end of
a bottle...
    i squinted my eyes:
he told me the name
of the whale
  that gulped-him-up...
and we became...
    converts to...
     the chop-sticks
method of eating
      chicken noodle soup...
  win-win...
   like that very public
psychotic breakdown
of charlie sheen...
    reconfigured
with news...
   oh...
             no wonder...
   he has h.i.v.,
                    go figure...
like this time round,
   i'll tell you is at the end
of gulping down...
what i've started
to call ***** ms. ice,
   whiskey ms. amber...
or
   whatever this...
sodium pentothal izz...

ah... salt, in alcohol...
liberated tongue in
    experimental
   staged dehydration...
quickened dehydration...
salt and alcohol...
or just about
what jesus came back
with, spending 40 days
and 40 nights in the desert...
             i get to perform
        in less than an hour...

yeah: would be floral patterns
in wahrheitsprechen...
any ******* pollack
is going to bounce against
german pillars
   when fiddling with
  the shrapnel of english...

english was never enough
in this, "experiment"...
i had to recede into
invoking some german,
some, rigid, architecture,
titillated by
   well ironed clothes
and well polished
         leather straps
worth a footprint (shoes)...

if i spoke a better part
of german,
  i would then have to move
to sveedish...
in the same manner
as the current knowledge
of english allows...

i.e. wahrheitsprechen
would become
      sanningtala...
and all the english words
     would be in german.

beyond that?
   no clue...
           this is as far
as i've been allowed.

.it was just fine and dandy with flaubert and knausgaard and kundera and the continental novel... another matter "concerning" dickens and the pickwick papers... "it's complicated"... well... outside of the novel... sure... the shovel... and a zukofsky... an ezra pound... perhaps not the sort of flare of a t.s. eliot... ever, the riddle of poetry is the riddle: from top to bottom... never from bottom up... what a mad idea to begin like some john "rimbaud" rambo in... missing teeth crossword punisher "puzzles"... the art of seagulls and pigeons... airy fairy... double-dairy... ***** from on-high... with a hiccup and a... 'igh... settled affairs... why else bother... come! our last drink! and let us praise sunrise! with good intentions for hierarchy, guilt and conscientiousness! let's pretend to wake up and find ourselves being needed... like heart-surgeous... bus-drivers... beside these hellish confines of sickly-sweet vanity projects! let's wake up as necessary as veins! and water! bus-drivers! let's wake up as gravity! so necessary! not this... grand mangum bogus opus of: zee art... this... waste of time; let's!

come the beatbox with words...
i.e. these days all i hear
is glutton ping-pong...
   i want to transverse something
of a river of a sentence:
                                                  w    ­     (↓)       (↷)
  (↺)  (↓)                  n           i                    (←)
     (→)    d                  i               n             (↓)
                                                             ­        g      ("exit")      

yes: a complete minefield:
no mines... but all the over-complications
of a "busy" mind...

   Poland and... traffic signs...
almost all of Europe and...
traffic signs...
                        Germany for the views...          

left to right...
       beatbox with meanings
like... boPS... and threaTS
                 with prefix jargo'             'n
pre-
                    pops and pulling
twigs on rhodes...
      of prose: the castle of novel
and paragraph...
interludes in dialogue...
              and the river
the sentence and nothing at all
concerning shrapnel...

   i can have on offer...
the niqqud with a "revision"...
            they (vowels) might as well be
in braille if they're to be "studied"...

          hmm... נקקד

i.e. -un / ⠊ / -ud / -ud / ⠥ / -alet

    n- / чirek / q- / q- / шurek / d-

  the grand Ч vs. Х
                    chOhc       loaded...
     a loch lommond; cheap beer...
words to write when listening
to music - any music...

                     it's not a complication
to make fool or master...
a Llama...
                    esp. not...
                              a tier 6 complication
category... those 7 years in
Tibet...
         like no new and...
                                        the lost old.