By the fond name that was his own and mine,
The last upon his lips that strove with doom,
He called me and I saw the light assume
A sudden glory and around him shine;
And nearer now I saw the laureled line
Of the august of Song before me loom,
And knew the voices, erstwhile through the gloom,
That whispered and forbade me to repine.
And with farewell, a shaft of splendor sank
Out of the stars and faded as a flame,
And down the night, on clouds of glory, came
The battle seraphs halting rank on rank;
And lifted heavenward to heroic peace,
He passed and left me hope beyond surcease.

Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
     mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
     Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
     autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
     Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
     quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
                              S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.

     And when this epistle is read among you, cause that
     it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.


The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The ‘potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the ‘potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

So lay me down
in the coffin beneath
the sea, that's exactly
where I want to be.
Salt water building pressure
on the wood like the pressure
that you put me under each
and every day. Let the wood
splinter like so many lost lovers
and friends and let the water
fill my lungs and ears, bubbles
exploding from my mouth like
the arguments we use to have
to the backdrop of silverware
falling on linoleum. Let it fill my
body with **** and vinegar and
let the light that you cherished
so much fade away from my eyes
like headlights in the distance.

Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.

She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses

herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises

from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours

cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash

me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.

She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,

rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.

Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the

nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed

against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens

the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross

on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one

side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers

growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun

is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.  

Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin

to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never

make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never

told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.

Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.

O, Lord forgotten please accept
Me upon my mission bereft,
I look to the stars in darkness and cry,
And teeming with demons I ask you why,
And how I can be rid of myself,
How may I ask you for help?
Please remain with me where others have left,
Please linger with me as I conquer each step,
Forgive my wrath, forgive my hatred,
Please stay in my destitute heart, my Savior.
In all my life I shall remember my words,
About the others who walk with the heard.
Nunquam animadverto paradisum,
Omnes perdes qui scitus I,
In nomine Patris et Filii,
Et Spiritus Sancti.

like a "sickness" in the stomach *** 7am
    after only going to bed at 2(am) -
       and not from any considerable mention /
allusion to a "lack of sleep";
     in that "sickness" is more or less
    akin to a metaphor of a centipede wriggling
about on a hamster wheel /
   a rollercoaster of sorts...

   tough-chew of a fiddling with imitation
   walking...
             prized pins in the feet that have
turned to custard-hardening numbness...
immediately a towing of verbiage
seems more apparent than ever...
   perhaps an interlude of

   'and here's one i prepared earlier'...
          
//

  besides: no one really wants to write something
maxim esque every other sentence:
feeding a readership of
exasperation and sighs - from what i've
heard writing maxims and / or aphorisms
can be a rather tedious undertaking -
for all the times that: when should be forgotten /
'suppose i dreamt it?'
              - and any other offer than can
come with: working out a best lived towards
the amnesiac astral domain...

it just came out of a deep need for perhaps
conversation - then again i am too tired -
             a tiredness that probably sounds better
if i push for some eloquence and
technicality - a miasma is too strong a word -
i'm trying to focus on ancient "things" -
   a chimera variation of a turtle -
               a talking sequoia (but an oak would
do just as well)
                                        and a jellyfish...
  from centuries old... lethargy...
                            with this living:
                                        a tryst a harangue
a search for catharsis -
                                 if need be for a mystery:
loitering on the promise of -
                                    by the gallows on
                                         a Sunday -
                                            in a year were all
such days could be: literally read as being borrowed
from the benevolence of
that                                monstrous UV bulb;
and her copperskinned serpent
                          monstrosities of trickle a tease
of skin's to sizzle: undertones of
                 thrashing water against a window
in the ear reach(ing) a pitch higher...                
                                                                                    //

towing too much space: nudging forward
a shy rubric - an omni- litany (by any other
prefix, squalor)
            between a noun like shy
    and an adjective shyness - formality:
a word genus out of identifying it as such -
a technicality of teaching / learning
                                this (a) language...

- but it dawns on me that i have perhaps
eroded too much of origin and thought
and perhaps even an originality via
the cameo cinema of memory (fickle creature),
but it also dawns on me that
perhaps 10 years apart (circa

                                          ) is enough "time" /
the same sort of space that would allow
a rereading of a work that's
             either Herr Watt (ha    ah      ha)
or a Thin Geon  
                           Anne's Wake -
                    for what use to i have for any
more of that democratic endeavour -
   if only to reprise upon: from the catacombs,
the labyrinth, the ancient library,
the depth of sea upon sea of paragraph-congesting
a drawing-up a coming up for air
akin to (verbatim)

- ****, Nick & the Naggies / Glugg &
    the 3 riddles - Chuff etc. -

   in the house of breathings lies the word,
all fairness. the walls are of rubinen and the glittergates
of elfinbone. the roof hereof is of massicious
jasper and a canopy of Tyrian awning rises and
still descends to it. a grape cluster of lights
hangs therebeneath and al the house is filled
with the breathings of her fairness,
  the fairness of fondance and the fairness of milk
and rhubarb and the fairness of roasted
meats and uniomargrits and the fairness of
promise with catatonia and avowals...

that from out of nowhere and for reason
other than: in order to write proper  & "proper":
tossing and fidgeting the little oystertongue
like imitation(?) i.e. forget conversational
standards of languid, lingo, linguine -
in a frock of half down and in a tuxedo of
half up
                for none of this could possibly
make it into: it's a Thursday morning
   by now all the newspapers have,
                               have been printed...
                  perhaps i'll tender a pause to imply:
pounce-stealthily-hidden in
                                                         wait:
  trainspotting & *****-tickling itch-not-itchy...

now that would be a-happening of sorts:
beside all the bog-****-sodden autobiographical
miasma and fog...
beside all the fog-coup-nudging shadow
with elbow and prayer to a nuke-UV-bulb...
a heart a sparrow a ribcage:
                when farting into the wind
when throwing a stick against a tree
in a forest -
                        when the unbelievably
corrupt sense of self is content, pure,
             by pure i'm only aiming at:
                           uninterrupted -
                           or... without a conjunction
like                                            and...

                that's before: that's a before veering
toward:                          image - begin, again:
a chandelier made from champagne flutes...
       on a side:
i can stomach divulging and bulging in
                                   shackles and monkey's
cackling imitation giggles -
some existential angst (although not something
grandiose as a 20th century sort
or "European" / 19th century precursor)
  
       on the periphery of some "now" (a variation
of when, what if - how, what?)
       such that it is a beautiful lie:
this life...
              and my newly  found estimation
of revising esteem for: not wriggling
in worm-food and silly-ink:
a medium of tedium of being taken
seriously (even if as a "reverse psychology"
reversal of joke)
    
       a puncture a wound that "word-thing"
compilation of:
       well beside something as interesting
as: it's an essay by a lucy ives and
                 it's an essay but for me it's more
a shortcut a footnote parade for my own:

   would it ever (at all) be better
to cure an itch by a pinch
   or in(deed) by a scratch...
             gravestones and heads of matches:
possibly very itchy specimens
it's not hard to imagine
******* on a pebble: no, not imagining
it to be a toffee (landrynek)
              
but honest to god and all that's
Port & Geese (Frugal, Portent - i forgot
the attached -al in s.p.e.l.l.i.n.g)
                 i have nothing equivalent to:
beba babe caco (clot)...
in my own in nomine patris
            since: what is much dissimilar
besides... "******": baba implies
               old woman / peasant woman /
         or woman as harangue (of sorts)...
even though babka =
                        a sort of cake (elevated
sponge, elevation = more bite to it)...
   then comes the suffixation of
the diminutive (adjective)
                             to the word...
babeczka, babusia... babcia
                                              (grandmother):
no language policing here or alt.
   wizardry / frothing at the "salad" i.e.
         concretely (in conc.) a D. Pignatari ref.

but for me: unless not congested (at least
like so) then latin is: loophole it see-through
it's almost flimsy it's barely visual:
why-because-it's-so-******-pragmatic
& why-because-it's-so-utensil-where-none-required
& economically sound
& sieve & water & thirst &
it's hardly an M like Ⰿ
                     or Ⱄ as S
                                let alone an I (pronoun)
i.e. not vowel(,) which is a syllable compound
of Ⱑ   (let alone Я) -
                          perhaps via some distinction
between vowel and pronoun
                    and aye i.e. yes...
             i̊ must say if the pronoun is so bothersome
and more: cut the head elsewhere
sınce ıt's there by no real dıstınctıon
when compared to              får
                          when compared to fát...
                    unless that dıstınctıon be made:
also elsewhere - ȷust like so (Jettıson Bothersome
& Blues)
unless: bothersome camouflage like
a broccoli in a sea of cauliflower akin to
ınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınının
nnnnnnnnnnnnnınnnnnnn­nnnnnnnnn
when "oops" and Bob's your uncle
   i.e. ınınınınınınınınınıninınınınınınının

...never mind - i've been here before
but for the sake of convention (ctrl-c-ctrl-p)
     as clear as day:  
                                  i̊ might add...
       because it would not (otherwise)
  in any other way not suit me -
              thrice up ¡¡¡           thrice down !!!      

all in all: a leisure of an exercise in...
                              terms of waiting for such
pennies of a wording to drool off
a muse's heavenly gob.

you scare me, a hidden gem
i am afraid of what could happen

i wonder where you walk and i wonder what you think

has the cross corrupted you
who has turned you so cold

i will be there when you get your wings
and the soothing echo of those classical sounds will pass

into a new choir of faith and acceptance
maybe then when all becomes bright, i will see your eyes
for what they truly are

a black ocean with enough depth to deceive me
into thinking i am only stepping into a shallow pool

a bitter tongue with the tonality of an angel
you can rest your voice as the tears take over

dómine fili unigénite, iesu christe,
dómine deus, agnus dei, fílius patris,
qui tollis peccáta mundi, miserére nobis;
qui tollis peccáta mundi, súscipe deprecatiónem nostram

i will be with you until you find yourself

if you are lost

i will be lost with you

the diacritical markings are there for a reason, they are intended for a sharp japanese pronunciation: no breaking apart of su-from-doku... soodo(h)koo! hai! there's a reason why i have managed to ask myself the reason for transcending mere letters... reign from above: in the realm of diacritical markings... hence? hai... as the japanese would state (very quickly): sūdokú! hai.

in only came to me upon no. 9242 puzzle...
i wanted to write the most accurate schematic,
i.e. sūdokú in algebraic form...
some might add: a three dimensional
concept, within a two dimensional
working "thesis"...
               i can't stress enough why or how
i'm fascinated with this ****** puzzle...
but i am, and i will never be able to
solve a single *******'s worth of
a crossword puzzle...
     i'll just open a thesaurus and get,
pretty much the same; a short-cut!
**** yeah!
              but sūdokú? that's different:
samuria: soodohkoo! hai... hai.
       better still: haí - shee?
    (said with teeth tattooed with honey) -
oolmoosht a gee of a j, aha, haí?
******* better learn to swim the next
time a tsunami breath comes from the belly
of poseidon; and where was the japanese
army, dropping bombs into the tsunami wave
to distort it, disperse it? where?
         noooooo where, busy cracking tetris;
but i have it! i have the algebra form
of understanding sūdokú...
   after all, it's an imploded lament cofiguration
(i like my cubes, i like my cubes
very much, i like my cubes because i like
hellraiser II (hellbound) and hellraiser IV
(bloodlines)... i like my cubes imploded
onto a page... i like my cubes -
i get fickle with lightbulbs too,
   the on-and-off i.c.d. - i get to think
if i do the lightbulb "trick" enough times...
my i.q. status will sky-rocket)...
   it's a wonder though:
  ever heard someone with a high i.q. score
tell a decent joke?
              i haven't, and i hope i never will;
it would simply break me theory that:
you have to be a complete ******* to make
people laugh...
      really intelligent people don't know
the basis for encouraging a laugh...
  they just employ "intelligent" jokes,
but their intelligent jokes are reduced to be
being jokes... only if supported by canned laughter.
oh yeah...
     so... sūdokú no. 9242?
   reads almost like an auschwitz check-list...
so, sūdokú 9242 (empire of the sun
was godly... esp. the young batman singing
that kamikaze song, shay shoon toong sho -
whatever the **** it was, i cried) -
i worked the algebra format,
i had to, look how complicated the asiatic
languages are,
they don't have the rigid 26 letter format,
they have syllables...
        somewhere between the greeks,
that treated their letters as syllables in
the noun format: rho vs. r...
           and where did the castratos come from?
from the sing-along "republic" of the vatican...
i say a, the greeks say alpha,
         the chinese? *******:
    picking up match-sticks with chopsticks!
and thirty thousand complicated years later,
i'm saying chew, and they have used up
my patience, using | | | | | | | |,
or whatever number was used to write a syllable:
the chinese are good at mathemtics,
why? they have absolutely no concept of
a ******* letter!
   of course they'll master it!
look at them... a ******* billion of them!
i haven't finished the puzzle
but i have the schematics of 1 - 9 in algebra form...

   y    x    
 * x*    xy   x        x        x       x     x     x      x
         x     xyz    xz      xz
         x     xz      xyz    xz
         x     xz      xz      xyz
         x                                  xy
         x                                         xy
         x                                                 xy
         x                                                       xy

oh, i make my sign of the cross,
    it's an optical game after all,
you spot the heretical (english) concept
of a straight line... i.e. you invite a third
mediating coordinate...
   when drawing a straight line you
don't really need the pythagorean equation,
you just get your point (a) leads to
point (b), or you buy an a - z...

the title? i became annoyed at the optical
illusion in the puzzle,
one of the numbers wasn't showing up...
so i clenched my teeth and said to myself:
no way are you going to publish this
not having solved the puzzle...
   i almost finished with a question mark,
but then i spotted the:

   x 4 x
   x x x
   x 4 x                           blunder...
      
i once stated that learning the greek alphabet
could ease solving the puzzle...
now i'm thinking algebra notation will suffice...

oh, i still perform the *sign of the cross...
but i'm not into lazy sundays...
  i blind the blank squares
with my pen, mostly doing
only the: in nomine patris,
           et filii...
                           by orthodox concern
i'm leaving the third "person" blank...
    solving a sūdokú, i only have the #...
oops...
                only heretics know more orthodox
mysteries of a religion, than
the actual orthodox useful idiots dare to mind;
e.g., a choir in a st. petersburg cathegral was
singing, i sat on the floor,
  i was told to get up,
  and ******* the priest who was reciting
the bible and not facing the crowd...
                          wha', da' ****, izz, dis?!
burn *******, burn!
  the roof is on fire, we don't need no
water let the ******* burn,
burn *******... burn!
   you pushed way beyond a justifiable
aggreviance of suggested ritual...
this aint'the ******* louvre...
    i want to be the doubting thomas...
you don't want to execute the rights of
a doubtful thomas?!
   have your little transgender ****,
      guess who you're going to see more of?
******* muslims!
               take the fairy-tale,
forget you ever looked at, or read
the nag hammadi library excavated with
poetic brilliance, in 1945, just after
the twins hiroshima & nagasaki were born;
and before every operation i ever had,
i always asked the anaesthetist... *quo vadis?

bashing a blank canvas...
   i can almost put my "faith"
in the disbelief of
having to live in a dream
of nebuchadnezzar -
the last bit...
skipping in puddles
for the relevant 2 pence
and 1 pence coins
                 of copper...
sure... a "revival of rome"...
but somehow the phonetic
encoding couldn't just... "die"...
from a people,
of a people, one-to-one...
to a people...
              "uniqueness"...
   "pride"...
             i'm finding to lodge
a justifiable word
to compensate...
          the synonym-tinged
close proximity of
   a hypocrisy
                  and a paradox...
****** life...
living a dream being
kept alive for so long...
    it's like...
   "they" didn't walk into
this farce, sleepwalking...
did they?
          i'm sorry... but the idea
that i'm living in a, "reality"
best described as wish-fulfillment...
apart from paint:
my original psychotic
detachment is as about
"psychotic" as my past ambition
of collecting swords...
yeah, long *******...
some more than half
a meter in length... hussar sabers...
curved... for a reason:
on horseback you'd require
a curved sword...
   you couldn't stab...
you'd swipe...
      because by stabbing
you'd lose your sword
with the inflicted stab wound...
              ooh the religious people...
so why the **** am i living
in a secular nightmare
of having to live out a prophesy
of the first psychoanalyst,
the prophet daniel,
    describing but one man's dream,
namely, nebuchadnezzar?
i'm guessing experiencing
l.s.d. would be bad at this point...
  nebuchadnezzar...
ingenious despotism...
carved out a legacy with the Yids
(not a slur, a prefix
derived from yiddish...
all the U-boat crew would know it)
who inscribed his dream
into sacred writing...
        and the ancient roman
spaghetti bonanza ensued...
yeah... the prophesy...
about the revival of rome...
         only when the northerners
arrived, from the east,
and... the island folk
found their worjk ethos outmatched
and...
        beyond competition...
so... "this" is... reality?
i don't think so...
   i'm basically lodged in
a dream of a man who has been
dead for... oh... 2600 years...
           it was one thing for
the ancients romans to form
their entymology / history genesis
in Troy via Virgil...
   quiet another for the
****-bongo-&-loco
   Belgians to come back from
Congo (like in that song
we didn't start the fire)
          and say: shirts off!
we're going skinny dipping in
the north sea, at midnight!
                  it's like...
did we really have to stick to
the "plan"?
    there was a "plan" to begin with?
hardly any celebration
of nihilm left,
  better get used to the fatalism...
by word, and subsequently
be deed...
           well... look at it this way...
i'm trying to extract colour
from this base counter-geometry...
and also reveal that:
i haven't read a stephen king
novel...
      nope, not one...
                 but having arrived
at the conclusion,
that i am living in - a circa 2600 year
old - despot's dream
(& interpretation by...
the person who managed
to predate Freud, i.e. Daniel)...
yeah... feels great!
      everything in this world
is about as bogus
as a ******* piñata stuffed
with banknotes...
         i know what is real...
pain...
        the rest: a ******* mirage....
and i'm done
with the frenchman,
the philosopher,
the gensis of suppositions,
the table and a ******* chair.
- but pain?
     better get used to it...
it's the only pinch
you'll ever experience
to satiate the basic
bogus nature of any other
experience...
           because at this point...
there's no point
    fiddling with cotton
to starve
    the nerves from being
given... something more than
an ****** of a *******
mollusk...
        a bit like playing
truant to the coddling apathy...
        so... why would i even bother
agitating myself
at a cheap-stab
   against someone on
(thank god i never used it)
       twitter?
           i just hate living in a reality
that derives itself from a dream
interpretation...
       and...
         in domine patris...
         wiped off any indigenous
constructs of the mind...
leaving me...
strapped like some *******
gimp... in a Greco-Judeo
           brothel of...
          whatever thinking comes
next...
   what's wolf in pollack?
   vilk...
                in finnish? susi
(**** me, that's mild)
           wolf in lithuanian?
     vilkas
     in estonian?
       hunt (but i'm guessing
it's 'hoo'nt')
               magyar?
                                           farkas...
did i miss any odd ones out
apart from the pollack?
      i know that the pollack
tongue is heavily borrowed...
   loan-words...
       some of the tongue
   is etymologically
original... "pure"...
but yeah... a great deal of it is
derived via the usage
of darlehenwörter:
                           loan-words.

   - well if i have to be honest...
- you're drinking sodium pentothal
or something?
- nope... *** & pepsi...

i can't be bothered staging
props, hiding in costumes...
     lying...
             i'll just state
the most painful truths
    and get on with it...
   yes, i know, the ******* standard
in english of either
a latin prefix
          or a greek suffix...
i just thought that my fellow
pollack "brethren"
  would not **** themselves
with so many
loan-words
for their everyday colloquial.

i cant's actually feel
my 4th knuckle  right on
my  orour right arms....
since in bulged...
        with me using against
a one punch
  crescendo on a
brick wall...
           that "should
have been your face...
       i almost feel
abadoned...
            being kept intact
with a ref. to a family...
there comes a grit,
and a believability...
  to ensure is kept:
                 sacrilegious....
like an obedience
to keep
  "prayer":
                   in nomine patris
              et filii et spiritus sancti...
and whatever your
little ******* asked "otherwise":
we sure as ****,
will, gauge your eyes out@;

death and justice is not,
a t.v. affair...
                   we do...
and what we do...
       is necessary...
             regarding what needs...
to be...
                     done....

savvy?

ever punch a brick-wall
so hard you felt your fourth
knuckle to a soft-pouch liver
synonym?

    course you 'aven't...
ya 'ucking ginger misfit "queer",
y'ah 'acking ginger brixton *****!
     queen calls it
a ******* moustache
   re-appropriation
             of the 19th / 18 century...
tells me:
    i just, i just might
play off fitting with
the suburbans...

            there's a *******
collective of "them"
involved?!
                  sign me up! queer sister!

can i play up
being a half decent
                  baker of goods?
oyu know...
         with a knuckle missing
cos of numbing via
punching a wall...
    sort of tailor,
i.e.       a: F'UCKING CHEF
AT YOUR LOCAL ROUNDABOUT
OUTLET... YES CHEF
HEIRARCHY *******?!
YES CHEF?!
              coooooooooooo
    -k minus the "-ing"(?)....
                      cook...
             well i mind to mind the intellect
of having to mind frying croissants...
    i love the motto
though:
                         i die...
         you die...
     i could do the "mundane"
jobs...
point beig:
                  why would i have
       to go to university for them?
         if there's an "alternative" univerese
for the explanation...
   why aren't you dead?
on the basis of a criminal focus
with, exchange, focusing on, "you"?
                  so why is there no cain-impetus
to "mind" "you", "minding", "me".  
come to think of it...
a bit of a waste of propagada
liastening to: send your kids to university
send your kids to university....
then again...
i die... i yawn...
               i suppose there's another day.

yep, the more i ever received
was what...
       she would spend her 110 quid
an hour on;
when i, or rather, that i wasn't,
          thankfully, there to boot,
her insatiable appetites...
                          just like any man
ought to know:
     you were there, when she was
giving birth?
                         sorry man...
feel really sorry for you;
             that was the last chance for
you appreciating fishing;
               no offence cuck...
                              you're ready, my son,
for the chomąto / horse collar
to pull the carte of family with you...
   may you be blessed:
in nomine patris et filii
                       et spiritus sancti. amen;
**** me! another dozen bunch
of leprechauns!