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

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

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

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

Nou klop hy rooi
hy klop bloed
hy klop stop.

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

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

Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mount Crumpit,

He rode to the tiptop to dump it!

"Pooh-pooh to the Whos!" he was grinch-ish-ly humming.

"They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!

"They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!

"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two

"All the Whos down in Who-ville will all cry BOO-HOO!"...



At the top of the mountain he untied his dog

From the sleigh. And the valley was filling with fog

As thick as the Who Hash he'd grinched just before.

He chuckled with glee at what was in store.

Now the Grinch grabbed the sacks from the top of the sleigh,

And with a mighty "HEAVE **!" he shoved them away.

The bags filled with toys well they weaved and they shook

With the weight of the things he so sneakily took.

Until finally momentum made things far less slow.

They fell 3000 feet to the jagged rocks below.

A sickening crunch and several sharp cries

At first startled the Grinch but caused him to realize

When he stole from the Whos down in Whoville his pride

Had gotten the best of him; he'd thrown some children inside.

He giggled maliciously, grabbed his dog Max

And got back in the sleigh, for he couldn't relax.

He had to go back, for his job wasn't done.

All the Whos down in Whoville, every last one

Every man, every woman, every daughter and son

Would be dead in their beds by the dawn of the sun.

The trip down Mount Crumpit was faster than up

As he growled to himself, "where's that ***** with the cup?"

He jumped off the sleigh, machete in hand

And marched straight into Whoville, whose gates could not stand

For the rage made him strong. How he hated the Whos

With their **** cheesy smiles, and their dumb pointy shoes,

Turned up noses and pigtails and hideous songs,

THE SONGS, THE SONGS, HOW HE HATED THE SONGS.

And now he'd make sure that the Whos sang no more...

At Cindy Lou Who's house he kicked down the door

And strode into the bedroom of Cindy Lou Who.

She woke with a start, murmured "Santa? That you?"

The Grinch, with a sneer, grabbed Lou Who by the hair,

****** her out of bed seven feet in the air,

And with two sharp knives pinned her arms to the wall.

Her screams roused her parents just down the hall.

They ran to their child to save her from harm.

The mistake that they made cost them each their right arm.

Writhing on the floor in their own ****** mess,

They looked at the Grinch in a state of distress.

"Why would you do this?" they managed to hurl,

"Please, you can **** us, just not our little girl!"

He listened to their pleas with a wry little smile,

He patiently heard them, then after a while,

He cut out their tongues with another sharp knife,

First of the husband, and then of the wife.

Then he turned to young Cindy with glee,

And hissed in her ear, "you'll do something for me..."

Cindy shook her head violently, but to no avail,

For the Grinch had the tongues on a rusty old nail.

He shoved them down her gullet. She started to choke,

Then she finally died, for the rusty nail broke.

He stepped over the body of mother Lou Who,

And the Grinch slithered over to house #2.

With this house he made quick work of the Whos.

He set them on fire to cure them of the "blues."

The blaze that resulted would spread down the street,

Drawing Whos from their houses like flies to dead meat.

A grenade waited for them in center of town.

A click, then a boom mowed, like, half of them down.

The other half attempted a weak attack.

With a Type-67 the Grinch kept them back.

The little Who children could do nothing but stare

In open-mouthed horror as the Grinch, without care,

Shot them down one by one till the snow was stained red,

And he would not stop firing till they were all dead.



And as the sun rose oe'r the grisly scene,

The Grinch drenched in blood of adult, child, and teen,

With a pentagram smack in the center of town,

And the tree in the middle would slowly burn down.

With the scalps of the Whos down in Whoville in hand,

The Grinch called his dog Max, who could barely stand

Because he was violently shaking in shock.

He could not even whimper, let alone walk.

Not a Who was left standing, not a song to be heard,

Save for that of a single Who bird

Which was quickly snuffed out by a single pistol round.

And after that there was not a sound.

The Grinch, his work finished, got back in the sleigh,

Cracked the whip over Max, and slithered away.

The last thing the poor town of Whoville would hear:

"If there's anyone left, well, I'll come back next year!"

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

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

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

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

-inamabilis

The countries with the largest ***** ***** length are:
Ecuador - 17.61 cm (6.93 inches)
Cameroon - 16.67 cm (6.56 inches)
Bolivia - 16.51 cm (6.5 inches)
Sudan - 16.47 cm (6.48 inches)
Haiti - 16.01 cm (6.3 inches)
Senegal - 15.89 cm (6.26 inches)
Gambia - 15.88 cm (6.25 inches)
Netherlands - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Cuba - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Zambia - 15.78 cm (6.21 inches)

The countries with the smallest ***** ***** length are:
Cambodia - 10.04 cm (3.95 inches)
Burma - 10.70 cm (4.21 inches)
Taiwan - 10.78 cm (4.24 inches)
Philippines - 10.85 cm (4.27 inches)
Sri Lanka - 10.89 cm (4.29 inches)
Hong Kong - 11.19 cm (4.41 inches)
Bangladesh - 11.20 cm (4.41 inches)
Thailand - 11.45 cm (4.51 inches)
Vietnam - 11.47 cm (4.52 inches)
Malaysia - 11.49 cm (4.52 inches)
~
Scientists claim that the size of the ***** does not matter, as long as the job gets done. But those scientists are probably Cambodian. If you liked my last list of the top 10 countries with the biggest *****’s, then you’ll love the list of the top 10 countries with the smallest *****’s. SO bring out the magnifying glass and tweezers, and let’s have ourselves a closer look.
~
Top 10 Countries With The Smallest penîses In The World or unhung hero's 

10. Japan
Researchers found out that the birthrate in Japan is so low, that adult diapers are sold more than baby diapers. The Japanese are packing a whopping 4.30 inches of sausage, I guess, if you can’t reach, you can’t reach, Sashimi anyone?

9. Sri Lankan men very well represent the size of their tiny little country., and their tiny little rooster. With an average size of 4.30 inches.

8. China
We have reason to believe that the Chinese were gifted with a clever mind, and cursed with a small *****, with an average ***** size of 4.29 inches, now we know why Bruce Lee was always so mad.

7. Philippines
Manny Pacquiao has been under the suspicion of using steroids over the years, and if that’s true, then his **** could very well be inverted by now. Cause the Philippines has an average size of 4.21 inches, now that’s a pretty small **** Pac man.

6. Taiwan
Taiwan’s home of lady boys and Alexander ****. But they need some more pay weight gee (Peh-oe-ji) in their pants with a ridiculous average ***** size of 4.20 inches. Women of Taiwan, I feel for you, but it’s okay, just book a ticket to congo.

5. Myanmar
As beautiful as it is, Myanmar, formerly known as Burma, is famous for their two kind of nuts. Betel nuts, and their little hanging nuts, with an average size of 4.19 inches.

4. India
The country who proudly shared its Yoga spirituality **** to the world, never shared the fact that Indian Men have a teensy weensy dickie, with an average size of 4.03 inches. Well we now know the truth. Namaste!

3. Thailand
home to the world’s largest gold Buddha, the largest crocodile farm, the largest restaurant, the longest suspension bridge, and the tallest hotel, I guess they’re trying to compensate for their national average of 4 inches in the ***** department.

2. Cambodia
50 % of the Cambodian population is under the age of 15. No wonder the average ***** size of Cambodian Men is just 3.95 inches. I’m surprised that Neverland ranch wasn’t built there. #RIP the King of *****

1. South Korea
You may have heard their fantastic K-pop, and you may be impressed with their Economical, financial and Military Growth, but I guarantee that you will never see South Korea the Same way ever again, as they hold the record for the nation with the smallest *****, with an average size of 3.8 inches of pure imagination, and you know North Korea can’t be much better, maybe that’s why they’re so secretive.
~

Hi Doctor.
I was wondering about the depth of the ******. I've read statistics that say that the average ****** is only 3 to 4 inches deep. This seems way too small to me, since the average ***** is considerably longer than that. Wouldn't that mean that most penises would crash into the ****** repeatedly during *******? Since this obviously doesn't happen, my question is this: does the ****** actually elongate during ******* to accommodate the entire length of the average *****?

Dear Ashley
DONT WORRY!!
Your ***** can be amazingly elastic and accommodating,
and if you're brave enough no matter how big, anything can be a *****.
Christine O’Bam Slam, MD

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

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

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

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

-inamabilis

i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.

and in my "hiatus" period of absence, circa 15th of April and 15th of December (minutes from a yesterday)... i've come to regret the Russians not having any... no... rather the bare minimum of orthography... surprise surprise! there's plenty to choose from! i had to return to a time when i was drilling greek into my head... naturally: a time for cyrillic was on the horizon... but... i couldn't do it with english alone... i need my mother tongue, a tongue that employs diacritical markers... again and again: english can do away with its j... it goes missing when raised to stand from a sitting position ȷ(J)... and it can cut the head off its I(standing)... ı(sitting)... to make an emphasis... i have been busy... drinking aside, have a look where i have been for the past... april, may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december:

ź = зь and ż = зъ

i'm drinking - and i am my most content - the world burns and goes about its usual wordly theatre... i'm huddling with a cameo role in the background... i am drinking content... my 3rd or 4th rejection letter! this time from : austin macauley publishers (london, cambridge, new york - sharjah - where the **** is sharjah?!) - i remember sending them a "manuscript" and a book already printed, bound... they said it would take them 6 weeks to reply... i didn't enclose an email address... i had to wait for the snailmail... my my... what lovely handwritting of my name and address... in the letter i did state: it's e(sch)lert... she omitted the (sch)... a rebecca crib admin assistant, of the editorial... 6 weeks though... hmm... i posted the letter and manuscript and the book way back prior to visiting my grandparents... circa 8th of september... it's a rejection letter... that much is true... but i'm drinking in celebration! i was making dinner in the afternoon and was asked: why are you so angry? i wasn't... i tried to figure out what i'd feel when enough of ms. amber was in me... i replied: i'm being apathetic... but now it's clear: i'm jovial! there's even a signature! an authentic signature... in all honesty... a rejection letter means something... if it is physically mailed... of course i'm celebrating! i exist! i exist outside the realm of getting spam snail-mail! of course i will reply... i'll tell them: destroy and recycle the manuscript - it really wasn't a manuscript to begin with... i pour my "efforts" on the manuscript canvas that's the html... but the already printed book? can you please not burn in... rather... keep it? i'd appreciate no 1933 Säuberung... and you know (kind reader) - i'll send this introspection to the same publisher... like it is... pop / pulp or whatever mongerel of style this has had to be... but a reply! i want to see how one might escape formal language, formal affairs, social affairs, esp. in letters - a dear ms. X / to whomever it might concern Y... kind regards / yours faithfuly Mr. Z... this has to be celebrated... given what's on the horizon... the norwegian novel viking a'comin'! the buldozer autobiography... the demand for a "death" of fiction... otherwise i'm still "here"... a "here" that truly is so distant that its distance allows my petty leeching and the world's grand fiasco theater of fire and smoke and mirrors! - after all... i'm not mad enough to be welcome to a cage if i'm a sparrow... a cage of rhyme, form and all those shackle devices / identifiers of "poetry"... the future is narrative... and the current narrative says? if you asked me to dress proper, for an opera... to don the shirt the tux and the bow (tie)... the well ironed trousers... perhaps... beside the point: air's in the head and i just wish i could heat it up... for a baloon of quasi-egoism effect... otherwise what is there... a former journalist becomes an isolationist essay-scribbler? all the best journalists retire from the profession and become essayists... polemicists... whatever... this "poet" says: no poet ever writes a novel... the real life is too fictive already... and most certain this "poet" adds: begone! lyricism and rhyme! i'll sing like the humming drone cleric of the hive of ambient refrigerator sounds at 2am when everything is sleeping...

capital: oh... so that's what it was... back circa 1990 - when inflation of currency was rife all over Poland? that's when foreign capital was flowing in: foreign money... the economy was flooded with pounds and dollars... and given the exchange rate: i remember a time when you could get circa 7zł for every 1 £ sterling... so why would a nation start to print its own money? well... because more foreign money is coming in - at the given exchange rate: apologies: i was born yesterday - i need to explain certain things, from scratch... as was once stated - there's only a finite amount of money in circulation... physical money... "apparently"... and no... if you were to materialise all the wealth in this world into either fiat or gold: there wouldn't be enough of it... but how else would inflation happen in a country like Poland circa 1992? foreign investement: the wild west of eastern europe when the soviet barricade fell... i do remember being asked a question as a child: which is more... these copper coins... or this piece of paper? on the piece of paper was written 5, 000, 000zł - i said the copper coins... i wasn't either right or wrong - the person asking the question laughed... i don't think it was a question of: there are more copper coins in the hand... than a single piece of paper... after all... perhaps i acted all trans-****-sapiens and became chimp and saw less zeros on the copper coins than on the piece of paper? how else does does a currency inflate - when foreign currency is poured into it... it's the opposite of foreign aid... you put £1 into an economy - with an exchange rate: currently you'd get circa 4, 50zł out of... so where is all this "excess" money to come from? the moment when foreign money is invested... is the moment you have to start printing your own money... imagine... if the word BLACK was worth more than CZERŃ (чернь): oh, we'd readily translate BLACK = CZERŃ... but we also need a sentence for that "to make sense"... and there i was... thinking that russian doesn't apply diacritical markers... oh... right... they're not as discrete with accents like some of us... notably? нь = ń... and so and likewise... wait wait... źródło (source)... in russian it would look, look: oh so ugly... зьрoьд-ł-ł-o... (wh)en (wh(en) but now i know this (w)oe: the soft sign (acute)... and the hard sign for... e.g. życzenia (wishes)... зъыченя (perhaps зъычениa) - point being: ź = зь and ż = зъ... now does language come to me...it never left me... but now ai appreciate the minor details... i see the english and their language and how they speak it... how they churn out metaphysics and how they call forthe help of **** similis to give history the rusty coating of: nothing between a today and tomorrow: there's only the hanging off a tree from a a tail that the chimpanze doesn't thave... everything is so very metaphysical: it's never orthographic! тe два: tak - тe: оба (there's a wikipedia mistake... U+0411 / U+0431... not o'bah... oo'b'ah...): щекaць: szczekać! to bark... eh... greek became too rigid... i could remember all the letters... always buckling on ζ (zETA) and ξ (11), upsilon (υ) and nu-nu-nu (ν)... and this is, practically nonsense to anyone with a base literacy knowledge... to exagerrate... who does mind such pedantic pleasures... when they could be somewhere else: skiing! but it's worthwhile to know how a nation's currency can be inflated... foreign money flows into the country - and whatever the exchange rate is... there is no such thing as a "grafitti compensation": then again, there is... perhaps literacy has been inflated... inflated for a second literacy of coding to be assured? otherwise? bypassing the orthodox print... bypassing orthodox editorial scrutiny... was... "nice"... until the moment when the mediator sought to see fit that the reader had more authority over the written word: having re(a)d it - over the person who had / has: written it! we do part our ways with the russians on the "debate" concerning the "cedilla" involving A(ą) and E(ę)... cedilla: yes yes... akin to garçon - waiter! waiter! please - that greek sigma at the end of a word: and all its ασπεκτς... aσpectς - that really is an orthographic statement... only Ssssssss'igma is a letter with "three dimensions" suited for it... a handwritten element... otherwise in the news this week? the apostrophe society is no more... like when you don't put a possessive article if the thing in "question" ends with an S, in english? e.g.? the colours' (sez sirs - alt. colours's sez sirs... ses-esses) imbued harmony... and that is a possesive article, isn't it? with an apostrophe: 's? it's not a plural identification - there would be no need for the apostrophe to begin with! pounds' worth: no... not a pound's worth - the worth of a pound... pounds' worth: the worth of pounds! - what's that german word... glücke! nein nein... etymological root: glück 'luck' (etymology is the new history... it bypasses journalism and serves some journalistic cousin that's powdered in dust of cremated bookworms) - and yes, a hypen can come to the fore: after a full-stop and the opening of a new sentence with a conjugation: - with disbelief / - and!

i'm not buying how the media narrative will turn Cymru into a "K-affair"... sim sim: similie or else... but these have been my greek buckles: ξ (oh... that's why i wrote 11... XI - ksi...) - it's rare to see ξ sometimes: esp. in philosophy books... rubric!

- ζ
- ν
- υ (i can be forgiven, these two letters
are not suited for print... unless working
with a microscope) - unlike a roman Vv...
- ξ

but this is just the greek... if you ever read some modern... you'd think: and i just don't know, where they get their ideas from - with all those diacritical excesses that heidegger notes...

but now... for my cyrillic mini-adventure:

from Miньsk (Mazowieцki): with love

it might be said, that if i just the bare minimum -
if i even do not write anything at all -
but i have too many petty griefs during the day
to much else than the odd, occasional chore;
at the same time i do not want to sound
amused, bewildered, bored or un-used...
it's just that i find writing and drinking before
falling to my 343rd death -
my 343rd labour for mask and then exfoliated
in a dream: that might come...
or might not come...
unless a known audience... a wake sized nieche
privy... i find either unconscious or subconscious
struggles to warm up to an anonymous crowrd...
unless it was me being propped up on stage...
flooded by light... and the audience in the din:
with barely a shadow to scratch...
perhaps: then and only then...
but i've found that: it would be best that i sentence
the 2hs spare i have for merely drinking
and loitering from one video to another:
perchance something new in music is to emerge...
"coquettish" with a "something" that will never
have any realism-focus for me to undertake
a second's day carnality of the banal...
perhaps all this: "going out of my own way"
has been too much - or just enough...
to make me drink more and take more pharma
knock-out enzymes...
a naproxen and an amitriptyline...
perhaps the focus was elsewhere...
to stand frozen in awe...
when someone might "add": from one big void:
ex nihil a priori to... nihil a posteriori...
and all this cameo theatre in between!
mein gott... i can also convene to praise those
brutal breeders of sorts...
enough time to occupy two decades...
perhaps even three...
and then the grim reality of: should my child
die... or... some other worse:
the mortal should not be inflicted by...
"not reading into the genetic clues": properly:
"all at once"...
oh i would be so much happier to take this mind to sleep:
to not make some idle focus -
to entertain some eyes while i turn aside all things
hyper-inflated in purpose...
to die of a heart-attack in one's sleep...
but otherwise to simply focus on a welcome tomorrow...
that would be...
a gracious beginning to posit the day's slouching
zenith... or... i'm not sure whether this be a coming
zenith or a nadir...
but there's still that clear-cutting focus
regarding russian orthography...
cutting it with two tongues... slit at the tip...
with english the "placebo": no diacritical markers evident...
well: a TILDE over a ȷ is no more necessary...
than a "tittle" (not thai-tle... ty'ttle) over an ı...
to borrow the greek phrase: cut one head of hydra -
two emerge... cut the two heads...
i come toward the russian mish-mash of diacritical
application...
it's not be-au-ti-ful... it's messy... it's what it is...
but already i can see what this: cutting off the heads
of the english j-i hydra looks like...
it's not enough to simply enlarge them to state: CAP(I)TAL-(J)...
the knitty-gritty... why then the tilde atop of 'em?
prior "corrections": łen and when...
is not akin to... wrak or wreck... although these two words
have the same meaning...
unless: "partisan" V comes in...
very - weary... Cracow or Krakov?
a W = a Ł = a W = a V ≠ a Ł...
Ęwa and Ądam (e nosinė) are not covered by
Russian orthography...
the list is as follows:
ż (зъ) and... ć (ць), ń (нь), ó (oь), ś (сь), ź (зь)...
the graphemes? i'll call them graphemes for simplicity...
even though: they're not the smallests units...
as are vowels... or the syllables of consonants
in the latin choir of B'ee, C'ee... e'M... etc.
ж alternatively RZ (Ż) or Ž... otherwise the fwench:
je (suis)... this is nothing more than...
an encyclopedic evaluation...
a trainwreck proposal of: should i ever be stuck in
in russia... and i would have to: read... (ee'd - r'ah)...
chop off a TILDE off the torso of the english:  ȷ...
a crescent moon lying back emerges in the russian... й...
but it's not the english: jeep! it's an english: yeep!
or a  ȷeep! alternatively: yawn could be:  ȷawn...
but not if: it's jaws... coming into play: to chatter from
the siberian cold... how else to explain?
if not by... example?
then there's the "exploration" of the greek F...
as much as in english...
фoughts on θilosoφy...
good to know the russians only "borrowed"
one of the greek Fs... "culturally appropriated" or...
wasn't St. Cyrill born a greek?!
and away from greek we move...
since χ (chi): yep: perpleX... a Ks to a Ts
(note, revision found below)...
otherwise hidden... in non-vowel binding consonants...
like... ч- and -х (although... that's not quiet a Ch-ur-hC -
but sure... some altar for siц and... no... no siPS)...
cholera! which is not: SHow me the CHow mein...
for that we need CARONs...
that's when ч becomes CZ (in polish) or otherwise:
Č... long have i wanted the polish to adopt this version...
to hide the SZ and the CZ (es'zed, х'zed) respectively...
how else to write: szczekam?
a russian would write... щекaм...
out of a "simple" ш out pops out a щ (this letter...
is probably the only "etymological" route to bind russian
to the oddities of Ęva and Ądam (e nosinė)...
ш (š) becomes щ (šč) -
whoever was to undermine the old rules
of engagement when the ruling parties gave up
a monolopy of literacy? you can literally hide an entire
letter / meaning by using a hachek...
hook...
as i begin to wonder:
how much did the slavic tribes "appropriate" greek...
and how much did the two greek saints...
try to make sense of the slavic glagolitic script?
em... Ⱋ looks pretty intact if you cut off the body... E:
reclining...
but i do come from the western lands of the eastern
lands... hence? hardly any cyrilic influence...
but i too: with my own oddities... already mentioned...
come to think of it? the bulgars joined
the "party"?
beside that? what other, russian"oddities"?
orthographic - i.e. aesthetic dictations / rubrics...
ю really is a я... the russians have this english tendency
to stress their pronouns...
i this... i that! i walked up a street! and kicked a black
cat 13 times down the street to ease my luck!
you can talk in polish for days... and never stress the I / я
pronoun... really...
and ю is just a variation of я...
throw in the remaining vowels and you'd probably
come up with some "new" russian letters...
like ye... good point... i did make a "mistake"...
щэкaм! i'm barking!
unless... that's only an orthographic question...
notably? if you're going to: zerkać...
peer in / at "on and off"... casually...
зэркaць... em... it must be an orthographic question...
ergo? i wasn't exactly "wrong"...
just bad taste... зeркaць...
i've already shown the difference between (ъ) and (ь)
in a latin script: that uses more diacritical markers
than english "supposedly" escapes with focusing
on the rather pointless TILDE over the J and I...
this "oddity": ы... ɨ  clearly it's not exactly a ł...
minor details... like a mona lisa smiling...
best example of close proximity?
take a... no... that's a hollowed out "why"...
i know how it sounds... and there are no diacritical marks
needed for it... since there's a clear distinction
that i know of, between: I J Y...
tY... this little sucker is born from the fact that...
western slavs have a name for this letter...
iGREK... funny... the russians borrow more greek lettes...
and have to have...
ё (yo), e (ye), у (which they treat like a greek would U -
never mind the greeks themselves
making the following ref. Υγ / Γυ) -
and of course the я (ya)... so no wonder i see this
"letter" (ы) as an absolutely oddity...
i could stomach: ż (зъ) and ź (зь) differences...
well that's as far as i would come in learning russian...
spot the odd ones out... proper...
й (j) and ё... which is some german loan vowel with
that ******* umlaut... otherwise...
this poo'em was born from trying to **** the english
hydra of "orthography", with its mighty bounty
of the ȷ-ı TILDE! my my... what a ride!
come to think of it... now i think i can sleep.
- it hasn't been such a waste of an hour... drilling this in:
into my head...
after all... what did the professional clarinet player
say then asked about playing professionally
in a travelling orchestra? after 30 ******* years of
blowing hard into this thing...
guess what i still end up doing?
it's not so much learning... i'm still practising!

because this will not end like some sort of "summary"...
i will remember each letter if i weave it into
this latin letter by letter...

the refleξive (x)
in that one might have χeated (ch) -
again!
what it is about an ξ-ray that is also an
"χ"-ray? the "ex" k'ss k'ss cuss...
is this what james joyce's finnegans wake
should have looked like?
again!
the cruξ of the matter...
whenever a question was to be raised about:
any χoice to be had...

i have come to grips with russian orthography...
i'll repeat... the crescent moon over и ("e")
to state: this must be elongated: й ("y") stands outs...

best examples are given by sports commentators,
notably in ski jumping...
suffiξes of surnames...
akin to -cki endings...
yes... you're seeing what i'm seeing...
we'll need some russians to work this one
out... how a C is not an S...
and how it's not KK either...
-цки... hello wet drum-kit snare!

of course not: you're not seeing N:И...
let alone: нaйт (night...
evidently -igh- is a bit complicated...
with ref. to the surd in knight - kappa and
the gamma and the ha ha ha ha tetragrammaton
left arm... vowel catcher i'd be most inclined
to borrow from the hebrews...
whenever they're not busy actually using it...
and not being a bunch of 'ebrews -
electronic brewing of tea?)
сo дaрк (so dark)...

which is the equivalent of writting english
grafitti "backward"... how it sounds...
and not for: what's the formality?
i figured: take the small steps, the trickle...
burn the eyes out with incremental poppy-seed
acts of progress... like the grand Pilgrim Emeryk
from the Świętokrzyski region of Poland
(holy cross)...
each year the pilgrim shuffles to the top of
the mountain with a speed of:
a poppy-seed's worth of distance each year...
by the time he reaches the top of the mountain:
the end of the world will arrive...

am i the next Delmore Schwatrz?
no... i don't have a Lou Reed to contend with...
am i obsessed with Finnegans Wake?
well i didn't spot any "additions" to the letters...
i didn't see any diacritical markers...
a book that shouldn't be translated since...
it ignores... a worthwhile mention
of the concept of orthography -
which is my escape from any western vogue
of metaphysics... i hide behind the omniscient
niqab of orthography... my face can be forever
hidden... but my eyes need to be on... fire!
fire! i want you to burn!

so i went to see the russians having
left the greeks... about any "nuance" bound
to the... ****-naked english language
with its magic act of the disappearing heads
off of J and I...
as you do... you "forget them" and also have to:
somehow "remember" them to be used...

do i still enjoy drinking and listening to
teutonic chants in german?
god almighty! when wouldn't i not listen to german
medieval music... when drinking?!
is that such a terrible sin?

also? i finished the trilogy of H. Sienkiewicz...
and i read some Boris Pasternak...
there was Nietzsche in polish - paul's leash said:
he's more bearable in this language,
than in english...
and how could i forget! there was...
Knausgård... Karl, Ove... volumes 1 and 2
of mein kampf...

now a "summary": hmm... ż (зъ) and... ć (ць)...
could... now... hard sign (ъ) is not exactly worth
ascription if... or rarther: because...
you don't treat a caron over an S or a C...
to "hide the english H" or the Aesti Z when coupled...
there's no need to write чъ... since?
that's pretty much in-itself given č of the nature
of чeap...
ć / ць is different in that... you'd have to hear
it first...
however... the one exception of this "rule" is already
self-enclosed in ж... which is зъ... somehow...
but not зь... examples?

жart / зъart... żart (joke)...
зьrebi... well there's no 'ę' in russian
to name: źrebię - mustang colt...
is there?
so... i was "wrong"...
in that ź = зь and ż = зъ is true...
but? ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж...
so from a "quiet unique" perspective...
and: mein gott! who's to see, travel,
and subsequently marvel at the pyramids of giza...
i'm a different version of what's
considered to be "tourism"...

give me this sole equation:
ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж
and i'll be happy for a month.
as i have been...

oh i'm back... and things have taken
SPEC-TAC-U-LAR turns and twists!
****-naked english over 'ere is gonna make
a chariots of fire runner...
i bet it will... when it comes against a juggernaut
like me.

The awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats through unseen among us,—visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower,—
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,
It visits with inconstant glance
Each human heart and countenance;
Like hues and harmonies of evening,—
Like clouds in starlight widely spread,—
Like memory of music fled,—
Like aught that for its grace may be
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate
With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon
Of human thought or form,—where art thou gone?
Why dost thou pass away and leave our state,
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?
Ask why the sunlight not for ever
Weaves rainbows o’er yon mountain-river,
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown,
Why fear and dream and death and birth
Cast on the daylight of this earth
Such gloom,—why man has such a scope
For love and hate, despondency and hope?

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever
To sage or poet these responses given—
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven,
Remain the records of their vain endeavour,
Frail spells—whose uttered charm might not avail to sever,
From all we hear and all we see,
Doubt, chance, and mutability.
Thy light alone—like mist oe’er the mountains driven,
Or music by the night-wind sent
Through strings of some still instrument,
Or moonlight on a midnight stream,
Gives grace and truth to life’s unquiet dream.

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart
And come, for some uncertain moments lent.
Man were immortal, and omnipotent,
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art,
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart.
Thou messgenger of sympathies,
That wax and wane in lovers’ eyes—
Thou—that to human thought art nourishment,
Like darkness to a dying flame!
Depart not as thy shadow came,
Depart not—lest the grave should be,
Like life and fear, a dark reality.

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped
Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed;
I was not heard—I saw them not—
When musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing
All vital things that wake to bring
News of birds and blossoming,—
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me;
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy!

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers
To thee and thine—have I not kept the vow?
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours
Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned bowers
Of studious zeal or love’s delight
Outwatched with me the envious night—
They know that never joy illumed my brow
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free
This world from its dark slavery,
That thou—O awful Loveliness,
Wouldst give whate’er these words cannot express.

The day becomes more solemn and serene
When noon is past—there is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,
Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been!
Thus let thy power, which like the truth
Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply
Its calm—to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee,
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind
To fear himself, and love all human kind.

Ek het die siek gewoonte om oog op te slaan
en die nagprag te aanskou met digters-oog
wat 'n ster van elke mens wil maak
en elkeen wil bekoor, maar
selfs al span ek al my mag in
is daar een ster hoog verhewe...

Daar sit die ster op 'n tuinstoel troon ,
oe betowerer deur die vuur
andag gestrek deur die ganse heelal
- orals behalwe hier,

waar ek soos 'n straatbrak honger kyk,
aan die voete van 'n ster
*** almal bietjie aandag eis
*** almal van jou kry
maar ek soos 'n een aand wonder
uitteer aan jou droewe stilswy

My slapelose nagte
maak my van die drome vry
want in realiteit, al kyk ek vir die sterre,
kyk hulle soms verby.

Gebroke sit ek
my hart vol emosies
my gesig uitdrukkingloos
Di masker groei vas-
almal **** ek glimlag
maar my hart skree van pyn
my siel staan snikkend
en my glimlag verlore!
ek wonder oor liefde
ek wonder oor haat
wnt in hierdi eensame wereld
gryp ons almal na hoop
verwagtend di antwoord le daaragter
ek verlang na jo stem
ek mis jo oe op my
en ek wil nt luister *** j asemhaal
wnt sonder jou voel ek leeg!
So hier staan ek mt my hart in my hande...
hopend jy gee wel 'n bietjie om...

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
   By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
   Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
   The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
   And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
   In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
   Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
       A brooklet, scarce espied:

Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
   Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
   Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
   Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
   At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
       The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
       His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far
   Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Ph{oe}be's sapphire-region'd star,
   Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
       Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor ******-choir to make delicious moan
       Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
   From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
   Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
   Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
   Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
   From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
   Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
       Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
   From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
   Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
   In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
   Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
   Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
   The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
   With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
   Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
   That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
   To let the warm Love in!

ek is deurskykend, transparant, deurmekaar
opsoek na my vrede, my mensweesm my wees
ek voel so secondhand, so op gebruik, so klaar
bid vir verlossing, a trade in vir n nuwe vlees, nuwe gees, beter wees
my oe hoop op vol trane on gehuil
ek slaan lelike kolle uit in my sogenoemde persoonlikheid
maar dis alles ek, ek wat my vervuil
ek wat my eenkant hou, ek wat my uit smyt
ek wat ja se al wil als binne my nee skree
ek wat bly staan terwyl ek moes weg hardloop
ek wat myself wou uitvee
ek wat myself vir cheap thrills verkoop
maar hirdie ek is te oud om te kniel
hierdie ek word te oud om te glo
so ek staan waar ek staan en verniel
en ek bly staan sonder n tree en verloor
kyk dis ek wat hier staan, te sad om te bid
te seer om te huil, versteen deur my toedoen
daar is geen hande vat en aansit
maar ek dra dit met n smile want dis my skoen

Yster slyp yster
en staal omhels
in n magtige bymekaarkoms

Die twee spoed monsters
om mekaargevou,
maak liefde, om die trane en seer

Daar was geen flitse
in die donker nag nie
tyd het stil gestaan
maar die hartseer gaan aan.

Yster slyp yster
en dank die Vader
die ronde oe bevat nog kleur
en die gapende monde vloek my

Yster slyp yster
maar my seer is gespaar
vir n ander dag
en 'n ander pad.

ek kyk vir die girl in die spieel en wonder of sy weet
*** hard ek probeer om haar te help vergeet
ek se vir haar ek hou van *** sy lag
en *** hoog sy mense wat dit nie verdien nie, ag
sy sug en trek haar skouers op en af
"die lewe is te kort om almal te straf"
se sy terwyl stadig wegkyk
en nog n stukkie van haarself weg smyt
ek fluister sag "as jy so aanhou gaan daar niks oor wees"
antwoord sy " ons is niks meer as vlees en gees
wanneer more kom, beteken vandag nie veel
als verander en tog niks want die son bly geel"
nikseegende donker oe kyk terug na my
ek is bevrees die girl gaan leeg bly

100 jaar herrinering
100 mense ween
100 trane val daar
100 druppels reen
van die hemel heen

Dankie vir die reen o God
die plase was so droog
die kommer word nou weggespoel
uit talle boer se oog



oor droewe grond
wat kraak en bars
streel helend hand
loop water vars

oor die mielies, koring
en oor goue hawermout
dans in die wind die jongeling
en skyn opnuut wee goud

die Here het geantwoord
oor wenige gebed
bewys van vooraf weereens
al genade wat hy het

maar wolke breuk, strome spoel
die grond word weer genees
maar spokend, kaal en lenig
sal die kerk weer Sondag wees

onthou jy jou gelofte
my Afrikaner kind
wat nou soos na dood siektes
voor die oe ontbind

**** my woord op nuut
oor die heuwels sal dit reis
tot my volk gaan terugkeer
sal opbrengs , soos geloof,
deur droogtes vergreis

Jy ry op die hanekraai
en kom le in my oor.
Jou tree 'n bekende geluid.

Jou teer drafstap deur my drome
maak my seerste monsters stil.
En sus my in 'n doodsluiterse rus.

Jou oe laat my handsaamslaan
op die lumier van meer as een.
Jou aansig maak van my gelowig.

Jou luim is 'n seestroom wat stoot en trek
en ek sit vasgekeer in jou rooi getui
en ek mik dieper , ek mik dood!

My liefste jou aanraak stuur gode
deur my dooie are en ruk my terug
vanaf die donker sluiers.

Jy is die maan, die sterre- nee
die nag! wat om my toevou
en my wieg wanneer my arms na niks gryp.

Jy is die openbaring waarna lewelose streef
en die anker waarna vryes verlang.
Bring my terug, na die gelykstreep,
voor die tyd ons invang.

Ek wil jou prys met woorde
wat God se toorn op my sal bring
maar dit hang aan my lippe
soos ek wag vir more se son om jou te besing.

Dit is my vroegoggend gedagtes,
van my lieflike laatslaper,
wie ek nooit akkuraat sal kan prys nie
, want ek is maar net 'n versotte ou dinkgaper.

All the world's a *******,
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******* and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked ******'s face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well ****'d, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his ****-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.

Vanaand vou ek my snoesig toe
                                                                          in die soet-droom blou lug
iewers tussen die maan en die sterre...

                                                                        en as die liggies  my pla
                                   trek ek weer, soos kleintyd, die duvet oor my kop
                                                                                                    en verbeel myself dat
                                                                                                 jy
                                                             en jou honger hande
                             nie in die werled bestaan nie!!

                                                                                                                    Ek kruip dan in die sagte plekkies
                                                                                                                van ontstuimige oseane...
                                                                                                                             so tussen deur die nate van
                                                                                                   die brekende golwe...
                                                                                           en le terug as die trek
                                                                                                            van moegheid my kom haal...
                                                                                                                        en terwyl die vloeiende satyn
                                                                                                                                     my wange streel...

                                     maak ek my oe toe
                          en glimlag

Kina poetry på gjesthuset en kveld i regn (Norwegian)
Korean poetry about a guesthouse one evening of rain.

Høstregn senker seg over gjestehuset
kaldt utafor, rolig natt med lampe
trist inni meg, sorgfull i rom
i hjertet en munk som mediterer.

Autumn rain sinks over the guesthouse
it's cold outside, night is calm with a lamp
of sadness inside me, a room of mourning
in my heart a monk who meditates.

Ch 'oe Ch'iwon. Korea

also by him with my attempts at translation:

Høstvind bare sang bittert
knapt en venn kjenner min lyd
regnet siler ute i mørket
fra lampen min går hugen langt.


Autumn's wind sings bitterly
hardly a friend knows my voice
rain pours down out in the dark
from my lamp memory travels far

My liefste mens
My beminde
Jy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oriental paper cranes
and waterfalls of lemonade.

A sunshine-scented, smoky haze
covers candy-coated everglades
while whispers waltz with time and space
and raindrops roll down ceiling drains.

Sacramental epitaphs
and water streams on sassafras.

A dismal, dark decrepit path
mourning missing morning's sunlight laugh;
singing songs so sweet at last
and flying free oe'r breaking glass.

Artificial floating clocks
and water droplets burning hot.

A million, melting mountain tops
shadow somber sunken river rocks
as amber ash advances spots
and transverse travel never stops.

Die donker dans in daai kind se oe
kyk *** die duiwel om hom draai en
walts met die doodsdonker nag
op die ritme van sy swak hart.

Die kind se swak hart
natuurlik bosluis die duiwel hom
toe op die bloedjie se bloed
tot sy are net gal spoeg.

Tant San se hy speel met vuur...
en sit op die doringdraad
tussen hierdie span en die ander
wie hy altwee lelik speel.

Oom Jaap se hy snuif hom slim
die gom is maar om sy hart weer
aanmekaar te plak en die spirits
vir die graffiti op sy spirit en sy soul

maar mens praat nie so van God se kind nie
die laaitjie praat met engele
en gaan eerder hemel toe as jy...
want geen mens gan tweekeer hell toe nie.

Hy wag net om te dooi...
Sjame , die arme kind.

one might, invariably, drink red wine infused
with garlic to ward off evil spirits -
or as some claim...
50ml of the stuff at daily intervals
is part of a plan for slimming...
  me? i just don't mind the taste...
        like i wouldn't mind a kiss from an onion
or... slobbering into an ash-tray
sort of a girl mouth in one of those sticky floor
nightclubs circa the early 2000s we go into
for underage drinking...
being boys i do wonder what sort of *******
escapades we were supposed to unearth...
it's not like we were Pan-Am stewardesses
readying ourselves for some glitz,
some Ritz... some... thespian shadow-thieving
on the pristine screen...
garlic infused red wine...
it's not so bad... even though it's not mine
since, after all: the best ***** on the planet
is not your own - blah blah, blah...
but lucky for the 500 quid front suspension
trek marlin 5 arrived today and...
tomorrow i go catch the wind...
it feels like being six-teen again...
not that walking marathon distances is
a problem: Pots to herr belly...
from 104, kg, to circa 107, kg...
and that's still more than half...
of what mass-loss ought to "feel" like...
although... it doesn't feel like anything
when the "subjective" numbers come
across the "objective" numbers
but unlike walking...
where time and distance and the dimension
of movement are most pronounced...
a bicycle is unlike a horse
but is like a dog...
somehow...
   a bicycle is most certainly not a car
and a car is most certainly not a horse...
but a bicycle is... not...
it's... unlike a horse...
but like a dog...
that it's not a dog is pretty obvious...
but i'm conjuring up...
concepts like muzzle...
leash... WD40 oil for the chain...
and... enough air in the tires...
since we're not talking a road bicycle and
nothing has to be slender jimmy either...
it's a pristine orange...
the colour does matter, somehow...

when i liked jazz i stopped digressing
into classical...
when i stopped digressing into jazz
i allowed myself for
classical music to become complimentary
to things - complicated...
not that jazz wasn't...
but what it wasn't was that it wasn't
scripted and all that
"spontaneity" revels in exhausting itself
somehow: becomes predictable...

a jazz "us" vs. a classical "we": vs.
nothing so much clearly even remotely aligned
to that...
it was a Friday night and i was this close | |
to gauging my eyes out
after having watched a director's cut of a movie...
it beat the standard bearer...
whichever it was... Ben-Hur or Spartacus...
nearing to 4 hours of...
by the end of it: almost gauging my eyes out...
hardly Pavlov or drooling...
of making me an infantilised *******
sputnik moon-key...

a sense of: culture is dying...
what's predominately being "served"
is cancel is cancel is cancel is...
well... to overcome some variation
of nihilism ascribed to morals...
we found the modern woman in the 1950s
and 60s...
the supposed, modern man...
we'll find in the 2050s and the 2060s...
if we're lucky...
when a somewhat status quo returns...
otherwise: what's on offer is still
a dynamic of "arrogance" / agitation...

my insomniac libido...
my insomnia's insomnia...
why i wouldn't doge a cocktail of
alcohol... 250mg of naproxen...
and something resembling para-cet-a-mole
to switch-off...
i switch off:
i don't fall asleep... always...

complete with a thorough hard-on
i can exactly fathom by diluting it over
a mortal conversation with the opposite ***...
because there's this illusion
and it's stupendous...
etymological relaxation in order?
evidently history is placed within
a self-erasure composite glue...
work around this architecture...

my first... bicycle route...
the tires are pumped up
it took me close to 7 hours to walk
to st. paul's cathedral and back...

then one of those:
write everything via an anagram...
anagram: soul - losu -
                 los - which implies... fate...
losu? implies a possessive article of fate:
i.e. fate itself...
fate's whim...
              i had a dream yesterday...
i'm adamant the person i spoke
with dealt in the term... RESURRECTION...

i think i was talking to a zombie in a dream,
whoever i was talking to...
like the hues of Baltic amber...
an allotment of greens and blues...
tinges of orange mingling with yellows
and ripe reds...
nothing purpose filled like
purple followed: for the clarity of
dignifying mourning...
or an eternal clue for blue...

i was drinking medication!
i was duped!
two variations of grammar to decipher...
what it was i was drinking...

but i'll need to speak something
older than colt hing-leash...
i.e.
  garlic infused red wine
red wine infused with /
                                  by garlic...
it's a slimming elixir... apparently...

here goes! dive!

             knoblauchinfundiert rotwein...
rotwein infundiert mit /
                         durch knoblauch...
if i were drinking my own pīß...
                                         not enough: pish!
                                       pysh...
passer... by...    zilch on a leash...
it's a mix-up between py-š and py-ś...
     no... it's not even remotely related
to                                         π-σζ
ask a greek, though...
whether                           σζ can be coupled
like ae or oe...
                             given... SH... &...
                                            μαμ ση...
even the complexity of the mandarin skeletons
doesn't allow them to conjure up
more sounds behind the letters
that are already: a priori...
left... available...

tangled up in the affair of the "gods": or: not, god...
a mother seeks a supposition of a son...
we tells her...
while at the altar of words...
i began this session with red wine infused
with garlic... i'll end it with some
mulled wine...
the cat's my winged sphinx...
the cat's my winged sphinx...

for the toils beckon me remote...
i harvest a lineage that has to come to an end...
mother dear why you will not be grand...
while i won't be the fathering kind...
like it might not excused
for that thespian reality of....
gearing up to: froth forth at a pronto...
my red wine infused with garlic...

i knew i had to lend an ear to
the deutsche-zunge like
like Wend...
nieme-ludzie.... niemdy-lud...
although their black-forest gateau was
to... die for...
older than english...
this modern leash of...
this isn't the 21st century... is it...
this isn't the century of the culimation
of expectations... is, it?
if it is... where was "ground zero":
this... "Golgotha" of the supposedly
requested hour?
by what hour... are hours worth a count...
that sort of hour-ing, yes?

by the demands of what "suffices":
that i didn't speak with a god...
that i did encounter a chanced audience
with... the ******* choir... yes...
how does that sound...
having smoked marihuana
and having to "somehow" usher in...
something so antithesis of cosmopolitan...
sensible: i came across the god's choir...
but not god himself...
i cowered and started rummaging
occupying a space
before the great altar...
the great altar, so be it...
amen...              i hid under the tablature in
a white cloth...
an F a TH a PH but not a P- (prefix lady
added to the "complexity" of a response...

i met the choir, before i was allowed to
meet the deity...
last time i heard... from kabbalistic sources:
upon meeting the deity the sure
and impeding quest for death:
a clear sky... but a streak of cloud
making a quill be resembled, symbolic...
detailing a quasi-barricade...
between reality, reels, real and the races...

for an audience:
but such details are supposed to be...
confided without a public scrutiny...
then again... given my timing...
timing: not having to father children...
no ambitions of such: deeds... therein imploding...
red wine infused with garlic
for starters... mulled wine to finish it off
with an amnesia of sorts...

Ohh..Ohh..Ohh..Ohh,..O..,Yeah
Young Ston what's good, Only For The Real Entertainment ***** thats what's good..Whats up tho dawg..Uhh,..Ohh..Ohh..Ohh..Ohh,..O..,..
I'm in my zone,..(I'm in my zone4)..yeah..in (my zone2)..in (my zone2)..Yeah..(I'm in my zone2)..in my zone,..Yeah..(I'm in my3)..zone..my zone,..just leave me (alone2)..in (my zone2)..(I'm in my zone2)..(just leave me alone, in my zone2)..,don't mess wit me don't bother me dude at all,..(I'm in my zone2)..just (leave me
alone2)...alone..in my zone..(Im in my zone2)..in (my zone3)
so Don't annoy me **,..(I'm in my zone3)..
/in (my zone2)../3
(Yeah3)..dawg..(Ohhwoah2)..Ohh, o..Let's goo, roll something now,....Ohhwoah..Ohh, o..

/Im in my zone2..just leave me alone2/2..
Leave me alone, don't mess wit me, don't bother me dude, Noo,Woah..Ohh,oo Noo,..(I'm in my zone2)..in (my zone4)..(I'm in my zone3)..just (leave me alone2) alone..while I'm in (my zone2)..,Aye..,(I'm in my zone3)..My zone,.. Yeah (I'm in my zone2)..
/so just..leave me (alone2)../3
While..I'm in (my zone3),..don't annoy me **,just leave me alone,(while I'm in my zone2)..I'm in (my zone3)..Aye,..(Im in my zone3)..(just leave me alone3)..leave me (alone2)..alone in (my zone2)...Aye


Its (so much2)..******* & (so much2)..fucc **** going on in this world today man,..so much (problems2)..,so much (violence2)..so much (drama2).. & so much (corruption2)..,Aye I just want peace dawg,..Aye I just wanna be all
/(alone2) in (my zone4)/2
Uhh.., (Aye I just want to be left alone2)..left alone,..alone..in ( my zone2)..(Im in my zone4)..Yeah bro..Ohh,o..(please just leave me alone2)..Aye

I been stressing out so much, my head starting to hard dawg, so Imma just roll up & solo dolo  me 3 king size joints yep..
Aye,I might just sip on some brown too dude,Imma wash it down, wit a ounce of OE, who gives a **** , stop worrying about me, ***** worry about yo self..Aye
Yeah I'm only 19, but I got a old head spirit mane, I get my habits from my daddy, don't **** me off or I'll whoop yo *** mane,Uhh..
I got so much angry thats up in me, I release it all out on a beat, I'm raging, I'm trapped in a mental cage man,Aye will somebody (set me free3)..please, Aye..I'm so invincible homie

All that other **** that these rappers gotta say is invisible to me, I speak so in depth, I speak so clearly,  my  music speaks volumes..I rap so vividly, so thoroughly I'm so complete, because God got me aye..God got me mane,..So Imma say as much as I can say as possible mane,..anything is possible Yeah..anything is possible man, don't ever in yo life let a hater wash away yo hope my *****, real talk man..because (anything is possible2)..Yeah don't let a doubter tell you otherwise, dawg..Uhh,..(I'm in my zone3)..(My zone2)..& I just wanna be left alone,..I just wanna smoke solo dolo, chill by myself & get to business man..Uhh,Yeah  I'm feeling so lonesome, but I'm usta to this,Imma be okay,Yeah man..Aye
I'm in (my zone3)..Aye

All of these fake ***** *** rappers need to lay low man & stay outta the real ones way, before they all get laid out by me & my team..,for real mane,..Uhh,I'm in my zone wit the fam,Uhh...we getting to the money, Yeah man..,I'm not worrying about making new friends, I'm not worrying about what ***** bout to **** on my ***** next, Noo..
(I'm in my zone man,Yeah I'm in my zone *****2)..(so just leave me alone2)..(just leave me alone3)..***** I'm in (my zone2)..
(So just leave me alone2)..(just leave me alone3)..while I'm in (my zone2)..Uhh, Yeah..(I'm in my zone2)..(My zone2)..

Aye What's up, what's good, What's cracking dawg, Aye what's happening now,Aye..What's cracking shawty, What's good,..What's happening, What's up now man..Aye

I'm spitting knowledge, Yeah conscience filled raps Yeah..I'm on my KRS one , **** my *****,Aye let all of your stresses,..go..(just let em go2)..let em all go..(just go2)..go..Uhh
Aye, roll that choke, mane, you ain't even got to pass it homie, Aye, I throw you some for free because you (my folk4)..Yeah you can roll yo own..Yeah roll yo own man, just like a boss should ..& Aye let all of your stresses,..go..just (let em all go2)..let em go..(just go2)..go..Uhh..Yeah

OFTR We bossing,..yeah..we bosses, We all come from nothing, we came outta no where now we shinning  like vvs diamonds,real diamonds *****..We stunning like a high fashion model, Aye don't be a follower be a leader , I'll teach you how to become one.. , yeah Imma role model.., Aye Imma roll my whole O & be (in my zone2)..
Im not picking up my phone, all yall **'s (just leave me alone2)..Yeah (I'm in my zone2)
(My zone..*2)

Sifting through my memories
I chanced upon one.
The one I keep tucked away
in the darkness of my vault.
Only to be brought out for a feel of home.

Of a dusk spent, legs dangling
oe'r a window ledge.
When you came up from behind
and hugged me so.
The hug lingers on.
As do fragments of you
Now lost forever.
Like the *** end of a story,
still waiting to be told.

As I pick up the remnants of a life that once was,
I return to the one that is.
The one that I am half way through.
While I am not yet  through
And just maybe, we are not through.

I dream dreams of you.
In the darkness, I ***** for you
Bereft of us, when I wake up to myself.
You wave out of the frame and smile just so.
As though to say I told you so.
And I think to myself
Of all the memories, of all the people
in all the world,
I had to trip over this one, of you.

****
i want to break you

cukf
w tnoa oe iytba rok

break
i want to *******

FEB 8 2013 -- i swear there is a good 6 feet
                        fresh powder outside.

mountain of blankets in my bed & i don't know why i even got out of them. one more
bad decision.
half-*** coffee and club songs to try and get into some kind of (productive) zone but
feel like any semblance of true rhythm is practically impossible,
given current situation (i.e. general vida) , won't really get into it.

feeling also great need to desist with all this
introspective poetry
and move into non-diaristic phase. successful phase. difficult when so preoccupied
with issues (doubts, too, i suppose. though these could easily be done away with, if i could get
a steady pattern going once more. regular output.
creativity buried by oppressive, continuous snowfalls.     //     excuses.

                                                       ­                                          think often on verses written
                                                         ­                                        in Spain.

-- verses written on THE BALCONY or THE OPEN WINDOW COUCH,
(surrounded by a beauty complex in its simplicity. by beer and cigarettes and
people who truly know what it is to be unsure in almost all things,
yet are satisfied and grateful.)
-- verses now sitting on a shelf unread by anyone.
my "best work", to-date.

i wonder sometimes if i am losing my party face ..
simultaneously want to hang out with Crystal Castles or Justice but
drink bourbonne (hah) or OE and listen to Ray Price.
putting on something like the Steve Miller Band or Sam Cooke often helps. lifts.
just need to stop moping round like a sad old dog. in all honesty i have probably been
mildly depressed on & off for about two years. months in Spain excepted.
having said that i can't really think of anything else worth saying at the moment.

anyway, i wrote something today, i guess.

So loop ek deur die strate van Paris en voel dadelik tuis;
Tuis soos in n vreemde wereld wat juis net vir my gemaak is.
Die outydse geboue wat vertel van jare terug, die noue strate wat ver af le amper verby more, die klasieke fietse met klokkies wat "trieng" in die verby gaan na ander plekke, ook die french brode wat jou vertel van vandag en die krag van twee hande wat gebruik is om die smaak in jou gedagtes te laat verdwaal, om n storie te vertel.
So loop ek deur die strate van Paris en voel dadelik bly;
Bly soos n kind wat haarself bevind in n lewe vol nuwe dinge, vol nuwe betekenisse soos n nuwe paar oe wat oop gaan om te sien en dan te verstaan.
Maar die lewe gaan aan met n lank terug en n more wat kom of n vandag wat verby gly na n elke dag;
Wat my vertel van n lewe van geluk en plesier om te geniet vandag, elke dag.
2016/07/17

O eve
             O 1st starting nubile sparks
                                                          ­      O thrush and warble

         you skip tremulous and encroaching
       puddle o' dankness rushing oe'r blade and mountain
      you race the wind and gather up all the finite bodies of earth
     in your illustrious cool mouth and blow each face and stem thy
    kiss o' your illluminant clutching docile lips, which fornicate with
   the merry spades o' silver stars a digging the freshest grave of day
                                       (i'll fit into you
                                        the stuff of me
                                        in creases o'
                                        your foldless
                                        heaps and
                                        coiffes
             ­                           your hair marvelous and faultless
                                        staggers brightly
                                        from the pale splinter o' the moon
                                        and it eats me into
                                        the playful gnash o' its reticent
                                        fists
          ­                       )
         O
         eve
                             O
                            valley  and stream
                      
             (meet with me tonight
              beneath the pallor lady
              and we'll make love)