daj, do wynagrodzenia: reszty.
daj: to niby: siebie;
a... dam... dam...
ale pierw: powiem:             to!
(ich) nicht werden
                  geben (ihr) das nacht!
first... i'll punch myself
hard enough to give myself
a plum-eye: ******* pacifists...
and then?
    then i'll strap a trouser belt
to protect my knuckles...
and then... then...
                    then: we'll "talk":
who might find a translator
ready...
   god...
i'm gagging for a
knuckle exchange...
        almost... itching!
like i might await
a shaving... from a Turkish
barber... in Essex...
of all Danish palaces;
and why would i want to allow
consort with these women?
considering the fact that
the russian ones believe in trans-national
grievance taxation:
of someone... who hasn't...
actually died...
              you know what?
*******...
suffer...
       watch me wipe my ***
with a satanic smile
ennobled
by a coulrophobia...
excesses of vogue
                      atypical models...
how is it... that...
coulrophobia doesn't translate
in reverse?
  and what's up
with the black privilege of
jass music, akin to white mozart...
as...  
  sure as ****, the drum would be
the first, and only thing,
prior to the people learning
the ******* clarinet!

oh drop me your ****** ***
holocaust dead bomb
on a polish ***...
     i triple, quadruple dare you!
you *******... ivory coast
   centipede!
               i'm *******...
as watts: wild-eyed...
       unstrap me from this
"unreality" of conversation...
then undo the internet banking...
and the rest of it...

             not adam watts!
    glitter & doom....
who?      tom waits...
oh **** me... blue valentine?
if that's not a **** with me
album... what is?
                 live circus?
        
do i look like a ******* ****-
(see the hyphen?
it's a prefix... the english are
lazy sometimes: couldn't,
i.e. could not,
remnants of shakespearean
english...

       i'll always cite macbeth...

  time, thou anticipat'st my dread
exploits: the flighty purpose never
is o'eertook, unless the deed go with it.
from this moment, the very firstlings
of my heart shall be
  the very firstlings of my heart.
   and even now, to crown my thoughts
with acts, be it thought and done.

it's hardly a racial slur, ergo...
why so ******* sensitive akin to a french
footballer or a ballerina?
   ****- (hyphen! hyphen!) ergo a prefix...
as already mention:
no, no...
   it's not: no iraqi ever called me a pa-ki
      (pákí)... yeah...
and you never called an afghanistani an
afghan, ever, no?
   pure camaraderie in that part of
the world... all the way... yeah yeah... yeah...
-stani (suffix) is sometimes missing
because... the english like to shorten words...
e.g. why is daniel: dan,
why is matthew: matt?
  why is muhammad: mo (farrah)?
                                    ******* pansies...
police your circumcised penises fiddling
english teenager girl, first,
come after my vocab. justifications: after;
savvy?

or a gypsy?
   by now...
     i'm looking like any
traveler...
and the world...
       forever resembled
a world,
  in the confines of
      a claustrophobia...

but... if there's a bigger concern for
a world...
  and a freedom...
i want a bare knuckle fight...
a black eye...
namely...
you bring  BOXING GLOVE...
and i'll bring...
     a LEATHER BELT...
wrapped around my knuckles,
and the wrist...
    like i might care to give
a second attempt to smile...

ah... the men... who care
about minding, if not in the least,
keeping women...
      bye bye, bye bye...
       and i've allowed myself
to know my grandfather...
as i did the slap in the face...
and...
the key question:
in the unfathomability of counting
the 32 / 4 ratio...
alas... one fist... one smile...

and countless... dentistry encounters...
because?
   because the rest?
the cultural artifacts of a today?
  lost to h'americana...
            as i might have wished...
for my prior genes
to make an autobiography
in **** germany...
  
   what?
  
      well... obviously: the oops.

no, for the crescendo...
you know...
           i'm getting this funny vibe...
gott ist tot... it's not really spectacular...
nietzsche really believed in eternity,
to the point where he pointed:
what does science offer, only old age...
what does religion provide? eternity...
oh nietzsche was big on eternity...
   gott ist tot is as unspectular as:
is it: how to do you pronounce x,
or is it: how do you pronunciate y?
debate:
              everyone says around here
the former... since no one wants to be a *****...
pro-nun-ci-ate (pro-nun-cíate)...
   might as well replenish the vocab. bank
and replace the word with:
how do you elocute z? / recite)....

gott ist tot / gott ist tod...
    "same ****, different cover"...
you know why i believe in god?
    not the christian reference points...
salvation blah blah, saviour and hide & seek blah blah...
n'ah... where would i derive all my vocab.
hunger if not from him?
   some men derive their vocab. from
women or gambling...
            i am not in the position of their
luxury... so god it is...

            primarily though?
               god is metaphysics...
             ergo? his judgement is not clouded
by metaphysical questioning...
it's impossible to receive a metaphysical
answer from a metaphysical question
when engaging with a metaphysical
ontological paraphrase of one's own search
for meaning in this mortal frame...

oh sure sure, my belief in god is as juvenille
as anyone else's belief in humanity's
clarity when it comes to jurisprudence
and its application...
    i've experience "jurisprudence" once...
drive-by phone theft...
me and three fwends...
   i catch the number plate...
i tell one of my fwends to note it down,
police station, report, culprit found,
a sit in at a barkingside police station
looking at mug images,
spot the ****** (it was dark when the mugging
took place, photographic memory, **** happens)...
a court session, australia is playing england
at the ashes (****, i missed it)...
in court the defence lawyer shows me
another picture of the culprit...
back then photogrpahs had dates
attached to them...
the photograph? over 4 years old...
i tell him: but this photograph is 4 years old!
how can i identify if this is the same
person: i, myself, will probably
don a beard in four years time!
      a simple slip-up...
        now that i have a beard:
it's so much more fun than growing your
hair long... i hated the nickname
chewbacca back in high school when i was
growing mine for a french braid...
i walk out of the court,
come to terms with the detective...
and i see the same hunger in him as i see in me...
will justice be served?
highly unlikely... since the victim
didn't recognize the *** in the mug-shots...
justice was probably not served...

   and this is how god plays into all of this,
hell or heaven, blah blah...
man created the figure of domina Iustitia
as blind... god created death to be blind...
justice was never supposed to be blind,
death was: the unfortunate deaths
of teenagers in car accidents,
among all the other freak accidents...

clouded with so many metaphysical questions
i don't appreciate man's ability to adhere
to jurisprudence without being
subjectively contaminated...
i have more belief in an "imaginary"
god than belief that strains me to belief
in man's sense of justice...
          the nuremberg trials are a rare exception...
but only when the culprits are
unabashed and fathomable by a collective
sense of pride... a blidness...
i believe in god, because i'd love to experience
the judgement of a post scriptum of
metaphysics...
  personally? i have been wronged...
heavily...
            i will not name names....
i know when and how i was wronged,
and by whom...
                2007... Canterbury...
      i won't name names: i'm not a rat...
man is too clouded with metaphysical questions
to begin with, god isn't,
he's a metaphysical ontology "bias"...
which is why, he is primarily a jurisprudent
answer...
   i'd love to experience divine jurisprudence,
hell or heaven are not of my concern...
and i don't imply divine jurisprudence
associated with the polytheistic take of
jurisprudence via a solipsistic mechanism
of a minor god and the person in question
without the hurt party...
in monotheism the god is solipsism personified...
these days: also the personna non grata...
so no... gott ist nicht tot...
            he's a personna non grata...
i just don't appreciate the human *******
of law, law governance...
   come on, in england you can receive
an a.s.b.o.s. for your cockerel being too loud
in the morning, your dog barking...
           would you trust man with
jurisprudence?
  a woman was cleared of the ******
of her husband
       when she hammered his head into a pancake:
over an abusive relationship...
police, weren't, "there"?!
sure sure... the hammer will do...
i believe in god without a sense of reward...
i just don't think man is capable of
passing justifiable laws...
no man could ever pass the eternal laws,
gravity... 100°C for the boiling of water...
i need a being  who has groundwork
in eternal laws, in unshakeable laws...
the ten commandments aren't:
you shall not...
   more... maybe, you shouldn't...
they are the most pristine jurisprudent
laws available... the: maybe you shouldn't,
eh, chappy?

       i just don't like playing the thesaurus game
on the more tight-knit game
of "passing" the wink-wink of Solomon's
judgement...
please, **** me please,
i'll eat 20 raw herrings in a cream sauce,
slurp 30 oysters,
eat 40 strawberries on a hangpverl
eat out about 50 harem virgins
like a castrato if you ask me, nicely,
**** camel cockey:
lucly i landed on a black gold slurp
with plenty of bangladeshi slaves:
******* of riyadh...
     what did muhammed tell you?
you camel jockeys / sand *******
have clearly forgotten...
******* arabs: short attention span...
you need to remind
the retards...
the dajjal would come from the east...
a palace of gardens...
well obviously the prophet wasn't
thinking about genghis khan...
            
  hmm barbarians...
vikings, arabs: yet so inclined to like poetics...
funny, that...
the civilized peoples banished
the poets...
            the ruling class and their cushioned
people: sacrosanct sycophants...
wankers, basically.

    the hajr? muhammad spoke of the dajjal
coming from the east,
and the east being a city of gardens...
where isn't riyadh and where is mecca?
isn't riyadh east of mecca?
was the dajjal to come from the outside
of islam, or from wtihin?
      last time i checked...
sh'ite islam isn't friendly to sunni islam...
if islam was the one true religion...
would have a shcism have occurred?
i don't think so...
   a persian would never bow before
an arab... that much os true...

oh i believe in god...
given how man practices jurisprudence...
is it some sort of, a, thesaurus game
i wasn't told about?
to me the human quest for jusctice is
a thesaurus game...
man is incapable to pass but one,
eternal, law...
he's great at nuanced laws...
laws allocated to sports...
i mean, **** me, cricket?
the best vocab. you'll ever pick up...

even god isn't as pertinent
in making the sort of music associated
with the limited alpha-to-beta
of A, B, C, D, E, F, and G...
wow! seven... seven?!
how many heads does the beast
of revelation have? oh... 7!

i'll stop tolerating islam, and start respecting it,
when it, acknowledges its presence
as a character study in the book of revelations...
then i'll just move on,
having made my point...

until that time comes...
    it's 600 years shy of becoming what
degenerate christianity has become,
oh and it's ripe...
it's gagging to implode!
600 years and wait for it to become
the next secular vasal conglomorate...

the warning muhammad gave
about "the best from the east"
was in point of question:
   a reference ti gneghis khan...
more like ibn saud:
  thst fat diabetic one eyed ogre...
and the legacy of decadence he left
behind...

saudi men with slavuc girlfriends,
buying up pink cushions and *******
chihuahuas...
**** after ****...
  you know the three slavic proverbs?
1. better a sparrow in your
hand, than a dove on your rooftop?
explanation?
better the small joys at-hand,
than impossible possibilities out of reach....
2. a drunk can spot east,
past mecca, whenever honing
the safety of his own bed... even at night...
not much of a proverb...
3. i don't care to rememeber...

once toleration comes into play,
i will, respect... just a waiting game...
i'm pretty sure no iranian will
bow down to a sunni camel jockey...
i like proud *******,
it implies: there are absolutes,
un-moveable goal posts...

                      if you are ever to bind yourself
in supporting a "side" outside a sports' dynamic,
always the outsider...
always the outsider... in this case?
the ****'ite islam brigade...
       the persians...
the sunnis can shove it...
   *****, bones, whatever....

                   ****'ite islam i can
fathom, even respect,
sunni islam i just tolerate...
  as much as iran takes claims for the
big satan in ref. to h'america...
well... if h'america supports the infantile
saudi arabia, who's to blame them?

you know that polonaise joke about
about the pacifism of jews in
2nd world world war poland?
the joke ran along the words:
weren't the jews shooting the nazis
using crooked elbows (rifles)?
they always seemed to miss them,
taunted into walking into gas chambers,
the ******* hobbits...

          what? some bolshevik Brooklynian
jewish rada is to spare me
                 the pay-up diffrential
telling me, i was wrong?

  as i said before: the nazis lamented
when the warsaw uprising happened...
no, st. paul's doesn't stand proud
because, because...
   even with the blitz...
                 the luftwaffe were told:
you drop a bomb on st. paul's: firing squad...
and when notre-dame de paris -
last time i checked...
   the nazis didn't luftwaffe the **** out
of paris... did they?!

                  the nazis weren't mongols;
no people so well versed in chanel in terms
of their military being so well
   suited & booted could ever make such a
                              architectural sacrilege...

what?! people under the silicon curtain
are gagging, begging even: for nazis!
can i be the first?!
i just want to please the hungry!
if not punk then moving swiftly into ska...
am i the first?
   siliziumvorhang...
well, **** me... from under the eisenvorhang...
what's with these neo-communist pseudos?

and the hebrew god?
a jealous god... so a god with the knowledge
of the existence of other gods...
why wouldn't a jealous god have
no knowledge of other ("imagianry") gods?
to be jealous of only one's own existence?!

3 / 1: that's the ratio....
that's the only ratio... 3 times i experienced
love at first sight:

when i fell in love at first sight...
malina, samantha, janina,
priya....

equal measure: isabella of grenoble...

in reverse:
magda, promis, ilona, kot (i forget her name,
7 years old, first kiss, you can be forgiven
to forget, she had two twin sisters
and she was the senior,
her fasther drove a distribution truck,
milk, i think)...

****, i actually mismanaged
that ratio...

i believe in "a" god...
since i find too much of human jurisprudence
to be riddle with the thesaurus...
i don't think man can pass
law, he can "suppose so"...
but he will never pass the sort of law,
made forbidden,
or absolutely allowed....
i don't believe in a god akin
to the sort of a pontous pilate god
where i'll always find myself
outside of punk evolving into ska...

         mind you...
i'd hate to be trapped within
the confines of an atheistic exclusion zone
of intellect,
      to be trapped in nothing is one
thing, but to be trapped inside
the confines of an atheist's "nothing"
is quiet another....
i don't like being a hamster inside
a cognitive wheel of another...
   god is the jurisprudence spirit,
man the metaphysical spirit...
and i would very much like to stand
in the light of divine law being passed
to finally feel my shadow...

kult: brooklyńska rada żydów...
  not familiar?
  i forgot punk a long time ago...
esp. when californians came up with their
version, ergo? ska...

i'm currently taping a film
about the silesian vampire...
how strange, that the prussians came
back into the ***** of the polonaise...

growing a beard is so much fun!
fiddle after fiddle: and no violin!
atheists bore me
as much as the theistic hags
who's only ambition are
the thrill associated with Sunday
h'america and cinema...
               i can imagine only one
heaven...
where i am blind and given
               a large library of music.

it’s not everyday you get to end a 7 year psychosis
when redecorating your room to it’s “original” crimson,
having had such a simple symptom as
brain cell membranes breaking and oozing blood out,
to be misdiagnosed as mentally insane,
and when in need of help from the haemorrhage
not driven to the hospital due to the lack of *******
of having proceeded with the deed but forgetting the onslaught of law
in favour of the hurt party... well...what can you do?
move on, as i’m trying, had it been naturally based
on genetic chronology / genealogy i would have suffered in vain...
but i’m brimming with a hate for islam, and there’s nothing
to do but calm the quasi-communist protestors
in the western lands... ******* calm down... you’ll get
your freedom of speech... once you stop trying to censor vocabulary...
there’s no point learning a language if it becomes
politicised and you tell me to block vowels or consonants
in a non-kabbalistic way (which i’ll come to):
so yeah, a 7 year psychosis over a needle in a haystack...
gives me the shivers...
the many times i thought about killing someone
and feeding the emotions with not doing the act...
so many times i was almost skeletally biased to churn the
marrow haemoglobin into tendon stressor action of taking
the knife and doing halal or kosher with someone...
many a times...as many a times i saw crucifixions in edinburgh
not knowing it was going to happen in syria,
and that night when a muslim tried to mug me
in brick lane breaking down in the street of revellers
kneeling in tears screaming a prayer with tears in my eyes
of only one word: allah.
so i started redecorating my room, crimson is back from
hospital white... my bookshelf is rearranged...
on the left on the top shelf fictional books i either read
or didn’t bother to read because of the movies...
to the right on the shelf psychiatric and philosophical books...
the next shelf is a poetry “corner,” well it elongates beyond the corner...
and it’s split by a dictionary with the right bit of the shelf filled
with english poetry and some literature that’s poetic, and french,
the dictionary is planted to segregate the poetry books,
to the left of the dictionary is a book of greek myths
(did you know all greek theology is derived from the new testament
and not from the testament of orpheus or hercules or Perseus?),
then a book on meditative kabblah... then polish books of poetry.
so i rearranged the room, but i also lodged
an essayist’s book on melancholia, a book on depression
a book on an intro. to jung and a book on
schizophrenia lodged between these massive collections:
to the left all the art books... to the right all the books concerning chemistry...
so the books in between can’t really be seen.
as of today i woke with a p.s. from dreams, or a p.s. in dreams,
i woke and imagined myself talking to my mother
about the identity of al-dajjal... the false messiah,
within the conscious realm i just said the words out of the window:
fool you fool me, when mecca / medina become west of paris / london,
i’ll accept riyadh to be east of tehran / new delhi...
then we'll marginalise plateau east with copernican east
via the stars, and wander aimlessly trying to copper-fill
the sun at sunset...
he (muhammad) said the man would be of his nation,
and he said so with a warning...
but ibn saud got away weighing in at 160kg, diabetic and a brawler
with the stomach, the decadent of all that choose either sugary decadence
or some other form of mental instability in the chosen trade of stolen organs.
me? i keep my sanity with the tetragrammaton, cipher this:
this numerology *******, and it is ******* will not do...
enter platonic forms:
y is so so much more than just 25...
what will you see through y with the number 25?
what? nothing, dry brute that i am...
Y represent 3 dimensional space...
the first h is not important given the second h... which is deja vu,
which is less than what malachi insisted with the fractioned god of
the fractioned “elijah” reincarnated...
deja vu can be explained with science as one of the brain’s tricks
to sense this familiarity of seeing an elephant and acknowledging
the five blind men touching it up for comparative jokes,
the W... well... at least it’s not M... given that the trigonometric cosine continuum
begins at 1.... god is one... ring a bell? well better that than
beginning with the trigonometric sine continuum, which begins with 0...
forget numerology... numbers and letters aren’t related...
forget the dogmatism of rabbis - it makes no sense to say a = 1, b = 2 etc.
and then take a word like ape, and say: ‘ah, a = 1, p = 16 and e = 5; by god!
that’s a kabbalistic synonymity of the word... pea!’
where’s the jolly green giant when you need him, eh?
just look at what a phonetic symbol represents...
like secondary darwinism of a primate hissing to alert the presence
of a snake... past darwinism... past drawing antelopes
in french caves... in the realm of abstract phoneticism that
gave us the cognitive genesis... and made as... dare i say... a bit myopic
in a solipsistic sense.
p.s. ah... what are the newspapers saying?
slapstick humour is one of the prime causes of dementia? huh?!
yes, prime minister... is satire comedy?
how the hell can yes, prime minister be categorised as satire
if it uses canned laughter?
see that bloke over there... doing the omnivore pelican dance?
he joked so readily and active that he created authentic laughter...
don’t know where your satire is going... but it certainly left me gagging
for a springroll.
now now... absurdist comedy is too oxbridge for me...
kings and gentlemen get educated in either st. andrew’s or edinburgh...
we laugh at ourselves.
alt. to canned laughter, given that "canned laughter"
is reserved for the authentic laughter of the crowd
at a live show? what's the antonym of canned laughter
in televised satire? picky laughter... i.e. only one person
in an schoolroom of 30 gets the joke, apart from the comedian...
that lonely everest ha ha... ooh chills, frozen prawns in gravy.

New York, Tel Aviv, Moscow, London, Netanya,
Bali, Istanbul, Riyadh, Beslan, Nisanit, Dublin
Londonderry, Glasgow, Manchester,
Spin Boldak (district), Kuta
Kano, Baghdad, Kandahar
Mumbai, Karballa, Boston

All for God, the almighty
God, the inhumanity in his name
God, the creator

I am weeping for the latest terror victims
141 injured in Boston
3 dead in Boston

Jesus Saves...tell that to the dead

When will it end?

I have nothing....just tears, and an emptiness
Confusion

I leave you all with your prayers, for all of those lost
Over time, to terrorist attacks listed and not listed
I pray for the lost, the living and the future

I remain confident in mankind....

when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******* disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****,
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.

Get your finger out!
I hear you shout.
Give Life a clout.

But what’s it all about?
What does it mean?
Out of what?
A hole in a gun?
Or your ***?

How do you think I sit?
Is my finger covered
In something not too pleasant?

So you think I’m lazy!
You must be crazy.
I’ve worked off my socks
Yet I’m tied to the stocks.

We are ALL in this mess,
Yes it’s time to fess.
Too much wrong in this world:
Time our flag was unfurled.

To do nothing is bad,
From Rome to Riyadh.
Don’t want to feel sad:
We’d rather be glad
That we acted
Without being distracted.

So get that flipping finger out!

Paul Butters

i meddled in egypt a third time,
and all i said was...
a. you ancestors will say the same thing
i said, but unlike me
your ancestors will say it unto you, directly;
b. never meddle in the affairs of female
genitalia of poetics of the burning bush / *****;
c. you were given judaism, christianity,
islam... instead you settled for mongol;
d. begin to believe
that riyadh is further east than expected,
as is the warsaw pact closer to the west
than the right blink of the eye of john paul ii,
FOR, I, WOULD, REMAIN, ENTICED, BY, A,
HOMELAND, I, RATHER,
THAN, TAKE, OFFERS, OF, A, SAXON, TO, EMIGRATE,
I’D, DRENCH, MY, HOMELAND, IN, BLOODED, NILE,
TO, SEE, THE, WAKE, OF, MY, THOUGHT, ELSEWHERE,
OTHER, THAN, THERE... HAR COO! JANISSARY OF VIENNA,
signed the he of whom read the book above all other books,
who wrote against the book poetry,
who wept, who liberated the eye from the mind
and endeared it with a heart,
of the slave kept captive in solemnity
for the once thought of encryption of the eunuchs,
of those who read but dared not speak,
who thus was made the claimant of the title:
the bridge over the waters of Bosporus... that kindled
the turkmen with the ottoman and the mamluk sheiks.
indeed what pretty cauliflower for a daffodil in hymn...
but lessened beauty if one should come untamed and hooded
in footstep of being recognised -
then the merchant’s (muhammad’s) price would be less
than that of an antique dealer.

BY: Cedric McClester

While the internet entices
Those making sacrifices
For Boco Haram or ISIS
Whose platforms are divisive
Here’s what my advice is
Stop cutting heads in slices
While rolling out the dices
Which makes you not the nicest
Saying it’s all in Islam’s name
When you practice to defame
Every prophet who ever came
You’re only poppin’ game
Cos’ their message was real plain
It’s really not hard to understand
Men can’t do what only God can

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

You have to be mad
Or Michael Jackson bad
To declare world-wide jihad
I find it a tad rad
And it really is quite sad
But you’re making Shaytan glad
He’s got you living at his pad
So never mind Riyadh
Of course Asad’s got your back
Inside of Syria and in Iraq
You’ve made a devil’s pact
I know this for a fact
So as you plan your next attack
What will be your third act
And whose head next you gonna wack

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

Just like Teena said
I’m talking square biz
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
So you need to tell me now
What the **** gives
With you deciding who dies
Or who the hell lives

Allahu Akbar it’s the final test
As another jihadi with a suicide vest
Blows himself and others up
Like you might have guessed
Hoping for the paradise
That his leaders stressed
His picture will be shrouded
Nevertheless
See he never gave it more
Than just a casual look
So he’s hasn’t read the words
Inside his Holy Book
Which explains why he’s a pawn
Instead of a rook
And an internet suggestion was all it took

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

The ******* Taliban
In Peshawar Pakistan
Had the upper hand
And carried out their plan
To ****** like the ****
Although it’s clearly banned
By several ayats in the Qu’ran
They don’t seem to understand
They’re no fans of education
But how do you build a nation
If your sole vocation
Is suicide and assassination
Now the whole world’s losing patience
With the latest allegations
Wondering what’s their motivations

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

They say that Islam is
The religion of peace
Before they blow themselves up
And the madness doesn’t cease
Like someone just released
A heard of savage beasts
And I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout
In the Middle East
Over in Australia a self-made Imam
Showed us just how much
He didn’t give a ****
By taking hostages at gunpoint
Without a demand
After having had
A thirteen hour news span

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Only based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

While the internet entices
Those making sacrifices
For Boco Haram or ISIS
Whose platforms are divisive
Here’s what my advice is
Stop cutting heads in slices
While rolling out the dices
Which makes you not the nicest
Saying it’s all in Islam’s name
When you practice to defame
Every prophet who ever came
You’re only poppin’ game
Cos’ their message was real plain
It’s really not hard to understand
Men can’t do what only God can




(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

aphrodite's child
four horsemen

shiver...
running from my
feet,
toward my
left cranium...

rotting christ
               four horsemen;

capirote...
as some would like
to stage
it to be: ku ku klux...
the nazgûl
                      9 / 4...
forward the fiktion...

i'm talking to
mushroom people...
you know,
when a ******
person talks to a drunk...
and...
  the conversation
soon turns to ridicule?
i.e. with what
two drunks talk about?

and how...
the same stoners
will revel in...
outside the realm lof
conversation,
resorting to games
outside the realm
of chess,
sudoku,
        or mahjong?

  you didn't teach me spain,
the spain taught me
what was within
the "gravity" of the reconquista...

but i thought...
that jihad...
was not a tactic for conquest...
rather:
   a tactic for reclaiming...
then?

  who,
                            are,

                                   you?

disability-pay-check
misnomers...
         arabian diabetics....
sugar frenzy...
    
you know what
the prophet Muhammad
said of the
current, House of Saud...
he said:
he would come from
the east,
  and reign: in the house...
of gardens...
   Riyadh...

  it's constantly stressed:
came, from
the east...

what is east of Mecca?
Riyadh...
  isn't it?
   we're talking
about intra-nationalism,
not inter-nationalism...

  i have no need to
base my squirm of interest,
in arabic affairs...
the polish *****
can have their sway,
i am here,
for the pebbles,
and the height
of a mountain...

  Muhammad said:
what is east of Mecca?
Riyadh...                  

  ku klux ****...
   and the spanish: capirote...

to speak this tongue
among the arabs,
who would readily
invest
in the evil personified
via a foreign tongue.

i halve myself,
to heave, forth,
the current
    dileberation.

I am, by all rights, a city girl
from Dublin to Riyadh to Birmingham
and now lost in London's whirl.
Anonymity is the city's gift,
a reward for braving the worn streets,
that bitter-sweet protective lift
as you fade with the passing of your feet
and compression leaves you caressed
even on the streets alone
as the buildings are tight pressed
because millions need a home,
because the city is a beating heart
a pulsating, convoluted mess
with chambers for every kind of part,
for every type of face and dress;
the city shows how small we are,
each one star blinking in twinkling galaxy,
removing the pressure to run so far
because in a wink the city will have forgotten me.

*******... two of my friends almost died in terrorist attacks!

.                     i see a great disasater,
not through lack of innovation,
but through the perpatuation
                                                    ­ of squander
for what was deemed a gift,
but has become
        a christmas present
in the hands of a child
  that islam has become...
if muhammad was alive
                                       today?
he'd decapitate the entire
        saudi family...
    and bring about
             the compensating
reign of *ali...
these ******* sand *******
  have had their disneyworld
of yachts and european *******
for far too long...
   duma! duma! narodowa duma!
pride! pride! national pride!
    what, a return to a horse
                  and carriage?
i don't see a phase of great
innovation,
   even though i'm sure it exists,
and it waiting for monetißation...
     of that i'm sure of,
   within the framework
            of keeping "secrets"...
what secrets?
    there are no secrets,
there are only
skewed lies,
           and unwritten truths...
   that's it...
it's a pretty simple geometric
   allowance that gave us a square
to fathom...
         you know that
        when muhammad
was talking about the dajjal
he meant it in terms
     of an arabic confinement,
right?
   when he said the hadith
        concerning
the east, he didn't imply
    ulaanbaatar - or genghis khan...
what's the hub of saudi arabia east
   of mecca? isn't it riyadh?
        a bunch of ******* fatsos...
        diabetic sheiks...
     amputees in waiting...
bonkers logic...
    no wonder the syrians
         imploded and
turned against themselves...
            these? these are the people
at the crux of a religion?
            so a syrian baker turned
  on a syrian car mechanic...
                      any intervention by foreign
power?
            is a heresy of conducting war...
no foreign power can be allowed
   influence into civil former cordiality
   turned into opposite warring factions!
none!
         the path toward hell
                     is plagued with
good intentions...
          and the west has made
                    a step onto that path...

if the western world populace are
dubbed oil junkies,
    what does that make the arabs?
sugar junkies?
              i guess so, seems the only
rational explanation as to why
  weilding a scimitar
     they'd sooner cut themselves
than chop an "infidels" head off...
******* fastos:
lazy *** sand-******* / camel-jockyes;
oh sure, come to poland
or to russia...
    we'll show you what we did with
the turks, in the 12th september 1683
battle for vienna;
    bull-*******-whipped-woodolf
                        ­               goin' bananas
  in his crematorium grave,
   twistin' 'n' turning,
          while mao tse-tung fiddled with
some egg-friend noodles,
   and stalin fiddle his moustache into
a hipster look: y'ah... well oiled
   giving it the full curls.

Beginning at the dusk of yesterday.
There was never even a hint of when it happened
Or what it destroyed.
What countless minds had it shattered
Our feelings had it toyed.
We felt the earth rumble at half past twelve.
Every second that went by vaporized another city.
And when the final tree fell down
I felt the last of my hope drown.

A thunderstorm of warheads out past my window
Made me turn away from the flashes of white
When the sky turned red
“How many”, I thought, “were dead?”
The books on my shelves turned to gasoline
As the words on the pages
Ignited at the scene
This poem doesn’t have to be consistent
To deliver the problems that are ever so existent
When two boys cry from two different sections of the Earth
Which one is more sad about what they have or don’t?
What God is up there? What man is the director of this
Mad play that is reality? This insane musical
That nobody could ever dream of
For all I see are the fireballs cascading over the land
As the Big Brothers in charge stick
Their heads further in the sand
Let’s leave it all behind
Life has another plan in mind.

Chalk dust dries on the ground
Where children’s games have once made their sound
The child has grown.

I’ll open my mouth again
To make another disaster work
Worms spew forth to the screen
From my body where they lurk.
Why do I still write? It doesn’t make sense
Maybe it’s the venom from my body I must cleanse
As time ticks down from the clock to the floor
Still as a revolution outside continues to roar
The people kick down my door
See my own self at war
My lust wanting more
Your body that I adore
What do I have to pay for?
This service of which I swore
That I can pull whenever I want out my **** drawer
What’s the score?
It’s one to four
A pipe of dependence of which I’ll soar
So high up in the clouds that thunder and pour
These poems have become such a mental chore
It’s always such a grueling bore
To commit to oneself of what seeps out of every pore.

Do I deserve a spot in Heaven
Next to you?

Jim left home one sunny day
To take a trip to big L.A.
He got up to walk
But stood ‘round to talk
And he missed his flight from Norway.
Jim was rather mad
So he yelled at a lad
Who promptly did tell him off
So when Jim went to scoff
In his face did he cough
And Jim instead went to Riyadh.
Jim was so blue
He thought what to do
And looked in the handy travel guide
That told him to hide
And then Jim had died
In the ocean that the plane had fell to.
Let this be a lesson to Jim
Whose life was always grim
He beat up his wife
And stabbed her with a knife
Now look what has become of him.

When I cry softly out my left eye
I suddenly see faintly out my right
In the darkness of which I gently float
Inside the silent abyss of where I lie
A flash of illuminating light
Followed by a lovely music note.

She asked me one day if I was alright.
I told her that a poet has to have a disturbed mind.
She asked me why.
I told her that I was still trying to find out.
I told her I loved her.
She smiled and said she loved me too.
Too bad it was all a fantasy.

It’s all too much
Shout it loud
It’s all too much
To have done as such
As to have died five times
And still I am seen as living.

The dance begins.

Together on the linoleum dance floor
Do the dressed fancy humans move
From a species that sparked fire from flint
To new modern cowards with flavored mouths of mint
From the music that spells the ending of all
Inside this prophetic construction held within a ball

Inside the snowy tundra of the room
Where the snowy figures dance their doom
Does the ice freeze the plaster on the ceiling
Everyone dances; nobody feels a feeling
With their arms ‘round each other in a ballroom style
The people’s faces are straight, there is not even a smile
The fire in the hearth has extinguished long ago
Shed some light on the blizzard that you know

The summer in my brain always combats the winter in
My heart.

It’s so easy to think you’re in love
How long until you meet the souls up above?
How long until you go stir-fry mad?
How long until you don’t know why you’re sad?
How long until this dance of ours
Finally reaches its final hours?

I never want it to end.

Pause the war.
Take me back to before
When the world was pure.
When the meadows of the countryside
Were available for all to run through
When humans lived together, and died together
Not in times of bloodshed, or carnage
But when people lived their whole life
As what they wanted to be.
When you and I could love each other
And not be disturbed by society
Is it a fantasy world?
Did it ever exist?
Or am I being an optimist?
Human; the only species to ****
Itself.

Un-pause the war.
See the harsh infinite gore
That stains every door.
Where the swamps of the marshlands
Have bodies swimming through it
Where humans gag on tar and hope
Where they know they’re at the end of their rope.
Not where people sing songs and dance
Not where there’s music and love and romance
But where people lived their whole life
As what they were forced to be.
Where you and I were separated
And be imprisoned by society.
Is it real life?
Or is it possible to dodge the knife?
Questions forever locked
In the chasms of a city.

And yet, peace and war are synonymous.

I was the child. He laughed and smiled not knowing of the world.
I was the robot. It never felt a thing.
I was the story teller. He failed at recreating his own sin and misery.
I was the runner. He never won his own race.
I was the lover. He did not succeed.
I was the lust-er. He nearly drowned in it.
I was the Marxist. He was fooled too easily.
I was the Creature. He still has the demons.
I was the hippie. He couldn’t make peace with himself.
I was the poet.
I now just am.

Oh, the yellow bricked road.

(Countdown. Ten.)

Dorothy saw the scarecrow
And tried to help him out

(Nine.)

She saw him bend down low
He was alive, no doubt.

(Eight.)

He stumbled here and there
To gather about his wits

(Seven.)

She laughed and flipped her hair
And helped him with his fits.

(Six.)

They got along real well
And became the best of friends

(Five.)

At the city where Oz does dwell
They hope to greet fine ends.

(Four.)

And at the city it seems
They met their wildest dreams

(Three.)

But in a sudden flash
Emerald City fell with a crash

(Two.)

So together they danced with his hands on her hips
In the mushroom cloud of the blazing apocalypse.

(One. We have liftoff.)

i agree with all the Narcissistic benevolence
that Islam ascribes itself toward:
look at our past! the barbarians never read
Aristotle, never invented algebra,
and what not.
                          mate, you checked the
thermometer lately? idle musings of *****
in the middle east, we roamed like tight-knit
wolves - we experienced winter -
you experienced a shade -
freeze your ******* off, next time you mention
the musings of Aristotle i'll shove
a ******* pop-sickle up your **** and make
you speak carrot-stick donkey...
that's how useful you'll become,
and all that nostalgia will fade away,
given you're little brats are bringing fast cars
and even faster women to the west,
and the right in Europe only asks one question,
only one question: why is liberal media not
portraying the whole affair sensibly?
most of the migrants are men, childless...
ever hear an Imam from Baghdad?
ever? never? oh... no wonder...
they said: we'll conquer your lands with *****
attacks... i'm not even being neurotic about
women... **** me, have 'em!
i write poetry like this: i put on a mask,
and hence the thespian comes out,
juggling testicles and **** and what not...
get the Vulgate Bible out...
                       i'll teach them a thing or two...
but fair enough, never seen such an active
nostalgia thermometer -
                          it's real grand to say:
we invented this that and the other...
             you ever experienced Siberia, of the Scandinavian
climate, *******?
            no.
                           guessed as much.
likewise, i never understood the point of Las Vegas...
             more like Los Vegas and Las Angeles -
the the, here and there:           Los                 T
                                    las                    T
     vegetation and angels, respectively...
but did you ever hear the Hadith about
                the return of Jesus in Syria?
   it's a good one, it might explain something about
the civil war... so the global community said:
we'll enforce peace between a Syrian plumber
          and a Syrian grocery store owner... like
******* will... ever remember Cromwell?
        give them their own debate, stop trying to
infiltrate K.F.C. into the debate...
                      you meddle with civil war you
meddle with a really moist pile of ****...
                    don't meddle, please please, don't meddle...
we've had enough meddling in Afghanistan already,
and that really did turn out to be "progressive",
         how else to denote irony if not by ditto
of those in power?
                                 but that ****** Hadith is real,
i'm focusing on how it all started...
        it looks to me, the thing in Syria, started
with Hadith 814... that jesus descends from heaven and will be
accompanied by two angels: resting his hands
                                                     on the wings of them.
he will descend onto the white minaret,
situated in the eastern part of damascus -
                          well... that worked out just fine...
            oh don't think i'm that dumb to ignore Islamic
literature... i can verse the screws and knobs of the Koran...
              but it looks, plainly, ****-up given this
Hadith (sayings of the prophet) - look like this sorted out
all the problems in the world...
                                   never mind the Islamic reference
to east - they never say Riyadh as being east of Mecca...
for some reason they think London is the east
of Mecca... how the **** did they figure that one out,
i'm not quiet sure...
                                   and the warning against you-know-who:
let's make religion into a Harry Potter, you-know-who
as alias Voldemort - or if you believe the whole
J and Y disparity - Esus and Ahweh -
                   so Edward and Ursula sat in a tree,
  eins drei sugar sweet fry - then fünf - sexting -
        Saigon Sven (or seven) - la la la la...
but coming back: well yes, and the 21st Achilles likened
heroes: pay the gas bills... true heroes of the 21st century...
never you mind why so much philosophy was written
in warmer climates - the luxury of an environment
gave you away, secondly blessed with a lot of dinosaur
glue of black splodge - **** me, aren't we the lucky ones...
                i bet you didn't have to keep warm
back when, as of now, and now, either, did you?
                     and the greatest thing the Eskimo thought
about was an igloo -
                                          but obviously that's not
down your street of having it easy -
                 no wonder Iran shares our sentiments with
encoding images rather than words -
                        oh, by the way? this grievance against
images has already happened against words...
           ever see a word without copyright infringement
disclaimers? like, the words coca cola are as sacred as
the word allah?
                                      am i missing something?
that thing in Syria, isn't that the exact expression of
the Hadith?                                    peace on earth my ****.
                        sometimes, the best thing to do,
  is cushion certain words, grammatically speaking
concerning sanity in using them: so you don't look like
a rat on amphetamines and steroids;
                   so they're selling you the Caliphate
  whilst fighting on amphetamines, just like the Luftwaffe
  celebrating Guy Fawkes' night over east London?
    well... applause! clap clap... clap... clap.
ah! and the worthy celebration of freedom beyond
the affairs of life... by simply utilising language in the realm
       of the formidable silence;
  so did you check that thermometer of yours
         given it's December?
                                 minus 30 Celsius?
thought so... so... where's that famous nostalgic talk of
             astronomy?
                   and for all that pampering by the Nile,
you had to give us an invading force
           to counter that bright idea of yours,
   in building us the pyramids: or a massive stock of stone
with only three rooms in it - oh i heard,
      you mutilate female genitalia because your men
can't compete with the libido of Egyptian sphinxes.

aww...
   'cos' mom'z
was a big spender:
and her *******
"grund"-wert-von-
ein-sohn-gehalten-fehlt?!
who: the pitty pitty boy now?

jeffrey, i don't know,
what's you take on
single frame nudes versus ****?
am i jerking off a statue,
or defining fine art?

this third party teenage crap
is not getting me off
most people talk about...

me? i see one slice of the cake
i'd like to keep the slice,
and not fall prey to the
proverb: you can't have your cake
and eat it...
    presume me arab spring...
but getting to the true norse
and the eskimo is not allowed
given the madness of these people...

true sir,
because what arab, in the known
history of the world
ever invited
a second ice age,
inviting the north men
to you realm of affairs,
simply because:
beneath your feat run the rivers of
dinosaur murk...
   #welcome...
   i've seen this advert...
he thongs he thongs his way like
a caesar?!
       oh, ha ha!
ha ha, he he, ha, ha!
        he knows what he fears,
and what he fears is not that he
fears it...
what he fears is already in his dreams,
and what he fears is falling
asleep, with a luggage
                                of dreams...
lucky for me:
   most of the time,
      i dream of the void.
how about this grand prince:
#hisasstowherehecamefrom...
   how's that for a youtube advert?
      ever eaten a lilac mushroom,
prince?
                   ever asked as to
why an anorexic girl might receive
her appetite back, after drinking
three cups of coffee, spoon of sugar,
two teaspoons of double cream?
so may i ask...
              why does the serpent
have no eyelids,
and his most removed cousin,
the spy, that's the cat,
share his pupil's dilation...
            even a man with no
money can compete with your
pleasures...
   among ******...
        and no, harem, attached...
             crown prince,
donning a crown of ten hourglasses...
  but only one klepsydra...
tell me the difference, crown prince,
what is water to sand?
              even Muhammad
pointed to the east of Mecca and
Medina, which i now have to
call for him: Riyadh...
                 grape and blind in one eye
bulging...
         i simply say: ibn-Saud: diabetic...
and two eyes bulging:
     a cube of ice... sugar sweet
   Kaaba(h): camel makes the load:
or grunts, disagrees...
        like those Bangladeshi prisoners
of Kuwait... or what... Sssssssssssýriā?
your partriarch said: from
the east...
                  
          nicht, in, mein, land!
a to tak dla przygody: moi brateńku...
                    - nie, w, mojej, ziemi! -

it's vaguely odd, to make this kind
of observation,
but have you ever squinted your
eye (with the other closed)
when looking at the moon?
well, with the sun, when you squint
your eye in a similar fashion,
your eyelashes almost seem to turn
to water, if not tears,
they become soaked in light,
that almost resembles water tricklets...
but with the moon?
ah, bountiful luna
   (in other languages,
the moon is male, the sun, female,
but in english, it's the other way
round);
it is only a day since a full moon,
and i'm drinking my ***
and feeling "bored",
so i turn my attention to
the moon, a day shy from fullness...
and you know?
  squinting my eye, i see a fraction
of the sum of the orb,
and as i do, a distinct ray of light
enters my body, just
above the eye, the forehead;
my eye still has the orb intact,
but there's a distinct ray of light
heading into the area just above
my eye...
as if: illuminating,
or clarifying...
   hocus pocus sort of dynamic
this observation has managed
to produce, but it's there,
when you squint your eye when
looking at the moon,
a direct beam of light enters via
your forehead,
it doesn't travel directly into your
eye,
        rather, just above it...
a licking aspect of a
     better-late-than-never "bend".
just an innocent observation,
and furthermore,
you tilt your head from side to side,
the same beam of light moves
with your observant eye...
   i find it fascinating,
how much of science is depicted by
only the dynamic of polyphemus
(the cyclops) -
   now, in islamic myths
this cyclops, the dajjal is one-eyed,
hence islam will clearly
testify that western science is...
metaphorically speaking: the dajjal.
i'm not so sure,
i already identified the dajjal
from the hadiths...
  muhammad spoke of the
east... given a compass...
    what's east of mecca?
   riyadh...
and when he said: he will be the scourge
upon the earth,
he didn't imply a poor person...
and he said his right eye would
be bulging, like a grape...
and he would be the worst curse
to befall a nation...
looks to me, that saudi arabia
is becoming more and more
decadent, isolated,
enigmatic even, why?
   it's ashamed of the youth
it has produced, it's: petrified!
who is this "enigmatic" dajjal?
ibn-saud...
   ibn-jabba-the-arab more like...
******* arab diabetics:
no no, alcohol is haram!
sugar iz good! hav' a baklava!
go **** yourself, give me
a sand-timer you *******
camel jockey.
   there was once a "thing" called
the iron, curtain...
seems to me, we're living in times
of the sand, curtain...
  i really don't want to think
about the *****-whipping ***-cracks
of men living in these sand-dune
cities that: resemble the most pristine
apocalyptic visions of:
                                     FAIL!
ah, don't bother, start building
these babylon-esque towers on
antarctica... then you can pet some
penguins while you're at it!
come on, you can't have any other
animal in tux serving drinks...
a cheetah in tux? what are you
talking about?
               see, the english didn't pick up
on this, no one i know, or don't know
has spoken about the isolationism
of saudi arabia...
   lawrence of arabia is long gone
along with the: "evil" turk...
       great biography too...
but the sand curtain is there...
    there's nothing special happening
under it... it's like a babushka doll,
but whenever you open one up after another,
the niqab is still there...
        i wish the russian thought
up an islamic babushka doll...
  **** it: let's start with a burqa,
then a niqab... nearing the end we get
a thong and then the garden of eden *****...
i don't have the money to make this:
go ahead, like my idea, made a babushka
doll like that: you'll be... minted!
yeah i know, i'm sometimes like
a forrest gump, i like ping-pong and
i play-along with being innocently dumb...
i was born with the idea of money
as being nothing more than a comparison
to counting pebbles,
given that western "intellectuals"
bark against prostitutes...
     i've given myself to sparingly
whiff off a few grand, here & there,
because...
   if ****'s not broken,
                      why buy a replacement?
saudi arabia is, though, playing an
isolationist game for reasons you might
not suspect...
  hence the hadith quote,
   hence the sand curtain:
the older generations are ashamed
of the offspring they produced,
and their european slavic ***** *** ******...
that's good, i don't mind jerking
off... i can focus on my drinking...
   and yes, i've been to prostitutes,
and every time i get a kiss and she says:
no no no, it's against the rules,
but i still do, and get that girly
wish i was 16 giggle... well...
             grease me another frying pan:
i'm about to make a killer curry;
alter-ego talk...
matta al-britanni?
    got sent to the wrong place,
overshot the ******, sent him to goa,
to cook curries for white tourists...
seems pretty happy to me...
   better not tell him he's not supposed
to be there... like any ******:
   happy when being given a newspaper
to rip in nicely folded rectangles:
i knew one robbie... no pair of scissors
could beat him:
as they say - 'ere by v'ah grease of good:
rubby rubby, chubby chubby,
and out pops a screaming plum's head
mmm' ha ha:
rubby rubby, chubby chubby,
that's a good 'un, dash ah keepour:
talk to an amsterdam prozzie,
she'll tell you the linguo choke,
i mean: joke.
- where was i?
  oh, my, god! you know when you write
something, and keep writing something,
and you're like: girlfriend, you're gonna
blush...
   and it hits you, and it's, like: amnesia?
it's called the cut-up flux technique,
well, it's hardly a technique,
it's not the cabaret voltaire scene
to be honest...
    you don't think up a plot,
the plot thinks up itself,
   you... move along, you... move along,
but amnesia is a great technique
to focus on...
                  god, sometimes i wish
i was yoda japanese:

     squint the eye, you will,
     moon, apparent be seen,
     beam of light
        hit your forehead, it will.

and that's all it was going to be...
     but obviously the european ramble had to take
place, and involve much more,
than the recipe for ink had in store
for me, with the already twice mentioned
observation;
bad luck, hopefully better, next time.

to have conscience,
is to, not exactly have an
unwavering nerve...
from then tetragrammaton:
i didn't ask the semites!
the serpent didn't wind
it's labyrinth around a pine,
but around a tree
that mirrored its siamese
splinter of Y:
each tree akin to the schlangzunge,
apart from then pine
and palm...
    and to my ignorance...
Y with a 45° convergence...
to the root, the muddle,
and the unearthed lie...
         literalism of the poetic
work of the book of genesis,
a poetic Gobi...
            death prior to god,
death of metaphor,
and now, the "humble"
journalistic "fact"...
                came the compass and
i and had I to rewrite
the divine, blind Milton
led me through, and to spice
up purgatory...
for all the heavens to coincide,
hell is what man invested it,
however librating nirvana
was to keep,
such squandered tongues
readied for the pulpit...
the cake question,
no chicken prior the egg dynamism
of res omni,
                   partaking
in res per se jacks...
sorry,  rigid vocabulary...
                       Y of the oak
Y of th3 serpent...
    craft the immortal graffiti:
apparently,  it boiled down to
expressing "ΛV"...
   come the orszak of semites...
how do you spot a Sunni
stupid enough to call
the ancient Egyptian civilisation
semitic?
    an Egyptian with
a phallus limp and a
                        tongue *****....
how you spot the advent of Ali...
Sunni Muslims have 5 pillars,
oddly enough Sh'ite Muslims have...
6...
      taqiya being then:
mind you... far from Saudi whiskey
came the Afghan sandstorm
and resin from Landays...
it was never about literally 6, on the 6th
day, and the 7th that spawned
man's thought
and godly entertainment...
hardly a claim for a free will,
when unearthing the shackles
of conscience,
         excuses from a dehydrated
amylglandala are nill...
   if the Koran was a blessing...
the oil...
                     mmm...
           even if the Saudi king
employed 1000 Moroccan Sheikhs,
and 10,000 hafiz...
              ΛV:
   like a high-semite might, hide
the vowels...
                    consonants
became bricks,
    vowels became cement...
    Oedipus and Electra...
the so-called love...
                     ******* vowel hide-n-seek...
A E I O U pentagrammaton
    within the tet'
             and the Aegeian Sea
weighing turmoil up in turmoil,
the battered coast of Rhodes...
spaghetti curls of
the Mediterranean raven hair...
pillow, and eyes earning
an escape into the pearl sands,
having promised to **** the Graeae
sisters, having blinded the eye...
and the reward?
a tongue as phallus
and the double edged sword of
conversation, made piquant
in the mandible sigma pose...
wrapped around
       the tree splinter the split
king serpent tongue...
      multiplying confusion
rather than adding to it...
since repeated via the "original"
sin of plagiarism...
          taqiya is a Persian invention...
which, the sand ******* /
camel jockeys have little
knowledge of praciting with, tact...
oops is the genear
paraphrase...
      since when is Farsi scribbled into
little Tehran in...
oh wait, you didn't hear the one
about ibn-Saud, did you,
within the confines of
the capital from the east, Riyadh...
   right eye poking out
like any diabetic might see
a sugar cube...
                            little Tehran in
Dubai...
             ha ha...
                                    as if!
                   in latin script...
a serpent tongue split and multipled
clinging to a tree in a Y shared
replica.    
hard to speak of a free will,
when hindered by conscience,
or in oriental terms,
the grandeur of honour...
self-invasive, as conscience is...
   thesaurus, philologists' stone...
apparently all misunderstandings
of exfoliating with misnomer
applicability, reside in
synonyms, alias: proximity collateral.

i once used to frequent museums and galleries... but then i came across forests and graveyards... ancient yard of arts... and then i found the hands of a 2nd sculpture: the nearest i've been to god in terms of seeing a visage... i've already heard what i need to hear: a choir descending in church... give this works a second pair of hands: and call them less weathered: but more moulded by a second attempt: more than a mountain might need a tornado, or the deserts be resurrected into mountain ranges by time! i know, necro-sculptures are certainly not Elgin marbles... but at least when adoring these statues i am not bound to listen to ******* lawsuits about ownership: the dead own them... nor am i sick from the stuffy air of incense of a museum imitating church practices... just the common sickly sweet rot of autumn infuses them... and i know: even if they were made from marble: i'd rather watch them being "revised" in the immediate sense, than have to ascribe a human topor to them, being left so mutilated, without those slight diversions they have kept intact.

wątpliwości obdarują człowieka myślą: wert ein zweite eisenvorhang: früher immunität zu die schwarzplage.

  that is my single most important observation:
did these people, my supposed past
really concern themselves with perfecting
sanitation? the map of the black plague looks:
mighty odd!
      there's that "bit in the middle"
where it's akin to me buying take-away food
  one half a year from the local turk
selling the "speciality" of fish & chips:
i feel ill, i fill gloated, bloated...
    no offense to the turk selling me the food:
i like the idea that turns into a practice
of actually like washing my hands like
a surgeon before cooking the food
i am about to eat: prior giving thanks
to a father about putting saliva than
apples on a table before me...
            it really makes more sense being
able to cook your own food
than taking a short-cut...
     i ******* hate take-away food:
i will bloated like i just ate a puffer-fish
alive...
      i woudln't eat from a restaurant...
and thanks to somone like
Paris Hilton: i'm pretty sure i would
be fine having eaten her pooch munch;
hand on my heart + scout's honour:
i'm sorry...
            i rather cook my own food than
take it easy and visit a restaurant...
       i might ******* in the meantime,
  i might pick-my-nose...
    but at least know that i would be most
likely to wash my hands with bleach...
    i know i will wash my hands
my my proper way...
                 maybe it's the deep-fried staple
of all the good food being in need
of an oil bath:
     but i'll scrub down proper and
have to answer for:
    did i see it proper?
   if it wasn't cooked 4 x 4:
     i guess i can only assert but one
vector, eye, in a menu of paid
compliments.

     - the following extract ought
to be filed under: almost 2 months ago
it made: sense perfecto! -

- there are two strands of thinking,
one by immersion and the other by
"digression" (trans-metaphor,
id est snowball effect that can't be stopped,
colloquial: lack of a better word,
post scriptum bloom spontaneity;
verb-verb complex), the former immerses
itself in quantifiable rigor,
god the non quantifiable, s-
-elf-reductionist inertia of one,
**** qua deus est chimera, alt. **** insapiens.

Prefix proxy, all hyphen additions pre/post;
ars poetica shames itself with rubric & rigour;
poetry as the resurrection of chaos
via versus IKEA poets: who think poetry
requires an academic manual, art (per se)
as the "relaxation" tool of semi-autistic doctors,
hindering 7 pillars a near infinite supply of hues;

science makes the incremental judgement
and yet so many nouns are missing.
Revisionist: the "big" Q (?) - bang, ****,
what's the difference: non vox in vanus.

Modern "philosophers", if not mere spinster
hide behind word-pillars, using if not "refining"
words on their primitive 1st derivative,
one dimensional formality, absolute,
whereby words become crutches, rather than pillars.

Hence the bombast and lack of fineze.
Yet ask the etymological question as to
why a word's zenith must be kept unchallenged,
hence the stressors (in italics) and
hence the subsequent abyss.

Every word can unravel and heed toward
its own history of non-cause,
but a champagne-happenstance.
Look into grammatical complex akin
to verb-verb dichotomy within the nouns *****,
subsequently Madonna.

With a cctv crow perched on my shoulder,
glued to the mono-lingual Arab of
the Riyadh greenhouse perks and demise,
black gold gluttony,
would be muhammedan avatars of the forgotten
celibacy abiding by merely adhan sustenance.
The Arab, jinn or dajjal, or he with one eye
or he with one tongue?

The greatest display of art is geological,
in that eternal marrow of once moulded by hand,
thus given into Eloise (god of wind),
twice the sermon of mourning upon
the weathered faces and rigid genuflex limbs,
penitent gargoyles and saints akin;
not sheltered in museum of last upheaval
cherished by gluttonous suitors
and postcard frozen envy;
grave watchmen of mortality's final dynamo:
procrastinating in idle mourning,
sepia exiled as the currency franca,
moulding by day, harvesting moss by night,
yet still perpetually lullabying a teasing
chance of crux signum of unfolding hands
to butterfly flutter risen; eventually the instilled:
not yet.

Yet they do not belong neither in shadow
or bubblegum paralysis to seize a chance at
grimace before the epileptic paparazzi seizure;
weathered stone, time, scythe in hand,
pads from a master anonymous to a Rodin and then,
rather time & the Chinese five winds,
moulded repentant galore slowly itching away,
pinch by pinch by the irritable constancy
toward a crab gravity:

   what do you call a man who earns a living
from young women? Alfons.
   - and what do you call a man who earns
a living  from old women? Rydzyk.

I take it must be a healthy observation,
for are not graveyards the other,
less pomp and yet more grandiose exemplars
of the kept artefacts?

How few are know in the latter as fabled scribes,
procrastinations of life among dry quills?
No these statues belong here, in the museum of air,
wind and rain, with the hands of the elemental
artist's work ad continuum ex ****.

**** in analogue, home ex analogue contra populis
(while watching pigeons squadron - "x" -
against the stiffening of limbs against ale cold);
with only a pair of eyes to travel, man, alone,
perpetually seeking an alternative avenue:
that perpetual en masse cul de sac tsunami
of all mortal venture: reason vested in the motto:
not asked for: enigma in **, enigma non ex ****
(complexes, systems, traffic);
enigma diem est non carpe
(an enigmatic day is not worth seizing,
since what is best unlived,
is best translated into what ought to be written);

note to don Juan:
had I lived such a bountiful life,
I wouldn't have bothered writing a book,
laying a brick stacked in puzzle upon
a wall would have sufficed;
boorish clausure, inevetible glass of mud,
a riddle Hardy upon Liszt divulged
with feminine weakness:
I'll adore a peacock' s feather in a hat,
prior to and forever through.

believe me when i say:
     i will always trust the turk the barber...
   i will actually trust no other ethnicity
of a man to call himself a *barber
if he isn't the latest ottoman fashion from
Istambul...
      because?
    please! show me the forest for me
to aspire to lumber-jacking hacking
     that imaginary forest into a british library!

i did ask for Königratte: and they sold me:
the soul can never be sold unless in the priesthood...
in defence of Thespians:
             or those who sells their shadows...
i don't know what is worse...
eh: why not face it:
    a polish girl will always prefer
Adam Mickiewicz...
   while the ex pat immigrant polish boy
will always rather cite Julian Tuwim...
   or as the ancient saying goes:

siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak,
       a tu chłop powiedział: i to było tak...

ihr menschen, wirklich würdig sein
  ein zweite eisenvorhang...

     if i din't know: i wouldn't be asking
you to reply in german for
          me using english grammar...

ł: remains of the trinitarian formula -
on a basis of a t -
      bottom up or bottom down?
      it's becoming a case for inspector clouseau
looking for handwritting
  in such examples.

please! i need this reiterated!
what's so wrong with "subjectivity"?
is that a feminine trait?
is the "masculine", "suddenly"
fizzying out like
a soft-drink infused with
carbon dioxide: the breath of the dying
composed of bubble?

what is a spem ******* into
a tissue? a genocide?
what is a ***** *******
into a female?
the next jesus christ...
the abortion scrambled egg?!

at what point to i disown...
disavow the coming
of the Serbs slaughtering the Ottoman
muslims in former yugoslavia?

i ******* into a tissue...
i disown i disavow...
hello the vatican mafia
of: why not simply cut my ***** off
like i'm the third *****
gas chamber conscript...
because the new wave dodos
are about to flock, settle down...

when the ***** is mine...
but when a woman comes
into contact with it...
vampires... aren't they simply romances
told of familial relations
associated with lepers...
aren't vampires the sort
to breed a.i.d.s. -
that lost acronym...

aren't vampires the romance
associated with a blood-disease?!
romance... my ***...
call him either hey-zeus or bat-fixation-allam...
jesus and balaam...
two donkey riddles among
horses... and broken spines... of the jockeys...

   acne... an excess of my body producing
too many white blood cells..
right, major major....
understood! standing uptight and on
privy!
i have mushroom of these dead
white blood cells pouring
out of my ****** pores
            (when squeezed or forced
under a pincer of the nails seeing
not manicure)...
like belzeebub taking a ****
with readily available eager maggots!

mosquitos i'd **** for fun...
flies? i'm rather bothered with my new
faith: the plethora of doubt...
faith should never become
the antonym: negation...
islam abhors the unbelievers...
un- is a negation...
non- is a doubt...
islam should pardon those in doubt
as it embraces those
"with faith"...

   i doubt because... i've seen all
the other cul de sacs of expressing an anchor
to an already sinking ship...

the arabs do not like the turks...
last time i heard, from that random...
lawrence... the camel jockeys abhor
the turks... after all... the quran came unto
the arabs... as did the oil...
the turks are the lesser nomads...
kazakhs... or that other rugga-muffin tribe
from the belly of hunger that's
siberia... the tundra hinterland...
not exactly a saharan fata morgana...

i like doubt to be:
the combined negativity of emotions
with: how can one conjure a positivity
of thought? how can anyone even genesis
a binary of thought?
does... a non-binary of *** even "work"?
i also like doubt to be:
the motive for cogito per se -
it's an open and the end:
scenario of words...

             turk is the primo muslim...
heard the arab...
said wha'?!    the turk was to dwarf the arab?
what about all that sunni and sh'ite islam
debacle?
clearly it's not merely an iranian "terminology"
lost to xerxes beating the waves
of Thermopylae...

the man thus... i guess i must also be...
no... back in the day only men were literate...
i was also inclined to be a favourite
of the spoon and fork...
i must be a woman to write!
i must be a woman to write!
as was Horace prone!
               as was Dante prone!
****'s expressio! muschi alles das ist!

wasn't an immediacy of schism apparent?
the persians would not bow before
some arabs - even with their now apparent
gold... these camel jockeys...

nor a turk... in a suit... a muslim is a turk
or some dirt mongol -
the lament of baghdad?!
no wonder the persians would deem
themselves...
protestant or catholic?
i don't think it matters...
we're still waiting for the one true monotheism
to reach Lebanon and the protestant guise...
the catholic primates of Tehran...
and the orthodox ball-crushing origins
of a Mehdi in waiting come...
Mecca under ibn-Saud...

            look to the east...
what is east of Mecca? Riyadh...
                                such are my eclectic concerns...
a turk a muslim...
unless of course...
       some **** entered the notre-dame de paris...
left undistrubed...
like mehmed II... entering the hagia sophia...
almost immediately wishing
to contract building a replica...

  whatever the name is / was...

for all their riches beneath the sand...
their yachts... boredom from wealth
is a fickle bedroom demon to tame...
    sooner or later... Moldova laments:
why are we not part of Romania
and not given st. petersburg's window
into the world: with an access to the seas?!

why do egyptians or any north africans
need to be invoked in this affair is beyond me...
well... the moors...
i once knew a people that made pyramids
by ******* into the sand
having retained hope for mountains
by having ivory moulds to replica
that sort of ambitions...

the pyramid is the never before seen
mountain... among the dunes...
what is a desert? what a mountain range looks like...
if you have... the sort of dodo patience
necessary...
genesis *** ape? really? that's it?
i can look further afield than:
just becomes it looks similar to man...
just because...
you stated the categories...
a whale is a mammal!
                  
           and, thus, somewhow,
coming back to time via journalism?
seriously?!

                    i'm out of "it" quiet literally without
any constraints of consentual time ref.:
consensual...
                   what the **** happened to:
i consent to?
                  
again: what's wrong with subjectivity?
am i not assured being: being subjected to something...
don't i have to be: a priori: subject to "it"...
before i can be: a posteriori: objective about it?
what's with all this, modern,
objection to subjectivity "sensibility"?

on the basis of objectivity per se...
sorry... no...
you have to be subjected to algebra-A...
before you can spew retrogade objectivity algebra-B...
for no greater purpose other than
to peacock on the "logic" spectrum...
first comes subjectivity... of being subjected to...
then... only then comes the desired
objectivity... you can only be objective...
a posteriori... when you have been subjected...
a priori to "it": as ever... always the most elusive "it"...

subjectivity is "b'aaah... b'aaah bad"...
objectivity is: cul de sac "logistics" of perfecting
gwam-ar... or grammar: in velsh...

but how can you become objective / be, objective...
if you haven't been the / a... subject of...
something to... object to...
subjectivity is the terra firma...
and it tends to "hide" when coming across
a non-schizoid non-bicameral
non-bilingual... binary...
                           to harvest objectivity...
i guess you first need to be subjected to...
what you'll later object to...

in the safety of an "objective" 1 + 1 = 2...
is the subjective a priori...
and the objective a posteriori?
well... no... or no: i hope...
i hope but i can't hope...
since i was so ******* naive...
          
             nonetheless... this suppossed superiority
of objectivity over subjectivity...
binary in some circles...
                zeitnahsprechen...
berliner: schwer-auf knifflig-stück...
         do i look like a ******* gypsy-king
diet-prone on solely: makrone?
looking for alcholics among the arabs...
and... caffeine and sugar addicted norwegians, too?

objectivity: alles gut!
beginning from... where?
   nothing requiring you being subjected to:
in order to object to a furthering recurrence?
even a crow listens in on what i type...
he has to be the sole insomnia prone
bird in this vill-age...
unless of course... hoarding odin is listening...
and that wasn't just any crow...
it was...      ᛗᚢᚾᛁᚾᚾ...

to hell with ᚻᚢᚷᛁᚾᚾ...
         i'm with my memory... somewhere else...
and it's certainly not a seat
in... playing role... for some cameo cinema
outtake!

there we go... a croaking in the night...
mind you... you always have a pornographic
seat of viewing pigeons trying to procreate...
right before your eyes...
hard to spot one crow courting another
crow in ned (yes, not need)...
of a desperado ****...
                pigeons just love voyeurs...
crows: still remember the mother woods...

and will not: **** or pretend to **** in
public... pigeons on the other hand?
**** anywhere **** anything that moves...

so much for a new or nuanced god...
iconoclasm drifter...
like C is supposed to represent
the half-lit moon of death's harmonica
played into the whistling scythe...
or some other wordly load of *******.

/             i can't even conceive the concept
of "lounging"
   with a cool breeze of a refrigerator
ushering out
        mylo's: sun worshipper...
without thinking of dragging
my naked *** onto a plot cool, cool green
grass that hasn't been scarred
by this july sun...
              what, with the old people
dropping like flies,
      or rather hiding for the majority
of the day...
  is this a ******* metallurgy factory?
         sun?                *******
                            back to arabia!
- and take your knightbridge boyos
with you!
          i'm pretty sure they can drive
their lamborghinis in the riyadh heat...
                                        just as well!
well it's not like the arabs
    "invented" oil...
                     talk about sitting,
  and then ******* on the laurels of
                      passing on the annoying phrase,
there's no water in the desert:
                    well no **** sherlock!
        there are no camels in scandinavia either!
- as one bengali once expressed at
school:
                       ******* camel jockeys.

/some call it the past-particible, id est: i-ran... the persian would never bow to a sand-******, camel-jockey, arab; such fascination with the immediacy of a schism... better still: i ran and ran and ran, and there was no running involved... the better stressor? e-ran; and the west "thinks" it's decadent... not so much the people who built via bangladeshi blood-shed and tear and sweat, that... flickering glass shard, in the middle of a dessert?! wow... hard to compete with such decadence! as any **** muslim will see: hard not to see the dajjal, of what is east of mecca, i.e. riyadh... i might be a drinker... but i eat responsibly... unlike that glutton ibn saud... that diabolical diabetic fatso'h. oh look who's knocking! cuckoo! cuckoo! because the cuckoo never leaves an artefact, signature, in the form of echo; skim-reading outside the cave./

why is it, than anything, besides
moby ****,
was worth mentioning
herman melville?
  or why the crow
is the only artefact, winged,
that suggest a hunchback?
clever pecking i might add.
no, i didn't read the ****
masterpiece,
         the brothers karamazov
stole one summer
    hanging *****
                in a torture
chamber of a plataeau, flat,
on my grandparent's balcony...
shame, considering
the english,
   so adamant in securing
a garden,
             but rarely visiting it,
as i collected the sugar mush of
the vine for the brew,
     rarely, seeing an englishman
enjoying his garden,
rarely, seeing an englishman
enjoying his garden...
         better equipped
with domino high-rise,
the englishman would be better-off
owning the simple space
allowance equated to a balcony.
i know why:
            per-chance he might
finally take to reviving a pleasure
from reading:
the englishman:
  oh, what a tired man he has
become;
         extracting
         the in vivo from america,
blaming it on integrated
  scots with blondi combovers...
       ever hear the joke
about how copper-wire was invented?
two scots, pulling a 2 pence coin
"apart".

a heart that lends itself for an hour,
an honest hour,
i'll spend an extra month in this town,
watching spring wrestle with
the last chain-whip of winter,
just like today, pomeranian snow,
a blizzard and a teasing vulcanised
ashen sky, pale mother golgotha
and all the remaining iconoclasms
burdening the school of saints,
an extra month, wathing days grow
longer, and by 5pm, the yawn the
high atmospheric pressure and
fighting the toffee eyes just enough
to sit akimbo on the floor hunched
graced by the warm southern breeze
cooling as it comes down the northern
Carpathia mountains,
    the Tatras: a long blink of azure
and comes the ceiling crashing down...
an extra month, the old woman
wanted me to decorate her kitchen
and her corridor,
        an extra month...
                 and after a year or so of
celibacy i will finally do what i know
what to do best, spin the economy,
pay for an hour, no gruesome detail,
no slush-puppy soppy "my idea of love
is the ideal love"... past itchy-salt wounds
and the miracle of an elephant's
doing less damage than a woman
in high-heel shoes...
                      a scrutiny of but an hour,
saving graces of momentum i couldn't
adhere to: this boy runs on gasoline
and counting minutes as stones,
    one stone, two stones, three:
     an anchor's dive into the harangue
of the sea by her own proto dictum
   of asking a ship to wreck...
     a sirens' lullaby...
     obiter cogitatio: a thought in passing,
as all things must,
           worse, skim reading,
   without a dangling tongue upon
   the fore',
                  almost like a schoolboy,
who has the pleasure of riding
the madonna-***** complex to its
natural conclusion in a brothel...
hardened heart, hardened elsewhere,
mush boy blue, mush boy white,
mush boy and castrato operas elsewhere,
mush boy blue, V V V...
             how it doesn't work the miracle
when it doesn't have to:
     clean-cut of the guillotine
          between...
    and they say that if a man walking
behind a woman will stare at her buttocks...
stranger standing riht behind a woman...
in a supermarket queue,
       seems eroticism stronghold of
a woman's hand does migrate and takes
hold of her height...
      at 6ft1... she's most ******
                  shy of my 'head...
for the first time (and only from
behind) can a close symmetry based on
height allow such a strange infatuation,
hierarchical, orderly,
     when breeding pedigree alsatians
and labradors and even siamese cats,
        notably homogeneity erotica,
              concentrated in height correlation
of the male and female specimen...
     nothing as crass as the remaining
anatomy that's the niqab of ****...
           sooner or later the mammary glands
of cows, and bye bye goes all things prior...
now hands i could have understood,
male : female perfect height proportion
came as a strange aphrodisiac for the eyes...
a cramped supermarket was all it took...
    and at least in that hour where
everything remains prestigiously formal,
no bargain of hearts,
    no slush-poppy poetry about how how
how such a love elsewhere is beauuuuu-
ti ti ti- full of horseshit...
        oh and such a love is,
     left to a straitjacket asked not
to scratch itself with rose thorns aged
twenty one...
                         economics takes over,
and a clash with boredom and man
trying out imitating the noble monogamy
of swans... the widower swan,
   or the widow swan...
            a least others contend with
   the walrus harem, and others, well...
make pacts with the thieves and wolves
among other themselves...
                              thrice a repeated
feat, on the fourth attempt,
         i and my mother's brother can both
testify...
                are not already over saturated
by the thespians? sometimes an hour
and she forgets she is in the real theatre
and not some 22nd snippet put together
with the 10th take of a 23rd snip
       that makes up 30 seconds worth of
cinematic fakery...
        sometimes the hound burrows in
her bowels and she aches from being
given money for her own pleasure being
served... came the needle pinch
   came the pinch of salt on the tongue,
came Sahara in her eyes,
                 came the curled up
naked body sold to her own mirror
image of shame...
              me and my glacier cold doll eyes,
listening to the harangue of the sea
        that woman is,
              on the sly and on the eerie slant
marching past a church at exactly 11pm,
    inexhaustible seance in expectation
of the resurrection of 11 hang-men of Tehran,
not that poetry exists in the Islamic world
outside of Persia...
           came the people
from Dune al-Riyadh, with a meager
                                                  bibliography,
Arabic women don't exactly have **** hands...
******* frankfurter fingers
         walking down Edgware Rd,
   she-eshia eating baklava eating
    new-money, formerly women of the desert
plough, fig harvesting, camel milking
    new "aristocracy" build upon:
oil is thicker than blood, blood is thicker
than water... just another passing thought,
after all, comes the dance of decadence,
comes the pecking crow knocking with
   a pekish tease, a curling tongue gurgling
as if drowning, perched on either
   a branch of oak birch or pine,
     or even upon the crucial hand
    of the outstretched cross in the forest
of the labours of prayer, which the deaf
can even hear, solemn vibrato humming
of pierced lips and clenched teeth.

i almost forgot how good
stake tartare tastes like...
until today...
     a mighty Feast of
Crimea,
    tender raw beef
               raw onions,
gerkhins, raw garlic,
raw egg yoke,
    mustard and soy sauce...
and the sight of
that infamous Warsaw
march of 2017...
       which wasn't a cry
of smothered children,
and almost all who
attended the march
had the vigour of youth,
however crude...
        compared
to those ***-****** beggars
after the Manchester
tragedy?
    anything that stirs the heart
to the point where it
chokes you...
    and it chokes you so
much that you can't speak...
i finished the Crimean
feast with a shot of *****
with some pepper in it,
and a green tea infused
with grapefruit with half
a teaspoon of sugar...
   and it's the same Poland
that the west didn't understand
as it was under the iron wall...
  apart from the early 1990s
bonanza...
          subsequently the ******
of Riyadh...
          a strange patriachal
feeling overcame me...
    **** it, let the children play,
boys will be boys:
that infamous march could
have only asked for
    a feast,
   of a mythological Khan
                       of Critimea;
mind you - it's good to see
something far greater than
the individual...
        to see man so
elemental...
              akin to a movement
of water in a tsunami,
or the rising baricades
of time... fused with
      tongues of fire,
aired hearts,
       and the stomp of
a savannah stampede...
       marches for freedoms
and democracies
are such a pale antithesis...
where you can't really tell
where one individual ends,
and another begins...
         nothing much
when looking at western
marches other than
a spectacle of altruism...
       but **** me...
          that stake tartare!

Al Qaeda was created by the C.I.A., in their offices in Washington D.C. According to Richard Clark in his most recent book. It was created for Saudi Arabia to bankroll Osama bin Laden, through the House of Saud, "in the Afghan war against the Soviet Union during the 1980's and Riyadh and Washington together contributed an estimated $3.5 billion to the mujahideen.

If I were God,
I'd go incognito on vacation to Lebanon ...
Or maybe in Tehran.
In the shape of a woman,
I’d go pull some beards and kick some holy *****,
Then reignite the flame
In Olympia.

I’d walk bare-chested through the streets of Riyadh,
Kabul, Atlanta, or Islamabad.

If I were God,
I’d dress Afghan women in Coco Chanel,
And the Taliban in Burkacharel.

If I were God,
I’d ring a few bells,
Hand out a few smacks,
And white condoms
In the Vatican halls.

But really, if I were God,
If I were God…
I’d command my uneasy followers
To embrace French-style secularism,
Then I’d go spend my vacation somewhere else.