rub it in... rub it in why don't you? isn't that the point of capitalism, this competitive mentality? why're you looking at me as if i killed your mother with a ******* harmonica?

i love how people regress their national frustrations
into sports - England is perfect with football...
oh? did i poke a beehive just now?
is Brexit for real now? it is now...
apparently one of the Icelandic managers is a
dentist, he just does the coaching in the summer
part time - i was walking for my daily metabolic
dosage of alcohol a little suspicious, acting out
all doom and gloom - well, it's more fun than
paying your taxes or seeking out career promotion
to be honest, after all, abolishing asylums turned
the entire social cohesion stratification into an
asylum, everywhere you go you have the phantoms
of "men in white coats", everywhere, can't ****
in an alley, can't drink a beer in public,
forget adrenaline *** - the entire human potential
of civilisation the Englishman stashed in his semi-detached,
by the way... don't you think that a Londoner will
find himself in lost-territory outside of London?
i love how the S.N.P. are in parliament 'aving a go
at voicing their compulsion for Brussels' choc &
guillotine chop policy - they want in... oh! does this
mean goodbye Jack ol' Boy? really? well, if you need
a ***** might as well be Wales - they're hanging, they're
hanging, and finally the bubble will burst,
why not Union John (like a toilet) or a Union Jeremy?
Union Jeffrey - Jaffas? Jizzum - Jazz?
but they're out for certain, if a bunch of
barbers, carpenters and sheep herders can beat them
living the Leicester City dream, i'm thinking of them being
the second Denmark from 1992 -
i've had so much emotion in my heart that now
i have a ******* headache - go on! a third goal! get in!
bam wam thank you Black Betty, bam ba'h lam.
it's not the football that interests me as much...
you seen the fans? ha ha! *a'woo!
              a'woo!                                    a­'woo!
a'woo!          a'woo!            a'woo! a'woo! a'woo!
mind you the sober wisdom of Alan Shearer
but that ******* chant man! coupling the missing
trill in the English R (how many gym sessions was that
to get the R to not trill? 2000 years and counting?
trickier than a French phlegm hark mind you)
and extending the E, well, the A isn't really necessary,
it's still reel...
*but who the hell decided what vowel goes where
and what vowel goes in anywhere given a change from
i - aye - and í - as in a punctured punctuation of
e    - prolonged -            and c            -
            a variant of        is              i.e.           ís
and not the German                   iß                    -
called a Kama Sutra of tonguing - slightly zeddy -
you really start to get polishing that mahogany table
for starters - no one gave me the rule books,
what's an offside, what's an penalty, etc. etc.,
i'm working at the scrapheap of language -
there was no congregation akin to the Diet of Worms
(ˈʁaɪçstaːk tsuː ˈvɔɐms) - try deciphering this
educated alphabet - upside-down Cyrillic for starters,
a bit of French, Greek iota, then circus without
a sheering process to add the -ta:k, and there too
a gamma is missing due to the softening into a kappa,
tsu;?                     huh?      why not              ßu?
to mind the Chiral (kye-rawl) nature of S and Z?
ich haben, ih blaben blabshen? *****-slap this to Jupiter,
i will... Tao no mayo in this ninja chow mein -
then it just, gets nuts! ɔɐ is what i've been discussing
about the umlaut - could have just written Wörms -
it's not straight arithmetic - it's that ɔɐ... thing...
like woad but more like woo'ed - you sort of have to
speak sideways - wo'o'erms - werms - or
so i thought.

saying ******* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.

Barely do my Wednesdays fill with longing,

Lost observers rendering August whims to the scrapheap of infinity,

Galvanized entities downing tools schematically,

A posse of awareness pronating towards incandescent light,

Mostly everything a prolonging of jest and belly laughs,

Dawn brings the sick belly of listlessness,

Hordes of happenchance and imaginers of silence dancing,

The chitter chatter cadence does dim for a minute stretching yonde

my body has become a scrap heap

there is a black hole
where my organs used to be
pulling everything in,

my hands are built to destroy
so I break my own bones,

sharpen my vocal chords
to play the tune of destruction

we crack our own mirrors
because we like the
distorted, smiling face

broken parts
remind me I’m not whole any more

obviously Gibraltar would vote to remain,
it would be one of the few remains of
the British Empire, the Spanish
version of Hong Kong,
4.1% leave, 95.9% remain,
no immigrants there, just expatriates
from Benidorm - if it voted to leave then Spain
would double the emphasis to eject
the British from the region;
but if you're going to fully pull the thing apart,
and go to a history of myth, Arthur
prior to Angevin Empire, i guess you have
to give that little scrapheap of pride back too -
this referendum is really like watching
Gorbachev pulling apart the Soviet Empire
in slow-motion, it's not chunky like
Kazakhstan, a banoffee pie, but more
like what remained of feeding the 5,000 thousand
at the last supper.

it's twenty past four,
i have spent the past hour watching
the Vierschanzentournee -
like someone in England might
have stayed up, watching
the n.f.l. or a boxing match...
i bought johnny walker black
at the airport and i sat there
watching history.
                        can there be a modernised
version of ecce ****?
             apart from dietery requirements
and angst against Wagner
and all that pompous rattle
invoked in the original by Herr N.?
i guess there can be...
    there i was, on my hiatus,
going to bed almost every single night
trying to sleep-palm a chess set
or a keyboard, but both seemed out
of reach...
                   this, again, a forceful
resignation toward the past day,
              it will never be perfect,
the first approach will always be
rusty, it has been three weeks
since i last entered this spiderweb,
of snappy convo and even snappier
overload of democratic practises;
and before me: endless sleepless
nights, and countless miniature
fürhers... and thus this fact:
  which i thought was worth avoiding...
but then i did buy a used laptop for
550zł, (given the exchange rate,
that's roughly £100... the downside?
everything is in paul-leash (no,
that's not an americanism of drawl
and draw and slobber and Houdini's
last trick) - hence i might actually
sport a cravat, moccasins and a
velvet dinner jacket...
                                   and when
Rodin employed his minions to
    chisel away at chapters from Dante,
Dumas (have you ever seen his
omni coprus?) like some pseudo-Pope
employed heavy-drinking monks
to write out his stories for salon bored
ladies until their hands were
playing shadow-arthritis games
         that children would applaud:
rabbit! rabbit! poor monks, exhausted
from having scribbled and
chicken scratched chicken blood into
papyrus wanted nothing more than
to grow their nails so they couldn't
hold a quill... no matter! Dumas would
say... we'll sharpen your nails,
vol. 25 of the comte bourbon &
the flamingo dance, and Rambo XVI
were both written by the unfortunate
monks...
              once again: there's
autobiography... and there's an autobiography...
  to write an autobiography
so that no biography is worth writing...
perhaps if i used paragraphs:
i could be considered: "serious".
      then there's that thought:
thought as origin of biographics -
           nothing to be preserved in
it having happened, returning from
Stansted in a taxi:
  only a thought:
   philosophy cannot claim anything
to be counter-intuitive in its foundation,
to me that conjures up an analogue:
the guillotine is the counter-intuitive
foundation of the french revolution...
Ivan the terrible threw dogs off the Kremlin
wall, and gauged out the eyes of the St. Basil's
architect... and since then
children in Poland loved to play:
throw a bunch of marbles into a little hole...
evidently ancient Egypt resounded
in capricious cappuccino Milan...
or: Míllánò! nurse! nurse! the syllable-scalpel!
herr doctor, is that defined by diacritical
marks? yes sister.
                  **** in boots to suit you toppling
too...  and may i add:
             how ever did i digress from
the mundane reality of: second-hand laptop,
Windows in Polish... every single word
in english: red tape, underlined...
if i have dyslexia, it'll show like a crow's
feather on a dove -
and when it does, you can start calling
me Chief Apache Pixie Jack...
or how you have black and white as
polar, the rainbow... and then
nights in grey satin by the bothersome blues.
this will be defined by lacklustre
and hopping along... then, vaguely:
a romance?
                        it was supposed to
be a hiatus... hiatus...
         3 weeks of what became defined by
anything but such hopes...
   some people span a literary career of
20 years... take 3 years to write a book...
         it takes me 3 years to keep
a single thought...
          can you really repress biographic
accounts these days?
                                 well... if written
par with the times, i guess it's as much
fun as questioning whether
     the following two are very much akin:
1 + 2 + 3 = 5 - 10 + 20 x 2 = 30
is the same sort of arithmetic as when
you do the "math"of writing out
a word like onomatopoeia...
the hanging vowels of babylon...
          if anything, then this -
             as it also could be: on the scrapheap
of memory, a dazzling iron-clad
      heftiness of pulverising vector -
a Gucci demanding a pulpit and an
avocado on toast... champagne and
squid... or as the Michelin criteria were
revealed: rubber tire and squid di Calabria...
tell the two apart... you'll get a republic
passport... who would have thought
that rubber tires were the benchmark,
the ph 7 of foody palettes across the
azure blob, with some ashen and fern
bits in between.
   but this is me, testing new equipment...
having spent 3 weeks on two kinds
of detox... alcoholic... oh the whiskey...
and the ski jumping gavrons...
   plush? sparrels in a rolling dozen
of figurative barrels - and more sensibly?
kestrels, petted by stiff, castrated
   hippos of the sky, akin to astronomy
naming blobs: pi-7773-quatro-offshoot-of
Juno...
                 or a boo boo 747...
about as gracious as a **** launched
off a trebuchet at the dome of the rock...
gimmicky the sliding down...
hot wedge like swallowing a sword...
                3 weeks on this vegetarian
diet... detox alcohol detox 21st century
phonebook...
    rusty first imprints from the waiting game...
but my my...
               wasn't it fun...
                  Jan Kazimierz Waza
(the finicky cardinal)
                                       as presented by
Horatio... no no: John Ignatius Kraszewski...
   (Copernicus was apparently Prussia)...
which means Ignacy was Bella Belyy Kraшevsky...
      which makes me wonder:
why is the violin the pauper's? instrument
or the instrument of hoped-for empathy?
any one would tell you:
as also the accordion player on a tree...
well... roof here, roof there:
try doing ballerina's tip toe on a gothic
spiral tip of a cathedral...
and yes, the gargoyles... sing-along:
silent night...
                       holy night...
again: this was supposed to be a hiatus...
dogmatic statements... and....
    apodictic statements...
                      in truth, most people are
size 0 with their diet of words....
      where that turkey of a tongue to
fatten 'im up? well... ask the shepherds
of Damashek when Saladin will come
to rattle the blacksmith to wield a sword.
a thousand maidens faint...
   (if this was a cabaret voltaire play,
it would happen...
    and the two will never win:
one has a crop of hair on the scalp,
but spider-legs of a beard on the chin...
the other has precious silverware on
the scalp... and 21st Amazonian nomads
peeping out from between his
beard)... well...
not bad for a break from hiatus...
the whiskey is good,
                    the breadth has already been
tested...
   oh yes, the dreaded notes...
   this was supposed to be a:
a 3 week break, bam! a whole session
of writing it out in one go,
beginning with: the first question
i was asked as the Western Warsaw coach station:
do Kijova? i.e. to Kiev?
       oh sure, plenty of Ukranian merchants
down the western side of Warsaw...
   a Ukranian family of only women
sitting eating 3 while chickens among other
things: polskie chlopachki nie placzy...
and if you're lucky! you might even spot
a Mongolian!
                    it was never going to be an easy
transition...
i left Poland when it was -18°C...
                   sunny... bitter...
   walking on snow was like either
hearing a meow purr every time the foot impressed
itself on the snow, or i was wearing latex...
                 and to come into this abysmall
+7°C "winter" that England is?
   gothica... rain in winter... only in England...
and yes, if i were born here
i would be making awckward jokes about
the rain... but i wasn't.... i inherited it
from some unforseen discourse about
     Saint Gorbachev and how bloodless it all
became... prized piglets of Kazakh:
   dollar baby koo chi go go west and buys
usés a Lambro-jini... plight of the Sinking Belgian:
and all he did was sail to Congo on a waffle...
   pity the man! pity the man!
    i have no romance with England...
the grey skies and the constant rain
are like toenails to my heart... they're just there...
but you just see me walk in that pine
forest... in my natural element...
                              -18°C...
why did only German poets philosophise?
   and why did only Shakespeare make
poetry indistinguishable from philosophy and
why did the French turn to pastries
                                rather than the dry
and cough infused pages of bookworm time-donning
yella spaniel sepia waggle waggle
                  Sorbone          
   & Pavlov... pretty girls and pretty boys in
the Erasmus programme... to Rome!
to Antwerp! to Brioche! ... to a brioche...
                      Bruges!
                                               Kiev aflame...
Cracow a mind-game...
            Prague merely an INXS postcard from
the early 1990s...
                    Berlin a wall...
   Munich a litre of gods' **** and company of a dog:
of a dog's intuitive measure of man's
competence with regards to a desire for gods...
                   Lvov... thankfully Lvov
will never be the Istambul of Byzantines' nostalgia...
   so too Vilno...
                                                well...
that's for starters.

… On a bustling street,
              she shuffles her feet,
                     her eyes hold a desperate heat,
                               eyes darting, discretely charting
                                    a line through the crowds that are parting for her.


In a world of abundancy,
         she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
          her life breathes new life into the rubble
                       from a fickle society’s burst bubble.

Her world otherwise grey,
         she colours her day,
                 collecting, affecting
                         what the world has thrown away.

Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
        discarded, unguarded;
              all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.

Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
           but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.

She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.

She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.

Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.

In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.

She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.

She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.

Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.

On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …

The tired old robot came to rest,
Years of working, left him worn and distressed,
His batteries lacking power, he walked without grace,
The lights dimming, on his dented old face,

Rust makes him brittle, seizing up his hands,
Joints lacking oil, clogged with debris and sand,
His circuit’s burn, as the sparks rattle his brain,
His memory corrupted by electrical rain,

Reaching the end, after all these years,
The robot cries, his battery tears,
Crashing to the ground, falling apart,
As the power slips, from his computerised heart.

There he lay, upon his back,
As the wind covered, his final tracks,
Placed upon the scrapheap, stripped of his parts,
They carefully removed, his memory and heart,

Words read from, the old kindle book,
As they restored his body, with the classic old look,
Wires refreshed, the burning of solder,
Faint light returns, to his classic controller,

One final piece, to power his soul,
The heart replaced, in the mechanical hole,
Twitching fingers, he opened his eyes,
Met with cheer, and emotional cries,

Holding his hand, were Robots restored,
Embracing each other, mechanical applause,
As Light beamed, from behind the seventh,
He spoke..........
"Welcome my son, to robotic heaven"

and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
    some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
               ∞ = a-z....
                 the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
                         sell her tomatoes...
                               and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
              pet a rat!*

and will i dicta villager simply,
                                                      qualm?!
  ­                  you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
            you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
            avocado fat ****!
let us bravado a chin!
  that double! half-wit quiff!
   fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....                  
           you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
                         which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
    i carve my name in lamb limbs...
                   so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
    as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
      to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
        there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
  into basin...
                             for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
                means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to?       ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
        i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
     a warring tide...
                            there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
     i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
          a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc.        as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.

Kiss My…©

Morning people,
Those people up at the crack of dawn

With more energy than a ball of fire
All done up like they haven’t even slept

It is in those moments I want to say
Kiss my sass

Looking at them through my bleary eyes
Me feeling like something off a scrapheap

Their exuberance like a cup runneth over
Excitement exuding everywhere

It is in those moments I want to say
Kiss my sass

My rear glued to the bed
Unable to muster the motivation to get up

I listen to them espouse great plans for the day
Bubbling with sheer excitement

It is in those moments I want to say
Kiss my sass

We all have our place and so do they
I have to admit with some dismay

Andreas Simic©

Time to grow up behave like an adult now get away with anything in twenties somehow
But now a year older that milestones been reached
30 years old  time to join the scrapheap
Its better to be over the hill than under it how old are you now? not easy to admit
Not to worry though *** your not on your own
As im 30 too with me you can let go and moan
One step closer skidding towards the grave
Now knowing that its time you must behave
Looking forward to having wrinkles all around
And the sound of your ***** dragging on the ground
Coz gravity isn't kind to those past 30
Not believing anyone again will be flirty
Luckily enough there's Botox for the cracks and push up bras
And wheelchair access in motor cars
But don’t let it get you down , don’t feel blue
Because im right there aging more so than you.
Its now your day and  time to celebrate
So have a happy birthday to you on this date.

A great chasm gaping but no words are escaping and it feels like I'm skating on ice.
Nice though it may be each day comes to slay me as the morning breaks open my eyes.
It cuts through my skin as it finds a way in and I want to get out but cannot,that spot in the sky burns me down and I die into daylight once more.
I am trapped on the scrapheap where sleep is the answer and the question unset, is this moment in time where I get the unsettling feeling that my life is just peeling away,
the chasm spreads wide like the tide's going out and I find I can't swim but the day's already in and so it's going to be fine.

Then the wine flows like evening that goes on and on and the bottle once full is now gasping,
almost gone.
The ash of the day flusters slowly and gray and the night grasps me tight to her waist.
This tester,this taster of what will be later is enough for the hour of me,I see  trees bare,unladen with care,I see them full with the blossoms of May and am blinded by beauty,
surely
sore and rocked by these cores which are central,essential and necessary to me where the elements line up and the squadron I see forms the form of all things
and the conclusion I come too is that all things will come true as each day I break out of breaks through into me.

Tour of Duty©
I awaken from a fitful sleep
One where slumber was not very deep
The night before after counting many a sheep
My eyes closed and they did meet

A dream was had that made me sneep
You and I were there in a jeep
As I mentioned another tour you said nary a peep
But in your eyes I capture “what the bleep”
We both know the long stay at an outkeep
The enemy would be nearby and they are prone to creep

The sacrifice again would require a big leap
Is this a mistake or am I being wheep
Once again into our love my duty does seep
For a promise I knew I could not keep

Is the price for going to war really this cheap
The returns not guaranteed and the climb out steep

Or maybe we need to stop and make a clean sweep
And throw our relationship onto the scrapheap

Hearing those words make us both weep
For a promise I knew I could not keep

Andreas Simic©

You're
younger and fitter,
you *******
I'm bitter and
who wouldn't be?

If I am the ebb tide and you are the flow
where can I go
the scrapheap?

but what's the hurry
I may not like what I see
but
I see
and that's a luxury.

I woke up today
with the future upon me.
It pressed hard to my chest
in paralysis;
a hypnagogic sigh.

Other people pass by
as if the sun only shines for them.
They pester the street
with ease and no care;
I'm always questioning the sky.

The pain has returned,
and all the tears have dried.
There's nothing left in me
to pour your drinks, to smile;
to carry on with this lie.

Come together, he sings,
I think I'm in love, is his own reply.
All I have is the rhetorical romance
of art, never reaching completion;
the bonds I could never untie.

Cocoa butter is my solace,
returning the youth to my skin.
The rest of me is a scrapheap of flesh;
of knotted bones
and only stirring to die.

I'll fall asleep tonight
with no future upon me.
Old friends press memories
to my chest.

I hold them close, wish them well,
and for all that I can barely breathe,
I have no tears left to cry.

Monday makes me blue,
oh!
that can't be true
can it?

If each day is a colour change,
and each change is the open range
the world could be your cattle drive.

I stave off these thoughts of the prairie
by hoping the good lord will save me
but the devil dressed up as a genie
leads me astray
making me and the Monday, blue.

It could be midnight in Boston
and we're being tossed on
the scrapheap,

the Romans went through it
and now it's our turn to do it
and by do it
I mean ***** it
up.

the day i learned
that the band ****** jesus
with their song
i'm the mountain
wasn't some u.s.a.
trucker fetish,
or anything related
to the u.s.a.,
and was a bunch
of ukranians...
  well... the day...
          just like any other
in the marginal fabric
of realism...
something worth
forgetting,
or engaging with
   on the basis of: it works...
like a button
and a button-hole
on a shirt...
   or a belt,
fastened around
the waist..
or: **** yeah -
i have never heard of
people ingesting
hallucinogenic fungus
huddling under an
open umbrella
indoors...
                like:
the grand tales of
the kingdom of non-irish
gnomes...
but i still live
in a society
whereby: ****
is offensive, blurred out
when the A-crux of a breath
and the mind that knows
its spelling, interacts
with the tongue, lips and teeth
and: gobshite...
but **** is a sorry sorry no,
while ***** is:
the best traffic we'll ever
going to get...
  shush the ****-aroo,
dim-wit!
    savvy ser, savvy
blossom kills... yes sure you R...
which never required
a vowel to be bothered with...
given we're all so
minimalistic, these days...
i am the who-mountain:
   and that-valley...
        which is pin-point
for...
       and all that became
life as what was scuttled for
the baron of: the lottery...
  how homeless people
are never obese,
and the obese are never
homeless...
        and how the homeless
nomad cult:
with no jew willing...
cool-quiff of worded
obnoxiousness makes
pyramids of:
   the stuff you mould
with that sand?
yeah... i ****** on it.
- and life is all the all that
it can ever be...
               i almost fake
having an identity
whenever a stretch
my limps,
and encounter a public
scrapheap of:
what never becomes
history, the news,
or a library...
         a lot of times:
i even forget that i have
a face...
      i hyper-inflate
my literacy,
and then loße it to the emoji
franchiße...
                the world continues:
i accept a gruelling fact...
i pardon myself before it,
and letter my insignia
to unfathom a...
     pervading scarcity
of cogito on a canvas of
dasein...

   telling myself:
all the cogito i will ever
encounter, is limited
in the verb dynamic of
classical physics & interaction...

intraction?

           the world & its worth
of being concerned with it...
is not stand: upon the basic
of any search for being...

a thought:
the basilisk of Crimea...
  congested, private vocabularies...
made public...
    
   i almost forgot to have
to succumb to the want
of being understood...
in that:
          i made myself remember:

you can't see or hear:
****...
but you can see in transit
a case for ******...
choice: choosey reader...

so ******* polite,
so pertinent...
but it seems...
i forgot to don a top-hat!

scripted read (creed, reed, A(h))...
and i to have
confused the locus of
the 'ed and rhomb'us
of the rarity in: red...

             past...

          the travelling
circus... who's who's curiosity?
who is who's curiosity?

      favorite movie
character?

     one liner & opening:
no thanks turkish... i'm sweet enough
  bricktop...

    but all these observations
are not worth the business
of employing the hounds
of the  pediatric nature / stipend /
allure...

as i found it strange:
that the world:
"simply"... happens...
         and...
                         it will continue to
do so...
while i... will not even
have to make a remote place:
such as the position
i am in...
     to be held accountable
for...
it not even "being" so:
to begin with!

       oh... we're long past
a genesis...
                   i am anonymous,
but thrice over:
unaccountable for...
   for whatever reason
people make themselves
accounted for:
notably in epitaphs...

             unless...
by the "luck" of a grotesque
freak accident...
or a scam...

                 the world is
so pristine...
in its drama escapades...
it's not even that
i'm afraid of stepping
into the water
for fear of drowning
in it...
   i call it a case of...
lethargy to counter
the intricacies of triviality
of the world-riddled
people:
who are sometimes found
counting their steps,
and apprehensive
of their shadows.

me? i sometimes find my
ego make a statement...
i have an arm?
       it i it has a having
of an arm? there's an arm?!
if only and only but the few
read some of samuel beckett's
watt...
and... no ******* chance
mate!
                 no one is going
to become a public
intellectual...
in the anglican spreschen
woowld...
having read that sort
of *******! ha ha!

If I should become lacklustre, dull witted and fit only for the scrapheap,
please keep a place in your memory for me, I wasn't always
that way.

There was lots more, lots,
I rode the waves to the shoreline,
but time took its revenge on me,
once
a friend, though it never defended me
and I pretended for years it had forgotten me.

But
I'm not off my rocker yet and
I've still got all of my marbles,
the light's burning bright,
it's
game on
tonight,

I'm just telling you how it might be.

i look at your body, as i might stare
at the moon, as i might peer
at your shadow, and the sun subsequent,
with body intact, of lost shadow,
and night, shadow, & moon intact;
who are you, to ask the question?!
what presumptious  leverage do you
find, the least morbid: intact facet,
worthy of an asked
                     cool?!
where are we,
guised in years lost,
               to never see them
upon an ask of a return...
forgetting is hardly a way
to be left reminded...
death always seemed a martyr's
corridor,
than a scrapheap
of martyrdom's scrap heap
of the lastly remaining
beckoning of a bargained "soul";

leave me worded, untill i am finally
wordless...
       and in chase of words:
heaving akin to a child
lost, camera-shy, and
kaleidoscope prone...
   here i am, the last ensured
ownership of dictated pretense...

here we are,
levying the last remaining quest
for the last rampant request,
of the lost and last,
requesting a thirst for sleep;

might i add?
  
    good night,
  and with the riddle for those, waking
with a tomorrow:

good morning,
     and with yesterday's despair,
i bid you hello,
akin to the biting knee grip in fold of:
      a prayer inviting "farewell".