I'm not a poet... just a blah-blah machine... intellectual stuttering does involve: searching for... the best choice of words: which do not necessarily add, toward a nomination of intellectual girth... delayed stature... a Pole, like Jew, is more himself in exile, than with a stubborn claim of "origin", or rather, past... a people who have truly understood themselves, among themselves, are the ones without a heritage of a land... which is an ultra-form of democracy: the people have already spoken... the people, having no obligation for: a people... have no necessity for: a land... the Germans are infants in this line of argument, given: der VOLK... 2nd nomadic participation of a secularised people are the Poles... least because the most vocal among the throng of Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians... grind teeth and say Crimea is not Ukrainian... where land and people are synonymous, in development.
it's sometimes hard to envision the democratised voice as not being either: too personally "impractical", or too "impersonally" practical; of which, politicians fall into the latter category... hence democrscy's shadow dictator, known as the status quo... mind you... even Sisyphus wasn't allocated the task of moving an unmoveable stone... that being said, i feel no need to bask in some intellectual tectonic shift observation, as this is, quite simply, the most unnecessary allocation of words that, needless to say, are said, without encompassing a motivation for any subsequent dynamo expression... lazily rolling a cigarette as precursor, and... a serpentine of rattling skeletons like playing a magician's, xylophone.
a cold shot of 100ml of żołądkowa gorzka, followed by a rolled sweet Virginia tobacco cigarette... and a walk in a park... high spring scents... and that perfect companion readied for mirror and introversion: there are two, shadow at my most nihilistic, and "loneliness"... at my zenith, which is a gratitude, resembling the closest excavation of the truth bound to carpe diem: a sunset... was it ever going to be a day worth
the conundrum of a stiff 5am wake up call,
some would call it, a stretch of the imagination
to craft a pivot on, that might realise a continuum...
closer to the heart an empty stomach,
than a claustrophobic mind...
for once in my life I imagine people
who find thinking unbearable,
trying to measure their ails in the ethereal,
dissecting the mind entwined with
the soul, or what some would argue is
the sigma of the mechanisation of
the body... nibbling at love from
the unconscious rhythm of the heart,
prodding at desynchronised patterns,
aches of loving bound to
a scaffold without an executioner:
other than oneself...
perpetually seeking a biography
spanning but two weeks,
of Nabokov's counter-lollipop-16
frizz in goosebumps...
my... am I so sterile as to dream-up
a cougar on a leash?!
before the altar of a bull and
the infuriating moorish -sculinity...
hybrid came the minotaur...
somehow archetypes are stiff
as the introduction of the god
Solipssus into the parthenon...
Fraiser's concept of self
some greenish 'reesh 'nome -
can we do away with the surd letters?
there aren't that many after all,
given the english are famously
tingue-numb vowel impersonating
consonant "grievers' wounds"...
'ockney 'acking 'ockney,
and some dame off her frrrrr'ah
anything to get past
old riveriera, *** Sinatra...
*** martini super dry with
a dupper-uber wet:
snout of a mole in the caverns of
finding false teeth and
dangling ding-**** virginity...
in a brothel 'ardly the cherry picker...
if you've never been...
you've never been,
and s much can be said
what do you call an Arabian
a minor European with a taste
for Bulgarian seconds...
but of course, that white....
dress is because we all took to
replica monogamy of certain animals
but that weight of
a ring finger,
has me itching for the down-trodden
being mawled in my mouth
to later constitute pet food,
almost seems familiar,
but not quiet,
came those seeking fire and
were vigour prone,
came the necromancer and
tried to raise the dead,
before the living priesthood
began talking with the lead tongue
the ones who do not monetary
authenticity in the following coins:
a pence, a two pence, ten, twenty,
fifty... perhaps a quid...
a snippet of royal metal...
why wham! and not aha!
too much, eureka connotations?
bewildering, like 500ml bottle of *****
in Poland, and 25ml "shots" in England...
**** first of puke blood prior to
taking a ****?
dunno! hence the tycoon
a bit like asking a pirate parrot
for a quote only by pulling out
one of its feathers... to get the...
mechanical parts: geared up to
Cucklington.... and that is by no means
a place i can associate, either drunk,
how the hell do people even find
the diem or the motive behind it,
to craft the sort of "1 + 1 = 2"
momentum, that becomes carpe diem?!
I heard some say (well, I thought it
dzień ma zbyt wield małych "trosk" - - - - -
(wyroków by zważać na innych...
tzn. rz pirdole skolną
ortografie bez autobiograficznego
zaparcia na: NEIN!
F to finał...
nad machaną rę(n)ką...
czyli, tyczy to:
wodą... e e e! goń ty sam
ma tylko bjet...
bjet... ubogi nasz pan...
maciuk jet harciuk!
ble na nowo (Ь)
i ble na start (Ъ)
to mi... kurwa... nowina!
- - - - - - - - - - - -
(I lost the sense of paragraph
the world already knows
of those who shoved carpe diem
down the ***** of public figures,
and lived out
the motto of: carpe tutti...
better english with none,
than Russian with.... pseudo
impressionism of diacritical marks
beside the geometrical
revisionists of the blank canvas...
nice post-Greek lettering,
the lack of... finesse...
when teasing the third tier
spelling, grammar ****,
punctuation, breathing ****,
and diacritical distinction:
**** thappy toad zee gwafrifrifritee!
there is nothing grammatical
there is simply an aesthetic
minus the "grammar" Nazis comes...
the people that say:
I really don't see why literacy is a
necessary benchmark of education
for the sort of jobs,
that really require nothing more
than consumer supervision of:
the minimum literacy of
if people are sour about an aesthetic
of the written word...
without concern for punctuation...
let alone diacritical application...
PEOPLE ARE SEMI-LITERATE...
if grammar "nazis" exist,
then people are semi-literate...
they equate thinking with speaking...
and then file "complaints"...
as to how their thinking
diverges from speaking
because of sophistry,
and how talking doesn't integrate
itself back into thinking
because of philosophy.
filozofia: zapał, i - las ~ zapałek.
I've seen carpe diem exhausted
on the shoulders of the routines
better the life akin to the thrills
of a doormouse,
or an intellectual,
than some, mythical Taj Mahal of
into a pale lighthouse insignia
of violent purple, namely black,
in a sober, en masse, funeral yawn
this can only become a "difficult"
reading, something that always seems
to excavate: primo uno...
and nein auf omega...
not as an insult this... "thing"
concerning a semi-literate people,
just concerning the people:
who have been taught to read
in order to "read enough"...
and how much of that is focused
tilde contra macron.
just an idea of fathoming pause,
and the comma, ' from above...
czas ~ na mosty
sound slightly different to
czas - na mosty...
in no defence and with no concern
for a rubric of populism,
given the Oxford compound
of the attempt to break (-) away from
hence by "arrogant" claim concerning
the literacy of the genral populace...
these come as minor observations with
minor impetus being guaranteed
of populist dent...
flimsy ******* gay
oops-e-daisy patchwork Adams sort
of reminders to begin a tomorrow
as brimming on: "resolve"...
and above all: impetus!
the men should join the army...
Bratislava quarter limbed voters
and the crab eating fetish
reaching its penultimate lap...
for some reason,
I haven't been given the Darwinian
somehow lost with
the remainder of my inheritance,
ha ha! slumped into
a canvas remindful of a:
cinemagoers' jerking off screenplay.