I, so young, fruitful, and high
on the extravagance of life
spot the funkiest electric travelling
beat coming into sight.

The man approaches, asking me to
come and take a walk.
But to strangers I simply
tell this man I'm not supposed to talk.

The man says kind-like smiling all wide,
"I'm a stranger than who? A stranger than you?"
Slyly replies the stranger than I.

"And so you say that I may be strange
for my tophat and clothes have such colorful range.
But if these threads force you to think such a way
just look upon my beard growing so long and gray.
And just because you do not know me, it doesn't mean
that you should "no" me."

"Perhaps your are right," I say with delight.
"From what my eyes can see you are quite alright.
The strange is no more, not for you nor for I.
For my name's McGovern, McGovern's Pollite."

"It's so nice to meet you once stubborn McGovern!
I was born with the title Sicillian Summer!
But for short call me Summer, I go by no other.
Now let us adventure my newly made brother."

And off we went 'round the world and afar.
From Orion's belt straight towards the North Star.
The great majesty's sea pulled us out with its tide.
Thus, Summer and I were a universe alike.

But Time's Father's old ticker struck at such great speed
that Summer was old now and I was displeased.
For I did not want Sicillian to leave,
but my great misfortune was Summer's last need.

"Why wary McGovern, my grown younger brother?
I've shown you the way of Sicillian Summer!
My time has run out for what times's worth I wonder.
But don't you cry now, once stubborn McGovern.

Here is a token, a keepsake for you.
My tophat is yours for my life is now through,
wear it while jumping from the planets to the moons,
and all other moments, your life's lovely tunes."


...



Summer is gone now and I walk down a road.
Top hat tight on, bearing colorful clothes.
A young boy sees me from a ways up the road
and I can't help but feel for his being alone.

I approach the boy asking if he'd like to take a walk.
But to strangers the boy tells me he is not supposed to talk.

I can't help but wonder am I a stranger than he?
Surely he is not a stranger than me!

is there really enough genius bound
to speak in complex μαθ?
         among demons, angels...
geniuses... corpus miseria -
          and some other additives.
        it's a wonder, that it does happen,
ventures Newtonian, Copernican -
         but there's also that stance
toward language: whereby one reaches
a limit... because a marble-engraving,
like so many otherwise:
   bound to the fate of dust,
     those rising above it, settle in ornamental
celebratory guise... depending
on what's going to be the next finicky
cruelty... whether the wind,
or whether the talk of Parisian vogue:
primarily begun with anorexia...
    could it have been otheriwse?
models as sketches,
   skeletons for the glitter and paparazzi
blink... gluttonous maggoty-flesh
whirling in the bedroom: intoxicated
by champagne and canapes.
                 there are geniuses out there,
they do seek the limits of the human
endeavour... they use language of
solipsism,
       god Solipsus in his carved emblem
said so...
                 but there are also geniuses
who numb...
           when given language, one is given
utility,
             say: learning French, to do your
shopping, and learn French, to read a newspaper...
learn a langusge, and become as useful
as a hammer...
         well: all that's left to fathom is a care for
applause!
      but unlearning language?
                  can it be done?
    not because i wanted to become enigmatic,
not because i wanted the divergence...
       it came naturally, i paused,
and said: my limits are bound to be completely
uncreative, if that be the permitted clause...
                 as to how: language can become
dislodged from hymn,
                        from a letter (formal or informal),
from a petition, from anything invoking
a congregation...
     there's Einstein with his theory,
    and there's me... without such a theory...
  it's already trendy, labelled deconstructionism...
as ever: architecture in reverse...
                i can sometimes be bound as having possession
of a nation... i can fall into rank,
           i can be a political motiff...
i can circumstance everything on the "i am'',
have a thousand leeches suckling at me,
be prone to wavering and other subtler mechanism...
                 simply because: i have surrendered
myself to something that could never guarantee
thinking, as something worth making finicky...
             i trusted the convening of vogue,
to no testament worth reciting...
                      the labyrinth is already there,
                 question is: can i mirror it?
               so yes, there are geniuses out there,
who reveal hidden complexities...
             without necessarily using a said language -
                 death & the democratic ideal...
            throughout life and still honing toward
that one vote autocratic...
                                some even care for epitaphs,
as if chiseled in marble cares for distinguishing such
last words...
                           i have no competence to
   rummage in the a priori...
   man was always bound to create a safety
   in a historical certainty...
   a way to suggest: the carousel will stop...
               we'll find El Dorado...
                              and sure, mathematics
has the same punctuation marks
      as what is necessary to be a merchant...
i + pause            or i, pause...
                                       i could have written
a theory that might elevate man,
   but i decided to deconstruct language, whereby
i'd reach a limit, and find a 21st century
                                if there ever was one...
given the fashion industry...
                   it's hard not to see a need to plagiarise...
and so striving for originality becomes so
****** exhausting... you stop to even care for it...
                the herd is and always will be:
the dicta.
                           anything beyond it...
how we wake each day to the past, and this
persistent abortion, this panic asking:
   am i the flesh of those, kindred?!
                  take the crucifix, and it's glorification,
abstracting the tetragrammaton:
   worthy for those uneducated barbarians to be:
everything, and summary.
          have i the potential to mould a copper
effigy of a bull, empty, and place people in it
   and put the bull under a fire, and hear the cries
of agony, like some Sicillian tyrant?
                                   the title **** sapiens
came too soon... it's too immature...
     i can't grasp the argument counter:
herbivore                                        and on god's
green earth...                  the wet-eyed sheep -
  or dangling the iron maiden mould on the neck...
so it is... every, single day:
   i wake into a nightmare of the nagging man...
                   how did the third *****
create this ant-like subordinate race,
can anyone really comprehend such a congregation?
                               it's almost staggering,
that unison... that non-existent desire for
    the artist's own...
                                   no individual:
but a people...
                                       can that even be revised?
                 it does't matter...
                                    i can't imagine it,
having totally discarded the theological circumstance
   and embraced the completely natural
      slaugherhouse... as glorification of nature
   states: of god and the weakness...
                                    of nature and strength.
        and if the ancients spoke of a nonsense,
                             i cannot say anything more than
this hanging shadow of apathy.
              are snakes without eyelids?
                    transcript insomniac...
it's almost, as if, Islam is trying to rummage
in graves of ancients...
                                                 as if we are
sodden with apathy, and readied for an en masse
awakening, that's bound to Istambul...
                                 and if i think i'm writing
something contemporary, i'm always fidgety
when giving that fabled precursor that's history...
               i never know the schwab from Silesian.
ja... dicta esse noon, and anorexic shadow...
                                   and so begins,
alternative cursor... beethoven into kraftwerk...
             music in the elements...
from classical winded, into rhythm and earth
   and the bass and drum... marquise of raz, dwa, trzy...
            cztery, pięć... pięść... zex....
                       synthetic... gorgon siedem... decalogue...
                                              ginger root
Pomerenian... filthy blonde...
                                          chasing the Pruß...
and some say violence is a dietary equivalent of
fibre... or roughage...
                                    and i say:
           dogs may bark, dogs may whimper,
   but a dog will be more rational than
man with his god and his exclusion zone...
                      i feel:
                                               a fraction of
what's believable...
                                and thankfully: a moment
of being ingracious in feeling a common status
is enough... **** spaciens is a worded escapism,
it is never a fulfillment -
                             a marking worthy of universal
appeal...
                      it is man
                              trying to escape the rotations,
     it is man attempting to find a standstill...
          why bother though?
   everything is an inward continuum...
          man and his plumbing?
   plumbing, sure... darwinism and the big bang...
                     assured in finding the plughole...
            and a thousand convened ballerinas in
a tornado... silently: tip, toe, tip, toe, tip: tugging.
        branding cattle and prostitutes...
   i found more humanity in their eager whip,
than i found lipstick on a hankerchief...
                 and yes: kisses lead to bloating.
        i am glutton, meaning: am deutsche...
                               there are no germanic peoples,
          the

death to all, that guard it, with the penitence
of an aggrieved atheist;
sheltered ****, and the soft-pouch
bunny of the withered wish...
that's bound toward an americana,
and a hope to  reside in boston...
or at least in chicago.. from irish crumble,
toward the irish reside
of no to every forgotten loss..
and that be  a worthy surname,
i'll keep my italics, and regerttable sicillian,
with names akin to frederick,
and name of family being hohenstaufen;
it's quiet amusing
you do not hear of my name...
of what i earned...
    and subsequently lost...
    but that is beside the point...
beside the point, beside the matter,
beside the care that have earned
to be worthy a dream,
to count the current days...
people in my life have become
nothing but  dried out dates...
sometimes fruits,
but most of the times birthdays
i don't care to celebrate,
or days of oaths,
as son to a mother, or son to a father...
i can't be bothered,
   and i'll forget the need for both,
  in eternal remark: no father, no mother...
         but a god...
                           is that so much
to ask for?
ever the god apparent,
upon the relinguished stature for the claim
of son versus father,
   or mother versus daughter...
                    is not god the mediation between
son vs. father?
                        why cling toward
the gossip spirit? dubbed the holy?
   i defame the holy spirit, as the gossip
*****... and that's the end:
                justifiably jesus crucified.