At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
She is from whom I know this tale.

A bumbling deerling on a day,
Went astray onto the highway,
He fell over a fallen trunk,
Breaking his leg with crack and clunk.

While the poor was sadly weeping,
The old lady stopped there, seeing.
Taking him up, right to the lap,
She took the fawn home for a nap.

Curing him and cherishing him,
Not just healing his broken limb,
But giving him fresh hay, water,
As if she were his dear mother.

Katy the cat and Doug the dog,
Nestled to him next to the stove's log,
Sharing humanely their one nest,
They could not hurt the little guest.

The fawn's leg is quickly mending,
He could dance without pretending,
He could dance since he is not *****,
However, he wasn't in the mood.

His doleful brown eyes in the far,
Are hanging on the morning star,
While the morning's red-purple lights,
Are playing on the mountain's sights.

Evening winds are chasing the haze,
Then, they get lost in the hills' maze.
"My fresh crops are waiting for you,
Come home, deerling! We all love you!"

Tears sprang into the deerling's eyes,
He wished to go back, without lies,
Only if his mother wouldn't worry,
Only if his auntie wouldn't pity.

Day and night he wants to go back,
Whither the smooth grass is his snack,
Where are fancy fields of flower,
Waiting for their deerling brother.

Where squirrels are jumping around,
Woodpeckers are hitting the trees' crown,
Cuckoos are singing gay sonnets,
And ants are wearing heavy puppets.

He's waited by the stream, by the wind,
By the running clouds there sky-pinned,
By the dewy blue-bell flower,
By the fields in colour-shower.

The old dame is weeping for him,
However, she won't hold back him,
Each one has a home to live in,
Being deer woods or human housin'.

Escorting him until the gate,
The dame must tip-tap back and wait,
Waving to him until seeing:
"Farewell, my dear little deerling!"

Pacing slowly, ambling stilly,
Door is clacking, curtain's swishy,
She is watching her dear from there,
For last, he may look back to her.

Her helpless little animal,
Hurries more and more his footfall,
And then, as fast as the lightning,
He is on the mountain, climbing.

But on the top, under the sky,
He turns back to say a goodbye:
"God bless you, field, and my old dame" -
Like the wind, he left as he came.

The summer fleets, the leaf falls down,
Every beech tree balds its ex-crown,
Snow blankets the houses, the lawn,
The old lady's living alone.

Nature's waking up, flowering,
She doesn't forget her deerling,
The Earth is turning once and twice,
The gate is knocked by someone nice.

She looks out the window lattice,
What a strange nightly guest that is?
Moonlight beems upon the country,
She opens wide the wooden entry.

Her hands opens in hugging blow:
A deer, deerling and a mother doe,
Standing there, then letting them in,
Her heart's beating, recognizing:

Her deerling became a deer dad,
Having a son now being sad:
His forefoot's broken a little;
They visited the hospital.

He asked her with his bare eyes:
Please Dame, cure my son with your ties,
Don't let him crying dear auntie,
May God return you your bounty.

Mist is afore them, fog behind,
They dressed the cape of night to hide,
Leaving their little in her arm,
Knowing, she will cure all his harm.

The little got cured one by one,
He was almost able to run,
And before the beech throws its mast,
The young buck is in the forest.

At the Matra, village border,
The Old Dame within the portal,
She's not alone why she would be,
Cold or hot, she's a busy bee.

She's surrounded by bucks and does,
They're coming back as visitors,
Winter-summer, from year to year,
They bow their head to Mother Deer.

The village folks loving her too,
They give her nicknames, one or two:
The Old Lady within the dear,
Or just simply Dear Mother Deer.

Red poppy, carnation, sage bloom,
Are decorating her mild room,
In big vases and little jugs,
Rainbow colours like made of drugs.

A flower from Steven Peter,
Another from Flower Esther,
A third one from Johhny Seral,
Surely, they'll be good persons all.

The wild flowers followed by songs,
The room's full of musical tongues,
Children singing is far and near,
While laughes and cries Dear Mother Deer.

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
Her golden heart is in this tale.

Salt loaves wait the little deerlings,
Swiss rolls wait for the new-comings,
Be her guest, you too, I just say:
This is the tale's end; run away!

at this point, i really don't know where to begin, in all earnet;
   this might seem unfathomable, but it's the case...

perhaps i'll begin from the end:
       ć - a shortening of ch -
                            and the case of unimaginative nouns,
say: the noun table, or chair...
       they're dull...
                           inanimate things tend to
have dull indentifications - they're dull nouns,
      they resemble the nature of the thing being named,
they don't move, they don't speak...
        but esp.                       they don't bloom -
and there's no hope for a revival of them...
   that table? that chair? it has no hope in any attempt
to return to its former, original form, i.e. a tree.

            but you already have two perfectly good
examples of a linguistic transgressions, and what's
   truly, nothing more laziness -
           the czech (check) republic...
                     what's the other one?
****... off the top of my head: i can't remember.
  
    we are talking about the second dimension of applied
diacritical marks, aren't we?
   ć     - the acute syllable scalpel is identified
                when the **** of iota enforces itself -
in an e.g. cieć (loosely... a trickle of **** from
                                                  a wound)....
                      what these symbols actually are,
are not necessarily idiosyncrasies, particular to whatever
particular they are designated to...
    look at them as punctuation marks,
             but not between words, instead within words;
sure, the ć example can only be interpreted
                     as sharpening the ch / cz compound...
because single letters are, after all, atomic.
                and there are ways of hiding -
      a č hides the z or the h: depending what
part of europe you're from...
                     but in the west they still know how to
pronounce czech republic... but have a hard time
    pronouncing the car manufacturer's logo:
              škoda - that's sh- / sz-      -koda....
                     that's being ******* rude, you don't
just avoid that sign... what? you think those people put
it up: so that it looks "pretty"?
                     the fact that škoda = szkoda (sh)
    in another langauge, and means oh well is another
matter.

    no, what really got me going to write this piece
begun as a rumour... yet another attack in germany...
football fans, bombs under buses...
         even the sadist in me (if there ever was one)
  thinks real hard about enjoying the amalgam
                        rooted in ethnicity of my nation's
former enemies... i'm really going to cringe on that point;
i cringe at white men dancing the new zealanders'
                                         - haka -
(māori)                            ergo?                      ­háka;
see it's a human decency to put "punctuation" marks
onto words... a bit like putting a kippah in a synagogue...
      so you get to then write:     ha!     ka!
           the phonetic incision in the second syllable
                                   it not necessary;
but hey! they mustered enough ***** to state in
condensed macron form a prolonging:
                             i.e.                        maa'ori.
actually, given the **** of iota, i'd write that as
                                            maa'o'rí -
         like the last letter is throwing something real
akin to a torero's                                    olé!

    what i am lamenting is the indecency of the english
language... in that they don't practice the aesthetic
of diacritical appropriation, and having acquired this
language aged 8, and having synthesised it for, oh 20 odd
years, analysing it has shown me that the english
language is far too peppered with minute idiosyncracies
that are beyond a chance of a diacritical approach being
established... as i already stated,
       czech - that word has no place in the uniform
rules of otherwise english, in matra form true here, true
there, true throroughly.
                       combine the eastern variant of
the western "sensibility" and all you get is: chech -
                                                             chalk-cheque.
                   you can't apply diacritical indicators to ease
the suffering of dyslexics when timing their syllable
intake... you really hear hardly anything of dyslexia
in poland... maybe because there are clear incisor
                                        "coordinates" in the words?
                      like commas descending from on high?

but as the title indicates, this is but a minor point,
what bugged me today was -
     the east sports birds as emblems of their nationhood
status...
     the west? ******* flowers.

the scots?             a thistle.
   the irish?      a clover.
the english?     a rose.
            the dutch?              a tulip.
   the french?   a ******* lily!

           coming from a people that has an eagle
as its national emblem, i thought:
                         how about we choose a flower for
ourselves, and imitate these former angry colonial *******?
but on an implosive basis, so we bite into the rocks
   and slur out the words:      i'm not moving!

so i asked an older soul...
- given the above examples, what flower could contend
                  to be the naational flower of poland?
- well... there's the malwa (malva - mallow)
                 and there's the dalia (dahlia).

   i actually can remember the scent of a mallow,
the flower as such doesn't smell of anything,
   a bit like a jasmine....
                                              the leaves have the distinct
perfume, just like nettles have the distinct itch
protruding from their stems....
                                  but i was like:
   sure the mallow could be a national emblem of poland...
       but i was like: that doesn't go back to the root
of my curiosity...
                         some nouns sound so much better
in your native tongue...
       i know it's not a flower...
                   but when you're walking in the ancient
heart of your soul, that's a pine forest...
                    and you spot a bush
         and it's a paproć   (ferns!) -
                                i'll choose that as the nation's emblem...
sure, the mallow does have a nostalgic potency
to remember my great-grandmother who survived
           the second world war...
                                      but i kinda like the word
      paproć.... plus, it wouldn't be clever to imitate
western nations, with their....    FLOWER! POWER!
    i really have to make a cryptic joke by now:
   lauren sauthern = leonid brezhnev = gordon brown.

If I went back in time I’d kick myself in the shin,
try to grow a spine and then reinforce my chin,
with hardened steel over rusted tin.
‘Cause it’s taken hits beyond count, infact I’ve lost track of the amount,
but I know even with my jaw broken I can still force out a grin.

I don’t want to have to lie
but it seems I’m guided into it for an alibi,
and I can’t help but question why I try,
when there’s no one to answer to; just time flying by.

I’m not as stupid as I act,
but I guess I can say I’m a good actor.
I make a sound but immediately retract,
because in a split second I balance every factor.
I don’t want to be another casualty
in a war effort so effortlessly,
in a fight that shouldn’t concern me,
but my flight instinct took flight instinctively.

If I could go back in time I’d clock myself in the face,
past me would rebut “what a disgrace,”
while I’d agree to the mirrored me who’s never finishing, **** even last place.
I know that my shoes were tight and tied,
I was at the line waiting I never could hide,
but still I’d trip and flounder, I should’ve double checked each lace.

I don’t want to have to lie
but it seems it’s better than admitting defeat or spitting out a goodbye.
And I can’t help but wonder why,
I even cry when I’ve taped my mouth shut and closed each eye.

The butterfly of my effect has lost each wing,
trapped in a jar, not going far;
what a tragic thing.
I press my hand against the dome,
to let it be known, it’s not alone,
this prison’s now it’s home.

Poetry has given me the ability to travel through time
to stand in shoes I abandoned on the concrete.
Paint the scenery in every word and rhyme,
and change the outcome in each stanza and beat.

I fully feel the sun shine and the wind’s blow
every single day like I’ve just arrived and met.
Now I’m cursed to be a Romeo to a stand in Juliet.
Design the plan for me, and I’ll blur the lines and matra,
I’ll fight as Marc Anthony to only one Cleopatra.

So we fall into conversations over cups and tables.Because it is what people do sometimes.Because we might get an insight inside the other world.The other's world.

So we take walks and stretches,just a mile isn't enough. Because we desire to.Because it's a new experience .Always ready to explore.

So we touch and let touch,it's the feel of it.Because it's a level of human connection. Because there's a certain feel good about it all.Pleasures of all time.

So we live and let live ,some matra we picked.Because we've seen and done much.Because we are yet to see and do some more.All stuff good and hell-ish.

So we are that kind of flame,fast but steady.Because the world runs at our pace.Because the world is ours.It's all beautiful really.

and wouldn't literature suddenly change, you take the works from early 20th century, and further afield, and what you come across is the entry point of vulgarity... perhaps the unnecessary censorship of "pardon my french" stretched for too long, and became all too ridiculous, but, for some reason, vulgarity in literature is unavoidable, given the contradictory elements: you can see a gang ****, but can't see the word f&$@! it's almost sad that we have turned to vulgarity for some sort of cushioning of the falling emphasis, yes, it means us moderns can't contest with the squiggly-clean attempts prior, where no vulgarity was used, but there seems to be a reason as to why we're injecting vulgarity as being necessary, for whatever reason, it's there, and it will remain there, since we're asking the question: but why can he, and i can't?

i was never a fan of hegel,
   i doubt if i'll become acquainted with his writing
any time soon,
don't know, i feel awkward reading him,
and skim reading his *philosophy of right
that inspired a marxist critique,
to only find that the book are ****** "aphorisms"
that are nothing more than lecture notes,
i'd prefer poking a hippopotamus' ****
to be honest...
       i remember owning a doberman dog
that bit into a **** and inside were these crawling
parasite worms...
       traumatic? no, like any archetype
of a scientist i peered in to get a better look
at the kneading mass of worm...
          looked like, exactly that:
kneading dough...
                you choose sides, i chose hegel's
precursor, kant,
   and read him, read him good,
and i found that: well -
   apparently the bachelor saint of konigsberg
never left his routine: he married it!
and i have mine...
   can't complain...
                 and to "think" that germans were
once the thinking europeans...
       to think that the germans were once
great thinkers... looking at the germans now
is like watching sheep attempting to
stray from the sheep-cult baah baah matra...
              there's a sadistic pleasure i get from it...
don't ask me why, ask me how:
for the love of god whenever i read a philosophy
book in english i feel dumber than to begin
with...
         i can read only one philosopher in
english: heidegger, since he toys with language
to the point of insanity,
   and he'll never make it to the bestseller list
of books, language is too complex,
and the toying with "inverted" commas
(commas of enclosed ambiguity as i like to
call them), and the spontaneous italics once in
a while, has already made him a cultish figure...
mind you: the sunday i read the culture
magazine, and spot a book of poetry in
the bestseller list, i'll buy champagne...
     this is one of those "lazy" poems, in that:
i can't just imagine myself drinking,
  i have to write something, otherwise i'll just
end up drinking, and that's not good for anybody...
mind you, i picked something up from
that hegel book...
  the connection between the latin:
ibid. (ibidem) and the ditto...
              well?
     ibidem is a ditto in the footnote section...
again, the joys of paraphrasing /
          using the thesaurus...
            they're one and the same, although
not quite, although: a bit like -
although: not quite like - although almost certainly
quite like...
    although one being in a footnote expression,
and the other in a written section of any
said or unsaid text...
          ergo ibidem qua  ditto (therefore
in the same source as being the same thing
again) -
    mind you, that's copernican for:
     still need the n.e.w.s. to read a map -
  the **** will a 3D earth do to navigational
enterprises? nothing! it'll just stick the image
of an orange in your head, and make you
steer into a whirlpool!
            i guess the biggest mistake is to write
to your contemporaries, but have a stockpile
of books by dead writers...
   i mean: who on earth writes a modern novel,
having read don quixote? no, one!
              even nietzsche thought he was a hot
shot saying: no one in germany has read
stendhal, not even the german professors...
   *****, i read that on route 86 bus to school
when i was 15 / 16, the only book that i wanted
to read having watched a cinematic adaptation
starring ewan mcgregor & rachel weisz....
funny you should say, i have perhaps 3 / 4 books
by living authors, which is slightly
intimidating having to extend the claim for
necrophilia, i.e. i don't own a library,
i own a graveyard.
                 once more: i just can't ****** well read
philosophy in english, can't do it,
i tried reading a bit of the hegel i own in english
and i just cringe, i have enough nietzsche in
english to doubly cringe and mind what happened
to nietzsche: sycophancy.
            regurgitators of maxims - a very pop.
pastime in the anglophone world...
   but i wonder, in summary -
   is it better to tell a good joke,
                                       or to utter a wise saying?
i'm starting to think the former,
       all the tyrannical kings always spared
the court jester, but never the wiseguy...
                             plus the immediacy of returned
laughter, than the mud-thick waters of
ponderance that ensue from a wise saying...
  plus, at least the stupidest thing people can
do with a good joke is laugh...
when it comes to "wise" sayings -
                               genocides can ensue;
ah, right, hence the peppered punctuation for
double emphasis, and the all too necessary
vulgarity.
     p.s. uttering a wise saying only make them
wise: upon one's deathbed -
ergo, i don't believe in maxims,
   esp. nietzsche's style of bombardment
with maxims...
   it's like the modern version of internet spam...
in the end, the only wise saying a man
ever uttered: was his epitaph -
  and the irony being: someone else said it
for him.

Watching the clouds
As they roll on by
Over the mountain mounds
Poking the sky

The cool spring breeze
On the unkempt grass
Hopeing the sky didn’t freeze
Then breaking like fragile glass

Here comes dawn
Running up on me
Bringing its harsh light
The sunshine shining bright

The sun gibeing at me
Taunting me with jeers
Like from my peers
Across the big sea

My mind escapes me
And let’s me get away
There’s nothing to say
So leave me be

Swallowed by my fears
All to the last drop
With their stupid leers
Waiting for me to pop

But as I lay here
I can see from my field
My precious people cheer
These people are my shield

My matra, my time
My precious rhyme
Life force dwindling
But I’m still here
Hearing their cheer

My motivation for life is staring at the clouds
Watching as they roll on by
Cause one day I’ll be there to
Looking down on you

My time has come
For me to say farewell
May the clouds be with you
As you adieu

Say goodbye to your worries
And to your wants
Cause we’ll be like birdies
Flying away from their taunts

it's one thing to smile, using your lips?
but you can't really
laugh-out-loud...
              if your eyes aren't smiling...
i.e. it's one thing reading a style magazine
article about the 1975's
               matt healy...
and then not listening to in extremo's
song vor vollen schüsseln
as a fashonista might down a kale shake,
or eat an avocado on toast...
you sure you drizzled that oddity with
some lemon juice?
     seriously...
the english have become as "eccentric"
(plain wrong, as the russians say) as the scots...
what with avocado on toast,
    and a deep-friend mars bar / slice of pizza...
                                 (of the scots);
i still don't know if the word fad is
an acronym or a noun...
          i'd still rather eat raw herrings than
***. sushi.
        i hope i have some sort of inclusive
sense-of-humour, that someone might share
with me;
well, eccentric has a twin... its name is... bonkers,
off your rickety-rickety;
tossing marbles, into a hole in a ground,
like the polish kids did, after the closure of communism...
that's what we used to do...
   dig a hole, prescribe ourselves a distance of,
say, five metres, and then throw marble ***** into
the hole...
                  but **** me... nothing more
fun than playing hide & seek;
what sort of childhood do you have now? eh?
about as ****** as a ready-meal from a supermarket.
that ******* matra... quick! quick!
    and then what?
                               read a book? t.v.?
there's a great joke concerning the acronym t.v.,
   it's p.c.        plato's cave...
          that's what watching television equates itself to;
sure, a personal computer,
   but an impersonal presence, using it;
but there, simply is, a way of extracting from blank
pixel canvases, some sort of self-authority, that bypasses
           any literary core of authority!
  that has existed, and has been ridiculed by this medium...
  we're not here to make monetary gains...
     we're here to exhale a breath of our thoughts...
we're bypassing all concepts of authority that existed
in the 20th century...
                     publishing boundaries, what boundaries...
what? you're going to suddenly become finnicky
   concerning your take of a literary palette?
             oh... oyster not good enough... you need a lobster?