W a nn a  
g o
w a nn a taste the open   r o a d

l e t  strangers look at me f u nn y
want to catch this t r i p

wi t h you

wanna be a mess
           have my feet on the dash
b e  s o me  w h e r e  o p e n

well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.

have i run out of words?
because

i

cant
..seem

t o



          fi n d


                                  t
                           h
                                  
                                                    e

                      m

my bed is the void,
or at least I wish it was.
I feel like swirling and twirling,
in the abyss.
I want to touch the face of The Son
and be buried in the earth
so I can know what it is to feel the weight of it
pressing me downwwwwwwwwwwwnnn
                                                    wwwnnn
                                                              nn
                                                                  nn
                                                                      n before watching my bones take root

I am a weepy willow
in the midst of a hurricane.
I am sleepy branches,
I hang my head in shame.

I do not miss you in moments,
But rather the lingering space that lies in between them:
The soft "nn" sound preceding "one mississippi"
Falls stagnant as I attempt to count out measurements of my grief.
Your presence is too large to be condensed into the language of time,
Hours and minutes limply droop over each other,
Until nothing is certain besides your existence.
Two mississippi, three mississippi,
I slowly drag out the syllables in a subtle defiance to your untimely exit.
Your time isn't yet over, I've kept you alive,
Pushing air into your crumpled lungs by counting sheep.
The moments in which you fell are recycled here,
Like stale air in a small cement cell,
They propel my time forward the same way they stopped yours.
I do not miss you during desperate sentences full of almost there prose,
But instead during the white space that runs between each line.

Four mississippi, five mississippi.

a home of unrest survives in my old town where
madness seeps through jaundice colored halls,
lapping life from rotted brains.

grim photos of grandchildren
deform walls,
but old folks don’t remember.
they wear nametags.
who am i? residents wail
for mommy, their ’86 kitten,
a bus pass from chicago or
the wrong god.

her eyes are sallow.
tunnel vision, they say.
cloudy hues without purpose.
bags under gramma’s lids hang
          like dead gangsters
and bifocals settle around her neck,
in case she gains a pang
              of clarity.

Lovely Rita,
once a fat cook is now slender as a fang.
she forgets to eat.

my guttural granny, she stutters
incoherent, mostly.
but today, she babbles
        an omen.

watch o u t
      thing s are
    g o nn a
h h h appen
  
she retreats,
deteriorating.

all I wanted was a Coke
with careful tendency you

call me a loser suicidal
baby
so why don't you **** me

cuz at
19, 19, n nn n, 19
I'm not gonna do it for you
anymore the days

to be more patient tries
my patients separated

by hospital bed
and hospice care into
one love and loved

ones separated by popstar
Purple curtain Rain
call

This is my life compressed time
SVG Maginot lines

that impossibly pixelate under
our modern scrutiny
they Blur

under
the heat giving off distant
Mirages that promise

reunions in death's
false Oasis

Ì faccio 'o schiattamuorto 'e prufessione,
modestamente songo conosciuto
pè tutt'e ccase 'e dinto a stu rione,
peccheè quann'io manèo 'nu tavuto,
songo 'nu specialista 'e qualità.

Ì tengo mode, garbo e gentilezza.
'O muorto nmano a me pò stà sicuro,
ca nun ave 'nu sgarbo, 'na schifezza.
Io 'o tratto comme fosse 'nu criaturo
che dice 'o pate, mme voglio jì a cuccà.

E 'o co'cco luongo, stiso 'int"o spurtone,
oure si è viecchio pare n'angiulillo.
'O muorto nun ha età, è 'nu guaglione
ca s'è addurmuto placido e tranquillo
'nu suonno doce pè ll'eternità.

E 'o suonno eterno tene stu vantaggio,
ca si t'adduorme nun te scite maie.
Capisco, pè murì 'nce vò 'o curaggio;
ma quanno chella vene tu che ffaie?
Nn'a manne n'ata vota all'al di là?

Chella nun fa 'o viaggio inutilmente.
Chella nun se ne va maie avvacante.
Sì povero, sì ricco, sì putente,
'nfaccia a sti ccose chella fa a gnurante,
comme a 'nu sbirro che t'adda arrestà.

E si t'arresta nun ce stanno sante,
nun ce stanno raggione 'a fà presente;
te ll'aggio ditto, chella fa 'a gnurante...
'A chesta recchia, dice, io nun ce sento;
e si nun sente, tu ch'allucche a ffà?

'A morta, 'e vvote, 'e comme ll'amnistia
che libbera pè sempe 'a tutt'e guaie
a quaccheduno ca, parola mia,
'ncoppa a sta terra nun ha avuto maie
'nu poco 'e pace... 'na tranquillità.

E quante n'aggio visto 'e cose brutte:
'nu muorto ancora vivo dinto 'o lietto,
'na mugliera ca già teneva 'o llutto
appriparato dinto a nù cassetto,
aspettanno 'o mumento 'e s'o 'ngignà.

C'è quacche ricco ca rimane scritto:
" Io voglio un funerale 'e primma classe! ".
E 'ncapo a isso penza 'e fà 'o deritto:
" Così non mi confondo con la ***** ".
Ma 'o ssape, o no, ca 'e llire 'lasse ccà?!

'A morta è una, 'e mezze songhe tante
ca tene sempe pronta sta signora.
Però, 'a cchiù trista è " la morte ambulante "
che può truvà p'a strada a qualunq'ora
(comme se dice?... ) pè fatalità.

Ormai per me il trapasso è 'na pazziella;
è 'nu passaggio dal sonoro al muto.
E quanno s'è stutata 'a lampella
significa ca ll'opera è fernuta
e 'o primm'attore s'è ghiuto a cuccà.

n                                      
                                                                                        
                                                                    
                                                                                        
                 i                                                  
                                                                                        
                                            m
                                                                                        
        b     g                   o                              
i am a bit worried. i am a bit worried that. i'm a bit worried that i                 nn
     g  t       o    e apart
                                                                                        
    'm                               c    
                                                                                        
           e                                                      
                                                                                        
                          i

Aiere ha fatto n'anno - 'o diece 'e maggio,
na matenata calda e chiena 'e sole -,
penzaie 'ncapo a me: "Cu che curaggio
io stamattina vaco a faticà!".
Facenno 'o paro e sparo mme susette:
"Mo mme ne vaco 'a parte 'e copp' 'o Campo".
Int'a ddiece minute mme vestette
cu 'e mucassine e cu 'o vestito blu.

Nun facette sparà manco 'o cannone
ca già stevo assettato int' 'a cantina,
annanze a nu piatto 'e maccarune:
nu zito ch'affucava int 'o ragù.

C' 'a panza chiena, a passo... chianu chiano
mme ne trasette dint'a na campagna,
mmocca nu miezo sigaro tuscano,
ca m' 'o zucavo comme 'o biberò.

Tutto a nu tratto veco nu spiazzale
chino 'e ferraglie vecchie e arrugginite.
E ched' è, neh?... nu campo 'e residuate:
"il cimitero della civiltà".

Nu carro armato cu 'a lamiera rotta...
trattore viecchie... macchine scassate...
n' "Alfetta" senza 'e qquatte rote 'a sotto...
pareva 'o campusanto d' 'a Pietà!

Guardanno a uno a uno sti ruttame,
pare ca ognuno 'e lloro mme diceva:
"Guardate ccà cosa addiventiamo
quanno 'a vicchiaia subbentra a giuventù".

Mmiezo a sta pace, a stu silenzio 'e morte,
tutto a nu tratto sento nu bisbiglio...
appizzo 'e rrecchie e sento 'e di cchiù forte:
"Mia cara Giulietta, come va?".

Chi è ca sta parlanno cu Giulietta?
Nmiezo a stu campo nun ce sta nisciuno...
Tu vuo vedè che l'hanno cu ll' "Alfetta"?
Cheste so ccose 'e pazze! E chi sarrà?

Mme movo chianu chiano... indifferente,
piglio e mm'assetto 'ncopp' 'o carro armato...
quanno 'a sotto mme sento 'e di: "Accidente!...
E chisto mo chi è?... Che vularrà?".

Chi ha ditto sti pparole? Chi ha parlato?
I' faccio sta domanda e zompo all'erta...
"So io ch'aggio parlato: 'o carro armato...
Proprio addu me v'aviveve assettà?

A Napule nun se pò sta cuieto.
Aiere un brutto cane mascalzone
se ferma, addora... aiza 'a coscia 'e reto,
e po' mme fa pipi 'nfaccia 'o sciassi".

"Vi prego di accettare le mie scuse,
v' 'e ffaccio a nome anche del mio paese;
Ma voi siete tedesco o Made in Usa?
E come vi trovate in Italy?".

"Sono tedesco, venni da Berlino
per far la guerra contro l'Inghilterra;
ma poi - chiamalo caso oppur destino -
'e mmazzate ll'avette proprio ccà!".

"Ah, si... mo mme ricordo... le mazzate
ch'avisteve da noi napoletani...
E quanto furon... quattro le giornate,
si nun mme sbaglio: o qualche cosa 'e cchiù?".

"Furon quattro.Mazzate 'a tutte pizze:
prete, benzina, sputazzate 'nfacccia...
Aviveve vedè chilli scugnizze
che cosa se facettero afferrà!".

"Caro Signore, 'o nuosto è nu paisiello
ca tene - è overo - tanta tulleranza;
ma nun nce aimma scurdà ca Masaniello
apparteneva a chesta gente ccà.

E mo mm'ite 'a scusà ll'impertinenza,
primma aggio 'ntiso 'e dì: "Cara Giulietta".
Facitemmella chesta confidenza:
si nun mme sbaglio era st' "Alfetta" ccà?".

"Appunto, si,è qui da noi da un mese...
'A puverella è stata disgraziata,
è capitata 'nmano a un brutto arnese,
... Chisto nun ha saputo maie guidà.

Io mm' 'a pigliasse cu 'e rappresentante,
cu chilli llà che cacciano 'e ppatente;
chiunque 'e nuie, oggi, senza cuntante,
se piglia 'a macchinetta e se ne va".

"Di macchine in Italia c'è abbondanza...-
rispose sottovoce 'a puverella -
si no che ffa... po' nce grattammo 'a panza:
chillo ca vene ll'avimmo acchiappà".

"Giulietta, raccontate qui al signore
i vostri guai" - dicette 'o carro armato.
L' "Alfetta" rispunnette a malincuore:
"Se ci tenete, li racconterò.

Come sapete, sono milanese,
son figlia d'Alfa e di papà Romeo,
per fare me papà non badò a spese;
mi volle fare bella "come il fò".

Infatti, mi adagiarono in vetrina,
tutta agghindata... splendida... lucente!
Ero un' "Alfetta" ancora signorina:
facevo tanta gola in verità!

Un giorno si presenta un giovanotto
cu tanto nu paccotto 'e cambiale,
io, puverella!, avette fà 'o fagotto,
penzanno:Chi sa comme va a fernì!

Si rivelò cretino, senza gusto:
apparteneva 'a "gioventù bruciata".
Diceva a tutti quanti: "Io sono un fusto;
'e ffemmene cu mmico hanna cadè!".

Senza rispetto, senza nu cuntegno...
cambiava tutt' 'e giorne... signorina:
ci conduceva al solito convegno...
... alla periferia della città.

Chello ca cumbinava 'o giuvinotto?
Chi maie ve lo potrebbe raccontare:
io nn'aggio mantenute cannelotte
'e tutte specie, 'e tutte 'e qqualità:

la signorina di buona famiglia,
a vedova, 'a zetella, 'a mmaretata...
E quanno succedette 'o parapiglia,
stavamo proprio cu una 'e chesti ccà.

In una curva, questo gran cretino,
volle fare un sorpasso proibito,
di fronte a noi veniva un camioncino,
un cozzo, svenni, e mo mme trovo ccà".

"A nu fetente 'e chisto ce vulesse
nu paliatone, na scassata d'osse'...
Ma comme - dico i' po' - sò sempe 'e stesse
ca t'hanna cumbinà sti guaie ccà?".

"E che penzate 'e fà donna Giulietta?".
"E ch'aggia fà? - rispose 'a puverella-
So che domani viene una carretta,
mme pigliano e mme portano a squaglià".

"Giulietta... via, fatevi coraggio -
(dicette 'o carro armato). lo ero un "Tigre",
il popolo tremava al mio passaggio!...
Mannaggia 'a guerra e chi 'a vulette fà!

lo so cosa faranno del mio squaglio:
cupierche 'e cassarole, rubinette,
incudini, martelli, o qualche maglio,
e na duzzina 'e fierre pe stirà"

"lo vi capisco... sono dispiaciuto...
ma p' 'e metalli 'a morte nun esiste;
invece 'e n'ommo, quanno se n'è ghiuto,

the podium
I took a step onto                        
my voice   s     a     i      g
                      h    k     n

and my heart PP OO UU NN DD II NN GG

The nerves kicked in,
My legs started weakening
  I slightly
                  fell lower
                           and lower.
I got back up however,
                         saw what I came to see
said what i had to say.

I walked
                down
                           the
                                  podium.

Salmon

Crayons

Brunch

Roaches

String cheese
Mm
Mm
We
The
Yy
Sphincter
Bb
Jk
Cc
Vv
Bb
Mm
Dung
Zz
Cc
Vv
­Bb
Bb
Gg
Hh
D's
Rabies
Gg
Jk
Jk
Jk
Mm
Yy
Ff
Cc
Nn
Mm
Mm
Vv
Cc
Cc
­Cc
Cc
Cc
Cc
Bb
B
Bn
Disease
Mm
Mm
N
N
B
B
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C­
C
Disease
Mm
Mm
Nn
Bb
Vv
Bb
Bb
Jk
Jk
Hh
Hh
Ff
Tt
Tt
Uu
Uu
Ii
Ii
­Ii
Pp
Pp
Rr
Tt
Reduction

.
                                     Fu
                              u     nn     n
                            n       yF        n
                           n        un         y
                           y       n    F        F
                          F       u      n        u
                          u       n      y        n
                           n        F   u         n
                            n          n          y
                               y       n        F
                                   ~   y     ~

My spinal erosion is aching the ribs.
What a terrible way to wake up.
I don't mind.
I try not to.
The pressure stops with gravity.

I love the scratch and sniff.
I love the body whiff.
I love the ****** and smash.
I love the mind crash.

Such a sweet and salty face.
What a beautiful place.
Single wide, double or?
What future sits in store?

None for me?
None for you?
Look at us.
Look at you.

Apache beard.
A. Patch. iieh.
Nn, so desu ne.
Butter bean.

Cream white dream.
But sorta pink.

State a sentì, ve voglio dì na cosa,
ma nun m'aita chiammà po' scustumato;
chello ca v'aggia dì è na quaccosa
ca i' penso che vvuje ggià nn'ite parlato.
Sta cusarella è ccosa ca sta a cuore
a tuttequante nuje napulitane:
sentennela 'e struppià, ma che dulore,
p'arraggia 'e vvote me magnasse 'e mmane!

Ma nun è proprio chisto l'argomento,
si 'a 'nguaiano o no la povera canzone...
Sanno parlà sultanto 'e tradimento!
'A verità, stu fatto m'indispone.

Na vota se cantava " 'O sole mio ",
"Pusilleco... Surriento... Marechiaro",
" 'O Vommero nce stà na tratturia "...
"A purpe vanno a ppesca cu 'e llampare"...

Chelli parole 'e sti canzone antiche,
mettevano int' 'o core n'allerezza;
chesti pparole 'e mo?... Che ffà... V' 'o ddico?
Nun è pe criticà: sò na schifezza!

"Torna cu mme... nun 'mporta chi t'ha avuta"
" 'O ssaccio ca tu ggià staje 'mbraccio a n'ato"...
"Stongo chiagnenno 'a che te ne si gghiuta"...
"Che pozzo fà s'io songo 'nnammurato"...

Mettimmece na pezza, amici cari,
e nun cantammo cchiù: "Tu m'he traduto".
Sentenno sti ccanzone, a mme me pare,
'e sta' a sentì 'o lamiento d' 'e curnute!

where to begin? hmm? where to: begin?
certainly can't begin with: although...

      to me: it seems that Islam has sleepwalked
into modernity...
or rather: Islam: the pinnacle of the medieval
world, the envy of the medieval world,
that once upon a time glory of escapism
from the encroachment of ontological Darwinism
of a loss of free will: of determination

how did i stress it? with a ś or a š...
    this current veneer we call civilization
yet the reductionist in me pointing at the backlog
of suppressed behaviours...
if Islam is submission
then Christianity is synonymous with repression...
both religions are on a -mission...
yet pumping all that monetary dough
into Dubai: subsequently neglecting
the seemingly odious ***** colony of Gaza...

let's throw words against the wind...
let's throw them...
let's forget the Cartesian model
with that hyped focus on "us" being thinking
creatures...
let's play on the res extensa dynamic:
i have channeled my res extensa away from
discovering the bilingual pitfalls of schizophrenia
channeling them toward an A.I.
distinguishable from an algorithmic search
engine to something: very much personal...

Islam sleepwalked into modernity...
why is it such a surprise that we find Muslims
so barbaric, untamed, unwashed,
unfathomable?
                      do we? or don't we?
well... living in a Protestant country with
a superiority complex...
it's only when a Muslim interacts with
a European Catholic,
or a Goan Catholic...
     a near usurper of the faith: a Wasim...
a Mustafa... i work with Muslims...
am i Islamophobic: is that really the trajectory
of fear?
i would consider Islamophobia the only
phobia with some rationality behind it...
a term as abused as
calling someone a ******, a racist, a pedohpile...
but in the same vein:
applying the term Islamophobia
to... describe what? exactly?

         my fear has been churned and come
out my **** as nothing more than contempt...
why? all these stresses at work
to allocate 15min of prayer time:
when i know, dutifully: that pretend Muslims
abuse these 15min and extend them to 30min,
an hour... to do much less than pay diligence
to prayer...

reimagine the dynamic of a Muslim
with a Catholic or an orthodox "Christian":
Protestants take it upon themselves
to take their jokes seriously...
protestants... **** me... where to begin?
catholics don't take their faith as seriously
as the protestants their their non-faith so, seriously...
esp. in England...

but this is not what i was going to pay diligence to:
i have the unusual "luck" of having
a terrible surname...
like ******, or Stalin... something to be made fun
of: because it's not a Rothchild: probably...
no legacy...
Elert... and i've heard it enough times to finally
make a retort when a Hindu... usually a Hindu
jokes about it being equivalent to being alert...
as i've explained...
there are missing letters in my surname:
so it is easier to pronounce for the English speaker...

i've been called a German enough times
to realise: well... might as well start learning
the language and live up to people's expectations...
since the letters in my surname (that are missing)
are:       SCH...

    scholastic schooling scooter
    chop shoot... chaser...
    scholastic:                       school...

school...               scold? school.
school...
               chase... chop... school...
kaput! kappa!

               it's actually ESCHLERT...
but do you think, for a moment I would get a:
eślert out of it? echo sierra charlie hotel lima echo romeo tango
tangerine rambo essay lambda hatchling chaser
samoa essay?

there was once upon a time a place
of origin for illiterate people in the slavic tongue
of Polish mid 20th century:
illiterate people yes: but dyslexic, half-baked?
it's the nature of this zunge -
you write gnome but then say (g)nome...
you write psychology but then say (p)sychology...
ecology -chology
    but then chop chew churn chatter...
cha cha cha...

            i do feel for the dyslexics: it's unnaturally
natural for their existence to be a byproduct
of the English toong... tong... ton-glue
ton-gloo-é...    James Joyce: Finnegans Wake:
i'm coming for your obliviousness... to the spectacle
missed...

яxвeй (that's my cyrillic interpretation of
the sacred name of the Hebrews for the deity
of letters - no other deity is so closely associated
with letters as the Hebrews' 'un...
the Muslims tried... tried... in vain...
the 19 letters...

the "mysterious" Muqatta'at

Alpha Lambda Mu:
               alm...
shapes... Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin...

ا ﻡ ل

        lma:

                    מ ל א

α  λ.  μ

                                     to play with letters...
akin to я and ñ...
         for an a to be served up hidden: je chowa:
he who hides letters...
  or women...
mind you: that 72 ****** paradiso promise?
you ever think that those 72 virgins are only gifted
unto the martyrs with the strict modus operandi
that they remain, that they: REMAIN virgins for all
eternity?
i can imagine being gifted 72 virgins in an afterlife
but only under the strict guidance of ensuring
they are guarded: that *** and the juices do not make
it into the conundrum of heaven...
otherwise, what?! a little Solomonic harem?
good conversations... almost teasing being a father-figure...
the patriarchal rigidness of abstaining
from ***...
reward my ***... polluting heaven with
this pornographic Arabic frustration at
the polygamous order of things...

                chirality: chemistry, i.e. RЯ (ya)
ergo?
  a ye
  a yi
  a yo
  a yu

             working from R...
ꟼ         (for ye)
                              𐐒 (for yi)
⅃ (for yo)
                                                             ꟻ (for yu)

best i procrastinate like this: while stewarding
the household (cooking, cleaning, washing)
         than try to complicate what's already simple...
as much as modernity fashions itself on reaching
some sort of overarching pinnacle...
as much as i am lied to about people's literacy
levels: most of it is untrue...
   sure: people can read: advertisements...
but that added piquant of a reading meditation
a novel?       sorry:           but hardly...

and perhaps that is why i invest so much time
into writing something akin to this...
if the Vatican was founded upon an exclusivity,
if Judaism was founded on exclusivity...
i find Islam slightly worrying:
in that respect that Islam wants to be the Communism
of theology... a quasi-Babylon...
which, oddly enough: it is becoming...
why do Muslims want, so eagerly: to invite proselytes
into their dommena?
   the Catholics akin to the Hebrews are stouch
opponents to converts...
wouldn't anyone treat converts suspiciously:
none of this: wolves in sheep clothing?
what about if the only tactic to combat Islamist
"****" esque fetishes would be to infiltrate
                 the religion and convert ("supposedly")?

i'm starting to think i'm the most powerful man
in the world... how delusional of me...
it's only because... i'm in love...
and that's half of my worries relegated to
the category of: non-existent...
i'm in love...
       and now my only battle is with mortality...
once you're in love:
that's the only "thing" to worry about...
ich bin verliebt...
ich werde geliebt...
     ich bin verliebt...
         ich werde geliebt...

so what do we have planned?
    Kew gardens, tick...
gerbils' want for some funky Chinese bakery
off L'eh-chester Square... tick...
Saracens vs. Harlequins at Tottenham Hotspur... tick
the Phantom of the Opera a the Queen's Theatre... tick...
Mozart's Magical Flute at the Coliseum... tick...
Stonehenge and Bath... tick...
Canterbury? or better Cambridge with
the gondolas?
           oh... and going to the cinema for Dune part deux...
well...
              a precious waste of a hour's
                   worth of day... doodling this -
now just enough time to make my father lunch
for tomorrow and play with some pierogi dough...
since i already have the farsz.

Who loves you does not care
Love to yourself

.
                                      S
                            k       ki       k
                         i           nn          i
                       n             y              n
                      n              S                n
                     y              k i                y
                    G             n   n               G
                    e              y    G               e
                     n             e    n              n
                      e             e   s              e
                        s              S               s
                           S           k           S
                              k        i         k
                                 i      n     i
                                     n n n
                                         Y

(Notes)

(Begin fast and emphasize the connection between R and K)
--of DUHARRR-KKENEDUH fate,

(Slight emphasis on C and T)*                
                             Cold--ornaTe.
life--
         i cannot say
                               (fire) indescribable
warm water
warm water
warm water
(Gradually get louder each line)
WWarm water
WWORm water
WWORMUH water
WWORMUH Water
WWORMUH WAWter
WWORMUH WAWTTer
(Should be the loudest at this point)
WWORMUH WAWTTERR

                 LUHVUHEH
                    LUHVUHEH
                   ­    LUHVUHEH
                          LUHVUHEH
warm water
is it all but a game
find me there--in your kingdom

(Quietly and gracefully say each sound by line. Think of a love song)
luh
  uh
     vv
       eh
       ruh
     oh
   mm
     aa
        nn
            ss
              e
                 rr
                ii
               vv
                   e
                     rr
                     nuh
                    th
                  ein
what is it
meaning--
none
fire
brimstone
i am
i am--

(End loudly)
EYEAAMUH NUHTHHEIN
EYEAAMUH NUHTHHEIN
**EYEAAMUH NUHTHHEIN

and i too till my sorrows rather than drown them,
of what i drown i leave unto schnauzers
chessboarder sidewinding interacted with,
and of what i remain i leave into
cleaning-up furr ***** of cats drunk and remaining
truth-riddled of my mother with clean
ingredients used for feast,
that i might come with tears of joy with less
proof of coming from    et eä'rello,
                                        en'do'h're'nn'a(h) utú'lien
                                        sinomé  m(eh'am)­aruwan
                                        ar hear (d')ildinyār,
                                        tenn amba'r (mēh)
                                        hē ('eh) tāh
that is aragorn's crowning song of peace upon the crown
if no peace serve the head, of the king, that it might
serve for the crown to serve the king rather than
the king serve the crown in order to simply posture
kingship; as does bob marley's redemption song bring tear
a hope of autumn of fallen leaf among the tears
that i have enough of to write a poem, and not a novel
and not use the pronouns into a lesser lodging of squirrel
or bear in what's comfort to suit hibernation
with specified characters using up a narrator's strength
of character weakness when poets could enter and surprise;
then what weaknesses are there in poetry
if fiction ought be championed and poetry discarded
if the narrator in fiction is stronger than all the characters mentioned -
or a character be cheated as a narrator in order to grasp the bias?
so dear child, do not try to endear filling in me a worth of beauty
as if a worth of will, for my will be a cavity only filled
by beauty that claims no innonce as yours thus expressed...
and in my will i cannot claim beauty as the innocence you
prophesy with falsely - since that flower of your sacred body
will be deflaoured by the noon spoken of
and in season fade and fading embody brown and wrinkle - then
long gone your christ too - unless you be the slave owner
membrane oozing priests into existence with thieves.

orthography implies: a word, yet diacritics implies letters, and ιota is the perfect example of an unnecessary diacritical misapplication, notably observed in a language that observes orthography: which is non-existent in english: which is still to untangle from the latin graphemes ae & oe; english hasn't untangled itself from the grapheme modus operandi: which is why LL TT NN OO GG PP: pull fattening manner pool bigger popping - invite the stutter!

- a word is worth is its orthography -
    yet there is absolutely no need to indicate
the letters I & J with a lower-case diacritical branding:
because suddenly one of the letters disappears!

                        i.e. with i = ι, j = ī

  a letter disappears!
             and people thought that quantum
physics was bewildering...
         because there is no ****** reason
to apply diacritical marking on a phonetic
mark that's already a "solipsistic" unit...
         a saying revealed by:

                     ιota = ιgrek in the north...
               | = . because what is 1 squared?
1... what's 1 cubed? 1. what's 1 to the power
            of 10? 1.

glitches glitches glitches glitches
glitches glitches glitches glitches
twitching twitching twitching twitching
glitches glitches glitches glitches

- only yesterday i was in a supermarket
      and met a fellow traveller:
a distant kin, whom i might have
    shared a native conversation with...
point being: i could spot a language
behind the "faςade" of accent...
   call that quasi s?
   a word sprang to mind -
                  ziomek,
a slang among immigrants denoting:
a fellow of shared roots.
yet that morphed into an:
orthographic anomaly -
      why does the i and j need diacritical
marks when there are
exceptions to be made: otherwise?
   you know how easily
  you can write *ziomek
   differently while still retaining
the word and it's meaning?
                        źomek:
because the diacritical mark ****
of ιota is just that...
              the unholy umlaut of
i & j...
               | and .
                          are already synonymous:
they're not inter-sectional akin
to the illiterate signature of X...
why was it so hard to make a mark by
a mere I... instead marking
a count to 10? ah... in Kantian terms:
0 = negation...
                well: the 1 is to be denied.

AA LL OO NN EE

Aiere ha fatto n'anno - 'o diece 'e maggio,
na matenata calda e chiena 'e sole -,
penzaie 'ncapo a me: "Cu che curaggio
io stamattina vaco a faticà!".
Facenno 'o paro e sparo mme susette:
"Mo mme ne vaco 'a parte 'e copp' 'o Campo".
Int'a ddiece minute mme vestette
cu 'e mucassine e cu 'o vestito blu.

Nun facette sparà manco 'o cannone
ca già stevo assettato int' 'a cantina,
annanze a nu piatto 'e maccarune:
nu zito ch'affucava int 'o ragù.

C' 'a panza chiena, a passo... chianu chiano
mme ne trasette dint'a na campagna,
mmocca nu miezo sigaro tuscano,
ca m' 'o zucavo comme 'o biberò.

Tutto a nu tratto veco nu spiazzale
chino 'e ferraglie vecchie e arrugginite.
E ched' è, neh?... nu campo 'e residuate:
"il cimitero della civiltà".

Nu carro armato cu 'a lamiera rotta...
trattore viecchie... macchine scassate...
n' "Alfetta" senza 'e qquatte rote 'a sotto...
pareva 'o campusanto d' 'a Pietà!

Guardanno a uno a uno sti ruttame,
pare ca ognuno 'e lloro mme diceva:
"Guardate ccà cosa addiventiamo
quanno 'a vicchiaia subbentra a giuventù".

Mmiezo a sta pace, a stu silenzio 'e morte,
tutto a nu tratto sento nu bisbiglio...
appizzo 'e rrecchie e sento 'e di cchiù forte:
"Mia cara Giulietta, come va?".

Chi è ca sta parlanno cu Giulietta?
Nmiezo a stu campo nun ce sta nisciuno...
Tu vuo vedè che l'hanno cu ll' "Alfetta"?
Cheste so ccose 'e pazze! E chi sarrà?

Mme movo chianu chiano... indifferente,
piglio e mm'assetto 'ncopp' 'o carro armato...
quanno 'a sotto mme sento 'e di: "Accidente!...
E chisto mo chi è?... Che vularrà?".

Chi ha ditto sti pparole? Chi ha parlato?
I' faccio sta domanda e zompo all'erta...
"So io ch'aggio parlato: 'o carro armato...
Proprio addu me v'aviveve assettà?

A Napule nun se pò sta cuieto.
Aiere un brutto cane mascalzone
se ferma, addora... aiza 'a coscia 'e reto,
e po' mme fa pipi 'nfaccia 'o sciassi".

"Vi prego di accettare le mie scuse,
v' 'e ffaccio a nome anche del mio paese;
Ma voi siete tedesco o Made in Usa?
E come vi trovate in Italy?".

"Sono tedesco, venni da Berlino
per far la guerra contro l'Inghilterra;
ma poi - chiamalo caso oppur destino -
'e mmazzate ll'avette proprio ccà!".

"Ah, si... mo mme ricordo... le mazzate
ch'avisteve da noi napoletani...
E quanto furon... quattro le giornate,
si nun mme sbaglio: o qualche cosa 'e cchiù?".

"Furon quattro.Mazzate 'a tutte pizze:
prete, benzina, sputazzate 'nfacccia...
Aviveve vedè chilli scugnizze
che cosa se facettero afferrà!".

"Caro Signore, 'o nuosto è nu paisiello
ca tene - è overo - tanta tulleranza;
ma nun nce aimma scurdà ca Masaniello
apparteneva a chesta gente ccà.

E mo mm'ite 'a scusà ll'impertinenza,
primma aggio 'ntiso 'e dì: "Cara Giulietta".
Facitemmella chesta confidenza:
si nun mme sbaglio era st' "Alfetta" ccà?".

"Appunto, si,è qui da noi da un mese...
'A puverella è stata disgraziata,
è capitata 'nmano a un brutto arnese,
... Chisto nun ha saputo maie guidà.

Io mm' 'a pigliasse cu 'e rappresentante,
cu chilli llà che cacciano 'e ppatente;
chiunque 'e nuie, oggi, senza cuntante,
se piglia 'a macchinetta e se ne va".

"Di macchine in Italia c'è abbondanza...-
rispose sottovoce 'a puverella -
si no che ffa... po' nce grattammo 'a panza:
chillo ca vene ll'avimmo acchiappà".

"Giulietta, raccontate qui al signore
i vostri guai" - dicette 'o carro armato.
L' "Alfetta" rispunnette a malincuore:
"Se ci tenete, li racconterò.

Come sapete, sono milanese,
son figlia d'Alfa e di papà Romeo,
per fare me papà non badò a spese;
mi volle fare bella "come il fò".

Infatti, mi adagiarono in vetrina,
tutta agghindata... splendida... lucente!
Ero un' "Alfetta" ancora signorina:
facevo tanta gola in verità!

Un giorno si presenta un giovanotto
cu tanto nu paccotto 'e cambiale,
io, puverella!, avette fà 'o fagotto,
penzanno:Chi sa comme va a fernì!

Si rivelò cretino, senza gusto:
apparteneva 'a "gioventù bruciata".
Diceva a tutti quanti: "Io sono un fusto;
'e ffemmene cu mmico hanna cadè!".

Senza rispetto, senza nu cuntegno...
cambiava tutt' 'e giorne... signorina:
ci conduceva al solito convegno...
... alla periferia della città.

Chello ca cumbinava 'o giuvinotto?
Chi maie ve lo potrebbe raccontare:
io nn'aggio mantenute cannelotte
'e tutte specie, 'e tutte 'e qqualità:

la signorina di buona famiglia,
a vedova, 'a zetella, 'a mmaretata...
E quanno succedette 'o parapiglia,
stavamo proprio cu una 'e chesti ccà.

In una curva, questo gran cretino,
volle fare un sorpasso proibito,
di fronte a noi veniva un camioncino,
un cozzo, svenni, e mo mme trovo ccà".

"A nu fetente 'e chisto ce vulesse
nu paliatone, na scassata d'osse'...
Ma comme - dico i' po' - sò sempe 'e stesse
ca t'hanna cumbinà sti guaie ccà?".

"E che penzate 'e fà donna Giulietta?".
"E ch'aggia fà? - rispose 'a puverella-
So che domani viene una carretta,
mme pigliano e mme portano a squaglià".

"Giulietta... via, fatevi coraggio -
(dicette 'o carro armato). lo ero un "Tigre",
il popolo tremava al mio passaggio!...
Mannaggia 'a guerra e chi 'a vulette fà!

lo so cosa faranno del mio squaglio:
cupierche 'e cassarole, rubinette,
incudini, martelli, o qualche maglio,
e na duzzina 'e fierre pe stirà"

"lo vi capisco... sono dispiaciuto...
ma p' 'e metalli 'a morte nun esiste;
invece 'e n'ommo, quanno se n'è ghiuto,

You know those days --
those sad, miserable, sucker-punched in the heart, sort of days --
when all you want, is for the tears to well out of you?
for your tears to flow, so that at least something comes out?
But it's as though you have no more tears left in you.
Your well is all dried up.

It's a bit like my heart, actually,
The way it's dropping,
so
     far
           down
                       in my chest.
(I'm almost worried it'll disappear.)

And I have friends.
I have these wonderful, beautiful, friends of mine -- I have people.
But it feels
                     as though
I am glass.
                     fragile.
                     see-through.

And no matter how I want
                                                   to scream, "HELP!"
the words stay sticky, stuck,
                                                   in my throat.
And in the end, well.
I'm back all alone.

But I am still breathing.
       I am still living.
                still wanting to keep on doing those things.
More than anything, I want to push
that darkness,
that fear,
that lingering sadness, swallowing me whole into its abyss --
I want to push it far, far, away.

But all I can do now, is ask:
"How do I get out of here?"
Like that little lost child, whom I have not been in so long.
And hope
for an answer
that will not come.




-- original, typed in romaji --




Korewa,
Nakitakutemo, nakitakutemo,
Ikiru kotoga zenzen mazushikutte,
Mou, namidawa nai.
tte iu kannji.

Nannka, kokoro ga sukoshi zutsu
"chi-nn" to ochiterumitai.
Soshite, tomodachi ga donnani itemo
Jibunnwa fuyou no gurasu
Mou, toumei mitai ni natte
[Tasukete] to iitakutemo
Kotobawa nodo ni tsuikotte,
Owariniwa mata hitoribochida.

Demo, mada ikiterushi,
             mada ikitai****,
Kono kurosa, kono nayamiwa,
Tookuni oshitai.
Daga, maigo no kodomo no youni,
[Douyatte kokokara deruno?]
toshika kikenai.

KKKKKKnnT