Keine Eindeutige Regel may well to your Genaue Anteil der ende Flüssigkeit sowie Mehl, other bei der Brotherstellung verwendet Werden, gegeben Werden, Weil einige arten von Mehl zu absorbieren viel mehr ende Flüssigkeit als weitere. Realmente es wurde jedoch festgestellt that will About three cupfuls Mehl Wird i'm Allgemeinen für JEDE Brotlaibchen notwendig.

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Komfortable Ausstattung .-- Während sterben Utensilien during Abb. Step 2 Sind alle sterben tatsächlich bei der herstellung von Brot, Brot Mischer, von Denen Eine Craft ist for Requirements certains Kochens, Teil 2 beschrieben erforderlich Wir Sind, Werden sehr bequem Durch Depart this life Hausfrau, Pass on Grosse Mengen von Brot auf einmal backen Müssen sowie gefunden Werden wer sun hat Nicht viel Zeit, ium zur Arbeit zu widmen. This specific arbeitssparende vorrichtung verwendet Werden Kann und Natürlich Ebenso oft Durch Die-off Hausfrau, sterben Nur eine geringe Menge eines Brot macht verwendet, Wie zum beispiel Zwei bis vier Brote; Jedoch puede ser ist eigentlich nicht von ihr Benötigt Werden Samsung galaxy s6 edge 64GB, wie sie can easily Eine solche Menge leicht und schnell zu Handhaben. Ein Kühler, der Aus einem Rahmen durch Drahtnetz bedeckt sowie von Kurzen Beinen Unterstützt Besteht, is likewise to choose from Eine Bequeme Appliance Samsung galaxy s6 edge+, nr ations als ein guter Ort, Auf dem Brot legte abkühlen dient. WENN EINES about this Geräte Nicht verfügbar ist, Ersetzt Jedoch leicht Durch Strecken Eines Drahtgeflecht Über Einem Holzrahmen Hergestellt Werden.

you called me,
pauper before father,
and then akin
"king" before
"mother"...
ich... ****** parrot...
   zee anglos
lerner früm auf
zeppelin:
lerner-qua-nil...
non-replica...
      HELGA-INFILTRATOR...
residual Moscow...
now your frame your
lingo cruise...
   sodden karma sutra mit...
baby ghee, schlurr...
H'iat!
                and, once upon a time...
mother's a *****,
father's a crucifix...  
rhyme-synonym...  
         tomorrow is
but a parade.

Weißer Tagesanbruch. Stille. Als das Kräuseln begann,
hielt ich es für Seewind, in unser Tal kommend mit Raunen
von Salz, von baumlosen Horizonten. Aber der weiße Nebel
bewegte sich nicht; das Laub meiner Brüder blieb ausgebreitet,
regungslos.
Doch das Kräuseln kam näher – und dann
begannen meine eigenen äußersten Zweige zu prickeln, fast als wäre
ein Feuer unter ihnen entfacht, zu nah, und ihre Spitzen
trockneten und rollten sich ein.
Doch ich fürchtete mich nicht, nur
wachsam war ich.
Ich sah ihn als erster, denn ich wuchs
draußen am Weidehang, jenseits des Waldes.
Er war ein Mann, so schien es: die zwei
beweglichen Stengel, der kurze Stamm, die zwei
Arm-Äste, biegsam, jeder mit fünf laublosen
Zweigen an ihrem Ende,
und der Kopf gekrönt mit braunem oder goldenem Gras,
ein Gesicht tragend, nicht wie das geschnäbelte Gesicht eines Vogels,
eher wie das einer Blume.
Er trug eine Bürde,
einen abgeschnittenen Ast, gebogen, als er noch grün war,
Strähnen einer Rebe quer darüber gespannt. Von dieser,
sobald er sie berührte, und von seiner Stimme,
die, unähnlich der Stimme des Windes, unser Laub und unsere
Äste nicht brauchte, um ihren Klang zu vollenden,
kam das Kräuseln.
Es war aber jetzt kein Kräuseln mehr (er war nahe herangekommen und
stand in meinem ersten Schatten), es war eine Welle, die mich umspülte,
als stiege Regen
empor von unten um mich herum,
anstatt zu fallen.
Und was ich spürte, war nicht mehr ein trockenes Prickeln:
Ich schien zu singen, während er sang, ich schien zu wissen,
was die Lerche weiß; mein ganzer Saft
stieg hinauf der Sonne entgegen, die nun
aufgegangen war, der Nebel hob sich, das Gras
wurde trocken, doch meine Wurzeln spürten, wie Musik sie tränkte
tief in der Erde.

Er kam noch näher, lehnte sich an meinen Stamm:
Die Rinde erschauerte wie ein noch gefaltetes Blatt.
Musik! Kein Zweig von mir, der nicht
erbebte vor Freude und Furcht.

Dann, als er sang,
waren es nicht mehr nur Klänge, aus denen die Musik entstand:
Er sprach, und wie kein Baum zuhört, hörte ich zu, und Sprache
kam in meine Wurzeln
aus der Erde,
in meine Rinde
aus der Luft,
in die Poren meiner grünsten Knospen
sanft wie Tau,
und er sang kein Wort, das ich nicht zu deuten wußte.
Er erzählte von Reisen,
davon, wo Sonne und Mond hingehen, während wir im Dunkeln stehen,
von einer Erden-Reise, von der er träumte, sie eines Tages zu tun
tiefer als Wurzeln…
Er erzählte von den Menschenträumen, von Krieg, Leidenschaften, Gram
und ich, ein Baum, verstand die Wörter – ach, es schien,
als ob meine dicke Rinde aufplatzen würde, wie die eines Schößlings,
der zu schnell wuchs im Frühling,
so daß später Frost ihn verwundete.

Feuer besang er,
das Bäume fürchten, und ich, ein Baum, erfreute mich seiner Flammen.
Neue Knospen brachen auf in mir, wenngleich es Hochsommer war.
Als ob seine Leier (nun wußte ich ihren Namen)
zugleich Frost und Feuer wäre, ihre Akkorde flammten
hinauf bis zu meiner Krone.
Ich war wieder Samen.
Ich war Farn im Sumpf.
Ich war Kohle.

it's less, well,    less agonising to think in
german, than it it is speaking in
english:                                    only when
  ς = ß, or when it doesn't...
only as it sounds,  ingested by the eyes...
and one says schtein! and zechtm nein sein!
only because you won't treat
it as a grapheme, and interchange the s mit z...
or volk, the people, and cloud, wolke...
   fascinating papa German and mother
                                    englischsprechen,
and coming from eine slawin, hein! ein! hein!
ha ha ha ha!
        marsch! die deutche marsch!
laufschritt! marsch rückwärts.... eine eine eine!
       schnell! schnell! schnell!
    commandant achtung: ja?
       nein nein... counter nein, ja? nein!
                beifall... beh-e-fall...
nein akut ah, neine arnst ah...
the one under the halo of a zeppelin:
pin-point one... like counter bay-fall,
or rather beh-e-fall... like: ***** and not
askew...
   fallen schmellen...
                             lauf rekindle...
        kinder blut...
                      la la giggly: towed by
a radio transmission.
                         deutsche, natürlich
compoundierung zung...
                 englisch alle sparen binderstrich...
so no wonder:
    i spreschen quasi deutsch,
and then there's dutch,... and Goethe
and the myth of chemistry by humanities
   and herr Faust...
              kinderfeld tanz.... where mein
piglet sour soul was sentenced to an aria?
some also say: neuter.
or soft german N, niu-ter... or new... ta ta per.
beginning with syllables...
            ending with syllables...
    ß ≠ ś ≠ š = ς ≠ σ, i.e. ß = ς ≠ σ...
or as the suggestion plainly states:
   said sound is in the eye of the one
about to say it, unravel the encoding.
i can't help, but not be, what writing in this
language might suggest...
  i just can't... or that's how you exploit
bilingualism strata... you entrench with two tongues,
and then leave one of them
  very much adequate to become a plumber (e.g.),
you actually construct one of the sides
to a very refined architecture,
you even get to experience god...
and then your psyche debases it...
  deconstructs it...
        while at the same time debasing
your language of origin as:
some sort of counter-genesis,
or an exodus with a beginning that needs to be
returned to...
   both langauge fail...
   you're playing with a cat with a shoelace
and after the "magic hand" moving the shoelace
about is "missing", the cat seems bewildered,
so much so, that his usual circumstance of
eyeing up solipsism seems, quiet frankly,
usurped...
             it's such a shame that i learned this
language to this state of affairs,
and i have nothing to give it, other than the hope
that i unlearn it...
         and given that i wasn't given a chance
to explore a psyche in my native gadać....
that i might return to stating a universe in
a cat's eye, with a woof or a meow...
in the beginning was the word,
and the word was with god...
secondant!
in the end was the word onomatopoeia,
and onomatopoeia was with the zenith:
woman's ******... but the mountain crumbled
into dust, and all that was worth, was only
worth a manly grunt and later a snore.
so yeah... cat's meow...
   or a dog's bark...
    or a fox's dry "laugh"...
                                           awoooooooooo!

It's torture,
The way that he stalks her,
Mina, Mina,
Like some childish chant,
He calls her name,
We chant too,
Master, master, notice us,
Love us, want us, worship us,
Because we worship you,
And I have seen seasons pass in an unblinking eye,
How can I sleep when you are always awake?
Entertaining guests in the parlour room,
My pallor turns deathly when you speak her name,
Your next engagement is the chill in my tomb,
The fear I feel in her heartbeats makes my teeth hurt,
They turn into fangs with the bitterness I spit,
When you take her throat, I see red,
But I cannot admit these things to my absent soul,
By you I am vilified,
Like Christ I'd rather be crucified,
My wedding dress you nullified,
Let light stream in and burn me alive,
Burn me dead,
After aeons since the first I thought this bond was unbreakable,
1, 2, 3, women you have guided into your hell,
Still your thirst is unslakeable,
- But what did I expect?
Denn die Todten reiten schnell.

(Translation: Because the dead travel fast.)

i get suicidal itches
reading only one
author for a long time,
grow desperate,
i'm almost reaching
for something that
isn't there...
craft a love for 1st
editions get into
nonsensical pedantry
an O in a word will not
make a roundabout into
an uvula of a U for a turn
of 180...
read the newspaper...
people always worry
about dating around
the weekend editions
of newspapers
around saturday and sunday...
a bit like canadian geese
migrating from the british isles
to spain...
it's just entertaining
and a famous rubric
1 + 1 =  
           don't do that too... yeah, 2;
the loneliest kid
survived the story ex id,
by making conversation with
cats... not really into digestion
or fanciful foods...
and when given an inheritance...
travelling to switzerland
to a dignitas clinic
because he was like... *'ja...
schnell schnell schnell! omni est mort!

whenever i drink with friends, i wake
up the next morning thinking i had a midlife crisis
and bought a yacht with my debit card,
given that i was using the card on 3.50 pints of guinness.*

a loveless scene, that is, full of laughter
and itemisation of the surroundings -
in an adams’ family house type of pub
with gargantuan pillars and more expanding lung space
than in an asthmatic convention the troopers
gathered for talk of almost anything.
one was giving into the psychological testament
of “stealing the show,” playing on the whole social aspect
of respecting the presence of strangers -
a william blake quote was heard -
but since it wasn’t properly quoted the suggestion was:
don’t quote poetry verbatim within a millimetre off precision,
it’ll show you’re not a poet, plus the listener will not investigate
something that’s quoted perfectly.
the quote: had anger with my friend, told my anger
my anger did end. hand anger with my enemy,
didn’t tell it, my anger grew, found my enemy dead
by the apple tree. the prompt for all this? pears,
we were talking with pears in mind.
- we’re talking drinking after a bottle of brandy and three beers
having walked the distance between romford and seven kings. -
all throughout it was concerning to look at the old man
and two frisky girls - we’re talking: are we really going to be
the young philosophers? all the old men in our age are corrupt,
i wouldn’t trust them with a pen let alone a sword -
so while the youth languished the old man took to the girls -
but i laughed on purpose to peacock myself into the eyesight of one,
in the end, i got as close as getting her to go outside,
kissing her hand and forehead and doing some māori hongi,
but then she started with auschwitz dating dynamics: number! nummer!
schnell schnell!
oh right... my house no. 01708766... that’s as far as we got, before she lost
interest and i ended up walking home with a traffic sign signature’d
by my fist; that’s how i practice, hoping for an even connection
between my index and pinky knuckle;
and now? now i’m going to drink a stale 7% with a cigarette **** in it,
cough up a saliva schnitzel and wear sunglasses.

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i don't really know why the dub-step genre died so early
on, i mean: there were some truly authentic,
atmospheric artists residing in London,
Burial from south London for starters,
Benga - but **** on me, nothing ever came close to
DISTANCE, songs like: night vision, my demons...
the double album Repercussions -
     but the genre died a premature death... i guess all
that ******* regarding "the drop" before all hell broke
loose...

i must say, you tell me to move a tonne of brick:
i'll gladly do it, hell, it means that i don't have to do
100 push ups...
of course i'd rather ******* and do some cycling,
it's a passion, i never cycle for vanity,
i cycle for the thrill of traffic, i love to loiter behind
large vehicles moving to the right of them
so i don't find myself lost in the blind-spot...
right in the middle of the road...
large vehicles, esp. at roundabouts...
   momentum buffers...
always: the nearer i am to death the more of life
i draw... and perhaps it has always been like this:
while men feed off adrenaline,
women feed off anxiety...
how many times did i grunt beneath my breath
when approaching a roundabout and there'd be
a nervy driven afraid to join the traffic:
move *******! move! go!

- you will sooner find my dead than at a gym...
i'm still thinking about going swimming...
then again... the Thames at Cold-Harbour looks
very enticing... the Thames... a river that doesn't flow...
just sits there, like some weird *** elongated lake...
perhaps even a Loch... must be the tide in tide out...
yet... i always wondered...
what the hell happens when the river enters
the sea... is that some sort of inter-aqua osmosis
buffering dynamic or something?

gym bruh vanity projects my ***...
yeah, had this one "friend" who decided to loose some weight...
went to the gym... lifting weights?
when you want to lose weight?
bad idea... a very bad idea...
why? excess skin leftovers... you want to lose
weight: ******* for a swim or get on yer *******
bicycle... do the cardiovascular...
it's all relative: you're engaging your entire body
rather than parts of your body...
gym ******* comes after... for toning...
it's like art... first you paint the canvas:
the cardiovascular stuff... then if you're going
to have a couple having a picnic on the canvas:
that's when you go to the gym... or like me...
you do push ups... move bricks around or...
whatever...

if you're fat and hit the gym? expect to later have
problem with excess skin, like some ****** tattoo
of an ex-girlfriend's name on your buttocks...
and... time, patience... time, patience...
cycling or swimming... nothing else beats it...
- ha, the current climate of cycling while standing still...
Mr. Big's death on his peloton: peddle! peddle!
but don't go anywhere! ha ha...
i'd rather watch paint dry or buy myself a hamster
and a hamster-wheel in all fairness...

alpha-male ****-boys...
                                    hey, i'm not going to brag:
get it while it's cheap, but to hell with dating...
i dated once, but i was already ******* her...
went for oysters... and scallops... she was so desperate in
her hypergamy to stand above her fellow peers /
student flat cohabitants that she ***** herself into
my flat... bypass all the *******... there's only one thing
i feel like eating most of the time...
a fat juicy ****...

- but there really an art concerning the ironing of shirts...
i don't know why i didn't realise this prior...
it almost feels counter intuitive but i managed to get more
done than expected...
rubric:
1. collar
2. the yoke of the shirt
3. the sleeves
4. the cuffs
5. the lower front
6. the upper front
7. the entire body back

   i hate ironing shirts... but finding out this hierarchy
of what's to be done first... it has become
almost as pleasurable as shining my shoes...
arbeit macht frei: *******...
weird, isn't it, how that motto has changed in recent
times under my supervision...

- i only noticed... wait, what was i writing about?
well it's easy to get 100K+ views on a video,
people can ingest a video passively...
   i'm looking at 42K+ for one poem, given that i am
an alcoholic but also a workaholic:
maybe that's why i don't dream...
i just sleep... i fall asleep and "dream" of
a great amass of nothing, i wake up:
oh, look... a bunch of sparrows...
a pair of robins... perhaps it's different on the content
but if you've lived long enough in England...
it's eerie... watching crows fly past in pairs...
Huginn & Muninn... plus... it's not like you
get to see crows courting each other like pigeons
might... watch some ******* is a bit like
watching some pigeons try to get it on...
99% of the time the male fails...
do crows mate in the night, away from prying eyes?
they must do, they're very priestly in their daily affairs...
they not exactly prostituting themselves for
the eyes of man to peer at...
but i can understand videos getting so much views...
i watch videos passively,
i'm usually drinking or smoking
perched on a windowsill with my cat i've started
to nickname Rousseau... he has more nicknames than
is necessary... oh, sure... if i'm about to leave the house
and he's in the garden: QUORUS! the 10kg maine ****
starts dribbling his shadow home...
he sniffs my head... we head-****...
eh... i suppose having a child might have been
a fulfilling escape route: a completion...
but then again i had no siblings:
i was raised alongside an Alsatian and a Dobbermann...
i sometimes talk to my shadow:
what's happening in the underworld?
mein kleine: kleine betreffen...

           speaking English wasn't going to be enough:
it still isn't... i use it casually... i use it proficiently...
but i'm not satisfied with using it...
i need some etymological rooting... i need to go elsewhere...
English culminated itself into existence
from a range of sources... German, French... the Norse
Brigade... i'll go down the Germanic rabbit hole...
why wouldn't i have a fetish for some Deutsche?
oh ******* with the Russian... Cyrillic was always the ugly
sort of Greek... the alphabet looks cheap...
if the Russians are going to use the Latin A...
but invent some ****** version of D... to counter delta...
no... of course i can read it: but i don't want to...
yet...
         even at work, some coworkers tell me of the time they
spent in the USA... why isn't it called the FSA?
the federal states of america?
it's not like California has the same laws as Texas...
united, by... what? flag alone? support for the Olympic team?
i'm going to start calling it the FSA...
even though: it would clearly make the Bruce Springsteen
song sound less pop... born... in the eF! eS! A!

- am i somehow emotionally stunted for not having
children?
i've come across the people will children...
the plums of their eye... whatever the metaphor is...
very trust-worthy... when you bring children into
the world you showcasing a level of trust goes up...
it's almost an unacknowledged bias...
then again: this is England...
you have two factors to consider...
the over elevated concern for common knowledge /
common sense...
but there is that undercurrent... of common courtesy...
two-faced *******: but polite regardless...
i like the Thespian overtones in English society...
at least there's that fake middle-ground anyone
can grasp...

cats are not children... but if you can get a cat to
greet you with a head-****...
you're onto something...
           i don't think i could **** up a cat...
but i could most certainly create a Frankenstein's monster
from a child... that would be disappointing...
i sometimes across children: most of the time they
look mesmerised: by my posturing...
sure... the next generation is coming...
but i wouldn't want to put my gene-extension through
the washing-machine whirlpool of leftoid *******:
to begin with... trans-gender issue blah blah...
i'll go as far as to say... born on the Eve of Chernobyl...
my offspring might grow a third arm or something...
i know that i was born is a mark of Cain on my right
shoulder at the back...
some tissue was removed... intelligent body...
now i have excess muscle growth on collar blade arch...

to be a father, would seem like fun: it's all fun...
until you arrive at the point where the child realised
they have full: individual autonomy...
the happy to go to parents... i want to see them
as tired old people in about... oh... i'd say 10 years...
i'm patient....
not that i'm writing this nefariously...
but reality usually bites back...
what's reality going to bite me back with?
i can't go mad twice... you usually go mad once...
lucky for me that it happened in my youth, when i was 21...
now i can just sit back... watch a little:
ignore most of it...
i'm not even going to mind stating a: 'i told you so...':
shh... it's a big surprise... i don't want people missing
the great surprise...

on the market? women with three children
from three different fathers...
right... and me going to a brothel is a b'ah... bad "thing"?
even among my coworkers i tend to stick around
the women... football hooligans and their ideas
that just by being women: they can calm a crowd of rowdy
teenagers down with the words:
i'm your mother, your sister, your grandma all in one...
because i'm a steward... listen... love...
just let someone who's 6ft2 and 100kg in mass come in
and you... ******* somewhere... watch the moon
or something...

i couldn't be a surgeon if i didn't have a steady hand...
but when **** hits the fan... i already brought it up...
we're not here for an easy, wage...
we're ultimately here to prevent another Hillsborough tragrdy,
no?
that message didn't even recoil with a positive affirmation...
i stand around these female coworkers and they
might want me to feel intimidated...
someone, very much elsewhere might be reading me...
i might add... you know i felt less intimidated walking
into a brothel and waiting to choose among
7 different prostitutes who i was going
to bang for an hour? so what's this?
a ******* raspberry doughnut and a hot coffee scenario?!

am i bragging? i don't know... i tend to attract a lot
of ****** males and females just feel "hugged" around me...
i'm still thinking about Gemma...
yeah, i know that i mentioned that she was
on the defensive: she was on the defensive...
but then my parents are going on holiday for two weeks
and i'll have the whole house to myself...
last time that happened i brought back a Thai surprise
that i picked up from a park bench...
i played her some jazz on vinyl and ended up
******* her in the garden...
she gave me some memorandum items... rings... what not...
she disappeared into her size when i
put on one of my jackets on her...
******* Thai surprise became a Thai ******,
hobbit no less... walked her home... blah blah...

i need to bang Gemma... if i don't bang Gemma in
the next few months i'm done for... she's a 39 year old
single mother with an ex that brought her into 8K+ into debt...
she had a kid with him, the kid doesn't want to know his
father... i want to **** her as much as i want to teach the kid
to play the guitar... appreciate Ezra Pound...

of course i'm a loser by all modern, cosmopolitan standards
of dating... i live with my parents...
not exactly an Ed Gein scenario...
but... i do the gardening, i do the housechores,
i do the cooking, i even iron shirts... i hate ironing shirts...
but as i already mentioned...
i found an extra left hand in how to best get it over and done with...

i pay rent, i pay for food... otherwise, who would i live with?
flat share with some fellow milenials?
someone needs to inform the 60+ crowd about being
hip throughout... obviously they're not going
to listen to the music i listen to...
no: MATTA: chaos reigns... but... hey...

i love the idea of not telling my backstory...
i already know so many...
no one has yet managed to cough up the courage
to ask me anything personal at work...
would i tell them?
yeah...                once you've been in the presence
of 7 prostitutes all lined up showing off...
what's 3 female coworkers to you?!
a Victoria sponge cake, by my estimates...
something tame, something that would gladly welcome
being caged...

i like to wander the streets at night, sometimes
i come across a fox, sometimes a harem of deer without
a stag... sometimes i wander into a forest and start hitting
a tree with a branch imploring:
let me in! let me in!

chaos, regiert! die nacht regeln!

once more! einmal mehr!
English is not enough, tourists speak English...
Wankees speak this filth of a zunge!
follow the flow of history,
from the word up! anfangen!
hier! uns! jetzt! schnell!

                    vieh für ein art auf ein menschen...
das beste gehalten im linie...
  schäfer-von-menschen...
         alt.: hirte-auf-männer...
              
English has become... undermined... calmly said:
"plagiarised": that's somewhat elevated...
useless when it comes to its own affairs...
a lingua of / for visitors...
beside the accents... what is there for the origins: folk?
if Heidegger thought he was lucly writing at the time
of the National Socialist Insurgence...
where, the ****, am i?

   perhaps i speak a barbarian tongue from my...
mother's side, and my father to tow...
purity... what's that word in Deutsche?
   REINHEIT!
EINIG! GEHEN! SCHNELL!

******* linguistic  "mongol" mongrels!
ich reflekiert.... for a while..
the ungleichheit: the disparity...i almost joked...
i scribbled something in my notepad... seeing a commercial...
you know how English is spoken
is very much different to how English is written...
French: Fwench is even worse...
well then..
this one adcert stoood out...
it wasn't exactly special...
  
Licorice Pizza... that's what it red: read: reed..
right... so... first hurdle:
not thirst hurdle(s)...
ZZ? stop... you don't have the capacity to speak this...
just say **** over and over again:
Hugo Boss attired them blah blah...

liquid rice...  blacks for vinyl...
lick-or-ish...
     lick-a-Rysh?!
or an EE combat vest?!
you write one way, but speak another...
standard ******* from either the French
or the English... no phonetic clarity...
i'd better be suited learning some:
Hungarian, if i were to be terrible honest...
but now... i'm here.... this is now...
i'm enjoying the whiskey... *******... hello tomorrow.

Gretchen wept in her easy chair
And called for her husband, Karl,
They’d been together for sixty years,
Though both were worn and frail.
They’d met in the ruins of München, when
The ***** collapsed and fell,
Escaped to live in Australia
From their own idea of hell.

For Karl had served in the Wehrmacht,
In a Tank Corps at Dieppe,
Had served in the Panzergruppe von Kleist
Had roamed the Russian steppes,
His tank had taken him through Ukraine
They’d taken the plains by force,
But found their pain when the Russians came,
In their huge T-34’s.

But that was the world of way back when,
For Karl was old and grey,
He slept a lot in his tidy home,
The nurse came every day,
His wife developed dementia, she’d
Forget where she used to roam,
So she was parted from husband Karl,
Was sent to a Nursing Home!

He walked with the aid of a walking frame,
He couldn’t quite get around,
But listened for echoes of Gretchen’s voice
In the house that made no sound,
And all he thought was to rescue her,
To bring his girl back home,
But the powers that be said: ‘Wait and see!’
She was lost to him - Alone!

He went to visit her, once a week,
They held each other's hand,
She cried so much when he had to leave,
She never could understand,
And he was desolate every time,
He’d cling to her so tight,
That they had to prise his hand away
When they sent him away at night.

The nurses were harsh and businesslike,
To them it was just a job,
With no compassion for patients, they
Would leave all that to God.
Demented souls ran over his feet
With trolleys and walking frames,
When Karl grew angry, they shrugged and said:
‘Well - Everyone complains!’

One Sunday, standing outside the doors,
He saw his Tiger Tank,
It growled, and pulled up beside him there
And the diesel fumes, they stank.
He climbed aboard with his comrades there,
And ‘Schnell!’ they called, to a man,
Then lumbered straight through the double doors,
The nurses turned and ran!

The Tiger reared and it turned about
Tore carpet up from the floor,
The tracks ran over the matron’s feet,
Let out a fearful roar,
The patients cheered as the Iron Cross
Raced past their common room,
And smashed the glass in the office door,
And crushed the sister’s urn!

Then Gretchen laughed as he came in sight,
‘Here comes my husband, Karl!
He'll break us out of this prison ward,
Can you hear his Tiger snarl?’
He stopped and reached for his Gretchen then
Looked deep in her eyes, and swore:
‘I’ll not be parted from you again
Though hell should bar the door!’

They found them lying together there,
He held her safe in his arms,
They'd gone together where lovers go
Away from the world's alarms.
‘He went quite crazy,’ the Matron said,
‘He must have been insane!’
For lying outside her shattered door
Was his twisted walking frame!

David Lewis Paget

They’d crashed the party at midnight
Surely, a motley looking crew,
All of them dressed in the weirdest best
That the Monster Shop could do,
There was Beelzebub, and Astaroth
And the pale Witch of the North,
Ahead of the Prince of Darkness in
A goats-head mask, of course.

They didn’t look out of place, for all
The guests were dressed to ****,
One attired as a Fairy Queen
While others were dressed to chill,
Out of the mouth of Frankenstein
The blood poured in a stream,
And though it was only cochineal
It brought the odd party scream.

Most had thought it a great idea
(Except for her folks, who’d cursed),
They’d all dress up in the neighbourhood
For Emily’s twenty-first,
They’d even formed a committee so
They knew what they had to do,
And each would be wearing a different face
So there’d only be one, not two.

They studied the Ars Goetia
And scanned it for demon names,
The butcher had come as Malphas for
He only had brawn, not brains,
The newsagent was Vapula
And his errand boy was Baal,
While the postmaster was Sallos
And he came there, bearing mail.

They all were full of the grapes of wrath
As it chimed the midnight hour,
While Emily surged out like a goth
From the depths of her wardrobe bower,
The house, at 22 Rankine Street
In the ‘burb of Astral Downs,
Was built where an ancient charnel house
Had piled the bodies in mounds.

Her folks had put in a swimming pool
Where there’d been a village well,
Right on top of a demon school
In the seventh circle of hell,
The water began to heave and churn
As Beelzebub drew near,
And it cooked a few of the swimmers there
As their laughter turned to fear.

‘You thought that you could make fun of us,’
Said the Prince of Darkness then,
‘For that, we’re making you one of us,
You won’t bother us again!’
The ‘burb dropped into a bottomless pit
That glowed with the flames of hell,
‘A subterraneaun coal seam fire,’
Said the Fire Chief, Adam Schnell.

Emily’s parents came back home,
Sat in the car, and cried,
‘I told her that Goth stuff wasn’t good!’
‘Too late! Our Emily’s fried!’
They filled it in, there’s a parking lot
Where her parents had sat and cursed,
I’d like to bet, they’ll never forget
Their Emily’s Twenty-First!

David Lewis Paget

in the age of phoebe...
                                          (fee bee)
        there's apparently
                             an irrationality
movement,
                             behind all these
"rational" activities...
      islamophobia?
well...
       we all know what
the southern slavs thought
about that
     is ms. sarajevo...
the fall of the ottoman empire
was the biggest
disaster to befall mankind;
helen of troy?
    tuba büyüküstün,
**** me, have to be blind
reading this script...
****, give me a pointer
to march up the umlaut
with the parabola...
          oh oh...
    wait, i'm getting it,
like i'm getting a limp bodied
girl sharing a room with
me to "speak" the casual...
****...
               (i like cursing,
because it aids my spelling
you ******* schmucks...
while means a man with
*******...
              grave diggers,
thieves,
                  ******* assassins!)
buy her a ******* cushion?
    they never really say
hay... like a stack...
    when they actually say
a prolonged iota,
macron inductive of
the automaton dot above the
stroke, i.e. 100.85 FM
                                        hi-den...
            ­         ******* haydn!
what the hell is "irrational"
           ah-boot islam,
               when islam is a "rationality"?
schnell! schnell!
                      desert monkeys,
well... not dezert monkeys
for sure...
                        snowflake with
a ******* cone...
                99p  swiss floral artefact...
flusters all round,
    tattooed onto a girl's cheeks
with rouge, and a flamingo while
you're at it...
   watch the asylum contort
out of its straitjacket...
     making universities into
                       debt havens...
         white collars telling blue collars:
someθing...
   kıvanç tatlıtuğ? oh, you mean
the janissary?      
               kee-vans tat-lee-tu'g'sh?    
*** note...
   or rather, my revenge
on not being taught
          the musicology cipher...
sure, i should have self-taught
myself...
              great motivational
experiment...
                       but what on earth
is irrational about,
say, arachnophobia
       if you don't want to ****
the ****** spider and let it scuttle
along?
            there's a rationality,
or set of ideas in islam...
                "islamophobia"
  is not a phobia...
            these desert monkeys do not
hold a monopoly on literacy,
i'll learn those squiggly ocotpus
ciphers some other day...
                they have the oil,
but that doesn't mean they can live
in an environment "plagued"
by snow...
                  i get the turks though,
great barbers...
         do wonders with *****
translated into ****** hair...
             but these sand *******?
       could see the mountains
of Afghanistan by now,
if you didn't show me the dunes,
and the complete waste
of what is Dubai...
           if slavs didn't understand
communism, which became
a chinese translation...
      sure as **** these bonkers
retards don't understand capitalism.
                     all i have
to say to these terrorists:
    don't blame our kínd
           on your pampered marionettes!
gonna give me a ballerina twirl
   any time soon?

/and ******* could paint a *******, but subsequently talk **** in colloquial... about such "earthly" affairs as buying milk, while practicing it in French... America forever the cosmopolitan and the suburban, like at the grudging girth of the 20th passing of 100 khakin burdens catching bullets... without invitation, this writing can only claim to be an observation, of the colour of a strawberry, which is isn't red, but strawberry, frozen in ice... electric, a lemon thrown into a field ladder with wintry puff...

as if all rhymes in the world,
where but a ***-note,
an after school dictum
or St. Bartholemew's prayer
a Chilean short:
   of a mea culpa -
       ecce ****! ex luto!
   and if not only Pilate,
like god, washed his hands
clean of the affair,
saying:
             had i but
interest to will a talking
rose, i wouldn't have
the curiosity, to leave animate
things to a gambit of my own,
predilection
    (rarely do you spot
a tautology,
given that Wittgenstein bangs
on about it...
   namely, gambit
and predilection)...
hit the ******* brick 'all
like a sac o'
                  cream-mashed
wit' (th' - definite article
  veer into the fate of
ph'ought concerning
    th'ilosphy...
hardly a ******* whiff from
a chimpanze pushing out
translated (digested)
champagne sugar puffs)...
MIND THE ******* BRACKET,
EH?
         wiff dill...
and Mr. Pink smothered
in butter, rather than mummified
in Dover batter...
     mind you, I too wished to be
a Daltonist,
   imagining Dover's sulphuric cliffs...
whike dot Culd'playz
cancan doove dive into
reimagining Cockney 'ellas!
     apparently "god" in
the omni-schematic is immune
to the gambit man proposed...
    I grant the will concerning
inanimate things
in the vicinity...
then again:
    nothing is actually inanimate...
WRONG CATEGORISATION
genesis...
    ****...
can you even begin
meditating, when being
asked a question?
    Tao says:
   give a narrative,
receive a narrative,
keep the water flowing,
pseudo-Heraclitus...
ask a question akin to:
what is Tao?
          question =
the interrogative interim,
the void eats a thought...
there is never a definite
thought, that isn't an idea...
     splinters:
    glutton mouth of
nothing described as
     either form (definite)
      or formless (indefinite)...
can anyone please spare
us from those who
"think" and extend this
"thinking"
                 into narrative?
throw five marbles into
a dozen eggs and call
them electron drum & bass
incisions...
   never in the history of
man, has squabbles under:
hell...
spire of democracy...
a famous picture from
      the modern version of Yalta...
John Paul II, Ronald Reagan,
Mikhail Gorbachev...
   and a happy family too...
because bureucracy isn't
without autocratic accents
without an autocrat?
       pencil pushing and paper
folding seigls...
what Burroughs took from
Tzara and the top hat at
Cabaret Voltaire,
can only swallow the cut-up
with a Dresden Vonnegut passing
over a cigarette ash-swamp:
phonetic'ism:
    spell with only consonants
(H = surd attaché),
id est: s•chi•zoi•te•le•gra•phi•c...
       +              |               x
                       |
schnell schnell!
   das rubric!
            clock read awry, clock reads
straight...
    no star of David,  nor a *******...
can be less, before
the churning altar of time...
******* ancient Latin prepositions
and moderns...
   á non culpa m
(by no fault of my own)...
             can we move away from...
faaaaaaaaaaaaa...
    trapped in a colloquial
where people,
speak poetically,
    since Metaphor became Atlas...
and yet poets akin to
lepers!
                        ...CK.
    and a fern that grwe into
a frivolous chicken strut
by a royal: twirl surrounding
a passing wind near
the floor of a forest...
              would it ever
be a sin to claim taking a
picture of a shadow,
seconds prior to the dawn
of Hiroshima?
    paranoia of the nuclear powers...
apparently the itchy finger
calamity wen(t) to ****
w(h)en hit upon Nagasaki...
    oddly enough...
this can truly be an antithesis
of a Victoria "curiosity"
           akin to a slobbering
    Bradley Coop' 'itting
phe vest u'nd...
                              in the comment
section...
        apparently writing has
to resemble the comforts of
a colouring-in book
and be replica of
tourists-feeding-Trafalgar-Sq.-
pigeons-type-of-conversation...
­always the cul de sac
but never the labyrinth...
   always the cul de sac...
and never the labyrinth;
   didn't I mention that mathematical
tools, akin to ÷ etc.
    are plagued to
the custard Joe ****** brother
of grammatical tools, akin
to prepositions and conjunctions?
    hell, the Canadian pronoun
Pandora...
          might as well attempt in
depicting cognitive muscles
                at work, su doku gym
membership...
   which is a lesson in keeping
formation and blind spots...
         Alzheimer's killer proteins
digesting fat...
   a bit like what the Somalis
eat last, or rather what eats itself
last...
    minus
      the Omega Phren Genesis...
there are glimpses into
Alzheimer's...
     notably wearing my
grandfather's waistcoat...
reminding him to taste a bear
at 10 minutes to midnight...
    no wonder
we can claim to see
the Hollywood desert of original
script...
               exhausted imagination...
the famine of the north...
short on intellectual curiosity...
a shackles of inverted
famine...
   copula fungus...
   and what remains....
             of the laughing biceps.

Ich will der nicht sein**
der auf deinen Zug wartet
der niemals kommt
Der, der die Anderen sieht
Leute, die sich umarmen auf’m Gleis
Die schnell weg vom Bahnhof verschwenden
Und da bleib ich noch
Ich guck’ ungeduldig an die Anzeigetafel
Die leer steht
Leer bleibt
Und dunkel wird
Ich will der nicht sein
der allein Heim fährt
Nacht ohne Wert
Heute Nacht bin ich der
Doch ich kann ehrlich sagen
Du bist das schönste Ding
Das mir vorbeigefahren ist

Scherben in nem eispalast -
Konserviert und eingefasst..
Labyinth aus Licht und Schatten,
Alpträume die sich verstecken
Träume die sie versteckt halten
Den Blick zu den sternen,
Weil nur dort oben keine Schatten sind
An ins Sternbild des Drachen
Weil ich nur dort zuhause bin
Und nicht auf dieser Erde

Nein ich muss aus einer dieser anderen Welten,
Da oben bei den sternen sein -
Kann mich nicht von natur aus um diese sonne drehen,
Keine Ahnung von wo da oben ich herkam -
Oder wohin ich dabei war zu gehen,
Doch Weiß ich das es nicht hier unten war,
Sonst würde sich nicht alles hier unten
Völlig falschrum für mich drehn,
Selbst Tag und Nacht sind verkehrt ,
Zu kurz ,zu schnell und kalt -
Wie alles andere auch ,
Viel zu schnell am vergehen


Es sind nur lichtblitze zwischen all den Schatten zu sehn,
Die die Bilder ein brennen die in diesen Schatten entstehen,
Wie blitze fotos in einen Film -
Jedes davon ein Beweis,
Das ich blos gestrandet bin,
Hier wo Dämonen wie sonst engel aussehn,
Wo alles sich gegenseitig frisst,
Und allein Wahnsinn fähig macht,
das alles lang genug zu überstehen,
Um auch nur lang genug das licht,
des wegs weit genug nach oben zu sehn,
Um überhaupt heraus zu finden
Das sterne an nem Himmel existiern -
Hoch genug oben um sich zu verstecken
Vor allem was nicht fliegen kann oder
verzweifelt genug davon ist,
in realen Horrorfilmen zu stehen,
‎um auf der Flucht vor all den Szenen
‎einfach blind nach oben zu gehn,
‎wo eine wand ist ,
beginnt zu klettern,
‎um nur nicht mehr in blut und Asche zu stehen

Der Abschied (“The Parting”)
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We embrace;
my fingers trace
rich cloth
while yours encounter only moth-
eaten fabric.
A quick hug:
you were invited to the gay soiree
while the minions of the "law" relentlessly pursue me.
We talk about the weather
and our eternal friendship's magic.
Anything else would be too bitter,
too tragic.

German text:

Der Abschied

Wir umarmen uns.
Ich fasse reichen Stoff
Du fassest armen.
Die Umarmung ist schnell
Du gehst zu einem Mahl
Hinter mir sind die Schergen.
Wir sprechen vom Wetter und von unserer
Dauernden Freundschaft. Alles andere
Wäre zu bitter.

Published by Poetry on Demand, The HyperTexts and Ghani Project

Keywords/Tags: Bertolt Brecht, German, translation, parting, farewell, ****, law, minions, henchmen, thugs, pursuit, chase, embrace, hug, rich, cloth, threadbare, soiree, dinner, meal, event, eternal, friendship, bitter, weather, exile

Bertolt Brecht Epigrams and Quotations

These are my modern English translations of epigrams and quotations by Bertolt Brecht.

Everyone chases the way happiness feels,
unaware how it nips at their heels.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The world of learning takes a crazy turn
when teachers are taught to discern!
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unhappy, the land that lacks heroes.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hungry man, reach for the book:
it's a hook,
a harpoon.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Because things are the way they are,
things can never stay as they were.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

War is like love; true ...
it finds a way through.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What happens to the hole
when the cheese is no longer whole?
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is easier to rob by setting up a bank
than by threatening the poor clerk.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not fear death so much, or strife,
but rather fear the inadequate life.
— loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Bertolt Brecht, translation, translations, German,  modern English, epigram, epigrams, quote, quotes, quotations

twice read, I find
my points have mostly
been made in plain geometry, were I to see

from an imaginary Euclidean POV

pre algebra and zeros and pi, as fa's I know,

Euclid makes a point.  ping
do re me, too.

We need some assumptions. True.

Words, Logos per se, re
main the principle tool used right
by both wisdom and knowledge and, now,
under knowledge stand two parts

see likka bubble, zygotic go, knowledge all good

big ol' bubble, knowledge of good and evil,

both, and you know both's a real big
old idea to think at once,

gotta have a push and a pull,
a listing and a lusting,
a compulsion to explode
versa verses reverberating assumptive
implosive con ex in clusives ping 3
do re me
sounds of music all disneyfied hills alive
from the POV of a flea
in the bark of my favorite pine, aw a
crow
dream
alla this,
how sweet is that, you guys don't know what that might
feel like, unless,
you know: in my realm,
right try angles reflect light in odd spectra
bounced from assumptive edges of unknowns.

Euclid, yeah, he failed to know everything anybody learned since he died,
we all know more than he ever did,
though
his timeless thoughts
remain. ..
as mine to twist into art-intuitive
artificial intelligence.
-----
Stop inter, ah, this fits here (no where else, per haps):
an e-ruptive Voltarian pledge of troth from an old bet lost.
Spelchek can't tame the pen, truth emerges
twixt i and e, subtly.
See,
intell still makes sense con egence on the end
and has aright to slide meaningfully
past spelchek and
evil Grammerly Aiing me.
See, both religating and relegating, merge and link.

Right, we assume
we prove flat Euclidean right exists. Okeh.

Here is the handln, wir machen schnell zwei

ping ping points ping
there was there three,
we did not see one, firstime, missed a point,

now, we may see beyond the first assumptive, abruptive,
inter
rupture rapture at/to that lacred nacred sphere.

A pretty pearly gate. Eggish in shape.

This, I imagined was the proverbial NAND/NULL gate,
an old door into superbloom summer
manifested to capture your
attention please, breathe
the beauty,
sneeze,
let it be.
Please, your self has private interpretations,
so it ain't prophecy.
No prophecy from Jehovah and them other names
the supreme being goes by
in woke reality
with quarks in it--  
no
secret intended to hide truth
(secret is same as private here, no private
interpretations) from those who can't see times changed.

---logos logic force, forces chaos into a bubble boing being
--- a peer pressure surge urge dopamine don't fail me now
--- devise a device depicting the mergence,
--- a logo for reality, in a word.
--- one artist made a circle, another formed a square

so many
interruptions, if you could only know,
you could be live, Euclid,

scary thought? no. a hope. an arrogant philosopher's hope
carved in stone

In the beginning == you know, right, everything must mean some
thing or nothing remains to measure worth,
as knowns unknowable for the effort
that you don't make
--- like Tristram Shandy, the marbled page, we few ever knew,
--- first gentle, re-cog-nize justify, ify ify yourself

Wisdom-******* children,
magnificent in countenance, as winners
of the won war fought before the peace.

--- easy treated, like "no sweat" a
--- Jeopardy version of Leela, the big show. You still die. it ain't scary.

resume the assumpting pressures
peer 'em up
umph, try

delta delta delta force chuck-nors negate  negate

dive dive dive

We must be read
y
we got us a bubble of being, in real life poetry.
Tha's deeply memeingful.
Here abouts. A bit o'breathin' room in the long dance.

But Euclid pointed out what I see from my old couch on the porch
on the westside of a piece of land
that pro-truded
from prime-eve, a fractal level a billion lacred layers
time-wise, geo-time-wise ago
yond hither, whence we was words a playin'

silly songs children read and sing along then seem to forget until

some go mad in our dotage and become as little children, once more but

we know now how to learn anything we wish to know.

This could be heaven,
according to the description I was given when escape from hell
was my selfish desire.
Self formed from scraps I over heard as a young'n.

A point remains to appear made in the assumption.

Ah, hey, right tringled triangles.

sit witme, see star one, assume natural numbers a re-able
one two 3
iii --- signals scramble-ble
see we have two brains

two whole brains with minds and minds and minds of their own

and you love simplicity.

Did you ever have to make up your mind?
Pick up on one and leave the other won in a spoonful o'luv

look from my eye to that star,
consider this, Euclid winks, too. One aim alone is right,

thus there is the edge of the sphere of my visual known universe,
the bubble of my being.

Eat me raw or don't eat me at all. said the bull headed god somebody
influential in reality
killed

A bullheaded being, a rampaging ****** slain by some named being
a hero, not me or you…
though new legends lien in wait, eh?

ah, time shift assumption, Euclid POV, nonessential,

flatness is a fractical impossible unthingable thing, plainly stated

imaginable, non-re-alizable.

Spread as spilled milk never cried over, take heart, hoped for
evers come to be
noticed as they pass, plenty people pass
these days,

endurin' to the end is all it takes.
Euclid don't matter and Jesus done cared.

we're all such tender,
...
scrutiny, of
being in possession
of...
       a pair of eyes...
i simply forget to either
cry, laugh, ease tears....
or then relentlessly
start
pecking at the deposists
with a crow-like
ambition
of a post-script
of a feign...
   feign?
   a place where
          a battle took place.
lazy... it implies lazy...
but the most beautiful eyes....
zero date...
      eyes eyes i see,
no date before me...
eyes eyes i see...
clusters...
kaleidoscope
metaphors...
     eyes...
like...
   like...
              dipping
****-naked into the sea
like begging a fountain
for the same artifact
of a pearl...
      rosenrot...
   rammstein...
and the illegal fancy
of a beauty...
you... 18...
she's 14...
      but it's...
illegal for teenagers
to experience
       "love at first sight"...
came the sanctity
of the puritan...
flew... flew...
            off it went...
oh but i know
                  my muse...
as i know that
crows are more readily
available
to croak
in the night,
than sparrows
are to collectively chirp...
i've seen enough
quarter-***** crap
to revel in a memory
of a "love at first sight"
in a...
   this "fruit"?
you don't ingest
via
the mouth,
or metaphor...
  this "fruit"?
   you, ingest,
solely by the concern
for blinking,
       i.e. your eyes.
no, nothing assorted
to be allowed
in passing,
christian metaphorical
cannibalism...
  
   unmittelbarkeit...
   sofort...
      jetzt!
               hier!
achtung: jetzt! jetzt!
      schnell! schnell!
        für immer,
   jawohl:
   deise spitzzunge:

jetzt jetzt!
      nein besser wort
für schnell?
   nein?
              ah: ich sehen;
weiserkunst
  ein                 alternativ:
   was schon "diese": ist.

i've come to live,
to die,
by such sins.

imagine you are sick
cold
alone
sitting in a coolish train
lonesome
thinking of your soulmate
somewhere
train departs
scenery flahing by
thoughts flashing by
too numb to cry
ice-cold nausea
smile on the lips
eyes closed
searching for rest
music on
your song playing
promising solace
pulls and drags on my inside
intense
consuming
i'm holding on tight
too numb to cry
searching for rest
smile on the lips
don't want a song
but a warm embrace
too far away
too far
away
and distant
scenery passing by
thoughts passing by
inside passing by
too fast
too agitated
not tangible
elusive
too numb to cry
ice-cold nausea
smile on the lips
far
away

(original: )
stell dir vor du bist krank
kalt
alleine
sitzt in einem unterkühlten zug
einsam
denkst an dein seelengeschwisterkind
irgendwo
zug fährt los
vorbeisausende landschaften
vorbeisausende gedanken
zu taub zum weinen
eiskalte übelkeit
lächeln auf den lippen
augen geschlossen
ruhe suchend
musik an
lied von dir
trost verheißend
zieht und zerrt in mir
heftig
verzehrend
klammere mich fest
zu taub zum weinen
ruhe suchend
lächeln auf den lippen
will kein lied
sondern eine warme umarmung
zu weit weg
zu weit
weg
und fern
vorbeisausende landschaften
vorbeisausende gedanken
vorbeisausendes inneres
zu schnell
zu bewegt
nicht greifbar
flüchtig
zu taub zum weinen
eiskalte übelkeit
lächeln auf den lippen
weit
weg

i've lived among the english
for so long,
that, they practically never
saw me coming;
    i'm giggles a'hoy a mile
apart, with a devilish feline stare
of murmur eyes;
mind you, i love the english,
their docile hum hum hmm
antics,
    you could end up speaking
welsh,
funny that, the welsh are
somehow intact in pride,
  the picts / celts?
seems to me, you have to kick 'em
up their *** to retain
their st. andrews!
jackies wanna ***...
huh?
   tell 'em: ******* first,
          then, you get to ****!
now i really feel like
a deutschejungen (german youth)...
it's a football story,
ah, you haven't lived among
them, you wouldn't know
what's funny...
  mischter boond ischt fer-scht
on the loove-loost-lischt:
sche sche! (no, not she she;
             casablanca: sché sché!)
via the orthodox: schnell! schnell!
bewegen es!
god, german sounds so ****
now, given the omnipresence
of english in a globalised woold.

AH...

  sigh...       what a glorious sigh...
that I: aye?! i... little i...

something about
Aristotles' poetic that i can't quiete grasp:

in the ancient world
the people didn't paint:
but they: sculpted...

imagine how i think:
testament of thinking per se:
i don't really
think...

         nothing doesn't think:
nothing is a pronoun,
in the category of words:

my my: my most devilish and i:
an isc on
a leash
i don't have the time to appropriate
invoke... invoke is a better word

i'm here to paint!
Aristotles' poetics clarified
the obliviousness of language
to a philosopher...

i'm here's to paint!
so i'll paint... by punctuation!
i'll paint by punctuation!
and...
each... and... every...
line break pillcrow will not be:
my last...

if Spinoza wrote his Treaties in Hell:
i'll...
go ahead...
nothing is a pronoun and it speaks
more than god speaks
ever... truly... listen to: nothing?

but women can give birth
and it feels weird
disclosing that Reyla is my daughter...
genetics and phonetics
and blah blah the intellectual apes
are public intellectuals!
Gremlins get off!
give me the Unity with my brothers
the Siech: Sicz: Cossack BRONE!

women give birth but are rarely
strangulated by nothing...
forget Nietzsche's work ethic
and boredom:
if pronouns is what..
touch wood...
whoops! i just touched iron and i looked
at it and you looked at it
and we both hoped it was wood:
but it was iron...

just like a golden ring looks great
on a black finger...
so must a silver ring and moon
look good on the finglet
of the pigglet pink in white
on a finger the moon: is mine! to answer!

madness madness!

   if... you... say... so...
i'm here to paint!
i'm here to conjure all the oyster
raw meat delicacies...
but people of the ancient world
didn't paint!
they sculpted!
now see the impasse
how smart the modern people are
and how dumb the ancient people were?
see how there's this definition of humanity
by:

memory-erasure...
we will: forget!
we will rememeber!
but we will also!
die!
forget!
we will die!
we will: forget!

and by forgetting we will
imagine!
because there are archetypes
of humanity
not reincarnated
but from all origins: an abiding
concern for narrative:
and dialogue:
and monologue...

i'm here to paint with
punctuation and diacritical markers
atop of letters...
but not today:
today i'm all chaos and storm
and the grain of porridge
and the distance of raindrops on
the window come the daft ghouls of the night:
oopsie: oopsie...

but i'm here baby'oh:
owl my woo and lunatic...
woe and luminiscence...
but i'm here baby oh...
      just this you're not my baby
baby O...
                      now comes the measure
and with enough atom bombs one
might content with volcanos...

                     Mt. Vistivius... or who
the tragedy of Pomepeii...
Christ was crucified...
a truthfuly historic presence...
an event to topple all other events?
i ask: in Heidegger's vein
to the artery....
Heidegger: question-worthiness...
Zeitgeist: news-worthiness...

     thought is a muddling puzzle
of philosophers and opportunistic hacks...
the ones genetically displaced...
but then only the lower IQ strata replicate:
and we need bus drivers....
what we don't want is
for the rupture...

           intellectuals agitating the public
with a historical-conscience...

WE ARE MANY:
who says who to whom in the great agitation?
this is not... painting?!
this... is... not... words as... painting?!
MILLWALL! MILLWALL!
the SCOTCH CONNECTION!
that one... part of London:
Elephant and Castle
that i love...           why did i decide
to support Millwall?
       oh...                 mate... just the south
London architecture... the feel of the place...
couldn't feel it closest to either
Arsenal, Tottenham of West Ham grounds...

SCHLUS! MACHTUNG!
ABERZ! ABERZ!
SCHNELL SCHNELL SCHNELL!

Tartan Jersey...
you already have the colouring:
Edrick the Navy....
deep blue and purple...

.i love how a bangladeshi smurf invented the term: camel jockey to allocate the term to arabs and egyptians... mind you... the first amry to defeat the mongol ****? mamluks, like the janissaries in the ottoman empire: most probably european slaves... copper on copper-titillating-chocolate / burnt cinnamon / star anise / bark of aged oak racism is funny to watch, sometimes... esp. when growing up... those bangladeshi smurfs (sorry, they are a little bit, tiny, i watched a couple today, walking past my house in their bangladeshi cricket team t-shirts... what? stating the obvious... 5ft4? but i also liked the egyptian's / arabs retort to: camel jockey... ha ha... bush-monkey! ha ha.

ugh... the dreaded draft, i'm running out of these, thank god...

what is it about, about the fact that my act
of writing does not translate into
a conversation...
   HAVE PEOPLE TRULY FORGOTTEN
THE CONCEPT OF CANVAS?!
**** me... i guess they have!
   once upon a time,
cindarella (post stamp,
and her collectors), snow white
   (postcard) and the frog prince
of writing voodoo to boot...
               now? insomniac messaging
services... the I.M.S.,
              direct, directed at what?
drool followed up by dooooooooooo'h...
****, easier teaching a gerbil to speak
shing qi cantonese: owe'h
          'ong kong...
                    when does an intrusion
onto a blank canvas become a flash mob
without keeping to a discretion
of d.m.?
                   face to face won't do
to these people... scuttling rats also hailed
black death: woe'zzin' me...
                scheisse! schnell! schnell!
capt'n just floated off on a magic
rug,
       we have to draw lots on
flying off on: that ****** bit of material
we scrub out boots on when being
entertained...
   should i take them off?
well... was i offered slippers?!
  no... so why would you...
                    is this Giza, or Oxford?
   all i have is a blank canvas...
                and people really want to attack
the ronin flag?
                       flag what?
                              defeat?
                     ­      *** sober me...
but hey hey... pop song videos are:
KOSHER...
                 see you back in Russia...
     getting the VISA...
                                  or the kebab
restaurant fire-bombed by the bomb...
        good luck and the oil...
plenty of trees in arabia...
         what ******* sell ******* will sell...
   am i to judge?
              no... not really...
i'm thinking about being
a Chernobyl post-scriptum in
the belly... how people managed to see
both autumn and spring in the same park,
rainbow nation, your guess,
   half the trees were decaying,
half in full bloom,
         unless you want me to attest
that as a lie: i hope you dream of my
great-maternal grandmother...
    maybe she will explain it better...
            but this saturated talk of ***
just turns me on thinking about
the upper-hand of the female
mantis, translated into man: divorce laws...
or as the common talk speaks...
       no...
      i heard why this:
you're stupid, this is stupid he's / she's stupid
zeitgeist is all about...
         and those rooted always seem to have
the most obvious solutions to
"complex" urban problems...
      hell...
     to some people this might as well be
tabloid toilet paper worth today
but dead gutter rodent black pearl
ship in the gutter the next day...
        poetry, really has to learn
so much from the journalistic attitude...
i still don't understand
why philosophers are relevant,
parasites of philosophy,
when poets are in a dire need
to compare themselves to poetry,
or rather to make a craft from
poetry-tabloids...
             whatever the classical school
teaches you, whatever contest
there was between poetry
and philosophy, whatever
the ancient philosophers claimed of
poets as being easy targets...
  ooh ooh, OLA!
          you just managed to see
a poet nibbling on journalism...
           whatever the year it was,
yesterday might as well have been
2000 b.c.,
         today might have been
           100 a.d.,
   tomorrow?
                ****... the 22nd century
of whatever year whatever date
or whatever designated climate of interests...
__________

so you run into a cul de sac like
a scuttling rat...
but... you buy your whiskey
at the local convenience store...

           back in the day...
when growing your hair long was merely
a symbol of: i listen to metal music,
*******...
           the time when that was the "thing"...
hell, Butlins... of all places...
i cross-dressed...
      a broad lent me her chanel
chic black mini-skirt little no.,
              and i did...
                        i didn't even have to shave
my legs for the gags...
       ***** or no *****...
             i had the flare and audacity
to pull off the stunt...
     now? long hair? a little bit of make-up
and you're: "trans"...
                     how about meta-******?
i mean there are three directions in
chemistry, in terms of attachment allocation,
closely associated with the beneze ring...
in the name of ortho-, and of the para-,
and of the meta-... oh... right...
**** and of trans-....
           clubbing in essex...
   i wouldn't leave the house
               without some eyeliner...
sometimes, then again,
most of the time...
            jews and russians:
      ripped jeans, eyeliner,
          ready for the edinburgh
club scene... being called ****** before
we even left the house...
    very, very encouraging people...
who probably never heard
of the cure...
                
so you're buying your **** at the conveninece
store... and there's this plump girl
checking you out...
    plump... sure...
every appreciate fine art?
   plump girls were all the rave in
the 17th century, and 18th...
              what's that other word?
ah... corpulent! so many nice terms to
use in synonymity with how
a black man might see a porky:
more cushion for some pushin'...
             d'uh...
                      
but there are some nights, like this one,
where... there's an electricity in the air...
it's warm, but it's also cool,
paradox... the wind is stirring...
  you can listen to the wind play a weird
sort of flute while brushing the trees,
nay... combing the trees...
rustling, just pristine agitation is fixating
a sharpness of the air...
someone of a transcendent evaluation
has sat on a throne...

                    akin to last "night" / dawn,
the internet is switched off...
but you still have a sharpnel narrative in
your head...
                    what to do? what to do?!
ah! ****, no paper...
    i never had a tattoo done on my body...
but i figured... might as well intrude
with some ink on my hand...

   again, if these trans-kids didn't bother
grammar? i wouldn't be playing the
"identity politics" game...
  me, of all people, immigrant 1st generation,
adopting a history not akin to my own...

mind you: you really need a steady / cool head,
drinking on an empty stomach -
and if what cabaret voltaire ever achieved...
with tristan tzara and later william burroughs
of cut-up technique fame:
          i too... who can really appreciate
calustrophobic and all the more predictable
narratives of YA novels?

                   a tarantula might as well have
bitten me, and now, i reflect the sepsis of
disorientating venom, the surge of chaos,
without any gratification of staging
    an uproar of grandeur! just, the basic reality.

- because, even citing the mamluks,
or the janissaries, like a belief in god...
                 to cite certain historical events...
is, and will be, deemed, juvenile...
ambitious... middle-aged man with a *******
train-set model...
or a lego project...
        it's all the same... the "out-dated"
cliff-face hanger...
                             it's either atheism
and the respectable citation of history...
   or it's god, and citing the existence of
mamluks and their victory over the mongols...
what is the respectable citation of history?
the aspect of history without any heroism,
the safety of a history that's purely
bureucratic...
      a "history" a person of the modern times
could possibly engage in / with...

   when the quill became mightier than
the sword, but also subsequently became
a spray-can for the outlet of deploying
graffiti... or scratching with a stone on
a stone face, reminders of the first forms of
writing: designated tattoos etched by stone
on stone...
                              krähekratzer
                     ­         ᚴᚱᚨᚺᛖᚴᚱᚨᛏᛉᛖᚱ
                                ⰍⰓ...
   (some words just sound better
in foreign languages...
violin: skrzypce)
                         ⰍⰓⰖⰍⰀ ⰄⰓⰀⰒⰀⰐⰉⰅ
               ⠅⠗⠁⠓⠑⠅⠗⠁⠞⠵⠑⠗

i'll go a step further... time to fiddle
around with some braille...
  although i do concede...
      if you were blind...
          you must have really tender finger-tips...
no point having played guitar...
play guitar? blind lemon jefferson style?
forget about a chance to read braille...
you need pampered fingertips,
able to tell the difference between
        oyster flesh and a woman ******...

krucze drapanie
hmm... devangari:
Ђ / Ⰼ - dj' -
                   त - how similar...
is that?! what the hell is wikipedia proposing,
with regards to, origins "unknown"...
indo-european?
the mongols just showed up from...
"nowhere"?
       Ђ | त                    eh?!
t'ah... elsewhere dj'...
                         otherwise idjota...
idiot...
                          elsewhere
                  id'ȷota...
              yo yo... no "j"ehovah's witnesses...
sure, no **** sherlock,
   i counter the anglophone origin story
rooting me back in h'africa...
             i take my origins in the land
of the 10 spices... india...
  land of the bangladeshi smurfs...
cinnamon, cardamom,
cumin, coriander,
                  i'll give you ten...
don't worry...
                     chilli...
              anise...
                           turmeric...
                           little mini-people scuttling
along like norse god mythologies
akin to the dwarfs...
   more cullinary skills...
less of the metallurgy...
   wizards at the end of stirring spoons!
fenugreek!
                 how many is that? 8...
i don't want to cite black cardamon
(since it's such a potent spice)...
                      mint! **** yeah, 9...
   hell... the cocktail... garam masala!
10!
            well... if the 'ebrews have their
10 commandments,
and i have my *******,
and am still able to *******
while dilating my **** donning
a *******...
   and i place my origin story in india...
rather than africa... then we're settled...
the bagladeshi smurfs can call
arabs and egyptians camel jockeys...

    i haven't finished though...
just like that one night in st. petersburg
with a ***** that, really needed to be ******
over a period of 7 hours...

    will i use more rudimentary language,
deviating from "slanderous" words?
will i?!
               so it's either "tourettes",
dyslexia, or a writer's contipation?
because, by now, "block":
truly implies... the already mentioned.

i never came from africa...
   india is my posit of origin...
and never mind the celebration
of the roman instrument of torture...
the crucifix... i found a better crux
of "all" beginning and of all "end"...
some "random" german...
            dasein:
i'm tired of bashing the germans...
bashed enough, bashed just enough...
bashed: enough!

   when citing credible historical events,
akin to a belief in god,
akin to premature depression and
dementia...
       all... huddling under the same
torch lit roof...
                  it, just, ****** me, off...
oh sure, sure,
most likely...
before some of us bypass the age old
editorial "compromises",
and write what the hell we want!
before that? heavy cencorship...
       just so... the "overlords"
can muster a "plan B"...
                     sure, all is certain!
but who is to address the "real" problems?
ol' Lizzie is going to be fine...
i'll still drink ms. amber...
realizing... ****... am i drinking mz. amber...
or is this watered down
dog's soap ****?!
                  you never know...
i might as well be drinking
prince *****'s shower water!
this whiskey is starting to taste of soap water...
i'm having it, i'm chewing on about
12 12"****** per day just to keep
the Venetians gagged...

   prop me up... ***** starter...
******* mongrels ******* smurfs!
blah blah blah!

             i already see "too many"
english idiosyncracies in the english language
to begin with!
   why would the transgender activists ever attack
grammar?

the current gilette fiasco?
just grow a beard, men, just grow a beard,
problem, solved.

                 want the vox-office senario?
eh? eh?

                 the gender discriminatory
               ontology of nouns...
              what? cite rocky balboa
contra ivan drago.... you... beta male...
*****?!
                     you attacked nouns,
by, enforcing the stature of pronouns...

i like to call it: the pronoun deragement
syndrome...

                     gott! mit uns!
                             Gustavus Adolphus...

how many, "differences",
are to be found, and bound,
to the english tongue?

                    θere (d'er / F),
          although (al'V'ough),
                          θey (V'ey)
                   ex-xenon
   (eks - zee / zer / z'enon),
and what is a chemuical compound...
                to θink...
is to not mind φilosoφy....
                                        
           ­               gender pronoun neuter?!
seriously?
             i thought that nouns were
gender discriminatory?!
  Paris! male!
  kundel! mongrel, male!
*****! female!
                  sroka! (magpie) female!
kruk! male!
                  dzik! male!
                       gawron! male!
              there are so man discriminating nouns...
in each and every language...
pronouns?
   low hanging fruits!
                              a-the-ism...
           do their own natives know...
the native spreschen?!
       the article rules?
the english nouns are not composed
via genders!
         who's to who in terms of "revising"
the retarted "revision"?!
sorry... but certain words just sound
better in a foreign tongue...

            sroka sounds much better
when "coinciding" with: magpie;
beside the point...
here's my hand,
on https://www.minds.com/mateuszkonrad.

native? native what? explain that to an 8-year-old colt, who started to acquire a foreign language, and then speak to him... 13 years later... mind you, the shame that's english tourism, which should ask the basic minimum of bilingualism, or at least enough charm, to attract an italian / canadian beauty, once in paris, to speak french for you... oddly enough? the english are not big on the charm offensive when it comes to foreign girls... the only charm they seem to ooze is the fact that they're mono-lingual, and have a stinking fat piece of pork leather, filled with money gained from content-professions, that, really... really do make the chinese look twice as useful: and in the "garden" of paradise that is: hände spreschen zweimal wie schnell wie die zunge (hands speak twice as fast as the tongue): and also leave the mind with more peace to cherish, as the waggling tongue ever left the mind to fathom.

my english neighbours have this
problem with me:
they hate the idea that i'm
actually expressing the mortality
bound to my lack of sometimes
"necessary" control...
  no matter the **** that my sikh
neighbour kills my cat...
that's not a problem...
it's that i drink and sometimes manage
to wolf-cry-fowl into the night...
no matter she's almost 50, and he's past
50 aiming at 60, and it's only
now that they decided to have their
little down syndrome taxpayer's
money-making machine...
you know, i've been using this language
since the age of 8, but i never managed
to move beyond that age of thinking,
i'm the same old still annoying
8-year-old,
   but i guess that's why the english
call english immigrants *expats
rather than immigrants...
  sounds a bit better, i might add...
       well, of course it would...
   in unity is our strength,
      tomorrow? i'm gonna be competing
with some govinda's ***** over
a curry...
    i'm thinking: better find me a recipe
involving mint!
then again my english neighbour is
a complete engslosh...
            something worth ******* on...
and i'd gladly **** on him and then ask him
asking me:
            has is truly rained?
you tell me, you had the audacity to
bring back the monsoon crowd,
so? so stop moaning that you felt
that you didn't see it coming!
        what a ******...
                i once had a respect for these people,
but then they started treating me
like a cinnamon bunny, or a chocolate soup
franchise...
       i once had great respect for these people,
then i spent 3 years in scotland
and started thinking like a mongrel pict...
who are these people who are asking for
deserved respect? can't find them...
      i don't like the **** ******* wannabe
wholesaler: do i ******* look like
a chimpanzee, readied for a lesson in
english arithmetic circus antics?
what, a, *******, ****...
               i'm only going to say this once,
i'm siding with the russian um?
             it has gone way past deciding whether
they deserve it or not...
    i just hate that my father has to mind
having to ask whether he has down
syndrome, because he doesn't have a ****
accent...
         ****** please, you think i'm going
to ***** at empathy over rotherham?
really? you breed dumb girls, you
get dumb & ****** over girls...
              otherwise? tomorrow i'm going
to be cooking two curries...
hence i asked for four tins of chopped
tomatoes, and i'm starting to qualify mint
as a competitive ingredient...
        i'm just bored of the racism...
i'm really having to compete to associate
myself with it:
  white v. white racism takes more
gymnastics, it's not as easy when you're
not... "suntanned"...
   you have to nibble on the details...
   namely? the flattened part of the fusion
of the parietal & the occipital bones...
akin to the turks... as noted to me in
an arts class in school... by a lovely blonde girl...
as jung noted in the 20th century,
so i too note in the 21st century:
western europe is more of an echo-chamber
than before,
   which never believes in the existence
of central europe...
  believing that there is such a bloc known
to be eastern, never minding that
the east is tickling the ural mountains,
and no state, in particular;
can't help but think these peoples are
arrogant *****,
          and not dissolve their just
partake with their masochistic mission of
past deeds as having:
disgruntling after-effects...
     the problem is?
they don't want to blame their forefathers,
and they don't want to blame themselves...
              no wonder we're the witness to
the ouroboros effect...
sure as **** philip zimbardo didn't write
a book about that,
     but i have: having written a pre-scriptum.

do you even know,
what an oczopląs
looks like?
it implies the person
you're looking at,
appears with
a "double"...
      oczopląs:
                augengewirr...
m­acaron(i)..
here's to reviving
a pride in
the das boot mantra
of the chorlied....
me, drinking...
   hallo!
die rheinrotunde...
    durch der deutsche
ich bin gezüchtet...
jetzt jetzt! nacht!
  viel, schnell!
        hier!
                         jetzt! schnell!
erleichtertvonjude,
mein stichwort!
oczopląs...
i'm seeing double...
         literally...
eyes are tangled up,
spaghetti...
near-miss
                    Mussolini...
     ­       die haus von ßaß                  
                          in Polen...

vaše ulice:
   naše kamienice...

the jews prior to
the second world war...
your streets:
our tenement buildings;

i guess the treaty of Versailles
translates itself into
a transcendent variation
of, the minded,
history;

   evidently i'm still the drunk,
and that's the part
where i begin to recite
seeing, "double"...
   big **** up,
bid day-double...
      eyes-tangled...
never quiet equipped
to serving up
giving excuses...
                     i guess: oh, oops.

Es ist dunkel
Es ist Nacht
In aller Stille
Es ist vollbracht

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Tanzende Lichter
Tanzende Menschen
Dolche im Schimmer
Nur so glänzen

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Sanftes Wiegen
Sanftes Singen
Lassen das Wimmern
Nun überklingen

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Nasse Gräser
Nasse Hände
Mit warmen Blut
Durchtränktes Gelände

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Reibende Verse
Reibende Körper
Eine Menge
Alles Mörder

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Roter Mond
Roter Leib
Liegt am Boden
Das tote Weib

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Es wird Tag
Es wird hell
Schau Sie flüchten
Nun sehr schnell

Nichts mehr fließt
Nichts mehr tropft
Sowie das Herz
Nicht mehr klopft

Was soll denn das nun, klagt unsere Welt,
mir wird so warm und immer wärmer,
ich schwitze schon und krieg gleich Fieber.
Ist das ein Virus, der mich befällt?

Das sind die Menschen, ach du Schande.
Sind die denn noch ganz gescheit?
Greifen ihren eigenen Wirt an,
wohl zum Denken nicht recht im Stande.

Die Menschheit ist schon eine Plage,
sie hat sich viel zu schnell vermehrt.
Ihr wird es an den Kragen gehen,
dauert ja nur noch ein paar Tage...

Ich frier mich ein und befreie mich
von dem ganzen Schmutz und Schund
und fange dann von vorne an,
auf Menschen doch verzichte ich.

it's like these
"nazis" never petted
a ******* dog...

schnell...
woof-what?

well yeah...
jetzt...
hier!

these "nazis" never
managed
to pet a dog...

of course
i'm apprehensive
given the current
people
are burning books...
the current
people have
never managed
to cite
the "****" cite
of calling a dog...

it was
always either
hier
or jetzt!
   or?
          fuß!

english people
were never good
at petting dogs,
cats?
  they can do that...
dogs?
n'ah... not so good...
retards...

never attempt
to pretend the stature
of ****,
among the english,
when the english,
will do nothing more,
than...
         covert...
their comfy stature...
wankers...
and slacked *****
all the way...

  besagt, fuß!
              jetzt, borke!

at least that lets me know
there's a Jew,
happy,
beside Europe...
in Israel...

   eh...
    whittle Rommel knows...

please please let
me tease tease
the basic
******* out of these people?!

i've owned cats for too
long...
   i'm being way too nostalgic
about owning a dog...
i need a dog...
  i want a dog...
  i need a dog...
chicken wings
eaten in absence of
the curiosity
of a family circle
is simply,
not enough...
   cats will not do...
i need a dog... i need...

strap-on rubric
of

  besagt! hier!
    jetzt! fuß!
                borke!
      zahn stand leise!

          beißen...

i miss... petting dogs...
it's like
someone amputated
the already existing limb
of mine...
  and fed it...
to some existentialist
chimps...

        me...
i... much prefer
petting a dog,
notably an Alsatian
shepherd...

     cats...
ugh... cats is such an
anglo-saxon "thing"...
you know when
you walk into a forest
at night...
and...
   your shadow just simply
isn't enough,
for company,
and you're like...
a bad metaphor of Hades
trying to find Cerberus?

yeah... that's me.

/i have a sober misery to mind... the fact that i'm drunk is beside the point; like any (h)ospitaller.

and how many people would
consider the german das...
as the english              that's,
  i.e.                that is?
what, with the bltizkrieg
of definite articles in german:
das, das, der, der,
           die die, die,
mach schnell!
       halt dich ran! kopf hoch!
                fußtritt ein schädel!
the linguistic barons
can't escape the fact that...
      D... for starters... in that...
a ***** is also a nail...
  given:
        θilosoθy...
            φought...
      ­          mind you...
        how does the door open,
                      like that, with iota?
you can't exactly write a monty
python sketch...
         holding this
distinction in your hands.

you can be pardoned the stance of denial
having succumbed to the quiet life
of a village, you can you can
and thrice, you can...
odd, the term public intellectual,
in anglo-spreschen that translates into
a flogging...
                 as many testify:
   an ice rink smoothness in the head,
a jagged terrain with no
sophist in sight,
akin to the mathematician,
as most are, terrible at arithmetic,
the sophist will not be a thinker,
as much as a thinker will not be a rhetorician...
rule of thumb, there is only a persuasion
of one to allow an ethical gravitation
toward a dissociative freedom,
of, rather than as: will...
                 you can be allowed denial
because you have lost the benefit
of the doubt...
                    in that denial can only be
reigned in like a blind horse attached
to a mill grinding wheat into flour walking
"blind" circles, until the trenches
von Ypres are mapped out...
        doubt at least is the thinking man's
equivalent of love...
     outright denial, if not spoken
from the remnants of an agricultural
situ?  what motivates a blind bulk
of beef that's a bull to charge?
   far beyond paying Charon...
how would have they fared,
if they placed a coin of transcendental
value, the alchemical riddle in coin,
worth iron a % of gold etc.,
if they placed but one coin
   on the tongue of the one about
to become a carrive pigeon of 21grams?
i might be a drunk,
but I cherish my valour in terms of
keeping sentiments, rather than
that germanic plague of the mind
better known as nostalgia,
or rather, amnesia en masse.
                           shouldn't have reached
for the 'igher tier before unerstanding
the natives' take on: słowo...
       słowianin...
           pro populus per populus
    ex unus non pro unus...
   because how much of the practice
of jurisprudence hangs on a libra
balancing the pose of Atlas
       and the paranoia of having
Democles sword hanging by a single
hair of a horse's mame?
          much of modern law is a circus,
whatever antonym or whatever synonym,
no matter how many laws are passed,
to make example,
     jurisprudence has a fickle, *****
of a lover, the thesaurus...
          a juggling act, since they know,
leeches that they are,
    they juggle, like clowns
hiding behind sand dunes while a deity
erects mountains...
      most of human law is best surmised
by the use of the thesaurus...
what they might call a: "technicality",
I call,
        recyclable verbiage of leftover
rhetoric, as lawyers usually do,
catching sight of a sleeping judge's
vocabulary easing into forgetfulness...
most of human law passes via
toying with a thesaurus...
                   nothing more
         than muddled rhetoric...
     or rather... reaching into the subconscious,
herding a flock of sheep / jury...
and no, i absolve myself from
a dream world escapism,
   ****** dreams.,,,
looked elsewhere...
                        quantum
mechanics, artificial intelligence
and solipsism...
       but of course,  on the atomic level...
the electron when observed...
  behaves like so:
   and when "unobserved" behaves like so:
god I love the idea of being
fudge packed on top of a can of sardines
among the notables...
              the body unlined to youth
and a marked concern for flesh
through fire to ash...
    reincarnation or recycling?
     when res cogitans
or simply res per se, came across
the anti-narcissus (for the love
of french intellectualism,
where public, doesn't exactly mean:
to be flogged) - i.e. when res cogitans
came across re- cogito...
               that atomic cameo prompt of:
again! think! yoga classes,
self-help guru lambasting schnell...
     a firework set off in a clenched hand...
a firework set off in an open palm...
          i only write because what I write
I could never utilise in the everyday:
formal, or informal interaction...
          in the cinematic variant concerning
Rome... Rome was but a whisper,
if it was more than a whisper,
   it would vanish, into thin air...
             well...
so much for genes turning into memes...
with the current affair of freedoms of speech,
we live in times of cuckoo memes,
the so-called activists, defenders of freedom
of speech? hardly any of them
are convincing to suggest the last
bastion of refraining from speaking...
none show cognitive claustrophobia...
i'll speak, when I will exhaust thinking...
but as it stands...
     a bunch of ******* cuckoos...
passing on their cuckoo memes.

Bitter erinnere mich, daran
Wieder mehr wie ich selbst zu sein
So wie ich früher war
Als kleiner Junge zwischen Wiesen und Wäldern
Noch zu viel Angst vorm Fahrrad fahren

Erinnere mich
An jeder Pusteblume zu pusten
Knallerbsen zu werfen
Kastanienmänner zu bauen
Und Blütenschnäbel auf der Nase zu tragen

Erinner mich
An Flieder zu riechen und Sauerampfer zu essen
Gummistiefel zu tragen und in Pfützen zu hüpfen
Den Regen auf der Haut zu spüren
Schneemänner zu grüßen, Schlitten zu fahren
Und im Gras zu liegen, jetzt im Sommer
Den Blick zum Himmel gerichtet
Dort wo die Vögel fliegen
Zu jeder Wolke gehört ein Name
Zu jedem Stern

Erinnere mich bitte daran
Denn ich vergesse so schnell
Was wirklich zählt im Leben
Zwischen all ihren Regeln
Erinnere mich, damit ich wieder frei atmen
Und das Leben genießen kann

Even when iron not red hot,
I implement non customary quarks
regarding foreigner rather cold as ice
namely delinquent outsize credit card debt
mandates yours truly,
a cheesy survivor who rem: members
putting freeze on
Citizens Bank World MasterCard accounts,
whose helplessness to fork over

substantial dollar figure
analogous to one of three blind mice,
who ran after the farmer's wife
She cut off tails (OUCH!)
with a carving knife
must pay the price
methinks food in the slammer (ha)
will lack sugar and spice,
nevertheless macht schnell trice.

I exhaled deep sigh of relief
after speaking over the telephone,
whereby Arcadia Recovery Bureau
(i.e. collection agency)
based in Reading, Pennsylvania
explained yours truly owed $23.21
which considerably alleviated
immediate dire straits that figuratively
grabbed me by the nuts
hash tagged self scoundrel
a day late dollar short
dollars to donuts bonafide klutz

living ****** mint procreative
seminal squirt biological reproduction,
could never conceive to abort
despite countless occasions,
I blithely admit characteristics
linkedin with being a putz
going off rails as a one man train wreck
mine impossible mission to avoid
NOT running amok imagine
bull in a china shop
whereby the hypothetical proprietor
willing, ready able to tear out my guts.

Pigeon toed, I trip over me own little feet
size nine shoe small size for grown man
leaving utter disaster in his wake
synonymous when havoc strikes
chaos theory alive and well
ensues when I walk about
and dare take even one baby step.

Ever since adept with ability to crawl,
I ofttimes tumbled down the stairs,
but never did shed tears nor bawl
e'en when taking nosedive head first did fall
out the hatch of airplane

splattered, plastered, and matted
think suddenly feeling comfortably numb
joist another brick in wall
nevertheless acquiring stunt man role
paid big bucks

as **** sapien disguised as Sasquatch
(cause unkempt harried styled hair)
more times than I can remember
fell to Earth minus parachute,
which hoop fully explains

the incomprehensible drawl
earnestly and frankly harkening language
once extant within Gaul
which reverberated inside hall
of mountain (lionized) king.

Prior to any madcap misadventure
yours truly envisions his clumsiness
plays out within my third eye blind
hilarious scenario unfolds in slow motion
whereby accidental flick of wrist,
barely brushes up against
flimsy clothes rack

(the original motive begetting poem)
knee **** involuntary reaction,
kicking obstacle clear across Compton
generating comical feedback loop
impossible mission to stop
blockchain of fateful bitcoin events.

Living amidst (amongst) disarray
courtesy the missus, whose domestic habits
never merit housekeeping seal of approval
twenty four/seven pose
a hazard to mine existence.

brick
by brick
ghosts with
echoes
for brains:

3.5h talk
how must i:
advocate a counter
temptation:

an anti-temptation:

talk in haiku
get a real, haircut...
proper beard trim
Hey Reyla:
ugly papa bear is here
to see you scare you:
vaginas abrupt!

some fauna?
i'm still high
talking about vaginas
and life
i think and i think
and it just bothered me
how adept females are
to feminism but
so backward of Descartes...
not in some insolent critique
of purifying reason:
if man is accomplishing
the critique of pure reason
then it's the end result
of woman's purification of reason
to give: critique...
find yourself, young man, a woman:
for the seismic necessity of escaping the
schizoid parallelism of the Theusarus
Rex: bone dead X Thesaurus...
i thought i spelled that correctely
the first time round... no?

oh: AI ha ha... me autocorrected itself
i put on m'ah MUFFS
and i sank into an aquarium of:
finally! i can hear silence!
you think that i can't mold Reyla?
fine... i'll scare her...

      i'm still high from that 3.5h while
my mother paraded herself faking
all her ailments
seeing her son happy
Samoan: Bra...
burn them! the bras! burn them!

******* spokes: ******* Hornchurch:
whatever bus:
some American in poetics
to mind the minute details like
that's a pathway to eternity..
KURWA not KUŚWA:

different punctuation stress...
RWIJ! or rather: R'WIJ!

             R' = Я

ja mysle: wiec ja dodam...
i think: therefore i'll add.
i don't see how the already
established of thinking is far
removed from being...
thinking doesn't precipitate
into being...
there's: no: "magical thinking"...

   she's still on Descartes: i'm on Kant
and Heidegger
that's a perfect matching...
it's pickle-juice... harmony met...

i think is no proof
since it gets churned into abstract:
"i think" that becomes
in the existentialist coding: "i" and "think"
coefficients dueling
with the secondary abstraction:
i think of the abstract:
i am the abstraction...

  so this gay lover movement
is so *******... ordeal of the chains of taboo...
this gay pride movement is so low brow
it ought to be treated as a mustache...
******: i assume...
pre? pre out the window?!

you have a Cling-On spot of bother?
this girl gonna jack-***
her way into salvaging Rodeo and n blonde
and all that glass....

m'ah'ah god the Cartesian girls:
Lebanese yup slurp not sorry:
the Watermelons Levant Indiana Jones:
what lasting ordeal
am i to succumb to...    i ask i ask i ask...

on o chleb, panie: ito: ruszt!
daj znać!
moja skarga:
nie ich!
to wio!
ito!
      raz! dwa! trzy!
           harry harry sorrt sorry!

schnell s h nell! schnell!

when i was a child i was tasked
with a teacher to write a poem:
i wrote one: Eskimo stance....
about a beard
dying on a bear
in the Arctic...

then i wrote a paranoid poem:
in the gender exclusive
paranoia i to they become....

now i just write poems and forget
why i write to begin with...
children are cruel....
children: O: so wheel: the cruel:
like how th=hat affair at the beach:
dirt grass the
death head sputniks:\
not a pretty sun-dance kid:
but.... girls being girls...:
unlike boys...

chaos is simple:
order is rather difficult...
from the brothel to a child...
imagine my eyebrows:
in that variation of a trans-
-formation....                  )+                ++(

Steely Dan sing queen (me)
outdid himself on sixtieth anniversary
after Grahame Wood
determined to meet
the evolving needs of the community
opened the first Wawa Food Market
in Folsom, PA, on April 16, 1964.

Today marked the sixth decade
since George Wood started
the Wawa dairy in 1902,
and it quickly became
a trusted name for fresh,
quality dairy.

As an unsung Patrons of said store,
I strove to achieve mitzvah
for an incapacitated wheelchair bound
resident here at Highland Manor Apartments.

The fickle finger (hut) of fate
unknowingly planned to liquidate
honest to dog sincere intentions
to deliver said drinkable goods
(you can bet your bottom dollar)
on his sterling promise
never foreseeing disastrous
misadventure out ranking
starry eyed bespectacled klutz
comprising the heart of this poem at any rate
(nitty gritty details omitted),
but essentially and summarily
spilled contents from three
twenty ounce cups of hotly perked coffee    
scalding himself in the process,
where epithets spewed
inadequately served at X-rate.

I asked him if he liked coffee
cuz today aforementioned vendor
acknowledged the brainchild
offering buzzfeeding caffeinated brew free
American chain of convenience stores
and gas stations originating
in the Philadelphia metropolitan area,
and now located along the East Coast
of the United States,
operating in Pennsylvania, New Jersey,
Delaware, Maryland, Virginia,
Washington, D.C., and Florida.

The remaining lines of this reasonable rhyme
garnered courtesy an endeavor
attempted quite some years ago
attempt bordering on the ridiculous to the sublime.

Even when iron not red hot,
I implement non customary quirks
regarding going for broke into survivor mode  
asia foreigner rather cold as ice
namely delinquent outsize credit card debt
mandates yours truly,
a cheesy survivor who rem: members
putting freeze on
Citizens Bank World MasterCard accounts,
whose helplessness to fork over

substantial dollar figure
analogous to one of three blind mice,
who ran after the farmer's wife
She cut off tails (OUCH!)
with a carving knife
must pay the price
methinks food in the slammer (ha)
will lack sugar and spice,
nevertheless macht schnell trice.

I exhaled deep sigh of relief
after speaking over the telephone,
whereby Arcadia Recovery Bureau
(i.e. collection agency)
based in Reading, Pennsylvania
explained yours truly owed $23.21
which considerably alleviated
immediate dire straits that figuratively
grabbed me by the nuts
hash tagged self scoundrel
a day late dollar short
dollars to donuts bonafide klutz

living ****** mint procreative
seminal squirt biological reproduction,
could never conceive to abort
despite countless occasions,
I blithely admit characteristics
linkedin with being a putz
going off rails as a one man train wreck
mine impossible mission to avoid
NOT running amok imagine
bull in a china shop
whereby the hypothetical proprietor
willing, ready able to tear out my guts.

Pigeon toed, I trip over me own little feet
size nine shoe small size for grown man
leaving utter disaster in his wake
synonymous when havoc strikes
chaos theory alive and well
ensues when I walk about
and dare take even one baby step.

Ever since adept with ability to crawl,
I ofttimes tumbled down the stairs,
but never did shed tears nor bawl
e'en when taking nosedive head first did fall
out the hatch of airplane

splattered, plastered, and matted
think suddenly feeling comfortably numb
joist another brick in wall
nevertheless acquiring stunt man role
paid big bucks

as **** sapien disguised as Sasquatch
(cause unkempt harried styled hair)
more times than I can remember
fell to Earth minus parachute,
which hoop fully explains

the incomprehensible drawl
earnestly and frankly harkening language
once extant within Gaul
which reverberated inside hall
of mountain (lionized) king.

Prior to any madcap misadventure
yours truly envisions his clumsiness
plays out within my third eye blind
hilarious scenario unfolds in slow motion
whereby accidental flick of wrist,
barely brushes up against
flimsy clothes rack

(the original motive begetting poem)
knee **** involuntary reaction,
kicking obstacle clear across Compton
generating comical feedback loop
impossible mission to stop
blockchain of fateful bitcoin events.

Living amidst (amongst) disarray
courtesy the missus, whose domestic habits
never merit housekeeping seal of approval
twenty four/seven pose
a hazard to mine existence.