Orcas in Puget Sound

Along the road, abandoned wild apple trees bend
with their heavy loads, dusty skirts of blackberry bushes
purpling fingers, piercing flesh
mouths ringed with berry juice, vampires all.
Along San Juan Island salmon leap clear
out of the briny water, just yards ahead of their predators,
Orcas, dorsal fins curving shiny black, sluicing and slicing
the surface like sharpened knives

They have bred with one another for 10,000 years
trolled these waters through famine, earthquakes, world wars
through shifting continents, glacial avalanches,
through the extinction of whole civilizations.
Standing on a cliff, my daughter and I
watch the Orcas churning the water - studies in grace
the largest gem on the necklace of a great food chain
and when we sleep we too chase
the great King Salmon of our deepest dreams,
the fathers we lost, the currents that bear along children

Translucent jellyfish, palm sized, breath below
sideways exhale, convulsive inhale
umbrellas opening and closing a thousand years or more
sliding through forests of brown kelp where mollusks cling

We have clung like this to one another, with my body
thrown over hers for protection and her exhaling away from me
If Mama Orca keeps her young close, so will I
If there are salmon to chase and harbor seals to command, so we will

Arcing in the late August sky
slapping and parting the surface, over and over
the whales, lords of the Sound, swim in our brains as we sleep
sparkle against blackening waters
You are of my body from my body cleaving there for 10,000 years
Whatever quarrels there are on land vaporize
In the presence of these creatures,
arcing against all that is temporal, vicious, small,
studies in power and grace

The tide pulls out, skimming across rocks and oysters in their muddy beds
But this need to care for you remains as big as an Orca
your appetite for adventure as voracious
and I watch you, my child, disappearing with summer
into high school, into womanhood, into
the salty, light-dappled ocean

The finest singer in the sea
I heard upon this morn
And in that strange sonorous tone
A universe was born

The low melodic wailing touched
And roused me from my sleep
As the humpback lithe and languid
Made a turn and sounded deep

And as my mind awakes it turns
To whales large and small
To the snowy white beluga
The canary of them all

The clicking bursts of ***** whales
And the California grey
The fin whale speaks across the sea
To those a world away

The short and longfinned pilot whales
With whistles quite complex
The striking graceful orcas
Speak in different dialects

But it is the great blue whale
That makes the loudest cry
Though it is far too rare today
With such an awful why

But on this wondrous morning I
Am filled with joyous glee
That God has given life to whales
And gave to them the sea

Cori MacNaughton
24Oct2000

The light pollution
from the lives of little people
in the big city
reflects off the lowriding clouds,
the same way my knees reflect
in the little puddles
from the big rains.

It hurts my eyes to look up
without sunglasses,
hurts my lips to think of tasting
the subway oil that
drip
drip
drips

I speculate at the transformers,
part automatic, part people
in their pre-ripped jeans,
learning to get their Ns
to drive themselves away,
yarn trailing from their sweaters
like parade float streamers.

Citizens run so fast
to catch the early train home,
freefalling down the stairs  
breathing in the exhales
of the other racer’s exhaust.
Marking their triumphs
with participation ribbons.

The pacific pants at toes,
a puppy that only occasionally misbehaves.
Impatient for attention,
waves wagging back and forth,
up the imitation river,
past the downtown.
Kicking the sea wall with it's gravity boots.


The geese are on hiatus
until they can take back the city.
Making the drains overflow,
creating their own habitat,
they’ll strut their haughty markings,
distinguished from orcas,
away from any saline nonsense.

Were we to retrain the population
to turn blind eyes,
we’d be much more efficient,
stop wasting time contending
to society’s obsession
with documenting itself.
But then, what would we do all day?

Creating light pollution
must give immediate gratification.
Once all the lights are turned off,
the influence won’t continue,
creating a lack of permanence,
making our need to be remembered
seem trivial indeed.

why doesn’t english phoneticism diacritic the non-trill r, or why doesn’t it diacritic the non-harking h? i wonder... where’s all the nation’s intelligence gone to... investing 650 billion in the ant mound that’s london? the politics blame it on the eastern european... ‘never blame it on the chinese or the arabs... they have the investments to come with boom & bust coordinates of new york’s 1920s hopes... followed up with depression.’ but oddly enough no recession in poland... perhaps because the poles have all the salt and lost all the dollars’ worth of edible mince pie (while the irish only lost ***** in hazelnut hangover forgetfulness on the titanic minding the class system of who got the lifeboats) - **** me, i’ve turned into a welsh longbows’ man with the famous V of agincourt... i’m not even welsh... but i’m assuredly an abacus: count to two sheep flights of suicide and towing two snorkel sneezes worth of bubbles before dozing off; ah... the celebrated humanity.*

that’s how it works... the r that lost the wheel and the ballerina twirl,
and the rolling-on requirements of a diacritic mark,
since all the available ones are inadequate,
and the h needs surgery to be honest...
it’s hardly a hay stack... as is the gnome eager to learn
about gnosticism and u-boats...
but did i tell you this one story that might
make you laugh?
in my post brain haemorrhage psychosis
i bought a martin & co. acoustic guitar for £600
while trading in a mandolin i bought cleaning toilets
in an edinburgh nightclub getting more than i expected
from a **** groper... sold for £25 second hand which i didn’t take
and just left it there due to honour
(who'd empty ****** in beer bottles from a toilet
getting harassed by a gay
in order to buy a £70 mandolin to play
only one song and then sell it for £25 and take the money?!)...
no, really, the english r needs diacritic markings
to distinguish it from the other european arms and arses
fidgety.
so this martin & co.’s guitar i bought
and took to my ex-girlfriends house...
which i left outside... and... oddly enough
in a guitar sheath the guitar suddenly spontaneously
decided to itch and break up...
my ex-girlfriend’s father said the cold did it...
he was always the handyman to break things...
then i started to head-**** the guitar until i managed
to weave a hole in it to sound more hollow...
so i fixed it in the end... a blind man could play it...
my ex-girlfriend’s father ended up as a nutcracker in
the mental health unit for a month while
england rejoiced when the pantomime season came along
in the local theatres - plates were thrown and dogs were walked...
like tonight... me in cognitive conversation:
‘hey stranger’s dog across the street, why you pausing
tail waggling and pavlov ready for a treat
and trying to imbue a french revolution’s cause off the leash?’
religiously you're reversing the due pundit of prayer
for the thing suffering... christianity almost feeds
the notion of prayer unto the continually suffering...
you wouldn't see prayer so easily given to
zeus ******* hera on the chair... would you?
pathetic, even morbid perverts of poverty
******* out the blood from the man...
if he deserved it he deserved it... it's not so easily
grecian polished into the realm of the undeserved...
the classical philosopher inquired: the gods exist...
but why are you sacrificing animals for their existence?
the modern philosophers inquired: the god exists...
but why are you sacrificing your emotions for their existence?
i will not sacrifice a goat on the altar...
but that was easier given the fact you're feeling
such sibyl s & m with that thing dangling on two planks of wood;
didn't i write of the malachi heresy...
the heresy that invaded monotheism and said
john smith postcode *** *** from the 21st century
will always be john smith from london from the 16th century?
malachi's heresy concerning the reincarnation of elijah
decisively spoke of the fractioned hebrew god... it spoke of 1
as 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8, 1/9 etc.
i can't believe that... like hegel equated in
the book marx digested and rebelled against, i = i,
malachi you propagator & instigator of christianity and islam!
malachi! to the greeks & romans with you tied to st. paul!
(even allen ginsberg mentions this equation
in one of his poems: i am i, old father fisheye that
begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear,
the serpent turning around a tree;
kant and 0 as negation, hegel and the equals sign as being,
naturally ≠ has to imply non-being);
not building idols of forearm and knee for worship is what islam
got away with replacing them with the worship of words...
i'd hate to worship that night idol dictated by a man
who couldn't read... it's almost like a crow hunching
next to a statue of ramses ii about
where r a m s e s trivialised the six pack of the abdomen
there were the letters r a m s e s without definite form
to concern the suckling of favourite idol mantras...
idol holy word hum hum ham ahead of you...
thou shalt knot the casual reference of muhammad
in the corner shop for thou shalt not offend
the goosebumps sensation i feel when i hear the sounds...
MAKE THEE **** A HOLY **** WORDED & WORSHIPPED!
ARSES IN THE AIR GENTS... WE'RE GOING TO HAVANAH!
and so it was... the only fear of death i have
is to have lived to being aged 72... and then died;
death sooner... death... sooner!
my parents die i'm moving to the true england, up north,
to liverpool or manchester... **** the southern fairies
from dubai... i rather move to the faroe islands to be honest...
and **** a dozen orcas for a fry-up and the digestion of winter...
i rather **** time occupying the space in greenland
among the icy chinese known as eskimos;
i'd fit in among the føroyar kindreds... i love the doom & gloom
and hate the sun & tan of globalisation's adventures
with advertisements and juggling tourism
among terrorism's fictive narratives.

For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.

when I was sixteen the only
three things
on my mind were : alcohol , Charlie
and a boat
to have a boat and swim away
be lost
surrounded by water
drinking with orcas
still
thinking of
Charlie

I want to be more active
And not spew about all my feelings
I'm done pitying myself,
I just need to trust God,
Anyways here's an ending bucket list
Because I won't write back in a while:

Free swim with whales and sharks
See a lion pride
Shark cage diving
Sky dive
Ski a double black diamond
Climb a mountain
Film a tornado
Learn to surf
Learn to snowboard
Learn to scuba dive
See a wild wolf pack
See a wild brown bear
Hang glide
Paraglide
Cliff dive
Ride Route 66
Camp in complete wilderness of Yellowstone for week
Hike mount Haleakala, Hawaii, and photograph night sky
Visit equafina springs FL (again)
Camp on a beach (not crowded) with friends
Kiss in the rain
Go tree tent camping in smoky mountains
Own bonsai tree for many years
Own horses
Dye my hair (once)
Camp on my own private sail boat w friends
Write a book (actually commit, doesn't have to be good or published)
Own theses dogs: Newfie, husky, Akita
Live in Alaska
Live in the Yukon
Live in Colorado
Climb the grand Tetons and pray
Live without a cell phone
See Unimak pass Alaska and film orcas
Milk a cow

The great planes roll past,
airport windows.
Their tall fantails
like the dorsal fins of giant orcas.

tepid waters do not lie
gale is to cyclone
as rain to thundercloud
no amount of counter-spin
will make them anything other
than atmospheric unrest

El Niño, La Niña
how to read
the unsettled waters
upwelling from the deep
what should feed us
leaves us starving, weak

orcas encircle their kin
emaciated mother, tiny calf
dying from ocean’s lack
while we look on and moan
all the power to change
if we only cared to own it

did i tell you about that orca (killer whale)
that killed a killer white (shark)?
yeah, flipped him on the stomach
inducing a conscious sleeping position
of the shark, belly up... the ****** orca
drowned the shark.

dear daffodils counting to only sixteen
springs, why blossom why bloom so soon?
lemmy was part of something better
than his solo project... no one really talks
'bout his solo crazy train antics,
so why talk lemmy why talk ozzy os' burn
and simply dismiss hawkwind & black sabbath?

oh -
       *na kraju nocy i u progu dnia
       kogut  na dachu pieje
       w głowie sie kręci
       da na da na da
       gorączka znów szaleje.

given all that, imagine a seal on a drift of ice,
a stowaway of a berg,
then imagine why, it's seeking a monastery,
there are four orcas beneath the mirror surface
of the water, in formation, like horses
to the gallop of a wind's flute eolides,
and they're moving in, dipping with tail
fin exertion of some reflex spasm -
and the mini tsunami created suddenly
tilts the seal's monastery and the seal plops
into the depths... where it's only an old
cloth rag soon to be mince.

p.s. i denounce the polish diacritical mark
over o to make u (ó) as not diacritical at all...
it's an aesthetic mark, and yes, it does look pretty.

Trinidad and Tobagonians
Haitians
Egyptians

Mexicans
English
Liechtensteins
T­urkish
Italians
Norwegians
Germans

Portuguese
Omanians
Tromelin Islanders

Orcas Islanders
French

African-Americans
Maldives
Ecuadorians
Romanian­s
Ice Landers
Chinese
Argentinas

Thunderstorms are an obsession
But, I'm afraid of lightning
I eat too much, but I'm thin?
Grizzly bears are beautiful
Orcas are even better
Drawing is a way to express myself
I'm constantly wishing I could sing
Still crushing on a teacher
I'm having problems seeing my future
What's so wrong with **** dad?
Bob Marley is a role model
New bible, new look on things
Give me all the puppies
Consider myself a hippie,
But not the stereotype
Men and women are both nice
Never had a relationship
I am partly asexual
Competitiveness is a weakness
Loving life, most of the time

I'm trying so hard to just keep swimming,
but more often than not, the Orcas visit me.
I'm more so floating, similar to the Velella
I keep going until I can't take anymore,
then end up washed up with the shore.

[... I can feel its humble goodness. It's in the pinky shadows that only come out when there's sun. And in the rustling of dry, decaying leaves-- a moment of airy respite 'till they pass through to what's next in their slow lives.]

I see sunshine encapsulated in
The rungs of time's branches--
And I am grateful
For the significance that
Temporary things know.

Oh dramatic beings, today
Let's be eased.
Feel the humming of
Sun striking Earth--
It is the most loving blow.

Remember the orcas and
The petals of spring yet to be.
Of our friends and their laughter...
Remember the roots that
Traverse beneath you and me,
And that constant
Slip of the tide...

Our memories are constant--
Indeed you can remember
What you have yet to see.

Dip your skin in this
Day's glory, and wear it so
For as long as it fits.

i give a couple hundred dollars to the orcas on charity night
which is the night that isn’t so great because I don't get anything

i go to an orphanage in Kenya
and it’s not fun

maybe because I have look them in the eyes
or maybe because it's just not fun

my brother is really involved and I am not

he makes the few small dents that he can with the insufficient chisel that he was given
he works tirelessly

and I just say “**** it”
and I throw my chisel on the ground and instead pick up my laptop and watch netflix

moroccan women line the streets with chipped teeth and black gums

some with babies
some with groceries

their backs disfigured and their skin corroded
by the weight of responsibility
and mom and I pass by them at 45 miles per hour

their stories are a blur
a mere glimpse
drowned amongst the picturesque landscapes

they are comfortably at bay
i have a satisfying distance from their days

we take the high road
across the Tichka Pass
which is surrounded by overwhelming purple mountaintops

that have the power to separate two worlds
that are indifferent to the meager tires of our jeep
that amount to more than I ever will
that I will never be able to appreciate enough

they taunt me with their greatness
they soak me in their pride

but the pass is covered in ice
so we will have to wait to go to the desert

and although I play a character that is flexible and understanding
i am a little annoyed that our precious little itinerary is ruined

two way street,  with one route i write
something good, but then all exhilaration
to this weird form of despair
of sheer disappointment
when i couldn't suckle out
more than i already did.
the other route is filled with
a prolific output -
a kaleidoscopic antagonism
of mundane example that
8 billion of an animal kindred
will share - then the sheer exhaustion
of this route - there's no restlessness in it,
there's no wish to revise it, erase
any conjunction necessary vulgarity,
it's what it is -
like when i dislocated my index finger,
and the pain wasn't there,
numbed by adrenaline from the shock,
the soothing adrenaline -
not the typical ***** of the stuff
mountaineering or paragliding -
the subtle junk of the stuff...
sitting in the hospital laughing,
flirting with nurses - 'i'm watching you!'
'sure sure nursey, give us a flirty wink back.'
no need for pain killers, walking in between
the a & e hall watching the bonkers drunks,
feeling so adrenaline filled i started
to say i'm a poet, oddly i speak posh essex
when drunk... haven't spotted a cockney
on my tongue yet... if i do i'll tell ya
of the pear in the salt shaker (shakespeare)...
then with this sickle cell anaemia girl,
asked her if she liked jazz, Us3, great group
mix of hip hop and jazz... you tube that band:
hand on the torch... kiss on the hand:
merrily may you fare through this night:
thumbs up or index finger pointing right.
finally i get to pronounce hungarian surnames,
asked a bar mistress in a pub once: szasz...
that's sas zaz or shash? she didn't reply...
the surgeon came in... 'two options
after looking at the x-ray... anaesthetic
injections... or just a straight pull... injections are...'
'just pull the **** thing, it's getting annoying.'
looked at a piece of paper with the surgeon's
surname on it, ending with -sz,
so i asked what the phonetics were:
ends in haramash?
yes he replied;
finally! my search was over!
can i get a copy of the x-rays?
sure, but no public disclosure via social media, ok?
sure (by hand, my bones, copyright with fingerprints).
but you know what... really...
on the depth of all this?
bull fighting... a sport macho spectacle...
one bull, a ring, a guy with swords... poor bull
no steak from him...
nietzsche wandering the southern hemisphere
of europe for sunshine and fresh air...
if i had the money...
first stop the faroe islands for the grindadráp (whaling,
orca esp.), and last stop probably there...
because imagine if bull fighting was as barbaric as
the grindadráp... it would be like that story
about 2 fish 5 loaves of bread = 1 bull
fed to the spanish coliseum throng:
we're talking many orcas - feeds a village for a year,
no beef tapas nibbles in sight for the fiesta.

heat seeps through the walls
all is calm
Orcas patrol the sea
just down the road
one neighbour dives for coal
spilt out the many wrecks
I wouldn't be him
for all the coal in China

globalisation does this, all in favour? aye! all in opposition? nay!

                                        multi-cultural societies
and their pastas and pizzas,
their curry take away, their Chinese noodles,
their Thai their Sushi, and the Turkish kebab -
it's a smouldering cauldron of simply
no identity, eat a raw herring and pack your
bags to Scandinavia -

                                      if i came with a strong
rooting in Slavic myths, the identity of the land,
the dwarf gods of the forest (bořki - ate the
z of what would have been a German equivalent
ß - but here, the erzett - or to put it otherwise
for aesthetic purposes: ż - no, no one is
illiterate, it's just that people haven't been told
that we write for aesthetic reasons, as well
as functioning / utility reasons -
i am an orthographic reformer - i want the greatest
upheaval in language) -
                                
                                Argentinian steak houses -

but otherwise eat a raw herring and pack
your bags... globalisation will not make any of
us proud of our ethnicity, or culture bound
to birth, there must be a way out -
social patriotism intact, after all a universal
thing to mind: the golden rule - never do unto
others what you wouldn't want others to do
unto you - but we need teeth, we need grip...

we need myths! as of the neighbours of the Baltic,
and England unique as having experienced
Cnut but not Vasa - nothing cliche about it -
the folk element is there, and i fit the bill
for the looks - that's the easy part -
but in heart some third language that makes me
feel, purely feel, and not understand -
that's neither Polish (too personal, goes to the bone
and is reflexive - insults against ethnicity) - nor English (too
personal, goes to the brain and is reflective -
insults against intelligence) -
                                        
                                             a third party associate,
one of pure heart, raw berserk emotion -
befitting a poem at every turn -
i need a language of mediating these two cripples -
i have no care for liver for kidney and now, apparently
even the brain... **** it... let's stick to the heart
and keep it the essence of all things soulful -

as soul known to chemists be: the one element of
man that's indestructible - for whatever reason,
the love bound to reach the highest of alchemy's
mysteries - the more verbiage necessary to stand firm
with a love for your enemies - the philosopher's stone
refers to the heart - as is the depiction by Luca Signorelli -
the genius element being the left hand ever
present through the robes -

                                                 how to give the left hemisphere
under siege a spy's stealthy hand in diabolical matters,
in perfect equilibrium with the right's natural strength
at holding quill or sabre, condensed into mutually inclusive
by a keyboard -

so unto the heart of Scandinavia, esp. that Faroe dullness
for the mind to fathom when the heart born from
such lands sees a heart entertained by the bleakness
and the Orca poaching season of reddened northern waves
in the marina, where the Orcas are grouped together
and slaughtered for food -

so as this goes on - a return to the most poignant critique
of mutli-cultural society - well, not really...
just this debilitating status quo mediation between
mr. anonymous and mr. famous -
fame isn't fame as it used to be known -
by fame i imagine Galileo - by fame i imagine Copernicus -
by fame i imagine Kant - as pretentious as name dropping
might seem, fame for me equates itself to sustenance -

nourishment - a welcome return of debate and the unresolved
plucking of those floreo interrogatio -
not what's now just the same as packaged goods -
toothbrushes are also famous, so are tables and chairs,
lightbulbs are pretty famous too...

celebrities that are nothing more than packaged books -
what exposed them? they all need books, autobiographies!
that's what exposed them... they did the opposite
of what the Nazis did in Munich that one time
with that one time bonfire... these books are already burning,
well my mind at least, if you touch them i'm sure
they're quiet cool.

                                better than fame, better than
posthumous "fame" - to live a life that will give rise
to a myth - to apply yourself, not to any specialisation
with a logic as its suffix - i.e. not ontology, not biology,
not psychology - like mathematics being the queen (królową)
of learning (nauk) - mythology is the king (król)
of unlearning and of awe (oduczać się) - which does

not entirely mean neglect - once you have learned to
learn to ride a bicycle, once you learn to swim -
these two are very much hard to completely neglect and
by neglecting forget - here then,

                                         while the rats scamper and scuttle
for the big cheese and perfectly flossed teeth -
a ceramic doll's face - i'm in the forests in the dark of
night - a forest heavily influenced by the perfumery
of wet autumn leaves fallen with their drained
green chlorophyll allowing space for the perfumery
when at night the earth breathes, in the colder months -
the earth looses and Ypres mud wets the shoe.

globalisation also shows the ugly side of monotheism,
Christianity, you can't possibly think is a serious
monotheism, can you? three in one, two for one,
buy two get the third one gratis, what with the pagan
elements of the Christmas tree, chocolate *****
of castrated hares to celebrate the crucifixion (crucifix
jewels on the necks) and Santa Claus that's merely
an an anagram of Satan's Clause, something to do
with the jurisprudence of: well, technically not vanquished,
left standing in Mecca counting how many
loafs of bread are under his feet from the Muslims
throwing pebbles at him.

Sitting on a rock, sweatpants and sneakers
Long hair, skinny, looking out, wind blows
Fir tree needles scratch the back of my neck,
Eyes locked on to a pod of whales, orcas
Breathing fast because I ran to get there
Close my eyes and let the wind toss my hair,
It's cold, and the air smells like lavender
And I pull my knees to my chest, smiling

Those Orcas that just got out of frame
fame and fortune in that shot-glass 'Sound'
and focused; coke-bottle vision into depths
far deeper than their soundings, though
secondary in nature and posed as opposed
to that pod's posse of curving mammals
arched into each wave or trough
in that fluid home we call Puget
with the sound of ferry engines
breaking the silent sail boat's cut
and jib as it too arcs its slack in black/white
canvas waving to windward destinations,
as each click-shutter-whirl encapsulates
drops of sun, sea gull and horizon
ghosting as though mist were sky
semi-filled number painting panoramas
and water-color soaked landings
bringing us closer to docked domains
and they disappeared into a dimpled surface
evading this circular myopic lens

-cec

it really doesn't help to write your **** and have some cyborg
alternator typo it - even after a bottle of whiskey -
what? that's basically tweeting, isn't it?
i'm competing with 140 date that dot -
i have to wake up at 12 o'clock and
feel being needed, water the garden, make a steak
and chippie meal with fungus
sauce, then get myself ready for
the Bolshoi don quixote, originally
choreographed by Marius Petipa to the music
of Ludwig Minkus -
i have to admit Swan Lake was more like
STOMP - among the garbage cans -
a ******* centipede spectacle, or a thousand
ants in the gym! - what a headache -
what a ******* headache -
i love being crude and blind toward what's
dubbed high culture... i won't
be drinking a cosmopolitan with that,
a shy whiskey while taking a **** in a cubicle
where the **** goes... fun fun fun.
tomorrow's Petipa show, or oof af rag a muffin whiff woo...
takes the steam from  stiff upper lip,
makes Dublin global... get pissy of the Guinness you'll
beat all the models on the catwalk in Paris...
eyes underwater - i'm seeing do do double! burp.
or so minded. dabbed the dab and sleepwalked
the rest of it... impressions of the mummified monkey -
they love their novels because they hate their
Ensō - they love their Zen, hate their Tao Buddy Bud, Bud -
they want to read in bed - god forgive them -
i'd write the diabolic of what i'm doing right now,
but it'd be a waste of paper, you keep it to your imaginings -
ha - short-script, the the repetition doesn't matter;
and while on the street i cherub sang to a sinking of
cleaning those papa Blanc shoes - who said less trip
or tip toe but shoo shoo shoo - i was
the first Aboriginal Black in Candy Skin Ah-merry-ca-ca-ca...
people were missing the cancan dances while
i was being forged from **** splendour... into
the Irish version of a tatty up my ****...
oh now they love me... they payed their month's wages
just to see the boxing match: Tiny Titus v. the Ice Lodger
Bjørg - the former out cold... while we scalped and
skinned chickens, and for the first time we thought
we had hope... cinnamon was added to savoury dishes...
it was like discovering the steam engine!
m'eh m'eh m'eh... Mongolian harmonica and the lip
fuelled propeller boats... brr (it's cold when it's humid
down under in the forked excess skin of the tongue);
god, strap me to a shady alley in Paris -
god, strap me to a shady alley in Amsterdam -
or better still, send me to a village on the Faroe Islands -
away from this anorexic-trying-to-look-pretty people...
send me to a place where the news is the only anorexia,
where people hunt Orcas and eat the blubber -
i want to be there... **** Barbados and that sacred sand
of beaches with slobbering great whites -
send me further north to the doom, and gloom -
well of course keep your pride-riddled Brits and
their auxiliary eager Irish Gnomes on Parade -
20 children in a diameters of a cubic mile -
about 2 paedophiles slurring their speech wet Koranic
style giving up cigarettes and alcohol for a teeny tiny
hole or a mole's eye socket fitting to try the shoe...
ever notice? she really looks like a dolphin...
esp. if she's entitled to be called Lady rather than Mrs.,
god they do look gooey glamorous -
fat fingers budget fat rings of fated diamonds
ready for the Jewish pawn shop - fake Rolex... half price!
it's one thing that the art of poetry is so passe (acute too, yes,
eat eat e and take to the bullring) -
or so elitist - call in the psychiatrists! but it's another
to deliberately make us seem illiterate - or half so,
in that we write a formula of lubrication, and
are represented by friction - you almost want to correct
your faults... but it become frustrating in the end...
so you don't bother... poetry - the pauper...
avant garde artist - the king, pretentious in itself -
if only St. Peter cut off a nose rather than the ear...
i wouldn't be watching the complete X-files
with Krebsmensch being frustrated about not
being a published author - funny how good
people become evil, among apathetic people either side.

haj! kúrō! san nan lidèc / yes! cannibalism! blood of a leader! (via haitian creole); kooroo! hai! hi! san nan lid! you better have your prayer mats on the ready, i'm telling you, you come across the faroe islands, and the orca season, and marie mason, & the orca hunt... i'd love to see islam explore these martyrs there: got a ******* sand-dial ready, you camel jockeys?! oh, no? like seeing you 'avin' a picnic with the cannibals... ought i send a message down the pineapple pipeline to mecca?! oh sure, the taj mahal twerps will save you... in about 50 years... lucky you, you get to taste the cannibalistic fry-up! i know, i know, we're missing the applause... i still find it impossible to have eradicated cannibalistic societies... seems such a shame, not exposing islamic societies to them... ******... i was almost wishing to see muslims get eaten with their prayer mats... now, it would seem: i don't have a hard-on... **** me twice & call me aladdin, later a carpet merchant... what, a, load, of, *******! my my, why are my teeth itchy?!

you know why love poems bore me?
well, they're full of the promise,
there's always the transcending
platonic, but always the most lack
of the: touchy touchy,
the mandible bone; i sometimes even
manage to frighten myself with
this curiosity,
this cauliflowers' worth of brains...
you know what scares me about
love poems given the exhibit,
how ideal they all seem...
with me, governing the humble
jack's lament*...
    and how stifling it now seems
to appear: handshakes with shadows,
gravitas with death-hoods,
graciousness with the least suspecting
vanguards...
  the last goth, the last remaining:
vandal...
       and ergo the globalist truth:
           as our own,
our own we will take, other?
the banks!
                 countries contra banks!
let us, begin.
   the genesis of the feral lands,
oh, you come into these lands....
        you will soon see
that feral = homogeneity...
               you will soon taste
kúrō;
          inland tactics of you
islanders...
come into these lasts,
the multicultural antics doesn't
really begin in the 1950s,
or anywhere else,
you enter these lands you suddenly
get the idea how
unappealing / unwelcoming they are,
it's hardly sad:
it's just intimidating,
       and i know that's what you
find scary,
a dozen africans in a capital city,
and even they have a hard time
getting jobs...
       these really are feral lands,
and by feral i mean unappealing
in the most serene terms:
but, given the ukranians?
the most unwelcoming!
          oh, go on, send the muslims to the faroe
islands...
       i seriously would love to see
muslims being poached alongside
orcas: for the biblical redness of the nile
being reenacted;
and yes, by comparison:
the new testament is oh so boring!

a lot of -ism is biased within an etymological framework; coupled soon, how darwinism can never attain a suffix of logic, as can biology never become bioism; contemplating the impulses of boa constrictors seems more pleasing to both ear and eye to understand, as it always would have seemed to appear: it being said - without guilt, conscience or self, but that rotten "economic" model, of communism.

logic begins with: the origin of words,
and how they morph -
as said:
an -ology is always lesser than
an -ism:
etymology overcomes darwinism,
sorry, you don't have to handle
theology, or the -ism of theos -
words speak words -
forms speak: square becomes
a square, and the rest is: a lost affair,
asking eric clapton to turn into
jeff buckley, while papa's not there:
with that being papa *tim...
      actually much of logic is
etymological...
          the origins of words sometimes
became histories...
    to say the least:
the name athena became the city athens,
while romulus and remus became rome,
st. petersburg came from
   sakt peter - sanctified peter -
  edinburgh, came from illicit edith -
of malcolm, half removed from
macbeth's choosing -
             are we so thus, so thus far
removed, from our weakened travesty
of making: encouraging history?!
    tell the germans of the icelandic orcas,
and how they hunt them,
and how the seas turn crimson akin
to biblical fables...
tell them, that there is a higher ground
to begin afresh, akin: to a new beginning...
that they might refresh their toiling
in scandi song, in scandinavian folk,
to allow this resurrection is almost
a travesty among my kin folk...
   but, one, worth minding, having an
execution;
darwinism already stated its primordial
origin, the form of ape,
    but with every -ism, there's an
-ology,
             terminological for starters,
etymology for making the ends meet...
i'm afraid that the suffix question
seeks not authentic pardon of presented
artefacts...
       since the origin of form,
in that platonic simplicity is laid
intact, unmoveable via an  atheistic orthodoxy,
we have to move our ways toward
an ingrained, deeper, beckoning...
let our history encounter an
etymological zeitgeist -
to source first meanings,
to source them as is much desired,
having finalised our: first & thereby only,
                           beginnings.
      so, given our beginnings being
a samson's un-moveable pillar of all things
know, for the temple to stand intact,
   can we at least perform a secondary
historical feat, of attending to etymological
explanations?
   and at least desire, a curbing
on anarchic slanging, curling language from
scholastic affirmation of kept culture
and practice,
       to assure the minor offence of
allowing the linguistic intactness -
   and that infamous serenity of ensuring
progress, by abiding to the sort of
cultural non-appropriation that
youth resides in?
  for i dare say, and dare believe in
enough to fear:
    should the integrity of language be
kept, as today it is "kept", i.e. un-kept,
it will become no medium worth
of eloquence,
namely, demeaningly: only a canvas,
of irritating bombast.

p.s.
i can salvage the germans from their **** past,
a song of paganism,
a song of the cultural "idiot",
a song prior to the current "foundation",
a song in memorandum -
      a meditation on the crow -
a meditation on the matter of snow -
a meditation on the grey skies of winter -
a meditation on beer & song -
to find the german of today,
is to strip the german of yesterday,
the yesterday of 2nd world war
foundation,
   and the tomorrow? looks
like reviving the romanticism that
came as the 19th century "post-scriptum":
the thought of the kid
who was to inform barbarossa
to wake up once in grave,
when a swarm of crows shattered
the silence of his graven passivity.

song in the background: bras mort - disappearing -

what the velvet underground
could get away...
without
the glitz of paparazzi...

i measure the units...
II = a bottle of 8.2% cider...
my usual diet of 4 bottles...
and some added juice...
IIII/ = 5...

that's IIII/ + III = 8...

8... grand duchess B(othered)...
somewhat...

elsewhere... ∞ ÷ 0...
well... no one really likes conversations
with "consciousness" on the fore:
the ontological grasp
of "awareness"...

more like the end of: exploits
& opinions or dr. faustroll.
pataphysician....

all that will be revealed is pata-physics...
if we're talking forms and no longer
skeletal indentations...
at fault logic and the remains...

∞ ÷ 0 = (0, 0)...
without anything being "given"
what's infinity in the copernican "sense"
of up and down...
left to right...
on the moon: where is "north" or "east"
or "west" of "south"?

ha ha... acronym: n(.)e(.)w(.)s(.)...

i'm pretty sure you can-can dance me in
on all of this...
paris was a diatribe of events:
esp. the paris when i wasn't there...

∞ ÷ 0 = (0, 0)

looks "true": again... borrowing the tactics
from german philosophers...
my second name... conrad: is a very white
name...
i beg to differ and use it as a surname, sometimes;

stanislaus: stanisław: stsanislav...
velarized - ******* santa claus and all...
it's not that difficult given
the blank english canvas...
of... sh-atter... š-atter... sz-atter -
ш-atter... on the ch-eap...
cz-eap... č-eap... ч-eap...
it's already in place...
but "we" have so many examples
when the two meet...
szczypta... soli: a pinch of salt...
so much so... practical mother...
russia...
would have us write: щ-ypta! pinch!
because there's also щ-ypać
and there's also щ-ekać...
but the russians do not have the arsenal
of the acute letters:
again.. the suffic -cki in english...
well...

           only in russian can the
             wet-snare difference
between...
the C and K be explained...
ć is the "high german" addition...
   otherwise... in everyday english...
a C is distinguished from a K...
via the cedilla... cyst is actually: çyst...
as is the loan word for waiter:
much inflated in paris as: garçon...
plain and simple in russian...

ц "vs." ч
well... and the greek: moo(n): μ...
perhaps darwinism is the talking point...
alongside marxism and feminism...
but i'm strapped to the copernican "revision"
of forms... letter and numbers...
and how they found a place to congregate...

czekacki - чe-      -кa-        -цки
   cie-kawski... but only if the iota is not given
special treatment... inquisitive...
   ćιe-ka-w-ski...
perhaps no further - still...
                                            -цки...

this is what a world without colour looks like...
grammar was the basic landing... blockage...
the rest remains in abandoning metaphysics...
and...

делтa: some time ago: hand-writting used to
exist, beside this puncture method of:
words in the framework of knitting...
once upon a time,
in a time of snow white... these letters
were used to being connected -
by a weaving... by tide and...
by "agitation":

because these "    " markers are not
supposed to exemplify merely metaphors...
they are to include misnomers and
synonyms of lose association...
for the passing down / weaving
of a narrative...

q, c, k, "ch": cholera...
and s... quote: i will queue...
with the following cue:
to mind -

                from cat to the kayak of karma -
quote: quiver when...
it's almost an orthography -
dizzying heights of giraffe grafitti...
as crude as:
you could cuote... and kuote...
but you most certainly need to: Quote...

you can say: garson... but you need
to write a cedilla c...
how strange... "strange" almost fwench...
because: forget the trill of the R...
the tarantula bit your tongue
and the qat isn't even asking
who would be so audacious as to bite it:
with it... not included on
the suspects lisp... list...

bras mort - disappearing -
can i please appreciate a band that...
focuses on exploiting the bass guitar?
i've been a long lost fan of the bass guitar
becoming more and more prominent -
to step away from the rhythm section -
ambient noise -
    refrigerator background humming -
along with the drums -
and the vocals "in-between"...
how much: you will never know...
appreciate the bass guitar having its due:
cue... of: reaching a status
of prominence...

what were the pata-physics equations
proposed by alfred jarry in dr. faustroll?

they weren't: ∞ ÷ 0 = (0, 0) -
what is ∞                                ÷
when not 8 - "standing up"? divided by "itself"
is most certainly becomes
a coordinate... a starting point...
hell... why not claim a 3rd dimension
of this equation...
and say that: ∞ ÷ 0 = (0, 0, 0) -
and Kant's 0 = negation is to somehow fit into
all of this?

the english speaking world: this most instrumental
of all worlds...
and philosophy and metaphysics is an escape
plan... when darwinism is battling marxism...
and copernicus is in the background...
"west" on the moon!

it's pata-physics - it's not orthography,
nor is it metaphysics - or...
trans-            and the litany!
or basic chemical coordinates of the benzene
ring attaching groups...

what was once tau and the revelations
of anna katherina emmerick's revelations
and papa **** and ubu roi...
has consecrated itself upon the altar of: tao...
道...
           which tau is still part of:
should "the way" come across the crossroads
                  and junction...
to the splintering mechanisms of the mind...
a self- prefixed as individuation's
primer and solid unit of any: "moving forward"
becomes a second-class citizen
of the suffix caste... i.e. self-employed -
topsy-turvy becomes: employed-self...
self-awareness becomes: awareness-of-self...
the )of( conjunction is pivotal...

the alfred jarry equations?

           x = ∞ - N - a - P

and the verb of god - the crusading Y... the cross...
what would a rorschach test suggest
when seeing... the Y the T, † and Xi? the 11th hour?
while also seeing: ☿, ♂ and ♀... or for that matter...
☿ and й...
crescent moon as the crown - a horn toward the east -
and a horn to consolidate itself with the west...

     N = ∞ - 0
P = 0
             definition: god is the shortest distance between
0 and infinity... or...
what's ∞ - 0?              to me that's...
                     8 - o = b...
little boggling - hardly upper tier: Bobby...
which is a 8066: breaking 7 / Γ(amma)
in: when Alice finds that ******* mirror
to genesis with!

                          hello... my name is robert, the bruce...
otherwise: the psychotic is rarely the psychopath...
imagine... let us not imagine...
a pathology a priori... genetic: inherent...
and a pathology... acquired...
a newsfeed for the world to allow you to be -
in a solipsistic purgatory...
never quiet the hell anyone would imagine...
nonetheless...
dante's inferno is was sell the myth...
come paradiso - a firework display for all
and any psychologies...
a claustrophobic "oops" and "la la"...
because.... such is the presence of god...
one would sooner monologue for an eternity
in hell... than...
come across... "the meaning of life"...
the "bruce", the "almighty" the...
simple questions require... a labyrinth's worth
of an answer... never a sigh... nor a...
stipend in being: stupendously... constipated...

to be literate is but one tier
in this layer-cake of... if the world adopted
a lingua franca - a l'inglese:
the fear of a scandinavian bilingual society...
the fear of a rampant schizoid virus of
the tongues - while the native population
is supposedly falling behind
in acquiring its own zunge -
which the new-commoners and comers have
no luggage over...
claim...
perhaps the welsh are not the cucks
the english "think" they are...
given that... there's only a whiff of gaelic
coming from the highlands of knox...

coch barwn...
east of berlin... that reads as...
кoх бaрłн - red baron -
no: it was not, ever: coach or: cot death...
and coč... it was always going to be:
loCH ness...

chwynnu goron: **** crown...
again... no ******* cha-cha-cha...
х(ły)nnу -
ł(y)dka - calf - this isolated letter is
a lighthouse-cause...
гoрoн...

       perhaps i'm just tired of looking
at paintings... perhaps i didn't drop any l.s.d.
and i need to see...
the breaking of bones...
when a feud between the orcas
and a ***** fledgling erupts in the sinking
of a titanic...
and the ribs are broken...
i.e. N - H - H - И...
otherwise: pleaжure...
or... seiжure... or better still... no caron above
either the S (fake) or the Z (probably right)...
quiet sooner... ж = ß -
for better, or for worse...

i could write a pwetty poo'em...
i really could...
but why i don't, will not,
is not really the focus i'm willing to give...
a throng as an answer,
for a bare minimum of words -
a pseudo-haiku...
to just... allow the children to come
forward and spread their wings:
that would sooner be found...
as broken with ever other Icarus...

i know a triangle when i see it...
a H a ² -ed,
      more pataphysics from alfred jarry:
a² = (-a)² + y² = a² + y²
whence: y² = a² - a² = 0
   and y √0...

square in html or in halifax scribble...
JAVAscript baby...

let's find the red herring and the excess of
tape... when... the "H" shrinks and explodes
into a square form...
and... there's that mem (ם) for every samech (ס)...

one can simply tire of painting...
can't one? in that royal pronoun ref. pointer
that was always gender "neutral"
and always considering the auxilliaries...
the sycophants...
there was always that sort of grammar to mind...
to mind in it being: a hanging affair...
a guillotine spectacular...
a bit like gravity...
come... the lesson in grammar:
from zee... harking inn-glee-m-hush-puppies!
this is not a formal language...
this is a language better looked at...
i did sneak a...
it's only conspiracy theory...
but what are the odds?
budweiser teamed up with heineken and
stella artois... and to cut the sales
of the mexican... corona beer...
they said it was bat-soup and a snake-bite...
chinese biological-warefare...

come to think of it: i can't find anything more
entertaining to "believe in" / entertain at this moment...
but what would a communist esque
building look like?
believe me when i say...
painting bores me...
the picasso niqab / frenzying with mosquito netting...
above all other amateurs: the prized bull...

here's a painting... again: square: H...
mem and samech being weaved in...

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