the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind

walking down park  
amsterdam
or columbus do you ever stop
to think what it looked like
before it was an avenue
did you ever stop to think
what you walked  
before you rode  
subways to the stock  
exchange (we can’t be on
the stock exchange  
we are the stock  
exchanged)


did you ever maybe wonder
what grass was like before  
they rolled it
into a ball and called  
it central park
where syphilitic dogs
and their two-legged tubercular
masters fertilize
the corners and side-walks
ever want to know what would happen
if your life could be fertilized
by a love thought  
from a loved one
who loves you


ever look south
on a clear day and not see
time’s squares but see
tall Birch trees with sycamores  
touching hands
and see gazelles running playfully  
after the lions
ever hear the antelope bark
from the third floor apartment


ever, did you ever, sit down
and wonder about what freedom’s freedom
would bring
it’s so easy to be free
you start by loving yourself  
then those who look like you  
all else will come
naturally


ever wonder why
so much asphalt was laid
in so little space
probably so we would forget  
the Iroquois, Algonquin
and Mohicans who could caress  
the earth


ever think what Harlem would be
like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears  
grew sending
a cacophony of sound to us
the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful  
owls sending out whooooo’s making love ...  
and me and you just sitting in the sun trying
to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys  
koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness


ever think its possible
for us to be
happy


Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.

Her pulse rate
Please match me
"Bee's high"

No fireflies to burn my money
Honeycup fingers devour it
The yellow- brick road pours it
The Van Gogh yellow
Honey Queen Bees follow
their fellows
Am I Waiting? 12345_*

The first mate
he ain't got my sting
The others don't mean a thing
The headset swirled to pitch black
Watch your tattoo back blinded
by your yellow
Too many honeycombs
spoiling his ring,
His honey like some hot disease
What an increase in salary
month of June
All the Kingsman double sting it

On the ebb, to triple play it
It's a  Lil- Deb on the ebb
buzzing the personal
Up close the sting
One of a web kind
He makes his move
"Google it" checkmate

Miss Butterfingers her
clicks get stuck
He caught her act
What a stinker

He checked her off the fate
of a singer

To update, on the ebb bees
Sting Shrine what's mine
But why on your time?
That parking meter roar lion coins
build me a buttercup
What a buzz cut please shut up
On the ebb of my interns the
a seduction that's no crime

The Queen of Cherchez
So the lemon square
Bee's at 1960 Worlds fair
He took the bait
La Femme au-fait
Post date, 
 The ebb bees
two lips stick like beeswax
The ebb of everlasting sales tax

"Les of the Mohicans"
of her most desirable
words he narrates,
The honey-blush trees
Upstate

Bees on his proposal knees down
The Queen's bees money

Money for nothing and your
checks for free our freedom
Dire Strait music shrine
Sunshine Gold free state
She donates her heart he awaits

Like 100 degrees hottest light
The golden armor shield
Bees were coming to America
Oh say can you see by the
Dawn-Sting Night

His overflow
His soul the magnitude
every heartbeat
extremity on the ebb of destruction
On the edge of our sanity web rated

Taking a long devouring breath
Like it came at birth
Ripleys believe it or not
forget me not flowers bees
Love was true never to
be false eyelashes

He touched her skin
He goes deeply drawn in
Sting shrine all the envy of mine

Ebb of the darkness her virginity
like a novice

The sting buzzes shes the naughty novella
His sunrise spread with his pocket knife
That honey (Goddess) sun Italiano

Sting shrine like Valentine her Spa treatment
To be raised in the
"Amazon Prime" Honeybee sticky hands

Facebook take a look everyone is an open book
On her ebb of the Emmy multiplying
I hear the bees **** seduction
Geology is the Bees Queen hot Sting
Her impulses she tried to hold back
But went forward with her
desires of him
Her draws bumble bee lingerie
She was the drawback
Wanting her ringback
Honey eyes were set back
And I'll be back to slingback

Asteroid Ebb of her hub ******
God
Wicked impulses being
aroused by his hot yellow rod
Like the smile increased
her face value
All body textures of virtue

What a pressure body point
Attuned to the sting shrine
The Monk the bees are alive
with the sound of
music modifying her sting Gods
Got reckless Moms whats the odds
Like a shock of eternal love, I'm sold

Toxicity facing our reality  
That's the jungle of publicity
Duplicity like the twin city
Both smiled bright yellow and black
Dress Bumblebee sexuality
To its authenticity

Her color of lips
build his sexuality
Beehive sanctuary
Playing the flute
Ebb Bees are so cute

Her name is Brooklyn
beehive of hair
Heres the shock waves bride of
Frankenstein
Changed to better
brains of Einstein

They both stare face to face
Her ebb of the tip
of her ***** with Grace
We earned this day
Be happy I crown you
Queen each and
every day

A blue guitar, twelve pieces of silver-
ware, some feldspar, an essay on The Art
of War, two pine bookshelves, fifty-four books
about the past, a stone axe that must have
belonged to the last of the Mohicans, fifty more
books about bones, stones and famous pomes,
a sliver of glass from a mirror that shattered
the last six years like they didn't matter
plus one to go, a shitload of old liquor bottles,
a fossil of an inner earbone from a killer whale,
a spear-point older than 12,000 years+plus,
a tooth from a shark as big as a ****** bus,
dust marks from missing pictures of us.

the want for peace is as enduring
as a want for war....
imitation of machine-gun firing
whole magazins into thin air,
and even more thin, fleeting
concepts of echo...
the world, as we make it, in
the given... that hasn't exactlty happened,
and will never happen...
"hypocrite" internet crusaders...
        of that kind and of that demand....
the only undermining of man
is that he should become useless...
am i? am i? look here, a throng!
only satan borne from god asking a question,
only satan borne from god doing ? with i...
figuring it out...
only a satan borne from such: bemused
instance... and the following sentences...
women seem to only wish their men
are content in what they do...
id the men are not doing the thing intended
then they become unhappy...
   i feel i need to state i was privileged...
if i ever had to wait for a huspand
and a bouquette of tulips...
       how i will itemise, how i will check for faults,
how i'll lesion for minor errors...
and call to **** the basis for
   1... or siamese, or why we say
very little for punctuation,
and comprehend much more above the status
of a punctuation mark...
               so i am here, i have a purpose,
satan is man embedded in the world...
what the **** happened?
     it is iota, i turned into ?, rather than !,
as if happens, every time i approach
a cinema or a movie...
            what word could comfort one
when in tears, if not allah?
the jew knows the name of god,
and its comfortably too complex to blah out.
just about the time we first said
our ma-ma our pa-pa...
                   we might have said something
akin to al-lah...
                        and i'll twist and turn,
and "mould"my bodwith repeat
repeat repeat.... repeating
kiedy dzieci w świat wyrószą! -
and i, once listened to a recital,
   a young german boy, of bilingual descent,
reading be a children's book...
on a train... there... what beauty
in lament, and the take to tear....
   ah... that stance for: a man that wept...
what rarity, and what gravity,
and what number they have to argue back...
i've seen more metaphors and
indeed more rivers and waterfalls in
my tears, if i had unravelled
    the said things and walked toward a mirror,
and spoke what they spoke...
and felt the imprint, and have seen
the reflection in such things...
  i am shadow, i am hunch,
       i am exile... what was once,
perhaps said...
                     that i gave up my left hand
for a labrador to knead into pet...
how i then put my right hand into
a fire and retracted it gleeful like
i might be a prometheus...
oh god, once the narratives from antiquity
are so well established, how cheap it all
seems, and looks, how we tire, how we try
to exhaust the cow's ****....
and how we make joke from farting...
or how i am prone to cry,
on a morning palette of having only drank....
and drinking with the morning
the throat is dry-cut sore, dry, sorry...
   lao che's jinn...
              nie chce boga
   (i don't want god), bo szkoda
             (because it's careless)....
             how we mature into wanting so much
more than kettles, knives, and vacuum cleaners...
how we want spirit, ghost, and
then make adamant that there's a need for thought
and a need to disperse it...
   how so much spirit went into crafting thought...
that thing though... it get's me...
that cry for a father... symbiotic with writing
a narrative in western culture...
   odd, how a man capable of being reduced
to tears... can single-handed overcome, every, woman...
meaning he can't lie, meaning he can't believe
in the capacity to faint...
   meaning that he needs no breathing ground
to encapsulate faith...
        the only thing more dangerous than
a man crying when hearing some music
is a woman armed with a *****.
as i take my bow...
                    and duly give applause...
for that is certain... and i am bound in being
kept earnest...
  on the basis: it's really how the whole point
moves forward... i can be the sieve,
or the activity making the sieve... well... sieve...
like akin to filter...
     my native land of birth seems to mythical
counting the next minute to the next to make an
hour, that i almost lost thought to be anything
but.... thingy...
  yeah... every time i travel to poland i''m
most alive when i step into a graveyard...
          tombstones almost has the same sound
when stating the word people...
given the latter move, becomes butchers
and architects... while the latter nothing but
quasi trees, dates of contained yearning,
and sometimes the epitaph...
                oh the swollen grounds of what
is kept, needlessly kept, and what ought to remain...
looking at our own morality,
   i see a history of paupers...
           we are only working from the street up...
poking the case of diogenes...
there i am sown, and there i sow the stubborn
calamity... who would care to manage
competition with the west,
given their sole grammatical competition
was based on the pronoun category?
    i always thought they spoke more shrapnel
than sense...
        big bang theory worth a vascuum...
like i'm yawning... the sound of...
it happens every time i travel back to poland...
i hear, life!
          it's when i'm back in england
and i hear this journalistic dialogue about needing
to export it to remote areas of the world like
Moldovia...
      are journalists that much necessary
if they happen to fake telling a story working from
a per se bias...
   reading the thursday edition of a newspaper
i sorta lost the plot, or a need for a plot...
        i could be offered a circumstance to re-read
that i cowered, that i shrivelled and went away...
     it's only that i spent 3 weeks in Poland
and i really didn't see too much emphasis on journalism...
  or really bother a need to know basis...
   or have to entertain an opinion or to begin with, have one:
like when i didn't have a sparring
partner to create a dialectical outlet / punching bag...
     3 weeks in Poland can cure a man living in the west,
you can automatically stop drinking, read a book
and never even care to write anything...
you come back west and you have this pathos for a need
to write... don't know...
i like how phonos (φoνoς) is so clearly proximate of
pathos (παθoς)...
when wasn't the statment: silence,
   not a concern to say or identify a pathology?
just about when man said too much...
and the otherwise became inverted,
and man said too much,
        and thought very little, and philosophy
came into existence much too late...
if it ever was worth a moral agency,
that thought could ever be inscribed as:
   θ (ought, ought), like some coordinate,
definite... instead of the ******* between
θ (ought) and φ (narration)...
               looks like you're asking for a
locksmith, for ****'s sake.
then they said: poseidon's trident...
let's resurrect symbols, the crucifix and ψ...
now i really lost the tail and injected
an upright spine into undertanding, what the hell
i was supposed to understand!
so yeah ψ (counter-narration)...
    the actual need to overly psychologise
the people stems from, i dare say,
               hyperventilating number of books
in libraries...
it's nice to see so much emphasis on a psyche...
poseidon's signature... ψ... trident?
no?
    don't see it or can't see it?
sounds about the same when you
do it in french with another god name,
zeus, jesus, je suis... je sus... je ßaß
                           mohicans thereafter...
ah, yeah, that night in winter, in warsaw,
i could almost take to the moon, pick at it
and bite into it like i might inton a chocolate
            bit biscuit...
and that's how i made the greek equivalent
of sigma...
  with θ, φ, ψ....
                                 a door... variantion of not
what's to be said, to be said,
but how there's a thought, a morality,
and something that attempts to understand sanity...
i just like to think of it as inserting
a key into a keyhole, and walking through
a door...
meaning the encoding would look like
φ, θ, φ, ψ...
         now i was supposed to walk through a door...
all i have is a ******* acquarium
and a yawn...
      my uncle owned an aquarium once,
lost a leg in a submarine accident...
  huh?
                 me neither... i'm not that audacious
to state there was a big bang and keep
people motivated for the mission: let's get frisky!

Partners
no crime,
innocents,

time served deserves
an extension

we pretend that others do not exist,
stare our way through each day
until we get home and
then it's the telephone and
the world is okay
but
I take a ride in the landau
listen to
Spandau
ballet
really?
yes,
it's just a matter of no fact at all.

Walk tall, mum said, as I hid under the bed,
always monsters to fight
wrongs to fix,
right?

nearly midnight and no Oasis
what's this,
music of the solo mind?

Walkman no talk man makes
Jack a bull dog or something
that hides in dark corners.

Still dozing my way through the
thoughts and each day
I am dozing
some more,
it's slightly not keyed in
the code is not right
the dots don't line up
or
it could be my eyesight.

'if you haven't got a penny a halfpenny will do'
then they decimalised the system and the
scheme fell through,

what about you?
do you collect stamps?
get cramps?
forget your name?

I am one of the same among many
cloned,
declawed even as I roared
my defiance and we should not
place any reliance on the material things
nor spirituality
punctuality
or any eventuality that eventually
will occur

share nothing
even thoughts have shadows that
show up in ultra violet light
wrong or am I right?

This is broadcast by the
'last of the Mohicans',

'should have kept my hair on,
white eyes speaks with forked tongue,
bet he
eats his peas with it'

thank God for madness
she is
the mistress of sanity
and
the goddess of poetry.

CHINGACHGOOK SPEAKS

still see the saw
cutting through time
the small boy's mind

Da's spirit level
disappearing all the time
becomes my Star Ship Enterprise

the saw hums to itself
time eclipsed
with the smell of pine

the song of the saw
sunbeams & sawdust
dancing in time

and lo
wood becomes window
the small carpentry of miracles

a heart-shaped block of wood
becomes my saddle
on his crossbar

we fly through time
tame hills
the tick of bicycle wheels

lost in speed
down down Dobbin's Hill
we the bubble in the spirit level

we haunt the dumps
hunt for a wheel here...a frame there
Da creates a bike

new bikes from old
our "Frankenstein bicycles"
we the new masters of speed

"Look at me...lookame...no hands!"
the hill smiles to itself
"wheeeEEEEEEOOOOOOOOPS!!!!!"

trees breaking gently in our hands
become our bows and arrows
stolen from young plantations

I a nine year old Chingachgook
limp horribly home
an arrow in my left calf

my Da shaving wood
it curls
to his whistle

sawdust amongst his curls
my Da smiles
as the wood comes good

I still see the saw
pine
opens memory

*

We had to look upon a loved object( as a poetry prompt )and not mentioning it...free associate 15 words and write the poem from this list. THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS is and still is a fav. book of my childhood( I have still not finished growing up )and it bleeds into the memory of helping( little help that I was )my Da making a window...making a bike...making a fretwork Arkle...whatever he turned his hand to...whether it be a crop of potatoes or a cuddle...his hands were the hands of a God creating my childhood for me.

I never got around to reading THE WEPT OF WISH-TON-WISH but loved the sound of it....Dobbin's Hill( which I cycled down as a child and ran up as a soldier )became the Great Snake( what Chingachgook means )and I indeed made myself a Chingachgook. The rest is just memories held in haiku and bursting in time like bubbles.
From 30/30 prompt. . . I was reading THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS and helping my da with his work...whether it be wood or bikes from different bits.It was that eternal summer of childhood and I desired to be Chingachgook. Out of this tale of time lost...time found is woven the present poem. Here be the words that helped in some way went to the making of the poem. My da worked in wood...I work in words.

THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS

MAGUA

UNCAS

WAH-TA-WAH

THE WEPT OF WISH-TON-WISH

HATCHET

NATIVE AMERICAN

LEATHER BOUND BOOK

PROUST

TIMBER

WOODEN JIGSAW

FRETWORK

TOOLS OF TRADE

SUMMER

HAIR

better start off with comentramitising
humanity beyond the mere
denotation of: animal...    
    I really don't see, how these mammals,
are desperately seeking
a reptilian status of ontology,
hiding behind empirical facts...
(more like robo-reptiles)...
quiet honestly, the "contradiction"
of a whale being an aquatic-mammal,
a walrus mother will
spend 3 godawfuly long years
with its offspring...
     fair play to the psychotic
tarantula mother...
        exceptions are somehow
the glue to bind the middle...
                but these mammals
in a reptilian guise?
    the wolf in sheep clothing
metaphor is evidently out-dated...
somehow talking down to
intuition is what gave birth to
trivia, and so little carpentry to
compensate a gaping dawn...
        which, for so e reason,
can't be brushed off with a yawn...
    the spectacle of finding rhyme,
but no couplet,
  the reality of:
if humanity was seeking a categorical
shift from mammal,
to lizard... hence ***** latex...
evidently the monogamy oddity
of birds, akin  to swans...
those half mammal half reptile
trans-genus mohicans on
storks... (you sure trans-genus?
tree... branch, root,
      that ******* bit in the middle)...
notably not all animal behaviours
have been incorporated...
        David meets Mustafa and Ali...
aye aye Icke...
   not exactly a big fan,
here & there...
               revising the telegraph?
sure sure, lost for words...
life or death strain on... bleh...
output...
                    certain words,
even with a genesis in ancient history,
up to the 20th century were either
like a heartbeat flatline,
or a humming freq. tickling
    the contorts of making mountain
ranges, in replica:
  scaled to an itchy freq.
     of hyper-commas...
         and the rest becomes...
language you will not use to
begin a letter with

               Dear Sir / Madam,

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

and ending with:

   Yours faithfully,
     Sincerely yours,
with a prior to Mr. Smith...
**** me the cordiality  
shenanigans under the umbrella
of the Raj...
might as well ended up with
a dyslexia from Calcutta:
     namely a pronounced fertility
"obligation" / gift.

but I still can't fathom
this mammalian luxury of
imitating lizards...
whatever the remains of the once
mighty...
   mind you...
is there geological proof
of a meteor having hit
the earth, and if so, where,
or is this meteor story,
some ******* made-up shortcut
to explaining the big bang?
honest to God I haven't seen
proof of the meteor having
hit earth...
       just because people
can become effective
  in manual labour jobs...
doesn't mean they'll become
th3 reincarnated Brothers Grimm...
or Hans Andersen...

the time when mammals
stopped admiring birds'
monogamy...
       the pure mammalian mother
and the "welfare state"...
the lone beta male...
        and the rest just
bread crumbs from a Sheikh
lapdance in floating Dubai...
   mantis egos...
  black widows...
      grabbing mosquitos by
the testicles wearing boxing
gloves...
        
          I'm not sure whether
to admire th spirit of a lizard,
or whether to wear it on my feet...
oddly enough the pig
(infamous in monotheism of
the southern Welsh)...
i'll eat it, all of it,
including the snout of rich
cartilage...
   and then I'll stretch it's skin
for a pair of shoes...

    pig's head on a goad...
and then do the imitation
tongue through a V with
the addition of a piggies snorkling
in giggling suffocation.

Nearly there Steve?
Victor says,
" I don't believe it "

Vic's an old ***.

I've never been mainstream
always kept to the slipway
the only way I knew.

Steve's been everywhere
brags about the times of
his life
I went to Colindale with
my wife and never told anyone
until now.


And I'm nearly where the life is
****** out from the air in my lungs
I won't tell you about that either.


The last of the Mohicans
died at the weekend
made into bookends
by those who don't care.

¶( paragraphs in poetry are so ill defined:
like asking for geometry to
be algebra:
but geometry is an algebraic fusion
to treat numbers
as numbers and nothing spectacular
like numbers weren't the origin
of letters
but letters were the origin of numbers

LETTER > NUM<BER

numbers came from letters
not how the envy of the world is supposed
to be the genius of mathematical-physics...
sorry: football is!

such a strangeness in the air: such stillness
it's almost as if
someone had died
but it wasn't god
and it wasn't man

because no one had actually died:
what died was a concern for life
on the simple posit: vivo in mort...
life in death
as there is death in life

mort in vivo
not simply in vivo like pregnancy
but man's pregnancy to die
in vitro
in architecture
in all these pursuits
in science
in philosophy

i can see nihilism but not as prorposed
by Nietzsche in the individual
but en masse
in the masses
i have four days of concerts coming up
grueling 12h shifts
but i'm not supervising
i like being a chess piece rather
than a chess player: from time to time:
i like taking instructions
and i like giving instructions
during ***
but that's because i'm male
so

this little Eden of Euphoria
i drink a little i smoke a little
but i'm perfectly sober
but slur my speech my Golem
i must
my tongue is the King of Lizard
because it is a worm
it has not Endoskeleton
but an Exoskeleton
that burst into the air with moisture
and gases
and wasn't like the dinosaurs
porridge and oil and meat
and desert sands
my forefathers
invented the tree
the forest
they brought moisture into the air
to end the Volcanic Reign
of Chemistry and Geology!
i am of the DRAGON BORN!

            i quill a woman into bed
then hear her scream into the night
to make sun and moon collide!
because: i can ego trip when
i have destroyed the ego
i can ego trip because iq i qrite
therefore i can ego tripping
i am ego tripping: a silence from the destruction
the silent rebuilding process
i'll be with Keith on Turnstile GJ

gee
jay
gee
jay

  required reading of post-modernists:
Charles Olson:
the Kingfishers...
        
that **** is going to haunt to me
it's actually going to hunt Franz Saber
i square to the question:
god?
gentle child: god is not enough
Seismic in your church and churn of heart
believe me
i'm talking to at least 6 generations
of Happenstance Greeks
my sober mannequin to hide all the darkness
from low intellect
like brothers ******* sisters
like mothers and sons
like...

best exemplified: god dry to sleep
not thinking:
but what is a thinking thing
unlike a priest psychiatrist a surgeon:
a butcher:
a painter:
somehow this grand: alles uns!

nihilism in the masses i can understand
from Church and Parliament to
Coliseum...
not for a debates of the commons
but for the: throw the jaw of man
to the dog
and let's see who starts to YAP
first...

i'm very much sober i have a clear
work ethic
and the penultimate lap
of irritable bowel syndrome to cognitive
block: no day dreaming
i can't wait for Friday
and the tAylow Witch Swifty
come London
come all those siusiumajtki:
**** god no diacritical marks!

****-pre-periodic-miming-
street-project
16 year olds getting pregnant
fetching tents
to mountain climb: to climb a mountain
of ToyLord Swagger ITch swiftest...

by 11pm i have a half smoked
joint of: us: re-ready...
Addie: Adidas Edie...
your mother said what: again? first time
lapse in: escape of soul
with remnants of consciousness
as experience
combating the early child
and mind unison with consciousness
the exploring stage
then ego
clinging to an existence per se:
because the ego however
neurotic *** straved
psychotic
bilingual schizoid
6ft3 pacified
because best trip from warrior
to shaman
that was my trip
the heart was enlarged by misfeeding
me
the ****** to large for that kind of a ******
i was the Church of the Holy ******
the Dune's Bene Gesseritz...

      the best "*****" came from the Christian
Church of Hawaiian Reborns
some alternative to catholicism i could
nor would i have ever known...
but the best witches to my liking
came: come... an ongoing process:
come in Trinities...

pretend i have to wear a tux...
better:
short sleeve shirts
made in BANGADESH
BANGAFLESH
BANGLADESH!

     white: 100% $0.01
          coot! coot! cotton! cotton!
nothing synthetic like from China...

counter: no, just another:

¶) the above, initial thought: should have
started from here:

did i really read Madame Bovary by Flaubert?
well: you know what?
i think i have:
elite schooling i believe
but never a stand-up
gimmick
i'm saying this ego is not my consciousness
within life and with departure
this ego is a maniac
this ego needs Satanic Release
i'd be happy to swap egos
with anyone willing to swap egos
ego is like the metabolism of consciousness
a cognitive metabolism:
thoughts eating matter:
the talking mushrooms said
to the centipede citizen: hush hush in the multiverse
those monkey toys will have
but one exit: tome...
written by some *** talking monkey from
Poland who emigrated to Loondon
and thought he was this ancient hot *** of tool!
toll! the bells of Portugal
the bulls come parading!
not their horn: but their testicles!

           ю
           я
           шч
           щ

           ѭ                     (ją)

walked into a vinyl shop
on offer two books for £7
pickled up Chomsky
flicked to Slav vs. Slav
Yugoslavia
and the Soviet Union
the former Mongol Empire
China in talks with Russia
why the failure

then the steaming shift of **** stinking
brought in Western Individualist
promises:
i can't find nihilism in an individual
i can find nihilism in a people
i can conquer god and nothing
for the concern of the individual for Nietzshce
in that i will never find nihilism in an individual
man...
i will find, however...
however: i will find...
hedonism and hairspray on Mohicans...
** ** ** 20 20 20...

           i will not find nihilism in indivuals
with the exception of
Shiva and Loki and Set...
          i will not find it in individuals:
of the human specie...
hedonism, yes,
micro-scaling or macro-scaling...
who made these people supposedly literate
when they don't disseminate facts
but like religious docrtines
we have articulated nothing!
back to emoji hieroglyphs...
no help from the Sumerians
and the Golden Calf Crew plagiarized the word
through and through...
*** Yiddy *** ***: because of the Germanic
Jews the Polish Jews were
exterminated:
the German Jews didn't warn the Polish
Jews
and we're talking a: DIASPORA
not an Utopia
of Zion was the Utopia envisioned
in the currency (current) state of existence
of the state of Israel:
there was never a nation of...
oh: but there was a nation as a diaspora
that are the Hebrews...

but the Jews of Germany literally sent
their Polish Jews to the slaughterhouser
with their Weimar degenerate projection
and the rat not curious
emigrated to the USA first
and established Hollow Wood
and cryptic: the movement of people
is so cryptic: especially from Albania
on banana floating dingy...
yes.. very ******* perplexing
the movement of Jews
like that's why CCTV was invented
to track Jews!
we need to track Jews!

and yew trees... some hacked oaks...
some Sumerian numbers
some Chinese letters: not letters
some Japanese moans of: OH SAKURA SATO!
**** me: ***** stands on high command!
ha!

the idea like a flash
of replacing London with Tokyo
and not Kauai...
i found that what's being celebrated
is people with bad life decisions...
single mums with 4 kids
going to court over... **** knows what...
******* libido?

people don't know how to even engage
with a person who said:
life's difficult! let's have an easy path!
pesto! pasta! parmeggano cheese! let's go!
why i don't say have an east
life
so much luxury time should allow
your i.q. be matched
with having terrible in-grove hangovers
of melancholy...
but to have to add stress to the living
of feeding 3 children by an abusive **** buddy:
serious?!
do i want to work in that environment:
all my best guys ****** off
because that ergonomic shitshow of INBREEDING
ERGONOMIC ******
of working with the same people
for far too long that they
take on liberties of leeching
your free space...

philosophy of work begins with
Heidegger's hammer
and like Nietzsche: who rose to intellectual
prominence too quickly
the Hiroshima of Wagner...
boom!
        to philosophize about work
i don't think has ever been done
given that in 19th century works of philosophy
philosophers are asking the Narcissistic
envy of Black Holes:
philosophizing about nothing...

more clutter: some in books others in people's
consciousness:
nothing ego-friendly...
egos are infinitely bound to having no fixation
on individuality as part of the consciousness of
individuation:
some mistreat their egos
some salvage them: barely...
some become them as writers of fiction...
but egos are not exactly parts of us
depending how we can toy
or pet or understand or celebrate
or manage: like a fetus...

        not to be born yet still alive
and beyond life
like god in judgement beside us
to wake us from falling asleep to die...