i just don't know what to do with the compatible excess,
well, i know what to do with the evolutionary urge to keep up appearances, a semi-detached, the 3.2 children,
just make a sit-com, fill it with canned laughter and wait for
some idiot to get it laughing without synchronised swimming
gagging for air... that'll work... ministry of funny walk? n'ah,
too much Ox cubes in Welsh:
buwch'bwytasem'asyn'tafod                       -
cow     ate              ***  tongue
i swear that's how it sounded while i
made my index and finger poignant to remember...
guess, they did... but given that only 25% of Velsch sprech es,
wer merken? Edvardus Hirgaran?
well... it was misspelled hallucinogenic carrots by some
voodoo Vishnu in Essex, a
man of many municipalities - those including
Burma and Bahrain... also to boot, somehow,
in the federal funeral filing: Itchy Patchy Chelsea,
when riches never gets you a mention
in the line of Vatican Ivory stipends to
**** a didgeridoo, you know that an angelic choir
is about to kumbaya you to sleep
third day rising with the words: hatch-patch-barns-on-fire,
someone left a stove alight in 16 66 somewhere
where land was loaned, but not lived on.
funny learning Velsch... it's like the Latin Vulgate,
you just want to swear in it, but end up citing poo,
like you want to rhyme English but only get
Anglo-American relations strains if yeah
             isn't rhymed with hell yeah...
and the 9th precinct of never, ever yeah,
wasn't an encryption of the 33rd king of Judea
exiled in Ethiopia, with market claims over the entire
timber economy from Congo... because you know how
those Africans are so ******* poor they need white people
to write propaganda to the African Americans to feel
helpless so that Bob Geldof can write some other schmuck hit
where the Mondays left the rats nibbling at each other,
so i get to be J. F. K... and Saint Sinatra...
and St. Peter gets to chime the lunch bell,
with right-handed hook leaves the Amish to rebel in
that movie about ****** adverts as the rite of redemption.
well, you know, patchy Adams thought he had the turf of
publishing covered, he thought he was paid the ransom,
to protect the interests of the covenant peoples of the american
cancan dancing monkeys numbed on alcohol...
as i thought i was educated for a higher purposes...
education breeds only one higher purposes... disappointment...
look at the ******* agricultural economy...
the automobile industry... we're being educated to only
be disappointed... thank **** so many men decided to
wrestle with the hammer like they'd explore macho masculinity
with their ******* shadow partner over an
insurance liability that a woman came to represent.

Ik heb wat testjes afgenomen,
wilde bepalen welke dromen
mij het beste klaar kunnen stomen
voor een leven in de bomen.

Ik stem, studeer en ben het bos
verloren, staar en veer op
van het bed, wens terug los
te zijn, zoek vrijheid en een job.

Ik, wie ben, ik, boe, wie ben ik, moe.
Wie ik ben, is wat ik doe,
niet minder, meer, niet zeer,
toch op zoek. Want wat was nu ook weer
de clue?

Ach juist, ik was op zoek,
naar wie mij kan definiëren.
Ik heb een onuitstaanbare nood
aan vastleggen wie ik ben,
het is geen aanrader, 'k zou het niet
proberen.

Ik wil vertrouwbaar zijn, betrouw
me gauw en ik zal horen,
ik ben als luisteraar geboren.
Ook lief en accepterend,
de armzaligen verwerend,
doch lachend uit, oordelend,
liefst de taken verdelend.
Dat ben ik, Daan, de ambassadeur
van buzz, plezier en lachen
bezorgen aan de cohorte
is mijn favoriete forte.

Zeg ik allemaal zelf, rapportage
is onbetrouwbaar onderzoek,
ik blijf blijkbaar blij mijzelf verschuldigd
te zeggen wie ik ben
en is dat een probleem?
't Is dat ik vanonder zoek.
Voor mij een beetje maar van bovenaf is
dat allemaal oke.

Vanaf morgen zeg ik nee
wil ik minderen
die letters zinderen na
en daarom zeg ik ja
wanneer ik liever
afwijs.

Het is een zwakte als
pas gelakte nagels
later wordt het mooi,
voor nu is het een zooi
tot het droogt
en het poogt
alles te
verbeteren.

Dat ben, was, word ik later
een zeveraar een prater
een typer, een tikker,
getikt, jouw type, cherry picker.

Ik eet de kersen op jouw taart
wanneer je moederdag verjaart
eet de olie van jouw dom
de spookjes uit jouw kom
Ik ben veel en ook een vraat
ik schrok zelfs terwijl ik praat
tijdens de film
god wat zou ik mezelf
ambetant vinden
als ik mezelf niet was

Daarom kan ik niet om met mensen die niet anders zijn,
ik zou ze verwensen maar dat is niet mijn
manier van werken
ik tolereer ze, laat liefst niet teveel merken
van mijn afgrijzen, afschuwelijk plezier
als ik zie *** pijnlijk op een kier
de deur staat
naar vergetelheid.

Ge moet maar is proberen
om door een glazen wand
uw hand uit te steken
Of om uw oren te spitsen
en door een betonmolen te horen
waarover de mensen staan kletsen

Als ge wa zit rond te zweven
zonder te leven, in een zeepbel
zonder naald, zonder een stem
dan is er geen mens die erom zal geven
als ge zonder het te merken
heel voorzichtig en langzaamaan
doorzichtig wordt.

De zwaarte enkel te verlichten
door de leegte te inhaleren
in steeds grotere dosis
en steeds gretiger teugen
tot ge begint te geloven
dat het zo wel beter is

En al zout ge beloven
Uzelf te verplichten
uw ogen te openen
Ge zout het vergeten
en zonder het te weten
uw leven voorbij zien flitsen

Ik heb zelf niemand verloren.
Waarom heeft hij te klagen,
zal je vragen. Wel, ik wil luisteren
zodat een ander jouw verhaal kan horen.
Van mij mag jij dat roepen zo hard je zelf wil
of lichtjes in mijn oren fluisteren.

Ik voel dan met je mee, ik wil dat samen dragen.
Daarmee dat het soms, in fracties van, begint te knagen.

Ik weet dat dat niet echt hetzelfde is,
zo simpel is dat zeker niet.
Daarom, echter, dicht ik toe.
Meer dan dat kan ik niet geven,
Ik hoop dat ik zo voor iemand anders,
misschien één mensenleven,
toch iets goed doe.

Om het onbreekbare te breken,
dagen die zo vastgelopen leken
opnieuw te bewandelen.
Om onderweg ongeziene dorst te laken en
zo hopelijk sommige zaken
terug los te kunnen maken.

Om het ongeziene op te merken,
samen te zien en weg te werken,
weerspannige stroefjes
of kale plekken te doen verdwijnen,
in losse proefjes en of strakke lijnen.

Als ik maar ergens helpen kan
dan mag je dat aan mij vertellen.
Misschien kunnen we het onheil vellen
of ermee leren leven.
Meer dan dat kan ik niet geven.

Voor mij is dat het waardevolste wat er bestaat,
elke dag een goede daad.
Zo wil ik laten begrijpen
dat jij altijd in mijn hand mag knijpen
wanneer de pijn weer toeslaat.

Ik wil helpen dragen,
in deze vorm, geschreven,
want meer dan dat
kan ik niet geven.

/not exactly an easy poem to write...

let's just say that i was going to title
this poem: 3am extravaganza...
  and write a revealing diatribe
about how I went to sleep at circa
1am, after having finished watching
gone girl, to be woken by my
grandfather, turning night into day,
eating half a cream cafe
   with ketchup and acting the most
primitive of creatures,
an animal caged,
  perhaps by walls, then again
by the big pharma...
                me? little pharma boy,
he stumbling, wearing two pairs
of glasses,
                   and all kinds of images of
the horror of misery,
notably able limbed, with a
receding mind, or better still:
a mind like a magic trick with
no preplanned execution to awe
a crowd, just me, acting out
a quasi psychiatric nurse...
    nursing not so macho?
probably elsewhere than in
the abolished asylums of England...
    Mike?! Mikey?! Mister! Myers!
I'd hate to write the details before
my eyes and not imagine angelic Amy
tripping and sour in a slurring
tangent...
         not exactly extravagence with
a man nearing 80...
           bashed around his room,
turned on the lights in the corridor and
his room, the television, and the radio,
ate, circa 0.5kg worth of cream cake with
ketchup....
    all I can truly remember was my
incubator voice...
   minor quest and I'm sure his son
(my uncle) has seen very little of
his father's (my grandfather's circus)...
one qualm though:
    we didn't sightsee the Warsaw old town...
but much of Cracow,
and thankfully he went to see
Auschwitz twice:
    perhaps he still has sentiments
for Georgian Joe...
               came my role to ask him
a few details about the remnants of
the night, and his quest / attempt
at falling asleep sitting up...

    already too many details...
   funny... the youth and madness...
     never really looking into how
the romance and the poetry dies
a sullen and sombre death,
when mingling with old age...
    as such: these people would
probably rather become blind than
have to explain to the en masse
    the Chernobyl winds "invisible"...

no, Sienkiewicz is, honestly,
a tedius writer, not some national treasure,
in English: objectively...
    twice bolesław pruß...
         not exactly complicated,
not exactly tedius,
     not exactly: but exactly repetitive...

came a thought, an escape plan...
***** gut, Friday night,
a girl crying walking behind a boy,
a starry night, a candle and a quantum
cat sending me vibrations from
the outer-suburban spiderweb of my
distant hole, and closure library editions
of books, not found in the public
local...
    
still, to borrow from Sienkiewicz...
        
    bi den rôsen er wol mac
tantaradei!
    merken wa mir'z lac...

(po rózach może on poznać
     gdzie moja głowa leżała)

     Walter von der Vogeldweide

  (by the roses he might recognise
where my head lay)...    

     and then back into the clutches
of the octopus and 24h newsreels...
and since did fame = insomnia?
          as ever, language overladden
with more metaphors than nouns...
  
to cite marlene dietrich:
      the Germans and I no longer speak
the same language...

    even though I speak English and western
Slavic... for some strange, godforsaken reason,
I might as well be speaking Mongolian...
    chameleon and at the same time hyenna
that best recites: a city with necrologues...
with claustrophobia made by
old testament neighbours...
       peacocking death,
and the gold filled rooms of
the easily seen blind, deaf and half
limbed...

             essentially:
ailments worth the concerns when
admiring the lifespan of butterflies...

1st of May and the holiday:
    the day of work...
I knew that the 3rd of May existed
as the day of the constitution,
but the 2nd of May was most minded,
even though not, an official
caldendar red-card day...

sure, in England the flag day celebration
happens, every 4 years,
after the group stages of
the world cup...
                  red and white over here,
and over there too...

once upon a time I was under the impression
that I spoke both English,
and that I too spoke Polish...
   as it turns out,
        the upper tier of idea is
no man's land for me....
      apparently there are necessary
people to talk about...
            back into a language of verbs,
back into the comforts of
buying apples rather than growing
apples on a farm...

point being:
I'm not Italian enough to speak
urban english,
     metropolitan, "left"...
  and to speak minor town Polish...
I don't have to say anything...
a waving white & red flag...
        translated into English:
too bad Jacob...
                 a name a jew and the whole
RIPPER tourism feeding
with glad eyes on brick lane
at the bakery selling salted
beef...

Je gezicht is bijna niet niet op te merken.
Daar heb ik zelf nog mee aan zitten werken.
Natuurlijk zou ik je nog graag
elke dag blij weer zien. De laag
lijm weerhoudt mij van het houden van
de foto's in de straten.
Waarom moest je ons verlaten,
in de bloemen van je leven?
Ik wil niet wegtuimelen in haten,
gewoon vergeten, even,
*** enkele dagen zoveel
onzekerheid en angst
hebben kunnen dragen en uitmonden
in het onmogelijk te gronden
gevoel
van gemis terwijl ik je overal kan zien.
Of is dit allemaal niet echt misschien?

Op de stoep staan dozen,
in de post niks om van te blozen,
aan de deur een kast en
in de verkeerde kamer
een zetel die niet past.

Snel volgen de mannen,
gewapend met een hamer,
om de latten weg te halen en
mijn huisje te verbannen
naar ongehoorde zaagverhalen.

Ik zal dan moeten werken,
ik zal veel moeten tellen,
ik zal mezelf dan merken
en nooit meer dezelfde zijn.

and how much of the writing of existentialist
philosophers,
   namely their signature,
   the antithesis of a ditto-head -
the dittoing out, as it were, reveals so little
in questing for the pristine form
of metaphor?
            i see no metaphor in "said" writings...
thought, seen,
     but not exactly spoken...
                         i've been bothered by
their aesthetic for some time...
                       it's not an expression of
metaphor,
             to cite heidegger...
    the forms opposed to "devotion"...
what is that supposed to imply?
              the existentialist aesthetic of
their scripts, has nothing to do with
poetic nuance, a cryptology -
         a literally and a figuratively contrast...
based on the speed with which one
write a fluid sentence,
   and doesn't relegate himself to revisionism...
or apologetic(s) of ensuring
the crux of spelling,
   leaving an editor and proof reader
redundant...
                     what is this?
      this "                         "
  encapsulation?
                             at least the Irish knew
how to approach the printed example
of a dialogue in a novel, i.e.
- so
- so what?
- ergo, zis!
  
   counter?
   "i think that red dress looks nice on you",
she said,
   "thank you", came the reply...

   see the aesthetic superiority?
    bang bang bang...
water feature cascade
with beginning with hyphens...
james joyce understood this...

    because... why couldn't it be
an encapsulation within the confines
of: 'so i said so', he said...

        aren't people at all bothered
about how dialogue is transcribed from
theater manuscripts to a novel,
with the additional explanations of
two characters talking,
   the     "      !      ",  he said...
    with a "      ?      ", she replied....

      orthodox church chants of the monks...
ancient Teutonic chants...

  akin to to - but prior to -
the old school version of a search
engine...
  you've read a historical novel
in early through to late spring...
watched the movie adaptation
    by aleksander ford (1959) -
      
   and you start flicking through,
page by page, of a 754 page worth of a novel...
from the beginning, on the odd
occasion wetting your finger
to increase the page-turning speed...
and then you find"it"...
on page 533...
   and you've just spent twenty minutes
browsing the paper and embedded
ink...
  
         recalling the movie:
   well... the chronological adaption
is ****** up, it's at the beginning
of the movie?

what movie the henryk sienkiewicz"
adaptation of *krzyżacy
  (knights of the teutonic order)
became...

   a song...
   inscribed by walter von der vogeldweide
  (1170 - 1230) -
bi den rôsen -
    
bi den rôsen er wol mac
        tandaradei!
   merken wa mir'z houbet lac!
  tandaradei!

    (after the roses he will
    recogniße,
  where my head rested)...

or another song,
   never you might:
the airy-fairy take of poetry
to counter the novel...
  
much of a novel is bricklaying
by comparison,
myopic scheming of the paragraph...

poetry, becomes, focal,
in it becoming crutches for
novelists...
    novelists provide
the volume...
poets?
      the genesis, exodus,
and sometimes the in-between impetus...

wyszedł Niemiec z wielgim zyskiem,
     pogrzebli go z gołym pyskiem,
          hoc! hoc!

no... not ad hoc:
   but a wet snare jazz drumming
****** of tss...
   like imitation of an intimidating
snake, prior to the bite...
  tst... tss...
               hoc: as in: hop!
            doing the 'opak...
           given that i know how much
the english love, simply love...
to ensure H is a surd letter...
notably in Indian butter...
dhāl...

         but is this existential philosophy
aesthetic a case for disguising
monologue?
    or engaging in dialogue?
  there was never any (of the latter)
to begin with...
  point being...
          it's a quasi-stenographic tactic
to avoid a metaphor,
and delve into:
    misnomers -
      to aid... allowing a speed
of narration...
   no reworking, no editorial lax -
   fresh bagels...
                    
    i too will sometimes allocate a misnomer,
without "the brackets" -
and never intend for a metaphor...
    
    but if poetry has the concept
of metaphor,
  philosophy has to have the concept
of a misnomer...
   which, serves both definitions
on the bias of ambiguity...
     where poetry delves in image
conjuring -
say... an elephant's head
attached to a torso of a giraffe...
    philosophy delves into the more
obvious: so i "said"...

   when... in actual fact...
   all that was "said" was the clicking sound
of a laptop keyboard...
   a text appearing on a public
blank slate...
    and someone regurgitating the text
by, "thinking" it through,
right down to, encompass
the dotted line summary

.................................................................­....

Pak wat je
snappen kan en
smeer gekruide boter
tot elke bittere vezel is bedekt
en wat smelt ertussen
uit muist, lekt.

Konden wij zo maar
zomaar alles bevatten.

Omdat dat lekker is,
toelaten wat
wat gekker is.

Schenk een knuffel
aan wie ze nodig heeft,
een luisterend oor
aan wie iets wil vertellen.

Laat het oordeel jou niet vellen.

Wij zijn geen lapjes brood.
Ieder heeft vaker (dan lijkt) de nood.

Let op, niet alle metaforen werken
en als jij het bent, probeer
dat zelf dan op te merken.

Nog een les is: een mes is
ook om te smeren en de kam
niet enkel om over te scheren.
Ons hoofd dan weer een koelkast
die je af en toe best uitwast.

Als ik wegga uit dit land
hoef ik nooit meer te werken.
Zou ik dan merken
dat het leven meer kan bieden
dan alle dagen onkruid wieden,
met de hand,
het uittrekken van vieze stinkerds,
die ik zelf heb geplant?

Werken voor later, brood,
vis en water, groots
genot en kater,
ze volgen elkaar steeds op.
Was het niet socialiter onaanvaard
dan was mijn job idealiter
aan de open haard.
Hout verzorgen, vuur voor morgen,
warmte, veiligheid en comfort,
een warm brood met vis en water
zonder zorgen op je bord.

Dat is lui, dat mag niet, niks doen is verboden,
je bent een profiteur of krijgt niets van onze broden.

Zal ik ze zoeter bakken of sla- om de tijd
te laten vliegen? Dan voel ik me slecht,
maar net niet slecht genoeg om mijn best te doen voor echt.

Het ideale werk is al allemaal gedaan
en leven in het verleden maakte niemand ooit tevreden.
Leven in de toekomst daarentegen is als leven op de maan.
Je moet nu al vanalles doen om er zelfs nog maar te staan.

Wat is dan momenteel
het ideale beeld waar ik je over kweel?
Ik weet het niet, het komt neren op proberen.
Je zal wel merken wat het is wanneer je 't voor je ziet,
denk ik, geloof ik, hoop ik.

****! there's no milk in the house.. never mind... the house has already stressed a want to deviate from the standard English cup-ah... it's not exactly unique... the English way of contaminating black tea with a squirt of cow *****... sorry... juice... there are plenty of stories surrounding this practice in Siberia... among... lactating women... if Siberia is on show... then the whole of Russia too... if i were ever to visit the United States... Tokyo conquers my imagination over New York... there's the Belgium of L.A.... i'm simply not that interested... oh the natural north American continent i'm very much interested in... but not so much with what has layered itself over it... i'd still rather see the Kamchatka peninsula... the volcano "avenue"... ****! there's no milk in the house... the household decided to switch to a green tea: a yerba māté (or... m'ah t'eh)... lime infusion for some... IM-BIR (ginger) infusion for others... no milk in the house... which implies that i'll have to buy a pint of milk on the sly... and glug it down... in between finishing off an ice-cream on a stick... raspberry: rhapsody ber-e! or bear: é (yes... no exclamation mark).. milk the hooves of my trot... the Sri Lankan rubber of my 23cm tires pumped up to 80+ Pascal(s)          (?)... if it's not a 35cl of whiskey is must be a pint of milk... goat milk is overrated... by all clinical standards of wholesale... it's nothing short of what's cow: long-life... excessive pasteurißed milksch... ah: some relief in german when scribbling in  Ęgliš - phonetically: with a "trick" of hiding the N: lost an IN(?) inquisitive tone: tier above... the monotone of narrative... oh... hiding one arm of the tetragrammaton is easy... sharp quest: q: ooh... oh! i seem to have forgotten what i wanted to scribble in the elder-tongue... maybe it might come back to me... after all... there's an undercurrent of: congregation but: the aliases are awry... we do not share the same etymological roots... der körper schlafen: solange der schatten: getanzt! jetzt! jetzt ich merken: von die
unmittelbarkeit of thought with short-term memory! this one time... the devil didn't come with either fire or with the perfumery stressing sulphur... at best he was gagging to add a zest of: zitrone-limette-orange... perhaps... just perhaps... der teufel vergessen (to forget is also a memory) zu bringen das feuer... aber! er tat bringen RAUCH und (the definite plural article for) SPIEGEL! i learned my lesson... upon each visit to Ypres.. seeing the graves of supposed ethnic brothers... the anglo-parade of "individualism"... and how the Detusche were... burried: en masse... no robin: now sparrow... designated their song over the seemingly marble stones of the named... but when it came to how the Germans were... folded... brick-on-brick... a haunting reminder... the sparrow / robin always deemed it necessary to... haunt a tree with a song... for the tree to escape the polyphony of the wind... we're talking a ****** riddling... empathy with the neighbours of Europe... push from Asia that wasn't the HOO'NS... the English had a Spanish torrent: back in the day... odd... how easily the English has capitulated having invited their former colonies to the sandpit... their native women have been barren: without a sense of agency...  they still capitulate... like... there's no like quiet like it... the Spanish armada failed like the Mongolian fleet failed when the invasion of Japan was being scrutinised... why wouldn't i somehow: pity the German soldiers of world war I... entombed in mass graves... sure as **** & the constipation that comes prior... i figured it out... just today... when men... single... and send their ******* dysfunctions: clean-cut-and-perfect... they take the shot of themselves... AFTER... they have *******... obviously it looks larger... with all the blood drained from the abilities of the scribbling hand.. they take the vanity shot after they have *******... nothing worth of note: prior...

(the devil forgot to bring the fire... but... he did bring smoke und mirrors!) i mentioned this somewhere... in: alt... etwas güt! (not... gat: not gut... my gut? good... softer... german-esque) Englisch ist ein späterzunge: it made sense... when there was an Empire.. but... now? ******* rhubarb... Rue-Barb... graffiti or no graffiti? that technical observation... no articles... included... when adjectives are being "stressed"? perhaps only in german... in all the german tongues: this over-stressing of the pronouns... of definite... indefinite articles... in the ****** tongue the pronoun I... makes are rare curtain drop... Freud was right about the vanities of men... Copernicus... Darwin... but he faltered... citing himself... some languages have pronoun exclusion parameters... you can't change a grammar... while nouns are asexual i English they are "sexed" up in other languages... but you'll find it rare: to spot the ****** use the pronoun: JA... i... ich... isch... whether speaking or writibg... in terms of language... England? *******... wenigsachsen! truly... *******... like i was addressed: silly ****... verpiss dich: wenigsachsen!

i had a "friend" once: a fwend... more like someone
i shared an occasional drink with:
then again... i did most of the drinking
while he staged most of the awkwardness when
i'd: from time to time... turn into a silent boor...
anyway... i was lazy and he was fat...
or i was fat and he was lazy...
                     by one stroke of the blue moon he
thought it was wise to lose some weight
by going to the gym...
never a good idea to shed off a dozen or two or
three pounds by going to the gym...
by all means: turn to the bicycle...
turn to swimming... turn to push-ups...
stomach crunches? eh... like Socrates remarked:
i like my stomach lamb-tender...
makes it easier to continue sparring the ol'
liver with a southpaw cider before noon...
but it was never a good idea to hit the gym, bro...
to shed some weight...
now... well... he's definitely slimmer...
a no-fat content milkshake sort of a shadow
that he now casts...
but... eh... gym bro... you won't find my lifting
weights... cardiovascular exercises since:
it's the closest you get to imitating ***...
plus... when you're the wolf with the three little
piglets on a red light at a traffic junction:
all hot & bothered: heaving and hyping up
the loss of breath...
ping... go the ******* of some traffic collision
of a woman... bad bragging rights...
hell: if no one's going to use me up
for some luvyy-dubby-teddy-bear-*******
i might as well: self-deprecate myself...
- you won't find me lifting weights because
this "friend": fwend of mine has exchanged
a weight problem for a... skin problem...
nothing dermatological you see...
it's the excess of it...
   if he only listened to me and shed the weight
via the cardiovascular "method"
his torso wouldn't be looking like a interspecies
mutation of how a dried prune turned into
a phallus and magically ****** an elephant's
******...
just saying... swim... press-up... cycle...
by all means...                 hell: even explore the mind
while taking to a marathon length walk...

p.s. for anyone who's a W. H. Auden admirer...
perhaps i was too... perhaps i still sort of...
well... it's not terrible important...
but you know how homosexuals can be
these scalding / scolding ******* behind each
other's backs... or at least that's the impression
i get having revisited a passage from
Harold Norse's autobiography...
i reread it to remind myself that...
                      i might leave traces of conversational
overtones... i might not rhyme:
or bother much with: tech-niq(ue) -
although: in (brackets) - surds...
                          you write them to differentiate
what would probably some out
to tek-nick: although the -nick would extend
into meek with an N -
but it's worthwhile to remember that...

i had another "friend": fwend... he complained
that i wrote in word salads...
last time i checked: he wasn't fond of a slice of cucumber:
either...
so much for friends: "fwends"...
i'm itching at 35 years old
and i'm itching for...
beside the prostitutes that give me
the most pristine smooches...
purpose... yes... that grand: "thing":
i simply don't have a noun for what's
already readily available...

chin low: forehead: high!
(kinn niedrig:
stirn hoch!)

                rotkehlchen und / oder spaatz
auf mein fahne!

i forgot to have friends...
i have my shadow to keep me company...
ich haven mein shatten zu
halten mein... kompaine...
    i die: Adolfo: KLAR
es ist nicht: Portugiesisch:
no leash? nein: leine: or geese..

                a cat might as-alles-goot...
fall asleep...
in an around a bookshelf of
unread Rousseau...
     **** the ego... **** the most ineffective crux...
the lost pagan: the hyper-inflated
intellectual Hebrew...

came the res cogitans... so too must have come
the res venus...
i find the lack of fear of deity suspicious
surrounding the Muslim bravado...
lasts for about one...
oink-oink-...
prickling at the mythological blonde:
by the time we're through:
there might be the rarity of the ginger
Pakistani...
or the bleached beauty of Afghanistan...
the mythological blonde escapade...

thank god i''m not reproducing...
now allowance of daughter by my side...
side to sire... what?
licking out some... sorry... you're not playing
jazz: some ******* ***-hole?!
i'm glad to not be in the race
of rats...
i'm bowing out: no one said it wouldn't
be painful... it will be...

i rather die the death of a wolf
with his teeth being pulled out...
than die the death of...
estranged relatives...
social cohesion race mingling *******...
it was so nice... so nice...
when black people ****** black people
before the blakc boy discovered the white
girl...
to hell with her... as Genghis Khan
sufficed to surmount...
if it didn't happen on the shore of the Danube...
then... it didn't happen: at all..

no... i'm just tired of how the English see
***... in Belgium you could buy a *****-mag
like you'd be watching a girl put on a full show
of cow-******* and a sack: without
the hurt feelings of a niqab:

well... i get the Muslims... somehow...
they're just about ripe in being synonymous
with... French footballers...
that's what happens when you don't
fear your deity:
you become... sort of... shrapnel...
tooth-itches:
not: teeth-itching... hell...
not (a) tooth-itch...
pseudo-grammatical post- Reconquista of Spain...
the ****-
-stanis still think of themselves as:
because of the Ummah: we... the Berbers of North:
Af- Af-... ath... aph... who knows?

the Muslims are... oblivious to having
a fear of their deity...
it's not like... i sacrifice my *******...
to ******* freely...
because... i don't exactly require:
a woman on a leash... a niqab might work...
but...
Muslims are yet to evolve to fear their deity...
after the fear comes
the secular apathy...
like the one staged by the Hebrews during
the holocaust...
a god: what god?
capitulating English folk...
because Birmingham sings aloud: loot!
hey presto... it feels like:
there's looting to behold...
between you an me...
i don't mind the future or:
copper-necks
and Brazilian mulattos...

100 years from now...
the details of a Hapsburg dynasty will be worth...
the face of F.D.R. on a dime...
equivalent or: there: about...

as is due: i must: applaud the victor:
i'll die towing the remains of the day:
a sunset come the tide toward
the Faroe Isles...
where i'll breath my last into
fathoming the wind...

dodo project: last introspection...
by no god or genes...
let these people have what they utmost
deserve...
the humidity is getting to me...

i'll just... sort of die... admiring the corpus
of either the Janissaries
or the Mamluks....

to heave as much as a woman;
to enter the confines of a storm:
i 'd sooner fathom
the depth of the angered sea...
than... quest...
for the benevolence of a woman...
i've teased the depths...
i've angered the tides...
i've become:
the anchoring of the shore!

tomorrow the world ends...
thank god i'm no safe-keeping of either
Shakespeare or the Quran...
why?
toward my own privacy...
i'm sure at least one *******...
will want be revived:
just one... that might want to keep me alive..
just one? timid bunch?

have it your way: camel-jockey...
have it your way,,,
like any new-found-riches of an Arab
undermining a Bangladeshi..
**** the Arabs...
leave 'em in their...
whatever an Arab "thinks":
most probably something less than a Pakistani thinks of...
ahem: 'em...

**** the H'arabs!
best begin a reworking of: no oil involved...
with the ****'ites...
Persian pirate... to hell with the poodle
masters of the parasitical Sunnis.

Vieze maandag gaat
waar hij niet gaan mag,
staat waar hij niet staan mag,
haat wat hij niet slaan mag.

Maandagse marathons hinten
naar dins-tot-vrijdag sprinten.
Vroeg op, vroeg dood, vroeg doodop.
Laat werken, laat merken, laat gapen
en veel te laat gaan slapen, stop.

Maandag is steevast geen kattenpis.
Al goed dat het nog niet terug
zondagavond is.