so please excuse me, i have no history going back as a roman invasion... unfortunately i came from the Atilla throng... i utilise your phonetic encoding like any barbarian might.... more in love with it, than with the women who use it casually in everyday talk; i'm so sorry that i can't use your phonetic encoding as peacefuly as i might to start a family, and keep the fading ritual...  i am prone to the mongol practice akin to: invade and quickly fade... which is also akin to: not invade, build an empire, quicken a false fire... and sadly never fade away; e.g. russia, america.

you have a basis of crucifying a man
who has no (a) history of a roman past
(b) a roman  phonetic / optometric
encoding, with a slight deviation
of (ć) - who am i? the wave from Siberia,
neither Mongol, nor Vandal,
of what tribe, am i? collectively known as Slav,
it is said my women
   were harrowed from their
nests like birds akin to the cuckoo....
  and where my national pride: you ask?
me know either.. if there were any.
    poetry is something
you call: trying to be an artist
while, at the same time,
          not becoming a plumber,
or a painter.
oh dear, painters are worst,
unless they paint a cubic-mono-chromatic
i have na value for them shoud
they be an example
of a categorical imperative....
there bartablondine roamed in thought:
  and bemoaned:
        higher the cabbage-head
rise above the caulifloiwer...
as said name:
            a saxon knife with writ...
on a blade:
        fay-far-goron!
                        poets never hear
of mention under banner, or worth a
weilded sword...
  to no defeat, as there is one assured:
but to engaging with a memory in thought
as needing statue...
           or said the one bound to betray
either thinking from doing,
  or memory and imagination from doing less
and thus doing thrice,
    such be the communal tongue...
  that the females go unto a searching...
and i be the last remaining seagull...
so unto the conglomorate of man...
              all our peace with individuals,
personalities and the likes be gone....
    they are dust, broken bricks, rust
and rabble...
                             i have no flavour for them...
or in different rhymes of war:
the women precede the auxiliaries -
we claim of woman once the need for axe,
but hardly her need to blood-thirst her genitals...
   lions lax...
            and watch the vulture-democracy
unfold:
   scower fools! scower!
                   led by bribe and death-threats alone!
i see but the ghosts of the pentagon *Krzyżtopór:
what bone, what marrow,
there too laid a cement, a ceiling,
                a brick as bone...
                       to keep both hope of skeleton
and if not skeleton: a castle... a cruxifix-axe,
so in italics named... crux alias ascia:
or said compound...
           Krzyżtopór - Krzysztof...
christopher... some might have said:
a loved one, circa 1392 a.d.
       but not here, not now.
anything but Mongol,
    and i am here, and i am but a figment
of ink in a pond of bleach...
        i am Sting:
a Pole in a London...
               you toast, i roast...
       well... it might just be not exactly London,
the smog got me...
                  when a Greek idea
of city-state explores too much ethnic ground,
  London might have grown to be that,
but Berlin, Tokyo nor Mehico City didn't...
      now no farmer in me either...
so.... come the rotten apples and maggoty
potatoes...
                     and if it wasn't for being
a kid having moved to england
and seen my parents reach their status...
i don't know where i would have lived...
just watching these perfectly smug poles
come to university killed off my idea of
struggle...
                        and i never got it back...
the worst decision in my life came
packaged, an idea of a suitcase...
   came with the words: get educated...
   no... learn to make money...
  learn to turn mountains into pebbles,
learn to make pebbles into sand...
learn to make sand into dust...
            i love how the English fake being
immigrants in America...
lazy buggers never care to learn a new tongue...
or how Americans settling in Italy
call themselves as expat...
         because they really love to drink
that espresso 25ml.
                   me? where do i belong?
given my posture and care to speak very little?
on the Faroe Isles.
               Poland feels more obscure these days
esp. when i speak the tongue without an accent...
now i wish i lived in England and had
an accent... maybe with an accent i could
make it...
             there's actually no point in me trying...
     if there ever was:
              it was when it was me being human...
    now that i'm considered to be nothing
more than: the death of death...
                i have all the sentences i write
from scratch, as if prompt, to ensure i am
the last reigning magician.

both sides bore me, both the atheistic, & the theistic, because they both express only one aspect of the cartesian "equilibrium", namely the sum, rarely the the cogito; namely both sides are reactionary to each other, never exlusive of each other, always the two confined crude formants of antoganistic contras, never the middle-duality, always the polar-opposite-dichotomies... never congregationally dialectical, but always the disfunctional solipsistic, mono-exclusive, never the mutally-inclusive... this farce can only succumb to the "idea", to a "truth" for so long; after enough time passes, the former will seek the other for support, for some unison, to be forced into agreement... why? i find that the cogito aspect is the plataeu representation of the seemingly divergent sums... when one side claims to be a mountain, the other side claiming to be a valley... both come to the same conclusion: there's a plataeu... as some of us struggle uphill, some of us struggle downhill... we share the same struggles in comaparative "literature" on a plataeu.

well, **** me! if i had the same curry-tooth
for spices, as i might have a sweet-tongue
for spices, and i had enough
pointless rhetorical learning:
i would stack up a decent  harem...
  either that, or i find both atheists, as theists
equally boring... both being rigid in
their arguments: with one citing
their sacred word: reason! and the other citing
their sacred book: bible!
   i shwear, i just shwam
the length of a marathon...
sank a few u-boats in
between with torpedo farts...
never mind... i get the idea that not everyone
likes poetry...
and how poetry is really
a citation of pomp...
but not many scientists like philosophy,
and philosophy being
the first "science" didn't
like poetry...
    harsh man,
discrediting the power
of poetry,
you know you're spawning
more bad poets,
that you are spawning
convincing atheists
or theists?
you know that, don't you?
there are more poets
in the "centrist" ranks
than there are convincing
atheists or theists...
all i can see are grand
regurgitators...
   is bulimia in fashion
once more? it's not?!
you sure?
           you start to slack
of the power of poetic
"p.s." - the ability to turn
language into a "mathematic"
of allowing an abstract...
short-script...
people these days don't even
recognise diacritical marks!
let alone punctuation marks!
you're seriously talking
atheism / theism to me? really?!
you are speaking in
a language that's
exclusively noun-orientated...
e.g.: i am an atheist...
because? i think... think what?
who cares what you think?!
who gives a ******* toss
about what you think?!
you already told the other side:
i don't care what you feel!
brain in a pickle jar, are we?
judo yoda master, H, are we?
bomb the goon in green.
like one famous english atheist
said: oh yes, i was confirmed,
and i like christmas carols...
so you're not into byzantine monk
chants, not into your templar
cantos?
           what a shame... you're
missing on the "anti-scientific"
subjectivity...
sorry... mate...
                go 'un, scower among
the rats, in the sewers...
you know what your people named my
ethnicity... this is king rat talking;
the ******* waiting for?
another india as colonial prone
fertility?
                 i am just wondering:
will america, will canada, will australia
be so welcoming...
    i'm dying to know...
    i'd love to see, but frankly,
i'm a little bit occupied with this
taste in my mouth...
   it feels as if a tarantula bit me,
must be the star of anise sensation...
i'm "seeing" an eye in my mouth,
and two tongues waggling through
my eye-sockets...
                  it has just become boring
listen to one side cite a book, holy,
and the other side cite a word, also holy...
both sides seems the same as
was originally thought about poetry:
we best fill this space with as many bad
poets as possibly imaginable...
      and when i mean bad, i mean:
all to eager... esp. the english-teacher types
who require the labels of technique...
rhyme's dead... think up another
easily spotted technique...
if you ask the atheists or theists,
they'll provide you with an answer:
word salad, jargon, nonsense...
                  you think that sort of answer
isn't on their tongue?
    they prefer the idea of god / no god
within the framework of dear mr. smith,
yours sincirely of an automaton letter...
   both sides bore me...
thankfully, they can never really find
the likes of me, since finding me would
invoke a need to read me,
and that's outside their effort-zenith of
passive effort bound to the easily digestable
video... reading: ah! the evolved "chore"
of playing hide & seek... thank god...
or no god... they won't find me, because
these on the forefront of an "argument"
seek a passive audience...
   they need the *feeders...
they never appeal to the scrutinisers -
who watch them...
   huh? i'm deaf... you hear someone knocking
on the door?
       finally! reading takes effort!
    thank god i'm standing stark naked
in a field, and yet no one can seemingly
see me...
          then again, if i made a video of
myself, standing stark naked in a field,
or took a selfie... i just might become
a visible person... n'ah... can't be bothered...
this approach is easier to stomach
and take joy in.

*dare the devil to laugh...
but then the devil dares you back:
            i dare you to believe,
believe to answer the question:
who wears the trousers,
and who the skirt -
never mention the kilt;
ask me, ask "him",
when asking about  
the existence of my counterpart
of either "thought" or "being":
i too foresaw the void,
                and the counter: non.
some said god wore a skirt
and the devil the trousers...
others just said:
god wore a kilt,
        and the devil a kippah;
i beg to differ,
all genitals, circumcised or not,
wore the niqab of underwear;
i'm not mel brooks...
    i wasn't laughing writing that!
one of those dry, mug mongrel
bitten shoe jokes -
             dry-laughter akin to
a gin & tonic mixer...
        makes no difference whether
angels laugh or cry...
     good enough, as long as the devils
can conjure up a decent curry
and a blackbeard sharpshooter...
     feckled me...
   hell just seems just like a such nice
place... akin to what was just stated...
and a parisian cementary revised loop
bound to the earliest of what was
to be made of the 21st century.

When male penguins like a female penguin they scower the entire beach looking for the perfect pebble and present it to her like a proposal.
I want a rock
A pebble
So small but big enough to fill the entirety of my heart.
My heart.
I'm told that one person cannot be your missing peice
I'm not sure if i'm in love with the pebble, but maybe the idea of someone giving it to me.
I'm not in love with the Penguin, but the idea of what he represents.
Someone to walk with me through thick and thin and breathe my air.
Someone to sit next to me during a scary movie.
Someone to hold my hand under the table and giggle about a joke that no one understands but us
Someone to give me a pebble
But pebbles don't fill that void
that hole
Pebbles can only do so much
I can collect pebbles like Pokémon cards, but I will never fill that hole
Because a pebble can't be all of you
No person
No rock
Nothing but god alone can fill the void that lingers in my soul
But yet I continue to dig and dig and dig and dig
for the pebble that's perfect for me
But a pebble isn't what I need