why did i ever go out on a friday night?
drinks with "friends" and hitting the essex
club "scene" -
well - no much of a scene -
there was never the music you'd want to listen
to: come friday or saturday -
even mid-week when all the rock kids
were "hanging out" -
what would be chances of being your own d.j. -
catching something really new...
POIZON - church is poizon -
cool mom - something between a crossbreed
of cage the elephants and nirvana on blew -
3rd view - moi -
but i used to: and i remember that gehenna of
a sobering walk - alone after a night out -
like some furious son of sam -
when youth still had the adrenaline with it
and a sense of anger ******* around with
disillusionment -

those were the friday nights: bon jovi highlights
and long hair and milking a somewhat androgynous
look - sometimes the mascara would come out...
those were the days of having milk skin
and a proper shave -
the long hair and the waistcoast and cravat: semi-,

the lonesome story before i met my beard:
fwyday mordaithceirch -
i actually have a name for it...
i forgot what's already the designated
whittle pecker mr. pritchard of the down down:
below...

oh, oh so what...
rough friday nights in my youth -
on the clubbing "scene" -
and always that moral hangover when it came
to drinking with others -
ever since i started drinking by myself:
i forgot the mirror and that bucket
of warm water beside my bed to put my hand
in before going to sleep...
once or twice the company was worth the drink -
but most of the time you only kept
such company: because you were drinking -
drinking was never an afterthought -

now... i like drinking alone -
at least i can keep fact-checking the company
and the odd vocab peacock taking to the catwalk
of a ruminating free-fall tongue waggle
and rummage - the needle in the haystack
adventure - or... the ******* bucket
of deshelled oysters...

there have been some awful friday nights -
but: seeing how i started to give my beard
a welsh name borrowed from a willem dafoe
novel - and how it simply became pointless
to wake the dead with the angry tantrums
of youth: and how i seem to have
forgotten where my 20s "went" -
somehow rooted in: da-sein and how
i "wasted" 2 years on one book by kant -
2 years on one book by heidegger -
and: how i didn't have the time to "catch-up"
on the greek classics -

oh these island dwelling people -
i try to imagine them not being a seafaring:
and their messiah / superiority complex -
with their breakfast that could hardly
be digested come the hour of noon -
or no messiah / superiority complex -
the traffic: indeed - works like clockword...
from left to right...
sidenote: what of fahrenheit and
the feet and inches - stones and pounds?
ounces?
the metric of: baseline 0 here,
baseline 00 over there...

no... Michele Campanella piano solo take
on wagner's das rheingelt: entry of the gods into
valhalla - it's hardly anemic -
it's... the last leaf of autumn falling -
because the crescendo has already happened...
a befitting closure...

the superior island folk and their...
hyphens and germanic loan words -
how almost all names in chemistry are still
in their germanic: intact form of: no hyphen:
broken leg or broken arm...

woodwinds... perhaps... the violins providing
the humming of birds:
chirp chirp: no chirping -
and of course the horn - but the horns never
as prominent as those drank from...

something has happened today -
but i am... left without having any english
sensibility / egalitarianism -
somehow i always equate egalitarianism with
the english - the islanders -
a firework went off in the background -
mr. sloth awoke mrs. slouch after 3 years
for a firecracker celebration...

because who would want to be ruled
over by unelected: chocolatiers...
esp. after their trial run in the Congo -
but i have certainly had worse friday nights...

it can't exactly get much worse than...
say... listening to the siegfried idyll...
multitasking: drinking a cider, smoking a cigarette,
balancing act of folded leg sat on
perched on a windowsill solving a no. 11,289
sudoku from the 27th jan. 2020...
otherwise prior to:
imagine my disbelief at the pleasure -

with numbers to somehow escape thinking in words:
no grand arithmetic linear gymnastics -
of the end result -
certainly no logical statements -
just a whirlwind of numbers complimenting
these few words...
and what a fine friday night it has become:

the pizza was made - god save me from the perfume
of yeast... or checking on the rising dough
from time to time -
the leftover yeast gave me the opportunity
to bake an imitation sourdough crust pretty-as-a-picture
loaf that: would make any mushroom blush
and shy away from unfolding into an umbrella pose...
or a Y... curling outward-inward into an upsilon Υ...

because how could i forget the pleasure of
sifting through numbers?
by the time i attempted puzzle no. 11,290
i had to write a "map"

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
2)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x

come to think of it... where's a subscript?
if i'm going to use 1, 2, 3...
to tier the allocation of squares...
tennis and sudoku...
tennis: a game of 7 rectangles -
and how many judges and ball boys / girls?
sudoku - a puzzle of 10 squares - perhaps...
if i'll use tiers 1, 2, 3: a1, b2, c3...
what if... sudoku invoked letters rather than
numbers?

much later... oh believe me...
this is the antithesis of knausgård
writing about using googlemaps...
        
           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

it's still a schematic - the narrative is yet
to begin... otherwise...
there's nothing smart about this...
i have tired eyes sometimes:
i succumb and have to allow myself
to no acid-bath these eyes in words...

esp. since i speak so rarely -
imagine... in england and i spear
the bare minimum of english -
i can: i have to: i will - when being prompted -
but i can't remember the last time
i had an honest: informal exchange
of letters... lapped up by the glutton
tongue... i looked and looked
and with my silence i can attest:
there's a speech-impediment -
a stutter that's not born from nervousness...
but... an allusion to a "stoic" through
my lack of conversation...

at least on paper i can exfoliate -
enough cider and enoug whiskey and i'm all
sparrow McDermott!
ugh... the devolved scots and the likewise
welsh... devolved nations...
only this aspect of Brexit is... well...
imagine the "evolved" status of post-Yugoslavia...
Kosovo...
this is the only aspect of an otherwise:
fair enough that's... well...
if you lived for 3 years among the scots...
you'd get to appreciate them...
this is the only aspect of this whole affair
i will ever appreciate...
i would pour blood and **** into
the Welsh continuing their...
preservation of the iaith...
forever and the more - i would love to see
scotland start to dig trenches and
forget trainspotting gaelic -
parading like ponces and humpty dumpteys
with "harkccents"... glasgewian bull-runnings...
cousins aye and wee -

a thing of beauty: a thing of union...
but this... they were bullied in brussels...
they came back and started to bully the scots...
if you have lived -
the betas of cardiff - but they tongue: remains!
look far back and wales would encompass
cornwall -
ignorant i of a 26 year "servitude" on these isles...
quiz me on outside of London:
no point...
perhaps i too would wish for the lost
theta in Dublin - towing: to t'ink...
as any sanskrit H-surd does matter...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

but if i will replace... the side tiers of numbers...
the numbers in the puzzle will have to become
letters - greek... probably iota, epsilon and upper-case
gamma...

the bullied have returned from the palance
of the chocalatiers and: back to their old ways
of bullying the rest of these island folk...
because: it's infantile for me imagine
a resurrection of the crown (poland)
and the grand duchy of lithuania -
the commonwealth -
but somehow the united kingdom is not
fated to become the next yugoslavia -

i can confirm - up in edinburgh i was
confirmed by having the hat of Knox having
scalped me -
never is always metaphor: vaguely -
as in literally - in these quasi-paragraphs...
so it's not... infantile to even "think" that
the british empire can be revived?
zee window-licker spezials of
cross-breed h'americana postcards sent?
i nibble to attempt a joke...

oh i can bulldozer this whole narrative...
turn into a berserker -
i've saved enough money to deal
with the label loser...
all it will take is me having drunk enough -
sightseeing the slums of london's east end
and then hitting the brothel:
like an iron-head... to the pillow
and the ***** of a *******...

because i have had worse friday nights...
terrible company...
if i were not a michel de montaigne or a knausgård:
me me me, me me, me me me me,
write enough of that and:
to meme to grafitti... or to...
why are there no diacritical markers in
the english language worthy of recognition?
why would i...
rhoi fy **** y Cymraeg enw?
give my beard a welsh name?
and why is that not a cedilla C but a ******* K?
why not... Çumraeg?

on foreign shores i have made it adamant that...
this sense of foreigness does not
peppermint my presence with hopes to:
add to - an integration -
just borrow what the local have made: left-overs...
and work with that...

(insert snigger) - the neu-vikings of
northumberland...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

this really does have a linear narrative...
here goes...
3(c1), 9(c3), 1(c1), 2(c3), 2(c1), 2(a1), 9(a3), 8(c3),
4(c3), 8(c2), 8(a2), 5(b2), 7(c2), 3(b2), 3(b3), 8(b3),
7(c1), 5(c1), 7(b3), 5(c3), 1(c3), 6(c3), 1(c2), 3(c2),
9(c2), 9(b2), 6(b1), 6(b2), 6(b3), 2(b3), 2(b2), 1(b2),
1(b1), 9(b1), 9(a1), 8(b1), 8(a1), 5(b1), 7(b1), 7(a1)...

and then a "gamble" in the narrative...
the (7a2 and the 5a2 - interchange)....
it's a pleasure - not a chore -
5  9  4
2  8  7
3  6  1
8  1  9
6  4  3
7  5  2 - this line... what if it was 5  7  2?
1  2  5
4  7  6
9  3  8
if i want to solve this puzzle - i will solve it
and not read a tabloid article /
whatever the hell has become of youtube...
my diamond jukebox...

otherwise the "narrative" continued from
7a2 and the 5a2 interchange:
7(3a), 4(a3), 4(a2), 6(a1), 4(a1), 5(a1), 5(a3),
1(a3), 1(a1), 3(a1), 3(a2), 6(a2)... end result?

           a             b             c
      5   9   4   6   8   1   2   3   7  
1)   2   8   7   3   5   9   6   1   4
      3   6   1   2   7   4   5   8   9
      8   1   9   5   4   3   7   6   2
2)   6   4   3   7   1   2   9   5   8
      7   5   2   9   6   8   3   4   1
      1   2   5   8   3   7   4   9   6
3)   4   7   6   1   9   5   8   2   3
      9   3   8   4   2   6   1   7   5

because i can imagine this not being:
the most difficult Finnish sudoku...
i can almost imagine this puzzle
to be in greek...
where: 1ι, 2ζ, 3ε, 4χ, 5Σ, 6δ, 7Γ, 8β, 9ρ...

in the background all i hear is:
corvus corax' la i mbealtaine...
the greek version of the japanese puzzle...

           a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   6   8   ι   ζ   ε   7  
1)   ζ   8   7   ε   Σ   9   6   ι   χ
      ε   6   ι   ζ   7   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   7   6   ζ
2)   6   χ   ε   7   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      7   Σ   ζ   9   6   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   7   χ   9   6
3)   χ   7   6   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   6   ι   7   Σ

half-way... i just wanted to "selfie" what
will become of this... i no longer write: i paint...

            a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   δ   8   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   8   Γ   ε   Σ   9   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      Γ   Σ   ζ   9   δ   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   Γ   χ   9   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

going... going... gone...

            a             b             c
      Σ   ρ   χ   δ   β   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   β   Γ   ε   Σ   ρ   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   β   ρ
      β   ι   ρ   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   ρ   Σ   β
      Γ   Σ   ζ   ρ   δ   β   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   β   ε   Γ   χ   ρ   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   ρ   Σ   β   ζ   ε
      ρ   ε   β   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

i don't mind a people being right...
but the overt-gloating...
without having to work around the sort
of paranoia associated with:
how the russians are not allowed to glutton
themselves on gloating -
because they are always made
to feel suspcious - the russians can't gloat
like most of the anglo- speaking world...
always suspect: russophobia evil genuises...
tip-toeing goliaths - less the blundering
fudge-packers of "global ****"...
and i kissed a boy and i liked it...
my genitals started shrinking
and my *** started to exfoliate with:
welcome all! welcome all hard and on!
and that tongue in my mouth always helps...
but imagine my surprise when
i started to navigate my hands
but the reply came:
timbuktu and mt. kilimanjaro will not be found
attached to this sort of torso...
wrong dog, wrong tree...

some things really do require numbers...
i once had a mathematics teacher in high school
bemoan the origin of modern numbers
and how we once: upon a time used these letters...
but did our arithmetic with visual aids
akin to the abacus... because...
you'd have to "read braille" when counting...
to differentiate the already: lettered numbers
and the letters being letters -
and all arithmetic functions
were "spoken of" but never depicted...
i.e. there was no VII + III = X...
there was no XV - XI = IV...
eh?! arithmetic was cat-intuitive...
not spoken of - done by either the visual
aid of fingers when haggling
in a market place -
or by the abacus aid in a bureucratic office!

i said this was the most perfect friday night...
what did i have to offer?
no clickbait title - some gems of wording
in between?
the patient reader - as ever - most rewarded -

but... oh my god... the sensation of
changing the bed sheets...
it's friday night and you're... changing your bed sheets...
and they are more crisp and clean
than any political event that the journalist leeches
are milking -
and you do it with a saving private ryan precision -
you will sleep in this bed: well into
11am of a today to come...
believe me: that you will...

- in that i am still walking among the germanic people -
if the germans will sing a: bretonisher marsch...
then the two peoples are alligned by
their sentiment for the crow as their godhead:
alles menschen totem...
what could possibly make me feel welcome?
french grammar is polish grammar...
matin de printemps - poranek wiosny -
spring morning in reverse in germanic...
how many more examples would i ever wish
to give?

there was a moment in my life where...
i realised my faults... i should have read
the Pickwick Papers... anything by C. Dickens to be sure...
instead came Stendhal, Voltaire, Balzac...
because if you said to me...
BBC radio 4... the archers...
and... thomas hardy: madding crowd?
you'd accuse me of being ignorant of:
London is a bustling cosmopolitan in-waiting
from the busy-body industrial proto-Beijing
it was of 100 years ago?    
the French had cosmopolitan intellectualism
100 years prior to the english...
100 years later and it's still not much...
is anyone about to cite me william hazlitt?!

the trouble with the english is that they hold dear
to that one old 19th century idea -
this waiting for: awaiting a revival of darwinism...
the "blatantly" obvious needs a resurgence!
because a michael faraday must most surely
be forgotten!
how many times will this already painful reality
need to be emphasised once more:
intellectually - via a darwinism?
no one stresses the copernican "upside-down"...
or what is copernican "west" up in space?
how does acknowledging the sphere
of the earth - ease you reading a flat map -
moving from point A to point B?

earlier this week - for once in my life i was
ashamed of what i wrote -
so i wrote for scribli per se: scribbles for
scribbles themselves -
the darwinian germanic folk who say:
alles von afrika...
how the hebrews debased themselves
in both aushwitz and breaking their bones
on the emoji hieroglyphs -
alles von afrika: ja... so sicher... so wahr!

ask any slavic person among the germanic
peoples...
where from? wir (ar) sind lesen und schreiben
"afrika": i.e. Indu...
if the african challenged the hebrews
with... "the best they had": egyptian emojis...
why would i not stress my birth
with pseudo cedilla Ş / इ... ☦ -
this indo-european is not... at home with
these african-germanoids...
pseudos and quasi -
these chocolate frenzied busy-buddies!

from the caucasian and further still from
that whittle sub-corinthian quote: continent...
somehow, "somehow" this part of this story
is read: south to north... always a grand
marker missing when the people went
east, squinted... learned skeleton existence,
atoms... and the frenzy of letters:
owls and ******* **** flinging beetles
back in the north eastern tip of
africa: in that egyptian haemorrhage of "idea"...

i assure myself... perhaps the form came from
africa... but sure as **** the tongue only arrived
in the lap of the Dalai Lama...
as did the "thinking" and the music
across prior to the Mongol's curiosity
over the tundra of Siberia...
something had to be placed on a loan...
and coming back to the cradle and the crux
had to happen like so...
not this current: ergo: so...
quickened and: what news from Damascus?!

first impressions count...
i made my bed... it's newly washed...
as crisp as falling onto a bed a prawn crackers...
without the crumbs' itch...
like listening to some german:
juggernaut... this will do... i can fall asleep
with this: grab hören zu der winderhall...
mehr flöte - weniger violinekratzen!
schlechtdeutsche? alle deutsche ist gut deutsche...
erwarten etwas isländisch zu sein
gesprochen insel von insel: auf diese inseln?!

to make a crisp bed of freshly washed sheets...
to sleep in them alone...
given the grammar is not that far removed...
are the french even remotely translated
as a germanic "sort of" people?
"they" or "we" share the same grammar...
and there are celtic freedoms that would
never be allowed to exfoliate under
strict anglo-ßaß obligations...

oh sure! great people! steam engine: choo-choo!
newton et al...
shakespeare: when they taught us shakespeare
they should have taught us bernard shaw...
when they forced jane eyre down our throats
we should have been reading
the pickwick papers...
the music will remain german -
because as much as vaughan williams...
holst and händel were "were" english...
esp. latter with his umlaut that spread over
toward i-and-j...

why wouldn't you **** at the pillar of the empire:
a past most assured - dust, books and moths...
like hell will i come to correct my ways
to state the: pish-poor Elgar... this poo'em too...
himmel... sky...
leerenhimmel - empty sky -
nein sonne während der tag:
das englischnebel: bedeckthimmel...
nein mond während der nacht...
nur so...

i of the lesser men of this world duly bow
my presence before the altar of the higher men
of these isles...
and hope and pray that their wisdom
will not bestow upon them any major calamity...
with not irony or ridicule i wish upon
these peoples... the right sort of oars
to turn this rooted island
into the people's imagined langboot...

there are only one british people a people
who will pursue to gloat having been
conquered by the romans...
being raided by the vikings...
integrating the anglo-ßaß...
a second viking coming via the Normans...
the push-over remains of the celts...
that somehow translated itself into
the: empire...
ideal: to compensate...
the islamic fervor for the... resurrected
caliphate...
jokes about the dritte ***** and the vierte *****...
that's pretty much the precursor jokes
surrounding: ein zweite ***** -
auf welche die sonne nimmer setzt -
ever wonder how that translates with the increased
cases of insomnia?!

again: bad german is better than
no german.

En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
    Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…


Pipit sate upright in her chair
     Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
     Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
     Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
     An Invitation to the Dance.

     . . . . .

I shall not want Honour in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
     And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
     In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven,
     Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
     Than Pipit’s experience could provide.

I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
     Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
     Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.

     . . . . .

But where is the penny world I bought
     To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
     From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

     Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
     Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s

Rooi rosige wange
En n eerlike mond
n Hart van goud
My Ouma
Ek sal nooit ooit my Ouma met Rooi wange En die mooiste glimlag vergeet nie
En jou lag
Jou stewige lag
Jou Hart Wat so vol liefde was
My Ouma
Ek sal nooit vergeet dat dit was jy Wat vir my afrikaans geleer het
Ek het dit altyd met jou gepraat
My Ouma
Jou geselskap was altyd eerlik En jy het altyd my hart verstaan
My Ouma
Wat so lief vir Facebook was
My Ouma
Van muis stories
En my Ouma
saam met Wie Ek gebak het
My Ouma Van rose
My Ouma Van liefde
My Ouma Van lang goodbyes
En altyd ons ding
Waar ons het gese
Ons is so lief vir mekaar
My Ouma
Ek sal altyd dankbaar wees
Vir ons tyd saam
My lieflike Ouma
Ek sal jou met Rooi wange
En blou grimering onthou
My regte egte Ouma
Ek sal jou lag altyd ****
En jou laaste glimlag sien
En lippe Wat gese:
"Ek is so lief vir jou, my skat. Altyd."
Ouma Ek sal jou nooit ooit vergeet nie
Ouma
Ouma
My mooiste ouma
Van rose
En Rooi wange.

Totsiens my Ouma

Was dit my sonde
om te droom, te wens?
Was dit wreed om te
verwag dat jy my
iewers in jou soet
woorde sou vind?
Kyk ek dalk na jou
met die oorhoofse
afwagting van 'n kind?

Sal jy met sjarme
my kan vermaak of
is teaterkuns
'n masker vir jou haat?

Ek smag na jou taal,
jou moedertong in
my uitgehongerde mond.
Oh die beeld-
wat ons
met sulks silwer stem
kan skep!

*** sal jou brief my vind?
Sal daar 'n tuin ontstaan
as ek jou antwoord naslaan?
Se jy sal bly, net vir my!
Se my brandewyn asem
het jou inner kind bevry!
Se net jy is lief vir my-
en ons sal saam
die tonnel-oog wereld
met soet liefde en
dronkmans woorde verlei.

Skryf saam met my in
hierdie silwertong,
en kyk *** die wereld
in afwagting verstar.

Die liefde wil blom
wanneer twee skrywers
bymekaarkom.

Die wereld raak nat,
met die geuiter,
van ons silwer tong.

My hart klop groen vir groei
en ander goed
en pomp van hormone
en suurtof ryke bloed
dit was liefde
met eerste oog opslag
dis net jammer my oe staar blind
teen die mes in jou hand
wat op my kaal rug wag.

Dis 'n gan an soort klop
die go-ahead van my kop
die alles sal reg wees
in jou glimlag
jou oe die mandaat
van 'n regte terg gees.

en ek gaan vir die groen
en silwer en goud,
vir al die goeie goed
vir die land sonder fout.

Maar my hart is die
Andries Hendrik Potgieter
van my boere bloed
wat waarsku teen jou
met alle moed.
My heldersiende hartklop
wat my weg probeer lei
van nog 'n ou grappie
en nog 'n bietjie seerkry.

Nou klop hy rooi
hy klop bloed
hy klop stop.

Maar soos 'n GP kar
vermy ek die tekens
in my haas vir jou mond.
Voel die lem deur my ribbes gly
dood, nog voor die grond.

en my hart, wil lag,
maar skree verwoed.
Nou kook die boerebloed!
Jou simpel, jou wetter
jou bogsnuiter kind!
Snou my hart my toe,
nou is hy stil en
gee my die silent treatment.

Weißer Tagesanbruch. Stille. Als das Kräuseln begann,
hielt ich es für Seewind, in unser Tal kommend mit Raunen
von Salz, von baumlosen Horizonten. Aber der weiße Nebel
bewegte sich nicht; das Laub meiner Brüder blieb ausgebreitet,
regungslos.
Doch das Kräuseln kam näher – und dann
begannen meine eigenen äußersten Zweige zu prickeln, fast als wäre
ein Feuer unter ihnen entfacht, zu nah, und ihre Spitzen
trockneten und rollten sich ein.
Doch ich fürchtete mich nicht, nur
wachsam war ich.
Ich sah ihn als erster, denn ich wuchs
draußen am Weidehang, jenseits des Waldes.
Er war ein Mann, so schien es: die zwei
beweglichen Stengel, der kurze Stamm, die zwei
Arm-Äste, biegsam, jeder mit fünf laublosen
Zweigen an ihrem Ende,
und der Kopf gekrönt mit braunem oder goldenem Gras,
ein Gesicht tragend, nicht wie das geschnäbelte Gesicht eines Vogels,
eher wie das einer Blume.
Er trug eine Bürde,
einen abgeschnittenen Ast, gebogen, als er noch grün war,
Strähnen einer Rebe quer darüber gespannt. Von dieser,
sobald er sie berührte, und von seiner Stimme,
die, unähnlich der Stimme des Windes, unser Laub und unsere
Äste nicht brauchte, um ihren Klang zu vollenden,
kam das Kräuseln.
Es war aber jetzt kein Kräuseln mehr (er war nahe herangekommen und
stand in meinem ersten Schatten), es war eine Welle, die mich umspülte,
als stiege Regen
empor von unten um mich herum,
anstatt zu fallen.
Und was ich spürte, war nicht mehr ein trockenes Prickeln:
Ich schien zu singen, während er sang, ich schien zu wissen,
was die Lerche weiß; mein ganzer Saft
stieg hinauf der Sonne entgegen, die nun
aufgegangen war, der Nebel hob sich, das Gras
wurde trocken, doch meine Wurzeln spürten, wie Musik sie tränkte
tief in der Erde.

Er kam noch näher, lehnte sich an meinen Stamm:
Die Rinde erschauerte wie ein noch gefaltetes Blatt.
Musik! Kein Zweig von mir, der nicht
erbebte vor Freude und Furcht.

Dann, als er sang,
waren es nicht mehr nur Klänge, aus denen die Musik entstand:
Er sprach, und wie kein Baum zuhört, hörte ich zu, und Sprache
kam in meine Wurzeln
aus der Erde,
in meine Rinde
aus der Luft,
in die Poren meiner grünsten Knospen
sanft wie Tau,
und er sang kein Wort, das ich nicht zu deuten wußte.
Er erzählte von Reisen,
davon, wo Sonne und Mond hingehen, während wir im Dunkeln stehen,
von einer Erden-Reise, von der er träumte, sie eines Tages zu tun
tiefer als Wurzeln…
Er erzählte von den Menschenträumen, von Krieg, Leidenschaften, Gram
und ich, ein Baum, verstand die Wörter – ach, es schien,
als ob meine dicke Rinde aufplatzen würde, wie die eines Schößlings,
der zu schnell wuchs im Frühling,
so daß später Frost ihn verwundete.

Feuer besang er,
das Bäume fürchten, und ich, ein Baum, erfreute mich seiner Flammen.
Neue Knospen brachen auf in mir, wenngleich es Hochsommer war.
Als ob seine Leier (nun wußte ich ihren Namen)
zugleich Frost und Feuer wäre, ihre Akkorde flammten
hinauf bis zu meiner Krone.
Ich war wieder Samen.
Ich war Farn im Sumpf.
Ich war Kohle.

Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Werden meine Gedanken klarer
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerplatzt ein neuer Traum
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerbricht mein Herz in neue Stücke

Dein Anruf hat mein Herz zum Rasen gebracht
Ich konnte nicht aufhören zu lächeln
Die Zukunft war eine Traumwelt
Du und ich und unsere Träume in ihr vereint
Gedanken an dich haben meine Tage verschönert
Gedanken an deine Stimme
Gedanken an deine Augen
Gedanken an deine Umarmungen
Gedanken die mich lächeln ließen
Und mir jetzt das Blut in den Adern gefrieren lassen

Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Werden meine Gedanken klarer
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerplatzt ein neuer Traum
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerbricht mein Herz in neue Stücke

'Take care' waren meine letzten Worte an dich
Die Antwort von dir - nur ein Lächeln
Dein letztes Lächeln für mich
Ist im Nachhinein auch mein letztes Lächeln gewesen
Nun flüstere ich jeden Abend mit dem Mond
Doch mein 'I miss you' wird dich nicht erreichen
Denn dein Mond ist jetzt ein anderer
Du hättest dieses eine Mal auf mich hören sollen!

Dis nou die tyd om te babbel
En my mond verby te praat
, want hulle sê mos
A drunk man's words is
A sober man's thoughts...
En wie weet dalk vind ek
Die antwoorde in ń diep gesprek met myself...

Sien ek is nie een van daardie
AA lappies wat skeinheilig
Sit en slukkies suip om
Geluk onder in die bottel
Op te spoor nie.
Ek rook skaamteloos en
Omhels die intense stank
Van 10 jaar se lewe wat ek
Mors en longkanker, want
Dit herrinner my an oupa se
Skoot en *** veilig ek was
In daardie asbak woonstel
Waar ek soos white-trash eers my brood moes inspekteer vir
Indringer kokkerotte wat ook
Maar net teen ons kompeteer het
Vir ń krummeltjie kos.

Ek babbel, want wat anders kan mens doen as vrees jou aangryp as die koue staal jou hande brand -
En nee ek praat nie van lemme en inspuitings nie,
Want lemme maak merke waarvan ek reeds te veel het wat nou oor my polse uitgesprei lê en my herrinner *** swak ek was, maar *** sterk ek was... en inspuitings los ek vir die dokters en susters en die bloeddiens
Wat my leeg wil tap om een of ander sad case se lewe te red met bloed van ń bloedjie wat self nog in die verdoemtenis rond dwaal.

Ek babbel, want dis social anxiety en scary stuff om in ń kring te sit en Russian roulette te speel met al 5 van die mense wat ander van jou verwag om te wees. Want wat gebeur as ek myself in hierdie hoerasie van persoonlikhede raakskiet. *** weet ek watter een is ek as elke een die sneller swaar trek en hoop en bid vir ń blank... *** weet ek.

Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Bang!!

En nou babbel ek maar weer
...
Want ek het so pas agtergekom ek weet ook nie juis *** dit voel om dood te wees nie.

Wie is ek...
-*** sal ek weet

Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
...

Ek weet.

soms een erg tegenstrijdig gevoel
gelukkig zijn
terwijl je weet hoeveel mensen
er wegkwijnen van de pijn
medeleven, empathie
houden mijn lach nu tegen
heeft niks te maken met verlegen
of depressie
nee, het zijn al deze andere levens
die ik altijd maar dichtbij voel, zie
een gift zou je zeggen?
als iemand de zwaarte ervan begreep
als ik het nu eens op tafel kon leggen

mijn medemens heb ik tot egoïst bekroond
omdat men in mijn ogen
te weinig interesse in elkaar toont
kijken alleen naar zichzelf of scherm
zoemen rustig mee in de zwerm
tot ik mijn mond open trek
verschijnt er plotseling een blinde vlek
noemen ze me gek..
willen de waarheid niet onder ogen zien
ik zeg ze: je kan altijd meer geven of doen
al geef je miljoen keer die zelfde zoen
moet de waarde er dan vanaf gaan?
of kan men gewoon blijven genieten
in dit bestaan
meer dan 'normaal' aan elkaar geven
meer dan deze maatschappij
*** graag ik dat altijd al had willen beleven

You are as precious as a jewel.
A product of Mother Nature,
Nothing is as special as you.

Your roots run deep,
Supporting generations of humility.
The shade from your tree,
Is a picnic spot whenever you are with me.

Stay deep,
And let others be shallow.
Be free,
For life isn't like the gallows.

Those who are scared of death,
Forget to live.
While those who cherish each breath.
Have plenty to give.

And your beauty scatters,
Across the plains like sun rays,
Giving rise to beautiful roses,
That pollinate into inspiration.

For you are a muse.
You are North,East,West and South.
You are like the news,
Everyday I wanna hear you out.

For your words,
Are like earthquakes.
Causing cracks to appear in my cold heart.
I hope you never make my heart ache.

For I have grown to love,
The feelings you have awoken within me.
Let us free the doves,
To symbolise the peace we're keeping.

een meisje wilt iets
na een feest
slapen bij jou
want ze is nog nooit
zo ver weg geweest

aan jouw zijde sta ik
en met meelevend hart
zei je 'dat is goed'
op dat moment zei ik
'goodbye' to my mood

ik hou me groot
ik hou mijn mond
terwijl ik wil zakken
me laten vallen
op de grond

als van binnen
een demoon of meer
mij aan het verslinden zijn
negatief van de pijn
ik voel me klein

dat het goed is, zei je
tegen wat?
bij mijn ex had ik hier
nooit last van
geen moeite mee gehad

nu graaf ik dan misschien
elke keer mijn graf
maar dit hier was een droom
gebroken wakker
is niet iets dat ik mezelf gaf

en ik weet niet wat te zeggen
weet niet wat ik moet doen

misschien is jouw hart goed
maar zo is onze ****
laat het de onze blijven
niet verpesten door een heks

rampscenarios om te overleven
bedrogen door eigen boven kamer
maar om **** niet erger te maken
is het soms beter te zwijgen

omdat je de 'ja' hebt
maar 'nee' nog **** krijgen

every revolution requires
                       a caste of butchers...
the men who would
      drop the guillotine blade
with a set of morals,
or bascially, without  qualms...
    me? i'm not so *******
jew-ridden sensitive regarding
words said, or unsaid...
                i'm not m.g.m.
ridden, i'm not thin-skinned
like the jews, ******* have been
whipping ***** juice
for some time... now the cream
has turned.... sour...
oh now they're bothered,
smoke-signalling from
north america,
ejected from europe,
now they're howdy-howdy
proud-e...
         kippah for
a chinese soup bowl...
manage that,        *******!
what, your payots
not the vogue dreadlocks you
expected?
   go on,
twirl for me,
      fork a tangle of spaghetti!
you can can call me ****,
given that my great-grandmother
fed my grandmother opiates
to shut her up
so the nazis wouldn't discover
them on the front...
hell... i'll even shake your
hands prior to giving the *******
salute!
  call it!                    call it!
            let's dodge ball...
                      hard to see
the butchers;
   easier spotting fictional wizards...
never mind the herd,
the herd will always object,
they always seem to do so...
the butchers are never far behind,
neither is the guillotine...
      if the luftwaffe were prescribed
pervitin...
            i'm starting to ensure
an image of the butchers...
                    it begins softly,
with words...
          after the words die off,
        the jean-claude van damme
action flicks pick up speed...
                    women... ah,
what a suckling weakness...
   they love the word troll,
even though they're allowed to use it,
only on the basis of it being
  a misnomer...
                                    she really wanted
to write a bestseller book
              aged 18, retired at 35...
   ****... life got in the way,
meaning: other people...
                       ****, maybe next time,
honey-bun-bun-annie...
                          maybe next time,
    hopefully
  the next-to-near-to-never... again;
                  einst sollte machen es;
once again,
pardon english grammar written
in german...
   i just had to make a joke
out of the:
            gootten ęglischen achçung...
               die gut akzenzé.

what's left when wonders fade
amusements end
and the games have all been played
could we even comprehend
such life without distraction
a life of focus:
a life of action

Sy's honger en sy krap in
die yskaste en kombuiskaste
vir haar daaglikse brood.
Soekend deur die rakke
terwyl haar siel kreun
van pandemiese hongersnood.

Sy smag na Valentines-tjoklits
en 'n P.S. wat se: "yes"
en rooiwyn met strawberries dipped in cream
, haar moed begeef haar
-sy verwerp haar teenage dreams.

Love aint all moonlight and roses...
- aint as fun as it seems

Haar mond water nou vir lippies
en jelly-hartjies en vampire tande.
So sy staan op hoeke en bedel
vir suiker...
haar oe so honger, dit brand ,
,maar kyk na haar lee hande
wat leeg sal bly
in ons liefdelose land.

-inamabilis

Sy's honger en sy krap in
die yskaste en kombuiskaste
vir haar daaglikse brood.
Soekend deur die rakke
terwyl haar siel kreun
van pandemiese hongersnood.

Sy smag na Valentines-tjoklits
en 'n P.S. wat se: "yes"
en rooiwyn met strawberries dipped in cream
, haar moed begeef haar
-sy verwerp haar teenage dreams.

Love aint all moonlight and roses...
- aint as fun as it seems

Haar mond water nou vir lippies
en jelly-hartjies en vampire tande.
So sy staan op hoeke en bedel
vir suiker...
haar oe so honger, dit brand ,
,maar kyk na haar lee hande
wat leeg sal bly
in ons liefdelose land.

-inamabilis

Les maladies du beau coeur
qui viennent sans nul de peur
qui étonnent et brouillent l'âme
mais toujours avec la charme.

L'idealist bizzare qui vit en vous
Qui rit et qui pleut, elle vient d'où?
Le mond n'est pa aussi beau qu'elle rêve
Mais la songe et si belle, elle s'releve.

La sympathie naturelle
La compassion éternelle
Entre les deux mondes
Qui suivre l'âme au fond.

La songe tient toujours belle
Malgré toutes la surréelle.

bist du der Mond?
I'm coddling you from afar.
an aria hangs in the air:
bist du meine Liebe
Voll Mond,
from black fire-hole reclaimed

;
clouds over Berlin
orange- nicht weiss
then back to
clouds over any town
orange -not white then black

the movement

the moon is growing;
vertical horizontal algorithmical riSE
a wisp less of cloud - less defined
than what floats;
beneath, lunar
string quartet on wireless - how did they know?
coddling mein Liebchen
who has no time for sleep

waltzed the street to get
sleep,
meine Liebchen wept
the moon will miss you and not miss you . .
play string quartet-a-tet
come back again;
moon or not.

My liefste mens
My beminde
Jy.

Jy is n meesterstuk.
Jy is digkuns, jy is melodie
Jy is ink en papier en woorde
Jy is n kaleidoskoop in anatomie.

Jou mond is my kompas
As my kop verdwaal
Gerroes en deur die wind verweer
Kan jou sagte woorde my veilig laat huistoe terugkeer.
Jou hare, watervalle oor die skatkamers
Waar ek my geheime neerle
Van fluisters in die donker
Tot hardop liefde opse.

Dat ek myself aan jou mag gee
My swaar, my lig, my heimwee
My gister, my more, my vandag.
My geslote deure, my trane, my glimlag.

Jou hande is sleutels wat my kamers oopsluit
En oor my gly soos water oor rante
Om hoeke om draaie
My sirkels, my vierkante
My donker steugies en oop plaaspaaie.

Jou oe is die verlede, die toekoms en nou
En as jy lag sien ek padkaarte in hulle oopvou
Wat lei na orals en nerens
Na die sterre
En na onthou.

Jou bors is my vesting.
My kaggel, my lig, my beskerming
Waar ek veilig my hart kan hou
Om saam met jou dans
Op die ritme van vetrou.

My liefste mens, my beminde
Jy is sterre oe en oop-oog droom
Jou glimlag breek, vee weg en maak skoon.
Jy maak die storm in my rustig.
Jy is die vrede na die reen...
Jy is my virewig

Wat zijn mond vertelt, verschilt
van wat zijn ogen fluisteren.
Hij tracht daarmee te verduisteren
dat hij tijd aan anderen verspilt.

Een chirurg, een dokter, neuro-loog,
die met een verpleegster, echtgenote,
zonder het te zeggen, z’n vrouw bedroog.
In de gangen van het ziekenhuis
vertelt men dat ze tijdens pauzes echt genoten

Nu heeft zij het al gezegd, de hare wist het al,
hier was iets niet pluis.
Ze noemde hem haar zwijntje
maar hij hield haar aan het lijntje

Zij weet het nog niet, maar binnenkort
keert hij terug naar zijn eerste wal,
terwijl langzaamaan haar vrucht verdort,
zij, eenzaam, neerdaalt in het diepste dal.

men attired in canadian chequers:
like jumberjacks...

          and what becomes
the heaving breathing of that,
which constitutes a horizon:

upon that wood's horizon...
        i entombed meine herz...
as i told it...
in those wooden scuttle
for morph & skim-reading
of books, i.e.:
speak to the few,
and fewer still for any chance
of the morose moor
of more..
  
          boot-lick without
an SS-mann's schuhcreme...
i too see
                 the moon
in the basin reflection of a lake:
der mond...
                    die alles...
                 und meine gesicht zü!

seems: i have no apparent
reason to stage a fright
for the dodo project
in a language: "becoming"
exinct...

                what becomes
mecca was already persepolis...
in that:
bowing in tow,
the deity of the sun...
has... become whiff
of corrupt pleasure...
   sonnegottheit...
   lovely **** lovers,
as dictated by
a w. Burroughs...
strapped to an enclave of
Tangier...
      as much homosexuality
under Islam as...
            what is worth
the "natural" world,
with a buffer of ideology
counter technology
for the onto-;
gentlemen?
     on your knees:
please bow...
            
that...
   how to tell the german
philosophers apart...
i.e.
   dasein &
                    daßein?

              ᛋ:ᛋ....

          ­   hahnohr zü krächzen!

diese deutsche:
mein mütter...

                  and i could have been
such an idle:
sycophant...
    such a toy-boy-shoe-shine
worth of a punk: agenda...

come the rigid whip...

these days: it is no longer
worth its due to
write poetry to escape
the world...

one needs...
to read some philosophy,
to escape the world,
for sure,
but one also requires
an ability to fathom
a construct of a fortress
of a vocab.,
that only:
the systematic application
of language
for the understudy
of philosophy:
breaks, fathoms,
beckons with.

oh, i actually know very little...
but what i do know is...
the basis of all wordly
fade-out vogues...
containing a man...
  
whatever "begins" with
the Cartesian res cogitans
(thinking thing)
"ends" with the Kantian
res per se (think in itself)...
one even begins to hope:
that's a tautological
statement...

              but now...
cogitans ≠ per se,
i.e. thinking does not equate
itself to either being
or the in-itself...
since thinking can
become corrupt...
           since thinking is
corrupt...

           ergo?

             well a revisionist take
on Descartes via Kant is
worthy:

     supposing cogitans = esse per se...
   res ≠ res,
via                 res cogitans ≠ res per se...
when, once upon a time
res cogitans = res per se...
yes, once upon a time
a thinking thing would equate
to a thing in itself...

                    not diesetage...

we are liberated by the "knowledge"
that man's thought is: "know"
when his ontology is
the metaphor extract from
the natural world,
and not from the ontological
world, barricaded by
technology and...
the craft of a 3D tongue
of nuance...

              there's no verb attachment
as simply put as: cogito ergo sum...

    it requires
the "thing", i.e. res...

                         a res cogitans
non est res per se...
          
                 but thinking can be
deemed a "per se"...
                  to mind:
         there is no ergo-cascade to
fathom....
  since the Kantian reinvigoration
of the Cartesian heave is
equally balanced on
the ergo:
     qua cogito per se qua
                sum per se (est, est)....

ergo?
  res ≠ ego / id...

             but the verb: cogito
is an eventuality of: burrowing...
i.e. clarifying:
both the fathomable depth
of thought, and the unfathomable
shallowness of being...

we "awaited" the discovery
of the D.N.A. helix...
but never "expected"
  james watson to be: shunned...
thank god i didn't
take part in one of those
D.N.A. investments of
collecting data...

well sure... why would you read
"modern" philosophy...
i.e. something by a German
from the 17th or 18th century
apart from Nietzsche...

   you'd become stiff!
quadratic!

                mind you...
everything spoken in the English
tongue from
the 20th century onwards,
apart from:

love, love me do...
you know i love you
i'll always be true
so please, love me do...

rhyme:
always the highest source
of wisdom (purpose
for life, and subsequent
invigoration for it
being pursued) in
the English tongue...
so... who am i to judge?

i'm just a stiff collar
remnant of what would have
become a "what-if"
schutzstaffelbüro -
ja... die S.S.B.

i know... fetischgrund;
as implanted into me
by my history teacher,
in England...
while studying
WWII...
she said:
pointing at me...
out of all of you...
he would be the only
one left alive...

hell...
   i'm still trying to find
a grimace to live with
to counter her.

p.s. but i thought
the englischspreschenpublikum
   gesucht für, die "knotted-si-si"?
nein?
             ooh... wäß schønde!

draft enclosed below... prior to?

    whiskey, always with the whiskey...
                         there was, some, "pressing" matter,
to give me over to grief...
     a grief that was never going
to be a grief...
                  more, a, bewildering in situ...
something unavoidable...
                        like finding respectable
homosexuals akin to douglas murray...
             ah! that's what it was...
watching the premier of rammstein's song
ausländer? thoughts?
                 "teaching" colonialißation in reverse?
truly... france, england,
   perhaps even spain...
                              teaching...
good teachers...
                   they were always going
to be good teachers...
                     the only colonialißm
the germans ever ventured to address was
of their neighbours...
       ****** choice...
                   oh but i'm pretty sure
you would come back from Warsaw
with a homogeneity nausea sickness...
   i know i do...
         every single time,
   the homogeneous ethno-representation
is nauseating...
       even though, i'm stepping back
into a throng, of, "my own" people...
   i lived on the outskirts of loon'don for far
to long, i don't see an ivory beauty,
the pearls of Ghana,
      or some ***** and blue indian,
i start to "worry"...
                              i once traveled to
Cheltenham... and it, felt,
     like i was walking through Warsaw...
i don't even know whether i was surprised,
or whether i was experiencing the same
homogeneity nausea sickness...
                    each step of passing through
the city, i wanted to puke...
                         well not out an aversion
to being white among whites...
                        i guess i'm just the remains
of the globalist narration of so many
different people living in close proximity...
hub...
             as if revising a city akin to Rome...
when once in a year, gladiator slaves would
come for a month of festivity,
and the whole world was revelead
  with all its faces and hues...
                    but the germans know this...
inverted colonialißm -
         of being "colonialißed"...
                         i'm pretty sure the folk
in Warsaw are less understanding
     to the chocolatiers of Brussels...
                          because, as far as i am concerned...
Brexit, really, really came...
        when... the privileged status
of former British Empire citizens put to
question, a sudden surge in the floodgates
being opened for the former iron curtain countries,
you could have told these Pakistanis,
these Indians...
         don't worry... these people have come...
but... don't think they'll stay...
some will...
                   but most of them come
from an environment of homogeneity...
perfect example...
              a flight from Warsaw to Stansted...
talk about "racism",
     talk about "multiculturalism"...
i said jack ****, i just listened to the debate
behind me between a "racist" man
and a youg, impressionable young woman,
who cited the book why i don't talk
to white people about racism...
            i came here aged 8...
            and as a first generation expatriate...
oh yes, i can use the term...
which is weird...
since if i really didn't sink into this tongue
i'd call myself an immigrant...
just like the english immigrants
to h'america or australia call themselves,
the alternative: expatriate...
               the "racist" cited an evolutionary
predisposition as to why same attracts same,
a contradiction of magnets,
but, then again, we're not talking magnets,
but people...
               i'm dissociated with my "fellow"
ethno-centered peoples...
       sure... memories of childhood friends,
digging holes and playing a game
of throwing marbles into them...
hide & seek at night...
   kicking each other in the ***...
                     my memory bank reaches
as far back as being aged 4...
so... yeah... i have a lot to work with...
   again... i woke about how else to describe
that supermarket cashier from yesterday,
how she wanted to become a paramedic...
how her perfect skin,
   without a bout of hay fever looked
radiant...
                            the words:
       like a lake of milk,
                                       illuminated by
a full moon in a night of frozen constellations
of stars, or perhaps only her love spots
   of moles.

    well... that's that... now i'm ready to cite
and translate some Horace...     

sunt quibus in satura videar nimis acer et
  ultra legem tendere opus; sine nervis altera
quidquid conpusui pars esse putat similsque
    meorum, mille die versus deduci posse.
Trebati, quid faciam? praescribe.
              <quiescas>
       <ne faciam, inquis, omnino versus?>
<aio.>
              <peream male, si non optimum
erat; verum nequeo dormire.>
    <ter uncti transnanto Tiberim,
            somno quibus est opus alto,
                   inriguumque mero sub noctem
corpus habento. aut si tantus amor
                             scribendi te rapit,
          aude Caesaris invicti res dicere,
multa laborum praemia laturus.>
   <cupidium, pater optime, vires
deficiunt; neque quivis horrentia pilis
agmina nec fracta pereuntis cupside Gallos
aut labentis equo describit volnera Parthi.>
<attamem et iustum poteras et scribere
fortem, Scipiadam ut sapiens Lucillius.>
      <haud mihi dero, *** res ipsa feret:
nisi dextro tempore Flacci verba per
attentam non ibunt Caesaris aurem:
      cui male si palpere, recalcitrat undique
tutus.>
<quanto recitus hoc quam tristi laedere
versus *** sibi quisque timet,
                           quamquam est intactus
        ed odit.>
                  <quid faciam?      

i guess this would be the perfect time
to write a translation before disclosing the draft...
well... it's Horace...
          who did Dante take to walk him
through hell?           wasn't it Virgil?
only a naive-****-show of a man would
take with him a Greek poet akin to Homer,
or Sappho...
       well... not exactly...
not if poetry attracts poetry...
     James Joyce decided upon Homer,
but i'm not a James Joyce...
if Dante desired to take Virgil as his guide...
i've decided upon Horace...
  and here's the translation:

some say, that in the art of satire i am too acute,
that i go beyond established confines (of the art),
the others, that i write without talent and that
the poems i write in a simialr vein,
can be written into their thousands, every day.
Trebati (a serbian name, etymological
meaning: to need;
point of conjecture... well... if the medieval
world is to be made concise...
and the etymology of slav, implying slave...
it... only appears to hold true for the southern
slavs... the balkan region...
  as far as i am concerned,
the northern slavs... didn't exactly
make it to slave status,
the southern slavs might have been
of the roman empire...)
       Trebati: what do you counsel?
say something!
     stop writing!
            therefore throw my poems
into a corner?
           yes!
         to the executioner, that might be best,
  but then what do during the night,
when it's impossible to fall to sleep?
   rub your body with oil,
thrice swim the length of the Tiber,
in the evening drink some wine -
          you'll thus banish insomnia;
and if still, you have an irresistible desire
to write, then write for the sake of passing
  the victorious deeds of Caesar for posterity;
a generous reward you will receive.
   willingly, but my strengths are modest,
for me to sing about the death of the Gaul
javelin throwers with their broken spears,
or the wounded Parthian,
                      when he's dragged by a horse.
celebrate then, because of this,
   his bravery, his sense of justice, his wisdom,
just like...

  ****! another googlewhack!

                 lucyliusz w scypiadzie
       https://tinyurl.com/y5u7uelu

       just like... Lucius in Scythia.
           maybe i will not tempt, when the right
time comes. the time isn't right, Caesar's ear will
not succumb to the compliments whispered
by Flacci...
           do not stroke the steed in time,
    which will with its hoof kick.
better that than by reproach via a poem
      of these mediocrities,
     like the clown Pantolabus or the grandson
of Nomentano -
        who without blame, and even as
being untouched, hates.
                               and what of it?
        
hell: now the draft...

when all seems bleak upon the blank
plateau and the calm seas of
thought being voided -
    i tend to find scraps of language worth
keeping,
  odd bits of letters no written,
      interrupted narratives -
conversations never had - or pivoting
upon an alternative choice of words,
never mind...
    i acquired english and made myself
its father -
              audacious, i agree -
but psychopathic? i hardly think so.
              to out-speak a native means:
doubling down - standing ground -
digging trenches...
                 i have made english into
the equivalent of an armchair,
    sitting pretty, sitting cosy,
   in some shady part of an east london
pub: peering into the stage, attempting
to differentiate the actors from the props
and the props from an: authenticity.
trick is... well, i can't read in my native tongue
when in england...
  which is why i am extremely anticipating
the december hiatus impeding...
immersed in an environment filled with
the nativspreschen - notably from
devices such as the radio and the t.v. -
   i can digest a book in my nativspreschen
with as much ease as:
  spreading butter on a slice of bread...
        but that's because when in england:
i'm wholly dedicated to the language,
   perhaps not the culture which i mimic -
but i have allegiance to that ******* comfy
armchair that's the english language.
- i remember this one incident of being
thrown out from a local pub on the grounds
that i "launched a glass pint in rage across
the pub floor" - xenophobia tickle -
                 i spoke too much like oliver reed
to one schizophrenic and some other lost soul...
a few days later i tap the shoulder
    of one of the bar mistresses and ask her
if she's feeling o.k., if you want
a depiction of constipation, you should have
seen her, she has harbouring a hedgehog in
her *** by that point...
          a complete ******* of a pub anyway...
you see, even with an acquired accent,
if the question is asked: where you from,
and you say: not from around here,
   even if you've lived here pretty much
all of your life: you're not puritanical enough...
mind you... i'm the pedigree breed,
surrounded by mongrels...
                 i am, but a mongrel of the soul
nurturing an adopted tongue, while
   "trying" my hardest to forget my native tongue...
*******, i'm not going to turn into
a terrorist, which, by the way,
english society has bred...
                  polish is not omnipresent -
it's not the king-quack-**** sitting on
the throne of hippo-******* that's
the meridian - you have you dream,
taken from the spanish -
       die ***** von sonnezunge
ständig suchen  für die mond:
       die schlaflosigkeitreich -
the empire of (the) sun-tongue -
perpetually looking for the moon -
  insomniac empire.
      hell, have it, maybe by having it
you can have your, little elaborations
of the dream fabric...
             point being:
my native tongue is an equivalent of
the iron maiden by comparison...
       the merovingian was wrong:
you truly wipe your *** with silk
by speaking english...
                notably by introducing the
amputee R's worth of trill to sound old-school
and a knowledge of latin always helps...
but nothing quiet comes across
as speaking the native tongue better than
the natives...
        i think that's called ambition...
      or a heckling of some sort -
a heckling where no one is staged or is
telling a joke...
                   a bit like being generous
to the turk and his predicament...
  he owns a store, the local council comes
to him, he literally has a caravan outside the store...
and he's worrying about employing
lawyers to solve the matter, he doesn't
know what the problem is...
two bottles of wine and some coca cola
and i peer outside: ah!
         so i tell him: you're obstructing
an item of public property...
  the simple answer is that you have to
revise your makeshift caravan shanty and
expose that bench...
did i get a thank you, or a free bottle of
whiskey... turks... what do you expect,
  he thanked me by increasing the price of beer...
if people older than me have no
standards of etiquette - why even expect
any study of ethics? you first learn aesthetic,
then you learn etiquette,
    and then comes ethics...
         you think i bought anything from
him ever again? loser.
     - became a corporate ***** -
but then again at 16 quid a litre of ms. amber scot,
i can't complain.
                  - but come one,
you've been given free legal advice and
you can't even repay a debt of being given
advice... ah... i see...
it would have made the proprietor look
                     stupid, i.e.: d'uh! a bench!
funny you should ask (without even asking):
whenever i go back to poland i feel grounded...
nay, cushioned - after all i am not there
to visit my countrymen as such,
   more or less imbued with a sense of
proximity to my neighbours,
  the germans, the czechs, the white russians,
lithuanians and the ukrainians....
               and to read a book...
but mostly about feeling the vicinity of
the neighbours...
                      and inhale a breath of
authenticity, in historical terms...
                     because back in england -
  well i have a patriotism for the language:
but not the people -
                    the language i can cherish -
the people mean diddly-squat to me...
  after being barred from a pub on false accusation,
well... expect any different?
                if only i were black,
i could call that racism...
                        alas, i have the ****** luck
of the irish...
                 then again...
                                       none of this even matters
beyond a squabbling defaced impression
of a memory...
                              it still stands:
i'm comfortable writing, since i deem
english to be an armchair -
               but the nativspreschen i find
as an iron maiden...
            although when wholly immersed
in an environment when the only words
in english you hear are: weekend, etc. -
                     there's this aura of oddity that
surrounds me:
         either i'm a ghost among the living -
or i'm alive, immersed in ghost town...
i can never tell...
                           all in all:
continental air is so refreshing having spent
an entire year on an island...
   the almost complete lack of moisture,
the crispness of dry cool,
           the crackling of the foot on snow
in imitation of walking on egg shells -
  and the mere snow - notably falling crisply
during the night...
            islanders are a very strange people...
whether the british, the icelanders,
the maltese, the cypriots, the irish,
                        you name them...
                      islanders have this knack at
believing themselves to be superior
to kontinentalvolk -
       notably when it comes to the basic
etiquette of tourism...
                  in was in paris, twice...
each time i had the luck of a fellow tourist
who spoke french...
                                     once it was this
italian girl, another a canadian girl with
russian roots: a pole's luck, i guess.

Es ist dunkel
Es ist Nacht
In aller Stille
Es ist vollbracht

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Tanzende Lichter
Tanzende Menschen
Dolche im Schimmer
Nur so glänzen

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Sanftes Wiegen
Sanftes Singen
Lassen das Wimmern
Nun überklingen

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Nasse Gräser
Nasse Hände
Mit warmen Blut
Durchtränktes Gelände

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Reibende Verse
Reibende Körper
Eine Menge
Alles Mörder

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Roter Mond
Roter Leib
Liegt am Boden
Das tote Weib

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Es wird Tag
Es wird hell
Schau Sie flüchten
Nun sehr schnell

Nichts mehr fließt
Nichts mehr tropft
Sowie das Herz
Nicht mehr klopft

Luister naar het advies
dat anderen willen geven.
Wees realistisch in de doelen die je kiest,
denk ook aan wat belangrijk is voor je later leven.

Drink minder, meer en eet gezond.
Werk van in de morgenstond,
de avond heeft niet langer
de functie van goud-in-mond vervanger.

Maak concrete lijsteren
opdat onduidelijke taken
je nooit meer kunnen verbijsteren.
Stop met angstig af-en-haken
nog voor je bent begonnen.
Leef wat rationeler, minder onbezonnen.

Het is al even voor de knikkers
en jij bent achterop,
net als op je stage, zonder zonnestickers,
vermijd je rakelings de flop.

Je bent zeker geen mislukkeling,
gewoon onzeker en daarmee
minder consistent.
Maar laat dat niet bepalen,
wat je doet en wie je bent.

Je hebt zo vaak gezegd: 'nu ga ik het doen.'.
Altijd maar met woorden bezig,
wachten, werken, tien.
Laat vanaf nu al aan de start je beste daden zien.

Dan zal je zelf in jezelf kunnen geloven,
hoef je geen loze leegte volledig te beloven.
Dan heb je zelf zelfvertrouwen.
Eet je biefstuk nu, wanneer ze warm is
dan moet je nooit opnieuw zolang
op datzelfde stukje kauwen.

Gegroet, m'n jongen,
het beste, man,
ik geloof het al,
maar vertrouw jij erop
dat je het kan?

every time i walk up to the Thames
at Coldharbour...
and i meet this aghast
consummate volume of
murk, water...

every time i walk up to the Thames:
that's the "thing"
with walking... there's so much
"there"...
        
the snail's-apprentice...

every time i walk up to the Thames
at Coldharbour...
i have this... wild sparkle
leftover in my eye
greasing me up for more...

every time i walk up to the Thames
at Coldharbour
past the Rainham village
via the traintracks
via the marshes...

  i get this wild idea of...
  taking my clothes off...
stripping bare: to a minimum
of agitated limbs...
& goosebumps...
and swimming to the south-shore...

every time i write something
in english...
i want to make an emphasis
in deutsche...

verrücktluft: air pre an embodiment
of mond...

Einrich von stubble und
ein fünf
          eine fünf
tongue-breaking (zungebrechen)
von die vierte ***** etc.
           a pause
  with: a(n) applause, case, to... boot...

halving: what's for the ******?
i have to Atlas pose
what's to be inherited from
the 20th century because:
at that sort of short-lived
prior to a nadir...

no, no there's no entertaining
closures of this 'ort...
phlegm and proverbs cosmopolitan...
jews jews everywhere...
but not an Israeli to fathom
a bothersome "it" with...

        perfected Danzig
cosmopolitan jeder-deutsche for: kichert...
life along the aorta:
this "sacred" city...

by CH an X is implied...
                      halving a caron:
because pronoun ich...
could be... isch... dogs are barking
it's past 2am and...
whipping... lashing... Zeros X
come CH Xaron etc.
                 Blah Babble a Loan...

every time i walk up to the Thames
at Coldharbour...
i think about taking off my clothes
and swimming across
this grandiosity of...
it's beside me pretending it's
the Vistula... an artery of a nation...

London alone...
to the south-shore...
a wild idea... by tomorrow...
it's long long past "gone".

whenever uneasy i have to escape into the deutsche zunge...
i could escape into *****... but i rather not...

among shadows and beasts...
i bellow a whimper... a sigh of relief...
among shadows and beasts...
i lay my head upon a stone...
in the darkest of night... darker than any
possible revitalizing sleep...
        
       in my night of nights...
                   among shadows, beasts, echoes...
i find my hand tricking me with "speaking"...
as i find my tongue, also, tricking me...
with licking ice...
                 as i also find my eye glued to
grieving with a blinking imitation of sight...
my ears are allowing my brain to dance...
because i married the four winds
and became: focus... i became praxis...
the ad hoc...

                what a painful experience for anyone
to supplement any other,
of the settled crown of all things unsettling...
what little bores become great
obstructions... what i feel when drunk:
stale... adherence to sober intellect is
such an empty quest...
                me? i feel i'm being a boor...
being sober...
          i need to be hindered...
somehow...
                    
FAUN: alba II...
         now i don't feel like writing in dojcz...

unter schatten und biester...
ich brüllen ein wimmern...
ein seufzen von hilfe...
     mein hertz kann splitter...
       und: es muss!
             ich kann nicht liebe aber
                        eine sein!      

all that is night is: calm!
           alle das ist nacht ist: ruhe! das ist mich!

ich legen mein kopf auf
ein stein wie ein blutegel...
    blood-draining concentration...
gravity+...
                im (die) am dunkelsten... nacht...
dunkler als alle möglich
                                revitalisierend schlafen...

my hope: for the whiteness of
the skull that's the moon and his half...
and his innermost fullness...

mein hoffnung: für die weiße von die totenkopf
das is die mond und seine halb...
und seine innerste vollständigkeit:

gravitating toward: scarce: by dictate of
orbit...
  this height of the summer months are
impossible for me!

    unmöglich für mich!

MAGER?! this world will be inherited
by Arabs... Asians and Africans...
i don't want to live in this world...
     i plan... to not live in it...
                       i'm ******* off...
but? i'm planning to **** as many Turkish girls as possible...
Turkish... ****-     + -stani...
     Sari donning willing to send you nudes
without actually meeting up with them...
i guess you'd classify me as a ****-boy...

w DOJCZ: IM DEUTSCHE...
in German...
                     i'm out...
better ******* playing Blackjack than
playing Poker... Blackjack was always more fun...
oh look... **** me... no Zeppelins...
a more cleverly orchestrated "take-over"...
a "take-over" that also required the entire
world to come and... ahem... "have a look"...

it lasted longer than i expected...
it's those revealing eyes of a "Judas" / Brutus...
they're looking elsewhere...
forward... you're orientating yourself concerning
a newly established fathoming of a circle...
but her eyes speak: STRAIGHT LINE...
i'm moving on...
    really? as a *******? there's someone...
ahem... "behind" me?
              someone willing to perform oral ***
on you?
cling your arms... while ******* on a well performed
oyster squeezed... mmm... mmm...

really?! i'm not the Jack the Ripper type...
i don't believe in hierarchies...
but i do believe in the hierarchy of giving pleasure per se...
you go against that...
we're having to experience problems...
why would i go against my way
to perform oral *** on a *******...
give her an ******...
to later receive arguments: oh... maybe...
this that... and other...
she wanted to go on a hotel date with me...
**** me for free...

that's when she refrained from the supposition...
that's when i decided to have a *******...
**** it... i'm not: WAITING!
come to think of it... i had to check...
threesomes are unlike pornographic ventures...
i could only summon a hand-job and
being ****** off into the other girls cleavage...
no... two women at the same time
is too distracting...
you need chemicals to give you a split awareness...

personally?! i abhorred ******* two girls
at the same time...
you're sort of ultra-schizophrenic... pulsating wrong...
you're stroking a cat
while... attempting to attach a leash to a dog...
it's ******* wrong: in the ******* most sense
of ******* sense of wrong...
sure... most men lie:
oh... i managed to **** two girls at the same time...
and?!

i had problems... dictating what's the grandest allure
of attention for simply one...
because?! that's what was missing!
i want one! i was like Solomon with Queen Sheba!
i just wanted one!
but i guess Solomon was lucky... paradoxically...
i try to laugh... imagining...
King David and that only Psalm he would ever write...
so? no more constipated creativity...
or just... sitting one's *** on laurels?!
what then?!

             the impossibility to stop writing the impossibility
of the possibility of: oops! wasps! ****!
octopi! ****! giraffes! drunk geniuses!
hippos! Greenland blind sharks! dolphins!
             Kosher salt... Kashmiri chilli powder...
cumin... ******... i.e. poppy-seeds...
                                     big Pharmaceutical Kicks & Kings...
music! silence! a Somali pirates' smile...
a European 20s girl psychotic self-importance...
glass! windows! winter and her winds!
lollies... and lilies...
lilac and lavender! purple and all that's auburn...
the history of perfecting making mistakes!

for the love of dreaming about teeth!
last few dreams that's what i only dreamed about:
teeth!
either chattering... jaw-line or
standing proud like Colossus of Rhodes!

when all seems bleak upon the blank
plateau and the calm seas of
thought being voided -
    i tend to find scraps of language worth
keeping,
  odd bits of letters no written,
      interrupted narratives -
conversations never had - or pivoting
upon an alternative choice of words,
never mind...
    i acquired english and made myself
its father -
              audacious, i agree -
but psychopathic? i hardly think so.
              to out-speak a native means:
doubling down - standing ground -
digging trenches...
                 i have made english into
the equivalent of an armchair,
    sitting pretty, sitting cosy,
   in some shady part of an east london
pub: peering into the stage, attempting
to differentiate the actors from the props
and the props from an: authenticity.
trick is... well, i can't read in my native tongue
when in england...
  which is why i am extremely anticipating
the december hiatus impeding...
immersed in an environment filled with
the nativspreschen - notably from
devices such as the radio and the t.v. -
   i can digest a book in my nativspreschen
with as much ease as:
  spreading butter on a slice of bread...
        but that's because when in england:
i'm wholly dedicated to the language,
   perhaps not the culture which i mimic -
but i have allegiance to that ******* comfy
armchair that's the english language.
- i remember this one incident of being
thrown out from a local pub on the grounds
that i "launched a glass pint in rage across
the pub floor" - xenophobia tickle -
                 i spoke too much like oliver reed
to one schizophrenic and some other lost soul...
a few days later i tap the shoulder
    of one of the bar mistresses and ask her
if she's feeling o.k., if you want
a depiction of constipation, you should have
seen her, she has harbouring a hedgehog in
her *** by that point...
          a complete ******* of a pub anyway...
you see, even with an acquired accent,
if the question is asked: where you from,
and you say: not from around here,
   even if you've lived here pretty much
all of your life: you're not puritanical enough...
mind you... i'm the pedigree breed,
surrounded by mongrels...
                 i am, but a mongrel of the soul
nurturing an adopted tongue, while
   "trying" my hardest to forget my native tongue...
*******, i'm not going to turn into
a terrorist, which, by the way,
english society has bred...
                  polish is not omnipresent -
it's not the king-quack-**** sitting on
the throne of hippo-******* that's
the meridian - you have you dream,
taken from the spanish -
       die ***** von sonnezunge
ständig suchen  für die mond:
       die schlaflosigkeitreich -
the empire of (the) sun-tongue -
perpetually looking for the moon -
  insomniac empire.
      hell, have it, maybe by having it
you can have your, little elaborations
of the dream fabric...
             point being:
my native tongue is an equivalent of
the iron maiden by comparison...
       the merovingian was wrong:
you truly wipe your *** with silk
by speaking english...
                notably by introducing the
amputee R's worth of trill to sound old-school
and a knowledge of latin always helps...
but nothing quiet comes across
as speaking the native tongue better than
the natives...
        i think that's called ambition...
      or a heckling of some sort -
a heckling where no one is staged or is
telling a joke...
                   a bit like being generous
to the turk and his predicament...
  he owns a store, the local council comes
to him, he literally has a caravan outside the store...
and he's worrying about employing
lawyers to solve the matter, he doesn't
know what the problem is...
two bottles of wine and some coca cola
and i peer outside: ah!
         so i tell him: you're obstructing
an item of public property...
  the simple answer is that you have to
revise your makeshift caravan shanty and
expose that bench...
did i get a thank you, or a free bottle of
whiskey... turks... what do you expect,
  he thanked me by increasing the price of beer...
if people older than me have no
standards of etiquette - why even expect
any study of ethics? you first learn aesthetic,
then you learn etiquette,
    and then comes ethics...
         you think i bought anything from
him ever again? loser.
     - became a corporate ***** -
but then again at 16 quid a litre of ms. amber scot,
i can't complain.
                  - but come one,
you've been given free legal advice and
you can't even repay a debt of being given
advice... ah... i see...
it would have made the proprietor look
                     stupid, i.e.: d'uh! a bench!
funny you should ask (without even asking):
whenever i go back to poland i feel grounded...
nay, cushioned - after all i am not there
to visit my countrymen as such,
   more or less imbued with a sense of
proximity to my neighbours,
  the germans, the czechs, the white russians,
lithuanians and the ukrainians....
               and to read a book...
but mostly about feeling the vicinity of
the neighbours...
                      and inhale a breath of
authenticity, in historical terms...
                     because back in england -
  well i have a patriotism for the language:
but not the people -
                    the language i can cherish -
the people mean diddly-squat to me...
  after being barred from a pub on false accusation,
well... expect any different?
                if only i were black,
i could call that racism...
                        alas, i have the ****** luck
of the irish...
                 then again...
                                       none of this even matters
beyond a squabbling defaced impression
of a memory...
                              it still stands:
i'm comfortable writing, since i deem
english to be an armchair -
               but the nativspreschen i find
as an iron maiden...
            although when wholly immersed
in an environment when the only words
in english you hear are: weekend, etc. -
                     there's this aura of oddity that
surrounds me:
         either i'm a ghost among the living -
or i'm alive, immersed in ghost town...
i can never tell...
                           all in all:
continental air is so refreshing having spent
an entire year on an island...
   the almost complete lack of moisture,
the crispness of dry cool,
           the crackling of the foot on snow
in imitation of walking on egg shells -
  and the mere snow - notably falling crisply
during the night...
            islanders are a very strange people...
whether the british, the icelanders,
the maltese, the cypriots, the irish,
                        you name them...
                      islanders have this knack at
believing themselves to be superior
to kontinentalvolk -
       notably when it comes to the basic
etiquette of tourism...
                  in was in paris, twice...
each time i had the luck of a fellow tourist
who spoke french...
                                     once it was this
italian girl, another a canadian girl with
russian roots: a pole's luck, i guess.

iskra (title): par (the body to bypass the 502 bad gateway)

O these tender winter nights,
when the moon graces the skies at night,
i missed him....
in my native tongue he's known as ol'
baldy... he's not known by the name Luna...
just like the sun is a she...
& not Helios...
i missed him... how i missed him when
the nights were short...
when the biting air mingling with
frost didn't nibble at the hands
and explore x-rays...
bone-father... pristine eye:
he who discards unnecessary dreams...
will never allow recurrent dreams
to fester your mind...
   i look at this migrant crisis & think...
why are these people looking for
an elder of the north?
am i the elder?
    another question: could i be as welcoming
with a ***** attested to Abraham...
- once upon a time
i was taking a train from Romford
to Liverpool St...
a single mum with her child...
the child approached me
with a book & started reciting  the words...
in deutsche... i tried to hide weeping...
oh course i shed a tear...
a child was reading to me
about... operating trucks...
constructing scaffolds...
             doing the "magic" that diggers do...

ULVER - KVELDSSANGER:
you can just skip to the song: Utreise...

i imagine that if i were united with a woman,
the role of father would drastically undermine
my relations with the woman...
pointless talk...

i'm currently undertaking a
nvq level 2 stewarding course... so a preliminary test
of your English & Mathematics skills...
i almost completed the English skills test today,
i'll do the Maths tomorrow:
i always preferred a su doku to a game
of scrabble / a crossword...

overall score... 56%...
passable... grade C...
now the stats...
comprehension at 80%
text comparisons... eh... 50%
implicit meaning 33%...
  
    you're getting the drift?
poets should never be NVQ tested on their language
skills... you start reading e. e. cummings
or william burroughs?! FAIL... outright fail...
too much freedom you see...
you have to have a return policy...
a return framework...
you need to learn English parrot...

language features... at 75%...
using glossaries (67%)
organisational features (ditto)
bias (a big ******* fat 0... it ought to be O%)
bias... maybe i just misread something
or... never mind...
NVQ level testing: it's not like getting a BSc in
chemistry... oh **** no...
it's a mind spaghetti pressed...
you need to be double sure... i.e. wrong at least once...
****'s sake...

fact & opinion (50%),
writing style (75%),
written communication (60%)
writing (33%)... seriously? seriously?!
format & structure (40%),
organisational markers (60%),
persuasive language (33%),
complex sentences (50%),
GRAMMAR (80%),
verbs (75%),
     punctuation (36%),
   spelling (78%)...

   but bias at O%? you ******* kidding me?
i can't tell the difference between reading
propaganda in newspaper & reading directions
to get from A to B?

NVQ jokers... you must be stupid...
let us help you...
******* left high school with some A-levels
now they think they can rough up a BSc
owner... you know... i did this one ****** module
at university, some sociology course...
they told us to write an essay...
that we couldn't plagiarise...
what the **** did i do?
i plagiarised... we were supposed to be monitored
some some giant precursor of an A.I. Brian...
brain... that was supposed to pick up plagiarism...
sure... but if you know the "magic" of rewording
& have a ******* thesaurus handy?
i had to listen to some music,
my focus was elsewhere...
i plagiarised the essay: through & through...
managed to get a 1st for it...
did the, "system" catch me ought?
of course it didn't... so much more computers
& rules & what became my totem...
no wolves on these isles... the foxes will suffice...

NVQ *******... just regurgitate:
it's not even remotely related to learning... its a parrot
parody... but... after the initial test...
let me tell you...
i never learned so much grammar as i did now...
not under the GCSE model, for sure...
if only the English punctuated like the rest of
Europe apply diacritical marks...
but i write: outside the realm of giving a flying-****
& a gingerbread to consider what's
formal what's informal... it's... arrr... art!
you bring me down to a level of proficiency in
understanding: oi! black: to the right...
white's: down...
to the centre...
                        it's somewhat debilitating when
having to make distinctions...
what is from what's... because somehow
the practice of... congesting? concentrating...
compounding words is... informal?
if the apostrophe is so hideous when it comes
to don't vs. do not... **** away with it
when it comes to the possessive article!
don't use it... so how does: it's Sams bicycle look
like now?!
pretty ******... people make up these rules
only to give themselves gatekeeping stature...
gatekeeping hierarchical procedures...
o.k. o.k. i get it...
but i'm writing this only as a retaliation:
don't think some of us don't know what's
happening...

i'm ******* gagging for the mathematical questions,
i hope a su doku comes up...
it probably won't...

i never had so much encounters with grammar,
people who don't write poetry have ****
for brains...
there are so many formalities...
... is not even a recognised punctuation:
"strategy"... you can't allow yourself
the " " markers... whoever wrote the NVQ exam
obviously didn't read any Heidegger...

i forget that the 'obvious' intention is...
i generally appreciate 'said' as a quote...
"x" indicates toying with metaphors, misnomers &
insinuations... but no... oh no...

studying history doesn't give you the luxury of
studying grammar...
seems like grammar is fine... 80%...
bias at a big fat 0 of O%... come on?
first they test you, then they double-sure...
language so rigid is bound to be:
a non-language...
                      
        soulless "thing"... but fair enough...
after the last, failed, terrorist attack... i'll plough through...
i like tending to the flock...
i like the look on...  faces... that seem to recognise me...
as if they know me from a dream...
and there i am... in the flesh...

my Indian companion... i fixed her clip-on tie
for her, i took the knee doing up her borrowed
steward jacket... blah blah...
she told me she was diabetic, complained about
how for a week her other companion told her
to watch her sugar intake: i will have nothing to
do with reminding you of anything...
she was freaked out by autumn leaves
piled up in the park, how she was afraid about
not knowing what might be lurking
beneath / in the pile...
i told her about my apprehension
with regards to swimming in the sea...
how i much adored swimming
in waters where i could see the depth:

swimming in glass...
how she was afraid of cycling after falling over...
how her mother made the analogy:
cycling is like flying...
only today, with my hood up...
yeah... it really is... your view is so unobstructed...
if you don't look down and spot
the tip of the handlebars...
you can almost forget your legs are peddling...
she finally managed to fathom enough
strength to kick a pile of leaves:
to no surprise... nothing but leaves beneath
the leaves...

a walk in the park... i like the idea that a woman
must be comforted...
i like women with suspicions of reality...
one little phobia here...
another little phobia over there...
i like pocket-sized minds & hearts...
its fits "in" nicely: to whatever grand event is
happening, otherwise...

the match "might" have been taking place...
but the park was so gloriously available to wander
in alone, at peace...
it made more sense playing the authority figure
with a walky-talky...
asking people to drink up their beers before
getting to the venue...
such a... simple role... not a plumber or carpenter
in sight... if this is work... then i don't know
what loitering is... all it took was a change of attire
to turn: this load of ******* into work...
from what otherwise would be considered...
loitering by the load of *******...
simple!

O but the moon is high in the sky & winter is finally
playing the ******* accordion like
it might be slapping a heron against a rock
to death... love it... no other month is so magical as this
one... while all the people slip into a pseudo-hibernation
faze... i find myself rejuvenated: realigned...
the cold serves me abundance that no fruit
can ever bring...

gone are the bothersome insects, esp. the flies...
while the cats self-impose their own curfews...

why is it, that in Poland you see hordes... of crows &
kafkas... hordes of them: like clouds...
but in England... solitary wind-bits...
at most... in Huginn & Muninn pairing...
as if the ravens in England adopted the nobility
of swans... in Eastern Europe them come as...
messerschmitt: schwarzkreuzwolken...

         furchtbar!
see... when the English speaking world starts
playing funny... political, social, whatever...
grammatical... i tend to "forget" i speak English:
oh how i adore this tongue...
it's an armchair, compared to all the other tongues...
with one exception: the elder English,
which has to be.... most probably...
if not the modern variant, then any other variant of...
what was spoken in Saxony was also
probably spoken in Thuringia,
Swabia... Pomerania... etc.

    like the guy who delivers some of the packages
to my door... der glücklichenmann...
for a long time i couldn't place him,
his "accent" was no accent at all...
several scenarios later did he disclose his origins...
Deutsche... ein glücklichendeutschemann!
ich muss sein in güt: gesellschaft!

eh... perhaps the German grammar structure
when translated into English was
***** a little by French grammar which:
who borrows from who:
western Slavic grammar is so similar to French
grammar... if i were only this,
before... i was taught by a self-righteous monolingual,
later a Spanish woman teaching French:
perhaps i could be speaking French right now!
im diesem augenblick!

but the guy leaving packages... only today i picked
it up... he does have an accent... he has a German
accent!
he hid it so well prior... before he freely disclosed
his national identity... i wouldn't have known...
now he accents his speech like a German might...
prior to: undistinguishable...
amazing... i could the same with my ******
mother tongue... but i'm schizoid...
i can make clarifying distinction between the two tongues...

only today... for once he sounded so German
when speaking English, he almost had me fooled thinking him
a Schwiezer!
das "Himalayamann"...
    mein gott: so ich gedanke(n)...

but English can only become insufferable once,
of twice, three times i strike gold...
i end up drinking and teasing some German....
it's not like the zeppelins are coming,
are they?!

let me know... i must know... the part where i'm to be
educated about a minority status,
by a minority that is becoming: less & less...
minder und minder ein minderheit...
i'll cook my own ******* curry:
this that & the other...
too bad you will not "make east" of my peoples' food...
how much, do you ******* want?

it seems:

genug ist nicht genug!

i turn to German to make a "sacrifice":
i turn to it for: TROST...
English is too cosmopolitan... at times...
in London: all the ****** time...
i looked at Derby supporters when
they played Fulham like animals...
not in a bad "sense": someone ought
to herd these ******* home
to a warm pillow...

i don't like being reeducated concerning
statures of anti-racism... that's ******* *******-wanking
reemphasis...
i can't be... anti-racist...
i can be: counter-...
i can... not-,
           but anti-racist is a belief in the inhumanity
of those that express their, little, piquant...
tastes... i can't be anti-racist...

if i want to **** a chocolate ice-cream cone...
mein gott: weltpolitik!
nein! nein! nein!
          zu hölle: mit diese scheiße!

it only takes one ******* would-be Jihadi to
identify you as a German
before the 2nd concludes...
hey... why don't i try pretending to be: German?!
women of my own ethnicity can't tell the difference...
let us, do German!

such sights to see... solche ist winter!
ausgedehntnächte...
der mond...  neugier ohne frage(n)...