you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.

Parents live in the shadow of the pali,
watching the young ones play.
They are reminded of the ones they left behind
in the world on the other side of the mountains.
And as they shut their eyes each night they know
their existence in the child's life is fading.
Can you hear them weeping?
All they do is live in the past.

The keiki live in the shadow of the pali,
tumbling around like rushing of water.
Running, twirling, and jumping;
They learn to dance in the shadows.
And as their eyes shut each night,
their quilt embraces their cold, shaking body.
They have long forgotten the touch;
their mother's lips on their foreheads,
and the warmth of their father's arms.
Can you hear them sleeping?
All they do is live in the present.

The old live in the shadow of the pali,
sitting on the chairs we have built
when we arrived so very long ago.
We have watched the young boys grow into men,
and the babies grow into young girls.
Storytelling and singing songs,
wishing to make a mark before we leave.
The best we do to create a better ohana.
Can you hear us teaching?
All we do is live in the future.

We are the people of Kalaupapa living in the shadows of the pali.
We are the forgotten, the left behind.
We watch as souls leave a lifeless body each day,
but our cheeks are no longer stained with tears.
No longer do we waste these tears that create an ocean.
A great love has created within our community.
Intertwined fingers connect the past, present, and future,
We are of a great diversity.
We have learned to enjoy the time we have left
and learned to love people no matter who they are.
Tonight we gather around the fire, dancing.
We live in the shadows, but we are the ones shining.
Can you hear our singing?

Udd jayegi ek din chiraiya chhodhkar babul ka ghar,
Basane ek naya aashiyana sabhi ke aankho ko bhar,

Vidai ka hota hai ye kaisi bela,
Kyu hamesha jana padta chhod us kali ko hi akela,

Beegh jati hai mata-pita ki palkein vidai ke pal,
Jab aata us baag me chahchahane wali chidiya ki judai ke pal,

Bahut si yaadein  chhoti aankho me sajaye hue,
Ro rhi hai maa pari ko gale lagaye hue,

Papa ki pyari gudiya aaj sazkar sasural chali,
Tham ke hath humsafar ka ek nye dwar chali,

Jahan  pali badi wo pyari gudiya chali hai aaj us ghar ko chhod,
Karke suna ek aangan ko pita ki aankhon ko bhar,

Na jaane kyu beti ko janam se hi paraya btaya ,
Aakhir kisne ye  riwaz banaya ,

Nikalkar apne **** se ek pita apni jaan ,
Bahut bada dil hai ek pita ka jo kar dete hain kanyadaan ,

Waqt ka kaisa hai ye dastoor 
Na jaane kyu ek beti ko jaana hota hai dur ,

Chali hai aaj papa ki gudiya ,
Chhodhkar apne aangan ki nindiya, 

Yaadon ki jhadi dil mein basakar chali hai maa ki jaan ,
Chhod ke sabkuch apna Banane ek nayi pehchaan,

Babul ki laadli kab ** gayi badi,
Aayi hai dil ko chhune wali ghadi,

Jis  ghar me pali,us ghar ko alwida kaise kahegi,
Maa baba behan bhai bin wo gudiya kaise rahegi,

Vidhata ne ye kaisa niyam hai banaya,
Chhod ghar babul ka,ek naye ghar ko basaya,

Dekh tyad ek bitiya ki us khuda ki bhi *** aankhen bhar,
Udd jayegi ek din chirraiya chhodkar babul ka ghar,
Babul ka ghar.........

Composed by
Sonia Paruthi & Shrivastva MK

The key to the lock
to the door to the room
with the chest that encases
your heart

is buried just off
the Nā Pali Coast
in the sands of the
Pacific.

Changing Names and Changing Faces
Changing Times and Changing Places

The emptiness remains the same

The Sunna Sutta,
Part of the Pali canon,
Relates that the monk Ananda,
Buddha's attendant asked,

"It is said that the world is empty, the world is empty, lord.
In what respects is it said that the world is empty?"  
The Buddha replied, "Insofar as it is empty of a self
Or of anything pertaining to a self: Thus it is said,
Ananda, that the world is empty.

Form is emptiness
Emptiness is form
Emptiness is not separate from form,
Form is not separate from emptiness
Whatever is form is emptiness,
Whatever is emptiness is form

One time to the next time
That is all it is
Try to be a good person
Be kind to others
Show others the love that Jesus showed

I just want a good friend is all
That would be nice
Someone to share my life with

Talk to me more about miscommunications.

Tell me more about
These jumbled lips,
Misshapen teeth,
Boxed-off smiles you're carting around.

Convince me one more time that you're so perfect,
Please.

Cut my wings and ask me to take flight,
Again, I dare you.

I was strong
And in need of redemption
I was lost
And deserved a response -

Craft another elegant lie about how you loved me
And I'll use it as fuel for these flames.

(Translation below)

Kulupu kulupu
Lon li pona pona
E suno li pona
E *** kin li pona

En mi sijelo kin
sina sijelo kin
telo e kasi en
e kili li pona



Moku mute li pona
Lape mute li pona
Olin li pona pona
mi olin e mi mije

tan o ona li pona
Ona li pona mute
Unpa musi li pona
Unpa mute li pona



Pali pona mama mama
pali pona pona
E suno li pona
pona pona pona

Lon li pona pona
pali pona pona
Mi olin e sina
tan e sina li pona

----------------------------------------------------

Peopl­e people
It's very good to live
The sun is good
Clothes are good too

And my body too
your body too
water, the plants and
the fruits are good



Eat a lot is good
Sleep a lot is good
Love is very good
I love my man

because he is good!
He is very good
The joy of *** is good
Often *** is good



Thank you mum dad
thank you very much
The sun is good
very very good

It's very good to live
thank you very much
I love you
because you are good

Laggiù, ad Auschwitz, lontano dalla Vistola,
amore, lungo la pianura nordica,
in un campo di morte: fredda, funebre,
la pioggia sulla ruggine dei pali
e i grovigli di ferro dei recinti:
e non albero o uccelli nell'aria grigia
o su dal nostro pensiero, ma inerzia
e dolore che la memoria lascia
al suo silenzio senza ironia o ira.
Da quell'inferno aperto da una scritta
bianca: " Il lavoro vi renderà liberi "
uscì continuo il fumo
di migliaia di donne spinte fuori
all'alba dai canili contro il muro
del tiro a segno o soffocate urlando
misericordia all'acqua con la bocca
di scheletro sotto le doccie a gas.
Le troverai tu, soldato, nella tua
storia in forme di fiumi, d'animali,
o sei tu pure cenere d'Auschwitz,
medaglia di silenzio?
Restano lunghe trecce chiuse in urne
di vetro ancora strette da amuleti
e ombre infinite di piccole scarpe
e di sciarpe d'ebrei: sono reliquie
d'un tempo di saggezza, di sapienza
dell'uomo che si fa misura d'armi,
sono i miti, le nostre metamorfosi.

Sulle distese dove amore e pianto
marcirono e pietà, sotto la pioggia,
laggiù, batteva un no dentro di noi,
un no alla morte, morta ad Auschwitz,
per non ripetere, da quella buca
di cenere, la morte.

Adesso, nella calma,
si vedon muovere i pali
della luce, i fogli di carta
sui recinti di legno dei cantieri.

Un’altra volta
c’era stato il commento
degli arabi, dei negri.
In un vecchio vano della casa,
le povere braccia,
le gambe lunghe e magre legate,
incominciano i racconti.

E si urtano gli oggetti
finiti sul fondo della strada,
mentre, per errore,
un fruscìo dei rami avverte
chi vi cammina
o da una griglia esala ancora
l’odore tiepido dell’umidità.

Si dissolve il colore
dalle pianure disegnate
nel sonno dell’umanità. Le creste delle piante
viste d’improvviso
da un punto oscuro
ravvicinate, mute,
perché si possieda in alto
qualche luce della quiete?

Choti woh chidiya albeli
Pyaari si aur badi niraali
Nazhukh si pali , kuch dil ki bholi
Uskey par jaise rangoli.

Chote chote they  uskey sapne
Jinhe wo sanwaare aankhon mein apne
Chaahe ki liye pankh bade woh
Bas udjaaye neele Gagan mein

Aakhir mein jab waqt wo aaya
Lekar pankh ko udjaane ka
Aansu lekar baabul se boli
Ye na mujhse  ** paayega

Baabul ne uski narm si aankhe
Dekh ke usko ye poocha sawaal
Beti , tu kyu apne app ko rokey?
Kyu udhney key  nahi khayaal?

Sunkar apni baabul ki boli
Dheere se chidiya ab doli
Tab lagta tha jo ek sapna
Aaj wo ** gaya hai choor.
Kya mere do pankh ye chote
Udh paayenge uthnee door?
Itna bhi mat karna  guroor
Na Karo mere dil ko majboor
Rehne do mujhe tumhare paas
Phir na rakhungi mein koyi bhi aas.

Baabul ne chidiya ko sehlaaya
Usey apne dil se laggaya.
Jo sapno se  tuney man  ko behlaaya
Usko paane ka waqt hai aaya.
Chota mat kabhi kudhko samajhna
Bas yuhi pankh lekar udhjaana.
Udhna hi hai tera naseeb
Rakhna hamesha usey dil ke khareeb .
Aasman dekhe raah tumhara
Likhdo uspar naam tumhara .

Phir Chidiya ne lee aisee udaan
Bharliya aanchal mein aasman ke rang
Baabul ne dee usey bidaayi
Bhar aayi aankhein, raha gaya wo dang.

Ear worms during zen prove that left to nothing, popular culture will take my attention.
So let them create their music: an evil in the Hadiths of Islam, and a degradation in the Pali Canon.
Music's flames burn away the veins and stupify the mind.
The heart is replaced with straw and the liver is poisoned.

Baha'u'llah said music is lawful as long as it uplifts the spirit.
But I say:
It eats the organs, toxifies the blood.
It makes me forgetful of liberation.
Its words are idols against the Path.
It masks the senses.
It trivializes reason.
It points the disposition into darkness upon darkness.
It deafens the ears.

It lightens the body.
It stammers the sense of smell.
It invades attention and enslaves the mind.
It dries the throat.
It displaces the sense of location.

pierdole, jade do Turka, bo inaczej ni-ma rady: pospolicie, czyli na pszysięge: klnąć! nad to:  ścisk ‘zora, o! tyle! gleba!  ścisk - tym ‘zorem siekać, i u-ci-sss-kać! no to dopić: pod ten brak  šatana - tego Ukrainskiego atamana - brak mu ręki - bo na ścisk - jak to mówie: cisza - szmer i śmiech! a to wiadomo czemu tak auto-matem iota ma główke - czemu nie ćιsza, jeno cisza? a no, dla tego! ja nie prosie by tak prosić na gotowe! a tu wysłane! cygan z dywanem perskim, a i tak nie wygoda! bo czemu kropka nad ι‘otą? a bo sie czyta Spinoze i sie pyta: nad literami grawituje tym pytaniem. - to też znaczy: poza lewą nie wie co prawa ręka robi - bo to oczy czytem jedno, a zór lepi drugie - kto by domyślił sie inno turkie ğ to jak ‘glika ha, ha gag - ab surd! grav’ niet kā’ron! bo i tak: śmierć metafizyki jest nowo-narodzonym szczylem (ščylem) ortografii - czyli dwa razy po krótkie i - jakby jota - głucho puste widzi-mi-sie (brakujący ogon, czytem: diabł ma rogi - a zatem: pytń  o ‘gon... jom ci pszepisze Ajrysza Finnegans Wake, tym bogatszy, a przy tym powiem: pierwsza cegła pod ten mur: al-buraq - czyli ten burak - czyli, die rotebeetemauer - jebaniec poniemiecki, jeszcze mu mało pożyczonych słowików... cirp ci kuźwa dam’nom, bedzie bi-da! bi-da! kozmopolitan tylko górali i szkocki akcent bawi na lublu... to cie kurwa zabawi, prędzej dziób pingwina skryje sie w moim łokciu, jak i dąb na tle mojej dłoni! pije, pali, konia wali... w imie ojca i syna, i duchownictwa szarańczy. post / pre scriptum: wolno myślący człowiek nie ma teorii ego, jeno mape, nie algebre o ten niedosyt znaka X - dawym imie - dycha! co pincet znaczeń, dycha! nie nie, aby podpis analfabety - tzn. X i ego, ** i superego, *** i id - tzn. to tamto, owanto. wu czy u - czy wiem i nie wiem, czy: kiedy piszesz i wydalasz cieć klaustrofobii - czyli: chłopie nie pisz jak plotnik fobii jesteś - ad abstractum - od nowa: Zyd na Gestapo - pewnikiem nie żaden: Brzeczyszczykiewicz - schusza - jakby odwrót: syty - szyschkami - šon - ko-kurwa-konery! jebudjed; budujem? da da... ja ni kocham tybi ty ni koi me. a to co? działa NA-WA-RO-NE-SO-LA-TI-DO. ponownie - sprość: ğnome - ğnostic - cisza nad gje.*

i to prawda,
   ta Grecja...
       kołyska zachodniej
cywilizacji -
   tzn. bahory,
      młode gówna:
   kakaшki -
lecz! Virgil i co Turek dobrze
wie... Grecja? nuda
i szambo murmur
w Edenie pirackim zwanym
Loon-dyn...
       bo ci powiem co ci powiem
a ci powiem jak Zagłoba -
   tym bardziej kochać
jak czerni syn w pieśń nad góry ‘niem:
   Bo-***! mój to ulubieniec.
           pisz wiersz ‘ciupki -
maciupki paniczku -
   pisz wiersz po każdej
książce...
              a co w Polsce?
meandry uczuć!
   tak, tak, z babcią ci powiem
nie o Greckiej piekności -
powiem ci o Turkeckiej -
    - co, za... SIKSA!
- i sam bym głowe w ogniste dupsko
diabła wsadził po modłach przed
ołtarzem nie jednej iskry Aten
                          blednącej -
   w tamtą strone jedzie w czern
ubrana żałobą piękna -
w pół kroi sie Ukraina i Grecja...
a tam, tam w post scriptum
Byzantina - siedzi wicher serca
cerkiew i meczet cukrzynka -
martwe to morze, morze,
martwe, lecz nie sól inno cukrem
lśniące błoto, jakby
   z Szanghaju *** świnski -
   córa dla starego i młodego -
Sühan - Sühan - Sühan Tuğba -
     po nią znów 100,000 łajb płynie -
dawna Troja -
  bo ci powiem co ci powiem -
     Turk nie Muzułman -
po Alim drugi - godny sfat Pers'a -
bo jak nie - Turk u progu Europy -
nawet i ja na podziw przed
    obchodem Kaab'y siedem razy
motłochu wart ogląd szkarabu -
i ten słodki adhan -
           bo dla szczoła śpiwać to
na marnie -
     boli też pruch po tych starych
bakach pośmiewiska papistwa...
   jebana kurwa mać w koło to samo -
nie wiem jak, ale
    wolałbym zdradzić chrzest
niż go przyjąć -
           ponownie -
ale jeno pod chorągwięm Turka -
jako janczar -
         chociaż tam jest: śpiew!
a nie, dzwon, dzwon w głąb 'pusciany!
czy też krokiem: kra kra krasnoludy!
fu!
     gorzkość i brzydota!
          mówie! Turek po łacinie
zacina? zacina - alfa-kurwa-becik
po jakiemu? nie po Ł'cinie
godnym Lwowa?
           z Turkiem moge, bo sie
chce, on i tak już lizał Bałkan
   i prawie zawstydził Wiedeń!
    ale to ciwilizowany Pan,
         bo umnie ubrać i nawet
pozwoli wypiç kiedy kości wychodzą
z ciała ogrzać cień!
     o tyle lepszy -
jaki przy Turku z Troją w ręku
i przy Perskim stygnięciu jest
ten prostak Arab...
     a jak im sie skończy czarny glut
to będa eksportować pioch!
    już wiem gdzie,
         na plaże Albionu!
             i tyle powiem -
   o Turka warto byłoby zdradzić -
bo skąd inne, piękniejsze od
  Greczynek niż ciup-ciup pijące
         wróbelki z nad Bosforu?
   Turek drugi Ali i trzeci podział
Izlamu - bo wkręt Ł'ciny -
             i tym też -
               sfoboda -
                 tym też dawny Byzan -
i Troja - i co jak nie Rzym -
        ostatni kalif -
                    i tym Arab w świecie
jak Żyd -
          ale o tym mniej od Żyda -
bo to bogacz na wielblądzie który
nie tylko nie może sie zmieścić przez
oko igły, a co też nie może
zmieścić sie w swe portki!

Morning 3:43 am

*** bi bhulekha jeha pe reha
Lag reha jiwe koi dhokh jeha ** reha mera naal
Jiwe eh ik supna ja hi howe
Jiwe eh sach he hi nai
Ik jhuthi jahi umeed haje bi lagai beth ha
Ik jutha jeha veham haje bi pali betha ha
Sab kuj sach hunde hoye bi
Sab kuj juth jeha lag reha he
Kiwe keh da
Kiwe bhul ja
Bus *** ik tera hi asra he
*** bus maut da hi aasra he

ooh... those crazed up (a fata morgana of eye shadow) eyes of that sweet-***** Elaine Thompson-Herah... alias: Calypso... i was trying to figure out my kinks... mulatto girls... oriental girls... Turkic raven-haired shamans in the bedroom... i like the Olympics... all the body sizes... in their niches... the high-jumpers... the discus throwers... the swimmers... the sprinters... but also the table-tennis players... everyone is being represented... Shiva's girlfriends... if they cook up a curry... no, they won't... i'll be in the kitchen turning it into an organic chemistry chemistry...

critical race: kink...
  you'd think that some
things would remain
in the bedroom:
topsy-turvy world...

perhaps i'll dip a finger into
this fudge...
on seconds thoughts...
perhaps i won't...

"who"? Hugh's hue...
Hugh's hues...
for any native spreschen guise
i'd like to see
the encapsulated surd of double-v
"double-u"
and how the acronym satan:
Santa ** **'s...

each saint a satan...
critical race: kink...
i tried interracial ***...
i met my match with a bony assed
ivory "princess"...
a small tight ***
i knew because the front of
my pelvis...
the "garden of eden" of *****
grew a shade of plum
from the interaction...

i cannot: not... admire the white
teeth of black people...
i tend to forget about their skin....
if you were born into a
homogeneous racial "scrutiny"
of: origins...
i feel sick going back to the old capital:
once in Warsaw
i turn into a feral creature...
so many of "me"...
where are the blacks... the Indians...
all i'm getting is a whiff of
Mongolian...

mind you... at least on the outskirts
of London... how the county
of Essex is teased...
you'll hear the dogs barking
but then you'll hear...
whatever sound the foxes
make that can't be "magically"
turned into either onomatopoeia or
typo...

all of a sudden everyone is
feeling... un-com-fort-able...
copper-skin brush of joy...
little piglet moi gets a ******* suntan...
the skin doesn't resemble
a serpent's shedding its old
girth after having ingested
a giraffe...

a cheap £125's worth of a viking road
bicycle...
it was a waste of money to have invested
in a Trek Marlin 5 worth circa £500...
it really was...
i believe you only require
only about... 7 gears to fathom
heavy traffic...
even at night... pretending to be
a pedestrian... showing the three-finger:
read-in-between-the-lines
to some: oblivious ******
in a: you going to orientate yourself
on the road like a SMART car...
or are you still pretending to be
driving a... ******* TANK?

i've passed so many oblivious people
concerning traffic it's no wonder
i think of them at best as
sleepwalkers..

white girl academic critical
race: kink...
why would i require over or coming to
21 gears?
riding a road bike... sure...
a 26" inch wheels:
but they have a 23cm width...
so i can gazelle up any elevation...
what's with this basic *******...
clashing with church bells
and the uvula...

esp. not now: when a white girl *****
a black boy: Everclear will not make
a song about: "combating stereotypes"...
a white boy ***** a black girl
that doesn't require added inches
for their sofa of an ***...
how about i shove my elbow into that hole
for better measure?

that's why i like keeping cats...
grooming a female aroused me...
for three days solid i was cycling like mad
to and fro central London
looking for an alternative brothel...
i found the long lost abode...
one hour for £120 with a limp biscuit
of a little richard: ****...
shamed...
i returned... and found my pristine
"killer" of a ballerina...
in a span of 30 minutes...
if only i could invert the hour with the 30 minutes...
when my feline "princess"
agitates me with her **** stuck up
while she's about to be teased with
a knee when being groomed...

i'm not gagging for it...
i didn't experience it more than enough
to somehow want it more than
i can do with doing it myself:
well... if i were circumcised...
but since i haven't been circumcised...
****-off strict monotheistic crowd...
under the guise of monotheism:
and my circumcision...
sure... but then the women have to make
concessions...
i'm not getting a circumcision
if she's not going to don a niqab!

pije... pali... konia wali
(he) drinks... smokes... masturbates...
well... if i were given....
a frequented depth of thirst...
but since i haven't...
i can turn 30 minutes of the best ***
into... half a decade's worth of
abstaining from it...

i toy with my beard like it might
be a violin...
there's a hmm portent at some point...
but that's for the deaf...

over the weekend taking apart an old
b.b.q. meticulously...
however many screws have been unscrewed
in my head: whatever came about
from a "chemical imbalance":
notable mention: Robert Walser...
Fernando Pessoa...

well... if only the asylums were still
open...
if only the asylums were still be open...
i'd still be practising all my best
to enter the cages...
reinvent cubism by smearing
excrement in the corners of the room:
or something like that...
but... the "squares" found out us out...
the prisons are very much alive...
asylums?
well... "they" sent the madman into
society... no wonder...
whatever's still left of society
is... two-crutches strong...
struggling toward a myth of Bethlehem...

it's so exhausting...
no one sentenced to be encased in an iron
maiden would leave it with
a necklace of the torture instrument...
even if he said the least...

day one... let's call it a Saturday...
taking apart an old b.b.q....
without a hammer...
***** by *****...

day two... let's call it a Sunday...
putting a new b.b.q. together...
***** by *****...
Hephaestus... no wonder...
i have to thank him for momentary father
status: since my own father never believed
in my tech competence...
changing a bicycle tyre and inner tube...
someone was looking over my shoulder...

forethought: premonition?
i disintegrate into something resembling
a crossword clue by clue...
Prometheus was the TITAN
Hephaestus was the god of            fire...
that titans came before the gods...
it's not like Prometheus stole the fire
from Hephaestus...
but as the gods built their marble Olympus while
the humans were left cowering naked
in mud-huts...
a sacrifice...

                flimsy narrative...
besides... by the time someone decided to steal
the electric rod of Zeus...
an Edison... he was no closer to being
credited for it...
instead: making his living from having
created the archetype of movies...
ha... "making his living":
i'm so disinterested in money
that translates as...
keeping up a family... the "genes"...

    - each and every day i wake up
"thinking": before i get onto that bicycle:
there's no point eating up the itch...
why do i have to find meaning at the end
of the day: in writing...
rather than at the beginning with the sunrise:
some "vague" prompt...
to motivate me.... ?  ?
                                ?  ?

i probably know why... just today at the recycling
centre some... puppy... late middle aged
man in a Nissan Micra... or whatever...
i just shrugged my shoulders when
i was investigated with an accusation
of missing his front lights
while i was taking an old lamp out from
the boot... petty insect: bothersome little:
cre-ah-ture...
i shrugged my shoulders because:
no damage was done but he insisted on:

OH! WHAT IF?!
it broke me when he called me a silly ****...
pumped up chest...
i was going to say: how much do you weigh?
how many teeth that are not prosthetics do you
own?
i just shouted: ******* mate...
no damage was done yet he was
adoring his entire possessions in
a ******* ******...
that moment between shrugging my shoulders
and eyeing him up...
a momentary pause: i too feed off the petty heart....

i wish it was... the first time i discovered
tom petty & the heartbreakers...
i was with someone in the driving seat who
shouted: better buy a Bentley to
have those sort of concerns...
whatever happened to: innocent until
proven guilty... whatever happened to:
wait until the damage is done
before throwing a ******* poodle cartwheel
of a hissy-fit...
no damage... but being called a silly-****...

petty people bother me... more than mountains...
or the seas...
the heart turns into a placebo of:
what it must feel like jumping out
of an aeroplane armed with a parachute...
i wish i said: bark little doggy... bark...
next time you bark... i'll bite...
but i'm ******* slow... i'm always either
elsewhere: trapped in some variation
of dasein: some horizon of: there's... existence
elsewhere... always...
now mash this up with an elevation of
the cartesian res cogitans: i.e. buddha walking
as i like to call it: res vanus: the empty thing...

that moment of frozen mirrors when
i eyed up foul mouthed poodle...
sitting in his car... neither scratched nor
attended to...
he would do x, y, & z... i shrugged my shoulders:
did anything happen?
oh god... such motivation to find a chunk of
beef large enough to practice boxing on...

i'm thinking about Brazilian mulattos...
Jamaican Calypsos...
all the hoard of Asia brought to the altar
by the Mongolian horde...
and here i am...
abstinent... gladly...
please don't cage me... a moment more with
the Turkish raven haired shamans of
the bedroom...

- it's not even funny...
i'll spend near £500 on a Trek Marlin mountain-bike...
it's only 3 months+ old...
it started to cringe at me... squeak...
make odd-noises...
but that Viking road-bicycle: kol

anything... almost anything with a label:
MADE IN XINA... made by the number...
worth duck-squat...
i still own things manufactured in...
for ****'s sake: Sri Lankan rubber...
Pakistani / Bangladeshi linen...
almost always the better quality than
those fake Beijing silk woorms...

by why of bypassing editorial scrutiny...
aren't the public the better judge of...
what, exactly... is... being... printed?
not much... go go green!
so... me... waiting... one rejection letter
after another... not reaching the immediacy
of an audience... just so... i can establish
and authority of "publishing"?
the gate-keepers?
the... ahem... "selected tastes"?
i have a long attention span...
but i have a very short sense of humour...
for that matter... my father thinks it funny
pushing my span of keeping... my anger at bay...

i'll immediately post: and free! free whittle birdie!
what use do i have with orthodox publishing
credentials?!
when all, i, wanted... was to bypass
the orthodox publishing credentials...
**** the medals: it's all about taking part!
democracy or no democracy?!
should we ask Iraq... Libya... Afghanistan?!
itch... itch... i'm itching...
which implies: the itch existent and the process
of alleviating the itch: by scratching the itch:
i'm itching...

the sort of song you rarely hear on the radio:
black... wonderful life...
i'm too not skipping along to the rhyme
of flipping burgers... or burdens of the easily
available.... scooter frenzy of arrived
at New Delhi traffic:
seems i had to merely introspect
to find a snippet of the Giza pyramids...

- to hell with magic...
there's mythology, there's air all around us...
and like this one poet
mentioned ( )
water water everywhere...
but not a drop to drink...

the Pollacks: the Paul lean brigadiers have...
gladly left these isles...
forget these isles: fellow ethnic scrutiny...
let the English housewives make
better jokes when the ****** plumbers have
left and the tap is left running...
jazzy pop interludes with 1980s/ 1990s...
whatever you had in mind...
thank you... i'll leave it to the closure...
my fellow-countrymen have left...
to concentrate on their own "hood"...
your's? slightly undermined...
but blame me...

oh they're not interludes...
it's fine by anyone's standards if a white
girl welcomes her ******* baptism...
but a shy thought of a romance with Calypso...
or the hearth of Asia by a what-why-not-a-white-"bloke"....
******* clowns and jazz-hand clapping!

i once attempted a take on ENSO...
no chance... not now... not ever...
but the white girls pursue their...
****** liberation freedom:
look at me...
come in between... a decade's worth of
abstinence... halved...
then again encountered...
sell me all that's the Brazilian
of the mulatto bonanza...
i'll buy it...

30 minutes with a Turkish "killer": in her own
words... and i'm freed from
the extravagance of a responsibility...
to tow woman... and at least 2 children
in tow.... towing a woman
and at least two children...
no... thank... you... it's not enough
to merely breed for a product of 2 produce 1...
2 at least better produce 2...

i don't want to breed in this environment...
who would?!
idiot... saint... a *******
psalm singer... a reciter of the qu'ran?
it must still be a success story
among Muslims... to leech onto the
conquest ambitions fo the Turks
penetrating Europe:
although the Arabs probably think the Turks
as lesser "Muslims"...
but who is to forget the... bridegroom
of a reflex...
how the Christian Serbs....
how the Christian Serbs...
made the remains of the Ottoman Empire...
little or no nought of ash, skull...  bone...
we... "we"... Caucasus brigade...
sure... very Anglo-Saxon: WASP sensibly in Nyod: Ork...
just because the Jews can have their
Holocaust... doesn't mean that..
what's sleeping can't be suddenly woken...
n'est c'est pas?
it takes something trivial...

because the sacrificial body of lamb of Muslims
didn't take place... in "Europe"...
the Ottomans: whoever they were...
yes... they "were"... already happened...
it's such a tease... here's my slingshot
of history... the Bataclan theatre massacre...
sure... just give it enough time...
enough soy...
i'm clinging to the memory of Robespierre...
the guillotine too...
i'm gearing up...

who is? not me... some mythological collective: oui!
je! moi aussi!
nice living together: isn't it... esp. in
the clique of keeping up with
updates of Rotherham...
alias for... ha ha!
speaker's corner...
why are the Hing-Leash...
sowwy so so: sur-PRIOR-EASE!
***: onto the surf ye' go forth!

years later... whatever ****** revolution happened:
the girls entered a harem...
the boys were left talking solo
with "premonitions" of:
glad to be awake:
would be... abortions....
vamped up *** revolutionised:
for the women...
if the men were not subjected to world war I
trench warfare... they would
most certainly be crippled my
chemistry infused...
limp biscuit **** while the harem of all sorts...
she... pleads a pretty please back
to... who?
via beer it's he **** of gods...
via whiskey it's ms. amber...
same ****: different cover...

ghosts of the same poker fold... facing...
each other: worth of the same
evil: intent...

the liberated woman:
the liberated man...
seems i "forgot" to pass on the intrinsic
demands of the stereotypical man:
archetypical hunting... gathering...
sorry... you were saying, "saying" something...
no... must have missed me...
i probably "forgot"...

fair enough with the girl playing
her interracial anti-racism white anti-...
o.k.: whatever...
it's a proper antithesis surge of her
already met expectations when
i figure out a Calypso for my hard-on...

she's becoming boring...
truly: literally: *******... boring...
like her adventure was only surrounding
her juiced up opening of an oyster's worth
of ****!
*** is already boring:
i can have it on a relapse...
once every half a decade...
however much she tries to sell it...
the wind sells itself better...
silence also...
eh... she moans: she might moan:
the magpies cackle with
more authenticity...
the crows croak with more "girth"...

she can sort herself out...
after all...
she's the freely available...
variation of: what it might feel like...
living in Buenos Aires...
all the freedoms she requires...
i'll sooner come toward
a foetus within the confines
of a tornado: genesis a tadpole...
than i will ever make do with:

dough: dumb downer... make: do...
ugh! ugh! WOO-MAN! WOE-MAN...
whatever...
i don't mind the crisp: cut... dying out...
this cul de sac...
why would i?

i sort of... stop myself... forgetting myself...
whenever i cycle down oxford st.
and some Japanese gearing up:
****-pants flashes me for kicks...
you lost me at the brothel...
i lost myself at the brothel...
with the Turkish and Romanian girls...
sorry... what?

the night is always in its infancy
while the day: ages: oh most... terribly...
the day ages with responsibilities...
while the night runs: RAM-PANT...
such is the privy acquired by those awake
in the: NACHT...
everyone else is asleep...
by "tomorrow's": today's a quarter
to... 8... i'll be fresh as a daisy...

although the miracle of tourism
of sightseeing central London via cycling
will not be undertaken...
there will be as much of as little
as there is of this: to nibble on...
for anyone: eager...

a pursuit of the roundabout current...
yes yes... many thanks... ado...
no... thank you...
me chasing "shadow" while also gearing
up to the momentum leftovers
of either a bus or a truck...
how, did... so... many...
"cyclists"... get... towed... dragged...
under... these... trucks... busses...
oblivious traffic hierarchy status: "superiority"
complex?
minced meat... i like to think of those deaths
as... minced meat...
they had to be: St. Pancreas: minced: "dodgers"...

best dead... retardo: fernando: minced meat
"dodgers"...
oh guy's gotta looks ups!
(in that ****** aghast voice-over)
i get a hard-on every time
i entertain a roundabout
where i'm quicker off the mark
than some tirade of traffic...
always aiming for the momentum
associated with a truck
or a bus... or a south african scrum...

eh... little women: know very little.

.if you want the fresh impromptu, you might as well skip this unpublished draft, i'm even starting to think about leaking my hellopoetry.com password... but given my suspension... FOR 8 MONTHS because of some soccer mum not having encountered something akin to a harlequin novel... i'll leave it at that: •••••••••••••••••, here's to some depeche mode... last time i checked, even africans have the same inside of their hands "whitened"... there is no racial difference to be allowed to read into chiromancy... i met one ***-, tomikuni... he also inquired about reading my hands... we're all pale, governed by the thumb, when asked, or not asked, to hold "something".

and what is the only variant of classical
music, heard on a radio?

    well... there's the fama radio night
sessions - with not adverts
   radiofama.com.pl -

it might be your take on what the french
tell the english, i.e.: euro-trash...

but no adverts...

                          and there is no reason
to concede to reviving punk,
hippy music didn't see a revival,
why should punk?

   a variant of classical music radio,
akin to bbc 2, or classic fm...

       that "oddity" of a morphed bbc 4
internet coverage, akin to lionel nation...
and what i mean by that,
is not h. d. thompson's gonzo...

          the allure of the, un-scripted...
and all of this is raw, flesh,
language at a smithfield
                   or a billingsgate...

talk-radio as the logical conlusion
of exposing your child to classical music...
it's genius -
   reverting back to classical music
once you're older, and don't play
an instrument?
                      what's the point?

dr steve turley bashing out a medieval
mash-up on the guitar...
            and that's "not" even
inspiration for a rock star status...
i like his smugness -
    it's... zesty, lime-like:
             certainty of the twinkling
of the eye that consists of:
    a remaining - intact, i.e., sane.

bbc radio 4?
      what, with zee archers nonsense?
this radio novella
that keeps propping itself up
like a bad take on eastenders without
the kray brothers?
          
                  talk-radio is all about
a non-existent "script":
       the flamboyance of spontaneity...
with the crux, being?
                
                                     ensō -

the only aspect of ζεν, a ταoιστ might
respect.

      p.s.
                  do i believe in u.f.o.  s?
(****, acronyms and the plural article
attached to them, mind boggling)
     no... but i've seen one, so the belief impetus
is, kind'ah missing in me...
             i've transcended speculation,
a question-worthiness on the matter...
since the question no longer manifests
      itself in the narration impetus?
the impetus for narrative, is narration per se;
and how lovely, it is to see
a noumenon...
      when the world of phenomenons
reads like this:

  the times newspaper, saturday, july 21,
2018,
               OVER 70,000 CHILDREN
PUT ON PILLS FOR DEPRESSION...

great headline...
     alas, a chemistry degree (3rd)
from edinburgh uni.,
     am i chemo-phobic?
                 i should ask myself that
same question, when i next
brush my teeth, apply shampoo to
my cranium,
   or wash my hands.
__________
as any drunk might,
   now i know why my parents decided
to leave Poland...
   Chernobyll...
           when you hear the facts...
about a single gram of Uranium, U-236,
2.34 x 10 to the power of seven, years
being the "half-life" or...
****, i should have read over my
chemistry notes from Edinburgh...
before the particle fizzles out...

                 i was lucky...
i am to born again with the age bracket
of 33... which means i only received
a Cain tattoo on my right shoulder-blade...
birth-mark,
apparently i suffered greatly as a child,
hernia and all...
            i had the birth-mark removed,
i'm pretty sure i was a donor,
my flesh became donated to
   some scientific lab and studied...
here's my Shylock pound...

given what's currently happening in my
home city...
with the slow decay, the ever more increasing
number of cancer victims, middle-aged....
they're talking about the sort of cancer
that... moves, visibly, under your skin...
people are freaking out...

     it's not a joke,
   the soviets wanted to hush hush the whole
affair...
                   3.2 of whatever scale...
was hushed... but the reality was
aquivalent to 400 x-rays in a spell of a minute...
i was under the impression that i was
the child of economic migrants...
   eh eh...
               i don't think that's actually the whole
picture...
   come on! if people were hot and bothered
in Minsk... Belarus...
           this wasn't a ******* tornado...
tornados come and go... we're talking
500 years of after-effects...
               even my great-grandmother
remembers how the trees in the local park
were affected... streaks of autumn trees...
among streaks of actual spring green
phosphorescent trees illuminated
by street lamps...
          like the current phosphorescent green
oaks in england...

   they fled... and took me with them...
who gives a **** whether i came to england
without speaking the language...
hiding in toilets at my primary school...
but then... one day...
after self-teaching myself the language,
studious, labour of the mind,
books and books...
i was the teacher's pet...
             i remember this one time...
st. augustine's, near barkingside...
i was the only kid doing long arithmetic...
while the "natives" decided to
stage a: lord of the flies sort of coup
against the replacement teacher...
and what happened when our...
  ****... ms. mcguire! can't believe i still
remember her name...
  i wasn't happy that the children
were scolded,
  i did my work, they didn't,
and i managed to do whatever i wanted
while they had to catch-up
on what i already did...

         for whatever childhood i had,
i still remember it fondly...
    my father being unable to teach me how
to swim in the english channel,
me teaching myself to swim out of sheer
will and determination: competition...
i know people brag about:
how smart they were so early on:
                             yadda yadda bull... ****!

now i am here to take out my investment
in this language,
   to... peacock and strut...
        as i am also glad to not brag about
being a polyglot or a... eh... somewhat polymath...
either this... or a slump in depression
and suicide thinking:
   as always... i don't get out of bed
and think of one impossible thing,
   i get out of bed to overcome one suicidal thought...
not all suicidal thinking is the end game,
some of it relieves you in having
integrating a kick-up your **** to get out of bed!

so... the picture...
well like any past-time of any: happily to be drunk...
walking is one,
the other...
       i wanted to experience a hamsa...
     i was going to do the whole hand,
but i figured: spare some of that ink
for what you're going to write on your grandfather's
80th birthday card...
poor ******...
     he still remembers getting sweets from
two SS-men in black,
  sweets that would stick his hands together...
he still remembers how his uncle
laid in a patch of green, shot dead,
how the russian soldiers would rather prefer
to sleep in the barns with the goats
on hay rather than in beds,
how most of them were teenagers...
and how my grandmother's ultimate insult
to him was: that he was a skurwysyn:
  *******...
     well... he does have 3 other brothers...
half-brothers...
                         eh... clown needs to juggle?
however bad he was...
we did go fishing together...
    but now that he's demented...
and has a dementia routine...
                    it's hard to tell what it feels
in this, transition period of the perils of
us, the mortal men...
                  i could never associated mortality
with any sort of morality,
other than it being dictated by one's
own ambition: to keep as many people
from my private life as possible.
           so when my jewish neighbor
recently converted to islam drops by and
comments about my barber skills:
you and my son look like you've just been
released from auschwitz birkenau...
we laugh...
            and how it suits me... beard and all...
monk...
      cool cool...
   i'm still studying the qabbalah...
                    christianity became... too poverty
stricken for me, in terms of points of reference...
although not circumcised...
why would i be?
                          that extra bit of skin is
for me to not be ashamed of jerking off once
in a while...
   pije... pali... konia wali.

            and this is where the: right hand doesn't
know what the left hand is doing...
regarding chiromancy...

              tzayach's...
i tattooed over chokhmah,
                chesed and netzach....
for the love of god...
there's no     girdle of venus on either
of my hands...
  either hand looks like there's
a letter imprinted on them: M...
                i had a "fwend" in high school
once... god, what is it with the muslims...
either they want to **** you,
or convert you!
    started his own muslim chiromancy...
talked **** about how there's
the number 72 on my hands...
the number of names of the goat-blood
                               allah god...

no... i'm pretty ******* sure that's an M...
anyway...

p.s.
and then you look up those words ref.
chiromancy...
                 as ever, better to bewilder yourself
with what's in front of you,
in your posession than to *******
yourself around the zodiac brothel of
          ... well... even the zodiac killer
is more fascinating than all this: "constellations
talk"... yeah, and a paragraph of
marquis de sade's writing is more
of a hard-on than some harlequin novel!

i tattooed over the words:
    chokhmah...     in the sefirot tree:
wisdom... yah...
            chesed...        ditto:
    love... el...
               netzach...             ditto:
victory... adonoy tzevaot...
   2, 4, 7... those are the allocated numbers
to the sefirot tree...
   whether or not gematria is your thing...
because i'm the type of, "guy",
that likes the maxim: i'll meet you half-way,
now you meet me, half-way...

how could any muslim,
think i could convert,
  to the brat ******* son of christianity,
who keeps nagging,
and nagging, and punching and screaming...
if, that is, monotheism is a noble cause...
why would i look toward
the evolutionary direction...
no past, only forward,
how much of darwinism is about:
forward...
   all our ancestors were idiots...
ah... but what will those,
who will inherit what we... floundered think,
of us?
         not much, by the looks of things...
what have i done?
   to love wisdom,
is to find victory...
   the will, will come from itself,
and the power, vested in it,
i don't need to look for the "logos"
via the christian deity...
   i merely look at the genesis of the idea...
Heraclitus...
            and that's it...
and why do i do "stupid" things when drinking...
like pretending to tattoo my hand?
i do not possess the luxury of dreaming...
rarely... i do, but mostly:
it's the abyss that entertains me...
so i have to do something stupid
within the framework of a "today",
that i might sharpen my memory for
a "tomorrow"...

       i have nothing to learn from
the christians...
                  i might as well turn to paganism
if, and only if,
my... deposed fascination with
judaism diminishes...
                    i don't even care whether
i'm a jew or not, a yew: paraphrasing
the prefix from yiddish...
those people, were citizens of Paul-on-a-leash...
land...
                this is the best i can offer...
i'm not... **** like the ******* caduceus
of protruding veins wrapping
the ******* intact?

****... here's a chimera for you:
**** of a Hermes, heart of a...
     head of a...
                  feet of a...
and a tail of a dobberman-albino-monkey:
when it was still aesthetically pleasing
to trim the ears and cut off the tail
of that particular dog breed!
   and... i'm still drinking...
                      what have you...
bitter, inconsistent, whatever you like...
i'll just trap this in the internet index,
open a newspaper from sunday,
that big one, format,
                   the old school way of reading
an english newspaper:
   having once tried folding a page
on the tube (underground)...
              never mind, thank god i still have
my *******...
i don't look like a ******* loser
all of the time jerking off
without having one...
         yeah: i'm pretty sure the kippah
has something to do with:
the imitation game, of medieval monk's
donning the tonsure haircut.

p.p.s. em... revision, it was actually U-235...
and the core of a nuclear power-plant...
being exposed...
   like 40 ******* Hiroshima explosions
in one hour, non-verbatim...
but Chernobyl was a ghost town
without the sort of tourism manifesto
of Zionists...
who would have to revisit
the grave of their ancestry...
                  no "big" deal though...
m'eh, just a little glitch...
no children in Frankfurt being told
to not play outdoors...
just a glitch...
                the holocaust is forever
the major no. 1 human disaster...
pre-planned...

     say... why study jurisprudence,
when not having studied the thesaurus
helps, i mean:
isn't all of the jursprudent concept
based upon access to a thesaurus,
aren't all nouns: "suspect",
readied for the synonym spaghetti
counsil? no? my bad?

  oh, oh... good to know! really great,
great to know: who the ****
is peddling this sort of *******!
weasels.
even your own shadows will
not forgive you...
mark my word...
whether angels, demons,
your own shadows will not forgive
you...
you'll be dancing the *******
1518 dancing plague:
whether you like it or not!

      let's take a summary:
what looks worse,
Chernobyl or, Auschwitz?
how many tourists visit Auschwitz,
how many tourists visit Chernobyl?
hmm...
    tough number to crack open
for comparison...
          this is the one time i will
craft a crux for / of moral relativism...
who was gagging for it,
and... who wasn't... when it happened:
"out of the blue"?
        let's just say:
Chernobyl wasn't premeditated...
Auschwitz, was...
           now i did start learning
about the qabbalah for a reason:
the holocaust wasn't the worst horror
of the 20th century,
the 20th century prime tattoo of historical
events: wasn't Auschwitz...
       and i will, continue,
to learn qabbalah, denoucning my "christianity",
for this, sole, reason...
the yews, jews, yids,
aren't the only people alive in this world,
i'm not going to buy into this
solipsistic narrative complex...
esp. when i will, forthrightly:
denounce who was crucified...
      i'm done... with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library in 1945,
complimented by the josephus ben matthias
historian...
             how jesus, "son of god"
played chinese whispers in the gosepl of
st. thomas...
   n'ah... n'ah mate... i'm done...
            find yourself a ******* imam
or a rabbi: my mind is made up!
ich will tanz diese tango...
              egal du wie es, oder nicht!
sorry... whether deutsche or not,
west saxon grammar translates itself:
*** essex bound.

The author of poetry from original ideas;
the author of poetry from secondhand ideas;
the repeater of poetry (communicating meaning);
the speaker of poetry off-the-top of the head
(due to great understanding).

~From the Pali Canon

150/100 & 142/90 -
   hardly rare ratios in terms
of blood pressure...

but prior to that...
prior to weighing in at 253£s...
and having the nurse
cite the fat problem
using a concentration camp
analogy:
voluptuous and giggly...

well... there was me getting
all pretty for the visit...
even applying beard oil -
soaking wet from soap
and a brisk walk...

        that i had to walk out
of the house with a brain
agony as if my skull had
to next a hedgehog with this:
beaten sponge like substance
moulded from
    an octopus and
some swizz cheese...
        
      a walk most memorable...
sunglasses although
the day was overcast...
some music on the headphones -
culture: harder than the rest...
and... an apple...

the left hand in my trouser
pocket... the right hand moving
to the method of eating
an apple while walking...

     because there was a method...
in Knausgård's meditation
on autumn...
                it's not like haven't
done this before...
but... yes...
eating the whole apple...
with the core...
for... prior to eating the bitter
core: the sweetness of the pulp
in mouth from first bite
insignia hard...

           yes... the core... a reminder
of something: otherwise...
what guilt? to throw an apple
core onto the street would be
like... spitting out a chewing gum?
i could have:
            
  and then... come evening....
a new way of drinking...
   25 x 10 = 250ml, which equals...
             circa 500kcal...
apparently i need to bring my
blood pressure down...
i will not be easily persuaded
by high blood pressure tablets...
at least: prior to a bicycle...
if...                a solid diet...

yes... but most certainly translating:
alcohol turns into fat around
the waste: so much for ******* it all
in for a veneer physique...
                   it's not that bothersome...
bothersome is...

looking at the eastern europe
region section
       on poetryfoundation.org...
and seeing how...
there's not a single ****** poet...
             tristan tzara is not included
in the list: so much for my english...
perhaps a much
   misunderstood "exile"...
the idea of nation-building
right now is a blister -
         traitor as i, "technically" should
be writing coś takiego...
                  i.e. something like this...
  
u nich: wszystkie głosy są
                    gotyckim postrachem...

what a lovely gloss of:
ideology from busy-body to nobody
to: a muddling in middles...

back to visiting the nurse:
          by god and the devil's
testicles and *******:
            wearing a face mask
in a very formal setting...

   was i complete cool cucumber /
bonanza bananas ******:
at one point i pretended to smile
to reciprocate the nurse
"perhaps" smiling too...

           and how nonchalantly
she gave that concentration camp
analogy and the modern ill
of machinsation easing certain
physical labours...

just saying...
            what a strange view from
behind a pseudo-niqab...
       i'd just need to shave my beard
and my hair...
well... i did shave my armpit hair
before going outside...
and as i stood in the mirror with my
arms behind my head...
the hair on my torso: chest
and stomach... and these two
pitiable holes of flesh and stubble...

metro-man!
           all that would be
necessary now would be a tinge
of pale pink in my clothes...

       from the list of eastern european
poets: austria is eastern european...
milan kundera says that there's most
certainly a central europe...
but it is well known in western europe
that's a banality outright
and also a banality concept...
          
the greenwich meridian thumb -
central being germany -
  some little cluster-**** drifting
between existence and negation...
     a far away place we know little
of... Chamberlain with
a loo roll coming back from Munich...

ivan blatny: as denoted by
rude pravo, march 30th 1948 -
                  perhaps i share some
of his struggles...
alas! where are these ritzes of
yester-century that i too could
perhaps frequent:
for all those... "uncomfortable" people
outside a purpose built:
psychology macabre...
                    pyramid schematics
were once the furore!
- and sensible language!

jak grochem o ściane!

the list: elfriede jelinek,
             marko vešović,
              ernst jandl,
               jános pilinszky,
         marin sorescu,
               miroslav holub,
      friederike mayröcker,
   paul celan,
        tomaž Šalamun -
           (if) i add more to the list...
it will be the same list
should it only have included
SHalamun or veSZović -

pić, palić: konia walić-
   drink, smoke, *******...
alt.: pije, pali, konia wali
  (he) drinks, (he) smokes, (he) masturbates -
so much for gender neutral
pronouns when...
there are gender neutral verbs...
except with a past-participle:

piłem (he said: i drank)
piłam (she said: i drank)
   paliłem (he said: i smoked)
   paliłam (she said: i smoked)
   konia... waliłem... etc.

it's just somehow staggering that
the english can be thus
butchered, treated like a piece
of crude ore...
   that grammar can be
a bad surgical glitter coax...
to give birth to...
       i'm sure joseph merrick
had a beautiful soul...
                  but i imagine...
the veneer of a generic body...
but the language that looks
exactly like: when frankenstein
took it upon himself...
to inseminate a woman with
gorilla *****...

yes... quiet frankly: what a day!
that part of walking
with one hand in my pocket
and the other holding an apple...
just walking and eating an apple...
i don't think i need to dream;
there was enough architecture
in that alone...
a skeleton and the roughage
of cement / slabs...
and of course... a pair of shoes.