there is a very infamous instance of bez-osobowość
when you cross the Polish border at the airport
and get searched...
the celniks (guards) - provided you know the zunge:
will address you in a without-person(ality)
language / syntax...

how / i.e.? verb laden, verb exclusively,
averting pronoun usage...
i guess this is a counter to what....

oh i love Jordan Peterson aging and in full
schematic rearrangement of
post-modernistic mode "word salad"
buzzing... i'm buzzing too:

two nuggets of verbal beauty: a shine
on a sheen...
sheen being the already available glit of
a metal... shine being if a metal is exposed
to light and almost, "almost" reacts like
water or mirror...

- negotiating identity into adulthood...
- "terrible war in our culture"

     what war? what culture: to be exact...
cf. kołakowski's: culture and fetishes...
really? is there a culture "war" or simply...
this is not a war "war": this is a civilian fetishazation
of combat... this is passive-aggressiveness
of atomized-***-drive-derivatives
a cis-mutation parody regarding
a concept of: species...
this is one massive a-hole (forgot the bomb)
of an anti-Darwinism...
one might stretch it to the extent of calling
it liberal Darwinism...
or: on the basis of a humanistic whim
we can't harness the power of a lightning strike
nor can we harness the winds of a tornado...
but we'll sure as ****: make pretty boa-constrictive
grammar out of how we forget about trading,
capital...

identity "politics"?

- ideas of identity are narrow, hedonistic,
unsophisticated, self-serving...
- identity groups: whim-based, ****** identities,
race, ethnic...
- predicated on the notion of the immediacy
of...
- you're not a *** machine...
- anxiety hopelessness misery...
- subsidiary solution
- integrated self...

   hmm... so not the differentiating self of self?
to integrate a self "off" a self: toward the self?

consumer model?
integrating integers or integrating the collapse
of fractions?

a poem written while listening to a podcast
rather than music, which would be echo chamber
solipsism...

- play with someone else...
- invite someone else...
- there's you and now there's you that's a husband...
- responsibilities and opportunities...
- not gratifying your short term whims...

fair enough... go on herr doktor...

- immaturity vs. non-negotiation...
- learn to love someone...
- 20 years ago: self-consciousness and negative emotion
on par...
- flesh yourself out...           stretch...

huh? community? what community?
i have lived across from my neighbours for over 20
years and the closest i got to them
was when she and her daughters paraded
naked in the bedroom and later
moved on to getting another hubby...
married or "married"...
cohabitation... moved across the street
two doors down and still no ******* conversation
about: oh the weather is dreary and oh:
the garbage men forgot to take my garbage
or: oh the traffic is bad blah blah...

- definition definition definition:

the defining of the finite
the indefinitable infinite...
time is a flexibility of not counting / not measuring...

in out in out

- no action without the good...
ah... nugget! finally!

- consumerist capitalism
- idiocies of a degenerate protestant liberalism
driven by postmodernism...

well, given that when Moses spoke to unsaid X
said: ehyeh asher ehyeh...

i.e. i am: that         ↓
                        → i am ←
                                ↑

and not... i am what i am... since...
there's a clear distinction between the pronoun
'that' and 'what'...
conclusively...
by 'that' i'm implying vectors...
by 'what' i'm implying: questions...

what? well what?!

i am what:                 !
                             ?  i am  ?
                                     !

but Moses wasn't interrogated in a what whom
fashion, no: i am what i am spoke to him:
who spoke to Moses?
i am: that, i am...

  that... precisely that, i am that: who?
would god ask who of / off who of / off himself?

i still find it preposterous that this commandment
is so vague on the Islamic mind
as to not cherish the name Allah
but shout it while killing innocents:
and in his greatness the jinn swarm
to take the metaphysical procrastinators to
the hell of the 72 "virgins"...

la ilaha illa allah -

    mind you: the Maltese word for god is
borrowed from the Saracens
and is also blahllah... no: allah...
all? ah!
a relief it would seem...
how easily you could censor that word out
of a person's vocabulary and not take it in vain...
it's a Hebrew game i very much like playing
since i make-oaths of ****'s ******* ****
like a cobbler...

i still can't figure out whether to think of
culture wars as civilian fetishes of warfare or not..
culture war is a fetishised term...
war is a fetish term for poets who
are living out a rigor mortis of intellect...

now for the gates...

א                                                      ­               ע
    
i might be behind the literature,
what i know is: kametz (a)
     tzeré (e)
                  chirek (i)
cholem (o)
                       shurek (u) - pentagram...

hmm... Greek Satanism... which is not very much like
WASP Satanism that mingled neo-******
with a sour-**** vibrancy of proto-*** chimps
of the North American "sentiment"...

the revised niqqud from the niqqud
i learnt outside the realms of the internet is as above
(cf. aryeh kaplan meditation and kabbalah
samuel weiser inc. box 612
york beach, maine 03910
isbn 0-87728-616-?)

chirek became hiriq (בִ - i.e. BI - ב, bet hiriq) - i
kametz became patach kamatz gadol (בַ בָ - b'ah) - a
tzeré became segol zeire (בֶ בֵ - i.e. b'eh) - e
cholem became holam (בֹ - b'oh) - o
and...
shurek became kubutz shuruk (בֻ וּ - BAV) - u

a story of the gate:
א                                                          ­           ע
(ayin)                                                     (alef)

through which: הה Heh and Heh walked through
to find the husbands י (yod)
  and ו (vav)... oh sure: bot sisters...
Heh and Heh walked through these gate(s)...
and so became coupled into a name best associated
with "jehowa": i.e. he who hides them (vowels)
like the niqqud and the niqab...
some sort of conspiracy theory against
a society built upon monogamy...

so i met this pretty little 5ft2 36D Puerto Rican
all the way in Hawaii, or to be more specific: Kauai...
on the internet...
and since any mention of formality and inception
i'm on the phone to her every Sunday
(and i'll probably call her today:
Monday's and Tuesday's are her days off)
and we talk for an hour and i feel: ****...
only 10 minutes have passed...

but i'm still engaged with the current trend of anti-cinema...
culture war my ***...
a bit like revising that vision of St. John's...
believe you me when i say:
four horsemen... and one donkey-rider...
so that's 5 riders... the donkey rider
being obviously slower than death
since he'd be the one riding last giggling his ***
off... maybe him and the donkey would
be laughing... maybe even a talking donkey...
the vision is grotesque:
hyper-parody of Islam stealing the "saviour"...

now i know why i didn't drop any acid or ingest
any magic mushrooms...
this one time in Amsterdam me and this
Egyptian were mesmerised or rather fearful
having drank some ***** and smoked some marijuana
watching these two roomates of ours in a hostel
ingest magic mushrooms and waste the experience
on watching American Dad on t.v. in a darkened room...
Germans: so go figure... p.t.s.d. of history
or whatever you want to call it...
you'd think that ingesting psychadelics
you'd want to be in the sunshine in a forest
for some transcendental speech impediment onset...
not some dingy hostel room watching t.v., right?

case? the opposite, ingest some alcohol, fast,
then think about the hebrew alphabet...

yes, the great advent of anti-cinema...
a cultural shift...
when actors became producers...
notably? true detective... starring matthew mcconaughey
and woody harrelson...
when actors became executive producers...
perfect hell-storm to **** of cinema franchises
for the children...
from the days of: parents go out for a date
and employ a babysitter to...
kids go out and shoot up laughing gas
and eat fast food and fast **** in an alley
while the parents sit indoors and watch decent content...
maybe because actors have more time
therefore more freedom to feel into their roles
maybe because to write something good
you need to waffle for more than the space
of ~3h or like a pop song becomes prog-rock
after the 3min mark?!

in a way modern Polish "behaves", or rather:
is structured like ancient Latin
in the pronouns can be omitted to give meaning
to sentences:

ja myśle (i think) can simply be expressed
as myśle (pronoun-verb) compound of (i) think:
thinking... myśl (thought) myślenie (thinking)...

i.e. cogito ergo sum is a summary of
current Polish...
since there's no need for:
ego cogito ergo ego sum...
there's no need for i think therefore i am:
there's an anti-pronoun imperative
in sentence structure...
this without-personhood dynamic
perfectly compliments...
the anglo-protestant queer fetish for
exemplifying the plurality of it
via they...

       also...
borrowing from Greek Satanism the pan-Slavic
distinctiveness of
the following:

     щ: šč          ?: ść

deszcz: dešč: H hiding, or how the hebrew god
lingers in European psyche...
funny... that the **** Germans thought
themselves as Aryans...
given that the Polacks from the 15th century
onward compassed the arrival of an Iranian
tribe of... no... not Samaritans...
but the Sarmatians...

deszcz: rain
    dość: enough...

szczerość: ščerość: truthfulness...

i never thought the fetishes would spill out
and over into my reaching out with my tentacles
and start to... squeeze... out all the fetishes
into apple pulp sort of goo of glue sort
of averting the nasal thrill...

for a people who made ***-identity into politics
like Darwin and the lesbian faction of
existence running its course: cul de sac
existentialism of ******-identity politics
"politics": these days you have to say
"red" red... "blue" blue...
"train" train...

  mein englischleash: nein nein: niet ein leine!

what culture war?
perhaps a cultural lethargy, a cultural exhaustion?
i can see it as that... but a war?
for what? a quibble?
a ******* carrot on a stick?
a war for a donkey?
no one spotted the unearthing of the Nag Hammadi
library coinciding with the Dead Sea Scrolls,
how Isaiah died (being mutilated
at the torso, cut in half)
and how "suddenly" Christianity quivered its
last to estrange the European ontology
from the European will borrowing
from the nurture of winter in the Hyperborean
realm of melancholic rejuvenation of intellect...

the Slavs would sooner wage war against
themselves than allow
the Germanic self-flagellation of importing
cheap labour from former colonies...
these "good Christian" vessels of soullessness:
vacated by the riches from Arabia
eat ******* camel jockey types and typos
in H'arabic...

there is no culture war... there's only a cultural vacuum:
a lethargy: a great stink about this whole
myopic miasma...
with the established state of Israel and what
remains of the jewry in Europe
the fascinating dynamic of the arrival of a muslim
cohort of: sensibly minded idle citizens
that uber uber uber uber...
kamikazee delivery drivers from the mouths
of Bengal... hey presto: cheap as chips analogies...

so there's no problem with calling they it not i?
after all: it is a pronoun...
it's coming, they are?
          hmm... fetishes to the fore...
*** first: but the worst kind of ***:
non-procreative ***...
that's the worst kind of ***...
me and my old lady... i sort of told her:
it's an ancient practice borrowing from Roman times...
surrogacy of males...
i don't mind that you have a daughter
and she's not biologically mine...
guess what? that means i'll be less hung-up
if she "fails" morally...

     i clearly don't mind leaving a fractional imprint
of mine, hereditary on a passing fleece of a feeling
with an offspring...
i'm here to play a game of her throwing
three pebbles into a pool and both of us diving into
it to find them... mystique harry potter esque
the philosopher and the two women in his life:
life rediscovered... lazily tripping up over
sunlight and the predictability of daylight hours
on the tropic of cancer...

the rest of me is unpredictable like the weather
in northern europe: esp. England...

but these fetishists could have chosen a different
angle than latching onto grammar...
by the looks of it i'll gnash at bone
and grit by iron teeth (eisenzähne) with a "debilitating"
glee of: welcome, welcome, all are welcome
to the knochenernteausgraben (bone harvest
unearthing)...

even in sub-culture pops... hormones?
am i that bothered about testosterone levels in
males (like i might have some control over it)
when it comes to how stubble i can deal with
like i might sniff ******* or who's not living with grandma
like this woman is fertile, no, this woman is not fertile:
she's renting her womb to two homosexuals
vying for a proto-baby
    and this ***-first dynamic is going to go on forever
before Russia joins forces with China and India
and leaves the atomised man in
shrapnel still clinging to the crucifix-*****?
as if 2000 years of the rabbis warning us against
the advent of the self-sacrificial saviour were not
a lesson in diabolical narcissism...
it's plain as day to date...

          even with the structures intact...
christianity is unlike hinduism...
this makeshift monotheism with
polytheistic tendencies for schisms
is unlike any original European polytheism...
there's a U.B.D. / B.B.D. (use by date,
best before date) attached to it... like food...
given... well... christianity is food if you think twice
about the metaphor of the bread and the wine...
**** me... phoo! the wine has become a rancid
balsamic vinegar and the bread is mouldy!

islam on the other hand is only bound to the strength
of the dino juice... black gold...
it's strength is only temporary given
no longer needing to burn wood and instead
using gas and the mechanisms of oil propellers...
temporary ibn Saud paradise...

hardly a critique of capitalism: which is a force for
good... should the capitalist be the one
building railroads and autobahns...
giving wages, providing stable work,
pensions...
but the current capitalist is a capitalist in name alone:
chances of an honest wage for honest labour?
chances of a pension?
gig economy, the underclass of workers i'm in
already dictate the failsafe dynamic of
"contract" with: an "optional opt out"
regarding a pension scheme...
there is none...

                            some daydream akin to the ****
project circa 1950s with a home a stability
without the frenzy of hustling...
one generation old one generation bound...
some eugenics variation
and oh how the women love to call out
the men who didn't reproduce
but seeing some of the women that have
i do wonder what sort of pristine genetics are
being pressed and passed on
since i'm in an intellectual-zombie-land
from time to time... or pretty much all the time...
so i drink: to numb the pain...
so i drink: to numb the pain...
hmm... maybe that's why i drink:
to numb the intellectual dead-weight i have
surrounding me...

it's a good excuse... there is no other...
jeez... coming back to that without-persona language
the Polish border guards sometimes you:
the verb-exclusive pronoun-de-clusive
pronoun-non-inclusive of:

zdjąć - take off.. achtung achtung!
i.e. not
            zdejmij - czy czy: could you?
czy mógłbyś zdjąć twoje buty?
could you take off your shoes?

               so much for some vagary of an upheaval
in the queers for grammar in English...
it's almost very funny: but it's only just slightly
funny coming from a people not used
to how depersonalisation happens in language
when spoken off: rather than of or to...

like that saying from true detective...
am i a good person?
no... i'm not a good person...
i'm a bad bad man...
the sort of bad man that keeps the other bad men
away from knocking on your door...
i'm that sort of bad man...
the sort of bad man that keeps your
idiosyncratic selves in check
before they are no more than a statistic
in a serial killer's tally 正

                but even i have rules and sensibilities
that question when experiencing questionalibities
of: basic structures, like in language:
grammar...
       that sort of **** just makes me hit the monster
button within me...
and my ego becomes less a unit
of identity... and more akin to...
      a mouth that chews, grunts, burps...
bites... my ego is currently in the form of:

mundnichts... mouth-nothing....
        pupilleessenauge...
pupil eating eye...
                   in mich: ein legion von
alle der schrecklich gedanken!
         ha ha! wie ein teuflisch zirkus!

I have my contradictions
Gifts and demons too

Better Angels fight
Like Rilke's angels who

Join beauty with true terror
But those, at least a few

Speak of other worlds
And discoveries imbue

                  Revolutions!

We battled together and will battle soon again
our armor is the army of one
we will get them
and **** them

No mercy for the evil ones
Wir Kommen für Sie
and when found
we will **** them all

You ****** murderously killed
now we mean to do the same
you are evil ones
but we can play the same game

Breaking the laws of causality
taking time into my own hands
not for the first time
from many times we have done this

We are the army of one we are
the last of our kind
always not with forgiveness
as we have a hate on our mind

We turn our battle to you
so kiss your *** goodbye
for you have no idea
that now our angels do fly

Glory to the kind
glory to the meek
glory to us
as vengeance we seek

You ****** on our lands
I know you don't give a ****
but we will beat you and destroy you
as soon as our troops can

Wir hassen für immer
ihr alle werdet schrecklich sterbenand
I hope to send yours
all to hell where you do all belong


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

poetry as some vague: pick-me-up...
      "poetry"...

there comes a time in a man's life:
say, he was young and foolish
and by foolish i implore anyone to conjure up

the self-deprecating fantasy of
a james joyce insistence on proclaiming
to the world this... miasma...
no... this myopia of ambition
in the literary realm:

to give unto the world a... "unique" perspective
on life, this... original sin of
prior to me not foot has trodden this path...
well... oh well well...

how void these ambitions of uniqueness
are...
stupor, agony, angst...
lethargy and all the thesauric affluence
of verbiage: like a bouquet of rose
tinted grimaces...

i was not allowed to cry to mourn my grandfather's
passing...
however stingy my grandmother
the mother of my mother was...
he died of impromptu neglect
by someone ripping all the stamps
from envelopes posted...
as if she wanted him to unwillingly known
that no one cared...

it only took a month for the deterioration
to unfold...
i sooner bumped my head on the radiator
in my room, bleeding from my head
sooner i bled from my head
than i uttered a cry, a wolf of agony...

because i was denied mourning...

angels of modern technology...
a seance with my grandfather's son,
my mother's brother...

3 weeks he spent in a medically induced coma...
30 minutes shy off of receiving the call...
i couldn't grimace,
i couldn't fake it...
my face contorted as best it could
to fathom some sort of sanity,
politeness, cordiality,
the socially sensual appeasing, appealing...

but then the video call was cut
and i spent a minute's worth of eternity
contemplating
our morality: "our":
whims, necessities,
money earning habits
money spending gambits,
frivolities and follies...

what was once a man, without due grace
to compare to a butterfly...
simply by sensual agitation
and reaction to light, sound, colour,
darkness...
was now... reduced to a recluse of
the mortal shell...
foggy eyed glass of seeing
murky brain... two hydroceles on the brain...

he vaguely spoke of Valhalla,
how we would feast on beetroots...
if my absence of "ambition" concerning
crossword puzzles was never more adamant
than now, then now:
talking to what was once a butterfly:
regardless of ascribing grace,
but at least virility and an imploding
mortal purpose...
now... a larva... a cocoon even
was what become of an identity
once called: Martin...

does Martin know Martin?
because: sure as **** i don't think i've been
speaking to Martin...
hell... two hydroceles are not two
imaginary horns protruding...
nor is this a gangrene of the work
of electronic tectones
of vaguely associating dreams with
sleep and sleep with death...

i peered into those eyes and tried
to make recollections...
coming to the fore the recollections
of vague, social justice poetics of
the cult of the token ethnicities
this semblance of appearing to live
alongside the Hyperboreans
this allure of desensitising the volk
of the northern cranium
like these people will allow
a language to become a gross grammatical
grotesqueness
on the grounds of a historical lineage
whereby my past is so dissociative
(as oppressor) from the victim -
this allure of the toothless animal
having a grip of the jaws so tight
that regardless of bone by mere evolutionary
ingenuity: necessity is the mother
of all innovation...
this grip of the jaws and the acidic potency
of the saliva easily able to leech
onto anything living and morph
it into protein, fat, carbohydrate,
vitamins, mineral, fibre components...
by suckling to a monstrous grone
of pleasuring-agony of the feast...

bad poetry vibes, otherwise a sensual realism
of the impeding: knock knock...
knock knock... someone's... ooh! at the door...

the world is strangely happening
while this personal crescendo unfolds
and i am wrapped and i am warped
into the minor tickle agony of world-speak
of journalistic world-speak...
weltsprechen...
                           talk about the weather,
talk about the premier league
and whether Liverpool f.c. or Arsenal
still have a chance of clinging
to the league title against
the cigar smoking Guardiola...

weltsprechen... weltspreschen...
me? i like the alt-Germanic addition of the S
because the germans tend to slip
into ich: with the Greek X or Spanish J
for ha ha...
with an addition of S to make -sch- equivalent
to Ś...  akin to Rammstein's song:
ich will...         it's actually isch will...

Ś: DAS IST DER WEISCHER SH'AH
                                                                     Š
שש
               by count 6 arms and 6 candles...
by count a protruding E
and almost a W
although wonk to one side...
an F's marriage to W...

       usher in the argh of a hark at SH'AH...
on the second H(ebrew)...

poor Edie... neglected by my turmoil...
her stay in London undermined all my attention
to create a fantasy of carousel rides...
it would be easier on my heart
to burden myself with tales of her
past with unfaithful partners...
two stones one bird
of my existential 0 at Greenwich
when she retracted her posit
on my claim: the meridian line is more
important than the equator...
at least to us... 17h30min apart
from flying to Lihue from London...
11h apart when stationary...

and she had the child-like tenacity to convince
me that God somehow invented
the equator... ha...
as i clocked in with Prometheus (the movie)
the citation: god does not build in straight lines...
besides one:
the straight line of you are born
and then you are dead...
the only conclave resisting the geometric
abnormality of god and the capacity of
straight lines:

one is born and one is dead
one exists then one doesn't...
ha... the ambiguity of the shrapnel words
of conjunction that are: then...
one is... and...
arguments allocated to:
but one is in heaven then one falls
then one is relocated to a heaven once
more? that is not the rite of the gods
to be bound to a heaven
then disgraced, then humbled...
incarnated among us mortals
to then relearn one's presence as the chosen,
the elect, reconveyining in one's
former abode?!

du haben mich... schrecklich denken...
zweitekummer: a second grief...
for worth of salt
and the yet unexplored Dune universe
that has come as a relief to all science fiction
and Star Wars
in that in latched onto the Islamic universe
and incorporated a second Lawrence of Arabia
myth...
for if Spice and Arakkas...
then Salt and Earth...

                  salt the equivalent of spice...
for us aquatic creatures
to truly belong among the rubble and mountains
we would have to be impregnated
by the tides of thirst and
of distinguishing **** from ****...
to retain the less fluid morph
of the agony of bones and nutrient loss...
to distinguish **** from **** unlike
our humble companions the pigeons...

only days ago i attempted to fall asleep
to an audiobook...
what other audiobook besides
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
would i care to listen to?
for a book so slim...
so much was invested in the curiosity of
Harry's uncle... Vernon Dursley...
such imaginative work by the people
who brought the book to life...
because? seriously?
              well....

the pure stroke of genius came with
the only visualbook that
was the Shawshank Redemption...
more than an audiobook... more more...

höhepunkt:
                      the pinnacle... a phrase of
revelation...
unlike when a lion "tames" an antler mammal
unlike when a spider stuns
and subsequently cocoons they prey
immobile...
death has no voice: only the tightness
of life...
yet... with a creature who will not be eaten
so willingly...
by fraud and self-
    earthquake and sea and fire...
by cancerous growths
those replica botanical spurs of mistletoe...
the voices of the softly weakened
limitless agonia
the mortal gives up his mental faculties
to Death... death personified...
vaguely speaking a speaking...

          this brood of the Nether Lord...
who makes an egotistical incision
to reassure the living:
of the transition period... from animate
to inanimate to animate once
more as grains of sand in the desert
upon the winding of the winds...
and the time, scaled... to imitate droplets
of water...
countless rain drop by drop
covering the entirety of the earth...
both the fertile plains and the inhospitable
distances either north or south
upon the glaciers...

       ich haben gesprochen mit Frau Tod...
the body is there... "there"...
weakened by 3 weeks in a coma,
once recognisable, a masculine threat
on my own integrity concerning the number
of ****** partners...
a prompt to bust my nuts (as it were)...
mortgage paid, money saved,
retired mid 50s...
           and now what?
obliterated plans of a future
spent living back with an 80 year old mother
drinking beer watching t.v.
listening to ****** music
       friends... friends... now like vultures...
clinging to the money...

SĘPY...          vultures...

                     and poor Edie and all of Reyla's
upheavals coming back to Kauai:
ka-wah-e
                  from London...
i did bring the fox at Greenwich
and the two ladies were introduced to London
in the grand style of a Tudor boat ride
from Greenwich pier to Westminster pier...
grimmacking scar-lock of Reyla's face
at every corner... my best estimate overwhelmed
by the sight of such urban conundrum
that it should not: ever... have a chance to exist
against her usual sight of Kawaikini
in the morning...
so much walking... walking everywhere...
walk walk everywhere: but not a seat to sit on...

who could possibly be a fan of violin music?
i asked that once...
because it was just a precursor to
all that guitar and wig lasoo ***** jerking
stage fright fuckery...
before i discovered:
Tartini's violin sonata in G minor
                            
unlike the death wish upon cremation
of the serial killer...
Camille Saint-Saëns' danse macabre?
too ******* jovial!
where the macabre "macbeth"?
the devil weeping is nowhere to be found!
but in Tartini?! oh! aplenty!

the phantom stormed out of the english national
opera... after the first act of
the die zauberflöte...
switch to a scene from Lethal Weapon 2...
Alfons... but but... you're bleak?!
black? bleak? black beak... pity...
but... das opera ist in ĘGLISCH?!

         zee vuck?!

      the phantom stormed out of the opera
and took the girl to get drunk
in the catacombs of the Embankment
in a sherry and other south European wines...
Gordon's Wine Bar... 47 Villiers St (WC2N)...
Trafalgar... the National Gallery prior...
i was on a date night...
but why was Reyla so adamant on staying
at home?
but i know...
time for Edie, mommy... to spend the time
on the town with her hubby...
crying so adamant to let mummy translate
all the *** in the hot-tub and bed
into peacocking without a bothersome "brat"...
who might have liked Camden Market
more than being taken to the up-street
market at Portobello...
by then the Japanese garden didn't matter
in Holland Park...
so stupid, world and the word so stupid...

'i known best'          without not yet...

                 but if only she could have seen that
phantom of the opera production at the king's
theatre... then watched my storming out
of the opera production
being asked by the security staff
         at the entrance / exit... 'will you be returning?'
thank god no...
   this is a complete disaster!
would the english dare to translate an Italian
opera? could the French ever dare to sing opera?!

the English's audacity to pretend to be more
than... the operatic... the musical...
English ≠ Opera...
          
     how can i salvage the 2nd most intrinsic feast
of life while also having to cram in
death...
        well... now i can truly peacock and disregard
any notion of the 37 old man with a
******* sort of worth of a 21 year girl
to ease my take for take of seriousness
maybe in the 20th century as a serious painter
but as a "poet" in the 21st century?
more like king crimson's song:
21st schizoid man...      bilingual, mind you...

but what is bilingualism in the realm
of the polyglots and polymaths?
a stern entrenchment...

this vague allure to subscribe to a life
of contentment, of happiness....
what are they, these allusions
when contending with the clenched fist
of Frau Tod and her cohort of death-speakers?
these reassuring bodies weakened torn
and half-made half-dead half-willing
half-crux foundations of the compass
markers...
if not North then south and east
to Jerusalem and Mecca?

               what of this life to be lived
with the impeding
                                 nuance... PTSD+ us all?
alle von uns?!
                             alle von uns?!

              i drank a little to sever the nerves...
now a bicycle ride for some buns...
and more whiskers for a cat already playing
with the idea of barber as a serious
profession... so no... not some Russian
gimmick of a demon disguised as a cat
(le chat noir) with a streak of professionalism
as a joueur d'échec ***** sympathiser...

e-shek?                      d'eshek?

i will shreak....       shriek!
                i will let the winds know of my breath!
is that how you utter szachy (chess) these days?
i've been playing backgammon by myself
toying with chance, perchance and i no longer
care for the difference...

enough!