Zindagi ne, is kaddar, kiya hai,  bas vaar
Bina koi,  churee,  ya koi,  talwaar

Ghaayal; dil ye hua,  baar, baar
Zindagi ne, di,  chotain hazaar

Gaye thay,  hum,  is tarah se,  bikhar
jooda na, paye thay phirse ye jigar

khaamoshi se, milta tha,  bas, karaar
tanhayeeon se , karte thay, iqraar

Jhanke, hum jab, dil ke, jo andar
Sach nikala, gehrayion se, baahar

Shikayat hai, ab na, koi takraar
karne lage hai, hum, khudse jo pyaar!



Translation in English

Self Love


Life has waged on me many a war
Without even a sword or a dagger so far

The heart was wounded time and again
Life hurt and caused me so much pain

My life was but thrown helter skelter
I could not piece my heart together

Silence was but my solace
Solitude was my only grace

When I dug deep within me
The truth I could clearly see

I have no grievances or complaints now
Having realized the importance of self-love

On lit dans les Annales de la propagation de la Foi :
« Une lettre de Hong-Kong (Chine), en date du 24 juillet
1832, nous annonce que M. Bonnard, missionnaire du
Tong-King, a été décapité pour la foi, le 1er mai dernier. »
Ce nouveau martyr était né dans le diocèse de Lyon et
appartenait à la Société des Missions étrangères. Il était
parti pour le Tong-King en 1849. »

I.

Ô saint prêtre ! grande âme ! oh ! je tombe à genoux !
Jeune, il avait encor de longs jours parmi nous,
Il n'en a pas compté le nombre ;
Il était à cet âge où le bonheur fleurit ;
Il a considéré la croix de Jésus-Christ
Toute rayonnante dans l'ombre.

Il a dit : - « C'est le Dieu de progrès et d'amour.
Jésus, qui voit ton front croit voir le front du jour.
Christ sourit à qui le repousse.
Puisqu'il est mort pour nous, je veux mourir pour lui ;
Dans son tombeau, dont j'ai la pierre pour appui,
Il m'appelle d'une voix douce.

« Sa doctrine est le ciel entr'ouvert ; par la main,
Comme un père l'enfant, il tient le genre humain ;
Par lui nous vivons et nous sommes ;
Au chevet des geôliers dormant dans leurs maisons,
Il dérobe les clefs de toutes les prisons
Et met en liberté les hommes.

« Or il est, **** de nous, une autre humanité
Qui ne le connaît point, et dans l'iniquité
Rampe enchaînée, et souffre et tombe ;
Ils font pour trouver Dieu de ténébreux efforts ;
Ils s'agitent en vain ; ils sont comme des morts
Qui tâtent le mur de leur tombe.

« Sans loi, sans but, sans guide, ils errent ici-bas.
Ils sont méchants, étant ignorants ; ils n'ont pas
Leur part de la grande conquête.
J'irai. Pour les sauver je quitte le saint lieu.
Ô mes frères, je viens vous apporter mon Dieu,
Je viens vous apporter ma tête ! » -

Prêtre, il s'est souvenu, calme en nos jours troublés,
De la parole dite aux apôtres : - Allez,  
Bravez les bûchers et les claies ! -
Et de l'adieu du Christ au suprême moment :
- Ô vivant, aimez-vous ! aimez. En vous aimant,
Frères, vous fermerez mes plaies. -

Il s'est dit qu'il est bon d'éclairer dans leur nuit
Ces peuples égarés **** du progrès qui luit,
Dont l'âme est couverte de voiles ;
Puis il s'en est allé, dans les vents, dans les flots,
Vers les noirs chevalets et les sanglants billots,
Les yeux fixés sur les étoiles.

II.

Ceux vers qui cet apôtre allait, l'ont égorgé.

III.

Oh ! tandis que là-bas, hélas ! chez ces barbares,
S'étale l'échafaud de tes membres chargé,
Que le bourreau, rangeant ses glaives et ses barres,
Frotte au gibet son ongle où ton sang s'est figé ;

Ciel ! tandis que les chiens dans ce sang viennent boire,
Et que la mouche horrible, essaim au vol joyeux,
Comme dans une ruche entre en ta bouche noire
Et bourdonne au soleil dans les trous de tes yeux ;

Tandis qu'échevelée, et sans voix, sans paupières,
Ta tête blême est là sur un infâme pieu,
Livrée aux vils affronts, meurtrie à coups de pierres,
Ici, derrière toi, martyr, on vend ton Dieu !

Ce Dieu qui n'est qu'à toi, martyr, on te le vole !
On le livre à Mandrin, ce Dieu pour qui tu meurs !
Des hommes, comme toi revêtus de l'étole,
Pour être cardinaux, pour être sénateurs,

Des prêtres, pour avoir des palais, des carrosses,
Et des jardins l'été riant sous le ciel bleu,
Pour argenter leur mitre et pour dorer leurs crosses,
Pour boire de bon vin, assis près d'un bon feu,

Au forban dont la main dans le meurtre est trempée,
Au larron chargé d'or qui paye et qui sourit,
Grand Dieu ! retourne-toi vers nous, tête coupée !
Ils vendent Jésus-Christ ! ils vendent Jésus-Christ !

Ils livrent au bandit, pour quelques sacs sordides,
L'évangile, la loi, l'autel épouvanté,
Et la justice aux yeux sévères et candides,
Et l'étoile du coeur humain, la vérité !

Les bons jetés, vivants, au bagne, ou morts, aux fleuves,
L'homme juste proscrit par Cartouche Sylla,
L'innocent égorgé, le deuil sacré des veuves,
Les pleurs de l'orphelin, ils vendent tout cela !

Tout ! la foi, le serment que Dieu tient sous sa garde,
Le saint temple où, mourant, tu dis :Introïbo,
Ils livrent tout ! pudeur, vertu ! - martyr, regarde,
Rouvre tes yeux qu'emplit la lueur du tombeau ; -

Ils vendent l'arche auguste où l'hostie étincelle !
Ils vendent Christ, te dis-je ! et ses membres liés !
Ils vendent la sueur qui sur son front ruisselle,
Et les clous de ses mains, et les clous de ses pieds !

Ils vendent au brigand qui chez lui les attire
Le grand crucifié sur les hommes penché ;
Ils vendent sa parole, ils vendent son martyre,
Et ton martyre à toi par-dessus le marché !

Tant pour les coups de fouet qu'il reçut à la porte !
César ! tant pour l'amen, tant pour l'alléluia !
Tant pour la pierre où vint heurter sa tête morte !
Tant pour le drap rougi que sa barbe essuya !

Ils vendent ses genoux meurtris, sa palme verte,
Sa plaie au flanc, son oeil tout baigné d'infini,
Ses pleurs, son agonie, et sa bouche entrouverte,
Et le cri qu'il poussa : Lamma Sabacthani !

Ils vendent le sépulcre ! ils vendent les ténèbres !
Les séraphins chantant au seuil profond des cieux,
Et la mère debout sous l'arbre aux bras funèbres,
Qui, sentant là son fils, ne levait pas les yeux !

Oui, ces évêques, oui, ces marchands, oui, ces prêtres
A l'histrion du crime, assouvi, couronné,
A ce Néron repu qui rit parmi les traîtres,
Un pied sur Thraséas, un coude sur Phryné,

Au voleur qui tua les lois à coups de crosse,
Au pirate empereur Napoléon dernier,
Ivre deux fois, immonde encor plus que féroce,
Pourceau dans le cloaque et loup dans le charnier,

Ils vendent, ô martyr, le Dieu pensif et pâle
Qui, debout sur la terre et sous le firmament,
Triste et nous souriant dans notre nuit fatale,
Sur le noir Golgotha saigne éternellement !

Du 5 au 8 novembre 1852, à Jersey

TANHA-TANHA HEI JINDGI
TANHA-TANHA HUM HEIN
AAJ JRURAT THI JAB APNO KI
PRAYON NE TAALI BAJAI
AANKHO SE NIKLE ASHK
PAR HUM RO BHI NA PAYE
DUR EK KONE MEIN JAAKER
CHHUP KAR AANSOO BAHAY
PHIR DIL NE KHA
E NAADAN MAT BHA ASHAK
KYONKI AAJ HI TO AYEE HEI
KHUSHIYAN DAAMAN ME TERE
JYADA NHI KUCH PAL KI ****
PAR BNA LO AADAT AB INKI
CHODO UNKO JO AB NHI TUMHARE
YAAD RAKHO ES EK PAL KO
AUR GAO, MUSKURAO
KHUSH RAHO AUR
KHUSHIYAN BAANTOO.

ANDEHRA BAHUT GEHRA THA...........
chandani bhi thi...kuch sitare bhi the..par na jane kyu  ...Andehra bahut gehra tha
Madhushala damak rahi thi andhe musafiron ki pukaar mein..par aawaz mein prem nahi tha bass thi do pal ke sukh ki duhai...
soot boot wale bhi aa rahe aur gir pad ke jaa rahe..
kuch motor pe aye the ussi par chale gaye....
andhe  thee sab shayad...ya roshini ne andere ko chupa diya tha....kyki meine dekha tha...andehra bahut gehra tha.                
madushala ke deewar ke par ek baachi roo rahi thi vo zindagi ki bhik mang rahi thi
na jane usne koon sa dukh dekha tha.....uski aanke laal aur maan bhari saa lag raha tha
Na vo matvale dekh paye na hum madhosh sunn paye uski pukar kyuki.... andehra bahut gehra tha
do matwalone uuse paise de chale..par kya vo uska guzara tha
kyuki sooch ke dekhiye andehri raat madhushala ke par vo baachi akeli thi
vo madhushala abhi bhi khadi hai..hamare dilo mein
shayad humne uska bachpan chiina
shayad vo andehra uske dukh ko chipa raha thi
vo raaat bahut kali thi..hawa matwali thi...uss raat aur anne wali raat andehra bahut gehra tha

DIL - DIL SE

DIL DIL SE ** JAYE KHFA THO KYA ** .
KHFA HOKE CHUUT JAYE THO KYA **.
SATH CAHA THA KISI APNE KA WO APNA HI SATH NAA AYE THO KYA **.
KADAM SE KADAM CLNA THA USKE SATH WO NAA CHAL PAYE THO KYA **.
HUM THO INTJAR KRTE RHE UNKA MAGER YEE INTJAR HI RHE JAYE THO KYA **.

Tumse mile to hum kal hain lekin aisa lagta hain milna tay tha barso se
jab sochte hain kaisa mile hum thoda dar lagta hain kya mai sahi huun ya
phir galat
khair in sabka uttar milega sayed
baadme
tab tak badhte rahe aage hum
saathme
sayed tum meri kalpana ** ya phir
bhram
sayed tum meri akelepan ka sahara **
ya phir dil ka marham
sayed tum mere koi ni bas beheti hui
kisi hawa jo kab guzar jaye
mujhe nahi hain pata
sayed hum rok paye tumhe mere aanewala kal me tay kar paye  saato janam ke
yeh safar saathme ,
humko fikr nahi tumhari beete hue kalke humko fark nahi padhta tumhari aur mere aajse bas mujhe yeh pata hain tum aayi **
jindgi mein mere aanewale kal se ||

i truly must have had one of those, very, very memorable nights, that i somehow also want to forget, so implant myself with false memories, oh, i've seen this done in a clinical environment, in psychiatry: it's called regression - a psychiatrist will call you up, he or she might have a handy student overseeing the "interview"... then he / she might insert a sort of: on the whim / "by the way" a speaking out-loud, referring to you in third person... e.g. oh... he was abused as a child... again.. to reiterate, today i woke up thinking i was screaming into the deafness of the night, not screaming via de profundis... more like... vitriol energy screaming: you ******* idiots! but i have proof... a nice, plum of an eye-sore... no mascara could do it justice... so it must've been a decent drinking session... my father just asked me... who gave you that LIMO... slang in ****** for a black-eye... LI-MO... thrill! i can find that in katakana: look at me go! ****... on L in Japanese... no trilling of the R either... WONG, WONG WONG.... let's see...  ha ha... oh but there is... you just have to be a rat, scuttle around the "palace" for a while... リ゜
                       モ
so when asked: who gave you the black-eye? i replied...
i was having issues with my shadow, who else?
i was punching myself in the head so hard, hey presto!
plum! ha ha...i always blame the shadow, we're always wrestling, no drinking session without a proper, fighting antagonism, the day  my shadow stops punching me, i, imagine, is the day some woman will come round and: ha ha... "kiss it all better"... for the time being... i like punching myself, i like... putting out cigarettes on my knuckles... masochistic little art of pseudo-algebra: X here, XXXX in total... it's always a good drinking session when i loose control, it usually happens when something is infuse... some minor biopic concerning Ted Bundy will do it... the erotica: YA-WN... i'm still trying to get paid... capitalism: sure... for some... i'm waiting... if they only pay me, properly... self-employed or PAYE (pay as you earn)... no one has bothered to clarify this with me... capitalism for some... i'll work, **** it... but the idea of bungee-jumping from some high building... no... not too alien... i can stomach the gravity, the thrill... i know that upon impact i'll meet sigma... alias of soul... my body's rent to begin with... no worries... i think i punched myself in the face since tomorrow i'm doing a stewarding shift up in Oxford... **** know's who's playing... i just want the supervisors to see my face... my whittle plum sore... if asked obviously i won't be telling them: i had an argument with my shadow... got in a fight, in a pub, self-defence... blah blah... oh no no... this metaphysical paradise belongs to me, to me: alone!
i almost feel terrible drinking this litre of bourbon,
you can't get better bourbon than ol' Jacky-boy'oh...
every time i open a bottle of bourbon
i'm reminded of the sort of perfumery you'd
most associate with a brothel -
bourbon scents = brothel scents...
bourbon is most certainly better than whiskey...
wait... no it's not...
bourbon is sweet whiskey...
i'm not much of a Laphroaig sort of guy...
come to think of it: on the spot...
i'd prefer a smoky whiskey... a Scotch whiskey
than this... sickly sweet bourbon...
perhaps i shouldn't have done
the no. 1, 2 & 3 (****, ****, *******)
& the no. 4 (the "baptism") prior...
sometimes you start drinking & absolutely nothing
feels right... i think my socks are stinking...
pregnant woman sensitivity to scents,
to tastes? do i really want to eat some cappers
or some gherkins to reach a counter balance
to this... sweetness...
i still haven't checked my newly set up bank
account regarding whether i've been paid
for my stewarding at stadiums...
o.k., o.k., think about going to the brothel...
let me just hope
i can sooth my disgruntled little self
with some decent d.i.y. music choices...
               or... if i get enough in... it really will
not matter what i'll be drinking by the end
of it...
Laphroaig... well... it's a bit like Marmite...
you either love it, or hate it...
i'm undecided... like i'm undecided about
bourbon... any other day i'd be loving it...
today... i'm undecided...
  perhaps i'm just used to drinking cheap whiskey,
cheap generic stuff...
i elevate the drinking experience by romancing
it: fraulein bernstein (ms. amber)
& mr. whiskers... etc.

- it really just takes a cigarette break & looking up
at the night sky... oi! baldy! where's that
old ******! never mind, but a night sky without
the moon is always an ugly night...
now i know what's up...

why did i watch no man of god today?
i had company when watching this movie...
but... how many more, how many more *******
movies about Ted Bundy? sure...
the movie was more about the FBI profiler
Bill Hagmaier... but still...
do we really need yet another movie about
Ted Bundy?! o.k. i know a little...
his mother had him out of wedlock,
he was raised on a lie: his mother was his "sister"
while his grandmother was his "mother"...
i dated a Russian girl for a while...
when i met the goons, sorry, her family...
way back in 2007... in St. Petersburg...
i was given the Ted Bundy introduction...
her mother was her sister...
her grandmother was her mother...
         what a freak of a woman: great ****...
tattoos and piercings...
she did this one number on me...
all scabs on her lips...
imitating the singer from hed(pe)...
wait... i'll look him up... jared gnome-head...
no offense: jared gomes...
all scabby... i implored her... take them out...
i implored her... cut those ******* dreads...
she complied to the point of...
proposing to me... she even chose
the ******* engagement ring...
she wanted me to get a tattoo... i refused...
even though she was this upstart tattoo artist
in the making...
she wanted me to get dreadlocks:
again... i refused...
thank **** that i disappeared from Edinburgh
and headed back down to London...
Ilona: thank you for introducing me to
BULGAKOV... i really enjoyed that book...
esp. reading parts of if
on my wait from St. Petersburg through
to London with a stay at Warsaw...
eh... as much as i love Dostoyevsky...
how he belittles Polacks every time he gets...
not to my taste...

2007... a pivotal year...
to cite Jung from the Answer to Job...
perhaps there are some female readers
in my audience, perhaps the Zodiac is to be minded...
this quote...
Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres -
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

a lot has happened since... 2007... don't you think?
oh, look-look... she was an Aquarius,
i am still a Taurus... but that break-up...
my god... what a harsh trip...
i remember walking up to her apartment armed
with a guitar... about to play her a serenade...
REJECTED: ha ha...
pushed back by her ex-boyfriend she was
******* and her ex-boyfriend's friend...
a Russian... ha ha... oddly enough:
called: GERMAN...

it's so almost yesterday... i can sigh a sort of relief
from this memory...
it's good to remember...
i never sought out that quality of forgetfulness...
i want to remember... i cherish memory
above thought... it's theatre...
i want to... remember... select...
what... i want to remember...
so that it can have a recurrent presence in my mind
like... that drill "sergeant" of
pedagogy that instilled 2 + 2 = 4 into me...
the ******* alphabet...

now i know why i have this bad taste
in my mouth from drinking bourbon...
it's not that i'm drinking bourbon...
i love bourbon...
when the Scots took the smoky route...
the Irish took the mellow route...
arriving at bourbon years later:
and on a different continent...
                                     do, i, look, bothered?!
i hope i do: i (might) also hope that you might
"think" i do... but... you're not, you don't
(seem to be)...
so? back to sq. 1: 'ere we go...

mighty fun playing the ******* or are least
pretending to be one...
akin to... pseudo Jack Nicholson
in that cameo role of his as
enrolled by: actor playing actor playing
an actor: Keith Allen...
Bodies... Dr. Tony Whitman...

me, you...Joseph Roth &
the doppelgänger, right & "who" else?!

now i know... that cigarette break really helped...
the bad taste in my mouth...
of course! i must be drinking h'american liquor...
i knew something was up...
couple h'american liquor with watching
no man of god i.e.
not another Ted Bundy flick... o.k.
women are attracted to psychopaths...
wannabe cannibals... fair, *******: enough...

black culture is superior to white culture...
sure... white people are ******* gagging
to incorporate it...
inter-sectionality always existed within
the confines of religion: religion was
always post-modernist... given the current trend
of "thinking": it always... incorporated
outside influences to create a cohesive:
snowball effect... what's ******* new?
discovering the continent of America in a tin
of ******* sardines?!

there's no tree, there's no dog barking...
you're just asking for a a wrong type of a mental
gymnast to make some, weirdly allocated,
point, of ref....
i'm not doing it... god help anyone...
no... not even the ******* devil would get into
this much... anti-fascinating sort of "juice"...
i wouldn't...

o.k. now i know...
i was drinking this most, bountiful of a fully-bodied
red wine yesterday...
a south african 2020 shiraz...
by the name of arabella (name sounds familiar...
an arctic monkey's song?!)
origin: western cape...

i think i must have mentioned
smoky whiskey vs. bourbon...
well... this glass of red was so good...
i had to breathe some nicotine smoke
into the glass... let's go... full out theatrical
on this: "blood"...

to reiterate... why so many movies about Ted Bundy?!
modern ******* is so...
******* ugly... even in the brothel i would never
want to **** women like the women ******
in *******... ****?! come on...
******* with the addition of choking?!

as a child i had a categorical dislike for liver,
pork liver... semi-goulash
with onions... with the addition of mash
& gherkins... or pickled beetroots...
this sort of material, this sort of ***...
puts me off...
i scratch my head and think:
Abel... because H'america was built on
the CULT of CAIN... their fascination
their celebration of serial killers...

prior to mentioned...
America is a CULT OF CAIN...
i'm with the Iranians on this...
     three names congregate...
Kurt Cobain... shot himself in the head using
a shotgun... sure... that's one way to go...
but... shooting yourself in the head...
doesn't simply "solve" the matter...
recall...
   Chrstine Chubbuck *** Adndrei Chikatilo...
bullet to the head...
for both...
a quote from Bane... a Batman fictional character:
perhaps he's wondering:
why someone might throw a man...
out of a plane... before shooting him in the head?!
why would you shoot someone
in the head... in an empty prison cell?!
if you were not expecting them to rot?!
best explored with the added tenderness added
to the attempted suicide attempt of the incel
that Ms. Chubbuck became?

why not make more movies about
the Zodiac killer... anyone?!
oh, sure... here's me readied to ******* to little
Wisconsin... or... **** knows where!

i was having some d.i.y. d.j. issues...
thought experiments... undogmatic & kernfeld...
"issues": yeah, i couldn't remember the song's name...
no, wait, the artists...

last came... the origins of the niqab hebrew
vowels...
the: hmm...
come to think of it... there's more...
such is the nature of hidden things...

Adam Kadmon [tetragrammaton(s)] apex...
Atzilut (nearness)
Beriyah (creation)
Yetzirah (formation)
Asiyah (making)...

vowels like diacritical markers...
caron, tail... umlaut...
well... for the Hebrews...
   A - kametz...
    E - tzere -
    I - chirek
   O - cholem
   U - Kibbutz... some others... i will miss...

the study of vowels, though...
since they are hidden...
the entire concepts of vowels in Hebrew...
the niqqud...
i ask... looking down at the chiromancy...
of, my... right, hand...
did not the vowels arrive in "our" consciousness
via the Sefirot root / branch of...
the Malkhut?!

    Adonoy... you know... when the current people
perform *** & it's so ******* off-putting:
primarily because... they talk...
during *******...
&... i don't want to be talking during ***:
why invoke / invite "god"?!
they can't... Niqqut / Malkhut the deed...
o.k.... not that i'm ******...
just... mildly annoyed...

      you don't need to **** & speak at the same
******* ****'s sake time!

Europe... some weird ******* funnel for
the world to congregate around...
white women... white women and their *******
sado-masochism...
the cult of cain in america...
white women and their afro-****-boys...
cry wolf while i go around arming myself
with Thai surprises& Turkish delights...

i oust my shadow from my presence
with a few drop-dead plums in search for "light"...
imagine me punching a woman silly to
later reason wth me...
oh... but no one is going to say anything about
me punching myself silly "SOY"..
been my: bean my baby?!

      now' the time i hark, now's the time i bark...
now's the time i fill the night with a stomach's
worth of...              GRUNT..
indigestion...

       die stücke, bewegen sich!
schach, ja?! nein?
                       was ist die alternative?!
hund?! leine?!

Le spectre que parfois je rencontre riait.
- Pourquoi ris-tu ? Lui dis-je. - Il dit : - Homme inquiet,
Regarde.
Il me montrait dans l'ombre un cimetière.

J'y vis une humble croix près d'une croix altière ;
L'une en bois, l'autre en marbre ; et le spectre reprit,
Tandis qu'au **** le vent passait comme un esprit
Et des arbres profonds courbait les sombres têtes :

- Jusque dans le cercueil vous êtes vains et bêtes.
Oui, gisants, vous laissez debout la vanité.
Vous la sculptez au seuil du tombeau redouté,
Et vous lui bâtissez des tours et des coupoles.
Et, morts, vous êtes fiers.

Oui, dans vos nécropoles,
Dans ces villes du deuil que vos brumeux Paris
Construisent à côté du tumulte et des cris,
On trouve tout, des bois où jasent les fauvettes,
Des jets d'eau jaillissant du jaspe des cuvettes,
Un paysage vert, voluptueux, profond,
Où le nuage avec la plaine se confond,
La calèche où souvent l'œil cherche la civière,
Des prêtres sous le frais lisant leur bréviaire,
Du soleil en hiver, de l'ombrage en été,
Des roses, des chansons, tout, hors l'égalité.
Vous avez des charniers et des Pères-Lachaises
Où Samuel Bernard seul peut prendre ses aises,
Dormir en paix, jouir d'un caveau bien muré,
Et se donner les airs d'être à jamais pleuré,
Et s'adjuger, derrière une grille solide,
Des fleurs que le Temps garde en habit d'invalide.
Quant aux morts indigents, on leur donne congé ;
On chasse d'auprès d'eux le sanglot prolongé ;
Et le pauvre n'a pas le droit de pourriture.
Un jour, on le déblaie. On prend sa sépulture
Pour grandir d'une toise un monument pompeux.
- Misérable, va-t'en. Deviens ce que tu peux.
Quoi ! Tu prétends moisir ici parmi ces marbres,
Faire boucher le nez aux passants sous ces arbres,
Te carrer sous cette herbe, être au fond de ton trou
Charogne comme un autre, et tu n'as pas le sou !
Qu'est-ce que ce mort-là qui n'a rien dans sa poche !
Décampe. - Et la brouette et la pelle et la pioche
Arrachent le dormeur à son dur traversin.
Sus ! Place à monseigneur le sépulcre voisin !
Ce n'est rien d'être mort, il faut avoir des rentes.
Les carcasses des gueux sont fort mal odorantes ;
Les morts bien nés font bande à part dans le trépas ;
Le sépulcre titré ne fraternise pas
Avec la populace anonyme des bières ;
La cendre tient son rang vis-à-vis des poussières ;
Et tel mort dit : pouah ! Devant tel autre mort.
Le gentleman, à l'heure où l'acarus le mord,
Se maintient délicat et dégoûté. C'est triste.
Et j'en ris. Le linceul peut être de batiste !
Chez vous, oui, sous la croix de l'humble Dieu Jésus,
Les trépassés à court d'argent sont mal reçus ;
L'abîme a son dépôt de mendicité ; l'ombre
Met d'un côté l'élite et de l'autre le nombre ;
On n'est jamais moins près qu'alors qu'on se rejoint ;
Dans la mort vague et blême on ne se mêle point ;
On reste différent même à ce clair de lune ;
Le peuple dans la tombe a nom fosse commune.
La tombe impartiale ! Allons donc ! Le ci-gît
Tantôt se rétrécit et tantôt s'élargit ;
Le péage, réglé par arrêté du maire,
Fait Beaujon immortel et Chodruc éphémère.
Pourrir gratis ! Jamais ! Le terrain est trop cher.
Tandis que, tripotant ce qui fut de la chair,
La chimie, en son antre où vole la phalène,
Fait de l'adipocire et du blanc de baleine
Avec le résidu des pâles meurt-de-faim,
Tel cadavre, vêtu d'un suaire en drap fin,
Regarde en souriant la mort aux yeux de tigre,
Jette au spectre sa bourse, et dit : Marquis d'Aligre.
Vos catacombes ont des perpétuités
Pour ceux-ci pour ceux-là des répits limités.
Votre tombe est un gouffre où le riche surnage.
Ce mort n'a pas payé son terme ; il déménage.
Le fantôme, branlant sur ses blancs tibias,
Portant tout avec lui, s'en va, comme Bias ;
Vivant, il fut sans pain, et, mort, il est sans terre.
L'ossuaire répugne aux os du prolétaire.
Seul Rothschild, dans l'oubli du caveau sans échos,
Est mangé par des rats et par des asticots
Qu'il paye et dont il est maître et propriétaire.
Oui, c'est l'étonnement de la pariétaire,
Du brin d'herbe, de l'if aussi noir que le jais,
Du froid cyprès, du saule en pleurs, de voir sujets
À des expulsions sommaires et subites
Des crânes qui n'ont plus leurs yeux dans leurs orbites.
Vos cimetières sont des lieux changeants, flottants,
Précaires, où les morts vont passer quelque temps,
À peine admis au seuil des ténébreux mystères,
Et l'éternité sombre y prend des locataires.
Quoi ! C'est là votre mort ! C'est avec de l'orgueil
Que vous doublez le bois lugubre du cercueil !
Vous gardez préséance, honneurs, grade, avantages !
Vous conservez au fond du néant des étages !
La chimère est bouffonne. Ah ! La prétention
Est rare, dans le lieu de disparition !

Quoi ! Privilégier ce qui n'est plus ! Quoi ! Faire
Des grands et des petits dans l'insondable sphère !
Traiter Jean comme peste et Paul comme parfum !
Être mort, et vouloir encore être quelqu'un !
Quoi ! Dans le pourrissoir emporter l'opulence !
Faire sonner son or dans l'éternel silence !
Avoir, de par cet or dont sur terre on brilla,
Droit de tomber en poudre ici plutôt que là !
Arriver dans la nuit ainsi que des lumières !
Prendre dans le tombeau des places de premières !
Ne pas entendre Dieu qui dit au riche : assez !
Je cesserai d'en rire, ô vivants insensés,
Le jour où j'apprendrai que c'est vrai, que, dans l'ombre
De l'incommensurable et ténébreux décombre,
L'archange à l'aile noire, assis à son bureau,
Toise les morts, leur donne à tous un numéro,
Discute leur obole, or ou plomb, vraie ou fausse,
Et la pèse, et marchande au squelette sa fosse !
Le jour où j'apprendrai que la chose est ainsi,
Que Lucullus sous terre est du fumier choisi,
Que le bouton d'or perd ou double sa richesse
S'il sort d'une grisette ou bien d'une duchesse,
Qu'un lys qui naît d'un pauvre est noir comme charbon,
Que, mort, Lazare infecte et qu'Aguado sent bon !
Le jour où j'apprendrai que dans l'azur terrible
L'éternel a des trous inégaux à son crible ;
Et que, dans le ciel sombre effroi de vos remords,
S'il voit passer, porté par quatre croque-morts,
Un cadavre fétide et hideux, le tonnerre
Demande à l'ouragan : - est-ce un millionnaire ?
Le jour où j'apprendrai que la tombe, en effet,
Que l'abîme, selon le tarif du préfet,
Trafique de sa nuit et de son épouvante,
Et que la mort a mis les vers de terre en vente !

Le 18 mars 1870.

dil mera chahta hai,
k ek baar bhar k tumko bahon me so jaun mai,
ek jindagi beet jaye meri ,
k fir se jab aankhen khule,
tu aak mere paas na fir se juda ** paye,
tujhe mahsoos karu har pal paas mere,
k jab jab meri saanse chale,
jinda rahu mai na rahu,
par mujhme tu hi tu baki rahe,
** jaye chahe jahan khafa,
par tu har pal mere sang sang chale,
ab aur kitne imtihann loge mere khuda mujhse,
k ab bhi meri pallavi mujhse door hai,
de do mujhe meri jindagi,
kuch to badlo takdeer meri,
k ab to ham ek ** jaye,
vo aa jaye ab paas mere,
aur milkar ham apne ghar chalen....

Un jeune grand seigneur à des jeux de hasard
Avait perdu sa dernière pistole,
Et puis joué sur sa parole :
Il fallait payer sans ****** ;
Les dettes du jeu sont sacrées.
On peut faire attendre un marchand,
Un ouvrier, un indigent,
Qui nous a fourni ses denrées ;
Mais un escroc ? L'honneur veut qu'au même moment
On le paye, et très poliment.
La loi par eux fut ainsi faite.
Notre jeune seigneur, pour acquitter sa dette,
Ordonne une coupe de bois.
Aussitôt les ormes, les frênes,
Et les hêtres touffus, et les antiques chênes,
Tombent l'un sur l'autre à la fois.
Les faunes, les sylvains, désertent les bocages ;
Les dryades en pleurs regrettent leurs ombrages ;
Et le dieu Pan, dans sa fureur,
Instruit que le jeu seul a causé ces ravages,
S'en prend à la Fortune : ô mère du malheur,
Dit-il, infernale furie,
Tu troubles à la fois les mortels et les dieux,
Tu te plais dans le mal, et ta rage ennemie...
Il parlait, lorsque dans ces lieux
Tout-à-coup paraît la déesse.
Calme, dit-elle à Pan, le chagrin qui te presse ;
Je n'ai point causé tes malheurs :
Même aux jeux de hasard, avec certains joueurs,
Je ne fais rien. - Qui donc fait tout ? - L'adresse.

Greate is thy Sin, since Sin is never Small:
     And Monstrous Moles of Sin Call home thy Soule.
About their Mountainous Molehills they do Crawle.
     Play thou (and win) a Game of Whacke-a-Mole.
     Unto the Moles be Deadly as an asp.  
     Beware, take Care, nor Swat the pettish wasp.

The Harebrain'd Sinners Sins to him are toyes;
     Theyre Entertainments, Gambols, Games with Dice.
The Madbrain'd Sinners Sins to him are joyes
     Untill he's made to paye in full their price.
     The Crackbrain'd Sin-addicted Scarab bug
     That liveth but for Sin to Hell is Drug.

sure, i still live with my parents, can you even begin to comprehend the renting cost of living within the M25? near impossible to attain, i've seen how young people live in shared accommodation, this one Spanish girl who wanted to get a one-night stand with me, she tried to fool the taxi driver by screaming ****, subsequently jumping out of the taxi... the taxi driver hollered at her, i comforted him: i'll pay, don't worry... she lived with... 3 homosexuals... she was so drunk that night... she wanted that cocoon ***, under the bed-sheets... not for me... she was too drunk to begin with... at least in the brothel we do it under dimmed lights... but fully exposed... she called me an angel... later that day she tried to do it again with me, first pretending to relax me by taking a bath with me, we went to the Notting Hill carnival... she must have been talking to her homosexual gurus about my, ahem "impotence"... funny, that, i never seem to be "impotent" in the presence of prostitutes... perhaps she just put me off by jumping out of the taxi & not paying the ******* fare... Tamara... yeah... oh i remember Tamara like it's me drinking coffee yesterday... peer cohabitation... even if you're a drug dealer... it's... *******... squalor: or nearing it... i don't mind people thinking i'm a loser for living with my parents... but... round here... i do the house chores... i do the cooking... my mother has arthritis so she can't do certain tasks... i write my father's invoices... i... get along... am i missing out on casual ***... if i'm not paying for it... i'm not having ***, i'm having a hard time... we met, casually, sure... but the rest of it... out of the window... gone... one redeeming aspect of meeting Tamara, ****-head Tamara... a morning coffee & a robin visiting me in her garden... pretty little bird... cocoon ***... no, thank you... let me just sleep this night... second night still no ***... i was put off! immediately! what sort of woman jumps out of a moving taxi screams **** so as to avoid paying for the: ******* fare?! **** that? exactly... **** that! well, what's the alternative, sure, i could pitch up a tent in Bower Wood... live off acorns... sometimes there's only compromise to be met, maybe that's why i really enjoy talking to old people on park benches, smoking cigarettes drinking a beer, asking them, are you o.k. with me doing this? it always is, since the conversation "goes somewhere"... i know that cohabitating with your parents makes you come off like some Oedipal implosion, but then again: i'm more attached to my father than my mother... if i were living with my peers, i'd be living in a semi-squalor... living with my parents makes me a custodian of the property, living in rented accommodation, ensuring the toilet was clean, the kitchen was clean... **** imploring them to ******* from playing video games while i'd do the cleaning... would, technically make me their slave, their *****... i'll write poetry & the pseudo-science of this art for free... why? i feel like it... it feelz... right... i'm here for the long-run... i'm not looking for short-term investments... i'm looking to yawn for 100 years at least... rough up my knuckles... buckle my tongue Horace! we're going to have a proper party... we'll make it... Pompeii! ******* slags & nunces of the WASP scene... what other living / shelter arrangements are there, left?! the homeless shelter... it's a social stigma to have parentage, to be still living with them? last time i checked, they're mortal... i'll be the one who inherits this house, this garden... plus... i have two libraries of books & c.d.'s & vinyls to mind... i can't, just, move, these! i drink a lot... yet still living in the confines of a... ah... ha ha... an "authoritarian regime"... guess i must be a: good boy after all... but i'm not going to fill the pockets of Saudi or Pakistani landlords... even if that might get be away from the WASP social stigma of living with your parents... like... by 35 i'm not doing all the household chores... i'm not cooking the food... sure... i should be stigmatised... but if i'm involved in giving household involvement... what's the problem? if  living among peers would imply living in a semi-squalor... just so that... hey... i just might land a one-night-stand... with a Spanish broad that decides... it's easier to jump out of a... ******* moving taxi rather than pay the fare... who shares a house with 3 homosexuals... even i think my life's ****** up... but then i went down the psychosis spiral aged 21... not many people do... my language skills: elevated...  like... the English really think they have rightfully inherited the Latin transcript, rightfully? without doing what other European peoples have done, employing diacritical markers?! sometimes i think that i'm walking around, ******* Neanderthals when interacting with these people...

oh... i've seen how it happens... it's not about
entertaining my delusions...
it more about the medical profession taking account
of when: regression is performed...
lucky me: for not dreaming much...
i don't think i can be implanted with false
memories... i was abused as a child:
as a child... being in a peer group:
you're bound to be... period...
outlier involve... walking down a street,
being asked by your elder peer
to open your mouth... snapping it closed...
getting spit in the face...
hello! ******... fellow... whatever...
ROT!
English is my home... England...
does it have to be?!
VER-ROTTEN!
      time flies when... you've been
subjected to pills that make you **** your
bed... you come off them...
you see the whole world are sort of...
the retardation of backwards...
it's fun to watch...
but the "fun" soon ends...
and you simply watch...
lost souls...
you get to build up an empathy...

even with the song:
WUMPSCUT: MADMAN SZPITAL
(SKON REMIX)...
the entrance lyrics read:
nie, przyjęty do szpitala...
not admitted to (a) hospital...

     oh i was diagnoses as psychotic...
schizoid... blah blah...
but... was i ever in a mental health unit?
no... no, last time i checked...
once one psychiatrist tried to play the regression
game on me, i was simply told to:
roam free...
so much has happened since my,
"initiation" circa 2007...
the world has become unrecognisable...

imagine that: diagnosed as mad...
but not admitted to an asylum...
hello "new" asylum... hello "new",
"society"...
it almost feels like... the psychiatrists
tested me for identifying regression testing...
if this "one" gets out...
let's just see... what havoc he might wreck...
to reiterate... i was diagnosed as
mad... but... they didn't care me...
i'm still waiting for my reprimand...
i had sessions witch psychiatrists who
had to invite... medical students... to overlook
the "interview"...

if my barber took pictures of me
before & after...
if my steward supervisor took pictures
of the back of my head with a high-viz.
reading: steward on a high-viz. vest
then... i must be a highly relieved high-agony
animal about to be released into the wilderness
of society... about to...
madden them up!
trivial pointers to look forward to!

but, i wasn't, kept, in an, asylum...
psychiatry supposed me to be more useful...
out, in the, open!
personally? it's no longer entertaining...
it has become a yawn...
hier ist: hier jetzt...

    as it turns out youtube is still the same old
jukebox like it used to be...
for years i've been looking for it...
each passing year i felt disappointed...
what has changed?
the algorithm is pretty much the same...
but it has been given a category "glitch"...
i don't know how for so many years
the bar just below the one or two adverts
just below a music video went-amiss...
oh, it's there: the old algorithm where it automated
a thesaurus sort of search & end results
fed you... similar content...
2021 was the year i wasted so much time
trying to find new music but instead enlarging
my head to watermelon proportions watching
****** opinion videos, ****** political videos...
why did i miss the bar just below the adverts
that sometimes reads:
SIMILAR, DARK WAVE, POST PUNK: ****'s sake:
MUSIC!

it's only 2 hours into 2022 and i'm navigating
youtube much better...
you will not find me watching commentary videos,
not since i've found this: filtering process...
that YOU, yes, YOU have to do...
nothing's wrong with youtube... it's still the same
place it was back in 2016...
the algorithm just became more fiddly...
you're simply not given automated suggestions...

to prove my point... i was in Poland once
& the algorithm had a "glitch"... for about 2 hours
i sat down & clicked on suggested videos,
which turned out to be a rabbit hole of similar content,
i actually made a rubric on a piece of cardboard,
i still have these two pieces of cardboard...
new bands, new music...

it is only circa 2hours into 2022 & i'm finally navigating
the site like i ought to...
the Jules Holland Hootenanny finished at
half past 1am... eh... everything these days has to
be overtly black... sorry...
but that's how it is: i don't even know whether
i want to feel anything about it...
of course i was in good company...
parents... sure... if it was simply my mother i,
i would say: sure as **** is creepy...
but the triangle was there... the food was great...
we talked about... how so few cultures might
ever appreciate a tripe stew...
the guts are from calves, the meat that's added
is from the older stock...

i wasn't going out... i know what an absolutely
disappointment going out is...
the next time i'll be going out is when i get
my S.I.A. badge as i follow in the footsteps of
a school friend of mine... Kieran... Kieran O'Mahoney...
i don't mind... chemistry degree in the bag...
nepotism in the air: my local pharmacy was once
oh so good... before the employees were
****** off by a father & daughter combo...
dad... in a professional environment?!
anyway... i can do this work...
    after all... it's on a PAYE basis & not on a self-employed
basis, which means... oh, the last time i was
employed i was self-employed...
doing your own tax returns can be a bit of a *****...
now the company will deduce the taxes themselves,
which implies: they'll do the tax returns for me also...

i was never going to be a surgeon,
i might have been a butcher,
i was never going to be a lawyer / politician:
i might have been a philosopher,
i was never going to be a professional footballer,
i am most certainly an avid cyclist,
the list is endless...
i tried to be a musician... i'm no maestro akin
to Ed Sheeran... i played the guitar...
once i managed to find a bass player...
we recorded a tape...
once i met a drummer... jammed with him...
but nothing really clicked... so i gave it up...
the guitar playing... plus... my heart broke
when my "supposed" future father-in-law
****** with Cindy... a brand new
Martin & Co. LXK2... i just got it on debit...
if i broke her heart because i was having one of
those... wild... psychotic trips from London
to Edinburgh & back again...
o.k., that really ****** me up...
i played the poker game of DUMB ******
when he told me the guitar... oopsy... "simply"
cracked... **** him, **** her...
i still haven't had paid for the ******* guitar...
yet now i had to cough up debit installments for
a broken guitar...
                              sign me some *******
kumbaya... some auld lang syne... on this night...
of all nights... sure... let me just get you the bill...
there's no forgiveness in this world
as long as memory is attached to many
& man wants to preserve himself without
turning into an Alzheimer's pickle...

for all the talent of ol' Ed... but at least i'm not
a ginger... i don't think i could handle that
sort of a masterclass in how
the geniuses distribute gifts...
after all, there are: angels, there are demons...
but there are also geniuses...
a shady category of beings...
let's pretend they sort of like...
a flimsy take on children...
ingenious little *******...
evil not by evil's intent...
evil by the intent of innocence...

oh, no, not out of spite... some things just remain:
as FACTS... if something happened...
forgiveness implies what?

   MEMORIA NEGATIO?!
funny how the order of words changed... although
the ****** tongue is very much as the French
when it comes to the order of wording...
from memory negated...
  the modern counter would be...
   the negation of memory... but that's a really trivial
point, don't you think?

i too have seen a stroke of lightning:
but heard no thunder...
imagine the eeriness of seeing a strike of lightning
but not hearing the thunder!

it's going to be a good year... i've already managed
to unearth new music i once thought would
be impossible... here's my shortlist:

Flor Concreta - Possessao (2021) from the Netherlands...
Euroshima - Gala (1987)
Flue - one & a half (1981) - post punk, dark wave,
sad lovers & giants - lost in a moment,
reds - reds (1989) from Poland
Twin Tribes - Fantasmas
Exq's - Ris'x (1982) - from Belgium...
the Klinik came from Belgium,
great place to start... the more eclectic tastes
bulging from listen to too much the cure or depeche
mode or joy division...
or... 65daysofstatic...
Torn Memory - Untitled...
Always the Sun - Always the Sun EP...
Brandenburg - Part two (2011)
every new dead ghost - a new world (1990)

oh man, the list had become endless...
if the music shop survived...
i'd be a ******* wizard in it!
believe me, i don't mind shepherding people
into packed stadium expecting to watch a football
match... i once did a teaser...
me, alone, in the park...
drinking a beer... watching a Sunday League match...
headphones in... this one woman was screetching
at this older woman... lip-reading
i deciphered: YOU HAVE NOTHING TO TALK
TO HIM ABOUT... **** could have turned ugly...
minding my own business has, become,
problematic?!

the problem with women who have tamed a man
& the untamed man & the women who "think"
they can tame every, single, man!
*******... i'm having a beer... watching a football match!
these days... i much prefer watch the crowd...

loser, living with his parents...
well.. i'm not giving any money to a Pakistani landlord,
am i? &, last time i checked...
oh ****! i guess i own the house i'm living in!
i'll be playing this service role for some time...
i'll be playing servant to my parents...
clean the house, cook the food...
when the neighbour put up a new fence...
cleared the bushes...
who was the person who dug up the *******
roots, added extra cement to the fence?
me! moi! mich!                            ja!

the best alternative is living with my peers in *******
gaming squalor...
i live with these grandchildren-less adults:
who don't want grandchildren to begin with...
well... how, best, to encapsulate the "situation"...
a pedicure / manicure professional comes
round the house once... oh... a month...
she brings her babe along, sometimes she doesn't...
not even a year old...
i ask... "dearest" mother...
if she coming round, is she bringing the "toy"?!

like i said... i might have been a good father,
then again, not so good...
a baby would be a toy...
a linguistic experiment...
a bit like... what Frederick II tried to envision...
raising new born babes in a nunnery
without a single word being said:
trying to find out what language was
uttered first... obviously the experiment
ended with: mute was "said" first...

inherently? really?
dogs inherently bark...
cats inherently meow?
rather than... ****'s sake... bonsai tigers that they
are... not growl?!
so if dogs inherently bark...
why don't they inherently howl like
wolves?!

yeah, most of the nights: the FREAKS were not
appealed to, put differently
even to me, the DJ wasn't appealing to me...

ha... GAMING... the "point of question"
when i put down my "gloves" my itchy thumbs
given then the PS1...
these days, i love the internet evolution
of gaming,
no, i haven't "gamed" / "passively narrated"
myself into make-shift allowances
of late...
my best comparison... Madame Bovary vs.
Final Fantasy VII...
that's it, the end, *******...

either read Madame Bovary,
play Final Fantasy VII on PS1... or...
this is the best part...
night-cycle...
listening to halcyon+on+on...
who? ******* orbital...
like i'm john peel and supposed to know...

aber, mein gott! what advancements!
in gaming! exactly! in gaming!
internet gaming dynamic has...
wow!
           i missed the best part of silent hill...
oh... **** me... i remember tenchu vol. 1
and metal gear solid vol. 2...
boys remember those games like any
idiot associates chess...
to something...

i hate living with my parents...
i'm their *******, slave...
but i'm also not paying rent,
so it's a Chinese hitch-e-hi... ******* "surprise":
just waiting... for the irch kids to get
their face-lifts... wait a minute...
wait... perhaps like a tsunmi:
they'll arrive... unsuspected...
quasi-surprise...
whatever... they're there... ignorant
right sort of bollocking... humour me dear
he! heeee! long smile: remember that:
that long schmile! heeee! lovely E...
it's a ******* smile! o.k.?!
you're pandering you ****! ergo?!
pander!
you want your skull to be part
of the great wall of XINA?! go ahead
you ******* numbskull... talll... massive...
ergo bully? the Chinese emperors were like
the Egyptian Pharoahs...
******* karakans... midgits...
sort of people... people of power... sure...
but sort of... underwhelmed...
oh look! "'hing pops up in deutsche!"
hing, wong, hang, 'ing...
these days, what does it matter?!
zwergemensch!
   lilly-put... i don't need not German for
this... the little people!
the ******* bash-abouts...
thanks, my grandfather's death...
was... so so... you know sort of.. choke
the ******* dragon and the billionth of your kind
sort of happy! for me!

****, you! eat ****... die a diabolical death!
******* squinty eyed no-mother-*****!
squid eating ***** of a fake tan...
no... Arab camel jockey ******* no goody-goody...
too gooey-gooey?!
WAW what ******* RAW?!
oh but i'm ready...
give me the opportunity and i will be...
the best...
schutz-staffel-mann... the world... has ever seen...
i'll even wave "them" a bye bye...
when they enter the chom... chim... chum... cham...
chem... hmm...
zee! ah! ha ha! zee schornstein!
- and there i was thinking...
why is my surname so funny...
******-Stalin / -esaue...
people add... are you alert?!
i always forget... no... it's German...
Elert is missing E-S-C-H-L-E-R-T...
it's... Eślert... oh... right... you're ING-LEASH...
sort of backwards... the Welsh might...
not your kind... i was never for interracial
breeding of people... dilutes the blood...
most certainly disorientates the ingestion
of language... sorry, what?!

to reiterate: i'm no gamer, i'd rather read a book
thana play a narrtive-charged game...
i'm more into the evolution of the game per se,
something with the alias of chess...
the internet interaction of group-"think"...
i like teaming-up with people...
a clarity of objectives... beacons...

capturing them...
you know how that helps? working in a real
life environment...
via STATS...
WAR ROBOTS was great... prior to...
the Kazakhs, the Russians, the Chinese buying into
the game...
i don't gamble, you think i might invest
money into a game?! huh?! huh?!
yeah, like maybe next year...
WAR ROBOTS was great, before the pay-up
glitches started...
MECH ARENA... now we're talking...

wins / battle ratio...
272 / 508... so that's... 53%... decent...
mech catalogue...
there's always a method to the madness...
killshot - to capture the beacons...
& wreck havoc...
panther - to ****** out the competition...
paragon - armed with the seeker
missile javelins...
close combat, though...
guardian + pulse canon 9
ares + plasma canon 6...

                            i'm not a gamer...
i'm just relearning partnering-up... team work...
sorry, if it might come across as too crude...
TWIST THE KNIFE -
****** DEATH.. hello! sunshine!

yeah... i still live with my parents...
but... they have paid off their mortgage...
i sort of helped them in that...
am i cunting myself
to some Pakistani landlord?!
high-priest of Rotherham?!
buzz word for 2022... NO!

T'oseroit bien quelque poète
Nyer des vers, douce alouette ?
Quant à moy je ne l'oserois,
Je veux celebrer ton ramage
Sur tous oyseaus qui sont en cage,
Et sur tous ceus qui sont es bois.

Qu'il te fait bon ouyr ! à l'heure
Que le bouvier les champs labeure
Quand la terre le printems sent,
Qui plus de ta chanson est gaye,
Que couroussée de la playe
Du soc, qui l'estomac lui fend.

Si tost que tu es arrosée
Au point du jour, de la rosée,
Tu fais en l'air mile discours
En l'air des ailes tu fretilles,
Et pendue au ciel, tu babilles,
Et contes aus vens tes amours.

Puis du ciel tu te laisses fondre
Dans un sillon vert, soit pour pondre,
Soit pour esclorre, ou pour couver,
Soit pour aporter la bechée
A tes petis, ou d'une Achée
Ou d'une chenille, ou d'un ver.

Lors moi couché dessus l'herbette
D'une part j'oy ta chansonnette ;
De l'autre, sus du poliot,
A l'abry de quelque fougere
J'ecoute la jeune bergere
Qui degoise son lerelot.

Puis je di, tu es bien-heureuse,
Gentille Alouette amoureuse,
Qui n'as peur ny soucy de riens,
Qui jamais au coeur n'as sentie
Les dedains d'une fiere amie,
Ny le soin d'amasser des biens.

Ou si quelque souci te touche,
C'est, lors que le Soleil se couche,
De dormir, et de reveiller
De tes chansons avec l'Aurore
Et bergers et passans encore,
Pour les envoyer travailler.

Mais je vis toujours en tristesse,
Pour les fiertez d'une maistresse
Qui paye ma foi de travaus,
Et d'une plesante mensonge,
Qui jour et nuit tous-jours alonge
La longue trame de mes maus.

When I told my 96 year old
mother today, that my travel
card was cancelled by the
Fine Gael Government, she
reacted with a helpless sense
of hopelessness for all she had
done in her lifetime as a staunch
Fianna Fail member (currently
the life president of the Mallow
branch). It was many the time
Charley Haughey dined in our
house and now this, this is a
N.A.M.A, Government she insisted.

Don't worry she said, I will ring
Kevin O'Keeffe and he will get
it back for you, were her last words.

Don't be bothering him about it,
this is not something I am going to
pursue, I will make my feelings felt
before the next general election when
I publish " The NAMA Government "
thank you for furnishing the title.

                        <>

Foot note for readers.
I am a retired man with no
pension because I worked
all over the world for the
past 45 years since I left
Ireland, mostly seasonal
and never PAYE.
I did not apply for
a non contributory pension
out of the principal, that I felt
as though I never contributed
to Ireland. I applied for the
Travel Pass, because it was
Mr Haughey's gift to the state.
( I knew him personally )
The current Fine Gael Party has
Fascist DNA in its genes.
I will wait for the return of Fianna Fail
to apply for The Travel Pass.