i'll tell  you when communism actually works...
   communism can never
be an instigator of some internal problem,
that'll never work,
   however much *** you smoke, however
many dreadlock girls you send to a protest...
   the perfect example for the effectiveness
of communism?
                     ok, ok... socialism, whatever...
why did sweden receive marshall plan funding,
when it was neutral throughout the second
world war?
                 communism will only rebuild
syria...
                   it's the economic policy
    for a post-war period... it dissolves naturally
once a competitive plataeu is achieved...
prior to that plataeu being achieved?
               you need ant-like-collectivisation...
communism is not a failed system,
  it's the only system in post-war scenarios...
how can you capitalise in a war-torn country?
the capitalisation already happened,
prior to a war, with arms deals...
                   you can't just shove communism
under the carpet...
         communism, it would seem,
  is not in competition with capitalism,
in that scenario, it is a failure...
               but how can capitalism rebuild
a country like syria?
               when a brother distrusted a brother,
a neighbour a neighbour,
   a butcher a carpenter...
                     communism is not aligned
to capitalism per se for sake of competition,
                 there are ulterior needs for its existence,
the new enemy of capitalism is
          the marshall plan model of:
  who deserves... and who doesn't;
   for ****'s sake... at least the poles were doubly
taught integrity to fend for themselves,
rather than being pumped with free dosh...
     so why did a neutral country, such as sweden
receive marshall plan dosh (money)?
     with our bare hands, we rebuilt
the warsaw starówka (old town)...
               and yes, the misery had to be equally
shared... but most people outside my age
bracket remember it fondly, obviously except
the years being placed under martial law,
             suspecting a second russian invasion...
communism is a transitory economic model,
it times of absolute crisis,
          such as the war in syria...
               capitalism can't rebuild syria...
which doesn't mean that syria will not return
to a capitalistic model, it just means that
    only a transient communist model may allow
syria to allow to a capitalistic model,
  if that's what's to be desired,
          if capitalism were to resurrect syria,
you'd get competitive arms dealers necessitating
the prolonging of the civil war:
to boot... there are no capitalists in syria at
the moment...
                          they're all foreign...
                         seriously, wake the **** up!
stop fearing communism in a boxing match with
capitalism, that's a trap...
               it's an economic policy in post-war...
                obviously it outlives its welcome when
enough people have finally reached
                 the chance to compete in a "friendly" /
olympic manner...
                        but communism has a place...
and its place is in such instances...
                      it is to rebuild war-torn nations,
and it is, but a momentary solution that even
    if communism were a person, it would understand.
             it was never an inherent evil
   that needed to bring down nations,
      it was intended to lift them, from the ashes
       of war, and give such ashen nations:
                              one brick, two brick, four.
the west is always talking to itself,
   in a cushioned room, donning a strait-jacket...
what now? trans? trans?! transgender is the problem?
looks like we'll need a lot of butter and coconut milk
to oil of the west's throat, so they can keep on talking
  absolute crap.

There’s a different world, up on this hill.
Below is a field of broken dreams,
that gives you an unnerving chill.
A place where the branches are beams
where children dangle from their feet.
A place where young lovers meet.

after acquiring the english language,
and synthesising it for twenty years...
ugh... breakfast that is but a cup of water
and immediately feeling bloated...
or just imagining that you can live
on food and alcohol... like a diesel engine....
comes to just as much
     trying to catch butterflies akin to
nabokov, or thoughts...
      and are either, so trully necessary?
well... unless you take to calling it
the only relative opposite of picking up
a gun and shooting someone for no reason
other than a per se reason, which
subsequently has to be reasoned with -
akin to this...
  or, dare i say, picking up a philosophy book
and seeing how there is clearly
a child in there, esp. in english -
how each philosophy book seems to be
avoiding the pronoun i -
such is the nature of these books,
    a lot of hide & seek happening -
with the basic formula of: being yourself,
to avoid, your self.
then again as this french girlfriend told
me when she was staying in edinburgh
for a year to complete her erasmus program
from the university of grenòble
and she was doing this psychology experiment
and she needed native speakers...
  and i was given the stick for trying to
fake her science by suggesting that i'd do it...
yeah...
           well i really did hook up with her when
an american was about to court her,
and that's the only time i played the huinter-gatherer
role, or was motivated to do so,
when we went bar crawling and i pulled her
from the crowd and we stayed behind while
the group moved to another pub...
that was the only time i felt a need to do the "chase",
later this thing called the categorical imperative
came along, and i subsequently lost the impetus
to compete...
being a gladiator could have been greater,
what with the hardships of life...
but you can watch these gladiators fall...
quiet easily, buying groceries in a supermarket,
or opening a fridge door...
it's this return to the mundane, the household
environment can really beat a man,
if his life is lived to sample the ancient
field of danger...
   so when i did get the schtick of her empiricism
i decided: well... i'm no native....
and aren't we all so puritan about science
when some of it can't be falsified,
which it can:
        never too fond of accents myself...
native or alien...
               some people have a fetish for
feet or a french accent...
                        but that ***** essex slur...
or however you'd like to put it,
  it's not even cockney, but you get to hear
something quasi-cockney around these parts
more often, given that a lot of londoners
are moving away to these parts...
cockney meets essex county...
or meats it... yep: beats it silly with squalor
and at the same time: sophistication of living
in cement graveyards of an international city...
then again, you walk into a forest at night
during the summer, wearing only a t-shirt...
and it's freezing!
   you can actually hear Gaia breathing...
and then out of the woods and onto the cement...
that rush of feeling a complete change
of temperature... well... that's something.
          oh it wasn't me, i didn't dump that
french bird, she dumped me,
       as an experienced woman in her early
twenties would, to a ****** (who lost it with her),
18 year old.
    memories and all, what a grand cinema,
sipping absinthe on the streets of athens,
the athenian strip-club...
                sitting on a stool looking at a stripper
while holding two women in my arms
and kissing that sweet, sweet tender *****...
what happened after?
   drank all my money away,
                was escorted by a bouncer to a cash
machine... ****** myself
           and scuttled away back to the hostel....
and then took the bus from athens to katowice...
macedonia? beautiful, very hilly...
       serbia though... a plataeu of snow...
and i admit, belgrade from the distance
looked stunnig... esp. because of the snow.
oh right, i was supposed to insert a          )
having begun it with a     (      of an original prompt...
english really does have this natural
basis to invoke a self-conscious pronoun base of i,
it's like there's this need for a double-certainty
of the speaker stating that: it really is that person
speaking... or even thinking...
     polish        as a language? it rarely uses
the pronoun ja, i.e. i,
                          it's just certain -
english has to overtly use the pronoun -
      and it would be certainly pointless to ditto it
out... like some careless selfish womanisers
by the name of sartre...
                   that's the one thing i don't understand
about sartre, how it could ever be, something
about "ego"... more like Igor and doctor frankenstein...
i find that expression, yes, that alone
   " e g o " to be akin to pontius pilate washing his hands:
for whather transgression: i can't be to blame...
and then comes that ****** mantra
of mea culpa... and it just goes on and on...
to be frank, the whole point of mea culpa
is to transcend any invocation of self-pity...
      it's probably the foremost notion of transcendentalism,
well given that self-pity exists in people,
and some people would rather take blame;
indeed, it is my fault that i once had a heart
to feel intimate with someone, or even entertain
the idea of a fwend...
                            if anyone asks, i'll just be
a hermit, in my little cave.

it can be nothing but a deviation from modern
       concerns -
i was once in a pub, drinking a beer -
and this medical student turns to me and asks:
- if you could be a god, which one would you want to be?
        without resistance, without hesitance the reply?
- hades!
            of all venerated beings - his: the sole "phatom"
so feared that no palace of worship was
              erected; that's right: no temple in his name;
but just imagine my shock: a medical student
who supposed the existence of gods -
                    and yet in a society where there are these
diaper atheists... these biologists
                        and physicists - these proponents:
they really take the romance out of the universe -
              and here is this hippocratic oath adherent
and he's inclined to believe in the gods:
             for the sole purpose that he can manage
complicated tasks on the "microscopic" stage -
                                         in his niche -
                           while on the macro-plataeu
he's like:             well nothing explains nothing,
or the many other nothings.
                                  rare to see a plural form
                                                  of that singularity.
but of course: the mere thought contemplating the gods
is comforting - evidently we're not the people
to suggest or enforce a ritual to sacrifice one's time
with a duty of prayer -
                           walk into any monotheistic temple
and film the lunatics... sober lunatics: which is worse
than watching intoxicated lunatics dancing as if
they might be enthralled by the concept of prayer.
       just looking through the aeneid glossary -
can you even imagine if they will someday unearth
skeleton of centaurs? obviously you could only
unearth dinosaurs first, however much you push down
in geological terms: the older remains are unearthed
first, that's the tectonic dynamic: older comes first -
             in organic terms: skeletons are, after all: organic
materials... and centaurs might not be an ease
metaphor to stomach after some time -
                                       but what is the darwinistic
improbabilty of their existence, that once was, but now
isn't?         what is the darwinistic improbability?
             it's about time we force these questions,
since darwinism has lost all of its scientific sensibility
and has become level-tier with marxism in
       the battleground of culture - it has finally caught
up with marxism as a cultural impetus.
                         yet peering into the aeneid glossary
i had to invent at least one god, and one river of hades -
a. acheron - the river of grief
      b. cocytys - the river of wailing
  c. eridanus - a river leading into the underworld
d. gela - the river of laughter
   e. lethe - the river of forgetfulness
     f. styx - the river of hate
  g. ucalegon - the river of uncaring.

              what is indicated: i once had the idea to
compete with the styx - the river borrowed from german:
the zunge - or the river of tongues -
                        perhaps idle talk, the river of gossip -
or of those who drank from it: became prone to
the whisper of the god janus - the two faced god,
who, upon ushering his two tongue's into
      the drinker's mind: split the drinker's mind in half.
yet i find the concept of the river ucalegon
more befitting to this realm... named so after a trojan
warrior - still, the literal, simply: not caring;
                                          and do the dead care?
if the living can only muster a cult of the grave -
                   but not the cult of memory -
                                       no wonder so many pass into
the shades, through sheer neglect in organic remains
of their legacy.
     so of this god?
                              well, narcissus and his brother
                      solipssus -
but there is another, akin to the ancient diety of the latins,
namely quirinus (romulus deified?) - rooted
     by origin in quirus - meaning spear.
       i really can understand plagiarism on a polytheistic
scale, how zeus became jove, how kronos became saturn,
    how pilumnus has no greek equivalent -
   how hades became pluto -
                      that i can understand, a plagiarism
on a polytheistic scale... but what happens on a monotheistic
scale? tyranny against the mind!
                enforced labour for a mere sake of an argument,
what happened when the qu'ran was written.
                      and since we're on the topic:
słowianin - słowo
            and the horrid english slav( ) with a supposed
missing limb of                                e...
     again: know your mother and of that earth speak
the tongue - it is derived from, quiet simply word...
so we are wordsmiths first, keen workers? sure.
                         but wordsmiths first - in essence -
         and indeed, if there was the ancient italian god
           quirinus -
                           it would seem natural for the opposite
of a spear, akin to the maxim: the pen is mightier than
the sword...   ergo?
                                          quill...
      ­                              and the diety?
                                                          ­       Quilios.
           for a silesian peasant, that might translate
into regional idiom as -                        Piórkowiak:
patron of god of poets, with enough ***** to conjure
                         such explanations - that those in
the hippocratic community might appreciate, even they
can... but obviously, the cultural darwinists
                          have but one answer, and it's almost
       akin to the islamic dictatorial stance for defining
                              what culture is, and what culture isn't;
sensible? was it really about sense & sensibility?
                  maybe for jane austen is was... not here... not now!

p.s. Quilios, as combined from qui (who)
          but also borrowing from heliocentric -
                  or simply helios: sun -
                              writing illuminates: or, (he)
                                                           who illuminates.

both sides bore me, both the atheistic, & the theistic, because they both express only one aspect of the cartesian "equilibrium", namely the sum, rarely the the cogito; namely both sides are reactionary to each other, never exlusive of each other, always the two confined crude formants of antoganistic contras, never the middle-duality, always the polar-opposite-dichotomies... never congregationally dialectical, but always the disfunctional solipsistic, mono-exclusive, never the mutally-inclusive... this farce can only succumb to the "idea", to a "truth" for so long; after enough time passes, the former will seek the other for support, for some unison, to be forced into agreement... why? i find that the cogito aspect is the plataeu representation of the seemingly divergent sums... when one side claims to be a mountain, the other side claiming to be a valley... both come to the same conclusion: there's a plataeu... as some of us struggle uphill, some of us struggle downhill... we share the same struggles in comaparative "literature" on a plataeu.

well, **** me! if i had the same curry-tooth
for spices, as i might have a sweet-tongue
for spices, and i had enough
pointless rhetorical learning:
i would stack up a decent  harem...
  either that, or i find both atheists, as theists
equally boring... both being rigid in
their arguments: with one citing
their sacred word: reason! and the other citing
their sacred book: bible!
   i shwear, i just shwam
the length of a marathon...
sank a few u-boats in
between with torpedo farts...
never mind... i get the idea that not everyone
likes poetry...
and how poetry is really
a citation of pomp...
but not many scientists like philosophy,
and philosophy being
the first "science" didn't
like poetry...
    harsh man,
discrediting the power
of poetry,
you know you're spawning
more bad poets,
that you are spawning
convincing atheists
or theists?
you know that, don't you?
there are more poets
in the "centrist" ranks
than there are convincing
atheists or theists...
all i can see are grand
regurgitators...
   is bulimia in fashion
once more? it's not?!
you sure?
           you start to slack
of the power of poetic
"p.s." - the ability to turn
language into a "mathematic"
of allowing an abstract...
short-script...
people these days don't even
recognise diacritical marks!
let alone punctuation marks!
you're seriously talking
atheism / theism to me? really?!
you are speaking in
a language that's
exclusively noun-orientated...
e.g.: i am an atheist...
because? i think... think what?
who cares what you think?!
who gives a ******* toss
about what you think?!
you already told the other side:
i don't care what you feel!
brain in a pickle jar, are we?
judo yoda master, H, are we?
bomb the goon in green.
like one famous english atheist
said: oh yes, i was confirmed,
and i like christmas carols...
so you're not into byzantine monk
chants, not into your templar
cantos?
           what a shame... you're
missing on the "anti-scientific"
subjectivity...
sorry... mate...
                go 'un, scower among
the rats, in the sewers...
you know what your people named my
ethnicity... this is king rat talking;
the ******* waiting for?
another india as colonial prone
fertility?
                 i am just wondering:
will america, will canada, will australia
be so welcoming...
    i'm dying to know...
    i'd love to see, but frankly,
i'm a little bit occupied with this
taste in my mouth...
   it feels as if a tarantula bit me,
must be the star of anise sensation...
i'm "seeing" an eye in my mouth,
and two tongues waggling through
my eye-sockets...
                  it has just become boring
listen to one side cite a book, holy,
and the other side cite a word, also holy...
both sides seems the same as
was originally thought about poetry:
we best fill this space with as many bad
poets as possibly imaginable...
      and when i mean bad, i mean:
all to eager... esp. the english-teacher types
who require the labels of technique...
rhyme's dead... think up another
easily spotted technique...
if you ask the atheists or theists,
they'll provide you with an answer:
word salad, jargon, nonsense...
                  you think that sort of answer
isn't on their tongue?
    they prefer the idea of god / no god
within the framework of dear mr. smith,
yours sincirely of an automaton letter...
   both sides bore me...
thankfully, they can never really find
the likes of me, since finding me would
invoke a need to read me,
and that's outside their effort-zenith of
passive effort bound to the easily digestable
video... reading: ah! the evolved "chore"
of playing hide & seek... thank god...
or no god... they won't find me, because
these on the forefront of an "argument"
seek a passive audience...
   they need the *feeders...
they never appeal to the scrutinisers -
who watch them...
   huh? i'm deaf... you hear someone knocking
on the door?
       finally! reading takes effort!
    thank god i'm standing stark naked
in a field, and yet no one can seemingly
see me...
          then again, if i made a video of
myself, standing stark naked in a field,
or took a selfie... i just might become
a visible person... n'ah... can't be bothered...
this approach is easier to stomach
and take joy in.

*dare the devil to laugh...
but then the devil dares you back:
            i dare you to believe,
believe to answer the question:
who wears the trousers,
and who the skirt -
never mention the kilt;
ask me, ask "him",
when asking about  
the existence of my counterpart
of either "thought" or "being":
i too foresaw the void,
                and the counter: non.
some said god wore a skirt
and the devil the trousers...
others just said:
god wore a kilt,
        and the devil a kippah;
i beg to differ,
all genitals, circumcised or not,
wore the niqab of underwear;
i'm not mel brooks...
    i wasn't laughing writing that!
one of those dry, mug mongrel
bitten shoe jokes -
             dry-laughter akin to
a gin & tonic mixer...
        makes no difference whether
angels laugh or cry...
     good enough, as long as the devils
can conjure up a decent curry
and a blackbeard sharpshooter...
     feckled me...
   hell just seems just like a such nice
place... akin to what was just stated...
and a parisian cementary revised loop
bound to the earliest of what was
to be made of the 21st century.

she just said, a disturbed song lyric: i want to play with your evil inside... true story... a Novosibirsk girl... who invented this masochism of globalisation? florida china... california spanish apples? sometimes me and a tiny village in crimea would do, just fine... i don't understand why people get bored about brick walls so quickly, or don't contend in chess... or make an easy su doku puzzle extra complicated by repeating 20 seconds of a type o negative song...

mi niet nie(t) budyed...
                                                   me charisma...
   me pogrom...
listening in on football hooligans...
   dirt, naked,
                                    which was much more than an
american girl doing a hand-job
                             trying to buy alcohol later...

just thinking: arab has oil (black gold)...
now he wants snow...
   arab wants snow?
    can the ****** manage the cold?
what the **** do you take to integrate
eskimos in alaska or ultra-mongols
in siberia... sun-cream, or sunglasses?
arab has black gold... now he wants snow...
****** wants snow...
        i'm laughing because his women
aren't equipped to standardise that
environment... they'll need much more
than a niqab if that's what you're trying
to colonise... seriously... much more
than a niqab... niqabs don't work in siberia...

  be slavic *****...                   we darwinist...
you ******* darwinist?
                       you survive, or you
                                           die? like... die?
die telling funny jokes?
                         you darwinism?

i mean... i love watching a woman
exposing her genitals,
******* on screen,
                         all wet and i think i'm
watching daffodils...
                        it's spring...

i clench my teeth and imagine sheep..
then i take a bite... and *sheer...

bradzie!                  idziom!

                  ­   finally... what wakes the barbarian...
and what gives it so much support,
given rugby is so... so... ******* boring?

just look at the horde... look at it wriggling
and angry...
     all those yachts can go to hell...
i remember owning a doberman,
and he bit into a **** and there were this
maggots wriggling inside of it...
  that really defined my childhood memory...

what's the west if not a trans- debate
about genitals? so... what the **** is that?
boiled, scrambled or poached?
           or the next post-Freudian metaphor...
what is it that might even provide me
for a cohesion strategy?
        
but you're still need more thana  niqab is you're
going to spread to siberia,
the jew hating in the koran seems a bit of a fake,
given the invasion of germany...
    some ******* queer look at debating free will...
the muslims are doing the jews deported from europe
a favour... really...
      how coulnd't they...
the problem is... what favour are the muslims doing
to the europeans?
  
pasnawitz harasho... the **** is this model of springbox
talking? the english talk spaghetti nasal in american,
i know that... they're like nag nag nag nausea...
      peppercorn on the ******* throat...
          i'm trying to actually write what a Bulgar
******* calls harasho...
     nie(t)   that tao is annoying... in polish that's written
as: i won't build this...
         nie............. budjed....
                       harasho?
ok... look... there's no laughing about it...
   i just get -арашo....
  i can't find a ha... maybe because that's because
н             couples to en, or na na na, na na na...
nursery rhymes would be easier...
harasho... or... dobże? or dobrze? or ok?
     china ching or quang moong do?
try a Beijing duck!
                           iffy... it's like you almost
want to pick up these influences for the mere
hell of it... given the fact that your message is
so different...
              
   it's just problematic...
how do you not attach ю (yu)
   to э (aha! no attache letters!)
and then not say niet budyed....
                                   ниет будюэд.... how?

i'm only writing this because i've been told to hate poland,
and then later told to call england the narcissistic
bellybuttons the the world, with their greenwich 0...
   i actually don't think i was told lives...
given that english women are reducible to
     bridget jones diaries, or a rotherham journal of a
teenage girl...
  
    i swear... if i'm not marx and there is no engels...
then this is a revision of victorian england...
                        given the english treatment of children
or the concept of marriage...
    that's hardly me boasting...
               what's coming, living with your parents?
drinking to excess but still able to watch the oscar ceremony
with them and then writing your father's
      invoices?
                       hence the pyramid argument:
throw one of a one-armed bandit into the equation
and let's never meet on what could be called
a mutuality or.... that shared plataeu akin
to a.a., because the internet never fosters that attempt
at cohesion... well... unless people flock to
suicidal sites...

  me? i'm still much more bothered about
ниет будюэд... and whether that really does translate
as niet budyed...             yack jack jesus yahweh
had me bewildered why genghis khan came along.

alt. original fleetwood mac - breakout - kiedy byłem małym chłopcem (when i was a small boy).*

**** me!
  if this is the sort of music that was
played behind the iron curtain?
please! please!
   oh god please take me back!
one and only one example is
sufficient:    
   breakout's      
     kiedy byłem małym chłopcem...
  (when i was a small boy)...
  it's like
    listening to fleetwood mac...
oh wait...
   peter green's fleet...
         before the female vocals...
ha ha... "cultural appropriation"...
white boy's blues...
         could be a genre, could be...
was.
   http://tinyurl.com/ycql35uu.
           yeah, communism was all bad...
solidarity activists
   infiltrated an iron maiden concert
with badges in warsaw or katowice
                    (sputnik),
sent ol' **** wałęnsa to florida
in hawaiian shorts... plus plus...
    oj, leszek... niezły floral pa-pa-tern!
the story of breakout parallels
that of fleetwood mac... great blues
bands... guitars of the former band:
pan nalepa...
              oh yeah, no culture
under the iron curtain, universal shared
misery that hoped to attain a plataeu
of shared misery...
    very bad, bad bad bad, all bad!
   ah, i won't even mind talking about
the coal-miners' saint that was gierek...
        and some said: hallucinating
maggie had all the wild cards ready for
    a reagan insurrection... howdie pawtner...
  (sure, quick i.e. in howdie,
alt. howdy)...
   giddie up!
         we're heading for the rodeo!
and a texan bush-wackers' tight-nip,
       getting spanked with a cactus! ye-ha!
alt.?   no hyphen, two acutes:
       yé há!      branches... gotta break 'em.

ah, but the atheistic scissors bound
to expressing ęglish...
                                       i.e. english - in: glee & eesh.

            also another word example:
dusz        &                  duś

hence the necessary scissors
  of inherent atheism in english...

  the first?
  
   in article terms
  the former: an indirect article
(a) - dusz

      and the latter?
                      a direct article
                            (the),
      again, encompassing prompt,
a commanding expression,
duś is a word, that encompasses
the prompt.

   dusz? a word that encompasses
the verb-inside-a-verb,
                a consciousness...
    suddenly being aware of the
hedious act...
                   being performed...
       and realising, that you're aware
of social norms, but are unable
to transcend toward a plataeu morality
that allows you to stop the act
you're performing.

                and the word for soul?
  dusza....

then there's the word, uduś,
i.e. strangle / smother...
  the element of: voyeurism,
  in that uduś has someone looking
at you performing the act,
   and duś... has you claustrophoic
inside your own head,  
   performing the act...
   unless of course you address yourself
in third person, with no ******.

        which is a, presupposition?
i can't take to enlisting too many nouns
to explain the situation...
      
   i love the fact that in english
there's only talk of trans-gender,
  or bi-sexuality,
    elsewhere? bilingualism,
         and trans-etymology...
i find the latter the more
                               interesting category
of debate...
         by no english is so pop
and so lingau franca that it has become,
slightly tedious...
 well... that's cute, but the true description
of this language is: ******* annoying!
         trannies with daddy mummies
   pushing prammies with
                   penguin babies waving 'ello;
i miss the classical circus acts,
     never mind, let's just watch this mature,
call it burgundy, circa 1998... full palette,
vintage, red... mmm... fry that beef
    al dente... shimmy shimmy wee,
              shimmy shimmy,
                   pink on the inside;
oh yeah... and that word:
    ******* plonkers... and that ain't cockney...
that's peckhamsprechen...
             hen hen... not shed
light o mighty, spré...
       spray chechnyan with a: shir connery
                convenience at the bar -
                          shishtematic, not saken;
     south london is as much a mystery for
someone living north of the thames,
   as someone living
                   north of the terms heading
to newcastle...
  and the foul gob,
       told the most bitter-sweet joke.

some men feel uncomfortable among riches, some men feel apathetic towards them, as some men abhor poverty and squalor, while others seek it for solace in never wishing to adorn their hands with rings, rather: look at the heavenly orbs... i still cut my toenails with scissors... what need have i for nail-clippers if scissors can also perform the same pandering act? how strange, to have a materialistc abhorrence, esp. as a child, this tickling sensation of having more than others, and upon seeing other children playing with your toys... wishing they were theirs... and that you could simply sit, and make abstract circles with your thumb+index, with your thumb+middle, with your thumb+ring, with your thumb-pinkly fingers... as if a god who said: and he makes romance with the devil, who already has the idle work of writing to occupy the hands, but romances them, by these "tickling", soothing sensations - upon sight through eye-celibate, of a woman pressed for higher demands.

every time i drink, perched on my
windowsill -
in cerberus form of a crow
dancing pittance
upon a grave
with his
schattentanzen -
   of that "trinitarian formula" -
von tag, von nacht -
     i too see my schatten clear -
esp. during the hours
of sleep of the living -
when the hours of the dead
reveal themselves:
and the dead are woken -
     for i see but one heaven:
the living have their day -
their cathedrals and pomp -
the only gate toward
the land of the dead,
if via the *gate of cain -
into the land of nox -
where the sole democratic
plataeu resides -
resting, with one artefact
of name alone...
i, crow, am the appointed
cerberus revision:
keeper of the gate of cain...
for who wishes to
reign within riches,
and seek even more riches
of a pearly gate,
with st. peter the fisherman
as the pomp-boy supreme
   deciding to judge pass or
no entry?
       who wishes such a fancy?
    i am at the shadow gates
of cain...
             before the land of nox...
if only a man could revive
theology with poetry, and change
it back into mythology:
of what is sometimes expected
of time's existence:
   to pardon man's error -
  and never become too bombast
in arguing his reasons
for giving exactness to time:
which cannot ever be exact -
say, 100m sprint:
                to the point of what
pi decimal to be, "exact":
that famous quote:
  of the many hairs upon
your head - and the problems by
                              the count:
    count only one: your actual head.

in the name of day,
   and in the name of night -
i pray toward the god:
                  that gave me flight,
and you reply is?
in the name of day,
and in the name of night -
i think of the god:
that gave me both thought,
   and the realm of dreams that
alight my waking hour
            all the more.
indeed my passing inquiry -
   man best represents the thorn
of zeus by a dream -
          for dreams are more than
just reasons for being interpreted -
they are the essential basis
for animation -
   the content doesn't matter
all the time...
               compare the dreaming
mind, and the woken mind -
with the by product of dreams -
as you might
compare them to the epiglottis -
       see how you can rarely find yourself
in a sweat, suddenly woken
by day-dreams...
                   rarely... unless of course
the modern man knows of
the phenomenon of day-dreams being
almost non-existent, and the anxiety complex...
but once-upon-a-time...
   dreams were like an epiglottis...
  a medium between the dreaming
mind, and the woken mind -
             eat what you have:
   and breathe your first desire toward
the wind of future...
      dreams are like that...
my anti-freudian re-interpretation of dreams?
they have a purely biological foundation:
dreams are like the epiglottis -
the woken man stresses its need for
the trachea (breathing, contrast asthma attacks) -
while: the slumbering mind -
the esophagus tract - you can eat a meal
before going to bed...
    and the whole system does it for you:
you wake up, eat a bunch of fruit,
drink some water... ah... ******'s oiled up!
and then... ease out a perfect ****,
   so perfect, you do what german
toilet companies do: have a little basin
of ceramic where the beautiful hay-stack
lies for a while... mmm...
  now this one's going to be memorable...
and then... fffff-lush!

for who's use, or unuse of what's
deemed / demanded as being
     entertaing? is this going
to be solidified as "worthy":
the consecrate altar of lost
and inhibited
         expectations? torn heart from
the birdcage of
   caged birdsong
upon the vine
entanglement...
          revived for
only one revival of song:
and sung thus:
tomorrow i do address -
that tomorrow,
it'll be just another dress
of favoured colour and silk
i will not be attired in:
to mark the confines of
a welcome's worth
        of a coffin -
       and that silk will turn
to tombstone in said
caress of a silken wish -
so that i might return to
the plataeu of mort -
                 and stand shoulder
to shoulder, with what
life once allowed,
now deemed worth abandoning;
oh sacred heart of
the forever unknown -
may you invite this string of words
into your abode,
for the least care if that care
be nothing more than
a case for being entertained...
for what there is of prayer,
i rather beg of you to allow
myself a bow, and a worded excuse
for leaving your presence
and the vanity you impose that
desires prayer.

why is the anglophone world freaking
out about 2 million syrian migrants
moving to germany?
   huh? anyone listen to rammstein's
mein teil song about
   the german cannibal armin meiwes?
   yes, i would be worried,
   if i was eating a hamburger
   that had bits of syrian human flesh
in it...
        great place to move
the syrian migrant...
               right into the hands
of post-holocaust cannibals...
           alongside the soundtrack
of slayer's south of heaven's
  song: behind the crooked cross...
                    i swear the public narrative
is a "bit" awry...
                  arthritic?
                           skewed, for sure...
you don't really want to travel to a land
that harbours the devil...
    syrian thank you cards sent
to saudi arabia, prior to the slaughter...
     more ferocious than assad's imagination
or actual capacity...
     of **** me, what a slaughter...
cows and pigs are treated with
more respect...
           ever see the film hostel?
       it's probably happening now...
******* idiots...
          when the "vatican" of the islamic
world, that's saudi arabia would have provided
aid... they send them to a land,
                      that's barbarism incarnate
      barbarism incarnate that excludes all sense
of history...
                     as the jews called it:
  a sorry affair...
                  look at them... schizophrenic
                                                   ­    reunited...
if you can't see kūrū building up...
                        i don't know what you can see...
one sort of barbarism serves another
   (sort of barbarism)...
      we need a plataeu after all, for a fair game...
       i don't under the mainstream media
lament of syrian refugees storming germany...
  don't worry...
   i'm sure germany has
  plenty more armin meiwes...
   cannibals...
                   all they seem to be thinking
is:
         **** me! i'm going to save so
much money frying ahmed for a month!
all i'll need to buy is a bag of tatties,
   and some sprouts!
  really! applause!
                     you sent these people into
the most dangerous place on earth!
         don't know... oysters didn't bother me,
neither did caviar...
    human?
                perhaps like a cow's tongue,
so soft, so soft, in a horseradish cream sauce,
with silesian nuggets of poached potato
   mingled with flour; yummy.

surely thought is as much an obstruction
(a sūdokú, a chess-board equivalent)
as it is a narrative,
   as it might be a liberating "force" -
    however you might "think" about
it (thinking) -
                        you can't but comply to
thought as this tier-schematic -
    one way or the other...
                     thinking is a problem,
either a solution,
      or some sort of transient entity -
obviously thought does not ally itself
with a godly status -
    as man is mortal, so too is his thinking -
one man cannot hold sway of
an immortal thought...
                well... that's hardly true:
the tier of thinking where thought is
gratified the status of a problem:
     can reveal partial precipition into
an immortal status... some would cite
zeno's paradoxes... others grasp geometry
and the "alphabet" of pythagoras...
                   but no man deems himself
"athletic" enough to perpetuate thinking -
whether in problem, solution or narrative
form...
    we all know the guise of being
transient cognition - we already don it
in our crippled tomb of the mortal frame...
i always found that man is more afraid
of being mortal, than of death itself...
don't ask me how i made that conclusion:
and that fear is all apparent when it
comes to rebelling against the socio-political
plataeu of grey...
          man becomes so afraid of
mortality that he succumbs to the motto:
             yet another, brick in the wall...
oh death is very democratic,
   it's probably the only democracy in existence:
after all... everyone has to "vote",
or rather: veto his life... **** me, that's hilarious!
death the sole "democratic" vote:
  that ends up being a veto on life,
    that's also a doubled-up veto:
      insinuated by the **** of mortality by
                              madame fin.
talk geometry or implosive geometry of
the ten square riddle that's a sūdokú
and my thinking turns into custard,
or a brick-wall...
       i become so pensive so concentrated in
not thinking, that i'm still finding myself
"thinking"...
     well... custard means i'm lost in demanding
narration,
    for every alphabetical "arithmetic"
   to some stupid compliance for a "chronology"
i.e. a, b, c, d, e, f... g...
                i don't actual care for the alphabetical
"chronology", i prefer the "alphabet"
           of spelling, individual words...
  anyway...
         with numbers?
     not so easy... it doesn't arrise from
the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, (0) -
        it's usually 1 + 1 = 2, 1 x 5 = 5,
                                             9 ÷ 3 = 3...
amazing how you can explain quantum mechanics
with numbers on this, of all basic of levels...
a 9... "behaves" like a 3,
   given the observed-non-"observasble"
morphing via the medium of obelus (÷) -
and the tract of chi in reverse:
   so how do you know the electron is both
a particle, and a wave? hence the non-"observable"
demand being asked;
university mathematics?
   it was never about arithmetics...
   it was always going to be about punctuation...
and let me tell you,
when the humanities envision punctuation
mathematicians treat it as subtle form of
arithmetic...
  but when humanities come across
mathematical punctuation?
                  of those who digest albert camus:
glum looks, and french braids as
a hairstyle... and twiddling thumbs...
    after all... √ is a mathematical "punctuation"
mark.