A cold, obsidian blade, dipped in warm red
Frees forth a fluttering butterfly

on the edge of etch: letters appear but disappear
without sound -
       tumultus origins of English, as a tongue,
later a people: a letter to the people -
outsourcing the orthodox passing of meaning
without hieroglyphs -
as the Polynesians did for almost six thousand
years when they set off without horses:
or rather with the horses of waves and the winds
across the great plateau of the Pacific ocean...

zahn schleifen liebe: tooth grinding love

       'ōlelo:                 word (language)

palapala:                       letter

          kani:                   sound

face:            maka

            ki'i:                         image

huikau: hybrid:         hiatus of haikus...

on the edge of an etch - apostrophes aplenty and
like reimagining Hawaiian as English
with two consonants: but'ter
            plo'tter - no, not plot'ter

per time: manawa: rather manava -
and Minerva: time spent executing an Olson typography
oh how apostrophes '
      fell to the earth of the linear winding of meaning
in sentences and became punctuation marks
of words in paragraphs rather than poetic cascades
of line: anew...

       J          'ot         down on the edge:
              Ed-ward googled his own name,
some Edward, ed-gear: but that's the eDGe
   i.e. by sound dictation: shion... dicta-shion
   Ej
                        jacket ej

     as with etch:             the visible T yet not really
uttered, sort of bypassed, and heart drowning in
clearly: English is prone to dyslexic fancies
because clearly some letters submerge...

   four tao's of the thai tau:

         the ouroborus no longer eating itself...

                                    T
                                 T † T
                                    T

or perhaps to ask Andrew and the Edinburgh Greeks:

                                 T. T
                                   X
                                T.   T

i can say much more about Edinburgh than Dublin,
safe to say: concerning these two cities
of the former a bad case of trainspotting
and low tides of culture -
   while Dublin, markedly not on the maps
of meaning of the one map that is the Union Jack(et)
since... the Irish did not fare well
with flags associated to cross-bearing marches
across the desert...

               that is i on the guillotine that's ι -
i hardly think it was a common courtesy of the romans
to go all out spectacular for an added head
recliner upon reaching Golgotha:

     how † was actually a T - because that year
it was even cold in Jerusalem so extra firewood was
needed...
and once the deed was done you think that
they didn't use the crosses for fuel in the garrison?
i can just imagine the incense of blood soaked wood
enraging the nostrils of the centurions...

truly, as i were there: in ghost...
      
   ah... only yesterday i picked up a revised hunger
for *******:
hence the zahnschleifenliebe...
   because i have already buckled on loving her
by grinding my front teeth to the point
of chipping one of them...

teeth like butter-softness
   niho niho: no plural? how about
tooth is niho and teeth are nihi?
   so much for a people talking but not writing...
can you imagine: is the nouns became bankrupt
i.e. if someone forgot the name
of a name, so that the word mea - thing was conjured?

what's a waapa?          a boat? not a wa'apa?

oh 'a'ohe mea -              yesthing for nothing
that's ae'              a'ole        no yes no no yes yes no
oh nothing, nothing...

        'olu'olu 'a'ohe mea: sweet nothing -
for a something: kekahi mea...

tribunal of pirates and vagabond burping barbarians:
yes, no word for wig...
kāpiki - cabbage - kapusta in ****** -
who helped conjure up an anti-etymology
for the Hawaiians?      'ōlelo as distinct from
kanaka - a language but not the people...

   kai kanaka - sea people...

'ōmato               (potato)
                  'ūala         (tomato)        

potato toe: manamana wāwae 'ūala
although it is not an assurance to conjure a translation
in that order: and not toe potato...
which would imply: french fries, no?
chips...

            mahina: that is moon and machinery
maszyna - to imply the tides were settled in the minds
and the moon was the machine behind
the phenomenon?
i clearly must be looking at something akin
to cross pollination, etymologically speaking...

you take a word from greek and fuse it with
latin then sprinkle some german or dutch
onto it and you arrive at English...
   not always... greek for orthodoxy still intact
with words like etymology, lexicon and:
well obviously little differences from the original
but most still intact...

talofa! foliga fiafia!
that would be me, being dragged out of darkness
of bad dreams falling out of bed talking
to someone in my sleep...
don't ask me how or for that matter why:

                          is                                      is

two ises ensure that there isn't an isn't...
             or at least that's how it might feel for
a Japanese samu samu rai rai
    visiting these islands...
comparatively an Englishman in Lithuania...
or Latvia...
                      moderately compared cultural differences...
    how will
i ever return to those islands and that Lā

                 to the place where a syllable has meaning
or rather a noun status...
ther-                  thermometer...
one moment less: per tier of integer           mother's
ether...

                             Fern...   ꟻ labours with Theta at
taught thought fabulously... by speaking first...
then listening, then observing, finally scribbling
sound-encoding to reach meaning (:expansive)

because i had to watch ******* yesterday
  because pleasing myself using pictures of you is
like trying to scratch an itch that soon becomes
something either artistic or philosophical...
artistically philosophical: an aesthetic...
that's the meaning of aesthetics:  
                  
i perceive AIS -          eyes
    thes-pain                   thespian
                                              the theta i see...
a letter that became a cheese that became...
surely from the Medieval ages onwards
   it was well established that gold was not really worth
what it was supposedly worth...
since the end of the wooden wheel...
    rubber... rubber and salt... to preserve the meats
to give us culinary ambitions...
                        rubber, salt, morphine, love

and money: to get out of each other's way...
i like money as a concept and as a practicality...
to get out of each other's way...
     and yet to somehow make this life bearable...
money: as means of getting out of each other's way...

ah but still, love... that challenging aspect of life,
for a wish to not write about it,
yet still, unbearably writing about it,
covertly, like so.

love in the form of writing is exhausting,
the sort of love chained
to a grave and epitaph,
a man might utter a million
maxims, truths without proofs,
as many observations as the are
scales on a skin of a serpent,
           in that hue of green hidden
subtle variations:
    windowpane arts of a gothic
church...
                because a woman suddenly thinks
herself the Madonna, the vehicle
for what remains in the most common
thread of thought: a deity of ouroborus.
yet i still managed to steal kisses
from prostitutes, i still don't understand
what the problem is, given the legality
of the practice...
but the older prostitutes know
that a kiss is the first, and last taboo
in their "work"...
         why are the most beautiful women
prostitutes? i mean beauty in
the immediate sense, prone to
the cyclone of change, here one minute,
gone the next...
           and if this is all i can boast about,
stealing kisses from giddy almost
        teenage in reaction prostitutes...
   that smile and shy laughter haunts me,
it follows me whenever the light is
not too bright, hazy dim auburn...
    tickling a lucidity of the act in amber...
forever resting resting in winter green
leviction above decay...
   brown and pumpkin orange without
citrus sharp neon zest,
juice like poisonous phlegm
    shooting from a viper's gob...
i managed to transcend the taboo
of prostitutes...
steal kisses and kiss eyes oozing tears,
as she sat on me and said she was tired
i'd say to her:
      plenty more other things
can take up the hour spread like Persian
before us...
       and always with these women
i could allow myself the sort of heart
that was bearable to be carried...
     asymmetry of the four horsemen
and the one behind,
    a fool riding a donkey...
        too many people come across
iconoclasm of a life most perfect,
lasting for a mere 3 years of a congregation...
apparently the ancient Romans
used to jump ****-naked into nettles
to improve their circulation...
because a nettle itch is not the sort of
itch from, god knows what...
smoked European sprats...
        or skippers (schprotkí) -
pull the head off, and eat the whole fish,
spine included...
          you don't want to know
what russians eat while drinking...
certainly not crisps or peanuts...
            as far as I'm concerned,
the world came to Königsberg,
                       not the other way round...
but still the joy of body touching
body, talk, psychiatric talk in condoms...
false memory implants, regression,
keep em to the mind-****
   i need to talk with a body
  at 37°C, feverish...
                        someone without a need
to posture, and out on la rochefoucauld
airs...
         and if all i ever did was steal
a kiss from a *******, then i can be
most joyous whenever else humbled...
                  giddy like a first kiss schoolgirl,
face contorting with giggles
    and squint devilish eyes...
almost like a ****** maiden from the XIV
or XV century historical novel about
chivalry...
               comparisons to ripe fruit
aplenty: apples, pears, berries...
                  and no, women will not know
the sentiments a man might have toward
prostitutes...
        her tongue a chisel striking for
crumbs of stone from my heart,
elsewhere the mind rather than a heart
of man as the labyrinth...
         elsewhere a fickle circumstance
of non-reciprocal loyalty of merely one
word... stay...
             hardly asking for a woman on
a leash...
   such perfect loves,
so much writing about love...
     a love a must a loyalty a trust...
   odes and ideals of this fickle cupid
muse, a chance of poison arrow landing
not where it ought...
           but at least with a stolen
kiss, an hour can give sustenance
for a year... a year filled by a conversation
of two bodies, and four eyes,
    and heist of Jezebel's *****...
flirting butterflies and that bourbon
perfumery of the dim lit rooms
of amber...
                 a stolen kiss,
         the unmatched stone heart...
caging, rather than being caged...
           a canary on the tip of a rhino's
ivory pride...
               that's all because i simply
think that I'd be unable to sit with a woman
watching television...
perhaps if she's my grandmother i might,
and I do... but she's my grandmother...
  sharing a siamese moment with
a woman is to then reduce it to
conversations over a television?
      that's one part of life I don't have
a heart to indulgence myself in.