.
                                 Playdough
                             Playdough Play
                           dough Playdough
                         Playdough  Playdou
                           Playdough     Play
                           dough Playdough
                           Playdough     Play
                           dough Playdough
                            Playdough    Play
                            Dough Playdough
                            Playdough     Play
                            Dough  Playdough
                            Playdough     Play
                            Dough  Playdough
                             Playdough     Play
                            Dough  Playdough
                            Playdough      Play
                            Dough  Playdough
                   Playdough          Playdough
            Playdough Play   dough  Playdough
           Playdough   Play   Playdough   Play
            Dough Playdough  Playdough Play
                Dough Play             Playdough

Phone ringing with the cord cut
     That's the way we like to f*ck
  When we know they know
                    And the walls are just play dough
               And the heat we make turns this shelter to clay
            It makes it so intense we forget what to say
     But it's okay they'd listen anyway
         I'm trying to take the time to see just what makes you tick
         And I was never looking for smoke and mirrors or obvious tricks
            Just your essence and your presence made me question what I know
     What they know
     Walls made of playdough

Dusk turns to night with the lights off
        So silent
    You could hear a pin drop
        Deep breaths slowly fill the air
Rattling these walls made of playdough
            So in sync we don't even care
    That they know we know
Taking the time to take it slow
        In your eyes I see that raging fire
    Of these feelings I will never tire
And your skin embedded in my memories
         Makes me realize what I've always known
    Just your touch and your existence erase the tragedies
          What do they know
  Through these walls made of playdough

What is a world without being judged?
Without competition or criticizing?
A world where there is no room for improvement
Everything is set in stone, not perfect just you take what you get and deal with it
Where there is no place to showcase your true potential?
No rhyme or reason to try
Less amazing things happen, maybe even nothing spectacular going on
A place doomed for rebellion, implosion
A stack of cards with no foundation, just ready to cave in
A world without love, or feelings
It all dwindles down without one another
One thing could be missing and change it all
And our society would be a soso-ciety

I like my body.

But sometimes I wish
I could remold my fleshy fat body
like playdough.
Of course, this would only work
if I were a sculptor.

I’m not.

Perhaps if we were playdough people
there would be molds one could buy.
Empty negatives that would press
and squeeze until one fit
the manufactured, predetermined shape.
But then
we’d be cookie cutter playdough people,
everyone the same.
Forcing ourselves into bodies that aren’t ours
and wearing faces that
some mold-maker
somewhere
decided was more beautiful
than my real face.

I think I’d rather stick
with my flesh and fat and blood and bone body that,
for the most part,
I like.

Playin' games.
=============
Jay Text Sandman aka Skitz Text

Set the timer click click now the clock is tick tockin'.
I came to play the game. Like a KNIK KNAK knockin'.
Your rhyme flow is slow you know like PLAYDOUGH.
I gobble up fine rhymes like a HUNGRY HIPPO.
Like SUBBUTEO I kick it.
Shruggin' off your challenge like BUCKAROO kickin'..
..up ****. I sunk your BATTLESHIP.
You played out your game of CHARADES. That's it.
I dig deep in me rhyme dictionary.
You scrawl on the the wall like palsy PICTIONARY.
Not strugglin'. I'm jugglin' the rhymes in me head.
Slam dunk. KERPLUNK. Nuff said.
No, never. No way. Who am I kiddin'?
You know I got the rhymes. And I got the rhythm.
I confess. Like a game of CHESS.
Checkmate. No debate. Not a pretty pawn missin'. *  

It’s the end of the games like RIP,
I Multikill MC’s like COD,
Keep your mind on your MINECRAFT can’t catch me,
Cause Skitz is EC's Artillery,
droppin bombs watch the FALLOUT or you’re Dogmeat
FAR CRY from the old days of CRT
So your attempt is DOOMed best clear the room,
SWAT’s get Swatted Mic shotgun BOOM!,
Blast backdraft will destroy your CIV,
No cheat codes PAC em up MAN time to give,
RESPEC- to the PORTAL gun hangin’ on me hip,
You’ve got HALF a LIFE left faster than NO CLIP
But I said no cheatin’ Hackers get Hacked up,
No Multiplayer,cause you’ve no backup,
I’m glorying in the games we play,
Checkmate VS XBOX  pass to Jay.

Chorus
Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic and it's Jay to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

When I flex it's hectic. Like SCALEXTRIC.
Switch lanes to PERFECTION.
I've a MONOPOLY in this game.
Don't pass go. Go straight to jail.
You fall like DOMINOES. I leap like a salmon.
Tisk tisk. Big RISK. Now I have BACKGAMMON.
Stamina. A steady hand OPERATION.
Ace up me sleeve and I'm just playin' PATIENCE.
Got me POKERface on.
Read 'em and weep as the game plays on.
I got a dead mans hand but I animate the mic.
BULLDOGS charge. You know I'll reach the other side.
Back to me den.
Repeat after me like SIMON SAYS.
RED ROVER, RED ROVER. I call Jay over.
You think it's over ?
No my friend. *  

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

This Steam Machine is heatin' up a treat
So don’t be TEKKEN the ****,just feel the beat,
This KOMBAT’s MORTAL to enemies,
But it’s a full HEALTH PACK to Fans of E.C.,
So OverClock your CPU,
get your Soundcard Jumpin like chimps in SIM ZOO,
drop DICE on ICE from here to Timbuktoo,
STREET FIGHTER’s and Writers BIOSHOCKin' you

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

I SPY with my little eye.
Somethin' beginnin' with J. I let fly.
As your JENGA tower wobbles.
I smile. You drop tiles. Dropped your poxy box of SCRABBLE.
Look out. That could spell disaster.
Triple word score as the rhymes rip past ya. Blast ya.
Quick out the trap like The Flash playin' SNAP.
Check the lyrical master. *
As the Dungeon Dragon spreads his wings-lets fly
playin' the game the pied piper pies,
catch you rats in me MOUSETRAP its a snap,
"cause I wrote the rhymes that broke the bulls back"
I'm the KING OF THE HILL I got ya QUICKSCOPIN'
in THE SHADOWS OF MORDOR prayin' and hopin'
for a hero like MARIO to bust you loose,
Jay's SNAKE'n' up the LADDER time to twist the noose

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

What ya think ?              
Me rhymes kink, bend and fold like TWISTER.
A wicked rhythm like DOUBLE DUTCH. Skip, skip.
Like EVEL KNIEVEL. Flywheel spinnin'.
Rev it up. Dump the clutch.        
See me grinnin'. Knockin' down the pin and..
SPIROGRAPH lines in me rhyme. I'm spinnin..
..out of control. You can't cope with me GYROSCOPE.
I bring you back to the beginnin'.*

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.

Being cared for
Here's the  adored door

Inside playing he pours the hearts

So like him the ricochet
Deeply love so cultured
My pearl crochet

Deeply cared about I got you
under my skin
I win your love ticket

The spool of
wool hit the floor
To the extreme
The sensitive mind

  And his feeling like the escapee finding
the higher
religion keeping that in mind
The everlasting  to be cared for or
not to be never lasting like someone
lost its hunger fasting

Waking up deeply recharged or
reproducing to
her neverending fairytale

Much deeper than 69 eye love shades
Deeply cared for beyond his loving
It comes and fades
Like Monopoly  "Godly Sun-Seeker" keeps
passing us
The game of life charades
Like Persian babies their
button nose deeply cared for to cuddle
The warmest meows hug and save

Like flour to sparkle, it deepens
like our mix, a love needs
to be worked on 
 do you really
care to fix?

But sending all the details
the lines soften pale pink rose
I felt your red fire putting
out the coldness fire and ice
To be saved on time
Like the fire chief,  
Acted like a French chef what
a love roue of the hose

Like silk my millennium  milk,
He held my finger but not
to sulk he said buckle up
What firmness and tightness
arm to arm wrestler such
bulk

Never to swear but a little lie 
  Wouldnt hurt my delicate
pinky finger
In her loop with her fur
deeply
Stepped into her mink

He's the frontman
Fresh cut lemon
Yellow sunshine
happy medium

I was wearing my hair middle parted
The picture slide the made man
Tied back my hair was deeply
Smooth talker well conditioned
With what conditions all recollections
But three strikes when you care for
someone you  don't fall out of love

  This world loves to be pampered
Cared about not scouted
All hole marks in the road badly routed
 With tons of work with the question mark?
The sign stayed with her
Deeply care about?

Like a play date let's pretend
You're both a handful
Like beer malt lips
Engraved love in the barrels
To feel deeply loved  he acted
Like the riddler

The beach her eyes were waiting to be reached
Sunset playing the fool marionette overly preached

So I  Bette
Beneath her wings
In the middle of their wed to be isles
The Green Gables emerald rings

Miss spinster-Sara Lee cake
His jeep was all she could take
How it ended up
In Greenwich Village then shipped
To Mystic Seaport Connecticut
The movie cut Cape Cod Massachusetts
The four letters in his pocket
Deeply 1 care 2 about 3 love 4

Needed a jump kickstart
Her breakfast  start of the day
 deeply cared for his way
He stumped over her honey
bunches of oats lips

The website
Go, Daddy acting love silly
The hot fun in the
International city
The UK that's OK
Mr. Bo Jangles spoiled deeply
*** in the City single
Deeply getting hurt
The Sin City

Did he see her progress
All over Twitter
He was so suited but lost
his tie twinkle tweets
Do I really live my life to dare
or deeply care?
I am ****** British give me
my English breakfast teas
for keeps
The King ain't got that swing
She acts too much like the Queen

The Royalty of love sanity
The heaping fine grain sugar spoon

(Duke of Earl gray) Deeply love Thee
But always came way too soon
She is the domestic cat going frantic

Great discoveries, and that's that
  Internships tug-cash or the hogwash
our colleagues  
The deep end "Crazy Eights
On the tenth physio natural
phenomena convent

All the Kingman no swords holding her
wrench
and knight horses unfortunate events
One day creation camel ride for miles
Reaching higher levels of toxins
and morons
Or teaching MLM  you asked for it
"The millionaire lost minds"

Were human TLC tender loving care
Like some playdough to the rooftop
Of Mentors, did they care
Who we deeply care about family
But more concerned
about the rise of money inventors
Even if life really *****
Oh! Fiddlesticks

The Moaning of life
Bring the Idiots aboard
The ***** of the night

He kinda ducks by the end of
your ***-light
Flex-body deeply cared for
Rumors and all philosophies
The shower like you was slashed
Left you bone dry without the cash
The thrill is gone your lovesick

She-devil  coffin red nails split Twilight zone

  The stars were in your corner
He deeply cared for you he was
your health kit
The Botanical Gardens

Like a figment of your imagination
Se demure you needed a
Florence Nightingale flower cure
To lift your depression to smile
You thought someone cared but all
misinterpretations

All misconceptions and misdemeanors
She takes so long putting on her
French lip glide Chanel liner
What could be ever cared for finer
Deeply digging holes like a miner

The solar rhythmic pointed finger
to the stars

So systematically
making a wish
just like everyone else
To plan your game
the game makes the plan
You deeply cared for delivery
Was I the care package

You weren't someone
just anybody like
A city dump garbage

Deeply wanting and waiting
So merely or rarely was it coming

Deeply seeing the next generation
The spectacular sunrise
White wicker twin set swing
Your heart pulls back but it was
so close to swinging forward
Moving towards your
accomplishments
The mess was all ****

"You have the exceptional mind like the beautiful mind"

People, you came across friends
Also, contributors  not the enemies
The country and the continents
Deeply cared for landmarks
The monuments how you love
her birthmark taking her hand

The Godly land such will command
moonwalker deeply cared for
All watered deep soul of lovers
The world of hands and
words became
such an impact

You felt like the creature so extinct

We all start the same,
a ***** and a egg.
Then we are born.
Some are shaped and molded
made to perfection
never to be folded.
But some are like me,
we shape ourselves.
We hate those people,
who get put on shelves.
But deep down inside,
I wish I was molded.
Not folded and turned
I wish I was a trophy
to show on the shelves.

I.

I'm a growing polliwog,
not a butterfly--

pickled legs hang off of my fish body
and gills close off so rapidly.
A minute ago I could caress the water
and make oxygen bubble in my throat. Now

beating,

pulsing

lungs intrude
like pink bubble gum ready to pop.


What a sadistic word,

oxygen.


II.

After a little nap in a sleeping bag
butterflies are monarchs,
stained glass fluttering perfection,

symbols of luck,

symbols of
beauty,
Their wired bodies are scribbled together
like starving supermodels.


III.

And my seams are

!slowly!  

pinching themselves open,
a la Frankenstein.

I want to think these body parts are mine:

A tentative nose,

very green pointillism eyes
with lashes like brittle grass or bent nails,

These white playdough thighs,
and stretchmarks like remnants of lace
chewed up by my insane canine.

Pink.
Dainty and tangled on my legs,
I think they look like jet-streams lit by sunset.

where is that Dettol cream
to soothe these burns
tearing up my fragile skin

can’t handle these
children in conversations,
at the dinner table, like Pinot Noir
a stain on the embroidery,

what has happened to the Panadol
on the twelfth shelf of the walk in pantry
we’re all going to throw a *****

it’s all plasters, plastercine
playdough, dresses with cheap
cliché’ commercial slogans -

such a numb drum melody,
the top shelf
of every pantry is a *****,
might as well lend a little
helping hand, sponsor a child
charity

i remember the meningitis scare:
   oh... it was very real...
i guess it was supposed to affect a niche
proportion of the population...

so much for the "scare":
they would vaccinate us in the schools:
since children were more prone
to succumb to: and inflammation of
the lining around your brain and spinal cord...

and all that: press a thumb against
a skin... and if the skin returns to its original
colouring: there's no blemish of applied
pressure... pressing glasses onto the skin too...

the aesthetics have changed so drastically:
what can **** you is so subtle these days...
it's hardly a case of leprosy...
or... eczema of the zombie plague:
or miniature lilal mushrooms growing
out from your armpits:
suddenly breaking into song:
  'steve told us to sing... so we have
sprouted: to sing!'
       no... celeriac sized warts... hell...
i haven't seen any pictures of covid-19...
as i never saw pictures of ebola...

            death has been given: an anonymity...
but what's still kept in reserve?
shingles...
     like: hyper-eczema...
                i'm having to consolidate myself
on the luck of being 30+ and still having...
a skin on my face that i can't peel:
but i'm sure that belzeebub took a dump on...

they're either dead maggots
or dead white blood-cells...
        i guess i have so many of the latter that...
my immune system is constantly
on a over-charge mode...
          
    where are the lilac mushrooms about to grow
out from out of my armpits:
when will death become visible again:
outside her womb:
without any anonymity to behold:
when will everything... "ev'fing"
  return to the obviousness of a guillotine...
a hangman...
      a... hanged, drawn and... quartered?

the improved aesthetics of the threat is hardly
be sitting in an armchair...
welcoming this: paranoia precursor...
there's no phosphorescent yellow-green phlegm
being shot through the air with a sneeze...

i'm quite disturbed about all this...
        "sterility"...
                      well thankfuly i know that
a schizophrenic can't beget a drone-replica:
dead'ed brain: "schizz"... zombie-cult-esque
   brain: riddled with parasites like...
a disciple of burrough's fever might provide:
subsequently... by...
   by caughing a splitting-headache that might:
somehow: "later": arrive at some variation
of bilingualism...
          but never will... perhaps it should...

because: right now: i want to wrong about everything...
i want to ****** with a hard-on of doubt...
and perhaps: tease negation a little...
or rub-rub-'er very much...
but i do: most honestly...
    want to be wrong about everything...
esp. when it comes to...
   the aesthetics of the "problem":
    it's a problem-solution: solution-problem
  quadratic...
           i mean: if it was truly cosmic... and original...
would it really care for much of aesthetics...
can viruses becomes stealth assassins?
   is a virus a misnomer of plague?
or is... a virus a former case of plague...
  that couldn't be: prior... weaponized?
   the rampant exfoliation of: the obliterated
concern for aesthetics...
   oh sure... it's clean cut...
           god knows what happened to those old
curiosities of medicine...

otherwise...

   what will 3 hours spent reading nothing but
Dickens do to you...
me? i "somehow" managed to miss / forget
about a sunset...
   came the night and... yeah: when meningitis
hit...
   and i guess after the mad-cow disease...
break-dancing limp feet cows...
drunk cows... morbidly drunk cows...

      there was always that postcard reference:
now?
you could obviously see the bubonic plague
from a mile away...
you could see eczema...
you can sure as **** see a shingles belt...
        would a virus even care...
to appease the aesthetic concerns of man?
how doesn't cancer do that...
well... i just start thinking about...
the botanical cancer... viscum...
hardly seen in western europe: tree-foundation
societies... etc.
   half an hour on the road outside of warsaw...
that's enough...

oh sure: because of covid-19:
who could, "somehow" forget about...
                  metastatic tumors!
oh the joys of... <cough cough> the carousel
or that ol' chestnut!
            come to think of it...
    would ingesting a tapeworm make thinks and things
more real?
what wouldn't be bad
about acquiring a symbiote these days?
     all: postulations of the mundane...
without yet within the science-fiction universe...
the facts will simply not stand the test
of time... or will... but will be shelved...
given to the bookworms and their placenta
worm-queen...

it's actually becoming a sieving tool for acquiring
nothing lost: of the old mundane...
the sterile aesthetics of the whole under-taking...
it's too: invisible: too pure...
to be... a freakish byproduct of nature...
sending us back in time...
as the original: single-cell organism
about to usurp the crown of creation...

    my list of conspiracy theories begins
with: catcher in the rye "coincidences" and...
that david copperfield sort of *******...
      because if it's not Pickwican...
it's certainly not an account of count
smorltork:
        peek - christian name
                weeks - surname; good, ver good...

otherwise these days:
the intellect has become a sponge...
and the supposed underlying:
because it is "supposed" and there's an
"underlying" aspect to all of this...
that there is a "dialectic" and...
otherwise: the bestest of the best kind
of...            soap...

is it a revival of an "empire"...
when at the height of its decline...
there was that motto:

     panem et circenses...

     what's underlying in Dickensian prose?
well... some of the words used...
i'd sit with a page and check the dictionary
3 times on average...
because there's still that underlying:
we, Britons, prior to the "english"...
the anglo-saxons... are the Afghanistan
oopsies of the ancient world...
there are so many words with direct
connection: etymologically "speaking"
with latin...

now: the bread is still "here"...
   of the 20th century... you could see a ****
coming way back in 1933...
and the communist... whenever that happened...
and you could subsequently trickle the "evil"
archetype into movies... into gaming...
and have people hooked on a bullseye of evil...

now? greyish blips and blobs of
Kantian bureaucracy...
    
o.k. panem et circenses...
looks to me...
like the circuses are long gone...
the bread is still here...
but... of all the seismic shifts this is...
hardly a ffffffffffff-ucking Pompeii!
riddle me this: riddle me that...
what can possibly become so... overly entertaining...
about eating a slice of bread?
why are the vermin: multiplying:
what's with all this: "huddling" at a distance?
need a cape with that: herr ubermensch?

last time i checked: rats do no operated
under herd scriptures...
there's not need for a shepherd...
there is: fire! scramble!
peep-squeak and more!
          
    an impeding confrontation with a pack of wolves...
a vegetarian lion convert...
                 the bubonic plague: lack of aesthetic...
and now this...
this supreme aesthetic of: when the ancient greeks
thirsted to conceive of the existence
of atoms...
          not that i require proof...
what so of circus: though...
      is, this?!

- yes folks... in the current climate of labyrinths...
the Minotaur isn't here...
and we're out of stock on smoke...
and... mirrors...

citations of a possible prediction to allign with
some variation of borrowed horrors:
to usurp the status quo and sentences us for:
there's no "third time lucky" therein...

all that's happened though:
mental people who would never allow
their minds to riddle them...
become claustrophobic by mere thought...
can you?
translate thinking into claustrophobia?
oh god... no... we haven't reached this nadir...
have we?
thought didn't imply θ(ought)!
that erotica of a would be pronoun:
the moral quest...
                  not because i did something bad
in the past...
but because:
i did what others didn't do prior to me...
i ride the wave of what a *******
said to me once:
after an ******:
this is only the second time it has happened
to me: hello ***** envy thrown out of the window!
hello sisters of mercy in some convent
in Limerick!
'allo! 'allo!

beside the moral conundrum of θ(ought): ought i?
this narrative of the ol' 'ed...
is... claustrophobic?
             spread this negation-of-ease further:
dear kin!
   dis- prefix that denotes negation...
ah... and -ease! the suffix that complete the circle:
no contemplation is necessary!

i'm still seeing bread, though...
oh mein gott! die zirkusse! die zirkusse!
what can be done about the circuses?!

people are coupling thinking with claustrophobia...
people are implored to read
for at least 3 hours a day!
a dickens! a tolstoy! a dumas!
and then relax from congesting paragraph strain
and explore the airy side of what was
written into prose and paragraph with
the aid of poetics: that non-exclusivity of rhyme:
always missing... best missing!

i too abhor this synonym:
poetry is what rhymes...
            a set list of: knock-knock jokes...
about as tasteful as...
               roast beef: done well done...
eating the bark of wood:
now that's an adventure!

            or what's... the adjective riddle / riddled...
of: now...
permanent - adjective... these days a host
of "calling scheitmeiser for all his worth"
and what not...      
                               now: the experimental
history of yesterday and "oops"
now: the cameo cinema of yesterday...
and god willing:
you have a "savings account"
of: memories that can...
suffocate the future: the imagining...
of and for the nought of nothing...
the "conundrum": of being...
such and such... and somehow...
retain: personhood...
rather than... a mere... citizentry "status"...
of the ebbing flow of cattle meat and dung:
itsy-bitsy spider teeth itching...
before the bone!
and... after the bones!

load of crock-**** Lombardy is not
Italy... mantra...
and those rites of rats from
the sinking ship that's Wenice...
much too... quasi-important...

      H - surd of a letter...
but the skeleton supposed to behind:
laughter...

the hibernian folk know it...
the english: eh... somewhat...
          bound to θ and bound to φ...
in t'ought... but not in: t'aught...
who needs the apostrophe?
no me: not "you"...
         third: or... θird:
or... ****... or τ(au) says: "herd"...
                             and what's "spezial"...
the surd worth of π (pi)
     in ψ...
                    or      'sychology...
              then there's "all that" with...
chrome: the χ that becomes a kappa (κ)...
but not... exactly the...
the...      ah!                   CHisel!
chasing dog's tails?

                            but a hardy: hibernian:
it's not an F... it's a T...
we have to expose the H-surd! primo
pronto!

    but ψ can afford...
          πσι in that...
                      either the π... or the π...
is treated as a surd..
cited: the whittle canyon of eta (Ηη)..
            ha: if it's a definite article in 'ebrew...
or ha: if... you need a consonant
skeleton... to breathe when laughing...

toes when marching: chin ching chatter...
otherwise "K / kappa" the matter...
taught to think it all but a massive:
****!
   or... a θurd... which is exfoliating in
the gaellic concept of: third...

i'm not from 'ere...
              mind you...
              this is all disneyland for m'eh et moi...
hello whittle atom me...
hello whittle atom you...
hello: hyvä aamu... susie 'ere...
       rakastaa... että ulvonta...
                 "unohti" haukkua:
fins... drawfs... and other whittle people...
eskimos of the "narrative":
   "kaikki alkaen apinamaa"!
    pωl pυt ***...
             and there's "3" of 'em!
exactly... what about the V'em...
             perhaps a F'ought...
      but: V'ere!
            V'em!
                            who the **** gets to
assure me: this language "ving" or "thin"...
sure hands... sure hands...
it's not all grafitti from chernobyll!

and what if... Joycean would 'ave to begin
its pilgrimage toward Dickensian?
this Ezra of ours: what of this...Ezra of
Fahrenheit of "ours"?

           my atom "versus" your... "atomized" man?
my spaghetti english
versus your... i'll sooner choke on ß...
or SuS...
         or SaS
                  SeS...          sayß...
h'american spaghetti english... *** riddled:
ghetto crown-tongue...


me and finding a juggling of chuckles
with: wit... hiding the ha ha...
when θ = τ...
hibernian...
poland the playground of god:
greek... the plaground of men...
esp. those as being cited:
with origin of the barbarian tinge...

  exatly! what of WH when TH are....
thought of "wen":
this grafitti phpneticism...
this barbarism...
no code of "conduct":
what should have:
and did "have": a happen to...
when it came to the ratio
of consonants to vowels...
  of the latter there was a supposed more...
or the latter a less...

    h.i.v. vampirism romances
would have to die...
  a death... most... closely associated with:
psychopaths: or...
the general pathology is: soul-quests...
all "things" considered...
there is no "grand-Σ"
        "past-participle":
of the unconscious-conscious liver...
does the part: actor... functions
of... i robot: you, not here...

the liver does what a liver does:
even if: i r woke...
and i r: sleepz...
               eyes only on when...
orientating myself around:
a failure of a distinct "individual":
moi foie premier...
   moi estomac premier...
and of "me" or... a me...
given that... there's no: "the me"...
            load of ******* and a chewing tube
of "worded"... "circumstances"...
as: "the alternative" to...
sorry... no other alternative...
was... or would ever... be given...
errror message 404 commences: as of: now!

- or... can you?
compensate a word like... draconian...
with a word... the periphery word...
akin to... byzantine?!
the kite's high up in the ******* air
my dear lad...
can you? "compensate" this...
marry of all other:
never-poppin' up 'ins?!

that's one way of minding:
a grey-ginger...
or an albino-masai...
for "good luck"... of all t'ings:
the lerprechaun 'ucking charm brigade!
that's just 'ucking necessary: that is!

as.... the people have already mentioned
their freedom: to cite and keep up to
the rigours of salutations...
they said and they said... and they:
sad but nonetheless: they sad-***-made-"truth"-of...
"it": 'ucking wombat
multiverse l.s.d.: me typing on an old... cranky...
soviet "qwerty" imitation...

the freedom prior to the plague:
i am yet to see...
the **** covid... and the leprechaun...
and the tarantula...
and the... leech...
   **** me: raining cats and dogs:
what a scenario!
     i was supposed to get...
               not leech: not *****...
those fidgeting terse quizzes...
          *****... no... leech... no...
leprechauns: double no...
             szarańcza... old mother-tongue:
ah yes... "these":
                                 locust!

the third of the lard off the herd of the most:
"likely"... nosense to me:
something for you:              up!
otherwise know as:
quiet a bollocking... wouldn't you,
somehow... please... stage:
an agreed to?
               ****'s sake...

  tyrd the triddle twiddle torn und
towing: dublin the sorry-eye: und sore...
you freckled maverick salt
burner you... and... it's a ginger:
stick-prone... keep y'er eager distance...

eh? that's true: is what's through...
**** paddy **** and a poor ******
walk into a bar...
and the bartender is... a kippah-don
of a rastafarian:
the jokes end...
and there was never a conversation
to begin with... ha ha!
now that's a joke... to wake up...
a frankenstein!

      ginger pleb: ginger poodle!
the new africa: the new eskimo...
or... the finnish gateway: etymologically speaking...
an alternative to... *** and...
              the leftover mongols
stranded by the waters
of the empire: receding...
          the...        no: not the croats...
the...
          a very much elongating concept
of pause....
              "d" or the "v" of: v'eh...: the...
the  immortal savages
of: crimea...
      ah yes!
                  those...            tar-tars!
like the tartare steak:
or what was forever available as
the alibi for: sushi!

        because tokyo is just one of those...
forever huan: new... beijing chicken shacks...
and "tokyo"...
or some other anime typo *******...

irish catholic intellectuals...
and... the none existence of whatever
would have required a magna carta:
believe it or... eat **** sort of
mentality...
            the russian doctors
are already abiding to be hunted
if not huddling in churches...
because: co-vex said: co-vid...
co-vid: sharing blockbuster intrusion
pokes was: that last resort to
mortality: and oh...

          this should have happened a long...
a long long time ago...
  transparency tourism...
where you going?
nowhere...
  and "where" is "going"... "nowhere"...
a bit like france... and the eiffel tower...
and there's no speaking french to have
to be resolved...
because like: "**** it" and what?

the ginger-ninja... the ginger-ninja...
the ginger-ninja and...
when the reality of *****...
reaches... an escalation "reality"
of: synonym with... oh god! beards!
ugh!           vot                          ven?!

yep... and the irish were always:
the horse-breeders..
they always were...
always the catholic-intellect juggernauts...
because the hey'talians and
the spoon-innards...
and... mon deu: zee: fwench!
forget the ****** cathos-pathos...
*******-of-os...

and in me:
the gravitas for a disconcerting ambivalence...
almost a compound:
misnomer... but no...
i like the spaghetti though...
yeah: it looks nice on paper...
and off paper...
and anything to cite: the godfather with...
because: boo is a ghost story
that a solo would sell... and ******* like
that...                   yup...
which is a word: to replace the ideal trajectory of:
would be: ghost limb...
james bond...
                          roulette...
you the actors "faking it": no of course...
dylan thomas bob dylan...
"faking it" i.e. stunt actors!
what's "bob": when there's a ******* roulette:
and a devil's dozen of rich, russian...
oligarchal chick... pretending plastic is not...
new world... ******: comb-over...
creaking chair... stlye-on... style-off...
plastico-supermanoh... dynamo-oh-oh...
those "soz" and "whatsevers"...
works well...
the times column...
when your parents are... conscripted...

             mammoth playdough oh oh oh...
irish is cheap...
catholic is cheap-oh...
******...
ha ha... let's not go there...
becauße that's like...
   goldberg variations: the bwv 988 aria...
   yeah: "soz"... but... i'll ******* eat you:
if i have to: for the purpose assigned
to a hard-on... most associated with...
sparrows...
and... the pirates of the confines...
the magpies...
          
             in every period of congregational
"sanity" there's that interlude into:
madness...
howl how! oh dear world of:
that lost appetite of surprise!
        you begin to wither... and die off:
by the slow culmination of hours...
like... a picture to entomb the perfecting
affair of a decaying pear... or apple...
               and...

            and....                 and...
trickling of sentiments...
and sounds...

                           and there are commentaries...
and there are... catholic bishops...
and protestant cardinals...
and ****** popes!             ah ha!
am i to.. truly... die... from laughter?!

flesh is nothing but a plastic cover
and if you s t r e t c h it far enough
the seams begin to rip, hovering
a guideline instead of a fence

a tongue is nothing but a stretchy strawberry
and if you cut it clean in half
the seeds disperse, swearing
to rearrange the words into normal speech

the brain is nothing but playdough
and if you let it mold
the pink uncoils, forgetting Plato
remembering nothing

the smile is nothing but a bunch of ugly mirrors
and if you rip them out by the roots
the spotlights reverse, it only gets worse
and you stare at your self-destruction for eternity.

.i lied in doubly toasted rye bread and some larry tesler epitaphs... toasted rye bread... better with baltic sushi... raw herrings in a creamy sauce... perhaps a creamy sauce with dill... more like apples and pickles... toasted rye bread with baltic sushi... herrings... smoked salmon is luxury... just the basics will do... a smoked salmon can have its bagel... as long as the toasted rye gets its herrings.

some thigs just have to wait for no apparent "rightness"
of time - a corvus corax album from 2009 only arrived
into my ears late sunday evening -
mille anni passi sunt - and no... i do not know what sort
of radio station would play this sort of music...
nor anything from 13th cent. "pleb" music of the countryside
or "heretic" monks that do not fit the criteria
of "classical"... i.e. "worthwhile"...

two sips of ms. amber / well a decent double with
pepsi max will jolt the memory:
or at least that's the hope -
yesterday two decent doubles allowed the coils
to unwind - alas - no pen and paper -
but a witness - a cat sleeping in a chair:
i'm pretty the sure the world won't mind if:
another of my diatribe spews heads into two
directions: infinity and nothingness -
                              perhaps tonight i will pick up
the scraps from what i "ought" to have written
down...                well... this is hardly
going to be words penned to paper to be later
required oratory material...

i can't exactly call them thought experiments...
if i believed in thought experiments...
i'd be... an oyster... or a clam...
  basically an mollusk - not quiet a stone...
but a shell - how did the oyster get his shell?
and why didn't the stone get...
a cell of celluloid / cellulite brain?
              the mountain has muhammad:
of that i am certain...  thought experiments...
not when you're about to do some manual labour...

i've been asking for my neighbour to put
up her garden fence for 15 years...
if not me then someone else...
she's put up a 5th of the garden's length...
the rest would remain covered by the foliage
in my garden... one storm... nothing...
two storms... nothing... then something...
the 5th of the garden length would topple...
until a new 5th of the garden's length would
be put up...
roots... ****** roots...
well... i felt lucky... this year we saw 3 or 4 storms
batter these islands consecutively...
the guys that were going to put up
the fence came... i gave them 250quid to cut
all the shrubbery in my garden...
after all: i do have tools... but a chainsaw i don't
have...
the fence is up... but the garden is in part
barren...
the shurbs and trees are gone:
i'm thinking of planting some dwarf apple / pear
trees... the plum tree took to the earth a few
years back... the cherry tree (morello cheery):
i'll give her another year:
she bloomed last year but only bore 2 fruits...
maybe she's shy...
well great... the shrubbery is gone...
but... roots... those ****** roots...
       we are talking london, we are talking:
a city built on clay...
it doesn't take long... not even half a meter
of digging before you reach this playdough
fudge layer of the soil...
     even if it is a dwarf tree or a shrub...
a holly... as i learned... even with a fork and mini
fork... a proper ***** and a mini *****...
a blunt axe and a heavy hammer...
digging up the roots'-head with some of
the roots intact can take somewhere between
2 to 4 hours...

                yesterday i managed 3...
which took me... roughly 6 hours... while i
uncovered a 4th...
   manual labour... better than going to the gym...
i really didn't know i had this muscle
in my body... or this sort of cartilage...
this tendon... i think i stood before a whole class
of students of medicine and gave them
an arithemetic of my lower thoraic and almost
all of my lumbar muscles...
but that's the beauty: i guess...
once you get on your knees and work with
earth, with roots, trees, once you unearth
the earthworms and cut them in half as you're
digging: well... they have an in-built clone
regrowth... the only music came from the birds
celebrating: renovation! food!
i wished for a radio... but then i uttered
a word or two and meditated on it -
perhaps it was a word - perhaps it was a phrase...
later that day i made east european dumplings...
a filling of last sunday's poacked chicken
meat (which is always a problem -
what do you do with poacked chicken meat
after you made a decent clear soup from it?),
mushrooms - sauerkraut - spices - blah blah...
but... first i sniffed my hands...
imbued with all the scents of the earth...
the dirst and the clay and the wood merging...
that... for the sensual contrast of later working
with flour and water for the dumplings' dough!

yesterday i lay in bed on this ******* carousel
wheel of "narrative"...
what if i forget it... i'll wake up and write it down...
7am... write this sort of ******* down?
i don't think so... lucky for me yesterday ended
with heavy rain... i almost wanted to fall asleep
to the sound of rain... it wasn't loud enough...
for a long time: it's either with earphones in...
or no... no other alternative...
      most relationships probably failed because:
"i wasn't there"... when trying to find the la la land
of nox...

               when writing: even feel a senstation
in your feet... as if you feet are standing
on the ceiling? the whole body translates into
a mild sensation of up-side-down...
ever write and while writing: feel the insane barrel
of laughter from a sensation that your feet
are attached to the ceiling?
   never mind...

   my eyes shouldn't be staring at this glaring screen
this late anyway... i should be listening
to radio.fama.pl with the screen blacked-out...
perhaps a candle in the room...
but mostly the light coming from the cigarette
being dragged... nothing more...
today is an exception: superstitious in that:
if i don't write this today:
tommorow would be cindarella of this...
no memor: there's already barely any cohesion...

today i was lucky: i only dug up one root-head...
2 hours... given that i had to do so...
while at the same time not disturbing the fern...
even thought the roots of the head were
weaving themselves around the fern...
had to tie up the fern so she wouldn't get in the way...
what a pretty man-bun of hair...
hail shiva!     or any other long-haired deity
that does... boquetes of hair for a living...
the fern was spared...

   back in the garden... a literal swamp...
that jasmine and her labyrinth of roots...
not to mention an ancient copper plated tube
with a cable that i dug up... and the old fence posts...
these biggo concrete dollops with metal...
literally a swamp... if this isn't what Ypres looked
like on a good day: then i'd be swimming
in cow-**** shambo on a bad day...
and this London clay... it...
you don't even dig up half a meter into the earth
and... you get a puddle of water...
work... in these conditions?
do i look like i'm going to mud-wrestle?

what sort of thought experiment can you take
into manual labour of this sort...
the sort that isn't going to the gym...
thought experiment = entertain a hypothetical
x, y and z? the "what if"?
i need to take a phrase with me...
i overheard it somewhere...

man is a human: doing...
woman is a human: being...
so i took that...

along came descartes and kant...
      along came the word ontological:
misnomer - oncology -
with oncology came: the cancer within botany...
mistletoe... if you've ever seen it grow
in the wild... go to Poland...
Warsaw will do... 10 miles in either direction...
after all... Poland isn't England...
there's no Royal Society for the preservation
of trees... mistletoe in the wild...
botanical cancer... now if i am to have
cancer... unlikely... i'm more prone to alcoholism
related deaths and dementia -
i just think of mistletoe... botanical cancer...
and it's in the tradition to: kiss under it...
anyways and who...

                    cogito ergo sum...
is that an a priori statement...
                     or an a posteriori statement...
it's hardly a maxim -
   a maxim according to which you'd be able
to extract an imperative of sorts -
caterogical or impartial - imperative and
and adjective of your choice -
                        yes... where i come from...
certain things are given SHE-pronouns...
most things botanical... except the oak...
an oak is a male in botany...
where i come from... the sun is female...
the moon is male... unlike in english...
where the words do not give pronoun impressions
designating "***"... that comes later...
with pictures... borrowed...
     comes with the turf... emoji hieroglyphs:
h'america first...
                         well and second...
                i don't hear news from France about
"misgendering" someone...
given how french grammar has explicit masculine and
feminine terms...
so... on your own...

i hear the debate... but... i don't even have
a two cent's worth of an argument...
              the iron curtain is down...
i'm in england and i'm looking at the silicone veil
and i'm saying: there's no me on the moon...
and if i'd really want to escape...
antarctica or... afghanistan... among the pashtun
women...
problem with both... i don't play the ***-tar
so good as to remember all the radio i'd miss...
i once heard the most beautiful adhan and cried...
then again: what if the mu'azzin
sounds like a goat grabbed by the testicles about
to be castrated?! and not the mu'azzin
i heard recorded?
i once cried hearing...
                         vaughan williams - fantasia on
a theme by thomas tallis...
once again when hearing ola gjeilo's...
either o magnum mysterium or northern lights...
beauty is transcendental: a priori -
          true beauty is transcendental: a priori -
because these pieces of music i heard for the first
time... and rejoiced with tears...
crying and laughter - not antonyms...
                                           implicitly i.e.:
when you're crying you're laughing vice versa etc.,
it's hard to laugh at music...
one can laugh at one's ****** response
to the body... but not when the body has found
serenity... or anguish...
             of a burden of the heart...
the ears to listen with... and that the eyes would
be far better off... without sight...
as two agape holes of a cave through
which a stream flows and arrives as a cascade point
for a waterfall...

i won't "solve" cogito ergo sum:
whether it's a priori or a posteriori...
what did cogito spawn though?
res cogitans - res extensa -
                     we're talking manual labour...
thank god heidegger didn't come along
with his hammer and suggest that someone
intent of working manually would...
somehow talk about philosophical matters on
the side...
                       that's the "hammer"... "apparently"...
no... it came down to:
man is a human: doing...
  woman is a human: being... i had to exclaim
out-loud trying to not interrupt the birds...

it's just convenient... to call man a human doing
and woman a human being...
do                                     b-ING-o!
be                                 b-ING-o!
               try another language...
                i'm sure it sounds better than just that...
человеческое дело...

          just as i thought...

                     ludzkie dzieło - ludzki czyn...
but i think i concentrated on the latter:
ludzki czyn...
                         after all: ludzki byt -
doesn't really translated into: ludzkie bycie -
with bycie - being -
                            isn't being: interchangeable
with existence - as in onto per se, for being
to be grasped from omni ex: out of this and every
other instance?
    
who would take a thought experiment when
undertaking some decent manual labour?
thought experiments are for sitting in a leather chair
and farting into it - basking in the glory
of theoretical solipsism - later translated
into a crowded tube train...
imagining oneself farting scented candle
magic fairy dust of dried strawberries!

             i don't have time for thought experiments...
i'll give up my hands to the earth
and to the trees the earthworms and the roots...
my bob the builder's ***-crack to the winds...
or... my akbir to the birds...
               my al-qiyyam to the work before me...
my ruku to the morning...
                  my sujud to the setting sun...
         and that last bit... counting the number
of new parts of my body i've used...
but no... no thought experiments...
three words in latin... yes...
                              five words... sven the seventh...
perhaps... but certainl a bilingual crossword
puzzle... and definitely meditating
on cyrillic letters... and greek...
        i'm yet to escape the grip of runes...
and of braille... and of hebrew...
                              and return to the old father...
   who still seems rather unreal...
to think that "my" people had a pre-existing latin
text... and that it somehow is not tied
to the runes... nor to the greek (as such)
nor arabic... not sanskirt...
                  a revived interest...
                          on the british isles anything
can be a revived interest...
         if marx came up with communism in
england... i can up with...
a tatto parlour where people don't make
a mistake of having chinese ideograms
tattooed onto themselves...
                                           ⰁⰉⰅⰎ
    ⰝⰅⰓⰐⰑ                       -
                           in decline because?
                               shared patterns...
even with the runes... R and not ᚱ
                        ᚠ and not F?
                                     ᛒ and not B?
                                              agreed upon...
           but i guess just because we share this...
latin text without any latin being so much
spoken outside of maxim / proverb / the crown...
no latin slang...
                            whatever this was...
i had to write it... a second time it would have
suffocated me and given me amnesia upon
waking.

It ain't no mountain high-__++
enough heart stickers 2 pluses
But----she's beat like someone's
playdough high setting
diamond in the rough
High level of mercury felt tough
Like the good will hunting

Let's fulfill our dream with
less talking
More snorkeling high hopes
Big escape important titles
Such a Sperling report high crime
she got high hopes
A kiss is not a kiss
Casablanca
Piano many riddles

The delicate mood became the
Joker her low jeweled belly bottom
He could just pinch her
His paint when smoke gets in your long
Eyelashes the temptation her eyes
of infatuation
How he can move
her schoolgirl crush

The mountains
The holiday sweet baked sun cookies
He was lady looker starting
fresh like a rookie

All loving to the end of her earth

The painter Gogh the fine feather brush
Could lift smiles like hot gold rush

Way below I see something
My eyes became the hidden lake,
My body got exposed to the shining light
The Knight high tempo until the daylight
But there is a high price that's all
I could take almost my blindsight
Her body elevated

She sighs the law and order
The highest authority constitution
the movie camera high action
Higher force of her revelation
Like her Crescendo Moon
Hot body stimulation
But she became to see the
lower state of mind taking the
Xanax route

High hopes she touched the
Goddard

The Searching her lips
piercing she losing her grip

What a hot Australian dude swap
Kicking around in his boots the
  rain puddles of love hurdle
The high raft of the tortoise turtles

My heart lies the crescendo
Such a high tempo she screams

Opening up high five
my exclusively yours
Hot five emails to find got
so excited until etc--

A mountain of broken hearts
Luv her favorite journey high
living totally fab
Those hubs and cool London pubs
On the edge of ecstasy but my dark
midnight pup labs jump up the vibe

The earth stood like a still life
The darkness and the red moon
Everything I thought of came true
bleeding
The high sounds of the clock
Striking at midnight
I felt the coach driving up the
Godmother not the fairest of Bees
They were swarming high seas
And left me on my scared knees

Some leftover Crescendo of honey
His chinny chin Big Foot beard-man
High waist lady gold bonds
of money

Howling wolf complex mixture
of her body curves too many

Symphonies playing
Like something never failed
Seeing the beauty rainfall
Mermaid Tail

Like the crest of
Tsunami all the selfie's
MeMe high tea hours
100 feet he could
of very well
wanted so much
to kiss her high-cheeks
But finding the treasure
lips curved-low

Italiano tempered the wicked concert
Concerto higher up temptation
High tempo hot soup
Louisiana red hot tabasco
 You gotta have her gumbo

Going to the Mountaintop
Mr. Concerto meeting
the computer
Mr. Dumbo what an
Mc Jumbo
burger the "Clicker Bar"
The stars eating away
The greens of her eyes
Living in a hut spitting
pits of olives 
 
Spicy ladies of pimento
In young and restless town
Sacramento
She was sitting her name Sofia  
High rise body elevated
The wicker chair (Loren)
Contemplated
Hearing a sharp squeak
of his shoe that is his affair
He was walking
toward her

He fired out pool shark
Like the Crescendo cafe all neck
out like giraffes to dusk at night
Two heads are stirring
better than one smooth
spread Jiffy butter
Enjoying their cappuccino
the flamingo dancers the bodies
sway together to be engaged
Licks of her envelope
He kissed up to her first sip
Hot mouth expresso

The Pacific high tempo soprano
the mountain can be terrific
Be more specific

That girl Marlo with the
 higher latitude in St Thomas
it won't bring back
a love quicker
Our minds get slower
Using her useless hair blower
"Pacific Crest Inn"
Mind controller
Bathing on sun worshipping
What a star turning point

But lower and deserted on an island
Like smoking the sun up with a joint
the Apennines Italy like pennies for
her thought
The lust crest of her waving high
Surrender my love (Silverback)
Glitter silver high tent

Rainforest of Gorillas
Monkey *** swinging and surfing the
High society ladies what a fly-by event
High Apple Martinique the computer
Felt flooded like she could use a drink
Yes we have bruised bananas and
horn-blowers those outfitters
out of their minds towners
They never leave the crazy freeloaders
Shell be coming around your mountain

High tempo voice meet
Tatiana of the  black crow plantation

Feeling the soulful E-Harmony
Coupling eyes of tears Seattle
Cows and sheep all stacks of hay cattle
Right now her salvation she needed
something lighter not exactly higher
The Sierra Nevada crest she looked up
She went back to her Mediterranean villa
Looking at her pearly white teeth
And said what is with all this crest
I have the best hours with
my crest toothpaste lower teeth
being brushed to the higher height of
my top mountain teeth
That crescendo
was my new birth

You push me,
shout at me,
pull me around
like I exist as a form of playdough;
one which molds at your touch,
like you are my creator,
and I, just your masterpiece.

Like I am an object,
a toy,
some plastic, a bit of wire.

Even if that may be,
even if you reduce me to
be held in the eyes of a child,
is that all I am?
Am I not more?

Does a child not feel?
Not love?
Not play?

How is a child’s love any less than yours?
How am I any less worthy?

I am not a ball of dough.
I am not to be rolled around.
To be pushed;
to be shoved.

I will not let your words penetrate me.
I will stay guarded;
strong.
I will not unravel under the thread of your fingertips;
I will only be picked apart by my own.

Resilient.

Like the last breath of a flickering bulb,
those sweet sorrow seconds of a candle
right before the flame dies down.

I am a flame, and I will be fire,
and I will not be stopped.

i generally feel constipated... that's probably
the best word to use... constipated...
   i was sitting in Warsaw's modlin
airport, and it felt, very much like
a scene from james tissot's painting:
  the ruins (inner voices).
i just kept admiring this guys
     beard,
  in western lingo he'd be classified
as hipter...
             **** me! so much ***** hair!
resurgence of my beard-envy...
  my my, if i only donned such a bush,
i'd be the first one on the dancefloor
peacocking a ******* of sweat and leather
grit...
    alas! not to be.
       a thought concerning a cottage
and a return to the countryside did shine
for a bit... how i remembered having
a russian girlfriend and how i couldn't
see a larionov, or a tatlin, or a goncharova...
  or a mashkov...
           a kuprin... a konchalovsky...
    shukhatev ****** grigoriev...
i also call that: predating the selfie,
  via ilya repin...
           see?! constipation...
      i'm literally bound to heave this tomb of
past lives, expected to recount some chess-prodigy
or some other, chess-komtur.
                     for the help of god i can't ease out
a **** into the toilet that's supposed to be
human history, for the love or antagonism of:
the abstract deity...
     back when it meant concrete things:
hades the shadow-******, zeus the lightning bolt
  and incarnate libido-starved swan,
poseidon and juiced up knicker-oysters
    of a woman's genitals... so they came:
with their floral pattern analogies!
                        my, and what a worldly invitation
that came to be... niqab bound, or by western standard:
  a little more than the pauper's veil...
     enough dough to cage the poor women
and keep them motivated to live, that dull
         caricature everyone else knows to be life...
    i should have stood up and gave my
investment into jealousy, right there and then...
it's unfair that you have more ***** hairs
on your neck, cheeks and chin than i!
             oi! give me the same fertility gimmick!
that's me, and there's people doing cossack
adventures into outer-space...
                       it's like i want to laugh...
but i can't, because i'm suffocating on paper mâché...
yes, i feel constipated,
     if i'm to be called a civilised person,
and not a barbarian...
     i somehow, have to, ingest,
this backlog of human art,
     i have to know certain names
i might recall for a baby-shower congregation...
   and aphrodite gave us aphorisms...
               ****'s sake: anecdotes!
  that's me being a civilised creature...
  but still that ****** constipation...
   there's never enough: because there's too much of it!
and if you cite this painter, outside of Poland:
  matejko...
                                 you'll probably have
a saint's'-feast day named after you...
i really feel bloated...
           i have too much human history to account for,
it's always a case of juggling some grieving
priority...
      as is the loss of experiencing the everyday
pH 7 body temp. 36.6°C...
             i am literally forced into taking up
the role of censor...
     to look cool and not admire the statue of david,
or make a pilgrimage to the Louvre to see Mona Lisa...
a peacock's tail on a flamingo strutting toward
a ****** drama of *******...
               once more, this constipation,
  and this fake, as if: i'm supposed to be thankful for
the ****** inheritance... i ain't!
     take those masterpieces to the grave,
                 while i try to re-apply myself to
creating a thing of beauty from playdough...
                most people never get the idea
of rust, let alone dust...
          thankfully the two words rhyme,
and thus the easier singalong congregation:
   of the ores... sunset hue man,
              extracted brown and burgundy from
polished grey metal...
                and himself laid rest:
              among the sneezing myopic worms
to never be clarified by moth or butter-winged;
so persistent is this cultural constipation
               that it's hard making a footprint
on uncharted land, worth the cool...
           and of those places where culture stomped
as a fascist brute...
                                so much for culture,
that there's this backlog of people expressing
culture, with so many people willing to forget it...
     without a genetic preordinance:
try telling your mechanic father, or plumber
that you're an artist...
                ah **** it... let's end this poem like
a scene from a gang-****...
                               ugly... ugly...
egalitarian... but nonetheless ugly....
                                    i have a museum's worth of
****... and that really is: the prognosis
                              for the next 100 years,
or what's called: undistrubed peace,
   or a piecing together of organising the next
propaganda umbrella, worthy of the noun: zeitgeist.

We are all connected.
The smell of chapstick & playdough.
Pillsbury Dough Boy has to go.

Tomorrow we will make a side trip.
Errands & appointments we can skip.
The right shade of purple & pink for my lips.

Some accessories are necessary.
The right heely shoes of styles so few.
Straight or wavy long hair.
About my appearance I always care.

I want to always look my best.
Hair, makeup, wardrobe, & all the rest.

To age older one day at a time.
Youth & my prime is no longer mine.

Liquid eyeliner to enhance & make finer.
Foundation to even the tone of my ****** skin.

Mascara for my lashes.
Finding clothes that matches.
Some eyeshadow for my lids.
Revealing jewelry where it's hid.

Ironically i wait for time,
to grab me and feed off of me,
taking my youth,innocence,smile,
my memories and people i love ,
so it can create new things out of me
like a playdough, it chushes and takes,
so it can make new things out off the same flesh.

Sometimes I get into this lyfe style. A lyfe style of remorse for feeling bad for myself. A lyfe style of projecting my loneliness on others and trying to title a book titled "The times I've broken my heart". And that's just the start of the story.

 It seems I was walking home one day and the oncoming traffic of the overhead displayed a sign that read "You've caught feelings today" my love was expressed through the form of tears. Or "white lies" I guess you could say because my tears are invisible to others and they're lies disguised till this day like the dust bunnies you sweep under a rug. And I know I messed up by talking to you so much. Because that was my first mistake. Getting attached is the quickest way to getting heartbreak. But to me its something more.

 You see I'm a mold of clay passed around for the whole elementary class to see. Some people jam their fingers in me and others mold me completely differently until no one can even realize I'm playdough so instead I'm just tossed away.

Or an even better one. We'll start with the cliche "I'm a towel put out to dry" but my owner never returned so instead my skin just bleached in the winter and I withered away into a line cloth that eventually floated a stray... Or maybe I was swallowed up by the lies of others who told me I was something more than an eroded piece of ripped line cloth clay.

Whatever the matter I'm an endangered endangerment to myself. I'm not suicidal but my thoughts tell me otherwise. Have you ever looked in a mirror and seen you're two bad sides holding each others hands? Singing lullaby's about how you're lyfes demands are mediocre and no were near ideal. You're a joke to the joker and even worse you're a joke to the ones around you who only see your smile.

 Because they don't even know who you truly are. Maybe if you put away the childish dreams of falling in love and picked up an adult magazine to hide forever any sort of horseplay that comes along with being alone, and being so weak to love.

And maybe that's just it. I'm to weak for love but, I'm to weak to be loved. So maybe my fake strength can offer me an attribute to this loneliness. Or maybe I'll just make a new title and call it "Moving on and moving away"

Its just I easily succumb to the idea of love. And it seems everyone around me doesn't feel the same. So I guess I'll just remain here as dried up shriveled line cloth clay.

and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
    some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
               ∞ = a-z....
                 the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
                         sell her tomatoes...
                               and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
              pet a rat!*

and will i dicta villager simply,
                                                      qualm?!
  ­                  you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
            you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
            avocado fat ****!
let us bravado a chin!
  that double! half-wit quiff!
   fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....                  
           you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
                         which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
    i carve my name in lamb limbs...
                   so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
    as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
      to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
        there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
  into basin...
                             for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
                means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to?       ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
        i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
     a warring tide...
                            there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
     i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
          a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc.        as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.

To you to you
what I wants to say to you;
air sea sky blue
clouds fluffy as sleep
with you,
  oh with you

My arms never tire
of you inside them
how do I stand the
separation when you
leave me,
when you leave me,
take yourself out of me

Hug you so close
like playdough to smoosh
my blue into your red
swirling, that is how

I smell you smell me
I didn't know this
could be so true,
this swelling, sighing
death defying love
of ours like bears
Animal, I devour you

In ankle deep icy rivers
I paw you, nuzzle you
shed your skin
lie with you naked
dangerously
I come
with you anywhere
you want to go

She is scared. Her eyes are red from crying and she is fragile and lost. I smile at her and she smiles back, but mostly because she thinks she is supposed to. She looks like she always does what she’s told. We go to the closet to pick out new clothes from the donations. She will be 12 next month. She wears a size six shirt and size seven pants. She looks undernourished.  I show her the room she will sleep in and let her choose a bed. I tell her how much I love her hair, and what a beautiful name she has. She smiles compliantly. But I can see she is scared.

He is tough. He is six and full of energy. He is a mixture of wanting to please and wanting to be naughty. But after he’s naughty, he is supplicating and desperate for approval. He is naughty again. He is playing on the steps to the upper bunk bed where he will sleep tonight. I ask him not to. He lies, and says he wasn’t. Then a loud cry as his shin connects with an unforgiving wooden step. I pick him up and put him on a chair. “Let me see, buddy.” I pat his back. He shows me and I tell him if he rubs it, it will get better faster. He says he is better. He says he is tough.

She is full of words. She is his six year old twin. She is dressed in a Disney dress and wants me to see. I tell her she is a beautiful princess and ask if she can twirl. She twirls until she is dizzy, then stops and rushes to find my eyes to see if I’m still watching. She is surprised when I am, and I clap with joy at how she can twirl. She is desperate to show me her room, her new shoes, her McDonald’s toy, her backpack. But I mostly see her heart, which is starving for recognition and attention. She is unaccustomed to receiving so much of it. She tells me about her teacher, her playdough, her fingernail. She has a lot to say about everything except what she is going through. She gives me little information. She is full of words.

He is tender. He is three and more verbal and articulate than the six year old. He has big brown cow eyes and tiny wrists. I show him the trains. He plays and plays, now and again glancing up at his infant sister who is crying in my arms, to tell her it’s ok. Back to his trains.  “Thomas the train is scared.” He tells me. “He is just little and he’s scared.” I choke back the sob and tell him Thomas is not alone and that he has friends to help him. I tell him even though he is little and scared, his friends are here for him. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. I hear him tell some other toys that he has to save his mom and sister, and then I remember that domestic violence brought him to our shelter tonight. He is honest. He is smart. He is adorable. He is tender.

She is inconsolable. She is almost six months old, and has tears running down her cheeks. I hold her and I tell her in soothing tones she is special. She tries to drink from her bottle, but then she abruptly stops and wails. I feel guilty that I have to turn my head to breathe for a minute, because she smells so badly. I cannot bathe her until she goes to the hospital for an exam and documentation. She is the one most accurately telling me her feelings tonight, and I can’t help her. I try and I soothe and I walk and I am gentle. But she is inconsolable.

I am undone. I get home and take off the clothes that smell like the baby. I fall in a heap at the cross. I tell Jesus they are no one’s, and they need Him. He tells me they are His. He tells me they are mine.

Turning into the face that you turned into before and you find that the face is the face you can't face anymore so you put on another and it's the same as the last and the face you once cast off is the last one you liked.

It's the makeup, the put-down, the smile that you smile or the frown that you make, a mash of a pancake mix, but you fix it and stick to the programme that's set.

But the faces come back and when you don't even know they start to grow on you, alter your features and you become all those creatures you saw in the film shows, always turning into but never remain, it's like your brain has a failsafe, but it fails to make you feel safe so you switch it on auto.

I know.
so many turnings into and out from and back to the basics.
but it is always the faces that turn,
they're like playdough and plasticine rolled into one and each face is the copy of one gone before.
Each face that I am is the face of the man that I was or became and each turn is the turn in the game that we play as we change every second, every hour,
every day.

The sand underneath his feet is warm-
the sun shines in an empty sky
with the sea, as blue as the playdough
he had as a child

The sea, now resting was once furious-
the wind tormented it for hours
hours that he would always remember
when the wind laughed in his ears
and possessed the boat

As he looks at the sea tears rain from his eyes
the memory of seeing others like him
grabbed by the wind
tossed, shoved, pulled, pushed, before being thrown
and swallowed by the raging sea

now he stands on the shore on the beach
the view is similar to home- but not quite
he stands in a foreign land, with nothing
except his shoes and rags for clothes-
and he holds a baby, but not his.

it's almost impossible to tell them apart -
   that there is a need to "tell them apart" is
an altogether...
     i've seen more need to scrutinize
                   choking on morning air...
or a menthol cigarette prior to climbing
into bed: imagining with a bear
and hoping the night might extend for
the whole of winter...
                     as in: my unapologetic?
my counter "liberal" / pandering side note
*******-whipping or
best of leather: at that crucial moment
when skin... becomes leather...
            i tend to think of that moment...
pre-packaged sort of ideal: smokey and
cinnamon-esque or any other variation
of peering into amber...
that there's still a crown of autumn in
that gem: i am no mistaken...
that i'll finish this without "jumping ship"
or changing the subject matter
completely - there's hope for that too...
enter believing one thing -
  leave with something else, completely...
better that than enter
fragmented and leave... likewise...
- three words like some poison
    have taken up enough "space" in my head
(which is probably time, more or less)
to either empty it: devoid...
                 or make my "ego"
claustrophobic enough to pretend to
escape into Freudian atom schematics...
not that i'm a fan...
but... unlike any mathematical formula
and unlike any "trans-misandry" /
   garbage heap that verbiage...
                                altogether then...
misanthropes under the mistletoe
kiss kiss... yet no one tells the supposed
philanthropists to... the road to hell
is paved: yellow with a tinge of
a good, an intention...
                  a "work-around" vaccine /
a better hearing-aid...
those three words...
    in the beginning...
              the chicken the egg
   the egg the omelette the poached
the fried the scrambled the hard-boiled
who brought down the runny yoke
while prometheus brought down
the fire those 5 minutes or so?
prior to:
the geocentric model - Celeste -
                    the heliocentric model -
evidently the atomised model
throughout - under the auspicious loot
of the microscope given:
up up the telescope sees no further
chance for... asteroid and other -esque
playdough...
            less... or more...
the geocentric model < the heliocentric model
    is therefore...
      > (more) or < (less) than...
a society run on... nog and 'gg...
             scatter radio frenzy static...
khhh... no interruption...
it must have been a "breath of fresh air"
a sort of: from the outside looking in...
whether or not
the pyramids might have...
proven anything beside a hyper:
necrophilia                           inflated...
that some people still
  pursue a life surrounding
the necropolis - oh a very modern /
contemporary sort of people
in the east...
  near neville chamberlain's land
of Ozoo and Zu and the Czechoslovaks...
that the pyramids were
not intended as sundials...
          prior to the heliocentric
model... no advances... yet...
hit-and-miss with Beijing's and Vilnese
herbal lottery for ills and ailment(s)...
- how wrong? wrong...
      Viennese and...
            the geocentric < the heliocentric
yet as a matter of
perspective... reading a 2D map
is far easier than...
         as a matter of perspective
from A to B... the earth is...
temporarily flat...
                after that... take out
the toys of constellations and however
many moons...
however "society" operates -
gynocentrism in saudi arabia...
***** letters: telekinetic insemination
via the eye-link
on the borrowed:
  a parody of neon insomnia
      teased with a perpetual advert-friendly /
pop-up *******
hard-on... towing flops... and floppy...
after: too much exposure...
there's this...
  and there's also the rest
of the morning... and my homage
to it...
   which is more than i expected.

Often, I find myself thinking about all the people who I no longer speak to. I’m constantly lost in thought over every person who I will never see again.
I think about the best friend I had in preschool, the school nurse who made me a better person. I think about the two old women who were always waiting at the bus stop in front of my house. It’s not as if they died but it has been years since we’ve seen each other and I don’t know if we will ever meet again.

Sometimes I’ll watch T.V. and an old show will be on; a show that’s been off the air for years now. I like to watch the last season of those shows. It will occasionally take the audience back to a character that hasn’t been seen since the first season. Maybe it’ll even mention what they’ve been up to, who they are now.

When I was a kid, I used to think of my life in seasons. I used to keep an eye out for old friends. I used to find joy in running into a former algebra teacher. Or my brother’s childhood best friend. It felt like things were tying themselves up into a neat, little bow.

But I’m starting to think life doesn’t work that way.

I’m always looking for these people who I will probably never see again. I’ve gone on long walks, purely concentrated on remembering the last name of my favorite bus driver. I’m thinking about everyonet all day long.
I think about all the places I’ve been without realizing that I have been there for the last time. The pediatrics department of my doctors office. The Treasure Island hotel in Las Vegas that I have not stayed at since I was 7.

I think about all the moments in my life, big or small. that shaped the person I am today without even realizing they were those moments.

I’ve always had a bad perception of time. I’ve never been able to sit down somewhere and tell the difference between an hour passing by compared to five minutes.

But that perception is not limited to numbers on a clock. It is not just a matter of figuring out the time. It is a matter of staying in the right time.

I’m 22 but I was just eleven years old yesterday. I was walking home from school. It was 4 O’clock on a cloudy Friday. When I walked in the door, my brother was watching Family Guy and started to tell me about his day. Now that same brother has a wife and two children and lives eight hours away from me.

I’m 22 years old. I’m single, no children. The other day I was driving down the street and my mind jumped ahead to a day in the future where this car will no longer be around. The engine will be dead, the parts will be scrapped, and I’ll have two kids and a wife. I’ll be driving down the street with car seats in the backseat of my minivan. And I’ll see a Toyota Camry parked on a street somewhere.

I’ll think that today, right now, was such a long time ago.

Sometimes I look at my parents and I think about them in their twenties. I see them as the same age that I am. I wonder if we would have been friends.

I once picked up my niece while she was napping and carried her to bed. I laid her down, took her shoes off, and pulled a blanket up over her. I tried to picture her as a sixteen year old. I tried to picture this little person, who comes up and asks to open playdough, will still want to talk to me.
My nephew is only two. He’s a verbal late bloomer. I think about the times he will someday come home from school and tell me about his day. Or maybe he will be just as quiet as he is now.

I think I might be a time traveler. I’m always all over the place.

The other day I pulled off the freeway and onto the side of the road. I broke down into gasping sobs because my uncle had died. He passed away when I was 16. I think that was the first time I realized he was never coming home again.I think that was the first time I ever cried for him.  

Time is tricky. People say I have an old soul but maybe I just have old eyes. Maybe that’s why I’m stressing out on a mortgage bill that’s due on a house that I’m not even close to owning yet.
The other day, I had felt this deep sadness all day long. People kept asking me what was wrong but I thought it would have been silly to say that once, when I was 6 years old, my mother bought me a balloon at a park and it floated away and I’m still upset over it.

People aren’t like seasons. One day they’re here, the next they’re gone.
People aren’t like anything else around.
When it’s been sunny for awhile, I always know it will rain again, eventually. When I plant a tree, I know it’ll either grow. Or it’ll die. I won’t just look outside one day at a tree that has run away from home.
I don’t know if I’ll see certain people again.
I don’t know what has happened or what might happened.

Time has always been a tricky thing for me.

I try to make constants in my life.

Little anchors that let me know that this life is still my life.
Like when you see a silver car in a parking lot with a bunch of other silver cars, and you can still somehow recognize which one is your car.

I like to drink coffee. I always have.

It’s one of my constants. I drank coffee throughout my childhood and I drink coffee now.
I probably always will.
On the mornings when I shockingly have nothing to do, I like to make myself a big *** of coffee. It doesn’t matter if I’m at home or not. I’ve made coffee in hotel rooms, I’ve made coffee in ex lovers apartments. Even if it is not very good coffee.

My 8 year old hands hold onto the coffee mug, letting it’s warmth seep through my entire body. I’ll sit down, close to a window somewhere.
My 22 year old eyes taking in all the sites. I have drank coffee on windy fall mornings. I’ve drank coffee in a motel right next to the beach. I like to watch the waves hit the water. I like to watch joggers jog by the house.
I like to drink my coffee and look outside at my grandchildren playing in the backyard.

My one, true constant.

I’ll take a sip from that coffee, from whenever I am. And I’ll start to think about all the people I have seen for the last time.

And all the ones I have met to meet for the first time.

Yesterday I was home
Eating cereal
No cares
No worries
Watching an airplane
Mix like playdough
With concrete and ignite terror
Yesterday I was picking out a puppy
Little and adorable
Smallest of the bunch
Sparky became his name
Fighting so hard to scale
Two flights of stairs
To our parents room
Yesterday I was opening his present
Surprise it's for me
A guitar saying from him
Yesterday I got in my first fight
Had my first kiss
My first girlfriend
In my first grade
Yesterday I was somewhere else
Doing something I'll remember again
All these memories
Precious as can be
My personal scrapbook
Everything I've done
Failures to victories
Watching my dad cry
As he became overjoyed with pride
When I got third place
In my first pig show
Yesterday I watched my daughter be born
Felt the weight of a human heart
Swell in my desolate chest
Yesterday I met all my friends
Yesterday I got married
Yesterday I was there
Today I'm here
Reminiscing on all those years
Watching a comic on speed pages
Every action a picture
Put in motion
And at the end
Just me with a peace sign and a pen
Drawing the next few pages
Till I think about this again
How time flies and I wasn't even aware
How quick it slipped by

I

Please, pretty pastoral blue
with the force of a stem through muck
tangled up with the rose's hue
lift me up and lift me higher
drag me throughout the earth,

i can taste the dirt in your fingernails and it tastes beautiful...
so beautiful, for it belongs to you
and you don't belong to words or images or interpretation
you are you and you are my saviour in every way as I'm yours

so Please, take me apart
and take me away
i am not this poem nor this painting
i am not an art as i would like to be
and neither are you, but together we conjoin to form an embryo of melody

like bubble's dispersing their seeds to the sea
at the fastest hardest softest gentlest stupidest cheekiest sexiest pleasantest frame viewable
as well as the sparks out of frame.

If I die only to be reborn I know you'll be with me

like a thorn in my heart waiting for its day to be found,
snagged, ripped and knitted into a cardigan to keep me warm apparently forever

only to be slipped and slid until wrangling unbound;
you are a metaphor too cheesy to put into words—
so **** sounding forced I'll just say i love you
i love you
i love you
i love you

i love you so much it hurts to straddle this trapeze rope weaved in leather tobacco smoke
That holds ongoing lies aswell the truth that would break you and i know you've your own trade's –i wasnt born yestardy–
(although at times when i wake up it can feel that way)
Yet i use that as a sort of faux sawdust justification; the truth is that I’m too weak to face my weakened state
and confront it head on, until today... so please please listen when i say that
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love
You.

II

I played too much music too loud and now I'm sound-numb
sounds dumb, dont it? did you expect me to be handling
the transition well? Whole family is dying and I just want to be wanted
And my thoughts can feel like such a burden
So please, tie no jealousy to my concerns
cause if your mind was like mine half the time you'd know
not to even ask,

and you dont,

most of the time,

yes, she is the emerald rowed a million lifetimes or more
caught in its blink-length transition to gold...
too beautiful for words or colours to even briskly define
and I am yours and in my fantasy of you you are mine,
two wisping spirits whispering esoteric bitemarks in the dark!
hear that thunder? that's my heart.
hear that struggle, that's my breath.
think its going strong? that's the cocktease surge before my death
and my death is so holy to me as yours is to you and hers to ours

I spent the day binding the clockarms over wrinked beige
every day feels  the same

although i do try so hard to be your star
i spent the day tracing papertrails trying to make the lexicon fit our names
but its as good to me as sanskrit, as the dirt is to the seas that birthed it
and womb it still.
You sleep at my side and transition your nightmares into mine
one quiver at a time,
hold me close, this preaged preworn deformed flesh of mine is not my skin,
hold me closer, feel my skin become yours as fingertips scape out a chin
and a neck, curling trickling like tiny raindrops downeth
to the place once signified and defined as ***** sin
not the art nor stretch-marked temple it is

Blossoming blossoming blossoming in chaotic collision and marking love

Beyond a touch or a name or a place

And yes, i still feel her
Calloused and pliable as playdough

Rubbing palms and clasping
Together into a cocoon
To awaken tomorrow as a whole new entity.
I feel more whole for my confessions although
You hate me for it,
I feel more myself for my confessions
And I’ve never felt so lovingly distant...

Being optimistic, I just say 'who knows what tomorrow will bring'

And strum this whisper into your snoring song.

So please,
Be here tomorrow.

if i ever wanted to start over, where would i go:
- i return to the balcony on patrice lumumba street,
on the third floor, i see two ruins around our souls,
modern talking, brother louie is playing,
i wrap myself around your fingers like slimy playdough,
we go home, i see the apple tree in the cemetery, we pick apples:
- let me kiss you on your lips, let me kiss, - we are friends too,
i try to remember what i was looking for among the crosses and owls,
your mother was taking the cheese pies out of the hearth,
it's getting dark, we've put everything together,  waiting for her to fall asleep,
everything that happens, the tray falls and the bread shovel falls from the nail,
deadly silence on the village road, since then
we meet every ten years across the road
speechless, i look at you, you look at me,
father vasile sprinkles holy water, sanctifies the graves.

if i were to pray to god... i don't think i'd would
tease his boredom -
     in islam the adhan: the call to prayer is
heard in the heavens... but the prayers aren't...
the church bells are heard...
perhaps even when a choir of castratos sings...
but never that ******* of credo mumbling
and "confessions"... it's not teasing the vanity...

well... yes... god... nothing too personal...
       it's hard to imagine anything of nothing...
the sober, scientific, objective: ex nihil...
        out of nothing - i'd wish...
then we'd all have the properties of stones and trees
and a that sort of adapted consciousness
of: never born with legs... with will...

to me: something from nothing...
      the sober, mature, scientific approach...
yes... but i don't think about a higher power...
i think about an invigorating force...
                    something to propose momentum...
something that concerns us to debate
whether free will exists... but enough of that...

there's still work to be done in the garden...
all the stumps are out...
          had to come the day where i'd heal
the earth by letting her breathe...
    which involved digging her up...
doing a pancake with her... then getting a fork
and twisting her into little pieces...
about half a meter of decent earth...
before the clay would appear...
in clay... you won't be finding any earthworms
at these depths... half to a meter in...

well... who needs to go to the gym...
when you can garden...
it's a bit like... if you ever ****** wearing
a ******... and when you haven't...
the only real ****** comes when...
    you send some mail of would-be sputniks...
shame though... if...
she is lying about taking contraceptives...
for that "one and only" moment of life's tick
list...
                   fizzle fizzle out past...
but a few hours spent wearing gloves...
and it's numbing... when working with earth...
sure... you're using a shovel
a fork etc. -
but when you can't feel the earth...
it's a bit like that ****** sensation...
         should it matter to a man not circumcised?
hardly... it's enough of a bother to pull
the **** thing back and choke
whittle richard's heard into a proud plum...

but then to feed the naked hand to the earth...
one of those many other substitutions
for the hide & seek zenith of ***...
   in a shower... pouring water...
onto the neck and just above the occipital bone...
a less protruding occipital bone...
well... designation?! ******!
wow... just like that... i can whip-up
a venom... it's carboxylic acid mingling
with some ebola leftovers...
                                                    ­      em...
preferred temp. of the water...
approx. 4 - 5 degrees celcius beneath room temperature...
not cold cold...

"not enough ***"... or no *** at all...
         learning from the octopus...
                               8 things planned...
           i planned that trip to the brothel...
a little bit too late...
now there's the garden...
                   and there's that period of evening...
can it just be as simple as...
a glass of scotch... some pepsi max...
some jazz: but not too much - i don't really want
to think... blues would be great...
but it has become a period piece...
              like a jane austen adaptation...
a belgravia... something from charles dickens...
something simple like:
alice in chains - man in a box
down - stone the crow
danzig - 1000 devils reign...
                            
                 so yeah... god... prayers...
i still like to attach thought to what would...
better be a tongue for a brain
or a brain for a tongue and at least 7 aeons
of silence...
                    prayer or mumble...
i can't see no advantage...
  i'd pray by crying when finding something
beautiful...
i'd pray by dancing and screaming
when finding something more than the sort
of beauty that'd mobilise my heart to
quench its thirst... needing my sweat...
more than my tears...
and i'd pray... by walking into a dark forest
at night... strip half naked and scream
and growl and return the beast to the father
of the night... force my mouth into
fallen leaves and turn this mouth of mine
into a snout to forrage for mushrooms...
once... near Harlow - Essex...
i did just that... upon the break of dawn...
took a bottle of bourbon with me
and ate... a lilac coloured mushroom...

    how did i end up walking from Romford
through to Harlow in the night?
i remember i had about 6 beers...

prayer... yes...
       well i was "praying"... for an unusually cold
April...
my fridge is broken and it's not making
any more ice-cubes...
it would be super handy for me to be able
to leave a bottle of scotch and a bottle
of p' max or c' zero on the roof just
outside of my window...
   walking up and down the stairs come
the ungodly hours of 2am: i really don't want
to rouse the cats...

cabbage - plastic - playdough -
       some flour an egg a tbs of oil and water -
to live without... a categorical impetus -
other that: in times of the most dire needs...
to explore the endless avenues
of what can come from:
an absolute informality of language -
a metaphor and apostrophe
followed by a colon -
                            
      a fusion of impetus - this current climate
of gardening and what's... probably
the justifying what is happening:
not much... besides...
        
                               i wouldn't be thinking
of *** being on the menu -
wordsworth's celibacy -
                       japanese girls attired
in mannequin bodies with porcelain eyes
and... that skin of unblemished tinge...
something had to be forever uninviting...
or better still...
              it had to be leveraged...
other outlets had to be fathomed...
                    nothing of what might be bemoaned
should the crux of dragging ghosts
and regrets all chained up: into
dreamworld and some other circus frenzy...

to rub ones hands ferociously against
bricks before the luxury of touching a body
was revelled in.... it had to be...
*** and disney...
                          then the distillation process
of culmination could homage me...
as... allowing a flow of water...
or whiskey turned into lemonade when
the erotica of taking a ****
was like all the genital parts included
for her treating the unshelled oyster to queen's
cringe...

a... oddly weird cooling... a very... cool april...
anything to stop this...
it always sounds more **** when it's
an epidemic...
pandemic is hardly something to get all
hot and bothered about...
                                 god's sneeze...
                          and all that omni-
                                            prefix litany...
it's truly the most secured claustrophobia to
think of: gifting to later be grieving...
when at best: the magical finger tripped
up schumacher when skiing...

     or... some other spontaneity...
                              if ever some hegel...
i hardly think i'll live to read the phenomenology
of spirit...
   i've skimmed through the lecture notes
that inspired marx: the philosophy of right...
lecture notes... not even aphorisms...
not even maxims... lecture notes *******
a marx and...
     i'm not even going to bother...
claustrophobia...
dealing with both the marxist ideologues
as is the case with dealing with darwinist ideologues...

no god for a sense of:
no imagination... as long ast the facts can be
distributed and well regurgitated...
does it matter?

all that i can pour into "its" existence is my thought...
humble i, bring a stone before the altar
of the pyramid...
that i know of the "other" pronoun...
in greek... that's: θ(ought) i?!

by then it's already too late... the key has already
been inserted into the lock...
and has been turned...

                    margaret cirko, 35...
               $35,000 dollars worth of fresh food...
gone to waste... in pennsylvania...
and here they are... keeping me on a schizophrenic
leash!
i guess it's true then:
the madmen will lead the blind...
perhaps i only have one eye left in me...
i just watched a morse code wander the sky
that had to be feeding something my
unconscious could desipher...
the facade of consciousness that bears
the burden of the foetus and the stone stood
ground... my eyes didn't melt from
the exalted...

                    but i'm starting to think...
really? the crucifixion is... the epitome exit?
for a demigod? what about...
left hanging on a meathook...
                     for days... with the insertion
under the chin...
or with hands tied... having ultra-******
performed between the coccyx and the ****
when pretending to be the candle imitation
while the hands are tied: screaming the toll...
for the entry into gamorrah...
cherbu honey cherub honey for the old man
magritte: charon... das ist ein kamin!

no?             the treachery of images...
hold me stochholm syndrome prone when it comes
to... the treachery of words...
outside of the realm of nuance, ridicule...
and the thesaurus...
outside the realm of those that
will not clear the way for etymology
to replace archeology...
and of those who will not worship slang!
slang the... not the emoji hierogylphic statures
of: to escape the skeletons of
within and the past...
to turn the O(micron) into a ******* smiley :)!

hegel: master and servant...
    well... anti-hegel...
the parasite... and the host...
          the master is the parasite...
call it the fruition of 1960s intellectuals dabbling
in buddhism...
or... who is the master?
the master is apparent right now...
the middle-men... of work that can be done
from home... so...
what's the need to... commute... to subsequently
and "somehow"... "work"?
arbeit macht frei... "this" and "that"...
that's... work?!

   if you can work from home...
now... currently... how much of work is exacted
to pretend to be the architectural imprints
of power dynamics - verbiage:
and verbiage is all you're going to get!
i know the peacocks when i see them...
peacocks will verbiage tinge this sort
of "logic" as they'd call it...

macht frei... arbeit...

       a terrible slogan for the people who will
nonetheless butcher the meat...
skin it, prep it...
            but then we have...
i don't even know a windowlicker or a ******...
stupid or just evil...
        perhaps just a ****** frustration
"oops"...
             or one of those never to happen
celebrated abortions...
a margaret... cirko... 35...
honestly... the crucifix?
   i'm thinking... meat-hooks and pikes...
less worth for a worth of emblem when supposedly
left hanging...
more like: a dangling tooth...

that what i think of when and otherwise
schizophrenics are blamed...
for when everyone takes it: supposedly:
more easily...
                                       this is not something
a psychotic person would do...
nor a windowlicker ******...
    dumb evil...
                        woman evil...
           you almost wish to lacerate that sort
of behaviour... to the point where...
she wouldn't be able to squat to take a ****...
no... seriously... we should take better care
of your down syndrome retards...
given what the: glorious free spirited man
has to offer: anti-government blah blah!

she should be put in a cage... for
baboons to spit and **** at...
   and she should be given a diet of...
how's that caugh?
     good? phelgmatic? roughage?
good... eat your cough then!
             and locked up... like the myth
of the beheaded cockroach living for up
to two weeks and finally dying of starvation...
i'm guessing the genesis came with...
andrei chikatilo... or that batman quote:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man... after putting him in a prison cell?
brain head: tick tick...
  but the old ticker is still working...
this atheistic mr. ape grand finale of...
                                christine chubbuck...

brain dead ≠ the body is dead...
Kafka: stab at the heart...
what idiot took pride in hollywood when
distancing himself from suicide with
brain injuries...
oh sure... the brain dies... so much for all those
cucumber people of the comatose worldview...
all those... on life support...
looks like the "last clue":
the "labyrinth" can exist in a pickle jar...
switched on... and off...
at long as that... butchers' meat retains
it's... rhythm...

retards... widnwolickers...
does someone with down syndrome "suffer"?
personally... i think they're very much oblivious
to their afflication...
it's not about burning witches...
it's about... stamping out an egoism
that would hardly think about...
retaining the last dripping of water...
the last crumb of bread...

          if i were a ******...
i'd be keeping a down syndrome hulk...
like in mad max: master blaster...
hell: keeping a leech as... pretending it to be a tatoo
seems more worthwhile than...
all those save africa hunger ******* worth
whacking slogans...
   did margaret cirko work for some sort of...
save africa and hunger...
                                          charity?!

if­ my words aren't trivial... compared to what she did?
then money: does indeed grow on treets...
let's pluck some and cough into a bundled
up ball of $1 banknotes!

and... keep it rollin'! rarely will i lose my temper...
but some things are worth forgiving...
repenting over...
hell... at this point every other albert fish...
and every jeffrey dunham jr.
sounds more appealing to talk to...
at least either of them... wouldn't be found...
a marathon distance's length of having
just wasted $35,000 worth of food...
in hell: keep to having cain's offspring
as your company...

i really don't know what... "it"...
of any sensibility of man...
provided the ***** and the vacuum of body
for a surrogate: clearly there was no mother involved...
perhaps she's the first child of
that wunderbarpakt
of der: zweivati?!
                     she's the first child of "surrogates"...
she is the first child of two *******
homosexual partenting schemes?!
makes you wonder...

again: lasso an oops of the cut-off where...
this becomes... virus isolation wasn't enough...
people had to designate themselves
into making politics out of everything;
again...

police! police! the thought! oh god!
the words! oh mein gott!
  police! police! ****! he's gauging out mein augen!
he borrows some german! natz-tee!
i used kinder words governing wood...
i did make-up a replacement to
the ritual surrounding tequilla drinking...
i called him a black cracovite...

slick lick of lemon? you sure...
you're smoking a cigarette...
you're agitate... some ash lands on your hand...
you lick it off... that's your new salt...
you're in galicia... which is not silesia...
you don't have tequilla you have *****...
you lick the ash off your hand...
down the *****...
oh ****... where's the bite?
you're not familiar with lemons...
but you are familiar with peppercorns...
so you bite 3 to 4 down...

there you go... a translation of the ritual
associated with tequilla...
the black cracovite... *** lesson number one...
or no *** lesson number two...
they have their precious israel...
don't they?
i best give my... incantations...
again: is that a transliterate chasm...
of finding enough syllable pauses
to read some deutsche?
perhaps... when translated into
english... and retaining their chemical
names...

                hyphen as conjunction...
to better read: ol' wolf says...
carbo-xylic...                     de-...
               of many more deeds to come...

Solomon will not arrive in time...
and there was no sort of David in your time
of reign: since the last one...
to begin with... but you do have...
clarification as being the inspiration
for the creation of the Mosad and the ***...
so... cuddos... bravo!
let's hear a ******* encore!

sorry... i can't have them "jumbled" up...
the dead sea scrolls refer to the end of the old testament...
the fate of isiah... the courtesan prophet...
disembolwed... cut in two...
that's one...
the dead sea scrolls are not...
the nag hammadi library... that's two...
josephus ben matthias... the false prophet...
egypt... and from egypt...

this wound is most certainly bleeding...
put more pressure on it...
the more chances of negation...
esp. from the scientific couldron of the society...
the dead sea scrolls are not
the nag hammadi library...

it echoes in the claudron...
of but a single eye shared among...
6 plucked out...
to deafen the wind that combs the woods...
and the branches that find flutes
in their hollowing out worth... of...
rattle...

                   i always wondered...
gloryhole *******...
         the imitation *****... beig soiled in
all that.. would be sponge-leeches
and liquidated butter?
        the **** of all worth of ****
with the extending umbrella *****...
and... the business of ******* was not
to sell the frolicking ambitions of...
merely a 0.01% of the... base attentions
and wants of... the nymphomaniacs?

look at us... lowly... poorly equipped peasants...
bowing before a Elizabeth Bathory...
how feeble our needs to attain
to merely warmth... to counter the cold...
to merely hunger... to counter crumbs...
how feeble our wants...
oh my pardon oh my rotting mind...

               what sort of theatre would allow...
what we digest in private?
i'd love to see ***** be made more... public...
it doesn't need to be this solitary endeavour...
just like...
this revision of grammar by the transgender
lobby... gender neutral pronouns...
what about fwench? where nouns
cannot be: gender neutral?!
what... then?!
    a chair is a male...
whether or not a chair is male when a man
speaks about it...
or whether or not a chair is a female when
a woman speaks about it...

this... transgender communism or attempting
to revise grammar...
sorry... no... can you revise
1 + 1 = 2 instead?
i'd gladfly give up my prowess in arithmetic...
i... won't be, though...
so easily swayed off the throne
of grammar...

  this isn't even my ****** ingrained
language... it's acquired! why should i care what
the natives and their...
sacred siblings of the holocaust of sanctity
do with it?!
   watch me...

                here's me... gladly giving away
the reins!

             of the people: for... the people!
a true democracy... one voice lost among the many...
and the many... voices...
somehow focused upon that one...
lost in the wilderness... somehow...
for no reason... being heard...
i'd call 20+ a class dismissed...
which is what Pythagoras had...
hey-zeus' devil's dozen of 12: him included...

thinking big is beside the point
with what's apparent... when starting small...
i dismiss the value of large congregations
of people...
outright... nothing is ever said...
while everything else is merely overheard...
i want to measure the size of my foot:
i'm told to weigh my liver
and my moral quest!

even among poetry...
this language is so... formal...
there is null of a concern for a cipher...
everything is just so... "required"...
ignoble and numb...

it's hardly a rhomus: darlin'...
nor a pola dotted bohemia ****...
so what's it; dear honey ****-squeech-p'ooh?
oh... one of those...
daddy issues?
i have mommy issues:
never stopped me ******* ******
like a trojan cohort...
or the devil... with vampirism h.i.v. worms...

or a bit of the smiths calling me deaf...
whenever you started plasyinf 65days of static...
because... me and you and the romance
of radiohead's kid a...
anything: the bends... and the chissick wonderkid...
o.k. computer with windows '98...
but not... vanilla sky and kid alzheimer's...
type 0 negative...
                    
         i'll ask again: what's 70cl of whiskey
to a juggernaut?
                       a sly slip of the tongue...
a lick of this sort of concentration
of a waiting ice-cube... brother:
it better start melting!

                    in my head: there is a god...
but there's also an iron maiden...
i can't can't... oh yes i can...
make them into a matrimony!
   there's reaching the clasy of London
beneath half a meter of revised soil...
there are... these earthworms...
these phoneic brides akin to...
you cut one in half...
it pretends to be the dead:
the brain and the Brian that's all mouth...
to think... the digestion of sand breeds
the oesophagus that's waiting to be
blopd tinged...

       retards recovered: come treefingers...
or hugging... a birch tree...
as suggested by a... later than usual...
self-employed cabby... all from radiohead's kid A...
no... not from 65 days of static...
that sort of pristine retardation is
reserved for aliens and angels...

we do have to make it inclusive that...
margaret... cirko (35... pennsylvania)
is one of "us"... good god that sort of a "riddle"
with people having made it necessary to..
"opt out"...
god forbid living among such retardations
to be claiming the stature of faking
normies...

               waking: optimistic...
                here's to me later on bound
to limbo... and shy conversations about...
what's not to have shy conversastions of...
kept... cushioned and proud and...
sly and: workaholic.... insomiac...
but never... alcoholic enough to spawn...
the lost remains of the brute of silence...
the truth-sayer of the toothache...

this... best kept in german...
     diese taubheit...
           diese schattenlos mondlicht...
diese: gebet auf mitternacht!
                                      all this... under a shroud of english...
for... a... toothpick of german...
the zeppelin... and the blitz...
all... for the made thespian... pristine...
to sharpen the edges of hollywood...

      für einz! ich war auf zweck!

"misplaced" german... always the first...
even citing it...
fiddles with details of leather...
and boots, and belts...
and all those unconscious b.d.s.m. fetishes...
and long live evita... and argentina...
and fascists in brazil...
israel: the wall: palestine...
      
i love it! what's to be expected?!
a cosmopilitan... that's what!
*** and the city feminism...
pride on oats regret!
if i see anything less...
i won't be listening to ststic x's
black & white...