i was waiting for an opportunity to take my dad's credit card
because i wanted something
and tonight
just when i really wanted something
something silly
very badly
he was on the phone
his wallet on the table...
within two minutes
i was walking upstairs
his grody card
in my hand
punching in the numbers

before i clicked confirm order
i thought of remedying the situation
"oh...dad...i was just trying to order you your birthday present
without you knowing
wanted it to be a surprise
haha, never guessed, did you"
i thought he wouldn't notice
the $30 missing

after i finally got what i wanted
i felt so full
i finally had it

and then i felt scared
and
embarrassed
and
ashamed
and i wondered
if this is what i am reduced to
materialistic ****
stealing from my father
who gives me all he can
is this just because i am a girl
or because i am human
or because i am sad
when will i stop stealing things
am i some sick *******
who gets a thrill out of petty crimes
what will i do next?

Words can evoke many emotions.

Words can be like little paper hearts;
messengers of love and happiness,
if shot from Cupid's bow
carefully and aimed
at the right person.

Words can be like bandages;
able to heal wounds,
to make amends and
to fix someone,
to make them better again.

Words can be like knives;
sharp and strong,
they can hurt you,
slash straight through you,
they can cause pain.

Words can be like echoes;
all those thoughts
that you don't want to remember
can be heard, repeated in your head
over and over and over again.

Words are capable of both inflicting pain
and remedying it.
**Words are powerful.

The astrologer speaks with a smiling face
For each of your miseries there’s redress
To calm down the planet subside crisis
There’s a stone to bring back the peace

It’s so clear when I read your face
You’re aggrieved greatly distressed
Fortune is shackled finance on the rocks
Luck is littered with stumbling blocks

On the home front looms a dark cloud
Your progenies aren’t making you proud
The spouse is no help in cutting down cost
In the sea of expense your earn is lost

All your efforts are going for a toss
The grind of job villainous boss
One after other misfortunes strike
Career stalled so is pay hike

But there’s still hope don’t break down
You’ve come to the best in the town
Here you would find at affordable rates
Boost in your fortune by remedying planets

.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!

It's been a year since
The most selfish selfless
Thing was done

Tears will always fall in June

It's been twelve months since
The most ambitious lethargic call
Was send out

Tears will always fall in June

It's been three hundred and sixty five days since
The most agonising bliss
Was reached out for

Tears will always fall in June

It's been eight thousand seven hundred and sixty six hours since
The most remedying hindrance
Saved the life unwanted

Tears will always fall in June

Pop-pop had really dark skin.
Brown sunshine soaked within him and
heated up the prodded red kindling of a young heart.
Fingers were bruised
and cracked and torn along the palms
and insides and betweens of his nails.
Sometimes he would touch me
with those hands, pat heads
or rub backs. Brown leafy eyes
made sure to do most of the reassuring.
I don't remember a lot. Just a soft Delaware accent, and tattered overalls reaching up and around
a remedying belly where I would put my head.

The late afternoon sun
Whose heat dusk
Would soon to absorb
Sifted through the window
Exposing particles of dust
Lightly strewn
On the glistening cement floor
Of the passageway
It must have been September

Daisied grass beneath my feet
Ladybird crawling
Along my fingertip
A fleet of autumnal birds
On the wing
Above me in their hundreds
Their remedying cadence
Humming and resonating
In my head
It must have been September

Swathed in the air of content
And absence of dissonance
Silently without warning
The light of september
Faded with the light of day
To bore the fathomless
The eruption of chaos
When my coin flipped
As I slept
Happiness or sadness
Out of my hands.

When she left her city lights
and came to California’s sun,
she lost her ****** eyes
to the first star in the night.
Her silhouette and shadows matched
against the hue above.
She dared the clock to make her change
her pertinacious love.

Every cloud’s got silver lines.
Every cup is fully filled.
Yet, she’s bludgeoned by her doubts
and made faithless by the lies
but somewhere in between this state
she finds her answer here.
It’s Calovefornia summer days
the remedying cure.

Driving through a remote highway in a thunderstorm,
winds howl
deafening the ears craving for a consolatory and palliative sound
the welkin lit by the fire flashing across the clouds.
The rain
****** the cars.
The thunder
seemed like a dying drummer of a battlefield.
The fiery sky
ushered callousness into the deserted streets.
A mixed feeling of fear and loneliness, anxietic trepidation and forlorn..  
Suddenly,
appeared a bridge.

Lighted feebly by a bygone light post
flickering,
like the breath of the dying.
As soon as I allowed the bridge
to place its hand over my head,
the noise dampened.
the uneasiness decreased.
the war ended.
and the drummer took a moment to rest his head upon his drum..
a sigh could be felt.
there was a sense of composure and calmness
Kept hidden in the unfriendly localities outside.
The heart wanted to stay,
to be wrapped in the serenity.
The pacifying feel
like a mother holding her child.  
like a wounded soldier,
who returned from the war zone, being taken care and healed by love.. but soon as I left the warmness of the friendly area..
the thunderclaps welcomed me like they got their prey back..
the winds
growling against my windshield like an unfriendly knock at the midnight.. the blanket of darkness hides away
all the light which once seemed within the reach..
I drove back home..
but with a smile..
Smile, depicting the right prediction of  ending up in the same place from where I had been continuously trying to get out..
with a glow on face..
Glow, created by the fire which had been burning everything in front of me..
The tears, though invisible,
reminded me of the lows I deserve.
doing right, yet losing
was a habit now.
I marked another red on my ledger but without any jolt.
A sigh
was enough
to show that I was back.

That calming, comforting, gentle, peaceful, reassuring, restful, alleviating, consoling, easing, mollifying, pacifying, relaxing, relieving, remedying, softening, warming feeling was you.


That bridge was you.

Your heart skips a beat even at their single thought.
That care, attention, affection, worry is not for yourself anymore.
Your days are full of fake smiles and nights with never ending tears.
You want to be happy but sadness seems to be more comforting.
Darkness seems to be more consoling than a ray of light.
Loneliness feels like more remedying than being escorted.
You want to die but there’s something that still keeps you stuck.
You feel like quitting but your wounded heart is still full of love.
AND THEY SAY “LOVE” DOESN’T COSTS A THING...!!!!!

#1

SPOKESHAVEN BRITSKAS OF GAMIDOLATRY THAT TRY  AND  DEFACE THE PRAGMATICS OF PENURY BY  THE WHITTAWERS OF THE SPEED RUN SATIATION OF ALL GLEBES OF CASEFIED ACRASIA IN  THE CHIMINAGE OF ALL GALLANT GLORIES OF GRUFF AND GUFF GUIGNOLS FOR JIGGERMASTS THAT TRY BREAKNECK CELERITY FOR COSTERMONGER INDIVIDUATION IN MUTUALISM THAT SCAFFOLDS AND BREVETS THE ACCLAIM OF MODERN PETTIFOGGERY DERANGED BY APISH MADCAP VENIREMEN OF EISOPTROMANIA BECOMING A PROMACHOS FOR CELERITY IN DEADSTOCK KILLCOWS OF INDUSTRIALIZED MUTUALISM FOR EIRENICONS SIDETRACKED BY THE SIDELIGHT OF NIMIETY IN THE GRANULAR APOTHEGMS OF APOTHEOSIS FORMATIVE IN THE DURATIVE DURAMEN OF DENEHOLES OF SALVATION FOR JIGGERMAST JACKSTAFFS THAT BEMOAN CELERITY BECAUSE THEY RATHERIPE THEMSELVES OUT OF THE INDUSTRIALIZED POLLARCHY POLLINATING MELLIFEROUS DISCORD IN PARASELENES OF MAINSAIL PARAVENTED LAXISM THE MAJORITARIAN CODSWALLOP OF RETINUES TO ANTEPONE GUARDED BY TAFFRAILS OF TRUTINATED  SQUAMATION SYRINGES OF SYRINX BURROW IN THE FABRIC OF TIME-HONORED PRINCELY CAESARAPROPISM WHICH IS A SCALDING  VINEGAROON WAITING FOR FORESIGHT TO CREEP UPON THE LARGESSE OF HINDSIGHT INTO  CIPPUSTURE OF PHUGOID DEGRINGOLADES ANTICIPATED BY THE ANTIPODES OF CURGLAFF AND THERE STEVEDORES OF JALEO WEIGHAGE FOR HANDSPIKES OF TURNVEREIN SPECIFICITY SPOKESHAVNE BY BRITSKAS OF RENGALL ATROCITY. WE CANVASS THE CATERCORNERED BREAKNECK DEMERITS OF TIMESPUN HARMONIZATION OF SYNCOPATIONS OF HETEROCHRONY ITSELF IN THE HAECCEITY OF IPSEITY DERANGED BY DELIRIFACIENT COBBLESTONE MACADAMIZATION OF MACARONIC BLUNGES OF ORTHOPTEROLOGY BECAUSE IN THE SUBSUMED COBALTIFEROUS SHALLOPS OF SCAPPLE IN SYNAPHEAS GUARDED BY JERBOAS OF ENTELECHY WHICH IN THIXOTROPY RATHER THAN THIGMOTAXIS ACCOST EVERY MALINGERING VESICLE FOR HOLY PATRONAGE THAT VEESES OF OLIVASTERS MIGHT SWELL TURGID WITH THE FUMIDUCTS OF AQUARIUM ARCTICIANS OF  THE HYPERBOREAN CHEVET OF NORTHERN LIGHTS SPECIFICITY IN THE GAMMONS AGAINST GAMINES THEMSELVES PARADED AROUND THE POLITY OF REFINED DEMASSIFICATION OF THE CRASSER ARTS OF POLLINATED PROMONTORIES OF DYSCHROA THAT OFTEN DESICCATE AND DESTROY VESTIGIAL CORTEGES THAT HOVER AROUND IN CORBELS AGAINST COQUICIDE TO ***** EMOLUMENTS TO TITANIC TIGERISM IN THE SWANK OF SWARF IMMISERATED BY THE TITANS OF MOUNTENANCE WHO BY CATALLACTICS OF WISEACRE AND WITTICISM IMBREVIATE ENTIRE INDUSTRIALIZED SOTERIOLOGIES AT THE ESCHATOLOGY OF CRIBBLED NEBBICH PARVENUS THAT SURROUND THE EMBATTLED RIGORS OF RHADAMANTHINE RAPACITY SUCH THAT THE WAINAGE OF WANIGANS THEMSELVES POWELLIZED BY THE FIRMAMENT WELDS OF WELLAWAY CENTRIPETAL ORBITS OF FASCINATION MIGHT MUSTER A PROCRUSTEAN ATTEMPT AT PANTAGREULIAN SUFFRAGETTES THAT BURROLE THE HYDRAHEADED ODYSSEYS THAT THE ORACULAR FATIDICAL FORESIGHT OF THE SELECT DENIZENS OF THE HEAPSTEAD IN THEIR HYPOGEIODY OF PRIVILEGE MIGHT MASTER A DEFENSE OF AUTARKY IN AUTOGNOSIS RATHER THAN AN OBROGATED INTERREGNUM OF OBSOLESCENT NEPIONIC OBSOLAGNIUM THAT EMPOWERS NEMBUTSUS AMONG THE SEDERUNTS OF NUMBATS TO FINALLY AVENGE THE ESBATS THAT  WITH CRAVEN VULPECULAR HAUNTS IN THEIR CRETIFIED CREANCERS OF ICEBLINK IN VERGLAS MIGHT SUPREMELY DECLARE THEIR NAZES OF SPRINGHARES A DISEASED EXTINCTION OF THE ARYAN RIGHTEOUSNESS OF EQUIPOISE ABOVE THE BRIMBORION STARLETS OF CLOCKWORK SNEEZING ALBATROSSES WANDERING LIKE MINSTRELS IN THE DARKEST GLOAMING TWILIGHT OF THE ABSOLUTION OF CONSCIENCE IN OBLATED NUTATION THAT FINALLY THE EXONERATED NYALAS THE BARNSTORM OF MAXIMALISM IN TERROR AND THE WIDDERSHANCY THEY ADVERTISE WITH CURMUDGEONS OF RADICALISM SWARFING BLUEPETERS MIGHT THE BRONZED ARRAIGNMENT OF THOSE THAT SEEK THE BARNACLES OF WISDOM AND FIDUCIARY TRUSTS OF MULIEBRITY LASSOED TO VIRILITY SUCH  THAT THE ESTEEM OF ZALKENGUR IS NEVER EFFACED FROM THE BEDROCK HARBINGERS THAT SCOWL WITH SWANK AND SWARTHY PRETENSE OF SPATHODEA BECOMING ENTRUSTED TO KALIMKARI RICHES OF KYMATOLOGY SYLABATIM ENUMERATED FOR EVERY PRECIOUS PEARL OF NACREOUS NAGORS OF WISDOM BEYOND WISECRACKING GIMCRACKS OF THE SUBTERFUGE OF GINNELS OF PARLOUS PARCHED THIRST THAT SIDEROGNOST NIMIETY CAN NEVER FULLY IMBREVIATE THE ALMAGEST ARBALESK FOR ABRAXAS IN SQUARSONS THAT ARE INTERMEDIATE IN TIME TO THE STULTIFICATION OF RAMSHACKLE BARNSTORMING BLUNGES OF  THE BLAINS THAT WITH LEGERDEMAIN AND PRESTIGITATION ENAMOR THE INAMORATAS OF A DESTINED WILLOWISH WOODSHEDDING VERDURE OF MURENGERS AND MURDERERS WHO BECOME SO IMMISERATED BY THE INDOCTRINATION OF WEGOTISM THAT THEY SUBSIDE INTO COMATOSE RANCORS OF TRUCKLING INSISTENCE ON TRUCULENT BARNSTORMS OF BARKENTINE BERGAMASK BALATRONS THAT SUBSUME THE GREATER PART OF NEBBICH ATROCITY BECAUSE OF T HE CRETACEOUS WAYS OF CETACEANS. THE TADPOLE MORALISM OF THE GLEBES OF CENTRIFUGE TO FISSILE NUCLEOTIDES OF CHRYSOPOEITICS MIGHT MARVEL AT THE DENOUEMENT OF  THE GREATEST LEAPS OF TAMARAWS FROM TAFFRAIL INDOLENCE IN THE MIRES OF THEIR QUAGMIRE QUISQUILOUS SEQUESTRATION OF BOTTLENECK GREATNESS FUNNELED INTO SYRINXES THAT JOGGLED WITH SVEDBERGS WAY BACK IN THE HEIGHT OF SCHWARMEREI AGAINST SCHMEGGEGY BECAUSE EVENTUALLY THE SARANGOUSTY OF ALL REVANCHE BECAME A CORDWAINER FOR THE ARTIFICE OF PRETENDED WARS MARAUDING IN PRETENSE BY PRETEXTS FOR READINESS TO ENGORGE ARMS BUDGETS AND SWALLOW WHOLE THE BOONSWOGGLE OF BOONDOCK CELERITY IN INTEMERATION SUCH THAT THE WAPENTAKE WASES OF BARNSTORM BECAME BARRULETS FOR THE TESTY DILATORY NATURE OF SPETCHES OF SPHACELATED SPEED AND THE STACKS OF ENORMITY INTO THE SQUAMATION OF THE STEVEDORES OF WEIGHAGE ON THE PRECIPICE OF BLACK MARKET RICHES FREEBOOTERS NAD WALLETEERS OF JENGADANGLE AND WHELKY MIGHT EVOLVE INTO BECAUSE OF RHADAMANTHINE TRUISMS OF THE TURNVEREIN OF HYPAETHRAL GENEROSITY CONFOUNDED BY ELECTORAL MAGNANIMITY IN THE DIVISION OF JORDANS AND JOUGS OF THE CANQUE OF JIMSWINGERS IN ABADDON STRUGGLING TO FIND WORK FOR MERCEDARY HEIGHTS OF HAUNTED PLUMAGE SQUARSONS PILLORY IN THE INIQUITY OF THE NIGHT BY BYWORDS FOR THEIR OWN HOBBLED NOMOGENY SUCH THAT THEIR TARADIDDLES ORBIT THE SWANK OF POLEMIC POLARIZATION THAT INFORMS THE PAST OF THE PRESENT TENSE AND BECOMES THE SWARF OF SALVATION AMONG RADICALIZED POLTROONS JAMBOREEING IN TRICOTEES THAT MOURN THE SCORIAS OF EMBATTLED CHUCKWALLAS TOO MUCH OF A SUMPTER SUNDOG SUNBITTERN ALBATROSS TO EVER MATCH IN PEERLESS ACUMENS AT THE HEIGHT OF HISTORICAL VANGUARDS VENTRAD IN ALL GALLOPING DELOPEMENT. STALWART EMBEZZLEMENTS OF PENURY MET BY EGESTUOUS VACUOUS LAXISMS OF PARALYZED PERJURIES AGAINST VENIREMEN WHO SCOWL WITH IMPERTINENCE AT THE CODSWALLOP OF MUGIENCE ERECTED BY NICCOLIC RUMCHUNDER MURENGER RUDENTURE THAT SPRINGHARES ARMED WITH NOILS INTRORSELY INTRODUCE IN ALL PETTIFOGGERS OF THEIR OWN GARBLED TREASONS THAT SPANK THE MONKEY IN PARALLAX BETWEEN GEOSELENIC ORBITS OF TRUSTWORTHY DISAGIO MIGHT THEY FIND THE SCRIVELLO AGAINST ONANISM AND ONOLATRY A SPECIALIZED GAMUT TRAVERSED BY THE HOBBLEDEHOY TATTERMEDALIONS THAT ARE SQUIREBELLS TO THE GILVARINGES OF GEITONOGNAMY FORMED IN THE GNOTOBIOLOGY OF OVERSIGHT IN THE MORAL PEDIGREE OF APOLAUSTIC ALGEDONIC BALANCES THAT SPORRANS OF THE GREATEST ABATJOUR HEISTS OF CENTURION CENTURIES MIGHT HOLD THE BEHEST OF ARMADAS OF TIMEWORN SUFFRAGE IN THE CASEMATE SPODIUM OF THE CLADOGENESIS OF JANGADAS FORMED BY THE JIGGERMASTS WHO KNOW WITH EXACT CERTAINTY IN THEIR BARRULETS OF FUSION SYNCOPATED EVERYWHERE IN LOOSE FRICTIONS WITH TERPSICHOREAN DANCES THAT SPANGLE THE PAST AND BESPECKLE THE BEBLUBBERED MAUDLIN ZALKENGUR OF THOSE WHOSE AUTOGNOSIS DEFILED THE NIDOLOGY THAT CREATED THE NIDOR OF CIVILIZED MALCONTENTS THAT ARE THE PROSTHESES OF FORESIGHT IN FROWARD RECAPITULATION REMEDYING THE CURTAILED BONNYCLABBER OF COAGULATION OF  RHEOLOGY AGAINST THE RHEOTAXIS OF ONOLATRY BECAUSE A BIPARTISAN ACCORDION ZEAL AND ZEST FOR JUBAL OF EMERGENT IMMERGENCE MIGHT ONE DAY SANCTIFY THE SACROSANCT PLAGIUMS OF NOTAPHILY AGAINST NOTITIA MIGHT THE ARMADAS OF THE FUTURE FEAR THE SARANGOUSTIES OF WAR BECAUSE OF THE SCHWERPUNKT OF THEIR INTENSIVE DURESS FORMED BY DURAMEN OF STRICKLE FOR SCAPPLES OF SALVATION OWNED BY SOVENANCE FOR THE GAULEITERS OF GLORY RENOWNED BY CAVERNILOQUYS OF JACANDA AND JABIRUS THAT CACHALOTS FORSIFAMILIATE. THE WINTERKILL OF HOBBLED HOBBLEDEHOYS THAT MARAUD IN TACITURN PLAGIUMS OF  THE PLAGATED NESCIENCE OF THE GODS THAT THEY FORMATIVELY BURROLE IN THEIR EARWIG ECPHRASIS AGAINST THE ELAPHURES OF SE AND YUAN BY YENTA BUSYBODIES THAT CODSWALLOP ANOINTS AS CASUALTIES THAT BARTONS OF JARVEY IN JASPERATED GNASHING GNOTOBIOLOGY OF GOMPHIASIS MIGHT SCHEDULE AS A DRUG OF REPUTE IN HACKNEYED HUCKSTERS WARPING WITH APOTHECARY FAMISHED FRACTIOUS FORMIDABLE FOISONS OF FRIGORIC FEWTERERS THAT GRADGRINDS DEVELOP WITH THEIR CNICNODES AGAINST THE PNYX OF THE GAMIDOLATRY OF UNZYGMOTIC LOSERS WHOSE SLYPH COMPLEXIONS AGAINST THEIR OWN SYNERGIES OF AUTHENTIC AUTOTELIC ATELIOSIS MIGHT THEY FINALLY OUTGROW THE TREMORS OF THEIR TRIBULATION BY RIVULATIONS THAT EMBATTLE ALLUVIONS TO BECOME AIGERS OF SWELLING HOLOCRYPTIC EMBOSSED ENLIGHTENMENT THAT FLOWS FROM PAGEBURNER RESONANCE THAT CURMUDGEONS FIND HARDER TO WEATHERBOARD BECAUSE THE SPURGEONS AND SURGEONS OF REDACTED TIME ARE AGAINST THE IAMATOLOGY OF MUTUAL SYNCOPATIONS OF HARBINGER INSISTENCE UPON THE CONCOURSE OF THE SUBLUNARY AND SUPERLUNARY PRESTIGE OF MASCONS AGAINST MASCARONS BECAUSE THE KATABOTHRONS BECOME SO WELL REFINED THAT  MANY SEEK ABRIDGED LIVES OF JOLLYBOAT SUCH THAT THEY CAN ARRAY THEMSELVES WITH JERBOAS WITHOUT FEAR OF DISCLOSURE. THE TRADUCED RADICALISM OF RHIZOGENIC NEKTON THAT GRAMPUS OF TRUCIDATION  DEFAMES BY SWARPOLLOCK OF ENORMITY WHICH IS STRICKLED INTO COVERT ABRAXAS OF PRESBYTERY SOCIETIES IS OFTEN THE MISSIVE UNIDENTIFIED CRYPTADIA THAT IS SOPORIFIC IN TORPOR OF TORPILLAGE IN THE CRUELEST MANNER OF EXECUTION IN RHADAMANTHINE HUES OF TZIGANOLOGY BECAUSE SOMETIMES A COSTEMONGER GROUNDLING SUBTERNATURAL SUBACTION AGAINST THE SWARF AND SHALLOP OF ENORMITIES OF TIME DECISIVE IN THEIR TENACITY OF GRASP SUCH THAT HACKNEYED LEVERAGE USHERS IN AN ENTOMBED SOLIDARITY WHERE REPARTEES COVVENGERS INVENTED DEFEATED BY BLARING BRONCHOS OF SERRATED SURNOMINAL NOMOGENY BY THE NOMOGRAPHY OF A SELF-PREDICTIVE MECHANISM OF TURBINATED TIMES THAT SEDIGITATED MATHEMATICISM IN MAXIMALISM BY PROXENETES OF THE BOYAU OF PERSEVERATION MIGHT CAVORT WITH SUBLIME CURRENCY SOCIETIES THAT BROOK THE BRONTEUMS OF FULGURANT RECALIBRATIONS OF REVALORIZED DISAGIO THAT SADLY IS THE CASUALTY OF THE EXCHEQUER OF A FORESIGHT ECONOMY OF SCOPE AIMED AT GROMATIC GROGNARDS THE SUFFRAGE OF BLEAK DAYS THAT THEY MIGHT PRIZE FUTURE ARTIFACTS FOR PRESENT ARTIFICE WHICH BECOMES A CAMBER OF THE CIVILIZED ENTROPY THAT RADICALIZES IN RECRUITMENT THE SCHMEGGEGY OF EVILDOERS THAT FIND THEMSELVES SO FINIFUGAL IN NIHILISM THAT THE CARP UPON THE HEGEMONY OF CAESARAPOROPISM REGISTERED BY GHAWAZIS OF HANDSPIKE FOR THE HAMARCHY OF THE TREASURED PROMONTORY OF THE PAST SCOFFLAWS SCOUNDRELS SURMOUNT WITH VISAGISTS OF KENSPECKEL YORDIM OF APIKOROS OLM AND OLIM REMIGATING THEIR OWN FANTASIAS BECAUSE OF THEIR FEAR OF A COMATOSE LETHARGY OF HEADLESS HORSEMEN DEMARCHES HIDDEN IN BARCAROLES OF CARNIFICINE YELMS FOR THE YARAKS EQUIPPED FOR YASHIKIS BECAUSE OF THE YESTERTEMPEST OF THEIR AGGRIEVED SYNERGY ATTEMPTS TO REFORM THE SIEGED SOCIETIES BENEAT THE BARATHRUM IN HOLOBENTHIC SOCKDOLAGERS AGAINST THE SAPROSTOMY OF FOUL-BREATHED BARTERS OF ALMAGEST HARMONIZATION. THE  ELAPHURE ELASTANE LAZARETTA OF PEOPLE WITH VENEREALLY DISEASED CONSCIENCES THAT SCAMPER AND SCOWL WITH TERMAGANTS OF REVELRY MIGHT THEY FIND THE DEFEAT OF THEIR SONDAGE BY SYBOTIC GARNISHED AND GARISH FRUITION BECOME A BRACKISH RESPITE OF HIDDEN LETHARGIES BULGING WITH TUMESCENT INTERRAMIFICATIONS THAT ARE BELEAGUERED BY THEIR SELACHOSTOMOUS FUNCTIONS OF THE GAPING PICARROONS DARING  THE KITTHOGE AND KIPPAGE OF KISTVAENS ERECTED TO ENTOMB THE PEOPLE OF THE BOOK FOREVER IN A RECURSIVE CYCLE OF RABID FOAMING SPUMID SPURIA THAT GALLOP LIKE BROCKFACED BRAZEN BRITSKAS FOR SPODOMANCY AGAINST THE WANCHANCY THAT HAS DESTROYED AND DESECRATED THE TEMPLES OF PURGATORY WITH MASSIVE ENCAUSTIC CASUALTIES OF CARESS AND LITURGIES OF CETES OF CETACEAN SPRINGALDS THAT BELONG AGAINST PELITIC WASTRELS THE COMBUVIROUS TIMES OF CERACEOUS GROWTH OF ECONOMIES OF SCOPE ENLARGED INTO BARGEMASTERS OF BERGAMASKS THAT ARE BRITTLE AT REDSHORT TOUCH AND BROOKED BY BLASTED SYMPHONIES OF BRICKBAT MANSION CHOCKABLOCK JAWBREAKERS OF MACROPICIDE PRIMARILY BECAUSE THEY ARE BESIEGED BY THE MELOPEPON AND MELODIKON OF MEHARIS OF PRAXEOLOGY BECAUSE OF RESONANCE AMONG GLEBES OF MALCONTENT ALWAYS BEREAVED OF HEGEMUNE PREROGATIVES THE FOSSORS OF OUR TIME EXCAVATE IN THEIR INDUSTRIALIZED MISSION TO HARVEST THE SPECIALIZATION OF ALL ARCHITECTONICS SUCH THAT THE SUBSTRATOSE DEMUR OF DEMASSIFICATION BECOMES ELOPED RATHER THAN ABSCONDED FROM PARTICIPLE CARTELS OF DEMEPHITIZATION IN GROWING FORESTS FOR AFFRAYERS AGAINST JUSTICE BECAUSE OF DIKEPHOBIA ENLISTED IN ENNOMIC CALCULATIONS WHICH PRESUPPOSES MOST UNSEELED PEOPLE STILL LIVE IN BUSHWAS OF BARYEICOIA BECAUSE THEY ARE PARTIALLY DIVERTED BY PAST PASTIMES OF FUTURE RECOMPENSE. THE SAGINATION SURETYSHIP OF CATALLACTICS WHICH OFTEN BORROWS ITS ACCLAIM FROM CORDWAINERS OF THE WAINAGE OF WANIGANS OF CERBERIC BRONTEUMS OF MASSIVE DEMASSIFIED PLASTER OF PARIS RECOMPENSE BY THE DERIVATIVE FUNCTIONS OF AN ECONOMY MAXIMALISMS DEFY BECAUSE OF IMPUDENT INSISTENCE ON INDECISIVE INSIDIOUS INSIDIATION OF INTEMERATION BY THOSE WHO SEEK THE BARMASTERS OF OUR ECONOMY TO OBTAIN A CARESSED CARRACK OF PANTOGRAPHS THAT FIND THE CASEMATE SCALE OF ENTROPY A GLARING REPAST OF FUTURE SOLIDARITIES OF GROWTH IN SOLIDARITY WITH ECONOMETRIC FUSIONS OF HYBRIDIZED DEMISANG MOONCALFS WHICH EVOLVE AT TACHYTELIC SPEEDS TO BECOME THE MASTERWORK OF WUNDERKIND PRODIGIES SIPHONING FROM GRAND LAVADEROS THEIR TURNVEREINS OF THE UTMOST TURMOIL IN GAUNTLETS OF RUBEFACTION SUCH THAT ALTERNATIVE DIPPOLDISMS WHICH SCOFFLAWS MASTER WITH SUCH GREAT SPREES OF IMBRUTED RELISH IN THE LAVISH OF PARADISE WHEN THEY BECOME INSENSATE BECAUSE OF SENSATIONALISM THE OPPORTUNE TIMES BECOME  THE CORBELS AGAINST COQUICIDE FOR THE MEGALOGRAPHY OF A NOSCOMIAL GROWTH OF SALVATION BY SPORRANS OF THE SOPORIFIC TORPOR GROWING BY MASSIVE DECREES AND DEGREES OF ENRICHMENT. (324.177 Characters per minute 46.91 Words Per Minute)
NOW THAT THE LACKADAY SAUNAS OF DETAIL IN THE PRESTIGIOUS HEMLOCK OF PNYXES DEFACED BY THE SYRINXES THAT DISCOVER ALL FOSSARIAN GLEBES AT THE PRECIPICE OF ALL MUGIENCE IN DISCOVERY OF THE WOONERF WE FIND THAT  GALLANT GROPES OF GROVELING TEAMSTERS BECOME A BRACKISH BRONTEUM FOR PLASTER OF PARIS ARTFORMS OF ARTIFICE UPON GAULEITERS OF SUBTERFUGE BECAUSE THEY BRANK AND BRACKLE WITH THE FIZZGIGS OF SEMPIRVERENT OPTIMIZATION OF FUCOID CONSPUED CONNUMERATION OF THE CONTENEMENT OF MARTINGALE BECAUSE OFTEN THE LOUD POSTCENNIUM WHICH IS ESTABLISHED BY THE DUGONG OF THE ELASTANE WE SEE THAT THE GROWTH OF VIRTUALASIS IN HEAD MOVIE GRANDEUR DECIDES THE DECISIVE GAUNTLET OF ALL TRAULISMS BENEATH TRUCIDATION BECAUSE TOO MANY PINGUEFIED RALTENTIONS SWARMING WITH PILLORIES OF HOLOCRYPTIC ARBALESK APOTHECARIES OF PAST CENTURIES OF CHORIZODONTS BECOMING MEGACERINE PRIMARILY BECAUSE OF MERCEDARY WAGES WE FORESEE A GROWTH IN ECONOMIES THAT LEVERAGE THAT PRAGMATIC LURCH OF CLAMBER RECIPIANGLES OF DESULTORY COMBUSTIBLE GLORY FIND CONFUSION IN CONFOUNDING CONFLAGRATIONS BECAUSE THE HUMDINGERS OF WHITTAWERS AND THE PRACTICAL NUGAMENTS THAT FORM THE INCHOATE EMBODIMENT OF ALL TREMBLORS AND TEMBLORS OF JOGGLING JOLLYBOAT JOLTERHEADS OF YOUTHQUAKES OF KALAMKARI IN THE MOST ELITE WAINAGE OF STRADOMETRICAL STRIDULATION GUARDS THE NEUTROSOPHY OF EMERGENT AGES SUCH THAT WILD WIELDLESS MANAGERS OF VERDERERS OF NOVANTIQUE SIMMER IN SAUTED RECAPITULATION BECOMING HARVESTED IN NOVANTIQUE FOR FORMIDABLE PROWESS TO CARESS THE LONGEVITY OF COSSETED BERGAMASKS THAT BELONG TO THE AGGIORNAMENTO OF TIME. AMEN.
(46.6 Words Per Minute 319.2 Characters Per Minute)

bid me follow, unbutton that grimy work shirt,
present me ruby nippled *******, silently commanding
worship, suckling, an invitation to come unto me,
my initiation to the pleasure of getting to know you intime

you will laugh with surprise, as the anointing oil of relief
crowns your head, slicking down to caving cavities,
river running in crevices, that feed the buried places,
replenishing the almost forgotten secret of letting go

your pleasure is my greatest pleasure, for long known
the best taking lies beneath unabashedly giving, gentrifying,
you will full fill me, me eager drinking your noises, releasing
my purposes, coming to take my re-education you remedying

your short fingernails will pierce, new additions to my scars,
my history, your chapter, verse and stanza, all now, a claim upon me, that cannot be refused, for elemental silk threads now bind, each may pull, at either end, for the thread is of our singular commonality,
human tissue

A favorite song is declaring its cadencing hope!


O broken-hearted!
Don't be saddened by the wording of your song!
Not all your skies are grey.

It is not according to your heart that the
outcome and influences settle for their peace!
Neither do they are enough for the one's phasing devastation.

In the room of ingenuous wonderment,
There is a little glint of light and a warm heart. I don't want darkness to win. For a while, tears can stay back instead of falling off!

Do you know a subtle thing about these teary eyes?
They seem to hope for the affection of your remedying voice.

In a song, I always want to know from the tears, their emotions!
And they have sung it too!

Do I want to separate its tune?
No!
I don't want to challenge an innocent, lowest-pitched string of tuning.
It is true.
You have indeed left me alone to sing the song by myself!
You have left me alone by closing your eyes and making me feel you still see me!
Where is my heart now?
It is busy and immersed in crying!

Sometimes all one can have is the rhythmic expansion and contracting of sadness for moving on!

It is a mega feeling when you own the voice. It is little more than just including it in our life.
Although there is a readiness of vocables to fill the empty spaces in the rhythm of this song, this tending and coloring sorrow will change too!
It is also true.
A song is just a song!
©️shivpoetesspriya