Christoúgenna parable: “from the third tusk that remained behind the underside of the Bedouin of the seventh dream, Mariah's nativity path is touched, hearing in the sieve ears of the dried fruit of the Achenium in the hemlock, near her mother Hanna who always tease the bird visions feeding Mariah's fertility. Hanna's progenitor slipped into the third parchment, being a fruit of infertile destiny not being a dried fruit, but rather of his lord that in a female a male will be born and that he will resurrect healing adjacent patients in the neo-testamentary and in his biblical canon, in seventy-three keys of the old testament that will be used to open a new crown ”. The Bedouin wrote with the drops of the sea that exuded from the compendium of Stella Maris, while this nomad brought them closer to a son in their fellow men and in the plurality of individuals, expanding on the announcement of an unborn son acclaimed Jesus.

They ran the lines of the nativity and in it would rest the arms of his father of Mariah; Yhoyaqim in memory of predecessor Imram as Hanna's father. He had wine for two in their wineskins, and in the nuptiality of carnality, for more siblings of a betrothal and of only one unpolluted and not carnal, full of Gratia Plena, as a factual verb in the Vulgate or Hebrew Bible for the purpose of whom He writes like Jerome of Stridon or just like a Bedouin with the tooth of a viper in a holy narrative of the matzo and its annunciation in its sixth month.

The Bedouin continues: “Mariah was born to engender the grace that nothing disturbs in the majesty of her heart…, it will take me a while to reach your nativity, but here I have to be before the reactions of going where my desires that cut through the impulsiveness of arriving now more than ever to Mariah's birth of the only child. Here in the foggy Judean night with the fathoms of the bush and stone substitutes, clay with mother-metal on the vegetable fibers that I carry in my donkeys. I will come to finish and rub the planks and crossbars that will support our new home in conifers of cypress and fir, up to the beams and balustrades of his coming. Cedar antisepsis and its aromatics will fill you up on arrival with cypress resin to caulk the Capernaum vessels that will ship you by the Aramaic word. Do not die waiting for me with the door open, where I will wash your feet with the gold of Ophir, which on the laden ***** of my donkeys I will carry natron to whiten the fabrics of its dressing, among any scented and refined lyes of light. With beryl, topaz, and ruby I will also seal the footsteps that reach her as far as her mother Hanna, I will continue to happen among the mystery of Simún that includes me in her life project, I am Imram, Hanna's father, and grandfather of this precious gem, who between acts they stand in the concession of his body-soul and mother-son as a venerable spirit, as anticipation more than a life of pain, joy, and martyrdom, piercing the soul to whoever disintegrates the desert of silica with blood in the prophecies of Simeon "

While the immaculate is adorned with flowers and oracles of ovation, Imram's shepherding bequeaths us in the vicinity of Nazareth, in all things that have their order and more than others must be prescribed for the births of those who fly the spiritual cities, which in itself brings us with its placenta. Mariah in her nature constitutes the first fractal of light of the One-Dimensional Beams, where she is born doubly into a body of peace and a prized winged spirit. Knowing that her sacred breaths do not become full or in twentieth dawn of the topaz nor less of the ruby, in which no sunset dies of all the venerable benefits that are born with God, nor before the visit to her cousin Elizabeth and in her Magnificat, nor less in a resentment in twelve years of his son already put on a tree, from the very dialogues of a son with a father, leaving them as patriarchs, before the convenience of engaging in the tasks of his father, being the son of his chosen Mariah, and that in the womb of his mother Hanna there was no one to whom it would not be, not even when his son Jesus told him in units of his father that he did not understand, in the naivety of the flesh made of the divine verb and in the existence of the mediate mystery.

The Bedouin continues: “as gospel, I have transcended my paternity beyond the ministry of the relief of virginity of the maternal conscience of a divine son, but of resolution of the word from mother to son, still not understanding him…, but speaking for generations that they will never remove the word of God and his mystery from my soul. I will always be a Bedouin of Galilee, as in the amount of Simún and in the values of the disciples who are also my children of the fertility of a woman in all living beings, as a family line that is born from the ruins of Eve, to be reborn in the beginning of the clamorous genesis of Mariah "

Imram, visibly exhausted, traveled in the row of Simún, which was endowed with a being that creator of everything, as a spirit that engenders family love to reunite them at the nativity of his descendant, always with the existence that embodies the infinite ***** of the star. that skewed and guided him, taking out the entrails of the universe that did not fit in the world, to lead them in the exploits of an orthodox nihilism, to protect with their heralds and sustain them from such motherhood, in the de facto conception and mother-granddaughter, preceded by the archangels who guard everything until their appendages are lost in the confines that have no consummation. Before the holy dormancy of the fire of love, ramshackle yielded by the rosary and the Simun, where promontory praises are noticed about the good adventure of a perennial nativity, from those hours that continue to be subjects for the times of time as the immortal reign of the centuries, and the apostolates sponsoring their worthy catechesis in their filial course, from reverend mother in evident assumption taking him away from his sufferings.

Imram continues: “Wine for servants and kings, in a chalice for one, in a family that does not skimp on glasses to include, for more brothers to offer to have them closer than writing with other literary legions warned, rather alive in canon lines from the bible, in perpetuity as an existential ****** of an advent community, which is nothing more than a Christmas sermon, for it came in two being born into a mother and child, in the seventh dream and in its Christmas tirade. I will run closer to where I will be able to fall outside the walls of his holy house, to bring him all my offerings, for a very purified mother, who smells of roses and lilies adorning herself with cousin gifts from God, in the dispute of venerating him without time or saves opportune works of formerly bad deeds, but because of an urgent visit that I compensate at the end of intention and murmur, like his Messiah, only twelve years old, rising from the cliffs and also from the Apsid, avoiding the discursive center in the masses of his assumption, lining traces and returns from a crown like a dying star king, with a fearful stain in the vicinity of perihelion and as proximity to its orbital of Faith. "

His aphelion is more distant from a greater lost lot, always luminous in the night to reach the lap of the nativity of Nazareth, in an eternal dream that makes us be welcomed and transfigured by Mariah, in cosmopolitan frequency, in the liberations from herself. apotheosis, and those that deprivatize the internal idylls of a son and his wasted mother, only leaving us in the middle of a desert and their gifts separated, between points where it is intended to arrive by offering the doctrine in its sacramental figure, and manifesting its supernatural presence in melted nascent sheets and eternity that flees down from its equivalent marquee, becoming carved from the One-dimensional Beams..., being first-born, mother and multi-believer in the same hope and in the halo of Holiness of John within his wood and within his Nazarene halo.

The sing song of a child
Aghast face making
Wretch, guard, gild, hone, smelt, style
The seasons snapping our backs, wild

A love affair with God
Bodies old as cast wax
Stuffed with junipers, natron
The future I regret; my past I laud

Tu me dis t'appeler Vulvette Underground
Et tu revendiques ta naissance subliminale
Tu serais donc tout sauf animale.
Mais je persiste et signe
Ma déclaration d'amour zoolâtre
Et je te baptise Felis maniculata.
Tu es la représentation vivante et parfaite
De la déesse muse et lionne Bast
La déchireuse
Et pour amadouer éternellement les démons qui te saisissent
À chacun de nos ébats pharaoniques
Je te couvre de natron résineux
Et je t'emballe de mes lèvres
Comme de bandelettes de lin charnel
Et je t'embaume dans le ****** de nos cris de jouissance entrecroisés
Avant de t'enfouir momifiée
Dans le parinirvana des chattes gantées.

come the end of the year, i finally feel fatigued, a complete burn out, all the excess of calorie intake from whiskey doesn't help, not even caffeine / nicotine boosters help, i'm usually so invigorated by winter, come to think of it: winter always invigorates me: so much that's the cold so much concerning the hibernating insects... ah... yet another thought... i wish i could love a girl like a teenage boy might love a girl... nuanced... androgynous, i remember quiet clearly, i used to don long hair, clean shaven... we were in Valentine's Park once, kissing on the grass, a dozen colts walked past and joyfully screamed: lesbians! lesbians! we had our giggle... in South Park we clashed teeth when kissing, we kissed so much that our lips became numb, another time in South Park she pulled out my phallus and rubbed it admiring its size... me... i thought it was tiny... big hands, can hold a basketball in one hand, could hold one in one hand since i was 16... i wish i could love like that, innocently, naively, whole-heartedly, romantically: with a heart as soft as an oyster... now... i wake up with a hardened skull... i can feel another oyster... my brain trying to escape this body, pulverising my forehead... i sometimes feel a sharp pang in my chest... i think that's where that old labyrinth of feelings use to be... now... it's merely a sinking sensation, a thrill no less, but hardly any reason to explore attachment... to a place? sure... to an animal: all the more... but... to give up the thrill of reality to being bound to a woman?! to give up, my passion for music, hell... even share it?! i'm growing old, at 35 i know i'm still in my prime, but i'm looking much further ahead, i'm preparing myself for... at worst, "worst"... a sacrificial suicide, at best the Dutch approach of marrying death via euthanasia... or... not yet, not, just yet... but i wish i could love as i once loved, so naively so child-like, mind you: i can still **** women like i used to love them in that pageant of innocence... but... beyond that? i'm sorry... that boy left... this man is not here for some mediocre soap opera novella of a love... above-point to consider... why are cats getting all the nagging, cat-lady associates etc. cult of the cat?! eh?! what about william burrough's love of cats? only women own these: bonsai tigers?! why do i have to own a dog... dogs are great when you're a boy... since usually you run around with them, freely, care-free, climb trees while they bark with concern: you're too high up! dogs are great when you're a child, a boy, someone older usually takes care of them, you just run around with them... but as you age... ****'s sake... a dog requires a leash, a dog requires a systematic: walking to take a ****... routine... sometimes even a muzzle... almost constant attention... bonsai tigers on the other hand?! what's with this ******* cat-lady meme... where's the warlock from Warsaw meme? no leash, i can ******* and do my thing, the cat can ******* and do its thing, we sometimes meet up when eating, they usually eat when i eat... the toilet? they do it secretly, or... when they really have to: in the cuvet... i wipe my own ***: why wouldn't i scoop up a doughnut of **** of pseudo-sand?! point being... no ******* walkies... no leash... i can ignore a cat... it can ignore me... if it really wants attention: i'll gladly give it, but it has to ask for it, i'm not going to simply: give it some unncessary excess!

it began with... four letters... very much unlike
the Hebrew letters of their deity...
it began with... ∇ (del): an explosion of Y...
it began with delta: Δ...
therefore it must have begun
with the keyhole and the key being turned:
the iota bound to
Θ & to Φ...
           we'll end it there... although
we could consider... Ψ (psi) -
there's an iota in that too...
but i'm looking for the Greek equivalent
of the Hebrew tetragrammaton...
why ignore the psi? the psychology emblem /
totem... the back & forth of the tetragrammaton
"we're" looking for a name of the anti-God...
starting from YHWH...
we have the fist letter...
∇Δ: del or delta... st. peter being crucified upside
down... hey-zeus hanging upright...
the combination carves: the star of David...
it doesn't matter... in terms of how
Greek letter operate, since: the letters are also
nouns that are used in science as constants...
it makes no difference where the cut-off point
comes... we'll still get a D at the end of
d-el / d-elta... but El... is a real word in
qabbalah... in the Sefirot...
wait a a while... i'll take a sip of some whiskey
while i write down the schematic of
the tree of knowledge... bear with me...

                               keter (cown)

binah                                                 chokhmah
  (understanding)                                   (wisdom)

gevurah                                              chesed
(strength)                                               (love)  EL

                                 tiferet
                                  (beauty)
hod                                                      netzach
(splendour)                                          (victory)
                                  yesod
                                  (foundation)

                                  malkhut
                                  (kingship)

surd H, vowel-catcher H of the tetragrammaton
in all the vowels: throughout...
not the prime, vowel-spawner of
laughter present...

obviously i can't simply use H: that's a vowel in
Greek... the shorter variation of epsilon...
name... H(η) eta...
sure, in the Latin script that's...
the genesis of laughter, the Hebrew definite
article... thank god we laugh via ha ha
and not by any other syllable combination...
that would be... simply... weird...
the first "hatch" of the tetragrammaton is
source of laughter... the second "hatch", H,
of the tetragrammaton is...
in English... a source of silence, of meditation...
sometimes... the H behaves as a surd...
usually an apostrophe replaces the H...
that's as close as the English folk come to
diacritical indicators...
    'atch... 'ate... they're not as bad as the French
with their letter-eating / phonetic cannibalism:
but they're up there...
e.g. is ****- offensive? did i say
Iraqi-*******-STANI?! you, ****?!
it's just lazy speech...

  *******, read the Quran or something...
sound offends you... good! you should start
listening to people talking with a lisp...
the missing trill of the R offends me,
good & proper...
who told people a trilled-R is somehow...
unfashionable, or whatever was "wong"
with a trill of the R? rolling a ******* stone
up a hill, the myth of Sisyphus?

but i have a replacement for the H...
the laughter based H: hatchet + a-lpha...
i also have the surd H... like...
the gamma in GNOME is a surd...
you could... write that word the following way:
'NOME... why bother including the gamma
in a word that... doesn't use it?!
English isn't difficult... it's just *******
pedantic... write one way, speak another...
not exactly evolved... sort of lost between
****** speak and Japanese katakana...

a sort of an ugly merging of tongues...

****'s sake... i studied chemistry at university
to end up... suckling up to...
something resembling a resurrection
of alchemy, a romanticism associated with
the science of chemistry that can only
be translated into... a new kind of wording...
Na: sodium... because... Na is not merely:
n'ah... it's NATRON...
Fe: iron... because... it's not f'eh: it's ferrum...

so beside the instigator crux of laughter...
the surd machinery... the second H of
the tetragrammaton is also a:
vowel-catcher... at first you laugh...
then you... ah... sigh...

how hard it is... to give birth... to an antithesis
of a God... esp. if... the supposed God
is a linguistic parallel... originating in the Hebrew tongue...
being part Greek... part... instigated by
the Latin script...
i need to see the antithesis lettering... prior...

i already conjured up a missing link in the
Greek pantheon... namely?
the god behind: the phenomenon of solipsism...
Solipsus...
that placebo affair: thought experiment...
with real life implications surrounding
autism...

clearly i'm becoming a burn-out...
excessive drinking, writing almost every night...
once i could get away with scribbling
this down in one nightly session...
now it takes two nights...
two drinking sessions...
i just invested 50quid's worth of *****
for the seasonal "celebrations"...

fatigue hits me like a **** tonne of bricks...
i start caving...
better me cycling for 40 miles
than... standing, stewarding a football match...
meeting & greeting the public...
creative fatigue... this sponge of  brain is
a Brian and somehow:
Brian is "missing"..
i'm spent... maximum effort: minimal results...
well... at least as a poet one
shouldn't concern himself with cancel culture
that's affecting comedians...
i hate those monologue *******...
esp. that Carr guy...
it's funny... but it's also irritating:
makes me nervous, half-baked nervous...
just ill...
so, i just ignore him...
i try... but then popular culture
keeps pressing the wrong sort of buttons...
hey presto...
that face, i'd love to punch...
for tax-evasion schemes...
maybe that's why i feel like...
itchy-knuckles... those pursed lips...
some people just have a physiognomy
you want to either: slap or punch...
can i do both?
i feel like doing both...
no offence: joke... ha ha...
am i the only one laughing?

     i've been having problems with digestion
of late... apparently i've become intolerant
to milk... will i be drinking this almond ****
for much longer... the usual stuff gives me the *****...
does it require it being doubly filtered?!
do i need to drink goats' milk
to ease eating a marzipan cookie, & dough?
please tell me, oh "lord":  i can't be away
from not driinking milk: straight out
from the profanity of life's secondary "mother"...

digressing... no more cow milk foir you...
great... if i were a Hindu...
i can eat, beef, now?! no?!
the mother load of measures conscripting me
to not eat beef... has... fizzled out...
cow milk gives me constipation &
diarrhoea...
ergo? beef's on the menu, boys!
goat though... almond... tried oats?!
i need... milk!
cheese and ******* yogurt will not
cut it for me...
goat then... can't drink beef juice...
eat beef... or... wait a little...
perhaps the juice hasn't been
double pasteurized... doubly filtered...
i, never, quiet: essentially...
expected this...

now for the red-blooded meat!
bring it!
if the cow won't give up her milk...
for my digestion...
she best give up her red...
fission of blood... fleshy discards...
scaphism...
truly: eating sometimes... somehow
becomes a torture...
as Socrates is cited to have said:
some... live to eat...
while others... eat: to live...
i do enjoy the spices...
i do enjoy the... smoked salmon
with lemon juice & a creamy cheese...
the bagel! rounded... glutton...
like a *******'s buttocks rounded up
to metaphor a peach! ha!
or the raw herring in a
creamy sauce aligned with a dill sauce...
my preferences...
not yours...

- i hate my mother, then again: i love my mother,
my fatheer ws abandoned by his,
his father...
she's currently doing my father's nails...
i showed her a Botticelli's Venus & Mars...
the one were Venus is an amputee...
the leg dynamic...
i thought it was funny... my mother thought i was drunk...
i am drunk...
come on though... can't get a joke?!
sober people... blah...
about as interesting as Brussels Sprouts...
boring rigorous little busy-bodies...

oh... right... that inverted tetragrammaton...
here:

∇ΘMΦ...

   now, your choice of vowels to impregnate
the consonants,
the Hebrews hide them like some Europeans
hide the H... via the diacritical method
of the stupendous orthography...
Charles Dickens might have cited "orthography":
i.e. a spelling mistake...
you get orthography, when you apply
diacritical distinctions... otherwise just some
"flavoursome fancy"...

niqqud:  which implies...
kametz / patach (a ****** way of saying Ah or... Ą)
tzere / segol (again, the ****** way
of saying Eh or... Ę)
sheva - well, that's not ******...
that's Ing-Leash with the apostrophe ':
akin to 'nome... some "g" or other...
cholem - that's for O(micron)
chirek - why i, i y i not j(aded),
kibbutz & shurek - upsilon for the Greek
while an acute cholem for the ******... ó)

an appellation on behalf of the Hebrews from
a Latin man inquiring about the original
investment of the Greeks in
crafting the New Testament...

can you please... come up with an "Exodus" book,
or thereby equivalent to match up to the
"Genesis": new, thus stated...
thank you for the stated genealogy "study"...
you think you're ready? has Rome died?
has the Roman alphabet imploded,
died, like Cunieform?!
i thought the Hebrew diety either:
ate up foreign dieties and made them demons
(odd show, Beelzebub)
or... smashed the phonetic encoding systems
of other people...
so, i ask... why am i still typing in Roman?!

****'s sake, i can still give you the basics of
how the coliseum was constructed...
they constructed it using VI + IV = X!

hasn't the greatest Exodus happened,
after 2000 years... Israel was returned...
lazy ***, ****'s sake... camel jockeys!
no one is going to write about your trials
and tribulations for future generations
to understand?!
how the Hebrews returned to their homeland...
almost, lazily,
do i need to spur one ******* on
to conclude the New Testament without
managing to haggle the book of the Apocalypse?!

whales that beach themselves...
what... they'll spontaneously turn into
monkeys?!
sure... they're mammals... but it's not like
they'll spontaneously grow the sort of limps
that'll enable them to climb trees!
suicide among men makes so much more sense
when whales perform the act (of suicide)...
i'm on board...
it's not even pathetic, it's just... ******* weird...
i too don't feel inclined to belong...
we can all be jokes: ha ha... banter blah
a few minutes longer... but truth be told...
this sort of ******* has a life-span that:
i'm not too sure whether i want:
to see-through fully, to a conclusion...

best be on my bicycle and block out the world;
the world can burn...
hey... if you want... i'll even involve myself
by giving the burning some ******* jazz-hand /
applause...
because these are the times...
a comedian is self-conscious of comedy
via CANCEL CULTURE...
the poet... they ignored you, they ******* on you,
they already cancelled you...
right... so, now what? i'm supposed to stand
up?! defend comedy?!
oh believe me... this is the greatest gag around!

you didn't defend the poet...
i don't think there's a need to defend "your"
sort of sorry state of "comedy"..
must have been a very bad joke to begin with...
it's the ideal returns policy:
i give out as much love as the love that was given
to me... seems fair, seems...
equilibrated, n'est ce pas?!