given the title?                       a history.
                 you simply don't get it,
you don't get a focal point,
   instead of the hejnał mariacki
i get: the beatles...  included in the exodus package....
or the: when will immigrants be deemed expatriots?
now, never, soon?! host nations
forget that immigrants have a host nation
to remind people of: at least given the lingo...
but then local people repel it:
given the Anglos: it's a best kept secret in
Rotherham... because that's how we like it...
see? we English: two-faced politeness...
  all ****-based in Ibiza... or dare say otherwise...
we like the carry-ons... said:
you say, where we were naughty...
             keep it as you are
you'll eventually remind me of nothing...
   that's worse than a hangover...
you''ll literally remind me of nothing,
perhaps Netwton, but mostly Cockney
inspired ****... i just made half of keeping
Oxford...
             yes, you with Roman and Viking
history, i can't speak a history of Mongol
invasian, or the qusi-vikings akin to Swedes,
and then the Turks...
******* islelanders...
       as the French always said:
you not into ******?
               **** it! let's sell it anyway!
  about as gravity prone to tell a difference
between a rock and a mountain...
watch which one sink further into quicksand...
what you don't get with your d.n.a.:
a history...
what you don't get with your d.n.a.:
no pretty face will be able to repeat it...
you don't get to reach for a history...
            you don't get to claim Maine
of the u.s.a., you have to come back,
back via little england...
     you first have to craft a reply
counter the ιρη and the σκωτ,
no poly
- if britain is outside of europe:
i'll bring europe to britain -
i'll ensure there's the mandible bone's worth
in it jamming its jaw...
  just so it can chew: and later lap up
a history basis...
      call it a Yugoslavia mm,
or murmur... or something akin...
                i know of the snow surrounding
Belgrade...
                     ι / i / ε / +
             -ρη        catch a breath: -re
  i.r.a. to the malconcent,
well, it's a chessboard: either you're pawn
or no pawn at all...
            i get more english in england
than irish in england,
    i never hear scoot in anglo-shire...
not once, not ever...
              the irish belong in american
urban folklore, or unless nibbling on
the Poznań crown of tatties...
  oh... look at ye / v... cosmopolitan self...
mighty proud i am of ye / v..    
    wiepszo-wą...                 ...tek
                ten.. pierdolony... pyr!
Poznański pyr... to gówno i mowa równikiem:
sroka!
        o kurwa ó ó...  sedament:
   i to zwane cegłą.... wielkopolski huj:
schwaben herz!        pyr! daj mi boże wojne
domową wedle testamentu Syrii...
bo ja gnije w nadzieji żem nadaramene wygnany!
    wielko-huja-warty-*******...
pyr... ziemniok... wielko-łaski "hrabia"
    einzbach! ten: poznański "rebel"
  pseudo des esseintes...
   generically know as merely: pyr...
  wkrocze w cheć Warszawy na nowo:
a poza tym? angielska róż może zgnić
w makijarz. tyle.... o o.... tyle...
kopytka i klątwy... śląskie glizdy: czy klusy...
      czyli poznański szlachto-łez-odziedziczony...
            "pan"...
nadal tylko kurwa pyr dla mnie!
no, kurwa, kochaj mnie!
        tak abym nie pisał tym ozorem... zza granicą!
czyli bez ł i paciora, a jednak tyle co chodzi o tau.
i never have to answer my host nation,
i never had to... it's the nation that gave
the care to give Chopin's heart a tomb in Wawel...
         as the perpetual home:
   cheap racist ignitions don't make me really
****- sensitive concerning English don't and do not
slang translation...
   i'm worried about my mother incubator,
    and yes, that's ****- i.e. don't and
pakistani i.e. do not...
                        well... there's bound to be a gensis
at some point... it doesn't necessarily
have to be koranic...
given the saudis are so ******* lazy in their
inheritence of sitting on what the islamic
world calls *schwarz gœlt.

Raking autumn leaves
the color of sea stars
mottled on moist ground

I watch them fall
spinning slowly through blue sky
as if the breeze was a tide
ebbing and rising

the rake feels like a paintbrush
collecting color
muddied by mixing
into a fall palette

a still life with fruit
pears and apples still unblemished
on branch attached
but mushy and vinegar smelling

our big white Pyr
helps herself to fallen fruit
laying claim to each orb
her huge paws on either side
moist nose buried
in the rust of the Bosch
the red of the Delicious

we fill a wheelbarrow of leaf draped fruit
to bring below for coyotes
we trap on camera
motion sensed
but motionless

Malama the Pyr
waits whining wondering
if our chill morn together has ended
but the leaves are piles of the fallen
our task is not yet done

more are gathered on tarp
and dragged to garden bed
to blanket wintersleep of bulb and tuber
to feed in their decay
the new blooms of a next spring day

I have always raked
far preferring the quiet metal combing
through grassy tangled tufts
over motored loud blower’s hum
sending Moore's leaves whirling skyward

but I am no longer  tempted
to jump in the pile
gathering armfuls whose yellow color
is a child's crayon sun
and toss them for a second fall

no longer are they bagged  
in thick black plastic to wait
decomposition amongst the landfill’s
less pastoral refuse

nor are they burned
sending acrid leaf spirit smoke
into the cold pale blue
of October afternoon

now their raking is not a ridding
a discarding of what was season’s decoration
soon useless brown
but more of a farewell
a leaving of the light

an offering of what is still of use
in the aged for what will be
a period of cold and dark
and winter's rest
before the next season of green
begins

if only with a sense of irony, if that word is
even remotely meaningful anymore -
what you, what is irony?
I was supposed to be writing this an our
early, far far away, in lil Charlie's kingdom
come, or whenever that old hag will
thrown in the towel and hip,
just itching, itchy winking spider starting
spinning a mandala on my rechthand...
fingers begging for the dough
or the copper strings und...
english-german
    english-polish-german...
polish-english-german
          polish-german...
my axis of the beyond,
russian would too be handy,
had not the orthodox Athenians
dug tunnels behind the Roman empire
and moved straight from Greek
to Cyrillic... alas... rigid Latin rubric,
german grammar engineering,
and a slavic hot head for drink,
     plus the Anglican lisp behind
a thespian: Y-tongue serpentine...
                     siamese kiss...
                                   on the 19th April,
jests... a bothersome headache...
the Warsaw ghetto uprising...
   never mind, upon return to Israel,
like and p.t.s.d. baptism, scolded and shunned,
apparently not rubber enough,
not eventually reaching the palms
and date trees of Tel Aviv...
      don't worry... grey Sarajevo was around
the corner, around the corner the deflated
Ottoman...
         to tell the truth: what I inherited
is, perhaps but a ditto, making me nothing
more than a Ditto Eddie...
                    like grating root veg for a clear
soup, instead, floating, murky floodgates
open...
           what are these names,
these mental tattoos supposed to do
to me? at least in England the are but two
dates summarising the 20th century,
11:11:11 (Armistice) and 1966...
                    and that's about the summary
of England, as given by pedagogy...
   only when watching Deutchland '83...
    beauty in the west is achieved by
creating an en masse consent of apathy...
which isn't exactly verbatim...
                    somehow quasi immersed,
a return of an "exiled" 8 year old...
westerplatte isn't exactly the story
  of thermopylae... but give it enough
time and there too will come a window
of necessary myth-making, id est:
exaggeration...
            i am i am a psyche-mongrel...
which transcends whatever the other
mongrel is...
            but the transcendental menu
changes...
   on a side, in philosophy:
in the phenomenological vernicular,
is a nation a phenomenon,
or a Kantian res per se, id est: noumenon?
apparently both...
        the Mongols became a phenomenon
of the golden horde, subsequently
some polished glass fatamorgana
                                      north of Gobi...
flatter than a Parisian pancake...
        a dry horse meat blood drinking boom,
Baghdad gambling houses
               were skulls were thrown with
painted one to sixes, blindly from a bag...
and whenever Islam thinks it stopped
the horde, and didn't assimilate them
into Crimea where Mongol became Tatar...
they'll cite the battle of ain jalut...
    and mamluk becomes synonym with
janissary, meaning,
probably one of those children from that
infamous Stephen of Cloyes expedition...
which I hardly think was a noble cause...
that ******* slave handler of orphans
I can add, to the wheel of Fortune of Dante's
inferno!
              a year from now on whatever
day or month, it will be 75 years from
the next kamikaze expedition...
        sure,  applause,
but on a lesser note...
in a tiny town like this,
come to think of it,
    i'm only 2nd generation urban...
my grandmother was born in the country
(or rather on the Front)
my great-grwndmother (who I still remember)
was born there...
     and you see these remnants,
after all, Ukraine the bread basin of Europe...
after all Poland und der Größer Pyr
    (Posen)...
                     ******* mental grafitti
everywhere, beg to differ if you think you're
walking on eggshells, relics,
      sacred ground, schloß...
    or Hegel's the philosophy of right...
seriously GDR had a problem with Shakespeare
over Marx?
    I have a problem with Marxism being
at once the Liverpool Project co. Engels
and as much, a critique of Hegel's lecture
notes...
I can feel England breathing on my neck,
the relentless misery beyond
the south east, the nibbling, nibbling,
scuttling vividness of the last east end rat
making it to Romford, as spotted
at the bus stop...
   ****... if the rats are leaving London
and moving further afield into Essex County,
what the hell does that tell ya' about Cockneys?
yesterday spring, today:
            these feral lands...
                if you want a sample of Ukraine,
head to the West Warsaw train station ***
bus station... even the signs are written in
Ukrainian...
        but alas, no Polish-Lithuanian romantic
heading to Donetsk...
because how far back does history become
revival,  when nostalgia becomes
less thought + sigh...
        and more... well, the ******* caliph
of Baghdad and the hidden gem miles
from Tripoli?
                            and should you know,
I think Assad is going on the Haj...
just shy off a slap-head, given the shaved
moustache...
                       at what point can we cut off
a the criminality of past events?
well, apparently inheritence is taxable
on two fronts... material goods,
and psst hush hush events of our ancestry...
but history as a criminal act not
perpetrated by future examples of
"said" peoples? mind boggling...
            looks like ol' Jack of Whitechapel,
the ghoul, is more in favour
than your everyday German...
                                       ah, no ancestry,
no inheritance... tax...
                 hence the romance with ol' Jack...
unless you compare that to
the reality of the mechanisation
of serial murders,  their frequency etc etc.,
but history as a crime,
               a little tapeworm spawn lying
dormant in some distant body...
keen whisper says to me...
what if anorexic women were to ingest
a tapeworm...
   how would a tapeworm react to
a body that didn't want to eat?
secrete some hallucinogenic?
after all, the idea is not far from the medieval
ages, and how leeches were used
to drain, bad blood (schlechtblut)...
      for all i know tapeworms are not
feral parasites, not worms in dog insestines...
they're clinal parasites,
like bacteria in yoghurts are clinical...
all it takes is one brave soul
suffering from anorexia to ingest a tapeworm
spawn...
                 evidently a hit and miss,
a parasite will know if the host body
is worth attaching itself to the small insestine wall,
after which, its evolutionary mechanism
will kick in... and the host will be "forced"
to eat...
              and that comes from a cul de sac
idea from a schizophrenic friend of mine...
   he had the delusion of being a tapeworm host...
but... he didn't exactly know what a tapeworm
could be used for... should Europe
return to the Dark Ages barbarism,
and using leeches...
                hey... it wasn't called west,
before it was called wild...
         at least a tapeworm has a mouth
at the head rather than a mouth
in its bellybutton...
                    oddly enough cancer,
that botanical translation with roots
in mistletoe has no known mouth...
pseudo fungus...
                              yes yes, let's play
normies... the antibiotics are just about
to run out... no wild ideas are going to save,
the niche markets of ailments, akin to
anorexia.