The match started with control going from one team to the other kicks being made and players jumping on the ball hoping to score the first try
And then it happened the first penalty going to Queensland and kept it for a while but couldn't make it over the line
NSW took the ball and not much later got a penalty oh yeah hoping they will break through, they charged and charged right to the line and the maroons stole the ball ready to bring it to the other side forcing NSW into defence
And the mistake happened The blues got the ball and kicked it way way back the maroons grabbed the ball and kept them it in the defence and kicked it up forced the error and gained another penalty to them
The maroons were running up ready to break the defence and kicked it through and the blues brought the ball to the attack
Still no score still no score
But both teams are putting up a fight and then the maroons got the ball and with great offence
Dived over for the maroons first try and the crowd roared ever so loudly and smith converts it to make the maroons have a 6-0 lead and the XXXX is looking ever so sweet
But they have to get back to the game and the blues sent the kick to them and ran down to the tryline, only to have the try dissallowed and for the maroons it was still 6-0 but the blues had possession of the ball and they kicked it up and possession went back to Queensland and they ran a bit and kicked it up and the blues grabbed the ball, then they kicked it and straight back to Queensland it goes and they kept it with them for a while
A scrum came with the blues winning it and ran a while then kicked right down the Maroons throat and after a bit they kicked it, the 6-0.lead was looking good after the ball went loose for NSW and Queensland did a kick and chase with the blues looking to grab the ball
They did but not for long and after a few passes the maroons were running and passing and then dived in to score the maroons 2nd try, to make the score 10-0 to Queensland
And smith yet again adds the extra's and suddenly the maroons were looking very good and yes, the score changed to 12-0
After both teams getting a hand on the ball? It was the blues who gained possession but they lost it and this was making NSW very angry, I wonder what
The people in the clubs in NSW are thinking after the maroons good, then the battle between the both teams as the tackling gave the blues a penalty but after a lengthily run the maroons got a penalty and took
The ball over to the NSW defensive area and then they kicked it and it went into touch
And the blues got the ball and lost it down the field and the maroons ran down and put the ball down but it was a forward pass and then the blues ran with the ball right to the other side but Queensland yet again looking too good and then sent out a high bomb deep in the nsw end and the blues ran it down but was tackled and yes the maroons go into the half time break with a 12-0 lead
And I wonder what will happen in the 2nd half
And now the two teams are entering the field and the crowd is totally cheering and the maroons are kicking off and it went straight down the blues throats and went straight into the maroons defence line and they kicked it up and now the maroons have the ball but made a small error forcing the blues to steal it from them and after a few runs the blues lost it and the maroons grabbed the ball
And ran staring toward the line but lost the ball right in front of the blues defence line and the blues started to run it down by passing it a few times and then made a woeful kick to put the maroons back into attack and then after a comedy of errors the blues kept the ball and continued to run toward their line and then the blues kicked it down and Dugan scored the blues first try to make the score 12-4 to the maroons and Maloney added the extras to make the score 12-6 and they started to cuddle each other
And then the kick off going straight down the throats of the blues and ran the ball way past some of the defenders untill the maroons got the ball and lost the ball right in front of their own line and the blues are doing a great job keeping the ball with them and passes were being made and the blues were looking strong untill they lost the ball and the maroons got the ball back but after a few tackles gained a penalty and kicked it into touch and then ran it down to their defence line but the great blues defence line
Forced the ball into touch and then the blues won the scrum and ran it down passing and passing and kicked it down the maroons throats and now Queensland have the ball
And after a few tackles the maroons booted it high but nsw
Grabbed the ball and after a few more tackles the blues kicked it high and Queensland grabbed the ball and then moments later the maroons ran down to the try line and planted a try and the umpire went upstairs but it was still a try and that makes Queensland lead to 16-6 with a kick to come and things are looking great for the maroons by geez by jingle by crickey as mike Gibson is speaking to me from the grave
The kick was waved away and after a few plays the blues find themselves with the ball and they became close to the try line and the maroons got the ball of them and ran down the field and kicked it and the blues picked up the ball but the maroons bundled him into touch and forced the blues to do a kick straight down the maroons throats and after a few runs and passes the maroons scored a great try to make the maroons lead even more dangerous for the blues at 20-6
And smith converts it to make the score 22-6 and suddenly the maroons were looking dangerous as the song goes
Hold on tight
I know it is a little bit dangerous
I got what it takes to make ends meet
And yes, the maroons have definately got what it takes and after a few tackles the maroons knocked the ball on and the blues find themselves with the ball abs ran it down and took it right to the maroons but then they handed it over to Queensland and then they made some posession but a silly mistake forced NSW to take the ball but it was intercepted but it was forced into the scrum and the blues Regained the ball and then made some silly mistakes to give the ball back to Queensland and after a few passes the maroons kicked the ball into touch but things are looking bad for the blues as they gained the ball back,
Will they score here and after a few passes they knock the ball on and gave the ball back to Queensland and the maroons won the scrum and started to attack the NSW line and every member of Queensland in the crowd are jumping up and cheering after getting a penalty from a blues error but it was no good but who cares because the score was 22-6 and then they got the ball back and ran down the clock and at full time
Queensland won the game against the hapless blues by 22-6 and yes I reckon there will be a XXXX in the bar tonight but if you go for the blues beware because tonight wasn't your night
And now we draw the final curtain
And the blues lose once more
Yes, the maroons are the victors congrats congratulations yeah
Congratulations and celebrations
You see the maroons are the victory team again
What went wrong with the blues losing 22 points to ****** 6
The maroons are the champions my friend
They kept on fighting to the end
Maroons are the champions
Maroons are the champions
Maroons are the champions
Of the state of origin for 2017
Bye for now and well done to the maroons

yes, i admire the worker, and his eager hands,
his nimble hands, as the saying goes: the devil has work
for idle hands...
          i guess writers qualify
as those, with the most idle hands...
                since they're not handling anything,
that might be reduced to a communist
collectivism in care for a spetial
mirror of a darwinistic doctrine,
that's so compatible with capitalism...
but then the writers die,
and the critics and the academics
make a wage from the, so, called,
idle, unnecessary work...
and by then, i can only re-admire
the workers...
   i'd rather "slave" for 14 years in manual
labour...
        than try to word, 14 minutes
of my heart's feelings, resentments,
     ambitions, contentment...
lacks ascribing either intellect, or libido...
     at least i'd know i laboured for
14 years, with the eagerness of health,
as health, being, the sole treasure in
this world, as the old proverb says...
         as we all sláinte: to good health!
14 years, of feeling in posession of a body?
comapred to 14 minutes
              without feeling you having
as having posession of a heart?!
       what's worth more?
            i'll just start the clepsydra...
and then you can ask me,
                     after the five minutes are up...
for there is, but a spartan argument
in this set of words...
                     only a decying body,
can produce an interesting mind...
            as only a healthy body, can produce,
a decaying body with an interesting mind,
and nations, and borders.
i mean manual labour you get paid for,
i don't mean concentration camp labour...
so i say: 14 years of paid manual labour...
or 14 minutes of unpaid athenian labour
of a heart's discontent, savvy?
               ah... the melancholy of a once able
body, that could handle 40kg of mineral-felt rolls...
and buckets of industrial tar, carried over a 100m
stretches at a time...
       it's ironic to recite these words:
      although with a twist...
                          sinnvollarbeit macht frei...
if the entire dritte ***** were to be unearthed...
and see what was happening in the western world...
i.e. with newspaper article like millennials
snap up lessons on how to photograph their lunch
(the times, page 24, monday 29 may 2017,
   written by a danielle sheridan)...
      you want to play bridge? or poker with my
****** expression? or chess? or backgammon?
                 or banqi? it's a simple question...
   it's a game a game of blind-man's bluff...
there's a billion chinese, and about a million of them,
all blind, are knitting socks... but then there's a bunch
of westerners... all "omnipotent" with "foresight"...
creating as little as media content...
     the germans are going to sniff this out
at some point... and the concept of a
                vierte ***** being on the horizon...
well... it's there... the agitators are already
in place "tickling" the romance into shape;
i say "tickling"... they're slapping nettles on these
men's faces... and **** me, are they getting ******...
they're starting to think: how about i pour
some chilli powder into your eyes and ask you, not to blink?
while at the same time, showing a tablespoon's worth
of cinnamon into your mouth?

Your words fill a void.
    Your body, a space.
    No they were not mine for the taking. For the filling.
    Stolen
    No honor amongst thieves.
    I am one.
    Loving your words
    I drink them, absorb them, dissect them. No negligence.
    I'm soaked in them.Choke on them
    And they are no more.
    Disappearing literacy not meant for the masses
    But for her.
    To be her.
    To have words for me. A smile for me. A disgust for me.
    As long as it was for me.
    Selfishness created from your selflessness.
    You are no saint and I will still elevate you high above the regurgitated ooze.
    Belong to no one, no posession.
    Be you
    Be me
    Be us.
    Not love. Not lust.
    An inbetween space.
    Understanding?
    Longing for the same reasoning
    Yet never finding it in eachother.
    Have you words for that?
    Paint a picture with that drab meaningless ink & I'll fill it in with damp, dark color.
    I know you.
    I accept you.
    Keep you.
    Give a little?
    Fill me?
    No more words. Not mine.

Thanks fo being ****** to me
when all I wanted was a friend.
You treated me as a posession
and at times a personal therapist.
When you were beat to the point where you couldn't see
You knew I would stay by your side till the very end.
If he told me anything with discretion
you would instantly see red.
"Does this shirt make me look fat?"
"Ew, yes. Obese, at that.
Fix your hair, make your *** flat.
Drown in this perfume, you smell like your cat."
Such kind words.
You say you loved me?
That's not what I heard.
Not what I heard at all.
"**** yourself, stupid ****."

Yet everytime I had those feelings
I ran to you.
Any other feelings as well,
I ran to you.
But you gave me no comfort.
You gave me criticism.
You gave me your problems.
And so I stole your cookies
and converted your friends
and took your innocence
and lied to your face
and ****** your vice...
twice.

I ran away from the temple
that you hid me inside of for so long

my feet were numb
and I almost went blind
the monsters outside almost
got me
and ripped my insides out

the corners got rusty
spiders built their webs

they were present in our conversations
did you love me

or was I the crown posession
did I intrigue you
moving small

I brake my anger with your smile
and let the frusteration slip through
my hands like indian silk

most nights
I was on my knees
holding my breathe
hoping you would come home
and for many days
you did not

you left me there
walked out and locked the door
leaving me without remorse
or redemption
steady handed and left there to burn
like the guiltys alibi
hanging by a needle on my chest
burden like havok causing
endless catasrophes in my mind
insanity I questioned
burried deep deep
inside of you

you who had no mercy
with your kiss

Have you ever met someone
All of a sudden...
things were no longer important
your brain froze for a while
Your laziness grew..
Your mood unpredictable...
Your coffee became bitter
Your dress seemed less attractive
Your bread stale and hard... tasteless
Your life upside down... colorless
All of a sudden
you lacked focus...
this person was magnet
grew closer so fast
be the most important
The centre of your thoughts...
between night and day..
and he became the radar
of your life...
He owned the remote control
pulling your life away for a second
putting you back where it was
so you could breathe...
so you could sleep
so you could die
Your life was solely his...
You became a thing...
a posession..
Have you ever met..
someone like that?

I ran away from the temple
that you hid me inside of for so long

my feet were numb
and I almost went blind
the monsters outside almost
got me
and ripped my insides out

the corners got rusty
spiders built their webs

they were present in our conversations
did you love me

or was I the crown posession
did I intrigue you
moving small

I brake my anger with your smile
and let the frusteration slip through
my hands like indian silk

most nights
I was on my knees
holding my breathe
hoping you would come home
and for many days
you did not


you left me there
walked out and locked the door
leaving me without remorse
or redemption
steady handed and left there to burn
like the guiltys alibi
hanging by a needle on my chest
burden like havok causing
endless catasrophes in my mind
insanity I questioned
burried deep deep
inside of you

you who had no mercy
with your kiss

I can be a lot of things
I can be an impressive thing
I can wear the hat
I can be a desirable thing
teasing the casting of the hex.

I can be a monstrous thing
chest swelling with prideful posession
I can be a despicable thing
nose upturned with unshakable stubbornness
eating up worlds with my carelessness.

There's a blind man at The Garden
and he's dancing to The Dead
He hasn't any worries
Bouncing in or on his head

His wife pulled out his eyeballs
so he'd never look again
At anybody else but her
Posession, not his friend

His father blames the white folk
for all the damage to his kin
Hey listen!  Twas the wife, folk
not the color of her skin

Then she pops in eyeballs from the Mr. Potato Head Game
into his sockets
Just to play with everybody's head
She loves him

You work on being a posession,
   I seek a companion.

Everything I did for you
I did not expect a thank you
Nor did I hold you to any favours
There was no debt and nothing is owed

The only person you ever owe anything to
Already has everything in His posession
Everything I did was for His sake alone
My Lord

Sands of time,
remember when only moonlight flickered on the waves,
and the deer family roamed boundless?

You witness the  madness of our scaling up,
Our beach houses promulgating,
always getting bigger.

Thank you for your silent reminders.
Posession is a mirage,
a false contentment,
and is wiped away
as we always expected.

Meanwhile the yearning
of souls for perfection deafens.
And the ones with many lessons unlearned strut.

Each stretching their necks high
with a frantic quiver in their eye,
and a tranquilizer at hand.

The moon's red face stares down,
turning away.
And sands wait
for the coming of the tide.

What if you're the villian,
Instead of the good guy?
Perhaps your pleasure,
Is watching hope die

I'm the villain,
No good,
I wouldn't change it
Even if I could

I'm not really sure,
Why others "go bad"
But it was a broken heart,
That drove me mad

Killing hope,
Is my new obsession
Because I could not make love,
My posession

Misery loves company,
That's what they say
Well, it's true,
What more can I say?

You are mine
Not a posession
But mine - an *extension

Depression, depression
My soul obsession
Depression, depression
My sole posession
Hold onto me until the end
Let go of you just to pretend
I could never
I won't let her
Go

where was i ? most importantly where am i ?
i've held onto escapism to the point that i can't get back in touch with reality.
that ferocious reality that feeds on broken dreams, a ferocious reality that i can't get along with, a ferocious reality that tore me apart mentally, a ferocious reality that killed consciousness, a ferocious reality that tied everyone down with it's inhuman traditions.
i"ve always had the tendency to seek other distractions. why are the walls moving? why's everything joyfully dancing? what's happening? what's my distraction ? most importantly, what's my poison?
here i am lost, seeing everything jiggle with a belly-ache.
i can barely see, living seconds, losing pride, with a thought of unhappiness that i can't shake.
am i unconsciously losing my mind? or am i consciously trying to?
i'm not trying to, it can't be true.
dear god,you left me with The Complex Nature of this Simple Posession, four walls and a roof.
you say that you are close, is close the closest star. walls against my word, i wonder who can listen if they're just shouts into the void. it's this cruelty that i try to avoid.
somebody guide me, since this liquor took over me. i thought it would help set me free.
and forget society's careless underdevoloped mentality,
i'm locked inside my brain, i pledged to never use my mind in vain and now i don't know where i am.
this can't be my fate, i was destinate a greater glory. dear self i'm really sorry,
for what i've become.
dear cold white walls stop dancing and sob for my misery. the same misery you said it'll fade away when i'm old, and now it became a part of me that'll always stay.
when i was yound all my parents did was to prevent me, now all my dreams are gone. society did the same and i don't recall being it's son.
i can barely open my eyes, but i can observe these silhouettes of men trying to comfort me.
"HELP!!" my word against their loud phrases that i can't understand.
"open your eyes"
"OPEN THEM"
"i can't"
"YES YOU CAN!"
they're gone, i'm left now with six double edged swords forming the perfect hexagon.
is it the six cheap litres of luiquor that i drank, or the story of six years of me ruining my life.
after feeling the stab of society's blunt and rusty knife, that stayed in my heart ignoring the tears i bled.
i'm alive what a tragedy, i can take my own life away isn't that a phenomenon.life goes on and on and i'm stuck. facing this inevitable oblivion after every sip i take. realising that the oblivion i am seeking is permanent. and i'm back again with memories of this monstrous reality.

i cry, i drink then die, replacing this sorrowful truth with a happier lie.

love is to be shared, not owned. It is about acceptance, not posession.

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

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

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

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

but no adverts...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the only aspect of ζεν, a ταoιστ might
respect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

at what point has the fight
for the freedom of speech,
derive itself from:
having to invite more
joke, and less dialectics,
by passing diacritical
regards...
how many more times
will this, couch-outlet
of a formerl repressed,
medium of the masses,
dictate to me,
that...
             no...
  i din't like plagiarising
foreign cultures..
   hans zimmer
can do his ****...
     spectres in the fog...
but
i get to do my ****,
via
krzesimir dębski:
the hussars' death...
i could have written:
                the hussars die...
now, every time i go back
to Poland,
i have to succumb toward
an expectation,
a facade,
  a...
  oh, you know,
back in in England?
  no problems.
  do i ******* look stupid?
this base-*******
of shim-sham-shimmy:
quick, hide the problems,
let's all look
like a ******* postcard
gimmick...
it's killing me!
to obtain the posession
of owning a heart,
one must first
express the capacity
for uninhibited pride...
which, post-colonial
societies
fail do teach,
their kin...
             savvy?
   i've lived in england
for a better part of two centuries...
first were the irish...
then were the scots...
i might have
expected to seek-out
more english people...
but then...
  i never managed
to mingle with the welsh...
but hardly the english...
it's like...
they were "there": i.e. england,
but they were never "there":
and there's no i.e.
so support that statement...
that the asiatic people
are only smart
as far as their plagiarißm
allows them to be?
so... what's new?
   i guess the last step
of integration would
be to bang some english lass...
oddly enough:
  'ard to find...
   she's having an prgy-fetish
with her
    afro-saxon
****-buddy...
and all i'm doing
is... sweeping
the remnants of letters...
which could have
been words...
but were decided upon
as being, merely remnants
of text: C U L8ER...

it's not even hierogylphics,
rosetta stone...
pyramids...
it's ******* stone-age
crass...
   bone arithmetic of
Muhammad
  (yeah... apparently
he knew the exact number
of bones, in a human body)...
bone arithmetic dodo:
do this: me
reads: |||,|||,||||, |||
no chance that's ever
going to be a rigid
example of:

             Y H W H

so let's revise
   hand-writting
   to pixel: punch-dot?
how's that?
  too dumb, i guess...

no... i can't read
the Chinese phonetic encoding...
but seeing it's so complex,
and the translation
results are so base?

sure... they're smart...
they're smart by
having to plagiariße,
but i'm sure the arabs
will defend them,
by importing more
Bang-Lang-Desh-E
"tourists" over...

       you want to know what
i think?
  no, you don't,
but this rant,
alongside:
      was already over
to begin with...
   drunk, peasant...

you know... when you deviate
from the male, female,
consonant, vowel
instigators of rubric?
when... simple arithmetic,
match-sticks...
ascribed to letters.
does not work?

what do you have?
||: T
W: ||||
R: |||                      (i'm talking,
             bending the rules,
revising the existence of
handwritting)
   Y: |||
O: |
P: ||
H: |||
J: |
Z: |||
            K: |||
  L: ||
   X: ||
           N: |||
   M: ||||
   V: ||
   B: |||
   C: |
        G: ||
   D: ||
S: |
            F: |||
    P: ||
U: |
E: ||||
                       Q: ||
               A: |||
i missed a letter,
i missed a letter...
  but having forgotten...
what... my script,
in print, looks like,
"one-sided"...
of a pen, held,
by my right hand...
to a piece of paper...
and instead...
a mind...
orientated by both
hands being in synch.?
well...
           chess and
counting matchsticks...
expecting
no fire to errupt
in, less a home,
      and more: the soceity.

please, i beg of you,
to know the place
of which god has no
knowledge,
or leisure of entry...
     and keep me in that
suggestion...
otherwise?
  i have my closest
fasthom to "market"
   a pettle...
i: closer to birch
as
identifying tree:
than an oak...
       am i closer to the
     castle-of-thought,
with the crude units
of genitals?!
confined of the male
genitals?
      little girl and little boy,
baba yaga
and turnip for
a hansel,
   and a beetroot for
a gretyl...
                 love: so sweet...
love... in the affairs of
furore:
otherwise:
   what would only become
the kaleigh dance...
     and us...
    and no: us...

           a hybrid of *******,
as would become understood...
standing aloft in grieving
a stature of Edinburgh...
         your...

           shadow of being...
my supposed "child":
and your... belittling child
of a genital take
on impetus...
        
    odd... athe africans
can call it a clear sahara...
        with a male and female fame of
"purse"...
     Żubrówka...
         no... ***** no...
i kissed the prince the snail
and you expecting him
to be frog turn: a lottery baron...
                 ****... me!

you call them something or
other... the heil glum's?!
             something in question
of being: "told apart""?!
          
romance what what with what?
post-scriptum colonialism...
    oh... ****...
forgot the proper impetus...
      ****** better take to
the revision of cotton...
      and because without the basis
of colonel tavington...
       you gonna provide
the chinese *****-labour
of your usurp
              weather journal?!
   ******* gonna become all
fickle and emotional
to resurrect aztecs or something?

mind you...
considering the ushering of:
freedom...
        see..
the red coats?
terrible...
    terrible... but you see the problem
of the modern,
    spectacle military?
    lost coherence of: cadence!

   north korea and russia will do...
england?!
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
   you ******* training seals,
or just agitasting egoism?!
  the call of the red jacket...
    odd the veering on
the purple sheer...
       her...
  
   majesty's... "majesty's":
soldiers...
                do english soldiers of the royal
core, even contemlate to
the basis of their existential
core... a...
an equivalent of a russian...
          infantry cadence?!

the english soldiers,
              demanding a queen
rather than enemy, or general...
             what a broken harth to
mind a square cubic of wreath...
without allowed metaphor...
        
let's be honest...
with or without the queen...
the current british infantry
cadence?!
            kinda... kinda makes
north korea look like...
                  a perfect shoelace;
nor is that perfect...
attempting
to cobble-fit
a variant of the loss of youth
in encompassing
      prior York, the Crown...

after a while i am almost
attempting to be sedated by
     an attempt into a play of being
torn, naive...
            **** gets boring,
and octous begins to
suffocate,
      imitating, royal,
           **** amour of the desired
******...
         oh how there is enough
little people, among the people
deemed: "big"
      in posession of a crown...
the english army is:
   without... goose...
  or what is reserved for
   the most appropriate height of making
a mark of... said,
or unsaid footing...
  how sudden the death...
and a...
                gambling
fissure of a: "loss" bound
                          to a tomorrow?
soviet says...
soviet gains...
        and the little gain
in between...
pray to god to never feel
obliged to pray or encompass
monogomy...

                          2nd. tier...
whatever you might call it?
words, are, cheap.

If I lay down and close my eyes never to wake again lay me down in a bed of flames to melt my bones.
Set a wreath out on the floor and wrap garland around your door.
As the world moves on and they sing the Carol Of The Bells know that my soul will be waiting.
Decorate your tree with gentle hands, stringing lights and hanging peaceful memories as you go.
Fill my stocking with cinnamon and cloves and know that on Christmas morning you will find that neatly wrapped under the tree is a last gift from me.
It is scarred and broken, but it is the most precious posession. Treat it well, keep it close and know that you are the only place I want to be for all of my eternity.

—And so the conversation slips
Among novelties and carefully submitted anonymous tips                  
Through some elevator’s ear-splitting jingle
And then awkward coughs or sighs begin to mingle          
And coughs up something like          
"You do not know how much they mean to me, my (Whatever).”          
Well aren’t you a rarity.                  
In a world, so dense
Dank wet cold nights
Or Warm Summer Sunsets.

Another human being must have similar qualities
Someone who is cold, and warm. There’s everything.
Diversity in the soul; worldy, or knowledgeable.
One of those who has, and gives                  
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.          
This
These
My
Not demise
My eyes
Watch my words
Mine
Coming from my nervous system
Turning to twine and wind
Around and out from the nerves in my spine
Inside my brain a deep, dull rhythm begins          
Tapping intro on my skull wearing me thin
          
Unpredictable but measured changes
Make the silence seem, if possible, truthfully monotone          
That is at least one definite "false note."                              
Admire this monument,          
Remain with what’s relevant
This was some broken covenant
But then it was love again
No that’s from way back when.

Correct our watches by the school bell.          
Then sit for an hour and drink out of liquor wells.
Now that I can dream of the oleander in bloom          
I can smell their sweet pollen in the air in my room          
Just like that sweet strand of hair that you twist around your finger          
You don’t even know
It could all be (although not) all a show          
This whole thing, this life
It’s all in your hands
Survival is simple
Meet it’s demands
Learn how to stand on your hands
And land on your feet
It’s a stammering stam.                  
(You and your strand of hair put me through the wringer)          
You let it flow from you, you let it flow,          
Never the less without a god ****** filter
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse          
As ignorance infiltrates and expectations point the finger
I of course have a smirk plastered on my jaw                    
And I go on looking at you from across the table
I pretend to unsee the nakedness I once saw.

And again with the premature sunsets,
Somehow almost completely recall
The moments in the past verbatum
And that is how I retrospectively fall
My buried life, and the shallow Canal
One of my wings
And the rest of myself
I feel on the verge of some past dreamt nirvana.
Finding the world all fuzzy and wuzzy and whatnot
And find my ignorant stomach stumbling in knots                      
My inner voice returns like this pest persistently out-of-tune          
Of a broken vocal chord on a post-spring afternoon:          
I am always never surely unaware that you understandingly misunderstand          
My feelings, always surely realistically that you feel,                                  
I must be invulnerable, you insistently have no Achilles' heel.          
You will go on, and when you have finally figured out your fate’s tallest tale              
You can say: at this point I for one, have failed.
What can I say that you say,
Do I--but what do I have, vague shadow
To offer, what will you take from me?                                
Only the friendship and the unearned empathy          
Of a new journey, or the end of an old path
I’ll sit here, I see the fragments of dust settle on the shelves
Making for a subtle aftermath  
I’ll hang my hat on your hook:
I’ve never worn prada, I must make amends          
I’ve lived all my lifetime
No help from said friends                    
You will see me any morning in the park
Tying loose ends
Right around the bend.
Sitting on the wooden bench ahead
Reading the sports, and the comic strips          
And with a smirk on my face full of laughter and wit          
An English major goes upon life’s stage          
Some bad on bad got shot on or bled out in the cage                  
Another collection’s agency has called
I keep my solid, impenetrable expression,          
I remain self-possessed, and self in posession,          
Except when a tuneless piano, mechanically intravenously          
Reiterates some worn-out broken sonnet of a song, old and tired                  
With the smell of her across the garden          
Recalling things that which many others have desired.          
Are these ideas right or wrong?          
I’m desbelado, eyes cracked, hands wired
The nights swallows me, like it promised before
Except for the sensation at my hips and my hands moving with ease      
Owning each step of the stairs the creak of my door
So you’re leaving
But when will you be staying?          

But that's a useless question.
Between reality and a dream I stay swaying          

You never know anything.                    

But I have so much to go discover and learn.
My smile took so much elbow grease
Like old school butter to be churned

Maybe you can write to me, or just keep doing this.

Pure. Confidence, flares up for a second;          
This is as I signed up for.                    

I have been wondering lately, It’s been on my nerve’s end          
Why we will not continue growing into friends.
            
Not very ironically
I am smirking internally of course, to write a side note
I have a sly private remark          
Suddenly, the expression in a glass is stained                    
My soul or me stutters.
Whispers, we really are in the dark.

It was common knowledge. You and I. We were the perforated line.
It was sure that the ideas must happen, revolution. America is beautiful.
So closely! I myself can hardly understand. How any extremist swallow their own bull          
It must be put in the hands of whatever you think is fate                    
I will be always, I will write, at any rate.          
There is still a chance it is not too late.          
I will sit here, without a list of my friends.
Instead my list is a comrade after comrade
And that’s how it ends  
Would you lend me your fridge’s magnet puzzle pieces          
To somehow visualize my thought                    
My mind is racing. It’s the revolution I’m chasing.          
No stencils or unorganically produced tracings          
            
We’re all bound to die some afternoon,          
Mine will be foggy maybe, ending in a tie-dye yellow rose                    
I will die with ink on my face and a pen in my stiff hand
Half a bowl left of stale rasin bran.
If there’s an afterlife, I will be the protagonist that starts off in denial          
Not knowing what to feel through the whole doomsday trial          
I’ll actually be debating whether this is ridiculous, raw, or even tactile                      
With all the time in the world, might sit down a while.