/               listening to lionel nation:

    a lawyer...

     and i... seriously can't tell
the difference

between what a lawyer
calls a play-on-word,

             and what a poet is...

who the hell needs to ingest
psychadelics,
   when you can listen
to a (probably) retired lawyer?

i appreciate that people
like stand-up comedians,

        or what's called cabaret
humour in eastern europe -

nope, no stand-up
       beckettesque: monologue
humour in some parts
of the world...

cabaret comedy?
                  a... dialogue...

but it's not like i'm
a scholar and will write a book
about this minor observation...

lawyer within the ratio comparison
of a poet?
    can't tell them apart...

the EU hinges on monetary
transparency...

fidgety with an algorithm,
entry:
  greek act of putting coins on
           the eyes of the dead...

apart from charon (karon,
no, chitty chitty bang bang)

       i guess that's what
nietzsche called the alchemical
principle, the book he never wrote,
but anticipated:

about the transvaluation of
all values -
                 id est: the second tier
of the gold standard,
the concept of money
  transvaluates:
   id est: translates a value of
something,
into a value ascriptive
purpose of another...
  
  then comes the description...

britain was always
in an informal agreement
with the EU,
given that it kept its currency...

it was never a formal bond,
inscribed with the sharing
of a collective currency,
    there was no vote to begin with,
the import of eastern european
labour coincided with the fact
that british children experienced
the cold sweats of:
   having to fall into a victorianesque
bbq of manual labour...
instead staging madness...
    
   england always retained
its currency... so what the ****
is blalxit?
         on an island,
   with its own currency...
   a bwehxit would have truly
happened, had britain adopted
the euro...
   the rest? a smokescreen.

- but there is no actual noun
to "decipher":
greek act of putting coins
        on the eyes of the dead
put into the griding machine
of words that is an algorithm...

a rite, but no name for the rite?!
seriously?!

there's is no name for it...
hence this poem, as a counter
explanation...
   a zeno paradox
coinciding with the example
of achilles and the tortoise.

i appreciate the ancient greek
analogy:
  or rather, "ancient":
in that... it was a... age of curiosity.

came the satanic dark ages,
came lucifer's enlightenment period...
where the **** are we at?
did we skip a part, a page,
a "something" from
inscribing humanity's autobiography?

no... but we are alive,
          and we are outside heidegger's
sense of dasein...
         having moved into the domain
of                   jetztsein...

considering the fact that,
german, as a "language" with regard
to how to define space...
    in translation in english (of course)...

    zeit... sure, time...
but space?
        raum?          oh right... roam?
nein nein nein!              oh... room?
                       das ist alle?

hence the second composite of time,
outside the casual expression
'there was a time... when...'
           akin to the: once upon...

no here, no there... jetzt!

p.s.

   well yeah... carpe diem in "reverse":
or as i like to call to -
immaculate immediacy -
a trance stace of waiting and waiting,
but never actually awaiting
anything, to be particular.

Asmodeus* is left to breathe nothing but sand

Belial is trickery and is partial to Man

Charon is only influenced by what is paid

Dagon will bake whatever can be made

Erebus guards his own darkness under his own tree

Furfur  his army is more legendary as a legion to see

Geryon his sentry at the gates ensures leaving is not right

Hetu-Ahin even whole at Dawn you are not safe at Twilight

Itzcoliuhqui is the ******* of all that is cold

Jezebeth is articulated as all falsehoods that are told

Kasdeya wallowing 5th in line to never be king

Lilith who Adam thought would make him sing

Mephistopheles not the true leader just a fawning servant

Nyx Incestuously in love with her brother Erebus

Orthon can take on any or other form

Philotanus will assist when the fortress is to be stormed

Qanel is alone in a canal of strife

Raum his command means Furfur is under the knife

Seth Rules the Egyptian underworld with an iron fist

Tando Ashanti Takes seven on seven and will never miss

Uphir will ensure that all Demons stay well

Vetis will make sure all that Holy comes to Hell

Wele Gumali is as black as the darkest sin

Xaphan makes sure that all are comfy and warm within

Yama has dogs to take care of all the junk

Zagam** is just a drunk

sehnsucht nach einer person*, würden menschen es in
worte fassen, dessen gebrauch sie gar nicht kennen.
oh nein, ich habe keine sehnsucht nach einer person –
ich habe heimweh. ich habe mich bei ihm – und
zwar egal wo: im bus, oder auch in einen dunkeln
raum, der gähnend leer ist, außer zwei personen
und eine handvoll worte, denen ich mich nicht
entziehen kann – mehr geborgen gefühlt, als
in meinen eigenen heim.

denn zu hause ist kein ort, sondern ein gefühl.

Alles, was bleibt, ist ein Riss, genau in der Mitte des Seins.

Lass mich nicht die sein, die an allen Standpunkten
teilhaben muss, nicht die, die mit Stift und Worten
Angst zu bekämpfen vermag, nicht die, die sich im-
mer brav rechts auf den Weg hält, die, deren Blick
immer Fremdens Füße begutachten, nicht die, die
sich ohne eine Tasse Koffein wachhalten versucht,
die, die überhaupt nur zu den traurigen Songs tanzt,
die, deren Herz sich nur schwer erwärmen lässt,
die, mit den melancholischen Augen den Raum er-
misst

Someone taught me to be me -
Es sind die Kämpfe mit meinem Selbst,
die sich in meine Haut gebrannt haben,
die Angst vor höheren Mächten, die
meine Augenringe abzeichnen,
es ist das große Vielleicht von dir,
dass mich zittern lässt.

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My teenage guitar playing was a caterwauling wildcat in a feedback induced search for the cackling daemon Raum
Dad never made me turn it down* ...

Als die abgekühlten, verschwendeten Träume des Unterbewusstseins
langsam ihre Farbe verlieren,
werden seine verwaisten Hände übertastig,
greifen blind nach dem Fleisch,
neben dem seinen,
das weltverloren aus der verweiblichten Realität atmet.

Im Niemandsland halbwacher Gedanken,
erscheint jene Schaufensterpuppe,
die ihn an einem ganz gewöhnlichen Wochentag,
mit ihrem leeren Blick fixiert.
Plastische Existenz im gedankenlosen Körper,
zum Schweigen gebracht,
damit sie ihr Selbst nicht verleugnen muss,
wenn ihr der rechte Arm auf links gedreht wird.
Im Vorbeistehn schenkt sie ihm ein unbewohntes
Lächeln.
Oder ist es doch sein eigenes,
das sich im Fenster spiegelt?

An den Venusgürtel der Blauen Stunde gekrallt,
hält er die Augen fest geschlossen
Unsichtbar für das Lichte,
nicht sehen,
nicht gesehen werden,
ein Sich-den-Sinnen-verweigern,
im unbemerkten Raum innerhalb der Zeit

Wie der Blaue Blumendichter,
so weiß auch er,
um die Notwendigkeit der Verschiebung,
wenn die ätherische Illusion berührt,
wenn das Subjekt zum Objekt geworden,
in die Nichtwirklichkeit zurückgeschoben werden muss,
damit das lyrische Heimweh aus der
Überlebensverhinderung befreit wird

Wäre sie immer noch das,
was er am meisten bewundert,
wenn er jetzt,
jetzt,
in diesem blutleeren Augenblick,
sein linkes Oberlid öffnete,
nur einen kleinen Spalt breit
?
Wäre sie nur eine der liebreizenden
Schmetterlingspflanzen,
deren sinnliche Blüten begierig mit seinem Unterleib
tanzen,
und die Töne aus seinen Lenden presst,
bis die Musik verstummt
??
Würde er in seinen Weißhaarzeiten auf einer Bank
sitzen,
unten am See,
eine verschlissene, offene Aktentasche auf dem Schoß,
den Kopf tief vergraben im ranzigen Leder
und mit zittrigen Händen

nach einer fragmentierten Erinnerungsspur suchend,
die längst in die Bedeutungslosigkeit geflohen war
???

Er wagt einen halboffenen Blick,
hinüber zur lichtblauen Sehnsucht,
dem gestern noch so gefräßigen Verlangen,
das sich nun,
in gnadenloser Sattheit,
in seiner Fleisches-Unlust ausbreitet.

Ausgelangweilt kratzen seine gierigen Finger an der fiktiven Verkleidung,
bis ihr schamhaftes Blut in seine eigene Selbsttäuschung tropft
und ihre Brüste aus den blaubepuderten Versprechungen bersten,
die er nicht ihr, sondern sich selbst gab.

Im Schein des Morgensterns
glänzt bereits der melancholische Trauertau,
als sich beider Seufzer ein letztes Mal berühren.
Hastig wickelt er prosaische Bandagen
um ihre offenen Wunden

und schiebt das Gestern in (s)eine neue Zukunft.

Big Bellies,Big Cars.
These are our leaders.
Sunken Eyes,Starving stomachs
Those are your neighbors.
Dysfunctional systems and it's not so important.
Hospital shelves have no drugs and the beds are rusty.
There is no food in the basket
But the main economic activity for the country is agriculture
Bribery is now part of culture.
The doctor will decline to offer you his assistance if you don't avail him with 'a little something'.
Part of our taxes go to personal accounts some abroad.
On Some days some people in the City,I Have seen some,sell their blood through donation drives in hopes for the free biscuit and soda and this is lunch.
And some go on for some days without any food not even little to their mouth
And not because of leisure or for their pleasure.
On the days when they get what to offer to the impatiently waiting intestines,it's a pleasure.
Some of our young girls are introduced to adulthood because of the conditions in the families they come from.
Chips and chicken,KFC,maybe Cafe Javas,have fun together and definitely bed later.
Some have 'achieved' more than this,like small cars say Vitz,Raum and Spacio but their lives have not changed for the better.
Some offer their Prized bodies to these predators for petty items like phones,clothes and leisure.
The dignity lost in doing this has a measure.
All this because for some of their needs and wants,some even so small,Their parents can't cater.
Potholes in the roads can even be a topic to joke about
Harming our cars that we toiled so much to acquire,we are not so bothered,since the people in charge,will soon work on them(We hope)
Sewerage spews all over our streets and roads sometimes and still we are hopeful for the better.
Maybe not now,maybe later.

Big bellies,Big Cars.
Those are our leaders.
Sunken eyes,Starving stomachs
Those are your Neighbors

Warten,
in einem fremden Raum.
Ungewohnte Geräusche.
Unangenehme Gerüche.
Die Anwesenheit einer Fremden im Bett nebenan,
auch wartend,
auch nicht schlafen könnend.
Wie kalter Honig zieht sich die Zeit.
Der Wunsch nach dem Ende der Nacht
begegnet der Angst vor dem Morgengrauen.
Alles sträubt sich.
Die Augen brennen vor Müdigkeit.
Die Matratze zwingt den Muskeln ihre Härte auf.
Was alles sein wird oder sein könnte am morgigen Tag,
taucht auf und ab,
wie ein Ball wogend auf dem Meer.
Der Versuch, alles auszublenden;
die fremde Umgebung,
die fremden Geräusche,
die fremden Gerüche,
die Fremde.
Abtauchen in eine andere Welt;
in meine Welt,
meine Gedanken,
mein Denken.
Müdigkeit übermannt mich.
Schlaf beendet das
Warten.

all concern for music
disembodies
time, with what is,
a concern for time...
für zeit...

music is not architecture,
architecture is
not the grammar
of geometry,

logic contra logic

an Irish womb,
an Arabic phallus:
***** contra
dodo *** Hong Kong...

i have depth toward
"concerning"
myself of the gravitas
of the life,
sentenced:
an expense,
a loan,
             a... mirage...
cult of David...

lose you, i lose i:
stiffening curtail,
i, mask,
you, my macabre
stealth similie
missing smile;

hybrid death,
allure of the stampede
of echoes...
a clutter of
       bound by
knocking on a tree...
unfathomable
to suit a room,
to make a tree
into a door,
and...

    ein wald
                   ein raum...

no... time embodies
the writ,
  of what time expects...
but music contradicts
within the confines
of the exfoliations
of what it is...

platz und...

why would a German
make it a concern...
for IS, TIME,

   tamed... being...

and the French...

    the thought
an ought,
and subsequently
a nought...

           4am...

                  too much...
it is too much to
cling to the self-evident
expression of a body
attached,
with a shadow,
to discontinue a remark
worthy of a unison,
a god,

                to marr,
subdue...
counter the scalpel
of the ultra-Hippocratic
expedience...

to: and fro... the verb:
act, and upon...

4am...

i die: a death
well versed in
having established
itself in,
having to,
curtail the morose
      cull of breath -
in the prior to
curtain's fall decree
of...
            
     leben:

aus von jeden ist
da ist noch
                          ist,

ex-is-tance...

   the dance of insistence...
out of ever instance:

music is the expression
of the deviant
nurture of time,
encompass...

and that implies...
   -is-

             musik ist platz...

deshalb zeit ist nichts;

und poeßie?

                         schule!

your fabric worth of a face,
contra mine,
and...
the persisting worth
of an evaporating etc.;
clinical,
in the worth of a revisionist's
worth of rubric,
in reiteration,

            minority
contort;
              weeding out
grandiose
export, H'america...
                   the...

                Salem circus loot:
"freundlichartikel".

i sat hunched like a crow...
await the usual cue...
a star burst into life,
          then shrunk
to something akin to being
part of a constellation,
and moved...
across the sky...

i was walking from one
supermarket to
the other,
drinking a cider...
a black couple were
about
to pass me,
    i intentionally
moved
across the pavement
to ease their passing...
smoking a cigarette...

i was coming back
from another
supermarket
with the whiskey in tow...
about to pass
two... giblets worth
of people...
namely...
two, short, white,
lesbian, lovers...
one was moving
her lover: arm in arm...
to almost make
an impasse of my
hermitic route
past them...

oh i believe
in the nomadic people...
like i believe in
the hermitic people...

purposively...
to claim attention
worth of macht...
i just about missed
having to be shoved
into...
  what could have been...
a perfectly calm
night inquiry of:
the volume of traffic
for pedestrians in
the cool crisp night...

i wasn't slighted,
i was, more akin to:
'*****, please don't
make this difficult...'
  i wasn't slighted
like dostoyevsky (wow...
i can spell that surname
drunk, just imagine)...
when he wrote his:
notes from
          the underground...

i've just seen a star explode
into life,
then dim itself
to a star worthy of
a constellation,
and move, i mean move
across the sky...

          back on earth:
a black couple can understand
that what rules
obliges me to drive
a car on roads,
also applies...
for the common courtesy
of having to share a pavement...

giblet twin-*******
lesian-lovers from hell?
no... the "thing"
just passes them...
        i did shy my right
shoulder from making contact...
but... come on...
    
so i drank the third cider
while taking a ****
and reading a book...
   clearly...
  for some the bureaucratic figures...
highest authority emblems
as described with
such... benevolence as...
those, described by krasznahorkai...
i once made a shelf
become bound to the existece
of three clocks...
stacked...
one didn't work:
keeping the pernament hour,
while the two were out-of-sync.,

trouble is... once perched
on my windowsill...
listening to speak...
youtube videos...

       i have to though...
i have to listen to these:
bland day-robbers...
   work... yeah...
and if i was to be paid reading
some hungarian novel
from 1985...
rather than regurgitating
internet spew & news...
imagine!

        - but i have to...
perched on the windowsill...
finally the wintry air hits
me...
with a ***** of eager buds
waiting to sprout on trees...
magnolias...
             pear tree blossom on
the eastern avenue (A12)...
   the flower prior to the fruit...
many a cold winter night
i have walked...
clipping off the pear tree
blossom...
   one night white flowers...
another night plush
   cosmopolitan pink...

but i hate the pedantry of
that certain class of people
who can't understand
pedestrian traffic...
whatever their liberation
gave them,
they have to convene themselves
to gloat...
  how much of an obstruction
is a man drinking a cider,
at past 10pm
   walking in the opposite
direction?

               just petty instances
of the most trivial farce...

so i position myself on
my foot, one dangling,
on the windowsill...
drinking...
                 listening to these
youtube videos
thinking
   (at what will i speak?) -
comment?
    none...
         and then it hits me...
ah...
           harmony...
the unison...
something resembling
being synchronised...
   the void that is my thought
feeds from
the rigorous agitation
of... made music...

and then...
it comes...
              something as
basic, but thrice as fundamental...
akin to rotting christ's
זה נגמר

                    i close my eyes
and begin...
   the nodding mantra
of the 3rd tier of silence...
not the 1st tier
of not speaking...
not the 2nd tier of thinking...
but the third tier...
of...
                    being absent:
yet... im-zeit-und-raum-intakt...
or... simply...
not thinking...
             accompanied
by a reduced empirical awareness...
eyes shut,
   ears blocked by the pulverising
sound of music...
        tip-toeing
on a wish for frost...
             itching to feel
the burrowing night
   ease me tonight from
dreamlessness...
            reduced to saying...

of man, my former...
he could conjure a mythology
with the quiz-snap
flick of the finger...
        what ancient man was,
and gave, via the membrane
of mythology...
     modern, man, kin...
       is as easy to conjure
a polytheistic venture into
pathology, as the ancient man
did into the realm of mythology...

gradations of melancholy,
or the sense of humor,
with a wasp's take on
the biting tongue turned agitated
sting...

to have to break from
feeling,
yet unable to think of
all the Taj Mahal constructs
of thought, conclusively,
into & preserving action...

          to have felt,
honestly...
   and not have to hide behind...
these thought-out-constructs
of logic...
      to think via a quasi-plagiarism...
if i were to shackle
myself to the irrational heart,
and feel, me!
   i would do so...
and thrice learn to curb
my tongue from uttering itself
louder than
than medley of an oyster
towing a heart...
                
           i wouldn't want...
to be dictated not feeling...
   and being reducted to
regurgitating...
                   a plagiarism...
or some... auxiliary argument...

but it is february,
and the nights are cold...
but only in these nights
can you take a walk,
and see such sights...
of pear trees in blossom...
or of magnolias...
like church bears
and uvulas became fused
together...
          
            and the congregation...
forgot to whisper...
instead... astouded everyone
with choir practice...
   unless of course...
you have ever heard
the recitation of the creed
in a catholic church,
and thought it, being unlikely,
to have the comparison...
of a mumbling satanic
cult...

                   can i do away with
prayer...
and merely think of "him"?
  i'm not going to provide
answers for a pronoun juggle...
i've left school,
and in school...
none of us were taught grammar,
to leave school,
and be forced an education
in grammar?
        a bit... beside the point:
would you say?

           perhaps "he" is the infantile
leasure activity of morons...
but... you see...
    nothing is...  
      a gargantuan glutton...
         nothing doesn't exist
in nature...
  even the vacuum that allows
for the motion of the planets
is brimming with anti-matter
discoveries...
            there is: no-thing...
only nothing,
   in a conversational passing...
casually...
                    almost unintentional...

what sort of "god" is an impasse
if "he" only occupies my thinking?
no... no mumbling prayer,
credo,
    or a crescendo of orthodoxy,
litany...
              a whisper...
                      like:
thinking - with a surprise at the end
of whatever thinking ever
solved...
              
    how much is it a delusion...
to simply think of "him"?
   and not having to compensate
that idea with prayer?
        oh... but i can think of nothing:
i just stop thinking...
since i am being pulverised
by "things"...
  primarily nouns,
   then atoms...
      and then...
               a plethora of:
         at what point am i to attach
myself to these, "depths"
of utility, for the service of,
                                         tongue?

winter, though:
   in the nights...
magnolias
and pear tree blossoms.

Im Raum der Einsamkeit
verwest
der Kadaver der Begeisterung