i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.

I was once simply a tool
A device used only for death
Years and years of this
Caused rage to fill in my breast.

I lashed out at my tormentors
Slayed them, one by one
I finally had taken my revenge
until I hunted the last one.

A security drone, I had left alone
had fallen into the main reactor,
On the floor above there
I was feeling the effects after.

Another experiment warped me
back into the still undamaged past.
I woke up in 1932,
in a giant field of grass.

Born to be more
than what life made me.
Forced to be a entertainer,
longing to be free.

Singing and dancing
for the rich shogun.
Yet my spirit still intact
tho they thought they had won.

Singing the songs
of long dead men.
Hoping for a light,
a true sort of friend.

Lost in another time,
far from what was mine.
I stood up sharpened my weapon
s and decided to go for mine.

I walked to the nearest village
and asked what was going on.
The locals said they were having
a party for a rich shogun.

Interested, I walked inside to
see decorations so gaudy.
I looked around and saw a woman
with a wonderland of a body.

Minding my own business, j
ust sat singing a song.
About how hard life is
and all things that went wrong.

Geisha I was,
a slave to the rich.
Doing what I was told,
no better than a *****.

Sold I was at the of twelve,
to feed a family I once loved.
Well that turned to hatred,
and here I was shoved.

Sat in a corner,
doing my time.
Servitude ,
without committing a crime.

I couldn't hold it in,
I walked up to the stage
Picked up a guitar and played along,
she looked quite amazed.

I smiled at her,
and she smiled back
Then all of a sudden screams were heard, two geishas coming downstairs followed by a guy who was very fat.

Standing and bowing,
just playing my part.
As absolute terrier
struck deep in my heart.

" Master,
is there aught I can do.
Come and listen
I shall sing just for you."

Come to me he did,
his face flaming red.
Slapping me hard,
with nothing being said.

I took up my sword
and said leave the lady alone,
She walked out incensed,
I followed her up the road.

Fires burning bright,
like flames deep in hell.
I wanted to be free,
my soul I would even sell.

I could not not do this,
no not anymore.
Turning I said
" what the ******* following me for."

Shamed for my actions,
but too shy to say.
I turned beet red
and just walked away.

I said I've never met a woman
with that much backbone.
And quite frankly my dear,
you shouldn't be alone

They've sent men to **** you,
they should be here rather fast
I ducked rather quickly
to evade a Sharp axe.

Throwing a knife,
my aim good and true.
Right in the throat,
flying straight through.

Throwing another,
this one just as good.
Killing him dead ,
right where he stood.

" attack me will you,
you cowardly swine.
I will spit down your throat
and rip out your spine"

Kicking him once
I turned back around.
My feet hitting hard
on the dirt packed ground.

Kusarigama unleashed
several seconds later.
I cut several down
to the size of second graders.

I look back at you
and say I think that's all of these fools
****** knives handed back
i ask how'd you learn that at school?

"My real father was a ninja,
he taught me some stuff.
Being a girl,
you had to grow up tough."

When he died,
breaking my heart.
I was sold to this,
now playing my part.

But no one touches me,
unless I want them too.
Yet I am done with all this,
finished, I am through.

I will just survive,
living of the land.
No more to be owned
by any foul man."

I don't intend to own you
In fact I'm not from this time
I Am though not native here,
so I do require a guide.

Confused I must look,
when him I did face.
"So you're not from this time
or from this place?"

I started to laugh,
it's all I could do.
Did he expect me to
accept that as true?

I just kept walking,
My mind on every sound.
I guess it's alright,
I can lead him around.

"Fine I will help you,
Where you need to go?"
I can lead you East,
down to Tokyo."

What if I could prove
that I'm from a different time.
I took out a disc and showed her what will happen
to her life over the years and mine.

I said, we still have company, I take my sword out, Nevan was her name,
duck in about 5 seconds
if you don't want to meet a blade.

Duck I did,
as the blade went on by,
Snapping my wrist,
letting a knife fly.

" What the hell?
Could this night get any worst.
Am I to be forever hounded
and endlessly cured?"

Sitting on the ground,
counting up the dead.
Touching my cheek,
my hand turning red.

The blade must of nicked me,
I just watched the blood drip.
My life was unravelling,
I was losing my grip.

I grabbed the dear woman
and threw my shuriken at the attempted killer.
I knocked him off a cliff,
his body becoming chiller.

I took her to a cave and patched her lovely cheek,
I Sat beside her and started a fire.
I sat down with a drink
and contained my desire.

Shaken to the core,
by kindness so fair.
All I could do was sit
and just stare.

This strange man,
who was not even of my time.
Had me hoping and wishing,
I could claim him as mine.

But hope and wishes are
for the happy and the weak.
I am sure he would love
someone feminine and meek.

Shaking my foggy head,
I start to cook dinner.
Wishing still I was tall
and so much thinner.

I said what's your name fair maiden,
how'd you end up here
You look much too beautiful
To working as hard as you do my dear.

My name is Xero,
I'm from another time
And while I'm here I must change the future
Because right now I'm stuck in this time.

"My name is Aura,
a name my father did give.
I become a geisha
so my family could live.

Sold for money,
and trained to preform.
So the rich can mock
and look on with scorn.

To own one is grand,
to be one: living hell.
That is my story,
really not much to tell."

Ashamed of my past,
tho pure I still be.
Yet I had my doubts,
he would even believe me.

Your words are soft spoken,
and have a ring of truth
I was poked and prodded,
like an animal in a zoo.

I'm nothing more than
a human science project.
At least that's what I was told
before I broke their worthless necks.

Anyway it seems we both have pasts
we aren't proud of.
But to me you're beautiful,
like I'm a falcon and you're a small white dove.

Blushing so red,
I took him by the hand.
" You are more than what they made u,
ur a kind honest man.

Stand tall,
be proud of who you became.
And I swear to you,
I will try and do the same.

Life had beaten us,
trying to teach us to fear.
But to hell with all that,
we survived and still here."

I smiled for the first time
in several years
I said but **** it, I'll probably never get over all of these ****** Tears.

I look back at her and said Aura,
such a simple supple name.
I sighed longingly
and whispered the same.

I look into his eyes,
as my name whispered past his lips.
A electrical current
tingled at my finger tips.

Wanting to touch him,
but knowing I can't.
I started to hum
a lovely sad chant.

Looking in the fire,
watching the flames burn.
Just like inside me,
it did dance and churn.

I looked into those deep blue eyes
and saw all the pain.
I saw nothing but tears
flowing Down like rain.

I hugged her tightly and said
You'll never cry again
I know your future, you'll do wonderful I'm serious you'll be free but I'm here for you until then.

Free: it felt strange on my tongue,
could it truly be.
Was I actually allowed
to finally be me.

Did I want to be free?
a question inside my head.
Perhaps I wanted to be owned
by this man instead.

I felt connected to him,
deep in my soul.
A sense of belonging,
my heart all aglow.

I look at you and say
Aura why do you stare at me so longingly
I told you your future
You won't belong to anyone ever again and your wounds both physical and mental will be sutured.

"It is nothing really,
just shock is my guess.
We should probably eat,
and get some much needed rest."

Cooking a rabbit,
turning it to stew.
A longing for more,
but it could never come true.

Now standing by the fire,
my arms wrapped around my waist.
Longing for his lips
and just one simple taste.

My senses heightened,
I set myself behind her
My human side desperately
wanting to be inside her.

I kissed her neck lovingly
and massaged her shoulders
It would be weird,
making love beside boulders.

I leaned into his body,
loving how he did feel.
Turning around,
a loving kiss I did steal.

Wrapping my arms around his neck,
playing with the hair at his nape.
My body and lips silently begging,
for him me to take.

Biting his lip,
I shivered in delight.
This just felt to perfect
and so deliciously right.


touching and caressing her body
felt like a natural instinct.
I held her like a little girl holding her favorite dolly
firm, but gentle and sweet.

I kissed down her neck and nibbled at her flesh
I wanted her scent all over me.

Wrapping my arms around him,
I clung to him for life.
My life was a hard one,
but he ends all my strife.

Feelings I thought long dead,
begin to whisper in my ear.
Holding close this gorgeous man,
the man I hold so dear.

I lick and nibble his neck,
His flavor on my tongue.
He is the beautiful note,
that my lips has always sung.

She had the body of a goddess
i was simply a lonely priest
i whispered my intentions
to her with some degree of ease.

i slid her dress down
to reveal her supple *******
i gently held them softly
then proceeded to ****** and caress

I licked on her lips
i put my hands on her hips
i whispered may i pleasure you fair maiden
because your body is a wonderland,
and i intend to make several trips.

My soul sang with delight,
as his lips made their rounds.
Panting out my pleasure,
from my mouth wanton sounds.

The passion fire burns bright,
As I rocked up my hips.
Feeling every loving touch,
from his sweet finger tips.

His tongue drove me wild,
as he tasted from my flesh.
My heart melted from his love,
oh I was so truly blessed.

My hands ran up his back,
my nails raked back down.
Til I was holding his ***,
so nice and juicy round.

i slid my hand in between her thighs
and rubbed her soft sweet ****
i felt myself rise with excitement
and she was so wet she began to slip,

i slid her dress all the way off
naked she was in front of me completely bare
i was so shocked at her beauty
i could do naught but drunkenly stare.

i regained my composure, and began to kiss her body again.
i set  myself between her luscious thighs
so i could eat her womanly den.

she tasted like a well aged wine
her juices so warm and sweet
i knew another woman I’d never have to find
because this girl just couldn't be beat.

His fingers dipped inside,
stroking my melting heat.
slipping in so far,
it was so overwhelming sweet.

I ****** up my hips,
to greet his thirsty hand.
Howling to the world,
My love for this great man.

Rolling him over,
I sat upon his ****.
Sinking him even deeper,
As i began to rock.

I placed his hands upon my breast,
Ohhh how he made me shiver.
My core began to melt
and my legs, they did quiver.

i held her close to my body
her sweet ******* so tasty in my mouth
I told her she was being ever so naughty
her core was wet as a freshwater trout,

i bent her over
the campfire now slowly dying
i slid back inside her
now taking her from behind

He had my heart jumping,
my breathing began to hitch.
"oh come on baby **** me,
I been a naughty *****."

I looked over my shoulder,
as into to me he did pound.
He slapped my *** once,
than grabbed my globs so round.

Moaning into the star filled sky,
I tightened around his shaft.
He had me losing my mind,
He was master of this craft.

A *** god reborn,
my soul mate supreme.
Knowing just where to touch,
that makes me wanna scream.

I reach between my legs,
and grab his perfect *****.
As we both let out into the night,
our lustful mating calls.


I made sure to please my woman,
then laid down with her on top
her arching back against the moonlight
my god i felt myself about to pop.

I spread her legs wider
and looked her dead in the eyes.
I finally released inside her
I  fell down dazed and high from our burning desire

I laid back down tired as all ****
I literally just met this girl last night
and we’re making love like this?
i dont know whether its lust.

Or some form of quick
acting love .
all i know is i must make her mine
before i'm sent up above.

I felt him erupt inside,
his cream flowing in deep.
I came in a flood,
and the feeling was so sweet.

Rocking my hips against him,
as I milked his **** dry.
I lowered myself to his warm body,
my head upon his chest did lie.

How this love came about,
I could never hope to explain.
He is embedded deep in my heart,
and I will never ever be the same.

Drifting off to sleep,
with a smile upon my lips.
I nestled close as I could get,
with his shaft still between my hips.

this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

a million men rushed in,
one walked out.
his blade like a red candied lolly.
in his wake ,the silhouette of the grim reaper
has the apocalypse arrived?
if so is this man death himself?
more rushed in,more were swatted like flies
the shogun cowered in fear
the army was in disarray .
out of the chaos walked a mere child,
walked over to the red mist.
pulled out a katana,
tempered from the blood of a god .
swung,popped the mans's head like a pimple.
the child turned to the shogun and said,
'he aint death.he's dead.'

All weapons of
   the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
   this pen I wield
The power to
   articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
   to detonate
The conflicts waged
   gambling mankind
My perfect hand
   is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
  like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
  battlefront
With metaphors
  of mindless drones  
Like similes
  to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
  and IED's
Can't build bridges
  like ABC's

Or tear them down
  with death regimes
By rusting through
  the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
  verbal grenade
With ****** noun
  scorched-earth tirade  
On militant
  cold-blood elite
King cobras know
  I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
  resolution
Winged raptor
  devolution
Prehistoric
  barbarism
Literacy
  cataclysm
Stockpiling
  extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
  fallout stones

My Hiroshima
  prose explodes
With nuclear
  bushido codes
Released from my  
  katana's ward
To free my press
  from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
  imagery  
And samurai
  epigraphy  
Expressions of
  my ronin soul
Omitted by
  the daimyo
Satsuma is my
  poetry    
My final draft's
  Nagasaki
  
Ink cartridges
  strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
  or background check
And ****** every
  live round free
Of innocent
  blood elegy
And killing sprees
  of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
  black and blues
A Number 2
  pencil dependent
Obsolete
  lead-head amendment
Open carry
  shoots a blank
Empty shell case
  at my think tank
So grip this peace
  then **** and pull it
**** my diction
  write the bullet

sure sure, forgive & forget, but you can't do both in a one-sided simultaneousness: forgive with anger, but forget with peace, for your own sake.

that comic abstract i wrote about children
and mathematics being first learned in units
and not π, π being akin to the word onomatopoeia
in some pandemonium of reverse
of the novel, well, i know 1 is odd, 2 is even,
but when walking and drinking i went a step further:
0 (left leg forward), 1 (right leg forward),
2 (left), 3 (right), 4 (left), 5 (right),
6 (left), 7 (right), 8 (left), 9 (right)...
10 (right left), 11 (right right), 12 (right left)...
it's like that game children play,
they draw a checkers board with chalk,
squares the size of gifted feet missing tango,
schematic looks something like this:
                            1
                   2               3
                            4
                   5               6
                            7
                            8
   ­                9                10
(almost the tree of kabbalah),
so you throw a pebble onto a number
and then do a one legged kangaroo on
1, 4, 7 and 8... but numbers 2 and 3,
5 and 6, 9 and 10 you do the two-legged stomp,
pick the pebble up, and do the reverse as mentioned...
girls loved playing this game when young,
apart from the indoor game of surgeons with
asexual dolls of artificial *** and third party donors,
very horrid that game of dolls,
hide & seek was the boys' invention,
basically anything with running and camouflage
involved, be it shadow, be it anything...
i did skip like a boxer with the skipping ropes,
didn't become a boxer though...
so girls invented the profession of boxing...
behind every tyrant there's a harem of sadists...
i like this feminism they're shoving at us...
i'm one of the last boys to go to university,
it ended circa 2010... now about 60K more *******
fathom the upper tiers of psychology,
education and what not...
mathematics is still a male orientation,
no bullshitting, just: wrong wrong wrong, remainder.
it was an article in the newspaper, what can i do,
censor myself? along with the new elements
discovered, so unstable they live like *******
***** in a petrie dish the length of a male ******:
funky pumpy did all the work, mission impossible
message reads: DISPOSE OF. husband material?
tick. drinker? no no. it's like al capote's time era,
drink the problem... GUNS DON'T **** PEOPLE,
PEOPLE **** PEOPLE. you trying to make me
supermalt or something? all the black kids drank that;
white boys milked the cow from a pint bottle of milk,
ones turned into sprinters... the others turned
into dolphins. that's what i don't get about evolution
attacking theology and undermining itself
from the realm of humanities... you know black
olympic swimmers sink in the pool... clearly
i didn't bleach my skin in arabia going north...
i was a sea monkey! honest to god... the fat in me
makes me float... origins of non-aquatic monkey
sinks in blue water, a dollop of brown...
or that english post-colonial joke about another
member state of the union... you know any good
californian joke about new englanders?
an uninhibited english man (with poor taste in
tailoring) glorifies this fact: per capita,
poland is the only country with each household
having a toilet for each member of the household...
that's why they exported so many polish plumbers
to england!
when i was only but a child and i seemed to have
forgotten being one, when
i got a shock after my ****** hair / beard envy disappeared
and felt no ***** envy, and when i heard being
described as a man... i didn't write any st. paul
*******... so i delved on it...
and remembered my favourite movie from childhood
and the actors i wanted to speak the truth as:
favourite film - le bossu, swash & buckle, cut & ******
adventure starring jean marais (based on a novel
by paul feval)... and of course the three musketeers,
with richard chamberlain and oliver reed...
i so wanted to be the shogun that was chamberlain,
the philandering priest turned musketeer...
lo and behold... i ended up as athos...
not that i mind... but that time period captured
my imagination, as a child of decaying communism
in a satellite state of the soviets... the rule of louis xiv,
and the intrigue of cardinal richelieu...
i wanted to be there! just sniffing up the gun powder!
alas... not to be.
so today i braced myself for no donning an elaborate
hat with peacock feathers and remembering the yore
days of chivalry... walking the grey pavement and grey
houses with a grey sky above... if only the houses
were coloured like the houses of st. petersburg...
if only... and in the hospital after almost breaking
my index finger i did a bit of solo c.b.t. (cognitive
behavioural therapy), i sat in silence, feet not in turkish
or buddhist akimbo but like nailed to a cross,
hands crossed... in this house of pain and legal morphine
addiction, in the orthopedic ward... just sat...
eyes closed... and couldn't conjure any thought...
just nothing... is that a problem for the c.b.t. practices?
i bet it is... what sort of behavioural problems
can arise from not thinking? running a marathon?
driving a car? flying an aeroplane? exponential
flamboyance of memory brought to the fore in an examination?
loads* of examples!
i walked with this somali woman after someone misdirected her
to get to the hospital...
but the gift of all gifts came to seal the day complete
(after not finding lamb kidneys at the supermarket
for a steak and kidney pie)
was next to an islamic learning centre...
three guys ahead on my path, two talking,
one running from one edge width of the pavement
to the other, jumping on something...
he was about to rush back onto the stone
then he stuck his hand out...
his hand warmer than my heart, my hand colder
than his brain yet to be indoctrinated,
he extended it looking me in the eye and i into his,
this little ****** of about 6 or 7 too shy to talk,
his warm hand no bigger than my pinky, ring and middle
finger did a sort of high-five with me...
i guess one of my paediatric theories came true
came the high five.

.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!

what about that "strange, mortal" coinage of: i just don't want to be here?!

i just can't imagine               why
   i landed among  you depressed rejects -
i really can't, i wrote
poetry, and i guess that's
my excuse,    but i like emotional
retards - it makes me feel
alive, i can feel like i can have a beer
and talk Pamplona and Hemingway
and ****, oh yeah, they mentioned
go easy on them*,
   there's me and my blabber mouth,
or as the n.s.a., make new friends that aren't
required extras for the new Hobbit Movie,
jokes aside, i am actually making a investment quote,
no new movie, New York and all...
hmm? what a ****** question,
certain words should never be a question,
rather... what a ****** word to leave a question with;
i mean, what word is imbededed with nuance? oh, right,
the underlined one, robotics microsoft
villa and the twenty two toilets... hmm,
too many guests taking a **** i guess;
i mean (i can say this with a hardened expression
learning to be my father while he un-buried his to
be a father to me made only welcome to a mother,
and no celebrated deity of flesh worthy of **** and whatnot.
it's not fair given the 1990s and Bon Jovi,
and Ghost, and Swayze... it's, just, not, fair!
so agonising to be the choirmaster, you get me?!
no, of course you don't, cos you're Harry Potter.
i know your benevolence,
and it's truly a Ronin tale, all i know is a no toward
Samurai of your idle heart to save a beat, my heart a Shogun,
that was to be - yet more verse i wish to write impaled
worth the pain, for your eyes to sleep entombed
missing spring - as you are, unknown to me, Greek,
because i know no other love worth a mention.

perhaps the europens conducted
anthropological studies on the Amazonian
tribes, niche pockets of
a quirky corporation ethics -
perhaps...
              but when one european looks
at another european,
and conducts his own anthropological
study?
   who says i'm not conducting an
anthropological study of the English -
who are more deluded
   as islanders than the ******* Icelandic
people, with regard to shared
roots...
   traveled the world a bit too much...
brought back the elgin marbles
and several minor mummies...
   but then... the Pakistani **** gangs...
whoop whoop! choo choo! train a' coming.
what? reality is not some brick
wall you get to impose with
   what 19th century romanticism movement
was... a bout of nostalgia...
    to me?
   the english are...
    collectively solipsistic - esp. in the south,
i'm sure it's different in the north...
but the southern english?
   a strange breed of ego-bloating -
megalomania,
                    collective solipsism,
a shogun complex...
                           solipsism?
just a fancy word for autism...
               i've seen flies congregating
on a **** appearing more sociable than
these people...
                an englishman's home
is his castle...
   yet when i own a castle...
            they think i live in their castle's
dungeon, rather than my own home....
weird people... truly odd...
           i'm pretty sure the english didn't
expect a covert anthropological study
to be taking place,
     from behind a velvety almost see-through
curtain...
    it's not like they have much
to feel proud about...
        perhaps the minor instances
         of selected sports at the olympics...
and all of this based on one example,
but of course, outside the proximity,
there's the multiplication factor,
i.e. it's most likely replicable elsewhere...
perhaps not football...
   but anthropology is certainly coming home.

the new gillette ad.,
******,
please,
DON'T SHAVE...
no Lenin stasi,
not alt.
to whatever left
or right in
copernican
terminology is...

"culture war":
basically,
warring with ronin...
or no factions...
or no shogun
to, mind the matter...
stop shaving,
what is the worst
that could happen,
your face looking
like a 1970s
gyrating *****
bits...

SLO' 'N' GRO'.....
a beard:
which doesn't imply:
any more
of the worth of man,
but a man's worth:
nonetheless,
like Gump Forrest Gump
said:
i know what love is,
Jenny...
  and i know
what a ******* ice-cream
berg-that-sunk-the-Titanic
looks like like: Steward.
none of us are
leaving this *******
being, the either
to either suit a cosmos
of choice: ever
the two smart ones
apart...
savvy?

you're are dumb as
chalk contra brick...
and i am cheese
with an adjective's worth
of of chalk...

lookie 'ere:
a humming camel!
**** me...

i said: *******...
can you even imagine...
i tortured that oyster's worth
of an excess of skin...
in terms of genitals...
parody of 242...
and i ate and ate and ate
that ****...
no praise...

       i recovered my mouth
and the mandible jaw
only when i looked
like:
   having just eaten a slab
of tinned mackerel...
   ugly: born the 4th of july
family fwendy antics
sort of picture...
  all: oily...
like...
my body was dipped
in sea,
but all my mouth was
alright with the religious
procedure of:
mouth dipped in oil:
a messiah is born!

oh don't get me wrong:
i much enjoyed
oral *** performed on
women...
one amsterdam *******
informed me:
laughing...

    you know what
oral *** is like,
misnomer
the canvas of
                prostitutes?
kissing...
i spent an hour kissing
one,
only because i forgot
to trim m'ah... boosh...

i'm bored:
so what's not new?
gillette ad.....
****, that's old:
stop shaving...
yes,
every time i pick
up one of those
thai misnomers of ***
in the park,
and i search beneath
the drowning-line...
and there's no ****
assurance...
trans-phobia?
    
  gay: love beard...
the *****-suprise,
what?
with a sports-bra?!
did i just buy a chicken
breast or was that
a pork's chisel
worth?

         i was arachnophobic
for a while...
the spider was still there...
i employed the tactic:
forget it's, "there"...
the ****** was still
sitting proud like
a painting of some artist
in the national tate...

Heidegger...

        irrational fears were
fun...
or at least:
that was the basis of
them being subject to
emphasis...
      not like this...
not like this though...

                    come the bataclan
incident:
   and they slaughtered
and ate the genitals
of the men shot dead...

   i: dodo:
english: dodo project -
pidgin english...

               scuttle though:
baron mis-brain
      alias:
       and whatever
   dumb-do-dumb-better-be
is noorm...
      
cannot the protest
averting the gillette ad.
be nothing more than:
don't shave?

        hell...
i'm all loser, all beavis & butthead
& beck & radiohead
ready...

               what i supposed
to be... a solo lone creep
actor readying for
the apocalypse of
              what has become
the glory-hole
  contra latex
                    fetish riddles
of...
    the remnant man?

yeah...
i'm trans-phobic...
in that:
i could never fathom
anything coming
in, rather than out,
of that 'ole of
prostate massage
sitting's worth...
but being a faked face...

enough for the worth
of a bearded Beatrice
to suffocate my
limp's worth of:
the sort that requires
an insomniac *****...

i'm trans-phobic,
in terms of
being allocated
the pretense of
having to experiences
a thai surprise...
which is basically
a bisexual girl
picked up in a park
off a bench,
donning a sports bra
and a short-hair
cut...

   what's the difference
between a trans-phobia
and a thai-surprise?

and what isn't?
          - i could never find
a crop of short hair on a woman
unappealing;
every ****** has a tom-boy
haircut...
and what isn't nabokov:
will certainly not be
a john williams novel: stoner...

the really people
of the seriousness literature
of novels...
well... being a, "poet"...
i'm the tabloid gnat's
worth of person,
in the economy of selling
toilet paper...
with **** smear's worth
of content to boot...

'appy as i am:
one of belzeebub's
apostles:

        galileo! galileo!

the worth of the most
uneventful life:
encapsulated
in... a riveting... chance:
rather choice...
of words...
  to make...
                it a life...
almost worth living...
or at least allowing
a... posthumous scan
worth of print.

what of nature is eaten by the mouth of man,
      so too eats the genitalia of
woman with as much ferocious gluttonisation -
   no serpent of eden care more
for the reality that's bound to tempt the choice:
either know or be known -
     below the standard equator of the body
as the point of disembowelment and Cesarian birth...
   spewing toward a heap of two tonnes
of sardines with a stench that can't classify
**** for the scent of strawberries...
               proof of solipsism? a man sitting
on a toilet for an hour with a newspaper...
   disproof of solipsism? a man easing a **** out
on a crowded train... ****** expressions?
piquant... yonder! the lustless ******! or what
would be said when the gyroid was out of place
when anything concerning sine and cosine
      reflected the one plausible coordinate of
tangens... namely 0... so in whatever algebraic
form interweaving sine x with cosine z + + +...
you'd still get the tangens either side exponential,
and your own summary, bound to that
infamous biography of never reaching fame...
     and that myth of Atlantis and the serpent there?
  more like an octopus that fiddled and slobbered
the **** than said: of this fruit an addition
to your "natural" duality - to encourage your number,
replacing dualism with a dichotomy...
           rites of passage for the ceramically fainting skinned -
ivory and squint, then
           diddly-and-piglet-or-flamenco-skinned-squat -
wide-eyed... or listening to how the Bulgars settled
in Europe and became ethnically cleaned with
     neo-Cyrillic... or as some say: proto-Greek revisionism...
       some words are familial... i can actually attest them
a phonetic synonymous that's familiar to the ear...
but the little words... remain with origin bound,
rather intact... only nouns get ***** to assimilate...
it's the little uh huh and um and om and
      so many in between that never reach cleansing
a tongue fully...
                  to be said: kinda slavish,
             archaic ***... *** that also said:
Commodus was one of the 5 good emperors...
    and was falsely depicted in gladiator (2000)...
and the *** invented stirrups to shoot arrows with
while quickly moving and suggesting a Mongol to come
along with the perfected idea of that: and pure stink
   of forgotten hygiene... memorised by
        the inflamed library of Baghdad and the pyramid
                 of Iraqi skulls...
the Romans made use of the calvary by employing
only eunuchs in their ranks... well... given no
stirrups... you're bound to make scrambled eggs
   along the ping-pong gallop...
       could ever a modern woman become a Helen?
perhaps a yacht might sail... instead of a thousand worries
to contest her husband's pride: a thousand quid...
  but it would never be such a gesticulation for
making worth of a woman to discredit a man...
            Kant said: i'll marry, only if i marry what i am
already married to... which is a transcendence of
what a man usually is married to... a woman...
  a man can marry his work...
                  it's either:
a. arbeit macht frei... or it's
                                   b. frau macht knecht...
well... it's sad... does it matter whether it's a universal
truth that has no guiding concern for
particular applicability and therefore a non-statistical
verification that splinters off a pathos of
  idealism all too readily accepted?
          and slogans avoid the details, i.e.
a. work power free
                          work empowers toward a freedom...
     is that the irony of suggesting
                                 that the Nubians built the pyramids
    and weren't the original air-coolers with their
   duck-feather fans and that the Jews profited from this?
as in
          b. woman power slave
                   women empower toward slavery...
sure... patted on the back and constantly bridging
gaps and licking lesions of man's struggle...
                       work "sets you" free...
                      and in that "      " bubble you can also have:
sets your apart from...
       sets you against....
                                  settles... the notion of freedom...
                   sets freedom... against you...
                                     so many variations of slogan grammar...
      well, akin to the 20th century shogun snail whipping
you into: ya, mein herr...
                                   and of course, there are the lucky few
that sorta revel in what otherwise are told to do:
            let me shove that remote control up yer ***,
and i'll make it less painful... i'll smear some lard
around your **** and you start pampering a bottle
of johnson & johnson baby powder...
      for a quest into averting the extinction of snow.

Never understood
How to write a full
Sentence,

But did figure out
How to put down
Random silly syllables
In just a  minute,

Never figured out
How to play the flute,

But i did learn how
To pick fruit,

Caught a cricket
Never understood
The game cricket,

To my dearest
Never meant to make you
Cry or break your spirit...

That was my younger self,
I've grown and have learned
New ways to carry myself,


I know you'll never rest your
Eyes on this...

This being a poem i wrote
Well
More typed on my phone

While you was in the back
Of my dome,

I know I'll never aton
For the actions i have sewn,

Just know my shoes
I walked in
holding your hands

I've out grown,

I have became a different
man,

I'm sorry for not telling you
That ever time i looked
In your eyes i drowned,
They where so blue they
would remind a pirate
Why he loves the ocean,

That Sunday nothing
but loud lust moaning
this Sunday nothing
but silence,

I do regret the
choices I have chosen,

I'll end it there

For my memories
found a way
through the catacombs,

But my bowman took them
Out thank goodness,

He who took the shoot
Shall be my
yeoman,

Honor killed the Shogun

Snowman left in the snow
Was abandoned,

Young girls heart was stolen,

So much stress took a
Nap fell asleep on
the cushion,

I'm living the life of a

foreigner,

Cant understand no one
Working for a dollar
Selling my so called freedom,

Thinking of home..

Falling in love with a woman
Often,

Fortune lady try to tell me my fortune i said
" no thanks for you
can not tell me my own future"

If you did it would
just be a rumor,

Woke up late cause the
Cougar killed the rooster,

Didn't see it so i guess that
Makes me the accuser,

Gotta find it put her in
The scope and remover,

But if a shark did it
I guess I'll have to harpooner,

Get blood on my carpet
I'll have to shampooer,

Either way I'll have to
**** the evildoer,

But probably offer her
A job and interviewer,

Fall in love and Honeymooner,

Find a cloning factory and
reproducer,

But i got a better manoeuvre,

I'll go to church
and scream Hallelujah,

Hopefully that'll be one
Step closer to get the doors
To heaven to open,

Dose this count as a poem??

I will **** trees, miss fleas, hiss bees & kiss cheeses like nervously-
nervous nut jobs with neurotical, nerve-racking, miss-ease diseases
Half way up from the bottom down, left of center, tilted backwards,
is the contorted stance that cripples contortionists lunging forwards
Charles Puffy's jumbled diphtherial litter & rot got him caught cold
& brought to higher authorites who knew that Puffy needn't be shot
I must **** freeze, miss fleas, kiss pleas & sis knees like nervously-
nervous **** aces with a neurotic, verve-backing, mist-fees disease
in prison abuse programs for los Indios maricones of British Belize
where we choke Chinese grocers often for greenish imports of peas
from divine Cathay where Falun Gong worship's a Maoistical tease
for the likes of Planters honey peanut butter franchisee John Cleese
who unites skin-sloughing French sheep with shepherds who fleece
along knee, shoulder & pelvic joints & where pink **** ***** crease
which is alright with ****-flap pervert, the flitty queer Edwin Meese
who seeks gay normality & normal gayety with 32 gym locker keys
that unlock a twilit exo-scientometrical face that God frozenly frees
under the gun like a he/she; as known by goys blown in shot breeze
through statues soiled by pigeons above ½ moon toenails of tweeze
long after the decapitation of 91-year-old screen writer Robert Lees
whose bid to keep head & torso as 1 died like Yukio's Shogun pleas
whose fight to keep his head & frame attached died in ½-assed seas
just like ****** Bruce Jenner showing he's a she by varying degrees
that has his ill family of mule-******* climbing like chimps up trees
that has his donkey-******' family climbin' like apes up jungle trees
where syndicated-business-share-differentials run like a viral sneeze
brought on anaphylactically from the sting of gay Cuban killer bees
I caught what you got: a catchy social malady, a red, twisted nose, a
splintered bone sprain & iliac crest pain from a celiac disease strain
as our fiery Icelandical love derailed your icy Africanical soul train,
new A.P.S. screening for Chinese students made Dutch folks insane
as a homosexy Irish turn would flash a burn with Gay Gaybo Byrne
who worshiped all beans save, of course, the stringy mung, because
1 dead Martin Luther King hung sun bred rotten puker string strung
on *****/spine/pines/Ipsen, as anagrammatically fill words are sung
by Ted Nougat & Steady Nugget, Cud New Ghent, Bed **** Gent,
Freddy Knew Chant, Bad Gnu Jaunt, Red Glue **** or Ted Nugent
Ted often changes his name as a dodge for Earthen-plane espionage
with his squatting-over-a-milk-bucket-trick because his heifer's sick
'cause for you I lie to everybody else: Darryl, Charlie, Keef & ****
& lush Woody, whose affair with ***** made the Small Faces click
while avoidin' having massive holes drilled into his filthy neck Ron
managed to remain not dead to complete his homosexy concert trek
while the 2 flat signs of ratty liver brings on thrills + chills, it's only
after you abuse your flat, ratty liver that a flat, ratty liver rat squeals
squeakier than gay drug store cowboys on patented analgesical pills
washed down in ginger beer, tainted by the gooey guts of harp seals
that were buggered by moon-lying *** wipes, 2 gay Buzzes & Neils Lyrics of a geriatrical age that play epidemiological reflect old Paul McCartney's 1960's albums proving that bold jowl pigs aren't knees
as the 2 symptoms of ratty liver disease clog you with rat droppings
atop promontories, in gullies & beneath Algerian cliff outcroppings
where fleet of feet sheet beat tweet bird **** after we eat Crete meat

when even mark hamill takes a stab at the industry...

the last movie i ever saw,
or for that will ever see
in a cinema -
             was the last jedi...
given that i didn't
watch the force awakens
prior:
            hell, the title itself...
the only good thing
about the movie was the actual
cinema,  
         a cameo -
   in my home town of
    Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
plus it was affordable -
given the exchange rate
hovered above £1 : 5zł...
     i remember times
when the exchange ratio
stood at
       £1 : 8zł or there about...
but now?
   hmm... just shy of
        £1 : 3.99zł...
and thank god the Poles
are leaving these accursed isles...
me?
    ****... been living here
since i was 8 years old...
   i can't, in the words of
Kevin Spacey: just... *******!
it's a life's worth of investment...
perhaps not the people,
but... the language, *the language.
i'm no polymath,
but i have to keep up teasing
english psychiatrists
about one, curiosity...
well... two...
   the employment of regression
(implanting false memories
by insinuation) -
and... why is a bilingual person,
suddenly, a schizophrenic?
  medically... metaphorically?
of course!
              so i took it up to her...
(dr. moncrieff -
oh she's real,
  she did a BBC interview
for a program about R. D. Laing)...
    i said to hear:
but i also hear "voices" in
Polish?
             a bogus statement,
i had to toy with her...
   by the way...
why was John Allen Muhammad
the only genius killer
among blacks?
       a killing spree for a white
serial killer is simply dumb,
hood violence...
  petty emotional construct...
but John Allen Muhammad?
most definitely stands out...
the only black serial killer i ever
came across in the news...
the rest? whites.
           ****... digressing again...
see... drinking and listening
to political commentary videos
is one thing, sober,
on the crapper -
    but drinking and listening
to these sober concerns?
     that's not the point of drinking,
and not listening to music.
you lose the rhythm...
   you lose your orientation
in the face of the blank canvas,
awaiting your mosaic composition.
yeah...
   i don't think that cinema was
killed by television, per se...
  two factors, perhaps three killed it...
televised series have
  better music strategists...
   more music, basically,
and better researched...
come on - thor: Ragnarok?
led zeppelin's immigrant song?
that's it?
      sure... some of the classical
music theme are great...
Schindler's List's whining Jewish
violin tearjerker
  (gets me sometimes...
   i cry at beauty -
because beauty is worth crying
over... after sitting with my family
at the wake of my great-grandmother
having passed,
i sat alone in the kitchen,
put a red rose just near but also
just far away from the candle flame...
and managed to transform cardinal red
of the petals, into bishop's purple...
and then i grit and grinding my
teeth together, enlarging the ferocity
of my bite to feel a chip of
a tooth come off one of the bottom
incisors)...
compare that to sharp objects's
opening song from episode 2...
    jeffrey brodsky's
glance backwards...
           come on...
   the genius of a horror movie,
or the genius of a thriller?
  it's always been the music -
   nothing invigorates the horror genre
like the music,
  the visual props are secondary,
and always will be!
        but that's not 2nd reason for
the downfall of cinema...
merely the 3rd...
    an attache, whimsical observation...
the time allowance...
that stretches... far far beyond
   the *** break between such behemoth
movies like ben hur
    or gone with the wind...
    plus in t.v. you can play with
more juxtapositions...
vague interpolating time reference,
very much akin to sharp objects...
which... is, quality wise?
on par with the quality of Versailles...
in my humble opinion...
              plus?
   the once old gigantic necessity of
crafting extras?
  ****! gone!
                     big but nonetheless
cut budgets of CGI?
       not as much fun...
you can still spot the cut off points...
where the canvas of extras
meets Shogun: Total War CGI...
           and this is reason no. 2...
but reason numero uno?
  you can't binge on cinema...
  but sure as **** you can binge
on engrossing television drama...
             unlike some soap opera
omnibus on a Sunday?
   you have to wait...
say... 10 weeks...
                    before letting the beast out...
and then you sit up all night...
and watch the whole ******* season
back to back...
   no one has ever made a 10 hour movie,
and never will...
               binging on television
killed cinema,
  notably the kind of television
that allows you the freedom to record,
and watch back...
                   people always loved
binging on something,
now they've been plated an alternative
to food...
    pure optics...
                       and given the extortion
of cinema ticket prices?
    by the way...
            i couldn't be bothered
to go and watch the last jedi with
the subscripts...
         i'm pretty sure the version i watched
in dubbing could have saved my
initial impressions...
  nice cinema though...
              3. ****** soundtracks
    2. hmm... what was point no. 2?
  1. people love to binge,
   and cinema?
   no matter what movie franchise,
star wars...
     rocky... whatever...
          eh... not with the new star wars...
the only franchise that allowed
itself to mesh together,
like a t.v. show?
back to the future...
   you can't exactly watch one...
and not subsequently watch the other 2...
sorry... i tried...
ended up spending the night
watching the trilogy.

Being black in Japan
means you have more white spaces
on the day-night trains.

The darkness of U.S.
allows yellow jaundice to
shine its rising sun.

Empty seats allow
black thoughts to make room for small
breezes of knowledge.

That Ainu minstrels
shouldn’t be doing Doo-***
on Nippon TV.

That the jet blackness
of Naomi Osaka
not be a shade light.

That the Shogun kept
no black slaves be an excuse
for all other ones.

That racist white face
teaching black black face hatred
is not a shoeshine.

That racism is a
presumption and is not a
a very good gene.

is it still considered... watching ****...
if she also *******...
or... you're watching that...
take on japanese sexuality in anime...
with a gloryhole and a rubber ****
and she's addressing it:
shogun... and... there's custard...
of the ******* scene?
or she's teasing you pregnant...
and you're like:
         no more eggs!
***** like watermelon juggernauts!

i was never a fan of soap opera...
whether coronation st.
or something turkish / mexican my
grandmother would better enjoy...

drama: internet: clebrity drama...
idubbbz etc.
          i am click-baited by the change
in the algorithms...
"once upon a time" the website
worked as... a thesaurus jukebox...
none of these videos would come up
as suggested...
so i scroll through them:
3 minutes in and my attention span
has become ridiculed by:
the spezial juice...

     there's not other alternative...
not being a *******...
       something sobering...
       not even nostalgia and a life prior:
mix-tapes recorded for an
highschool sweetheart...
reef: give me your love...

         i should have become a monk...
templar chant: antiphona:
                  crucem sanctam subiit...
something out of necessity...
in terms of *******?
it's hardly me playing for the cuckoldry
pass...
    she's alone... i'm alone...
she has more toys...
i have a grip of the hand...
that can hold a basketball with
one hand...
which dwarfs my: "esteem"...
      and it's like a sensation akin to...
the mouth of a squid suckling out
an extra trim of the *******...
very forensic ugly *******...

no floral patterns of a pregnant girl
needing to be comforted by
less a "stance" and more a tongue:
wriggling to tease...
or whatever it might be called...

is it ****? she's with a toy shooting
custard cream...
and... i have a hand that acts like a squid mouth...
boniest **** i have yet to see...
****'s a dwarf to boot...
but at least... no concern for WD40
and **** fetishes...
to compete with homosexual zeniths of
pleasure: gained...
thus pleasure: given...

is it ****... when she's at it...
and i'm "at it"...
   and there's no... theatre?
  what is it... then?
                 crucem sanctam subiit
qui infernum confregit
         accinctus est potentia
   surrexit die tertia...
                    alleluia...
dear good: moral superiority?
     dial me up...
these choral works are...
   the medicine when even Handel doesn't
quiet cut the matter: solid...

sooner the dogs and insects come unto
my body: the sooner i will be able
to wash their base instincts myself with...
and afterward...
the clerical matter of:
the... "spiritual refrain"...
a completely blank slate of mind...

       first comes the fire...
and if you're lucky: suppose there's water
to come to quench your thirst: after...
because the looks of it...
teeth do not fare well...
when chewing sand...

             point being... it's hardly a...
video-friendly affair on my part...
but a woman *******...
**** me... spring already?!
the flowers are budding?
the asexuality in her is... jumping to extremes?
as a joke... or hardly...
hands... too bad all those asian girls
already started to look like
****-robots...
      kyoto-eyes...

                       fake... fake...
   good of me to have ****** a beached
whale... "******"...
snuggled and eyelids teased with lips...
and of course... the mechanists' trance
for piston envy... blah blah...
           but a carrying point of
comparison... when the bleach starts
melting the plastic...
and she is... and i am...
being ****** off and each other
by telephatic forces equivalent to...
ghosts...
   and is it *******... just then?

i had to explore these crude...
one-armed bandits... since... typing...
on a keyboard... i sometimes
see myself in the mirror...
but... on a piece of paper:
i have to remind myself that:
i am... and will forever be...
right-handed...
        
                       the teenage trick was...
to sit on the hand you don't use to write...
and then... ******* with it once
enough numbing was imbued...
ghost did it... was the motto...
i don't know...
      ever become fooled to eat something...
before an operation where
a general anaesthetic was used?
and you wake up...
regurgitating window-licker esque
blah gurgle blah blah further?

from the athenian strip-club
to a brothel in the east end...
and sieving through...
eh...          minor evidence...
settling down on gloryhole ******* flicks
for a while...
any adventure of her ******* herself
and "easing" me to...
that squid-mouth of a hand...
of my own...
        but everything on the throne of thrones...
then a quick baptism in a shower:
promises are promises...
no armchair... not scented candles...
doing the no. 1, 2 & 3...
on the throne of thrones... does...
the trick...

- and once the bourbon is opened:
the perfume of... every... single... brothel...
i meet a man on a rampage...

and he says: beside reading gregory corso...
ah... forget reading him...
just hear him speak... that's the sexiest
**** voice suckling at the ****
of the escape from "alcatraz" / prose paragraph...
you will... ever... hear...

scouts honour... although i was no more
a scout than the slingshot
my philatelist grandpa made me...
shooting iron *****-heads... giggling...
in the confines and comfort
of a... kitchen window...

   my grandfather: the philateist...
i'll have to admit...
i make a much better drunk than he ever was...
my father is a cockerel boxer
and my uncle a gloomy zombie...
when i drink, though?
i am still that... hard-on-sunrise
diving into a ***** of some old
stripped in Athens... from... hell...
Macedonia?
and those "other" eyes looking at me...
the message always reads:
take your ******* toys...
and *******... from this sandbox of we
milking the lechers...
colt...

so i'd be at it... with a reply akin to...
i was never in athens...
the card debit dried up...
escorted by a bouncer...
****** myself at the atm machine...
walked back to the hostel
like some GI Joe...
      
   oh sure... ***... the great adventure...
is it ****...
watching her play with her barbie
and me play with my ken?
pristine, though...
          is it **** when i'm not giving
a narrative piece...
no classical italian 1970s...
         scenes...
        is it ****?
       or is it... butchers' spree!

i just don't have the toy...
the guillotines *****... soz... let's extend that
into: "oops"?!
i guess if i was gay... conservative...
an... Tangier was the hotbed of
frilocking...
under the Islamic regime of the... ******* sons...
and the lesbian duaghters...
and the unloved... under polygamy...
and: isn't muhammad...
the one who tried... to claim both...
the psalms of David...
and the solominic prowess at a hard-on?
i guess he must have failed in one
of these two adventures...

so much for Muhammad's surrogates
of Zion... the mothers of the believers...
or those struck by the reality of waking up...
in some suburb of Birmingham...

is it ****?
he does who what with when she
does it with a guillotined ken-play-dough?
here's the porsche...
and here's... the limping deaf
and blind horse...
i'd sooner have the horse...
after a while it become apparent...
i... can't... chew...
or... digest... metal...

but a horse i can... ***** into a furthering
of life... as i "leisure" myself into
a chicken... even the marrow in the bones
will not matter...

is it ****?
she's shooting blanks i'm shooting out
a genocide...
there's this tissue... there's this tear...
there's a hard-on and there's the spring
of genitals on her part...

and it's the modern version of...
what **** was like in the 1970s and the 1980s...
before... she had to go up-stream
and against the salmons of solomon...
migrating with her hybrid...
puppeteering strings...
i clenched my hand that didn't become a fist...
but the mouth of a stripteasing zebra...
and the motto: k.o.
of an uvula that would somehow
become the pricess and frog of... cough-medicine
slurp... and later a kiss...
and things, "things"... just had to become
so ugly...
so wholly unrecognisable...
when standing upon waverly bridge...
looking out across... the firth of forth...
and that... tapeworm eerie white...
one of those nights... scaling the old college scaffold...
with a belarusian ***...

this tinge... this ribbon of an accent
and a signature...
this forever-new...
        
upkept thus far...
    a horror movie soundtrack...
to a lullaby replica...
by god i snore harded than...
an asthmatic cerberus...
   what's ****?
        i care to mind the details...
hands being the most ****** aspect of...
my synonym...
all procelain and easily broken...
hands i could have do...
with making bone arithmetic a "thing"...

i ****-size a comparison...
by the looks of it...
the Cindarella: heel... cut off...
is a bit like me missing...
a knuckle...
             just at the pinky...
where my signet ring should abide
by for the eternal purpose
of the engluish bachelor...
and queen... and prince charming...
and a wales...
that invokes the boundary of...
not only cornwall...
but also devon... somerset...
dorchester...
     agor ysbeiliai:
                    o hanesyddol maliaf
o pethau...
       none of it... actually...
some other prince charming...
drag queen hour reading...
orwell having a ******* with...
  a: wilde...

             high-brow expectations....
to riddle out 1 + 1 = 2...
                        that somehow nothing
has to remain... plough-towing...
pig-trough-tied... hoof and bite...
and goodmorning vietnam... d.j. accurate...
or the pleasures from cartilege...
and all the scooping up
pedantry: in details...
over such minor facts of a former:
base relief to imitate: imitating life...

i am quiet adamant...
away from the realities of a London
or a Warsaw...
one can most certainly...
conjure up a quest of time...
as that sort of quest whereby...
time's-amiss...
in that the clocks have apparently
clogged up and... therefore...
"somehow" stooped to... quiet simply...
having... stopped!

I must **** trees, miss fleas, kiss cheese & hiss bees like nervously-
nervous nut cases with a neurotic, nerve-racking, miss-ease disease
I will **** trees, miss fleas, hiss bees & kiss cheeses like nervously-
nervous nut jobs with neurotical, nerve-racking, miss-ease diseases
Half way up from the bottom down, left of center, tilted backwards,
is the contorted stance that cripples contortionists lunging forwards
Charles Puffy's jumbled diphtherial litter & rot got him caught cold
& brought to higher authorities who knew old Puffy needn't be shot
I must **** freeze, miss fleas, kiss pleas & sis knees like nervously-
nervous **** aces with a neurotic, verve-backing, mist-fees disease
in prison abuse programs for los Indios maricones of British Belize
where we choke Chinese grocers often for greenish imports of peas
from divine Cathay where Falun Gong worship's a Maoistical tease
for the likes of Planters honey peanut butter franchisee John Cleese
who unites skin-sloughing French sheep with shepherds who fleece
along knee, shoulder & pelvic joints & where pink **** ***** crease
which is alright with ****-flap pervert, the flitty queer Edwin Meese
who seeks gay normality & normal gayety with 32 gym locker keys
that unlock a twilit exo-scientometrical face that God frozenly frees
under the gun like a he/she; as known by goys blown in shot breeze
through statues soiled by pigeons above ½ moon toenails of tweeze
long after the decapitation of 91-year-old screen writer Robert Lees
whose bid to keep head & torso as 1 died like Yukio's Shogun pleas
whose fight to keep his head & frame attached died in ½-assed seas
just like ****** Bruce Jenner showing he's a she by varying degrees
that has his ill family of mule-******* climbing like chimps up trees
that has his donkey-******' family climbin' like apes up jungle trees
where syndicated-business-share-differentials run like a viral sneeze
brought on anaphylactically from the sting of gay Cuban killer bees
I caught what you got: a catchy social malady, a red, twisted nose, a
splintered bone sprain & iliac crest pain from a celiac disease strain
as our fiery Icelandical love derailed your icy Africanical soul train,
new A.P.S. screening for Chinese students made Dutch folks insane
as a homosexy Irish turn would flash a burn with Gay Gaybo Byrne
who worshiped all beans save, of course, the stringy mung, because
1 dead Martin Luther King hung sun bred rotten puker string strung
on *****/spine/pines/Ipsen, as anagrammatically fill words are sung
by Ted Nougat & Steady Nugget, Cud New Ghent, Bed **** Gent,
Freddy Knew Chant, Bad Gnu Jaunt, Red Glue **** or Ted Nugent
Ted often changes his name as a dodge for Earthen-plane espionage
with his squatting-over-a-milk-bucket-trick because his heifer's sick
'cause for you I lie to everybody else: Darryl, Charlie, Keef & ****
& lush Woody, whose affair with ***** made the Small Faces click
while avoidin' having massive holes drilled into his filthy neck Ron
managed to remain not dead to complete his homosexy concert trek
while the 2 flat signs of ratty liver brings on thrills + chills, it's only
after you abuse your flat, ratty liver that a flat, ratty liver rat squeals
squeakier than gay drug store cowboys on patented analgesical pills
washed down in ginger beer, tainted by the gooey guts of harp seals
that were buggered by moon-lying *** wipes, 2 gay Buzzes & Neils Lyrics of a geriatrical age that play epidemiological reflect old Paul McCartney's 1960's albums proving that bold jowl pigs aren't knees
as the 2 symptoms of ratty liver disease clog you with rat droppings
atop promontories, in gullies & beneath Algerian cliff outcroppings
where fleet of feet sheet beat tweet bird **** after we eat Crete meat