you can go for a weekend to Paris,
sit by the Eiffel tower,
eat cheese, baquette and dollop it all
with cheap wine...
   but you'll never read
        Victor Hugo in french...
            otherwise?
you'll travel to an obscure part of
Poland...
             and you will not see anything
culturally motivating...
    you will not see Warsaw's Palace
of Culture...
               or you will not see
the castle at Wawel...
   you'll take to a literary tourism...
    luckily...
                          you''ll take to
reading Kraszewski, saying:
       and on the same topic, Sienkiewicz
also wrote, the coming nadir of
   the Polish (crown) and Lithuanian
(duchy) commonwealth...
    the rzeczpospolita...
                         and everything else you might
consider being a tourist about
suddenly disappears...
    or you'll travel to Edinburgh and forget
the touristy-*******...
instead downing a warm brew of amber
and the tri-combo of: 'aggis neeps & tatties
in a pub on the royal mile: spotty ****'s.
        3 years of my life in Edinburgh,
and here i am, in an Essex *******...
                but i feel nothing concerning
this scenario, it's a Spartan clue:
if you come from an even bigger *******,
a ******* like Romford is a bit like:
    Larkin and Hull.
                             i mean... who would take
to visiting Ostrowiec Siwy
                 Św.                         ?
  from a lineage of metalworks,
   the satanic turbines and molten iron...
   which is why you take to literary tourism...
you read - by general consensus -
the unbearable Kraszewski -
      because you've seen the film adaptation of
the same story by Sienkiewicz...
               with fire & sword...
potop (the swedish deluge) -
                        and said: give me the alternative!
it really is a tourism of a different kind,
    and if that be a case for a trilogy:
     king Piast... and Jan Sobieski...
   Vienna: winged hussars and the Turk canon...
           later a brand of *****...
        can this be a case of romance?
i don't know... given the global
isolation tactic
of censoring certain regions, obliterating them
as vaguely ''there''...
                          you'll never really know.
but then again i did read Kraszewski
in order that i didn't have to read
   paweł Jasienica's history book...
      but primarily because i already seen the
Sienkiewicz adaptation,
     concerning the monarchical experiment
of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
  from the line of Sweden... the house of Wasa...
    and that famous ship in a museum in
Stockholm, which sank after a voyage of a mile..
            the brothel of kings and queens,
that's what the p-l commonwealth was...
               a mere experiment...
                       no wonder it was carved into
three pieces at the end...
                          if indeed it was as ******
as the english monarchy,
it would have been the totalitarian chapter in
that geographic region...
                     but in reality,
it was nothing more than a playground for
monarchs...                 who spoke no Polish...
         or Lithuanian...
                           and yet they ruled the land...
          and yes: Yan Casimir was a laughing stock...
bethrothed to the widow of his brother:
        władysław IV -
                                      my stance with history?
a persistent itchiness...
                             human history is taken to bed,
a bed festering with bed bugs, gnats and dandruff;
tomorrow will not be any easier...
                      teeth lodged into stone...
             yesterday: a skeleton dance,
  and a xylophone ribcage.

a few songs can capture the modern sense of urbanity, and the
apocalyptic 5 a.m. of London - but i've become estranged from
that sort of neon addiction - there's no syringe involved,
no amateur photographers on the ready, either -
yes, a man of great love, but also of great contempt:
and that goes hand in hand.
the favourite memory of my first year at Edinburgh?
eating haggis neeps and tatties at the ***** ****'s
pub on the royal mile - followed by shots of whiskey -
in my student accommodation,
placing the amp on the windowsill, the window open,
and just jamming out far removed Nirvana solos
with a few spectators: modern day equivalent:
of mad max flamethrower guitar freak -
losing my virginity to Isabella: psychology 3rd year
exchange student - from Grenoble - France,
yep, not the ******* Himalayas - the Alps...
the lacrosse initiation ceremony in lycra shorts:
back then i'd be a stumbling buffoon after a bottle
of whiskey... these days? well, usually a closing
poem at 5 a.m. - minding the cats to come home
after spending it out in the cool on a sultry night -
i wasn't serious about the lacrosse -
jeez: the meat in this place is stuffing me -
get out before they tell you to buy your own gear:
team or group mentality? never got it -
soloist pronto - pronto andante - chirpier that way,
getting the whiff of the bubbly without stand-up:
imagine a sit-down comedian... hard to imagine.
the gym... oh **** me the gym...
you know, i knew a guy in first year that only managed
to cook up plain pasta, with salt... plain pasta
with salt... another guy ate spaghetti with
tomato sauce all year round... in the last week he
added meat to the mix... not trying to brag:
i'm even going to mention what i cooked -
                    i was living with horror seeing these
boys adapt to: mommy not here, mommy out to lunch...
daddy not here, daddy out to crunch out the income...
well... apart from the rich puppies who chose
catering accommodation, turning university
into a school with a pristine canteen - canned teens -
just as much - so if i wrote cantine you'd say:
canned thyme? how the hell does that work:
i abuse language, language doesn't abuse me -
i don't need cushions surround words like
()()()()()****()()()()() - better? much better -
hush the angry words out! use the sterilisers -
maybe that's why i never experienced anything bad
using the internet - honesty and bluntness -
maybe i shouldn't have said that. or that's just lucky.
princess and the pea and the 100 mattresses
and a fickle *** - ah itchy! it's pinching! it's pinching!
100 mattresses and still the ****** pea.
then again, staying up all night, then deciding to
climb Arthur's Seat at dawn, getting there, then
climbing down and going to Tesco at 7 a.m. to buy
cornflakes and full fat milk... that was something;
but you know what i'm really thinking about?
it's no longer a maxim, it's a cliche -
               but i'm thinking about it in mathematical
terms -                                from the verb
                           on one side, to the posit or inertia
on the other - there's no grammatical version of what
really becomes a pentagon with five attachment points
primarily - a cul de sac of facts -
                                                            but­ mingling with
grammatical categorisation nonetheless -
          but what i'm thinking about it how to make it
simpler, to use mathematical notation:
i.e.
               i think is an expression
                                       worthy of about 1 centimetre,
  given that thought is a marathon -
                   but i'll just say: could it be anything but
  so differentiated increment divisibility to
              thus provide a sigma? although the expression
is hardly an ad continuum - at some point you
stop thinking, hence to differentiate i think is assuredly
a way to say: well, not constantly - meaning thought
   is not a continuum - and can be talked about in the
same was as talk of god: that's where i place the prime
of ethical action - it's not god... i don't ascribe ethical
action in that direction: just too easy, whatnot with hell
and heaven and goody two shoes waiting for the
big spark of magic or applause and the heckler: well done!
god, dry humour is the best - sarcasm is dry humour -
satire is wet humour... and other than that?
               slapstick, nothing too witty, i hate witty comedy,
they always need canned laughter:
at least slapstick humour makes the effort for you too
make an effort... and it sometimes hurts, so it's real,
when you start flexing that abdomen and get a six smiley
faces on the torso.                anyway,
              looking at my **** it really dawned on me:
  (by the way, Descartes wasn't really out to prove he existed,
   someone thought he did, he was trying to work out a
proof for something that someone else would pick up
   and elaborate)             i think is but a centimetre
                              compared to the marathon of thought -
(sizes in this scenario is perfectly compatible) -
          meaning that               i am          (italics?
emphasis on these to expressions being unitary) is but
                 another centimetre compared to the marathon
   of being                                    or the Antarctic expedition
                      of non-being: i.e. not necessarily
   assembling: what if i wasn't here... but more like:
              what if i did something differently -
again, flea market questions -                        why bother?
    come to think of it: the former unit is more simpler
to encompass - although i agree that the former translates
into the latter: thinking proves i exist,
                            because ex omni instances
         (out of all), there's an equal compatible expression
of mutual exclusiveness: thinking - the two together are
juxtaposed to be allowed a kind relativism -
      but whereas the latter (i am) unit is not only plagued
by the nearest pentagonal absorption via the senses,
but also a definite article / articulation of so many posits
of expression: multiplex verb -
                  the former (i think) unit isn't:
a. plagued by the pentagonal... blah blah blah...
             but rather by a mandala of faculties:
   imagining things, remembering things, dreaming things,
               maybe i shouldn't have said that?
   who knows -
                             the basic thought was
about:           i think is but a centimetre compared
                               to a marathon of thought - a minor fact -
   i am is but a centimetre compared to a marathon of being -
     and to be honest: very few people would take
courage in understanding this glib in the sigma of all things -
imagine football hooligans equipped with this potential...
i can't: i was watching the Everton v. Sunderland today,
and all i could hear was the chant: YANNICK BOLAISE!
            YANNICK BOLAISE! YANNICK BOLAISE!
yes, this kind of writing is a paper mâché -
or a vegetarian starter - but, you know, if you don't
try something new, you'll definitely win a Pulitzer Prize...
  if you don't like it? chop chop, on you go.
i know Descartes wasn't wrong, and i know that
cogito ergo sum wasn't intended to prove anything -
but it did prove a founding block for existentialism,
that's where all existentialists take a **** - Descartes
is the dump where Sartre wrote his being & nothingness,
and Heidegger his being & time...
                        well, key ingredient in someone writing
a sophisticated aversion to time: space, would probably
write something about sitting next to someone on a tube
and writing about sardines and livestock -
                           humanity as a virus, etc. etc.,
   compared with someone writing and thinking out
a statement of: well, isn't this marvellous - so far apart
and clean, and solitary and chuckles.
    i just wanted to use the mathematical comparison,
deviating from the pivot                   therefore     -
   away from each of the unit's verbs and adjective attachments -
  i just wanted to stress that each respective facts,
  are but a centimetre of expression,
   compared with what each evolves into - a marathon
on either side - perhaps it's because that's a necessary building
block to something greater: i can't complain that being
aware of this fact is a hindering beginning -
       i'm not saying that being aware of this maxim is
somehow going to improve your contentment with life -
    geometrically it's not like
                                                      horizo­ntal left to right -
more like vertical left to left-up and right to right-up
             and never therefore - for a reason,
consequently... but rather in parallelism -
                   for no reason whatsoever -
                                              contra-sequential­ly;
unless you know a Queen of Sweden, i don't see how
thinking precipitates into being that might you
leave you satisfied - and let's not a put a ****** on it
either: how many thoughts about killing someone
end up being jokes with a friend late at night?

i keep looking at people become serious diarists, like Paulo Coelho writing the alchemist, which can be an odd experience... i've got ants in my pants and i'm a dog's bone away from playing dead, sitting in mantra of: load off visiting Singapore and never getting the hangover joke of Bangkok... sinus gaping pore? it's all ******* feathery anyway... flusters of rouge should fantasy come to life.

learn to cackle, thus said: invoke a magpie, to learn laugher -
ha ha (etc.), as can easily be turned into a cackle,
only magpies cackle and even funnier,
applicability of diacritical markings,
as if stealing letters of silver spoons...
Scōtlānd: meiné skoot,
overt
           lá                           -nd...
spacing for the macron -
          and hence the acute without spacing...
                          truth to the tooth
and elsewhere bone-shattering governing the rattle
of the ribs... a canary's song least that of worth
with a woad's pigmentation...
               or said ivory to turqouise...
azure, and vented in lavender...
           but the cackle came
with *Scōtlānd: learn the linguistic
arithmetic! the macron und umlaut
synonym... if applying it learn it,
if not applying it: learn Bulgarian,
Oristice the peacocking accents...
        turquoise though:
Eurydice... Orestes... synonym of acne...
so few do, in that the diacritical indication
is a higher-tier arithmetic...
            such that the less implied is
governed by the impeding peacock variation
that suggests Da, in all prevailing -isms,
                   as saying raw, to a Tartar
over a horse limb steak galloping toward Ukraine...
         but here we are: adorning tartan
of chequers and navy that mingles blue & purple...
                       and here we are abiding to
the Faroe Isle recluse...   spelled aisle    said
i'll...      and that i dare not wallow in it much further...
haggis neeps and tatties... wanking over
a cow's testicular dangly... truant to all truth...
        and all truth to the truant rodins....
  thus to laugh excessively is to cackle like a magpie,
   and hark a phlegmish soar with the raven...
                and end all tragedies without
a Hebraic definition of ha as
      the: direct article... for good manners suggest
that no clue be justified in cradling the sigma
of either the zenith of the Babylonian tower
or the spiral of condescending might twirling into
an imploding tornado over Egypt and all things
                  extravagantly Pythagorean...
  or as Balaam said: i rode a donkey out of Yerusalem:
sprechen yiddish.            
               three years among them...
  and i can say with much demand: Scōtlānd...
scootlaand...     if i ever learned to cleanse,
i also learned to adapt... a circumstance of thinking
myself adequately counter-inept to share
   the Baltic with Lapland skiers, as synonymous
and congregational in being translated into Ęglish
          for what already is: a truancy when cultural
criticism isn't enough... because the culture makes
one truant from engaging with it... because there
is no culture to be critical of...
                   a hermit foretold and with clasped hands
   gave alms, and later: with a slow clapping
          made hands orate what the tongue made shoelace-
                                                       ­         (op+. -spaghetti)       .

From the East Coast of Ireland to the Lowlands of Scotland,
a well-trodden path,
Grandma going to Whiteinch Baths,
to do the family laundry,
And to take my Auntie for a swim,
the black and white photos look a bit grim.

She mispronounces certain words.
When you put your dinner in between some bread,
she'd look at you, dead, and say,
"If yis waanted sangwhiches, I'd have made yis sangwhiches!"

And, "you're very pass-remarkable,"
I think it means you're quick to comment on others,
my Mother's also from Glasgow,
and doesn't know why Grandma speaks like that,
so this isn't just me being a Sassenach,
or a daft English ****.

25th of January is Burns Night,
serve the neeps, tatties, a glass of fizz,
and of course, some Haggis.
Some say offal's awful,
but I just can't get enough of the stuff.

A firm favourite of our clan is a creamy dessert named Cranachan.
Topped with berries and a splash of whiskey,
you can guarantee a thumbs up from me.

The ancient family tartan is red and blue,
then there's the family crest too,
a knight with a shield under a tree,
I think it represents gallantry.

I sometimes wish I had a proper Scottish name,
like Hamilton, Douglas, or McCain,
don't suppose it matters,
at least I can understand the patter,
(that means joke or language.)

A saying about saving your coins,
"Mony a mickle macks a muckle,"
always makes me chuckle.

"Does it, aye?"
is a very dry reply,
used to take the **** and can be easy to miss.

When my Mum was younger, the family liked to roam,
but when she visits Glasgow,
she says it feels like home,
her voice even changes when she's on the phone.

Sounds English most of the day,
then my Auntie calls, and she's on her way,
"Haud ye weesht!" when she picks up the phone,
that means be quiet,
but you wouldn't have known,
that isn't her normal speaking tone.

Scottish family,
some are distant to me,
but through my parentage,
it's nice to have the heritage.

nie będe sięgał, klękał, zginał, czy wiginał sie przed tym krzyżem!
   (i will not reach, kneel, bend (myself), or contort (myself) before this crux!)
given it's a geometric abomination, as it already is, with prior pythagorean
stress on the triangle; at least that shape is a zoo of interpretation... the crux? that's open to interpretation... either a + or a x.

oh, and by the way, this zeitgeist debate regarding pronouns? slavic language use the pronouns sparingly anyway... you can almost say they're non-exixstent in a conversation... for example... the i is hardly used; which really makes the western language discussion about "proper" pronoun use... very, very, ******* funny; and i do mean that pronoun usage in these languages is a given, i.e. it's automated, and imbedded for no kind of disphoria to become prevalent, or hit the radar for discussion.

as i always stress...
i'm a composer, not an entertainer,
i don't have two or three poems
in my repertoire...
    this **** isn't coming at you like
some *gangnam style one hit wonder,
or gibsberg's howl...
                    i'm just a pulverising
train-wreck of a man, drinking to excess...
and... well... feeling gleeful, to say
the least, smirking most of the time,
and sniggering at the odd occassion;
oh, did i mention, that i simply love
wearing sunglasses?
and yes, living in england,
it's hard to get into the patriotism
           the americans
are almost automated into (alt. indocrinated),
i wish i could be patriotic about being
english...
                 but **** me, there are too many toffs
and cup-cakes to get through to be patriotic
about this place...
     i sprechen the english sprechen,
but i decided to still keep my native tongue
and use it in my private space, that i'm supposed
to call a castle...
              oh but i'll speak the english when
i'm outside of the house, and no one could
tell me i'm foreign... but they sometimes,
annoyingly ask: so, where you from?
after that question, the dialogue suddenly disintegrates....
******* inbreds.
  but you know what i learned about immigration
in europe? you can borrow from american patriotism...
you get so ******* nationalistic **** style in "exile"
with regard to your birth country... it's, simply, unreal;
last time i checked... no news
                   of a muslim attack in poland;
but **** me, i'd love to have that spirit of patriotism
that americans have, inherently;
  ah, but you know, europe is a poly-lingual continent,
which makes it a witch's cauldron, anticipating
death and despair;
and no, given that england uses the same language
as america... you can't, for **** you me, become that easily
patriotic about england...
         welll, objectively i have complete fluency of the english
tongue... but subjectively? fish & chips, 1966 world cup?
the beatles, pink floyd, led zeppelin,
                                             black sabbath, rolling stones?
toad in a hole?
          mate, i'm up in scotland, with a mouthful of
haggis neeps and tatties.

i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.

i still managed to catch a whiff of britpop...
i was going to st. augustine's
and all the boys were all about the oasis
look... so ben sherman shirts...
          never tucked into the trousers...

but this was in the 1990s...
             of course the celebrations were short-lived...
sooner or later a prog variation of brit-pop
had to come about with radiohead...

i kind of skimmed over the early stuff...
there, there - from hail to the thief is my stand-out
track...

having just watched a movie about
the iceman... a one ryszard kuklinski -
well... if the icecream truck:
mongrel dutch-irish and this one ******
would never make into the guinea club...
or the elder fathers of zion...
guinea? seems i was misinformed...
rome's best wops... or donatello goombah...

i'm having trouble with all these
anglo-saxons slurs...
     back in dandy ol' england...
             it's not a great period piece:
happening right now...
to be in the protected class of citizentry:
no mosque... oh hell:
protected status with a falafel?
exactly... where's the falafel?

             but from the movie... wow...
it is: but it isn't... a racial slar...
the one word from skiing these oomp'ah-
loomp'ahs *** 'ight...
                        
and in mewwy ol' england i come across
the natives... almost for a second time...
not the same sort of natives
i met prior to my 1997 / 1998 interlude...

perhaps 7/7 happened?
                      i really don't know...
                  but no great cultural export...
no oasis was sang on the continent
after oasis songs were sung...
it's not like kasabian made it into that
transcendental meaning on offer...
    
      hey! variations: pollack!
   paul-lack! st. paul's lacking? what?
a head... in athens... ah ha... dry martini of
a joke...
    but who am i?
        profession? pole / paul...
       ******* in my spare time, jackson jr.,
because... it's hardly a slur...
it would be a slur if i were called
a *** or a goombah...
the anglo-saxons wouldn't exactly
the rooted natives...
but they would...
it's as if expected:
from speaking latin and the eagle-fetish
to brewing cappuccinos...

a dutch-irish... well a dumb pollack joke...
yes... and now that the virus is caughing
via the retards in the supermarket isles
or licking ice-cream / toilet rims...
i guess an honest workforce is...
something to be less ashamed of...
compared to this ****** nation of:
the readily to be exile puke of reason...
"of their own"...

               i seem to have elevated my...
concern for words...
     i have just started to read my Charles Dickens...
and relying on Monday
to eat a more delightful roast dinner:
i says... it taste better... because it's not
a Sunday... it's a Monday...
plus... the roast is not exactly a roast...
it has some elements of bleau at the center...
because... you can't expect three
people to eat that much meat in a single sitting:
given the recipe for those yorkies from
ol' grandma of a james martin...

100g of flours, 4 eggs... circa 200ml of milk...
salt, pepper...
the dough is left in the fridge for an hour
at least... the yorkie trays are put into the oven
at 220C with the oil...
while the tatties are browning and the beef
is readying itself for the abstract
of my mouth... and the cubism of my ***...
pristine squeeze...

        if only in h'america...
            what wouldn't a norman davies call
the polacks if not industrial albino (s)*******?
then who were or would be... eire-
just -ish?
                         but the new continent:
i'm toppling down into the torso of a well-off
snowman built from an avalanche...

if there were britons here prior...
which includes the welsh and the scots...
and those people of Shropshire...
and those botanical tsars of Kent...
whoever these people are...
the noble barbarians...
   the better of vikings with no fjords
to revel in farming on?
   maybe those kind of people...
that sort of the native...
oh god forbid i should entice the cosmopolitan
brood to enter the debate...
not in the heart of the matter: come york
and its shire...
                      some longshank hobbit might
just pop its head up to high and kiss
a guillotine!

if there were the anglo-saxons...
    eh... some of us came... settled...
we wanted to... find... the englishman...
circa... 1860 - 1950... that sort of timeframe...
i guess we finds him...
question is... czy ja jestem, lecz czy on?
that's a good question...
is he the host and i the parasite...
well... funny that...
he isn't a body...
                       he's an oak that was uprooted
from somewhere among a many many
pines and birches in the eastern provinces
of this continent...
and moved... into a garden...
lurking: shadow... hunched crow
and some other hideous comparison...

am i the parasite? what host of a mind i did
acquire: who's me...
or i am him... then i'll drift into the other
trench and i'll tell the germans
that they're fighting anglican saxons...
what? yes i'll tell them...
they're not lutheran saxons...
they're anglican saxons...

              how? they have a monarchy...
a crown, central...
no petty princes bound to a federation...
i have also some across the modern natives...
the alt-right and the ethno-nationalists...
apparently: i'm not in the club...
how could i be...
i overheard them talking about...
electing a monarch...
election of monarchy...
    well... no point investing in the gene pool...
last time that was tried...
was in the guise of the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth...
the brothel of kings...
some were hungarians, some were "germans"...
some were even swedes...
the aristocracy elected a king...
a john lackland sorts from across europe...
until their big brother richard
or some variant of Otto or the proper didlo in
hand charles gustav would...
appear to wrestle with his baby brother's:
"betrothal" - evidently thart's one for the misnomer
and inversion...

the anglo-saxons as they were to be later known
as... no point beating about the bush...
but... i have measured myself against
these other inhabitants...
the welsh, the scots, the irish... and... well...
i'm not here on part of a conquering army...
my fellow countrymen are just about overwhelmed
by enjoying 100 years of privy
and freedom... little much of good will that do them...
a half-bred popular opinion:

that i hide my language in the freedom
i allow myself within english...
i'm here for the Dickens and the sunday roast beef:
and the yorkies... and the haggis and the neeps,
the mashed and roasted tatties...
and the black pud'...
            i'm not here to see how far west my ***
will point while bowing toward mecca...
if you don't mind me saying...
like i am not here for that kippah u.f.o.
ghetto of Golders Green...

                    i'm not here for a Marx on loan...
i'm here for a... "hashtag"...
   eh... the saxons have their unifying:
nomadic perspective to mind...
it's not like the saxons were not liked by...
say... the pomeranians...
   or the swabians... or the brandenburgers...
the saxons: semites of the north...
pseudo-vikings wishing for the proto- prefix...
well... are the modern saxons...
saxons? the saxons ****** off to england...
later ****** off to build the british empire...
i'm sure... the modern "saxons" are just
that... brandenburgers... some swabians...
the germans that stayed and were the enemy
under kaiser wilhelm...
that great... grandson of queen victoria...

yes... that war wasn't the war to stop all lineage
in-breeding... because...
it would take whittle adoolf the failed
art student to wake up the petty-bourgeoisie...
fully donned in khaki...
  and in hugo boss schwarz...
               and in... gulag grey-leash... of the wehrmacht:
of course...

    but anglo-saxons are, and were...
and there's this... grand ethno-etymology...
         listening to the natives...
   codes: white-genocide... ethnic displacement...
let me run back and check the state of affairs
in mother russia and ******-land...
polonia (in latin)... oh right...
i just heard... that a woman in russia...
university educated, a doctor, no less...
also believes that churches should be exempt from
restrictions on social gatherings...
because they are holy places...
and... viruses... in their primitive square / rectangular
modes of abstracting vectors...
or de-abstracting for a better cushion
of solid ground made... also have...
a sense of a higher-beings modus operandi
when plagued with doubt, or denial...
the virus knows what's scared to the russians...
too bad for all those russian buddhists...

dunno... what european are the westerners
worried about?
                         i'm here on "holiday"...
to read my Dickens: finally! it only took me
20 odd ******* years...
and my sunday roast on a monday...
   if there came a wave of anglo-saxons...
while the pomeranians stayed strapped
to the holy german empire "thing"...
and because there weren't any anglo-bohemias...
or modern anglo-czechs...

i'll branch out anyways...
                to the "greater" picture masquarade...
i'll be an anglo-slav if...
     and... oh look! they're here already...
i'm an anglo-slav... among the other minority
of the afro-saxons...
            
after all... there are tiers to migration...
there's that tier of polacks moving with the government
during the "affair" of circa 1943...
the no. 303 boys...
    and... after that? no one from ******-land
wanted to come to britain... h'america...
the golden retreiver...
               given the cold war... de facto:
to the antonym of the mensa harvest...

i came in the 1990s...
******-land and the other 8... joined the already
failing european union in 2004...
hmm...
          well... you did get that cabbage plucked...
that carrot too...
from... the sort of people without tic-toc
who... would rather **** braincells with a *****
after a god's monstrous maxim...
while i started sweating from my armpits
hunched with these words...
enough of braincells to ****...
not enough imaginative in a quasi-vivo state
of... the cannibal narcissus...
attention spans a week's worth of
goldfish adventures... licking ice-cream
you won't buy...

                            then again: a lacking paul...
is an otherwise over-eager pauline...

even if "we" were to become fully "integrated"...
like hell i was giving my mother tongue up
after that 1997 /1998 interlude...
i still wouldn't be able to teach my father the english
they speak: peppered with nuance from
the old mother grammar...
too bad... but the pronunciation is spot on...
i don't know why i should feel obliged to
the ******* on the cross to feel "circumcised"
for... his labyrinth...
      i couldn't teach my father better english
than the english already spoken: among the natives,
for the natives...
at home... mother is the cue... tongue
and everything otherwise...

we'll sample with the natives their delight in
minority cuisines...
but come monday... esp. a monday...
after a lunchbox worth of food of a sunday
feeling lazy... well... it just tastes better when
it's not... predicated on a riposte of...
conventions and harangue of: past-participle
expectations...

that sentence is littered with misnomers...
to add to the... otherwise... bland... talk...
correct... talk...

                   but i really couldn't teach my father
better english...
i have made this language sacred in my own
right as... both parasite and host...
interchangeable... of course...
eh... master and slave dynamic doesn't really
get me all hot and bothered...
i much prefer the lessened hiararchical nuance...
the co-dependency the symbiosis...
of a parasite and a host...
after all... it would seem the head of the pyramid
is a... fungus infection of the brain...
or at worst... a placenta martriarch of
a family of tapeforms: where, otherwise...
a foetus should be...

                i'm not into boot-licking...
but... if the anglo-saxons used these isles
as a spring-board to forever imitate the children
of zion...
i'm just the leftovers...
           the anglo-slav among afro-saxons...
the "great replacement"...
  woe'woe'woe... and that's a word that
should devolve into a calm down / halt insinuation...

who came after 2004... the people who didn't see loopholes
and wouldn't be seen gambling...
the sort of people that would most certainly
go back to the ***** and: the law & justice party
embrace...
   the xenophobic extracts of:
                        the impossibilty of the red sea
parting story... since they would never be the ones
there...
              that grey area...
like i am a grey area to them...
given... how many times did i want to spend
a summer at the ****** version of Woodstock...
Pol'and'Rock at Kustrin?
         lack hell i am...
   i'm confined to my little abode of folklore
anglo-saxony...
             rather: not having played the boogie man
from an 1960s period piece of:
vaginal and viagral expectations...
or... that thing known as brit-pop in the 1990s...
or... i've passed through york...
on my way to edinburgh...
           but yorkshire... beside the yorkies...
spuds? they call them?

         maybe... i'm counting 7 x 5cl to leverage
me at half a 70cl... but... looking at
what 35cl looks like turned into dosage...
i'm seeing more... than half an empty bottle...
i'm seeing the bottle as half full...
i guess this "predicament" came from
alcoholic slang and... positivism...
it's hardly optimistic... given... it's only
a perspective on only one bottle...
and there's still that sea to drink!

                      well... that's that... it was a most
enthralling ride back toward a square-root of 0...
much appreciated...
       now i'll just turn to the bed and the cushion
my head rests on...
and tell myself:
           this person was never born...
nor will his words take to boast about...
          a nativity play...
                 nor a pride in Shakespeare...
       it's one thing's worth a good reading...
quiet another... to treat it as an enzyme for
the collective: a catalyst...
to "re-invent" the wheel... as it were...
i have given birth... to perhaps...
the greatest thing i could "steal"...
         then again... i am very much...
                         exaggerating...
  but this was not born from the ****** ethnicity
of some european island folk...
  it was born on the continent...
   and it was somehow lived in and with...
never allowed to exfoliate into a courtesan...
annoyance... i gave it a limbo cage
both the host and parasite could enjoy...
after all: this language is a parasite...
i acquired when integrating...
    i am the host...
the parasite can dictate what it wants...
a blank page to exfoliate a boquet(t)e with / in...

it would most certainly appear more
orthographically sound: if boquete had an added T...
well... some will cite Shakespeare the first of and
the end of... what's defined as Ęglish...
i like to think of the... "subtle" master...
     i somehow knew it was in him...
after watching the film-adaptations... not good enough...
not having read David Copperfield...
a brush with J. D. Salinger and all that
holden caulfield Son-of-Sam sort of crap...

             i guess you just have to age a little...
a little is never greedy... and pounce on that great
big peacock playing: the pink elephant in the room!
that's me... Dickens wasn't impossible
to "unsee" or "not see"...
                                  i just needed...
the right sort of hashbrown sort of nudge...
enough organic encounters with yorkies...
baked tatties... h.p. brown sauce and enough baked
beans...
  yep... now i'm ready...
                  it's time to gently slide away from
Macbeth... and into Dickensian prose...
the Pickwick Papers is as any good place to start...
all the better: since it came highly
recommended why i was still in high-school...
all those... ****... 18 years later.

you do know hat haggis
isn't even, remotely original,
as sourced in scotland...
as aren't bagpipes, i.e.
dudy - bagpies... sorry,
                               bagpipes;
but it really isn't the case!
            haggis?
   it's called black pudding
in england, served at breakast
with baked beans -
which, if was a sauce,
would be so much better than
ketchup;
      and it's closest cousin?
       bound / found in eastern europe...
less barley in that mix...
but it's called czarná kiszká....
  black... mingle.
     so i said less barley...
in eastern europe you entertain
kaszka... kasia... kate... catherine...
in the mix... i.e.porridge...
that's the difference between the scots
and the poles and the english...
the english don't add
the carbohydrates...
        which is why their version of "events"
is served at breakfast...
and can't constitute a "happy meal"
base for something eaten, in the afternoon,
or in the evening.
          black pudding?
      it's like looking at black fudge...
it's not exactly scot pub-grub
of haggis, neeps & tatties...
    (haggis... turnips and potatoes)...
or the charná kíshká variant...
       fried with onions and some garlic.

.                             mono     automaton
                          q  u  a  s  i  o  m  n  i;
in­to root of the crux
                                                i will
                       invoke,
a black cardinal,
  that challenges
  all self-righteous popes,
and all self-imposing
popes;
   are my words not bread?
are my words not wine?
then who claims authority
over the justification
   of the authenticity of
            recruiting people
toward the position of "power"?
   who's if not the dead borthers
feed your near cannibalistic mouths?
        who feeds the living,
when who feeds the living,
are dead?!
          necrophilia; rampant!!!
cry...                 asylum! asylum!
who's over-reacting?
   some irish will tell ye'...
    i hate the irish...
   i have a fetish for hating them;
esp. those
settled in england;
  those ******* i hate the most;
why?
    i was wearing a german army
shirt in an irish pub, and
what did the bartender say?
i can't serve you.
   you engaged in the second
world war, paddy?!
******* potato harvester
     ginger-dangle-bell of
a hope... that never comes...
just the drowning ginger ***
who's abode was and will
           be the belfast dim-wit
known as
                              the titanic;
**** me, i'm not even born &
bred english and i already find
the irish worthy of considering
genocidal tendencies...
scots? **** me, shoot me
to a pub for a whisk,
and some 'aggis neeps 'n' tatties...
the welsh?
      what, the ultra-german spelling
machine that's not even
comparable to germans?
   i'll just talk to charlie prince, y'all...
rrrr... (i just had to make it obvious)...
the ear-ish?
       i ******* hate the *****...
and i'm not even english to begin with...
some people you immediately get
to love...
   aussies, the finns...
                 and some people you
immediately get to hate...
                       the irish, the germans;
it's a shame though,
   i learned this pathos
   from acquiring the english language...
i.e. "assimilating" into
  the culture, p.s. the i.r.a. attacks,
so yeah, peedee pi dee p'oh,
   and a paedo to ring
             the bell for friday's mass...
   f
                            uck
             me,
            coming off the rocking chair,
next you'll find me so much so
assimilated that i'll be calling
it the irish and the northern monkeys...
vs. the loondish
               and the southern fairies /
                                                   pansies;
i suppose if you're ever
going to assimilate, hold to the local
customs (when in rome,
         do as the romans do),
**** me, it's great,
at least i can finally realise that
   there's no greater "racism" than in
the intra- realm, as oppossed to
the inter- realm...
    once again... it's not racism,
   it's "racism"... or a way to get along;
s.j.w.b.g.l.t.q.t.+ sycophant?
    drunk like a skunk... you walked
into my bedroom, you'd get an aura
of a brewery...
                  i can't believe i had
to learn english, and have to succumb
to outer-london prooper english
stereotypes, that i was trying to avoid;
but at least the irish made it plainly
obvious for me to establish,
   giving my transcendental approach
to diacritical marks, which made me sound
posh english, and them,
  my synthetically inherited enemy;
which is nice, breaking away from
hating the russians and the germans;
if i go to a pub?
   i only drink guinness...
  why? it doesn't taste the same in a can
or in an export bottle...
    you need to drink guinness in a pint glass.

what should, could... what one would otherwise
do-not-do...
when language policing is so enforced
that i just... have to... punctuate a stutter or
at least suppose so on
a racial slur, a slurp-up stricken by ice,
and cold... and if lambs had elbows...
this modus operandi of post-colonial peoples
this crucifixion self-laceration
hard-on... which i want a taste of:
bad person, forever... murderer...
since there was no censor at work
around an added G: for giggle's worth...
and an existent R - although in english
there's no trill of it... no thrill, of it so...
nay bovver...
'aggis neeps 'n' tatties...
      otherwise the swede of the suede
is a bit like digesting blue & shoe...
once upon a time two bottles of wine
and i'd be off my rockers in
a little town in Essex where the women
are as fine as nuns and
sooner a cow-*****-******* for milk than...
Juan a-hey-presto... stand... night...
unbearable...
the less *** i've had the more
this... one-armed gambit does... the more...
of the trickery...
not overloading on the use
of a definite article...
but... it's so much easier to curl a hand
into a makeshift ******...
solipsistic *** lives... of... mostly men...
a bit like... regressing / seeing double...
homosexual ***-lives in literature from
the 20th century...
******* literature from the 20th century...
heterosexual antics of men
in the 21st century...
almost a: gleich scheiße,
           anders deckel...
                dekiel.... almost a loan word...
           living in close proximity of: zee schwaben
haben saschisch... aben aben...
perhaps the grammatical
juxtaposing is akin to ancient
Latin, my concern for: anders deckel
or deckel anders...
   same ****, different cover... cover's different...
overstating a fact with
a... conjunction or is it, is, the it...
preposition of... the it is is... Beckett's last
lunch... an hour of sunshine...
keep all chalky 'andy...
beside the apostrophe and the hyphen-conjugate...
glue's not glue:
blue is blue...
green is green...
but there's also... grue...
which is not... y'ella...

          a bluegreen: present grew:
for not yellow...

and i will... entertain... language policing...
over... slurring... past punctuation markers...
like... every time i see a choc-sensation...
no offense - you want the manure skin analogy...
because choc is counter-productive block...
well... let me get on my one remaining
good knee and play tongue the custard
for a Malcolm Noble...

     i would just hate to appease...
it's so ******* boring i'm turning into a boorish
**** of apathy...
by some lineage of argumentation
i've heard the lazy etymological
"argument" that...
from the Caucus... a ****-asian male...
the argument: Paul's a pole...
a pole a Paul's Paul...
            what's missing in... less than germ-
-anic...
                   like it's so simply
Slav(e)...

         less a ****** show & tell a whitey
clad in a bleached ghost necking-tie...
off-on-the-offensive...
   i.e. attack...
      there's a klaus nigge...
      a deutsche photographer...
there's... nigh-ger-ia...
            there's also a Nigh-Ger...
  giggle glutton... gargle... growing pains
in both groin... und gut...

cages i see cages i see tongues in iron
maidens i see souls in hell
and thoughts in limbo...

sound capture... i want to scoop some letters
as almost dead:

  ж = зъ = ż...
    imagine my disbelief at the lack of
orthographical aesthetic...
it only took a dot above the Z
to encourage...

perhaps in braille
perhaps in katakana:

         ⠛⠛⠗

         but letters as atoms of sound...
or methane...
ta-
         ma-
                      -ah
                                   -e contra -eh:
the tetragrammaton my vowel
catcher...
         no surprise of a fire...

hence the surd... like an apostrophe...
extending the saxon
spelling of words into compounds
in the field of chemistry...
a herr adams that wealth of the nations
shamed
jean-paul sartre... lived with his mother
because...

i'll have to leave it to stutter...
overtly punctuated...
no, no surprises...
it's a slur like it might be allowed
for urbanites
and listening to wap folk...
but no: wrap it up
on the horizon... already excluded...
so back to no drawing board...

spikes-up mein jerky chin of a Lee
and says: it's n'ah ah... LEAN...
****** my tongue is harsh but
not towing some unfathomable tie-up...
it's byzantine bilingual
but not... schizoid-teasing-afro-affluence...
like me taking a stab
at living in... h'almighty: Ghana...
visit... Raw-Andy... the Rwandese... plumber...

whereas the romantic affairs
of men are mostly... linear...
the romantic affairs of women
are... overbearingly... cyclic... thus...
what thus?

i'm strapped to a gimmick
and a pseudo expression of lingo...
i'm spineless... death-core....

replenishing the walking abortion(s)...
this ****-job of a man
this scrap heap of egg
and nullifying shells...
like this gargantuan homosexual
**** would never begin
or end with a flower-eater
quest for...
              a drunkard's ****, side...

there aren't enough hours in a day
to want to... beside having to...
listen to bbc radio 3...
once upon a time there was
me guilty of a radio 4 escapade...
but... where there's a t.v.
i'm pretty sure there's no fire-
                           -place....

like the old addition of curating
an attic space: might it be an "also"
cave... without ridicule...
underappreciated...
undermined... this tongue that
does the waggling...
like slurp majestic of floral pattern
*****... well...
i'm tired of the sort of freedom
thus, presented...

here comes the bundle... the bulge...
heaving criss-cross and X's
at the ha ha: stubble pin-point...
yahoo fro Idaho...
this whittle sort
of green patch of land 'n'
h'america..

    my yours truly...
       delving into shelved
secrecies of gluck-winding-back...
clock... there's the admiral...
the hour of our wait...
                the ice creasing a shallot being sliced...
the agony of the wait... the agony
of a yawn... the elongated

tears over an onion...
         if i could claim ownership
for a woman to deposit her
scrutiny of mortality...

yes, this shadow,
yes: this noon...
yes this dwarf of me in shadow grit
drifting toward an apart...

onions for the peel...
i tend to forget what and where
was... "fun"...
i'll hardly want to be left
having inherited
some variation of bias
with either children
or a grandiosity of grand-
   (angwy prefix lady said
so: sock 'em in)

        here's too, a forward...leisurerly
issued: from an Ottoman outpost...
i'm a bad man...
thought language police...
i'm a bad man...
i was inherently bad...
i'm bad i'm bad
i'm terribly... horridly...  anaemic... so...
self-lacerate moi...

cages in their 'eds...
language like afghan
******'s plenty..

better target practice with
those khaki attired
mustard clad foe...
to hell with the **-**-hoes...
i forget what's inclined by stressing
the dynamic of beta...
alpha resources...

as the crucified man said:
if i am not the alpha...
i'm not going to be
the BETA-BUCK-DELUX...

i'll be... last... omega.. "junction"...
yes... i'll be that... just that..
omega malph.

since no song unto poland, where sing and to whom if not scotland?! for where else my home?! but now i, in abandonment of freedom nearly grasped, in the white shadow of william's tower: residing in the nearing end of london - so that fox and crow might know my name and fellowship of un-abandoned gemini, each thought has become a memory for each rhapsody of an imagine you carved into me - yet why the madness of a Finnish lass wandering the Cow Gate street looking for a boyfriend, and why not a girl of firm root to teach me to stay put?*

i count my life a life
before i succumbed
to this ****-wit platform
of the alt. t.v.,
and there my blank canvas
was black, rather than this
white.. there i merged
nimble crab with hardy
nimble oyster... and there
the waves, and there scotland,
a dream beyond irish catholicism
within england of being schooled...
and there scotland!
o dream, o dreams! let me venture
back there! but i know you
will refuse me the grant of such
a wish... then let us ease heart an hearts
with a constant striving for labour,
and whether labour acknowledged
or disavowed as important
so that the supposedly noble-chaste
can battle with opinions rather than
with an eager man's axe to topple them!
am i too to not dream of a higher woman
keeping leverage of the women before
me watching in earnest a safe home
provided by a mule or an idiot or a banker?
but i rather dream, than be among such
rot of the oaken bark with stench
than makes me all the more eager to depart!
O Scotland! each night i claw off my face
in hope of seeing yorick, my youthful dream
of a song i kept to keep me youthful in memory,
and that platter of haggis, neeps and tatties
with a sucker of whiskey drenching the meats.

i just can't get rid of the moths...
5 for one bedroom
and... it's hardly an enterprise
in cubisms' revisionism...
daddy larva -
should i leave some
cotton for these poor
delights...
                  am i riddled with
a western "world" exhausted...
like... the pops of no new
genius?
  like polyphony was never
at play:
   when the rigour of man
made it: less of an affair that might
suggest green tea
and the superfluous
fling of a pancake at
a constellation of: nowhere...
  a crucial time for messiahs
and for caricatures...
magicians and iranian baklava bite-sized
retreats...
  not necessarily iranian:
could be lebanese!
       it's not like this grand past,
this grand history...
this inheritance tax on the mind
was to be ever borrowed from
a concentration on the trade
routes surrounding the baltic sea...
i... inherited... nada! nothing!
i acquired english when i should
have given inclination
to tsarina cyrillic and minor hector
mandarin...
       it's so unsurprising, though...
to catch up on the bbc radio 3 adventure...
to reach a platitude of i.q.:
i finally! finally!
fathomed the point of an english
soap opera... eastenders...
i didn't find an i.q. focus to mind...
a continuum perhaps...
but it has and always has been
just... ever so tiresome...
to compensate i.q. -
or to overstate it...
             it's not that i found soap opera
dumb... but after waking up
to bbc radio 3... i knew i was missing
a narrative: an assurance...
a soap opera is an assurance...
however banal the pursuit of harlequin
is...
it's there: a persistent brick upon brick:
wall!
      well... it's one compliment to hear:
that children "like" you...
that dogs or cats like you...
but... for god's sake... moths?!
i am not quiet assured a status in alignment
with a buffalo bill...

so much for nabokov
and the whole ****** and the entomologist /
etymologist...
catch them with what?
my bright oozing bulb of a phosphorescent
appreciation for the punchy cliche
goldberg variations?

to be honestly endeared by a dog...
to be made forthcoming
by a quizzical attention span of cats toying
with poker...
      but to make endearing
inquiries in the realm of insects...
who... fathomed... the flies...
a mythological man with an authentic
given name that came to be
the realisation of the myth of Beelzebub...

well... so much for sharing...
on the crux of a noun... like any other...
be it a moth... motte... ćma...
or a butterfly... schmetterling... MOTYL...
globalisation and...
well... no real etymological sensibility....

not even in sharpnel wording:
    in: w,
               im...
                        z: with, mit
o: about, um...
                      od: from, von...
so much for a shared purpose a sharing
of tattoos and ******* blisters...
like old age is a crease...
and youth an argument...
best invested in pickles...

                the ordeal of the night sky...
while having to grind a gripping
reality of something profoundly
stupid that it cannot be anything beside
stupid...
         a concept of a solitary pine...
when a pine as solitary is
impossible to fathom:
or a birch thus solo...

        an oak: while the adventures
of birches have come to their
natural advent of regrets...
           and this solo coffin shadow come
noon stans procrastinating a
show of shadows borrowed from
an overflow of the Styx...

Thames: a river... with... no authentic
tide: from mountains toward
the sea...
no... the Thames is an inauthentic river...
if it's a river to begin with...
a sea knows a concern for tide...
but a river?
a river should know no mirror
bogus "now" of a tide...
the Thames is like the Bermuda Delta...
an irrational high-rise ****...
enough to pluck one's eyes
out for...
   or don a sheikh hanky panky teasing
that 19th century morbid whitey
of celestial: wool! my eyes! needs! woolz!

some banal Clarice chasing a hunchback
Circe with a Charon towing...
impossible gravity of walking a stupendous
walk of arrogance:
this two-feet-tow...
my bucktooth and arithmetic:
theatre von der nacht:
lepper zeppelin -
   authentically lisping minor details:
an accent "here" or... "dasein"...

teatr nocy...
               ćma i jej obcy:
a moth and her other...
              like some proto-digestion
of custard and borrowed glue...
me left to my own: deus "ex" machina /
**** in machina device-works...
a concept of switzerland came
with both the tickling time-keeper
of a form of clock and some lesser
known 20th century protagonist
by the name of Young...

                  persuasions please!
i can leave my i.q. on the diatribe for
the persistent allowance
of the desired... "englishness" of:
queue...
            bread the brittle futurism of
a sanctity of bread:
beside this "thing" dubbed irish...
and gnats and breadcrumbs...
itches furthest from the last
encompassing loiter...
of a truth salvaged via
a tartare steak...
a kogiel-mogiel...

                  a bread-owned soaking
up of a spilling yoke:
like it's a french... "thing"...
teasing an affair of a wig...
best: warsaw will forever be...
an interlude of:
the concept question from
london toward tokyo...
i.e.: why can't we have nice things...
answer?
we... ahem... never had them...
we tried... vaginal ****-wit
from Brandenburg or that ****-****-wit
from lady muscovite...

here's to samson-frankenstein's monster...
the furore surrounding
the faroe islands...
the 20 thousand(s) composition
of the shetland:
united schkootland repose:
'aggis neeps 'n' tatties!

enough salz undz pfeffer
und we have haz ours...
hinderburg-esque hogmanay!
of the british:
not lived among the vilsh...
or the scuttling furore of the:
'igh 'anders...
          
cutie pie pork chop
worth a *******'s towing:
that last vanguard of / if:
              "too few"...

no... no good lending an ear
to listen to "shared": charred...
etymology of greek or russian...
London's desperate plight:
*** ordeal that never has to happen...

there have to be concerns
for calling it a new 9am...
just because it just so happens
in Edinburgh...
  there's the chopping of wood...
there's the ordeal of castratos
attired in niqabs...
the harems of the ottomans are
still a fetish for imagery best
sourced in Vienna...

            to worship the night:
is to find enough of day...
as sacrificial:
as banal... as enough...
to think with an exhaustion
of compensation:
     it's not that i dare not: dream...
but it's not enough to dream
to begin with...
i will harvest this eternal night...
to eat away at the day's
mediocre...
              mirror mirror...
             your wish for status lake...
i see no question-worthiness
in either sea or river...
how is it that i write
to fathomable formal linguo?
                  mirror in the shadow...
mirror in the lake...
murky time of river
and the hiding grey of the sea(s)...
come tide come swelling of
hinterland ambitions...
this little norse retreat of my
last perspective...
            perhaps i just want
to die a death pronounced by
having to don an agitating
pair of shoes: that demand...
towing a scenic incredulity of
a miser's mile?!

         how's that? roundabout
faroe isles! an itch of spreading butter
on... toasted bread:
notably a sourdough crusted:
new holborn sort of "adventure"...
no.. nothing new...
here's to drinking some more
while making it simultaneously
well-reserved ast having
the same inviting prospect of...
looking for:
a loot of a shakespeare and a full-stop.

Here’s a wee yin for his birthday
The hale world’s hae’in his supper
Time for a poem or a song
And a wee whisky chaser

Enjoy Rabbie’s supper
Wi that big sonsie face
And neeps and tatties
Wi nae stomach space

Every toon in Scotland
Every pub that he’s been in
Telt some odd stories
About his kith an’ kin

Telt them in auld Scots
It’s the language that he kens
If he’s got a beer in haun
He’ll pit doon the pen

Socialising wi’ pals
Whisky, beer and song
All the things to be enjoyed
An’ that cannae be wrong

They call him the bard
But he’s just a man
Wi some great stories to tell
And as many as he can.

i really came late to this party...
                                                    honest to god,
youtube was my h.m.v.,
   my field of strawberries,
a few bushes filled with berries,
i had to become a cultural
forager - nay, a ******* burrower!
a mole aiming blank
into new music...
         but then a recommendation...
hmm...
   what's this?
******* are in full swing!
   they're already moved into bitchiness...
never argue with a drunk woman
when you're drinking a pint
with an heavily autistic-man...
or offering a cigarette to a homeless
person you've met before,
sitting down on the pavement
with him, asking him: you doing o.k.?
ooh noo noo... not in a irish pub
do you get to argue with a drunk
irish woman...
you just wave you hand and say:
i'm not going to argue with you
like some ******* jedi mind trick
with a stormtrooper...
why bother the hassle?
   i don't even know how to haggle
to buy something at a cheaper price!
ooh, but blood's boiling...
it concerns two "characters"
millenial woes contra sargon of akkad...
and this is the ****** bit
that probably annoys everyone...
really? numbers?
    (i'm siding with the former):
these mundane egoists really care
about numbers?
    how about giving them
an auschwitz tattoo? cover them at
the end of each month, with how many
new subscribers entered their ranks...
that'd be fun...
  what?! we're number-centric...
   numbers tell us unfathomable
secrets of those in the minority of
a few...
    oh yeah... i really see a lot of views
concerning heidegger...
           nietzsche?
       i think he's been *****-slapped
and dipped in wax and set alight by
the mob... basically over-quoted...
  basically senile, basically less the case
for pondering, and more of
shock-value: provocation teacher tactician:
yes yes... teacher of tactical provocation.
          i'm trying to keep the lowest
imaginable profile at this party...
  i missed the s
yeah... the scots always seemed the most
continental in their approach to "things"...
    of all the tribes on these isles...
   the scots are probably the most prone
to engaging with continental thought...
   the english? head up uncle sam's ***...
welsh? head up uncle jack's ***...
                 irish? head up uncle sam's ***...
norther irish? dunno...
           peter neeps & mary tatties
    on the quest for the holy four leaf clover?
     don't ask me...
but like i said... i really, really came late
to this party... thank god it has distintegrated
into an **** of brutus et al. - i.e.
back stabbing and *******...
           'cos' conversation... sorta dried, up!

oh sorry...

    great movie review...

   paul-keel paul-kee,

another day
  in a never-ending
tomorrow,

  i must be either assimilant
or neither of the proper sense,
being lied to,
  told: you threw a pint
glass across the pub floor...
****** pub mind you...

  fowever much i find i find
your daughters fascinating,
i hope they end up
like your daughters of rotherham,
you pigs you
            bulldogs of slobbering
conscience...
   not fit for either the army
or the police force!

             i leave you with only
one, only one ultimatum:
              you have no excuses!
        degenarates! ****** fascists!
stop imitating arabs and *******
your cousins!
one ultimatum!
   only one ultimatum!
                  you have no excuses!
and that's the ultimatum!

you better do likewise akin to
the picts,
  start deep-frying mars candy bars,
and pretending to look ugly...
to ward off those who might
bite into a 'aggis neeps & tatties
for a better worth of a christian
trinity!

           send an irishman with a sentence
of heritage to scotland
to learn of the celt... and the gaelic!
         send the scoot
to reeshland...
                      and tell him the same fabble
of the gael!
then tire, of tomorrow.
  
and those pompous **** ways  
of the english...
   their pretentiousness
and their manners,
          and their good-attempting-tough
pair of shoes...
        no, these *******
were no match in their
angevin days...
            overcome by one sickly
augustus...
                  christened philip...
              
  let's agree, at least their daughters
are becoming bilingual,
in the most unsophisticated way...
     but who am i to avenge?
     well, not me,
   apparently i threw a pint glass
across the pub floor...
  apparently i was the invader!
   sometimes invading a place
can be the most passive act of self-assertion...

question the irish, question the picts,
question the longbowmen
that the welsh are...
              and then ask:
    are you sure you have a daughter,
and not mere alimony?
oh, that's right... a pakistani go-free card,
well, who could blame you for your
grand-grand-grandfather's colonial past...
who could blame you!?
   who could blame you
like you blame the neo-fascists for
the holocaust?!

minority report ***** and *****.

chem. soup brain... or Brian...
no song of no more new to come,
no new song of all that's to come,
no bride of either westminster
or wandsworth or walthamstow...
not within the confines
of the ****- burnings of the dolphin
skins of the yorkie-pies
of the ol' shire... coal-mined veins
from no, to no lesser Silesia...
among the Picts... dear widow
of London that's the current spirit
of lemon-suckling brine?!
oh my dear, what no aloof...
shying from the haggis, from the neeps!
the tatties!
and the myth of the deep frier
marzipan...
the fidget of the fudge explorers
of the Rhine of Yer **** Messieurs!
come to think of it...
i came to england as a fleabag of
eastern europe with a nietzschean moustashe
i borrowed and burrowed from and into
my father dear...
but when in SCOTland...
i arrived as a Dane...
this beyond past comparison arrival
willing to... **** a lass beside her senses
and her geography...
and in that... all was made sane...
because i see no reason to believe
these metropolitan daughters and sons
of fairies...
should they still exalt the ghost
of shakespeare...
and his art a mode of transcendence...
when all his works require!
actors!
the gob and goblet with my tongue
pickled in it like
the body of frederick barbarossa
arriving at Jerusalem...
London: the Salem of my Trials...
will ever and forver old Burns make
a speech: to later sigh...
because the English girls from Leicester
and Norwich arriving in Loon'don
will make it plain and far...
we from the foreign lands:
from the countrtyside will but and but
and but some more!
dear starlings pure... please! recite me some
of your love of Shakespeare:
as long as it rhymes... it's poetics;
ticks... those lesser tapeworms off...
here's a better terminology concerning
a cow-bell... roy orbison will never be allowed
to reign over the status of a black sabbath riff...
but...
he has the rest... nazareth and...
flea of the dog...
royal scots dragoons: this unison of
a non-continental aspect of land...
these isles...
and the english swans these english girls
will have to return,
cite their sonnets and never lend themselves
to "anecdotes" from the plays...
what did i say?
it is worth as much a misnomer
as it is worth a metaphor...
because for all of Shakespeare's worth...
he too would gladly rest,
his final sentiment via Bach's rolling technique...
should it be, when it is already well known...
no one recites a sonnet by a Shakespeare
when old Hogmanay is over...
when St. Sylvester's is celebrated...
and never this, very english... cold-ce
firecracker fore-warning the:
part and parcle of Guy Fawkes' night
of toy-terror...

what words and what words aren't...
and then those words better sung?
of never have,
of never heave...
of never baron over: of never "steve"
(stephen's claim and rite)...

so much for Shakespeare's sonnets...
when come new year's eve
and all that resounds...
is auld lang syne...
and all sing to embrace...
and none sign to what's...
nonetheless later sung...

was man ever to fathom being
so disillusioned to early...
to early as to catch a prosper from
the scent of thyme?
i can't stomach the recitations
of Shakespeare...
they sound to me like a clogged toilet...
i do not require a new recitation...
i require the proper reincarnation
plumber for this gobshite blockage
of what doesn't require to be ******* out:
re- again re- again re- again
and once more until another ted hughes
calls it: an "event at Wimbledon"...

**** it... yes... it was Primrose Hill...
unlucky for me... the Prussians never made it
into the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
nor was there a deluge to recount
on the canvas of a Bayeux Tapestry....
but sure as Sherlock ******* Holmes knows
his Watson...
cite and recite all the Shakespeare pedagogy
all you want...
the man would prefer rotten cabbages
to be thrown at the stage than having to endure
the immortality of a Bach...
esp. when... the words of a scotman are
sung come the eve of a new year's day...

by abide the Roud Folk Song Index...
this poo'em will too, not disappear as frequently
as the next to "new" viral video...

if only i wandered as far among
the Welsh... perhaps...
among the Richards of Little Ireland
and all the clever deargfriochta!

what's there to compensate with?
Southend... Colchester... Clapham Junction...
Prince Irvine of Clemence & Chelmsford...
epilogue of Epping -
as glutton Loon'don and...
fair well... bride Bethlem...

a song to not having parted...
a song to not heaved a last farewell...
a song for yesterday...
a song for: everyday!
a song for the domesticated dog...
and never the abides of a lost
leash that also calls itself a dog in horse-ridden
stirrups!
a song to bypass Leicester,
Doncaster, Newcastle, Carisle and...
the lesser domains of Hadrian's scare...
those BIG in domine dominos of history...

my putrid lot to have to remind...
it's not Shakespeare that's sung...
come the advent of anewed...
bubonic Edinburgh...
or how the first skyscrapers were born...
how the first bridges were raised
over no river or any manner
of a body of water...
how i came across my first
scottish "witch" and even if she was
the 2nd or 3rd Fiona...
i didn't fall in love with her...

old clinginess of a mythological Kiev...
somewhere between
Warsaw and Moscow...
yet again... it would have been
better that i return to the squalor of...
forget me to remember:
London 20th century 90s and 80s.

somehow drunk on language: a jazz impromptu...
nothing is ever to be orchestrated
or read from a script...
    
               and drinking besides...
               a manifesto on the sly?
               i hardly think: or rather:
               i hardly want to...
               compose one...

but i am sure to find some freedom... it's not
that much... it will do: working from the confines
of a dickensian paragraph is all the rage:
of all - but not these days, to be exact...

crumbs from the table of "muse"...
   it's a low-hanging fruit...
   something of the sort of worth than can only
   be worth: merely passing the time...
    by the mortal "adventure" circuit of events...
   this is me: not being present when
   beer, or flour... or ketchup...
   or mayonnaise... or the method of frying
   using oil... or poaching an egg...
   or the litany of respective spices
   being used in a curry...
  something grand... the moderns and their:
darwinistic slyly sliding into every narrative:
ideologues of darwinism...
who are they?
the history of man...
a back and forth:
starting with / from today...
   all the way back to... primodial times...
hunters: we were...
gatherers: we were...
foragers: oh for ****'s sake: WE WOZ!

i'm tired of the monkey veil...
               at least under the iron curtain...
something of freedom trickled through
the sieve, the cracks...
      where to? given this silicon curtain:
freedom on... zee fekkin mond?
apparently very little "history" happened:
or has had to happen...

there's only now: the 20th century...
   and then... nibbles of the 19th century's zenith
of... thomas ddison and george westinghouse,
alexander bell...
       but prior to all that...
the 19th century inventors and pioneers...
the 20th century pop culture...
all those ignorant ***** prior to the grand: "US"...

when darwinism: which is an ideology...
goes beyond biology... and... like leftism...
like communism... spreads its tentackles
into all things unattached with it...
i can hardly see a consolidation argument:
an omnipresent "needle work thread-through"...
am i in denial or do i simply think that
darwinism has robbed history of time...
as a linear motivation for moving forward:
by a poppy seed's volume per year...
on one's knees: up to climb mt. megiddo?

i am pretty sure darwinism...
        doesn't have the capacity to dictate
a branch of history that stresses its presence
via etymology -
how... the word cool: is currently out
of vogue... and in decline...
               back to the reality of:
having a cold beer...
           which is cool... because a room temp.
beer is... choice:
bad-manners... crass... puke-juice...
and some others i'm tired to conjure...

  but this jumping from: primodial man:
to the current, modern man...
and leaving no traces for the middle-men...
a philip augustus of france: the capetian...
      
     pompeii: circa 70ad...
                 sometimes the gods would visit...
hermes trismegistus...
       because it was: so...
                   then again:
the darwinistic historogical reflections are
a bit like saying: we've been hoarding...
there's no brain without a fever to store all
the past claims of vanity...
but a complete whitewash...
a blank slate... to work with barely nothing...
and to dress it up to...
the language and fashionable attire...

    it's like jumping from the big bang:
a lot of banging happens in a vacuum...
              oh yeah... you can hear a needle drop
in a vacuum of space...
what a name: genesis: big bang...
big hole bang black: is the way forward...
let's breed us a middle-ground of
the copper / cinnamon royalty...
                     i start from the north...
you start from the south...
we're bound to create a new equation
for where the equator should be...
on the 23.5°N line...
that story: all out of africa...
                    who brought the albinos?!
but do you come across a copper cinnamon
people quickly?
   it's mongrel of... black words on white paper...
there's even a name for it... tropical:
and cancerous...
    because you were never to witness...
what happens...
when there's a first investment in mixed-race
coupling...
   come the second generation and the bleaching
is continued:
               there pops up a curiosity:
like afghani blue eyes...
              
perfectly matched-up insomniac journalism
and darwinistic historiology...
   oh: everything that came prior...
insignificant...
  but i am sure i wasn't there... when...
flour first came into "being" and when eggs
were first harvested for the mass production
of cakes... and when there came about
a domestication of a mountain goat...
or how the cow decided: two stomachs best...
and a... digestion process that...
well: it's pretty much an imitation
of that of a fly... which is why: let man conjure
up elves, orcs... and let the gods mind
conjuring up: elephants and... sloths...
and... the man who invested in trans-genderism:
consciously ingested a tapeworm embryo...
to feel: what a "foetus" would feel like...
what is the tapeworm... if not the placenta
without a mouth?
                      
    islam and hair... though...
               is hair all, that?
                   what about: the manic pixie haircut...
tomboyish... slanting almost shredded
in look...
                  what about:
a fly in a champagne flute...
    or... there's a hair in my soup!
       i know that some people react to hair...
in soups... with... a... 'get it away from me!
poltergeist! poltergeist!'
          hair... long hair... does it have
to be about hair?
   i don't seem to be lacking in this grace...
                               but a perfect skin...
   oh sure... said the bearded-lady...
or the french: au naturel propagators...
   but why is fair such a must: must... fancy?
was there this 6th century affair for bad
teeth as there might have been for...
greasy wigs?
            
                        now wouldn't wearing
a hat like a hebrew might wear a kippah...
notably in those 1950s movies...
    and prior... to have to be always attired
with some headgear...
                and... the trousers whereby...
they reached up... to the mid-torso...
     and would never be... worn like today...
under the bellybutton...
  
   hair... hair in my soup = there's a fly in my
champagne flute...
   i'd probably gag less at the fly...
     spawn of the disinfecting maggot brains
that would sooner feed on dead-flesh
than...

   maggot bullets for every zombie apocalypse...
a maggot bazooka...
maggots grown as g.m. crops...
fused with... piranha d.n.a. branches so that...
they could bite exponentially: quicker...
like jigsaws for jaws: or
                   super-slurper-vacuum openings...

this menacing: over-arching... shadow of time...
if there's no past worth to remember:
or its picked-and-mixed like penny sheets
or like extracts from the goodbook
for the apologists...
                                        but talk about...
the time it takes to boil a litre of water...
and the time it takes to... produce a bottle of wine...
jumping down from a tree:
huddling in a cave...
coming from the ***-side of Versailles...
then moving into... a communist concrete
chicken-shack...

                 and now:
journalistic-insomnia...
                                and... the forgotten fire
with exception to the candle:
               U.V. and poltergeists of neon...
always to be given... reiterations of reality...
while also... attempting to digest...
a thinning ice of fiction: narrations per se...
      
      i call for the federation of niqabs
and foreskins...
              at least a ******* is that sort veil:
that veils the least...
there are those ***** hairs
i call a beard...
and come: the story of the moon...
and there's artificial lightning:
i can actually compete with mel gibson's
"gibbon"...

            otherwise for me: the niqab of the soul...
or: why is he so: "ouch-tistic" rummaging
with his schizoid eyes:
averting the look of what's become:
the mini-skirt: perpetuated *****...
if only i had lived to have lived:
an aborted foetus...

    thank god for bulgarian prostitutes!
than god for bulgarian prostitutes!
a whole lot of them that just want
to ****!
the double-twist of: there's a ******
tux for every uncircumcised male: waiting...
liberal socialist democracy has:
zilch on the matter...

i'm still more bothered about how
darwinism made its plug-hole manoeuvre...
an apple a day: keeps the doctor away...
a poem a day: keeps the psychiatrist at bay...
for such advances in medicine and science:
that these branches still allow
sadists armed with pharmacological weapons:
calling the brain a... chemical soup...
i am not that much half-... Brian ist tod...
but i'm also hardly the
cucumber schumacher...
                 when skiing: just because:
and the snow forcaste is like what?
a burning tire exercise?!

                    if i was truly angry: i wouldn't be writing...
to invest in a boxing duvet wrapped up
in clingfilm... not my thing...
i like to see anger... evaporate at my fingertips:
rather than clenched into a fist
for a knuckle arithmetic...

how can i become: silly / angry about
english girls groomed and gang-***** by pakistani
men...
   remember: i'm the abortion that didn't
happen that somehow wrote this:
i wouldn't be touched: or ****** or...
                    all because: this one time...
at band-camp... there was a girlfriend and i
should have known better...
and for all i know: roulette and blackjack...
and if not mine...
then his... and that's 5 children squeezed
out from her ****: when i would have
advised for a caesarean section because:
a toddler's head would not be anything:
quiet close to... my ***** envy of...
a 12" **** of a roach...
and a kim kardashian ***...
which would be necessary...
                   to... wade through all that
gelatin bubbling and trembling!

my ideas concerning homosexual ***:
thank you, the kiss was great
is the gaybar...
but... i am confined to...
enjoy taking a ****...
esp. diarrhea consistency type:
i sometimes catch myself with an onomatopoeia
of a groan...
    something is always supposed
to come out... rather than in...

i'm still not angry... if i weren't an abortion...
then i'm expected to be...
eyes-darting autistic...
hardly able to read into
a physiognomy...
   i must be: unable to: interpret a smile...
i am drying up on finding new music...
so i must be outside the compensation
parameters of an "in-crowd"...

                i have to... most probably...
start working a genesis with a niqab...
or i have to make donning sunglasses
mandatory for men...
like... oh god: don't invite stiching
the eyes shut and the cenobite Butterbite...
what's a butterbite?
a butterbite mistakes oral *** performed
on a ******* for an oyster...
sooner: rather than later...
the **** becomes the oyster...
the oyster becomes a tulip...
the tulip becomes a slab of butter!

because: we're expert at this...
schumacher is still a ******* cucumber...
and it's not like, death:
this instant... a tweet...
or a telegraph...
it's a bureaucratic "backwards and forwards"...
watching paint dry...
or catching a snail on the nod...
an itching spider without a web:
a very abled... sportartenspinne-mann...
     spandex galore: clue?

hell... i was thinking about...
how more agile:
when darwinistic ideology would come
to ruffle the feathers and sieve...
and what became of existnetialism...
headaches and minor indigestion faults
from the 19th century: Denmark
would: or could become more apparent...
ruffle the feathers...
pluck them from a chicken...
poach it for a soup...
       perhaps roast another one...
skin the pig and cure and later
curate the skin that would become
a leather for a belt...
                
   darwinism and historiology...
heidegger might have summoned the term...
but he wasn't "battling" with english:
islander-thinking...
           "solipsism"... or for that grandiosity
of: the great h'america:
our best kept: interlude...
constantly revived: beside the confines
of Idaho...

          and the modern "question"
of islamic religiosity...
i call the same...
the mind is less obviously tinged
with... markers...
akin to... isoprene and atomic chlorine...
after chernobyll:
why was liquid iodine prescribed
to pregnant women?
markers: like dyes...
  to invigorate the "sedation"
of... an otherwise invisible reaction taking
root: or place...

islamic religiosity is...
very much akin to darwinistic historiology...
the study of history via monkey-dough
and brains and somehow also the ****:
the building block of aztecian flat-top
pyramids...
                islamic religiosity is...
the 17th century looking at 21st century...
darwinistic historiology is...
the 21st century...
looking at totem and the primodial man...
encompassing him in the present...
the 2nd through to the 18th century
are a bit of an amnesia...
better call it a lobotomy...

               there's knitting! there's picking!
there's the apologetics...
history taught from the perspective of darwinism:
is very much akin to history:
taught from the perspective of communism...
i'm sorry: one ape one world...
i do see the fullness... from the perspective
of a microscope... that becomes
the bottle-stump... once i'm finished with it!
having drank my fill!

to romance the vampire is to also
romance h.i.v.
                how does darwinism fare against
the backdrop of: orthodox: strict...
since there is no true darwinism in nature:
and nature: vetos... whatever are the opinions
of the ideologues:
the sieve... the harvest... and the discarded...

there's always an alternative:
etymological... in that...
prior to the written word...
there was the reasoining abounding in...
what came thirst:
the "d" of Δ... or the Δ: a triangle?
               can a sound akin to "d":
occupy... a sound... geometric tool for
exploring... O... omicron...
what came first? "o" and oh...
the phonetic encoding: O...
OΔ...
                      just a suppose...
                                  
   what letters: from greek... could have been
borrowed from the natural world?
O: moon and sun...
         Δ: the mountain...
                 β - a ***** and an ***...
          ζ and ξ - a serpent...
               ι: the fraction stick... and arithmetic
counter to a • or an apostrophe '''''''''''
                waves of omega and the mu(se)...
   prior to the key and the lock and
a door: φ (key inserted)...
              θ (key turned)...
            ψ (door opened)...
           i.e. Ug (Yγ): a tree...
                         applied to the key and door?
it's not a hammer... there's no nail...
                      eta (H): rugby goalposts...
    
etymology doesn't suffice...
      the words will become morphed...
the letters are a priori...
   as numbers are...
but... whereas numbers remain intact
within the confines of a priori:
letters take on a posteriori meanings...
notsably eta (H): the rugby goalposts...
or the "vector":  (φ, θ, ψ)...
rho implies: an amputee sysiphus...
but rho is a P... hence...
the lost thrill of a R put against
the wall: and shot to a trill!
a rattlesnake ramble! mein gott!
what loss: in english and tarantula
numbed! i walked down a road:
that almost became: woad;
sly little *******...
give me a universal language...
and i'm pretty sure that it will not
be one... with a skeleton of ancient
roman to master and craft with!
donkers... plump plums in "origin"...
a Baghdad...

since the full mechanisation of the key
and lock are not represented:
but rather: insinuated...
                        
                        but there is a door...
imagine, to boot...
that there's, also, somehow...
a necessity of a doormat!

- because in vestern europa: it's about time for:
"zee... pudding-reis-poodle-tops!"
much easier laughing at german
with some "vikings" in tow...

i just abhor how darwinism has become
the neu-ego of history: "abided" by...
like... this be the zenith and 100 years
from now... people will not laugh...
or... i much prefer: scold and frown at...
because i much prefer to be baptißed
using boiling...
         using water... that might allow
me to escape... the confines
of a couch: the comforts of a skin...
and all matter of leather: thus concerning...

i am happy to allow myself the following
sentence: the rats and the moon will always
tell the better "story"...
  liberal hard-ons that are hardly quantified
as matchsticks...

you're looking for communits in your current
"conundrum"...
looking for "them" leeching and lurking
from beneath the eisenvorhang?!
          ostenberlin?!
                       i had the impression...
that... your comforts... your dickens...
your semi-detached bogus heavens...
and that's what was required...
for you... to breed your own...
without having to...
outsource the idealists:
                     your... 'aggis neeps and tatties:
roots of "origins"...
you have your own sort of communists...
mostly t-shirt print enterprises...
and... whatever...
looking for communist from under
the iron curtain...
is about like scounting for both
rats and cockroaches...
and a honing idea of the hive...
because rats wouldn't eat roaches
and the two could, somehow...
fashion of symbiotic vogue affair...

you know what ****** me off...
the most... about not being english...
leverage of pompous audacity to state
the most: infantile opinion...
worded: i know:
you cough... i sneeze...
we'll reach an equilibrium, at some point:
to make references to:
and a past...

precedence: to "think" is to:
th(ought i)... and all that's counter-productive of
"i labyrinth" and: thought and i...
or... scalpel: nurse!
grammar! genius! ******* rollerskating chimpmucks...
and... h. p. lovecraftian odes to...
squids... in less than the already:
"murky" waters of... perfect the... widespread
genius of comedy...
via... ridicule... via... bulimia...
via... cooking a steak: well-done...
over-cooking pasta:
the diet of al dente...
                             burning a mushroom:
not being to: not being able to:
and that: to Baghdad... from Loon'don...
                  virtue signalling:
a clap is... 1/100 of a fraction of...
someone... being deaf and having to resolve
the matter: sign-language about to be translated
into... braille!

the islamic religiosity of "today" is about as
mcuh equivalent as the "today":
under darwinistic historiology...

looking for communists from under the once
former iron curtain divide?
good luck: i'm wishing it unto myself:
about to find Mongols in... Kiev!

came across some burden of a sourdough:
and it's like in england:
it's "theirs": never the agony of eating...
a bread... designated to be toasted...
when it just had to be... eaten... "raw"...

what's the fan-base for raw herrings...
within the confines of Nippon...
or these... grandeours of the:
only isles... my ideas to make
metaphors of the crucifix?
a ******'s riddle...

we're looking for communist: y'all!
i'm looking for Belze...
                  and: mādégehirn-verrotten
         und rätsel: ungezieferfreude...
zylinderanziehen: der großartig:
     schwule -            
der: scrumptious...
                                               fladenbrotmann!
bessermann: das englisch...
                   herr portillo... chuckles should
it come to:
   steam-trains and replicas...
and politics: was never really...
about harems and hard-ons...
                                       really?
ask a Baghdadi then: if you pleaz...
Lawrence!

chance of me being spoken to in russian...
and being: reciprocate...
are all yours: slim jim!
  no... seriously...
a ***** of a language that is...
english: i am... most astounded that...
there are some peoples of this world
that have not: yet... allowed themselves
to translate this:
bellybutton orientation of the world
via genus: greenwichus...
to be: unifying versed: et al.

        i must bees the retardedwoz... kin:
and oops some year later...
or: to hell with keeping up...
anything beside the appearing so...
i:  "for the love of the countrymen"...
of which i have none:
are 9 my commuter friends:
and with the romanians...
and the bulagrian ******...
the polish plumbers...
the english... could have their catwalk
of opinions!
who skinned the chickens
and who did what: my shadow lacked
or i slacked over with?

i want to forget because
i just don't want to unravel in...
i would work an honest's day... of worth...
if i could work for a: get together...
or none...
             it's so disorientating...
and... lacking in motivational bravado...
to have to find one man: working...
and the other: *******!

   talk about... having to resort to mind:
the manners to count jack'oh the ol' keeper...
because: abortion signification is
burning a foot in the sole
of my shoe...
and i'm about to make do with
walking a ******* mile...

               and there i was... conjuring
the fetish fancy:
all it would ever take...
was to pretend to... attire oneself /
i.e. make pretences of: pweeety pretty!
i like being governed by:
you have to be wrong...
for the mushroom and tapeworm
and the cuckoldry muppets to be: oinking:
and with a nodding:
the holy approval as: no other route...
other than them being "white".... Rrrrrrridle
no?
                     no -ight then!

Jumpstarting outstanding undertaking...
bringing jouncy, spectacularly crafted,
nuanced, zesty, noteworthy, creatively
spirited enlightened written poem.

This raggedy man doth inconsolably weeps
kept rudely awake whilst disobedient sheep
incur wrath of Little Bo Peep, she lambastes
protesting courtesy rambunctiousness being
future mutton chops with "haggis and neeps"
though hungry enough to eat a horse, yours
truly - me cannot afford mouth watering heep
meager stacked coins no higher than antheaps.

Yes, I still rant and rave at crooks who won
built and trussed up trust minting yours truly
for all his worth inescapably zapped all cents
of mine labeled as easy prey, branded til time
of his done on Earth immemorial prodigal son
absolute zero (the big goose egg) zilch wifely
survivor benefits nixed in other words... none
meaning, she will no longer address me as hon
mortality gussied up as grim reaper will anon
be taking aging beetle browed foo fighter to
(elysium) elysian fields after tomb morrow.

Red hot poker faced beggars me to seek wage
perhaps being ventriloquist's dummy & bring
about Renaissance of the once renown
Vaudeville (comedy without psychological or
moral intentions, based on a comical situation:
a dramatic composition or light poetry,
interspersed with songs or ballets) stage
door opening revitalization second decade
of twenty first century veritable newage
social media platforms displaying homepage
only more egalitarian than storied Gilded age.

Major blunder blinded insight compromised,
jeopardized, sabotaged novel storied wealth
scam artist affected my sought after demise
courtesy weapons of mass destruction stealth
bombarded, fooled, lobbed..., psychological
manipulation upended marred mental health
hacking away byte size raw bits of gray matter.

Discover re: visa vis yielded me mastercharge
amplified ohm my dog, what in tarnation did I
unwittingly bring about pennilessness wrought
truth out there and trust no one equals lessons
(courtesy Mulder Fox Special Agent and one
of the two protagonists of Fox science fiction-
supernatural television series X-Files) taught
(think unlucky duck) professional quackshot
commandeering, guiding, lying, ravaging...
(albeit convincingly) me to withdraw money,
what amounted jackpot stripping away leaving
yours truly bereft of financial buffer - naught
one red cent barely able to afford one kilowatt
only natural light utilized to power just barley
my gofundme page titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth.

.something akin to... a reminiscence of the opening scene of vanilla sky... i can't imagine the amount of effort and co-ordination it took... back then... to completely empty time sq. well... now i sort-of can... of note: for every # there should have been a chinese "character" in its place... i can't seem to inject them... but they are available at allpoetry (//bit.ly/3bopkJr) and deepundergroundpoetry (//bit.ly/2ywqzaS)... however tedious, this pickles (me, nontheless)...

pettitoes... when dickens isn't being a samvel veller...
         tatties: neeps 'n' 'aggis...
pettitoes: petite toes...
   bicameral mind - manhattan -
a man in a hat... (julian jaynes)
      yes.... but a little detail: not invoked:
a man with a tan wearing a hat...

otherwise... it would be most respectable to call:
ginger: the root...
             but... the keratin colour
of... the nails that become hair...
well:
              ginja... ninja...
                   digging trenches and
pig troughs of mass graves for... the... "laughter"?

       ginj'ah ninj'ahs...
             ***** hair... worn best
on the face of a man as...
                well... bypassing the whole
affair of ******* and presenting
                                                   the sinless adam...

needless to say: "once upon a time"...
victorian english... the "H" was yet to be a surd...
       one would find: ha'    instead
of             'ad...
              for the term: had aye: yes:
punctured weaving cruxes
with an i, i would have... 'ave...
   if that wasn't too straining to begin with
                         concerning the roman salute...

then again... 'ave i any concerns for:
áve or avé?!

the mountain (#) and the Ш (shuckles) or... Щ
                             (sh'   'itty          cheese)...
       this prime logogram...
the skeleton of mandarin...
                         or perhaps: hardly...
then the 2nd tier...
the ideograms and the "abstract"...
i guess # is very much "up"...
             as # is very much "down"...
as is... copernican north and a copernican south...
yep... up there on the moon...
what is the heliocentric "north"?

         funny... though...
                   didn't Tyr leave a simpler "abstract"
of "up" with the rune letter:           ᛏ           ?
   otherwise being pulled apart:
                           ᛨ:   up (ᛉ) and down (ᛦ)
   huh?! what's this doing 'ere (ɻ)?
                and of course... the much more crude
variation of pst! Ψ: poseidon was 'ere too!

does this look like anything concerning knives?
                      #?
now i'd ask... drop an adjective:
                       blunt into the whole
affair...     because? well... # is but a blade...
   if i were to find a difference between
a     sharp #          and a blunt #...
               (# = knife) i'd be all the happier!

this is a person: #... well...
     this # is a mountain?
       how rare are... lonely mountains...
   akin to fuji?
                         i see a mountain i see a volvano...
yes... last time i checked: a lonely mountain
is a volcano... mountain tend to huddle...
volcanos stand alone...
             so... is # a mountain?
and # is a tree?
          i find the abstraction at fault...
this is a forest of pines: |||||||||||
                                             ||||||||
                                            |||||||||| at length
even birches... but isn't a tree as simple
as Y? or how that's also the tongue of
a serpent?          oh, to be sure...
                               #... rest... leaning against a tree?
                   how's                  /Y?
                               what a funky lookin' tree
the chinese have abstracted... #: i'm guessing it's
a bonsai... which would make leaning against
it... almost impossible!
   of the crux of the matter:
            isn't the greek and latin version of tree: Y
bare more similarity than the chinese "abstract" #?

yes oh yes: geniuses of the orient...
          squint hard and lon enough
you'll bound to see... the sort of punishment
they devised for dunces...
counting 100 grains of uncooked rice using
chop-sticks from one pile into another!
   to build a wall to encompass the reiteration
of a mountain range...
because when Hannibal crossed the alps...
no elephants fell off the crevices of the trial...
Xerxes also whipped the sea:
which i'll take quiet literally...
      because that thing was common...
to not associate a bridge with... instead...
      Nebuchadnezzar...
cuckoo worship of persian leaders...

     H was actually devised to be employed
as a rugby post / goal...
          yep... all along it was hatched as a plan
for the game of rugby...
never to be a surd...
of the abstract of a clown juggling
while riding a unicycle -
  because H was never about the juggling
of vowels when expressing...
that very base origin of:
how the vowels needed a letter to attach
themselves when one should
               be better laugh... ah ha ha ha...

continued - with great volubility -
alt: with vehemence...
but no... pluck a feather...
   indeed... a crow's feather landing in
my garden... an omen like any other...

   this is (#)  both a nose and a self...
      and thank the dog's ******* and monkey chins
that it more or less implies the latter more...
perhaps... self... no: not combinatoriality...
a self is like a set of drawers... a cupboard...
conveniently... segregated into rows...
socks tier 1, t-shirts tier 2...
        
and as ever... looking for a word...
a googlewhack: compentralized
                     (tinyurlcom/y8dc7ckl)...
assorted... fitting the designated volume
of space...

hell... what good is an algorithm search engine...
when one really rather desires
the alphabetic route... and looking through
the list of the prefix comp-
                                         ?    ?
                                         ?    ?

eh! easy! compare... comparison...
    compartment!

             com-par-tmen-talize!
com-part-mental!
  this word would do better with a german tweak...
to escape the ******* and vagabon father
  (z and s respectively)... i.e. compartmentaliße!

sometimes the mind does wander...
better for me: i always found crossword puzzles
more entertaining as a double-act...
than any gratifying escape into solipsistic adventures...
of the: horizons of the self-assured reason...
whether pure... impure or...

           tancticum: philosophia polingano ad normam
               burgundicae
                             Eusebius Amort (1730 a.d.)
          tinyurlcom/yakfgo62 - close... googlewhack...

was this rushed? i don't think so...
too many juxtapositioning to arrange...
perhaps this should have the alt. title of:
   a phonetic assault on the "middle kingdom"?
would one call the telegraph - rushed?
  i'd be most likely to forgive myself
by conjuring up the adjective: telegraphic to suit
this... congestion.

well... to counter the leftists' dietary requirements...
bugs and all... simba: timone & pumba:
slimey... yet satisfying...
wouldn't it be necessary...
to first teach the "high i.q." conservatives...
the necessity of celebrating the entire hooved animal?
or the chicken - frankly it's not enough
to only eat chicken protein...
one also needs to have a taste for the hearts
and the stomachs...
mein gott: pork livers!
liver with well curated onions...
you really need to experience the tenderness
of the meat of a poached chicken's neck...
what about how the baltic countries prepare
herrings? raw? in a cream and dill sauce...
add some gherkins and some...
the baltic sushi / tartar...
feed the ******* a tartar steak...
the same disgust will arrive: if not less...
should they eat... deep-friend cockroaches...
a steak tartar... what left vs/ right paradigm "shift"?
what about eating haggis?
or blood sausage?
what about eating cow intestines?
what about... the pride of new york:
deep fried pig's ears in breadcrumbs?
only when the entire pig is eaten...
will there be a counter argument...
a spiked resurgence of... sales in broccoli...
pâté... raw herrings...
marrow... until the pig is glorified
and nothing can be left to eat apart from the oink...
because my my: who delights in eating...
***** - the scavengers: the necrophyliacs?
insects contra... oysters...
i had a hard time convincing myself that
island dwelling people weren't disgusting...
eating ****** ***** metaphors of: fruits
of the sea - as the inland folk call them...
what's the difference between a deed-fried grasshopper...
and an oyster eaten alive via the guillotine slurp?

you really don't want to over-cook the internal organs...
and what's so wrong with rare steaks -
what's wrong with a steak tartar?
the i.q. of the vesterners says:
no black no irish: dogs allowed...
dogs mao chin sheen most allowed...
fwy cookie blood and butter cowcow cook-e!

all in all: a fetish for fungus...
we have a fetish for fungus...
and we eat blue cheese...
a microcosm of... prior to insects...
the bacteria...
and prior to that? apparently frying
a placenta is: good news!
next thing you know... tapeworms on the menu!

oh but i'm hardly worried about people
eating insects...
i'm more worried about the people in my vicinity
that need to be fed solid protein... chunks...
because they find eating the tender bits...
the pork livers, the chicken hearts...
the chicken stomachs...
to be... something akin to "below them"...
i wouldn't start by shaming the insect barons
of said menus...
i'd begin with shaming the people
in the vicinity...

oysters: slurping out a choiced **** out
of poseidon's harem...
fruit of the seas... yeah...
up in scotland they deep fry a slice of pizza
and a mars chocolate bar if you're
knowledged in that sort of a culinary cult...
tier: three tiers below the actually lovely:
haggis neeps 'n' tatties...
and the rainbow trouts...

even the pigs would snort out:
man-food... not pig-food...
man-food...
as in that famous scene in hannibal
or: ****** - when bricktop...
the pigs will eat...
by high western i.q. standards...
i'm starting to "think" that eating insects is
a tier below... cannibalism...
i still don't know why i succumbed
to the traditions of island dwelling folk
of eating... mollusks of the sea...
insects and: all the added crunch of
the ribs being intact... sardines...
or... smoked sprats...
heads eyes and bones and tails and all...
i'm dying for that culinary fetish
of... and they called the last barbarian affair
of europe - the faroe islands' grindadráp:
the shame - the: look east... toward
beijing...
"bat soup galore" - funny little ****-****
bomb - lucky us... no knives!

not prior to a season when the entire
pig is appreciated...
or the entire chicken...
not just the bland cheap *** kosher proteins...
as in: in no defence...
but... what delights are people missing...
no amount of scampi will save them...
perhaps just about enough:
steak and kidney pies...
but even then... not enough!

a critique of the insect eaters is...
my critique of the non-liver eaters of the west...
simple...
oysters are and always will remain:
Midway - along with the rest of Poseidon's Eden...
so i wonder... which was the forbidden fruit
of the oceans? what weren't we allowed
to eat from the ocean?

clearly apples and pork - since the two compliment
each other, oh so ******* well...
tell me: imam... rabbi...
what's the fruit of the sea - the forbidden fruit?
is it the oyster?
ha ha... the idiotic death of a monotheism
upon a canvas of the beijing omnivores...
camel jockeys galore!