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Victor Marques Dec 2009
From my heart to all of you
May every wish of yours come true
Keep up right and tow the line
Enjoy life, friends and good wine


Deep sea , deep sea,, deep sea,
Care and love for you and me,
Slovenia sings a great song,
Come on , come on , come on!


Flowers and fields are happy and free,
Networking with the eyes, i will agree!
People, networking is a great passion,
My wines, you and me a great combination.


Slovenia has got charm and care,
People are educated and fair,
I’m a dreamer under Slovenian sky,
I’m you friend don’t ask me why...




Kindest Regards.
Victor Marques
Tom Lozar Jul 2012
Gregor Strniša (1930-1987)
THERE WAS A TIGER HERE    

I
A bright spring rain fell the day through,
the branches drip, the sand in the lanes is damp yet,
the sky has cleared, slowly you go through the park,
the sun of evening haunts it, apparition-like.

In the illumined peak of the dark tree,
a blackbird sings and sings. The evening’s very quiet,
the sunlight turns wine red,  
and on the lawn shimmers a bronze monument.

Just then you find, in the wet ground before you,
the wide and clear and deep impressions.
The park is big, sun-striped, and full of shadows.
You start, go on, but  know: a tiger came this way.

II

You still remember well the day
when first you saw the tiger’s trail.
You had just woken and there it was.
Morning was like evening, full of shadows.

That was oh so long ago.
The night of that morning you lay alert in the dark,
then fell into a mazy sleep, like gazing out a window
and beyond it softly snows and will not stop.

You live as if not much had changed, really.
Soon after that morning, autumn came,
then we had the long, damp winter,
and wet snow covered a dark city.

III

You sit, elbows on table, you look out the window.
It is late afternoon, soon to be dusk.
Not a sound will come into the room now.
You think how outside the winter day is fading.

You see just a piece of the sky and a roof. It is red.
Likely the snow slid from it in the noontime sun.
In the last of light, the chimney casts a feeble shadow.
Evening will be leadblue, you think, and a little foggy.

You go to the window. A woman in white walks in the street.
Across the way a child plays in the sand.
A summer day flickers in the darkling trees.
Like a great, shimmering cloud, fades the summer day.

IV

Maybe not much has changed, at all.
Only in rooms where once you were already,
you fail to find a favorite picture on a wall,
now there’s only a pale rectangle there.

More and more often on your familiar routes,
tall, dusty horsemen cross your path.
Places you walked in day after day,
bronze, heavy monuments suddenly occupy.

And sometimes, entering a familiar house,
you find yourself in cellars stale and squat.
They were not there before, and huge snarling dogs
are tearing at their chains outside in the gardens.

V

So you live, you’re always off to distant places,
down foggy seas, up snowy mountain ranges,
you see so many new, so many foreign cities,
in whose small, quiet squares you love to sit.

There on the smooth pavement, from time to time,
Dark, broad stripes stand out in the slanting sun.
You find a stone, you weigh it in your palm,
you murmur absently, “There was a tiger here.”

But him himself you haven’t met yet.
Whomever the tiger looks at soon dies.
Always he pads before you through summer’s dark door,
Through foggy rooms under decembered skies.
(translated from the Slovenian by Tom Ložar)
Tom Lozar Jan 2016
My name is Tom Lozar. This is my translation of a poem by the Slovenian poet, Gregor Strnisa.

There was a tiger here

I
A bright spring rain fell the day through,
the branches drip, the sand in the lanes is damp yet,
the sky has cleared, slowly you go through the park,
the sun of evening haunts it, apparition-like.

In the illumined peak of the dark tree,
a blackbird sings and sings. The evening’s very quiet,
the sunlight turns wine-red,  
and on the lawn shimmers a bronze monument.

Just then you find, in the wet ground before you,
the wide and clear and deep impressions.
The park is big, sun-striped, and full of shadows.
You start, go on, but  know: a tiger came this way.

II

You still remember well the day
when first you saw the tiger’s trail.
You had just woken and there it was.
Morning was like evening, full of shadows.

That was oh so long ago.
The night of that morning you lay alert in the dark,
then fell into a mazy sleep, like gazing out a window
and beyond it softly snows and will not stop.

You live as if not much had changed, really.
Soon after that morning, autumn came,
then we had the long, the damp winter,
and wet snow covered a dark city.

III

You sit, elbows on table, you look out the window.
It is late afternoon, soon to be dusk.
Not a sound will come into the room now.
You think how outside the winter day is fading.

You see just a piece of the sky and a roof. It is red.
Likely the snow slid from it in the noontime sun.
In the last of light, the chimney casts a feeble shadow.
Evening will be leadblue, you think, and a little foggy.

You go to the window. A woman in white walks in the street.
Across the way a child plays in the sand.
A summer day flickers in the darkling trees.
Like a great, shimmering cloud, fades the summer day.

IV

Maybe not much has changed, at all.
Only in rooms where once you were already,
you fail to find a favorite picture on a wall,
now there’s only a pale rectangle there.

More and more often on your familiar routes,
tall, dusty horsemen cross your path.
Places you walked in day after day,
bronze, heavy monuments suddenly occupy.

And sometimes, entering a familiar house,
you find yourself in cellars stale and squat.
They were not there before, and huge snarling dogs
are tearing at their chains outside in the gardens.

V

So you live, you’re always off to distant places,
down foggy seas, up snowy mountain ranges,
you see so many new, so many foreign cities,
in whose small, quiet squares you love to sit.

There on the smooth pavement, from time to time,
Dark, broad stripes stand out in the slanting sun.
You find a stone, you weigh it in your palm,
you murmur absently, “There was a tiger here.”

But him himself you haven’t met yet.
Whomever the tiger looks at soon dies.
Always he pads before you through summer’s dark door,
Through foggy rooms under decembered skies.
judy smith Feb 2017
It’s an annual tradition that London Fashion Week opens every February with the newest of the new—the bang-fizz of The Central Saint Martins’s M.A. graduation show. These are the people who are destined to shape the fashion world—not least because they are talents gathered from everywhere. The class of 2017 has students from China, Taiwan, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Gibraltar, and the United States as well as Britain. This is just normal in London, a city that has built its reputation as a creative capital on the strength of talents from all over: all backgrounds, all nationalities. In the face of Brexit, and its possible future curb on immigration, London has its Muslim mayor Sadiq Khan, the city’s elected representative, who stands up for the vitality of diversity and interfaith harmony every day with his social media campaign from City Hall, #Londonisopen. In his words: “We don’t simply tolerate each other’s differences, we celebrate them. Many people from all over the globe live and work here, contributing to every aspect of life in our city.”

Nowhere will that be better demonstrated than in what’s to come in London Fashion Week. In defiance of dark times, its youth and multicultural camaraderie is about to roll out the welcome mat. Expect to see it coming from all directions, in kaleidoscopic variety. On the Central Saint Martins’s runway, there’s Gabriella Sardena’s wildly decorative glam-femme collection to look forward to, for example (she’s the one from Gibraltar). Day one, there’s also the opening of The International Fashion Showcase at Somerset House, where emerging designers from 26 countries, including Ukraine, Russia, Khazakhstan, India, Romania, Czech Republic, Egypt, and Guatemala, will put forward their viewpoints on the theme “Local and Global.”

Stand back for a blast from New York, too. Michael Halpern, one of the latest Central Saint Martins M.A. graduates (class of 2016) will unleash his first multi-sequined disco-fabulous collection in a presentation that is being aided and abetted with volunteer help from Patti Wilson and Sam McKnight, held at a posh venue laid on for free in the heart of St James on Saturday.

Fighting gloom with glitter is a London thing. Ashish Gupta, born in India, longtime London trailblazer for LGBTQ rights, is the king of that. Given last September, when he took his bow in a T-shirt emblazoned IMMIGRANT, admirers will surely be packing his Ashish show to the rafters. These times demand a standing up for pride in identity. Osman Yousefzada, more quietly creative, with his strong art-world following, will be coming out with a statement about his British-Asian roots: “Before, we were rarities, trophies and exotics from distant lands…some of us fleeing famine, war, or persecution,” he writes. “We were thought of as good labourers, businessmen and women—hungry, reliable and eager to succeed…and then some wanted to close the doors. Today, I bring you colour, opulence, texture, tailoring, a modern woman in different hues who isn’t scared to stand out and have fun, and embrace the beauty and difference around her.”

London is open to more newcomers. The Ports 1961 women’s show has relocated here from Milan this season. It’s actually a homecoming of a sort: This collection, placed on a woman-friendly lifestyle-centric wavelength somewhere on the continuum between The Row and Céline, has in fact been designed by the Slovenian-born Natasa Cagalj (also a CSM M.A. alumna) from a studio in London’s Farringdon all along. Two more “returners” to the schedule are Hussein Chalayan and Roland Mouret, long rooted in London since the ’90s, who are repatriating their shows from Paris.

It’s a whole London creative community picture, in fact—one that makes a complete commercial nonsense on every level of the “Little Britain” xenophobia of the send-them-home faction in U.K. politics. Cohesion and creativity, the welcome and support given to the newest, from everywhere—that’s the flag that flies over London Fashion Week. Scotland, Ireland, Greece, Austria, America, Serbia, Canada, Syria, India, Germany, Pakistan, Nigeria, Turkey, Ghana, New Zealand, Portugal—come one, come all, says fashion. There’ll be protest and prettiness, resistance and humor—that’s a given this week. Here’s glitter in your eye!Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
it's...
listening to metric - clone (2012)...
sipping a whiskey...
pretending to smoke a cigarette
with an unlit cigarette in hand...
the feel and the texture...
the scent of unlit tobacco,...

and then it's... contemplating...
british and "british"...
              and the caves... and... speaking
a language lacerated...
loan words...
   music of corvus corax... katrinka...
i would never...
listening to such music...
attire myself as: bwitish...
technicalities...
              the prefix will do...
                 anglo-slav...
                         like... those anglo-saxons...
but less specific...
because: you'd have to also call them:
   anglo-pseudo-germans...
          or quasi...
                        i'm not being
specific either... an anglo-slav i am...
a patchwork of guesses...
         serb? croat? slovenian?
       the yugoslav? ukranian?
           russian? czech? slovak?
                    i've just been listening to
some videos of nostalgia...
from the natives circa 1978 and...
nik nak paddy... old man... something...

to associated with the british...
to be british...
  do you suppose... there's a turk these days...
that would associate himself
as... an ottoman?
         i wonder...
         maybe the concept of empire being...
domino... connected by land...
and not scattered like the greek diaspora /
empire...

           the empire of roman?
weird... isn't it? to be surrounding a massive
salt pond...
            while the constant chance of having
your back turned...
seemingly protecting this salt pond...
yes... sea...

- i found the stare of love at first today:
but i was numb to it...
deer eyes of an indian girl -
darkened / riddled by the equator...
while i was... picking three kings of chillies...
some fresh coriander...
cumin powder... kashmiri powder...
and black cumin seeds...

    - i saw eyes and i also saw two
nuggets of charcaol...
   my knees left nothing of the sort of iritation
fo drop everything and swim
against the current like a salmon...

- come mid-thirties and...
   i'm starting to feel comfortable...
with the solo-project... the dodo-project...
looking for signs of: waking up
to what could have been an abortion...
or a genocide into a tissue, flushed down
the toilet: the horror of being circumcised...
without jewish or muslim...
social structures...
         it could be much worse... i could have
been circumcised...
i could have been born with
both a ****** and a strap-on *****:
seeking the ****** st. of tic-tac-toe and
a skipping rope of:
  that i have kissed a man...
that i have gorged on a *******'s
****** like a wrath and love of god...
that suckling to the **** didn't
pose a problem: got choc tinged teeth
and bitter-corn in between...
oh i'm pretty sure she wasn't in love
with me:
             a wry smile while i didn't
speak the "proper" native...

mongrel soul retaining a weird question
about who's who and who's a token
postcard on loan from...
lost from former forged empires...

on my way back home...
   i was... once upon a time...
that sort of guy... loitering... waiting...
making waiting... a ritual...
worth smoking a cigarette...
patience is a religion that's not invested
in peace to all: for all...
     first comes first...

nearing the magic number 35...
it's very sensible of me to state:
it's quiet impossible for me to share a bed...
with anything or anyone except
my shadow...
considering how when i expose
my shadow to sunlight...
mindless shadow pretends to have
eyes... when it crawls into my head
at night: when i sleep...
and tells the alternative story of
the day...

    to be wedded and with children...
one would most certainly need to be coupled
with prospects in one's early 20s...
after the mid-20s... well...
the boat's about to sail...
the solo- / dodo-project is...
  a bit like... with writing being concerned...
one's hope for a career in...
    a chemistry lab...
or the selfless-acts of hippocrates' students...

all very well to love children...
but... ******* them up...
never really becoming that...
nobel prize winning psychologists
with a break-through...
when the whittle cherbus... gremlins...
kritters arrive...
an over-zealous cat meowing / moaning
about curfew is one of those spin-offs
of madness...
talk to me about a babe crying...

- and yes... some people shouldn't drink...
their genetic disposition: ah ah...
their individual metabolism...
they never conjure up the amphetamine
(metaphor) ***** from the lullaby
zombied-out death-cult of sedation...
- and these same people shouldn't pick
up smoking a ritual tobacco stick...
even i venture to call it:
a bullet to the head...

  how is it... to become... selfless?
when... one... has become...
self-realized... past the groan of:
the facts... aged 25 and your brain
should stop... window-shopping
function suffixes... no?

i had an idea for a glove...
with a rubber-band...
to... restrict... the natural laziness
of the hand when walking...
but because i drink and only jargon
poor poetics...
in rage i ripped the rubberband
off my arm... lost to history:
lost to the void...
oh i know how that it feels...
would it have been of use...
i guess not...
     a bright idea in a bucket
of maggots and maggot ****...
is... about as much worth as...
a screwdriver is to a forest of nails...
chisel... n'est ce pas...
i was... asking: grit teeth...
soul... clenching... bizarre objects
of gradations of sharpening...
the obvious square-headed axe...
pulp...
      a whole rainbow of objects...
perhaps a scalpel is the last resort...

i smile because: i've turned angry into
funny...
who doesn't have the monopoly on violence:
well... i also do not have the monopoly
on c.c.t.v. -
   little help from coming from
under the iron curtain...
the local seem to be... all ah...
oh so detached... missing las vegas cousins
and...
if i could only allow you...
to allow myself... to fathom...
the maldives of my mind...
a drag of a cigarette... a bottle of whiskey
35cl... you start the bets...
who's about to...
      find prison in solipsism...
solipsism as a mental illness...
as an altruism: as a atheism as a...
genius maddy: spezial neds: youz callz
'em... quivering folk?
what'z that phra-phra-puccino?
    autist-spec:   ah yes! those rare breeds!
spazz-taculars!
i was one misunderstood for one of them...
i took the insult to the grave...
well... i took it to her grave...
by the god of the hebrews and by the mythology
of cain... from siberia came the huns...
the turks... the slavs and the mongols...
only germans ever came from
       afri-*******-ah-hahaha!
they skipped the toll of sanskrit:
the birth of writing...
why? it became complicated...
when beijing was founded...
but sure... a replica tux of skeleton came out
out... fringe kenya and landed in: old delhi...
as many consonants if not more:
down to the core: with the spices...
the unfortunate indians of north
america...
the somewhat fortunate indians
of: south america...
brazil: post-racial mecca...
argentinian beef and...
                             myths of nazis
living to old age...
                 no... oh no... i will not die...
first comes ol' lizzie then comes
my sodden sorry ***...
envelope of a missing postage stamp
of a world: we've been to the moon...
via new york and the leviathan london...
where's afghanistan cave fighting...
the pashtun women of... glorifying
copper and cinnamon / cumin and coriander
ash... and beauty...
how doesn't it sound:
the day the music died:
we sang dirges in the dark...
                 bye bye: may-pole luck with
christ: the advent of...
the crucifix is hanging... ornament piece...
but the... iron maiden isn't...
           it's enough to identify a god...
it's quiet another matter...
to torture him... and... sorry...
but if i were to be crucified...
   sooner me and the comfort of hands...
outstretched... than... hands-tied...
pushed onto a pole: to impale...
lost advent of etymology: slav...
and the lost "e" of paul...
to remind... the crucifix... well...
            to impale...
                       looks like...
the crucifix is missing limbs... it would take...
days... the arms that would be
flapping... agitating an imitation
of a swan breaking into flight...
the two lungs... imitating drowning...
while hanging... extended...
     to crucify... hardly: the affair of...
being... impaled...
perhaps joking: slav(e) gave the clue...
germans: whether orthodox
anglo-ßaß - celtic mingling...
    germs... who's eating what... "leftover"
etymological clues...
we can play this game... forever...
it's hardly the hebrew the original:
indu- prefix of... roaming... or not...
                      
guise them up as the exodus as the fomer
lands of Jagiełło...
the battle of Hastings: blip...
             who am i... but at least in england...
i can speak the language
like some conrad of masovia:
readied to sell the "lesser creatures"
for the... encouraged...
integration to the *****: kneel...
of the baltic pruß...
who weren't... coddled...
the welsh weren't coddled...
they were "told" to... brighten their
day to day... expand...
fathom the easily accessed seas:
expand...
who owned the monopoly of
the baltic sea: as if it were
the bosphorus...
beside... the danes?
expansion of: ****** come together
with a ******: breathing
h. p. lovecraftian h'america...
loot maine and call it... start:
bittersweet apartheid...
not me: i'm still half of Vilno...
and the most remote aspect of L'viv...
no... crusader songs... no crusades: per se!

i used to play video games...
i became... more fascinated
with the romance of: a lost year...
that the school re(a)d... it wasn't in any
fathom of an iota of red:
or a synonym in burgundy:
for the worth of the burgundians:
leftovers of the angevins...
that richard the lionheart
found a love for england...
the island... an abhorring testimony
of youth and no solance...
that old age never found him:
akin to: the needle never found
the mystery of the haystack...

i am not! lithuanian!
common practice of exodus polacks...
paul-lacking:
slav and "e" dribbling...
      like the germanic peoples:
who aren't lingua franca revisions...

    ⰏⰑⰣ     ⰔⰑⰂⰑ...

lingering "blame"... darwinism via
the default...
the monkey skeleton left africa...
arrived in india.. left a schism...
some went to хины
             some went to:         чeнa..

   anglican via: the great mother siberia...
is a mother...
beside the zenith advent of: mother...
muffer: af-af-rye-c'ah'cah!
******* twins to mind the rhodes!

the skeleton left africa...
yes...
   but... the hindu morphed the genesis...
a second time... into writing...
what... phonetic encoding...
beside... the primodial...
   hieroglyphics... from africa... would have...
ever... arrived at our...
emoji internet advent... door-step of
extending democracy / demographics...
central?

the wheel and the square also
left africa with the skeleton:
the arithmetic of bones and muhammad...
but the triangle settled in greece
and became pythagoras...
and the letter: Δ....

    the inter-racial violence of north
h'america... is not... beside the wery bwitish
advent of ****-stan... as... imaginary
loitering of a border: coming to survive
with Belfast-Kashmir...
           that's making priority of...
the written word...
over the skeleton jump-start...
       bypass...
              and the emoji... and... grafitti...
clue out of africa...
never met... the sub-continent of india...
or... the chinese ideograms...
or sanskrit...
but... ******... *** and bounty...
the mongols never made...
crimea... their capital...
hastings was forever a washington's
survival guide...
       that theatre gave the birth
of lincoln and... whitman was...
everything any other poet: including
homer and dante always dreamed of...
that europeans invited themselves
toward: finding h'america in a can
of sardines...
and that the h'americans believed
they found europe... in kent or essex...
or... in books...
or... in loitering... or being...
allowed to be obnoxiously loud...

            like that **** would still stink:
100 years from now...
but yes... the libido of a genghis khan...
i trace my libido to:
how i imitate the people who
check their blood pressure when i *******...
i... genocide my... fractions into
the moloch couldron that's:
beside... the prayers of a...
        tele-evalngelical church of praises!
h'america is nothing new...
it's just better: regarding...
what remains... a solid old.
judy smith Jul 2016
The Slovenian-born Trump wore an off-white dress with three-quarter length, bell-shaped sleeves to address the Republican National Convention on Monday night.

The dress was by Roksanda Illincic, whose designs are very popular in London and among celebrities, among them Gwyneth Paltrow, Keira Knightley and Daisy Ridley, to name just a few.

Samantha Cameron, wife of the former British prime minister, wore a colourful, flared Roksanda dress to leave Downing Street last week.

But the designer's most prominent fan is probably the Duchess of Cambridge. The former Kate Middleton has worn her designs to at least three events this (northern) summer, including a brilliant yellow dress with blocks of white to Wimbledon.

And then there's Michelle Obama, who wore Roksanda's beaded wool satin dress and wool coat to meet the Chinese president in 2011, among other occasions.

Though the first lady has chosen designers from across the globe during her years in the White House, she wore American designers to address both Democratic conventions at which her husband was nominated: Maria Pinto in 2008 and Tracy Reese in 2012.

Women's Wear Daily reported that Trump bought Illincic's "Margot" dress online from the Net-a-Porter fashion site.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
England win 4 - nil against Ukraine and
i just can't find happiness...
i want to behind this bread and circus
distraction: it's not the current stadiums
are anything close to the ancient roman
coliseum, either: it's not like
i'm watch 22 eager ballerinas kicking
the guillotine head of Robespierre about...
either...
language bugs me: i write it and avoid
speaking it...
expatriates of England: unite behind your team...
i've been an immigrant from
the age of 8... funny how language
works...
the English have no notion of a diaspora...
their immigrant status: among their own
countrymen is elevated to the word:
expatriate: "us" folk flood a host country...
we: "invade" it...
we are never deemed to be:
repatriating... changing allegiance...
i can naturalize: citizen mr. smith over 'ere...
but... when it comes to...
"patriotism" or... the nationhood and cheering
a ******* football team?
i try more than i ever had...
but i'm not buying the *******...
there's club football...
   i just can't stress how important it would
be for me to witness the final:
i'm betting on Italy vs. England...
and in that final Italy will win:
i support, "support" from an undermining
perspective...
on topic: if i go back to the country of my birth:
i didn't take root...
since the death of my grandfather:
sure... i still have some family there...
but... i'm not attached to them:
it would require a d.n.a. test to get at
proof: whether or not i should be
there is another question...

if only this... if only that...
cob-weaving safety-net riddle shadow-man...
what was it? a lack of ambition...
lack of designation...
most assuredly resigned from time to time:
waking up once i suckle on
a bottle of wine...
the clouds start to make sense:
i see faces conjured up
and i no longer feel a need to
peacock my ambitions...
that i am the subject of
a demonic voyeuristic experiment:
call it whatever phenomenon
you might want to... pareidolia
is a newly acquired word in my coffer of vocab.

a historical status quo is being
extended:
not with my death but with my death
i can see all that's going to bypass
the concentration of subjectivity and
becomes diluted in an objective amass...

i'm not important:
but being jealous simply makes me
double up on being reflective and at the same
time melancholically tinged:
idle blue... bleeding green...

****** if i do: ****** if i don't:
south american nations can have their post-racial
picnic...
i **** a black girl in England:
what am i?
what am i if she boasts of a harem?

but i'm not some olive skinned
inferno of Pakistan
dealing with calling a supermarket cashier
the word-lot of: love, darling...
when i hear it: as she endears me...
she can call me: dearly... lovely...
love... pet and darling...
am i undermining the English language?
am i spreading Marxism?

i want to be a fan of the English
football team:
it's hard for me to translate assimilate into...
entertaining something this primitive...
perhaps i should isolate my fandom
to elevated: individualistic sports...
tennis players...
i can't attach a shared ethnicity to
Iga Świątek...
i'm not Slovenian but...
hearing these two Tour de France commentators
slobber and gag when watching
the 8th bit with Tadej Pogačar
climbing up a 10% to 14% incremental up...
on a *****...

i'm starting to love individualistic sports
than ever...
however much i'd love to support
the football team of England:
i'm not English...
immigrants are expected to integrate:
assimilate into their host nation...
but... somehow... odd...
the English expatriates living in Italy will...
not...
choice of language: i'm sure...

rules for thou: rules for aye...
isn't it how it always works?
English refer to the people who left these isles
as... expatriates...
or if there's enough of them:
and the enough of them start-up a new
ethic identity and become:
Australians... New Zealanders...
Canadians... H'Americans...
        
       it's not mind-bending antics on my part:
i didn't chose the wording:
it was already available...
i can respect the English laws...
i can grow accustomed to the peoples'
idiosyncrasies...
drink their... Siberian milk tea:
although i've resolved myself to drink green...
eating baked beans on toast:
to hell with avocado...
but i can't be fed into an emotional complex
that might allow me to support
the national football team:

the inherently ****** in my remembers...
just, "oddly enough": remembers...
the broken fingers of Jan Tomaszewski...
'Brian Clough's throwaway remark
and his saves for Poland against England
in October 1973' - the clown...
England being denied a place in the 1974
World Cup...

it's stupid it's beautiful it's football...
it's not tennis it's not the Olympics
it's not the ******* Tour de France...
amore! amore!
i'm betting on Italy... such style...
they look nothing like a Teutonic heavy cavalry
charge of the English with their
meticulous passing...
such spark with their no. 10
Napoleon: Lorenzo Insigne...

i'll learn your tongue: i'll do whatever
might be required:
to blend in better and not pretend...
but i can't support your football team...
individual sportsmen...
sure... saying that:
i feel robbed from the euphoria
of a shared experience!

- there are no English immigrants living in Italy:
there are only expatriates...
it's not even funny how wording goes:
i'm not offended: hardly...
i prefer the h'American racial "slur" to
what otherwise pits me up against:
the North & South and St. Paul...
****** being the one word in ******
that's not to be confused with Polish...
but English immigrants in Italy are not
migrants... immigrants... disfranchised people
who said: you deal with that kneeling
******* before a phantom...
pander "them"...
because the English have no concept of
the diaspora!
in ******-land there's this concept of:
Polonia... those who are emigrated...
like hell i'm going back...
but i can't think of myself as an expatriate
since... isn't it ****** obvious?
the native of the English tongue thinks
of his extended family living in Italy...
France... as an expatriate...
he's not going to dub them: an immigrant...
the quality of life is too high to...
oh... these people didn't immigrate
for economic reasons...
or like they might have been...
persecuted Kashubians / Kosovans...

Italy just felt better... the weather... the architecture...
derogatory implying: what?
like the Polacks think of their fellow countrymen
"elsewhere" belonging to this greater family:
Polonia -
the English treat their own as...
hardly an immigrant in Australia...
or H'America... no diaspora to be found...
it's truly a conundrum of wording:
what do you call a Spaniard in South America?
a late Lebanese inquisitor...
my jokes are dry... dry dry: ******* dry...
a pale Persian when i double down
on what could come off as possibly: worst...

i don't suppose you might feel like me:
dear reader...
if only i was surrounded by
pretty things that people might admire
as social status exfoliations:
read books...
not books stacked upon a shelf:
a banknote from the Russian Empire
with the effigy of Tsar Nicholas II
on it... Soviet Empire post-stamps
inherited from my grandfather:
the philatelist...

my mind's in it... the tongue too...
but my heart it grieving...
although not as much as...
what's missing in both the head, the tongue...
the outward appearance of the
the shy jihadi...

pandering missionaries for equal
representation based on anti-racism: nuanced-racism:
this inability to differentiate a Croat
from a German...
we'll just suppose the English immigrants
will be known by a different name...
not expatriates...
like the cricketers... tourists...
oh yeah... expatriates is too bold a statement
when they achieve as little
as drinking an espresso the Italian way...

i can't support the English football team...
however much i want...
and i want to...
ha ha... odd me dumb ******:
every time Germany played England
i supported Germany: ol' Wend that i was...
it's football!
once more... better concentrate on
individualistic sports...
no good ever came from chanting
syllables:

although in the England vs. Ukraine game...
Ukraine in English is formed from only
two syllable: U-KRAINE...
(CRANE)...
in ****** and akin to the natives it consists of:
OOH-KRA-Í-N'AH

U-KRA-I-NA!
       i'm watching football but also listening
to the crowd...
i become lost when it comes
to the Cossack Uprising...
sure... Bohdan Khmelnytsky
                      wasn't Oliver Cromwell...
              wasn't he, though?

a frank zappa album title: sheikh yerbouti...
translates as... twerking /
shake your-*****... no?

this is all we have become... decently progressed
nations being reduced to the thrills
of... a football match?
again: these are not 22 ballerinas
kicking about a guillotined head of
Robespierre... are they?
i could understand that...
the no thrills no support chanting:
sensible: Olympic sports it is...
individualistic: i want to better myself types...
no... ******* Normandy landing...
no historical insinuation:
no historical weaving the current bogus
events with past splendour and spectacle
and all that wave of world war I
p.t.s.d.

currently?
no better football commentator than...
Ally McCoist....
McCoist cane compete with Jonathan Pearce:
any sunny Sunday...
i swear to god of the guillotined
head of Robespierre...
the man played football but also have
more talk behind the ball than he ever had
a kick behind it...
perhaps because he also has a sing-along
trill behind the R...

the **** this Scot conjures up:
something akin to: boy'oh: leg up...
i can't just... conjure up the verbatim...
good enough: time to seek
a kipper.

Italy vs. England in the final...
Italy will win:
i want to be dead-end: wrong.
Amela Kovacevic Jun 2018
The only gold I could afford
fell from the feeble ring finger of
majka stara.
Concealed from landless theives of
Slovenian camps,
its bent black beauty
stands a year away from
naturalization,
a year in which it means
the least.
JP Mantler Aug 2017
I've been walking past the same dinosaur ******* a dozen times and it doesn't bother me. What bothers me though, is the threatening message that is faded and smudged out in the bathroom's handicapped stall. I can barely read it saying "Carl something, I will find where you live something something. Above the message reads a cryptic proposition: 416-818-9120 Jay. What kinda sick fun could the number propose.

As I walk out I see the extinctee's gaping cavity release nutrients for the thirteenth time. I feel like someone important in some kind of cerebral movie; especially the fact that I've found a newly discovered purpose in my life. As well the clothes they have given me add a prominence of flare and swagger. My friend catches up to me asking about something, I don't really hear him. I find a pay phone and punch in the digits. The phone rings but no answer. Disappointed, I walk away, but the phone then rings. I pick it up and hear only heavy breathing. I don't know what to say. I say nothing.

He then says: "This is Jay."

He spares me the details and he or she tells me to meet him at the Slovenian BLED HALL.

"What's there?"

Click . . . I ruffage through my bag for a change of clothes, I don't know why -- a muscle shirt and sweat pants with lobsters and oranges on them. I leave the duffle bag. My friend and I jump in the car and pin it.

On arrival, I see a dirt path that leads us to a white church in  the middle of a stray field. The paint is chipped off from harsh weather, windows are smashed, and brown is smeared on the front porch.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this" my friend says.

I ignore him. I walk up the sticky steps and open the creaky entrance door. The room is filled entirely with candles, ceremonial red paint cover the walls, and my friend has only a bad feeling about all of this. He wants to leave.

"You shall not leave" the voice of Jay echoes.

"Who is that?"

"I summoned you. You shall not ask any questions, and you shall not leave. You with the pants. I want you to undress your friend."

My heart sinks. I have no choice. I feel a dozen other men staring at me behind the darkness, their daggers pointing rock hard at me. I feel like I'm in a gay ***** film now. My friend starts to sob as I undress him. Shut up, you'll be fine. He is shaking, his mind in shock. The cauldron bubbles at the end of the room. I know what must be done.

We both stare down at the scolding hot ***. He's literally begging me to change his mind and it really gets on my nerves. I throw him in head first. His scrawny legs dangle upwards. He pops out, holding his burning face, his guttural screams echoe the chamber. One of the men hands me their dagger. With one swift and easy motion, I slit his throat. His body descends, his life no longer a struggle, he is now simply being cooked. I hope these guys don't try to **** me.
storytime
Chris Slade Jan 2019
Back then - as a lad he picked up his millions from his dad. He’s Trump.
Yeh - Dad made millions… passed one on… he picked it up and started the run -
Need to make a zillion? Just watch this - be rude about people take the ****.
Buy a bit of land - build a casino - use slave labour - treat em like dirt - we know,  in Atlantic City, It’s a dump…

Moves On. Stamps on the meek makes ‘em squirm - He’s Trump.
Do something naughty - Oi - we saw yer - I’ll cover it up - get a good lawyer.
Loves the limelight can’t get enough… **** Star? Can’t tell the truth...makes up stuff
One rule for me - one for you… Fancy a slinky bird will she *****? Fancy a ****?

Say you didn’t do it - who’s to know… He’d refuse a pardon to an innocent on death row. "I’m Trump".
I’m a bit special and Life’s a doddle… Havin’ it off with a Slovenian model (or two)…
Yeh…fancy a broad grab her *****… I’m up for President and obviously I’m not fussy.
And, behaving like a total ***** house doesn’t stop you from reaching the white house… He’s Trump.

He won the nomination and the election - power makes him nuts, gives him a cerebral *******. He’s Trump!
Smarmy? Yes…but in charge. Yes! Barmy! So I won’t let gay people join the army.
Immigration control Law and order?… won’t let Mexicans cross the border.
Heavy malice aforethought and negative intent. ******* I’m the President. "I’m Trump!"

Thinning hair - Tonsorial arts…let it grow… swirl it - coiffe it - spray it gold, spray again with ‘hard to hold’ - "I’m Trump!
In the wind it unfurls and makes him look like a ****…but he has the answer - the baseball hat…
And the cap allows him to carry the message… Making America Great Again!…impressive!
The permatan the orange strangulated hues… completes the picture, ties the noose…  Internationally - Bit of a chump.

Sociopathic with a personality disorder. Narcisist!…Doesn’t drink so he can’t be ****** - But He’s Trump.
Tell a lie, a big one - deny it. Most sensible people wouldn’t even try it - but he does.
Whatever you think… and it’s been said, he eats big Macs whilst he’s in bed - Tweeting!
How does he do it? What a nerve - a shining example to the people he should serve… They could be going to do ‘the dump’

Foreign policy? …ask the Pope… He summed it up in a glance…NOPE! Putin ‘NYET!” Macron ‘NON’. No go for Trump.
He insults the press corps at home and abroad…It’s fake news this - fake news that - read the message on the hat!
“Impeach… Impeach” some folks cry… “**** the lot of you it’s do or die! I ain’t going down without a fight” -
So, after all the brickbats, guffaws, jeers and jokes… He loses it… lights the fuse… That’s all folks! That was Trump!

Trouble is he could take a lot of people with him! And he will... He's Trump!
the former banality of editorial constipation(s)
in the realm of preference
and prejudice
like some sacred barometer of what might
appeal to the crowd...

modernity and old age:
man's gift unto man: old age...
"gift" (insert snigger) -

Montenegro Montenegro
black mountain poetics i used to be a fan of
after i passed by the beatniks
notably from all the liberal homosexual
****-erotica
it was like a drug of youth this literature
but somehow now
when i think about it
i should have been chasing girls
i should have been chasing girls
in my 20s
shooting my shots
blanks and live ones
perhaps should have fathered about a dozen
*******
donated my ***** to a clinic
better that than using dating apps
that is better have been a bio-incenstive
impetus comma dot dot
i mean should have thought about
not this ego-mutation
and bad bah thought
to uneven the ground upon
which the crucifix stands...

to my nightmare and glee of horror like
black sheen on Gidea Prime: Baron Gideon
stood like a lamppost where
all the shady dealings were done in full
view...
where this proud monstrous sexuality
was still but a timidity (a temperament) taboo...
homosexuality...
i should have been chasing girls
in my 20s
and now how do i not hurt her...

the pantheism and the pan-Slavic movement
of the 20th century
prime but then there was a history
of somewhere in the West: the Dictat:
DYKTAT...

Neth Neth...
Nethen in Oldenburg, or from the Nethe river near Höxter, or the Nethen, a tributary of the Dijle
or more like
Agnethe - Agnes -
some Sylvia Plath not really Plath
was never a fan more
a poet for girls
suicide purple glove girls
cherry kisses girls of my 20s not there:
i.e. in the past...

no real investments of ego-mutation
in the other
through lies and paradises for turtles
like slow lies
and unlike quick lies
and eternal truths
but also transient
temporary truths:

we do live in a time of temporary truths
there are permanent truths
and impermanent truths
because truth is the element Titan Chronicus
Prometheus Beta Quo Delt Ah...

for the simple logic of pleasure
this afternoon brain numbing
ego wandering sloth of disguise
since now sobering thought
come and i no longer have the youthful
Red Eye Rotaugen: i see in reds
on grey for distinction of hues

like there is this imagine in my head
of being impaled high above the skies
of Golgotha
dripping blood from my sensitive
where gills ought to be if having lost
the tail was enough
to not allow the ancient monkeys
to dream up of travelling across the sea
bumping into Moby **** and Atlantis
maybe more than dinosaurs
still here oddly
like birds and remnants serpents and
baby girl loves her encyclopedia
and i'll be stuck with licking-clean-finger
after buckaroo kangaroo
Kentucky child
                        a pouch for a baby-money
slot that idea in no between
my newest love comes
in the words of (as already mentioned)
and Tomash Shalamun...

                   from Russian to Ukranian
to Slovak to Slovenian to Czech
to ****** to Romanian...

              zrkadlo > ogledalo > zrcadlo >
     lustro > oglindă > آینه
        (ayna) > ḏihn | ذهن

                    mirror-mind:

         ðihn                      ḏ
O'odham...
                          definite article: THE tongue
to the behind of teeth no 1, 1: jedynki...

speculo                 lustro: pstro!
lu stroma krawedz...
                    lu lu                   paper planes
and summer unfulfilled...

           with no kind permission from
Brian Henry: the slovenian translator -
concoctions no laboratory
instead this body and some solvent case
for drip drip...
just an idea but one without either hammer
or magnet or umbrella or oar
thus so:

such body now antiquated purpose
blind
among the worms and glitter
of fictional post religious planets
but nonetheless favouring
the Islam before the oil was consecrated
upon the earth from the realms
of Hades...
         since that time when Islam was
at peace while Christianity was at war
with itself to the point
of instanity
that only now some of us born in Catholicism
and elsewhere are looking for
answers in Judaism and Islam
with the emergence of the Nag Hammadi
library...
after all this is not some writing down
a pop song or
a pulpit praise me i'm speaking you're listening
and this is almost a stand-up comedy show
but no i see the exasperated bodies mixed
with heads and tongues
and spines and i wonder well
this is reserved for thinking readers
and anti mantra gig lords of the 0 hour contract
in the economy which is like
a rain forest or a desert or something
to employ an ego-machete against
anything this ego can morph into an object
like a house plant or one of the many
of Solomon's ants on the shy buds yet to blossom
yet to bloom...
overheated colour in the sun
first green then yellow then murk of brown
the retreat of the yearly...
affair... like water with the armies of waves
on the shores of the earth
then too earth each year
on the attack for the kingdom of the air
early early the cleaning lady of the air
with trees those pumpkin explosions of oxygen...
so obvious but not so apparently
this is never going to be a Shakespeare
or: is that yellow face?

thought the English left with the Africans
while the Eastern Europeans
were sort of left dumbfounded expressionless
with the Asians
because that's how i see the divide
the western europeans hatching a plan
with the Africans
while the Arabs stumbled toward that plan
and the eastern europeans were "left behind"
with the Asians not so much
the Japanese they're apart
Satan said Japan and i said: good lucky uncle
to the Somali 60 year old security guard
no guard... just polite conversation
no coming to shoving or pushing
a backgammon agenda to replace strategy
because it's a game with no real
offensive agenda...

hence my tease of the anti-history of Polynesia
because it is an anti-history
because there is so much water in it
and not so much land
and so not like the territories of land
the territories of the seas have been intact
since the birth of mamaman...
and the ummi the mamamann and the ummi
that's me sitting pretty:
Muhammad and Matthew sitting in a tree
one counts joints the other counts
bones and shooting Agos like that myth
of a name not yet used or personified:

   quote question quest and qw: qiqi
i.e. a quickie with no harmony... recipes of disasters
like no subjective experience of
the hypothalamus unless from the joy of
cycling then perhaps then
because that's the vector coordinate centre
then what of the subjective experience
of the... ablangada: a giddy blank blah blah a-blah
no:
the posit came from
the inseparable construct of the brain and eye dynamic
therefore a symbiosis
of not host and parasite equivalent
but the antithesis of
because that's the duality of the brain-and-eyes
said more softly and high **** flinging typos
of mind-and-soul...
                   at least to convince the "concept" of thinking
there could be some ethereal mingling
of the eyes
to at least explain why we see dreams
when our eyes are closed...

yes the eyes of souls like bewildering the supposed
heard existence of devils and nuns
angels and Behemoths and geniuses
of Newton and Mozart like
dropping big names is not unlike
calling Sunday Sunday
and Friday Friday
or perhaps that's just me being sea sick
on an island
rather than a ship
or perhaps
that's just me worried i might not have any friends
beside you
and the kid and the grandma
and perhaps i will go mad a second time
and i will be crushed by going to the church
and not freely engaging with other religions
and perhaps the infrastructure of the entire island
and the population being 70,000
i am part of managing events with crowds
that amass at stadiums with more people
than the entire population
plus the 1,400 acres owned by Herr Zuck:
not zzz or sleeping in a zoo snooze
ooze this Herr dry
or watch as i burn paper in hope of flying
somehow,
elevating logic of the gauged out eyes
by now and nothing freeing me but the bottle
and t.v. perhaps turn to painting obscure
riddles in imagining the river of sand that's
also called the Tempus Ori...

                      yes: that the brain is so interconnected
with these fragile two
these so exposed pieces of vital information
and strategy
that somehow we don't think the eyes
are the Ronin the Rebels of the body
that i think they are since they curiously
conjure up dreams and that's completely devoid
of the brain's scrutiny of reality
that is the eye-drip-******-mantra
of the ***** in itself
as addicted to light and if not exposed to enough
like skin in lacking vitamin D
then the vitamin in light that maybe is there
but if we know the origins of the universe
then from beginning there must be vitamin
in the light that... something fluorescent green
and spooky arctic blue that's also
grey because not enough sunlight is cultivated
by those seas...

O this gigantic world and my only escapade because
i've reached a Napoleonic fatigue
of failed reincarnations that lead to no tactic
to counter tactic or the new ordeal
that's the imploded war dynamic of saying
in a dream:

war is a process of education
that outshines all the pedagogic hiccups
of prolonged... what?
from youth to some middle then to the youth-of-mortal-end
that's called the age of
before it was a sign of the god's benevolent
nature to allow
a man reap the outer reaches of age
and grace the earth with words
of wisdom...
but now now
now now but what now?
old age the crippler the half baked loath of bread
the cancer and dementia
at least in the past people died in the fervor of fever
in their youth what healthy and what
peaceful deaths
perhaps with painful toothache interludes
but more a life a gamble than all these current
predicaments of predictability and knowledge
of the gene pool variant and...

man's gift unto man: old age
yet without: Yeti!
                         what conundrum since love got busy
and in the way but then reality left a flower
of reminders and said:
but we do share an in vivo beginning
and now to think of it 20 years from now
i would have at least 3 co-dependents to think
of caring for split between
London and Kauai
and they'd be 85 and you'd be 75
and **** me that's like that
plus some energetic kid who just realised
she would be working the mundane cycle
of hunger fear shelter fear
love fear and all that's life an experience with
the selfishness of deities so troubled
by no sharing then sharing
then "us" oversharing with the overstep of techno-
more than bio- evolution...

now we can sort of forget Darwinism
in a way...
since biological evolution stagnated...
it is a stagnate: static even, observation...
it is not dynamic enough:
it creates rigid ontological cages of men
that used to have minds now have names
because there is only the name Freud but
no mind of Freud...
so... in terms of Darwinism
i find biology deceased...
there is only one form of evolution to concern
oneself with: namely that of technology...
Hephaestus...

          there is no looking at evolution already
established not being able to change
an increment more or less
like geology since
those are truly titanic logic branches of perception
geology, biology: almost indistinguishable
like chemistry states that there is organic
and inorganic chemistry
like there is iron in the blood
and calcium in the bones and calcium in the rocks
so... Darwinism is a nuisance argument
given the only evolution of note is
only technological...

AI like what was once the Google Search Engine
that's what chatGPT is to Googie...
i.e. that is tangible evolution
and there is no biology invoked like some ancient
rite of satisfying the wheat for harvest
or the fungus monkey generator of
deviating experiences of life
the day the planet decided to expand beyond
horizons of azures...

like the insinuation isn't there that the earth
be personified and having had spoken
said: save me O savior gasoline and Guggenheim
architect
and Mondriaan!
again: how were
the wars of the Hoecks and the Cabbeljaws
actually settled
and what ancient arguments are we even having
to preserve this day intact

i will not even ask.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
space = time

oh but this is not a serious equation...
it's a summary of the following worded expanses...
it's just to say:
there's as much of time as there is of space...
perhaps there's more time than
there is space...
after all... the multiplier of time
within the reference to:
all those involved in the Spanish Inquisition...
with that varying detail of:
what it must have felt like:
not burning at the stake...

  space = time...

       ス  ペー ス
                      ジ カ ン (時)
funny how google works...
i copy that into the search: 23:56 when this
ideogram was searched for...
so i don't need the other emoji-romaji gimmick...
       supeesu "デス" jikan

it is and it isn't...
last time i heard: subjectivity was given
an anathema by... the cosmopolitan... liberal crowd...
hard pressed by "science":
so hard pressed that the social sciences
overtook the sort of science i studied:
chemistry left to the shadows
and a list of additives on a shampoo bottle...

(i guess i'm a bigger fan of katakana than
i am of hiragana...
but... saying that... i'm a far bigger admirer
of Korean Hangul...
oddly enough they rid themselves
of any Chinese influence...

it's not about money... it never is...
it's bad taste to talk about money
among the English...
what's that saying:

kiedy wchodzisz między wrony...
musisz krakać tak jak ony...

wenn du betrittst zwischen krähen
du musst krächzen so wie sie...

point: if it's a SHARP-S...
it's an acute S... in german that's a crown: Š:
for the letters SCH...
but it's hardly "half-crown" Ś
therefore... what's SS... HEß!!

refurbishment: toe towed for a quarter
of an inkling...

it's not like i've lived among Anglo-Swabians
all this time... oh the Saxons: a lively bunch...
they went east, they went west...
they founded the empire upon which
the sun never set... they were so un-German
in the federal bracket of: we: the Germans...
i find it impossible living among "my own":
people...

the Wends... the Western Slavs...
at a distance... i just abhor the continued narrative
teasing the Russians...
not like the Russians are somehow saviours...
although socialism did work...
socialism as an economic policy for:
rebuilding nations... part-time...
not the long run... just so the natives
can rebuild... before... natural preservation
instincts of self-above-the-rest... kick in...
before your fellow man
starts peering into your bowl of soup...
before foreign investors come...
it can work is has worked...
i'd prescribe Slavic socialism
to Iraq: i rack 'em raw...
i would prescribe Slavic socialism to Syria...
who's going to be a capitalist
in those countries: without foreign influence?
oh... give me a while:
the supposed grand capitalists of you-tube?
capitalists... selling...
fan t-shirts / mugs?
thank god i'm not selling t-shirts or mugs...

only as a transition period...
not sustainable...
i'm not daydreaming... in truly exclusive circumstances...
Communism rebuilt the ravaged landscape of
post-world-war-II eastern Europe:
it's not like money was pumped into the region...
the wild west began in the 1990s...
but prior to that?
no foreign investment...
prior to that: metallurgy was still pervasive
in Europe... until the cheaper hint of
what was to come from Cha-Cha-Cha-Land...
of: moon-lit... CHINS and CHINKS...
Cha-Cha-Cha! now dance... *******... dance!

oh i'm not about to abandon the Ango-Saxons...
i'm already identifying as an Anglo-Slav...
collectively concerning: not concerning...
well.. the whole collective...
Croat... Serb... Slovenian... Slovak... Czech...
Ukrainian... oh look... the Bulgarians write
in Cyrillic - reinvented Glagolitic that's cheap
looking Greek... ****** looking:
can you imagine writing Cyrillic with a tease
of italics? i can't... if i can't: no one else can...
the neighbours of the Germanic people...

it's not that i have ADHD or something...
but i've tried watching an "old" movie not so long
ago... the Fisher King: starring the late
Robin Williams... it took me... three sittings...
to watch it... i forgot the popcorn...
it's not that i have a short attention span...
but as i've aged: and i've aged to the point
of clarity whereby i don't remember my 20s...
resurfacing mid 30s...
i rather drink... and watch the clouds...
or the wind caress the eucalyptus tree
at the end of my garden...
i can lose myself for an hour, two hours...
at a stretch... focusing on this...
trivial of all trivial of pursuits:
i stopped wondering why cats enjoy sleeping
so much...
i harbour enough lost pursuits
in... BLANKING OUT:
not thinking... by not thinking i eat up time...
i become meshed with space:
i occupy... space somehow occupies me:
i have so little time to stress...

oh i still come across the sort of people
that treat life as a playground...
just today a tender looking man
was walking with a mythological blonde
of a beached whale proportion sort of...
sort of a woman... the traffic light read red:
****** front-brakes... itching... squeaking...
i was asked the same question
i asked the anaesthetician when i was:
gorilla-tested for: lights out...
when having had my wisdom teeth pulled out:
quo vadis... where are you going?
i stopped a while...
i didn't want to lie... i wasn't going to lie...
i pretended to not look at my forehead:
clearly: an impossible feat...
oh... you know... round... and round...
he replied... i like you... and as he walked off
to my back's demand: shadows: align!
i just heard the words...
i love it... he's beefing himself up while
i'm getting ******...
clarity: it's not disgrace rekindling the lost
inhibition of ******* your underwear...

looking for the cursor: still looking...
ah... hey presto! here the little flicker of a ******
supposedly hides... "hides"...

i can't just abandon these Saxons...
it's not like i'm terrible important...
but i woke up with a thought:
if all that's required me: to imply work...
is me... occupying... merely occupying
a designated... space... and time...
the prostitutes come in an £2.00 per minute...
at £120 per hour...
if i were to salvage an ease up
with a holiday... coming up to
£2000 for two weeks' worth
on: well... Jamaica is hardly Nigeria...
is it?

i'd still prefer the cinema of thought
and: ANTI-COGNITION
while all my eyes can cradle is:
the wind caressing an eucalyptus tree...
so... be... it!

the clarity of syllables...
missing in English since:
Fwench was their Hastings bedfellow...
i only find the ****** distinction
somehow: adjective: insert... profound...
the English variation is....
limited to a *******...
hoolahoop.  

to hell with owning a car....
and bypassing my chances of felattio,...
i wouldn't touch the natives girls...
even if the Pakistani brigade were at it...
proper... surrounding Yorkshire...

it has become ugly... i tend to cycle past the people
who have orientated themselves
with the proper rations of thirst...
with...
if only a man wrote the whole Frankenstein story...
while a woman wrote the whole
of the myth of Sisyphus...

work: occupying a sanctity of space...
and time as leftovers... capricious... mono-....
self-serviung...
all the wisdom in the palm of your hand...
Buddha-Solomon... harem "quiz!"...

if it's not about money:
a viking on an viking... road-bike...
i was once conflated with Danish origins..
make me, into, "something" resembling
the Faroe Isles....
do i look like anything resembling
Viking: where's... the ******* fire?!
you... knock on the door...
you ring the dor-bell: you need an added:
to: too? dor! ****'s sake...

do-ah-ur... dor... door w'at:?!

it's only a viking road-bicycle,...
contra a trek marlin 5...
the former comes in at £125.... the sinner...
the latter comes in at...
£500...
the cheaper one runs on fancy
rub-ups-rub-downs...
the latter is renowned for: flat tires...

perhaps i yawn.. i sneeze...
perhaps.. the world has its affairs...
perhaps the world simply:
***** off..
thank you... yoyo...
no thank you: please don't come back!
Malignant gangrenous political cancer
corrupts, festers, and poisons United States,
thus opposition cannot wait,
especially since Gospel in accordance

with feeble minded Donald Trump
implemented wrought ugly trait,
particularly obliteration, sans progressive
human rights legislation

more or less pronounced positive
in every L ionized Nittany or cotton bowl state
and ratiocination inherent within
mine Democrat oriented mind doth rate

this forty fifth president (defect)
with sawdust packing
his noodle oven egotistical pate
trophy wife (spouse number three),

a Slovenian mate
donning "I don't care anymore"
t-shirt rousing media firestorm of late
essentially silently corroborating,

fostering, and illuminating hate
mutely bolstering the Trump anthem,
viz make America great
again, which pathless,

pithless, and pointless aim
roars like an earsplitting runaway freight
train oblivious of wailing soul asylum,
that no era meets said criteria

backtracking time machine before
rightful indigenous occupants of this land
got decimated as one after another
exploiter did inundate

(comprising a multitude
of indigenous variety of village people
indignantly subjected to Genocide,
when first "discoverer"

of new land didst promulgate
activation wrought deliberate sealed fate
vis a vis capitulation, demolition,
and extirpation, cuz

a scathing rebuke aye attest,
those murderers didst equate
worthlessness of
so called "Indians" on 1492 date,

and still remnants of storied tribes,
now attempt to create
historical documentation operate
ting with limited resources to adjudicate.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Food methinks doth buzzfeed drumbeat agog
at pyrotechnics July 4th, 2018 shared as blog
posts, a falsehood prevails which dog
gone “FAKE” brewed watered down grog
posits that the majority of Colonists stayed hog

tied to strict task masters, and mainly the scant
upper class experienced autonomy,
no matter the under class didst futilely rant
and rave with the occasional
uprisings over time did grant
minimal appeasement to stifle violent kant.

Alas and alack
though reasonable rhyme crafted some time back
spider lines across Democratic firmament
issue more'n one crack.

How alarming that tempus fugit
decrees trumpets about banishing true grit
life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
deprived genius and/or nitwit
will witness divine creator placing obit
freedoms long since perished,
how pleasant to be hashtagged a twit!
woke up at 9:30am
got out of bed at 15:30
as someone once
wrote in a Tottenham memo
about a shift reminder:
15:30pm
and i thought
this is a person in authority
of details
planning permissions etc
and then it dawned
on me like a slight itch but more
like a nail into the head
and i realized something
peculiar...
the cushions and harems
of getting slightly tipped
of getting somehow sky high
by listening to music
and if god was alive
he'd have heard
through telepathic snail mail
that i committed suicide
today
today
i committed suicide
in bed
by wasting a glorious
sun dance of the wind with
the trees
i committed suicide today
lying in bed
actually if dreams are
are recurrent theme
because SPAZ
me says: so is sleep: d'uh d'uh
(did i poison those words
with enough sarcasm?
i think i did
i will not write those in italics)
well...
tone, choice and a voice...
remedy of rhythm and
then a change
music text art
that is the medium non binary
i just realised
Adolf ******
Jesus Christ
and i am 19 and i'm 40
and wow and this
the world i to inherit
because
i am man
not boy now
i will lay siege to Istanbul by
throwing paper nuggets
of owls
and i will be launching
with heart in Oslo
and with bakhlava lava lava
and beards on fire
i will be the first generation
European living side by side
with Muslim and German
Russia can wait
i ****** Russia and have
stamp to prove it
i also ****** America and have
heartache to prove it
and i have a daughter
who isn't my daughter
and she's still only using
only half of my hemisphere
of mind sea blue bluuuuuuuue jeans
and this nagging nagging
mosquito
but this is first generation
living with a Muslim
and i don't mean (except) funny Pakistani
Muslims...
i mean those other Muslims
from Muslim Muslims
from Muslim Muslim'Lands
and indeed the hyphen is SCIENTIFIC
the HYPHEN is SCIENTIFIC
but...
but the APOSTROPHE is HUMANISTIC
and that's there
where
i take off my OJ Simpson gloves
and put on my Forrest Gump
mowing the lawn type of baseball / trucker cap
oh if ****** was the sole instigator
of a genocide
but imagine the genocides of transliterated
souls that fire torches of Nero
and all those Protestant and Catholic
and Orthodox and from this octopus
a squidctopus
was born
and what horrors just as the Hebrews
followed the Assyrian
into Hades
and jeez what a ride we had Medieval
Poles
   so tolerant back then so be the Israel of the North
no not city...
an entire country of the north
coming to vectors
and i would like to finally pitch
my compass
and... what city game
i will leave two prototypes
for comparion
given

(a) Edinburgh
(b) London

as a different compass
esp noted when looking a meteorological
schematics
on t.v. and elsewhere

or maps
reading them
so therefore what direction is most important
in these cities

and if i could bypass all the editorial hassle
after all in the construction industry
and the security industry:
i am still foremost an artist!
and i am the literate one in the trenches!
what culture war
unless you start sneezing in the direction
of L'viv...

fine fine!
compasses
of compassion and diverting perception

Edinburgh (given the Firth of Forth)

                       N




            W                              e






                       S

London (because of the River Thames)

                        E




                      Ns


                        W

there: did my editorial interlude with what letter
to not utilize CAPITAL

just saying that Gandhi would be right
about Europeans citing
the name ****** more frequently
than Christ:
yes: but Christ wasn't a European
so think
about a future where there emerges
a Jewish leader capable of summoning
all the Diaspora of Hebrews
to Mount Zion for a Judgement Day?

well... this ****** wasn't a Slovenian
well this Christ wasn't a Greek!
so?
are we all Christs and also all Greek?
but why can't ****** be admired
as let's say
the people's person
he wasn't alone but he was still an artist
i am an artist
i am working in an industry
where people don't have literary dreams
i can be the perfect spy for liberalism
in that i know there is liberalism
and there is libertarian tendencies
but please none of that here
only today i masturbated twice
then measured
the frame of a bicycle
from my legs
as 17" suited for someone up to 6'0"
but i need a frame
21"...
           no... my ***** is not 4" long
i am assured
too
that i am not 6'2"
but actually 6'3"
so i am a Brat Pitt i am a Chris Hemsworth
too...

oh right... curious looks
whenever i hushed in a HELM
a worth of a helm...

Christopher is not a Christian
i'd hate to have a christian name
Alexander isn't a christian name
Matthew is a Hebrew name
and Conrad is a Germanic name

i'm pretty sure i have names best
associated with the Hadif of Berlin
a saying about Berlin:
go see Auschwitz first
before seeing Berlin...

        it would have been much harder
to criticize ****** the bad poet
sooner poet poo
then all investing me too
in painting when some two year old
is a freak show revelation of people
realizing the better reign in hell
than to serve in heaven
then yes
like Christ the Great Cosmopolitan
wanderer beyond the jokes
of Egyptians about 40 years spent
from Cairo to Sinai...

          but as a man with pomp and momentum
i don't work with the hyped up
about literacy rates sort of volk
not that they don't see me standing
one foot pelican
constipated
i do wonder maybe some ayuascha....
****... spelled it wrong:
obviously i'm not thinking about it...

but how to redeem myself lala
and yawe
              who else than to borrow from
Adam and he heard Lala
and Eve heard Yawe...
no Hatches of Hay and T'chit T'tchit chatter
Lala and Yawe


H                                               H

                     ()


               (that's a rugby match,
call me... huh?)

the gods Lala and Yawe
are obviously a heresy in Islam
since god is an ******
clearly no partner
or just shy
oh just shy Allah
well then...
come to think of it... Yahweh
didn't begin life as a god
but maybe a man
or metaphysically a genie
or whatever
and coexisted and virtually knew
who walks first
having himself as us
as they who walked
as i walk

                    so the last god for "yahweh"
to claim would be Allah...
namely... ah ha ha!
drop the H and let's rearrange you to look back
at me!
Ya    La
We   La

                 Yawe says to aLLa
     i say: priest: and till death us no part
Yawe and Lala

from which sprouted names of people
who might become BIG
like Leyla
and imagine is this not better
for European sexuality than this Hebrew
hybrid
o no not definitely
o such bubble froth so frustrating

just relax and snooze some jazz
some axe and a forest of 3
cut down into Z or |B

          i am artist and for the masses
a ****** a thorn
like some: you will never
never rise above him
you will never become like him
you better know this is Germanic
covert diluted in England
this is ******
this is Genghis Khan and look
how poor and admiring
the Mongols still are
began to relax from not even paganism
by the gods of waves
upon this earth
still poor still admiring the spirit
of Genghis Khan
and they don't care they are poor
are rich as the dirt and wind
and freed from subjecting horses
to work
to war
now look at them admiring the horses
as pets and as jolts
and perhaps what are we
Europeans to fall first
from the cliffs of reason and science
and technology
first thrown off the cliff-face of self
perception: in self rather of self...
inward cluing in
with outward cluing out...
game of prepositions

    how difficult to be given an ultimatum
of marriage
and visa
but then not giving the coherency of the use
of monetary funds
and suggesting that Reyla
be moved out of this supposed Christian:
private... just private...
school and into a public school
and let's hope there are enough
teenage boys around her that ****** off
and none of these sexually frustrated
devious "christian" boys
from good families...
what the **** am i getting at this isn't my life
i had a holiday from hell
i might have pokered my heart
or whatever is the new guise...

can Adolf ****** please down
from his peddlestoof
of being admired
and not join the jilted
oh believe me that
was a surprise
i was walking home
from a shift not my usual way
and in clear daylight
and haze of sunset
i walked past a house
with all the open windows
and in it
i heard people shouting
from room to room
so that anyone walking past
might overhear...

******
BIGGER
SNIGGER
NIGER
******
GIDDY
JAVOLINE
LI­TTLE
******

            and not that i'm worried
since i'm not an anti-racist
i'm just not, racist...
but i think this is no intelligence question
but a question of, the final question
of mobility and world
claim
what if to suppose racism
is an outright
question of not being moved
concerning a people so far removed from travel
that they are not this cosmopolitan shelf
of selves and technologies
and perhaps these people can be understood
on the grounds of not so much
a deviation of i.q.
but not deviating from say... an Eden...
what if some ******* on the coast of England
was actually someone's Eden
with an Eve
and a postcard: wish you were here
and then... some Berbers appear!
and you're a Spaniard being sold
into slavery for gladiatorial new-real?

                             non-referential blind spots,
too much gravity,
too much gravity people,
like ants in a sandworm
or beetles in time measure of
how much **** to perfume...

                oh this can end here...
just realized...
one Yawe and Lala and i didn't commit suicide
happened but was all artistic
hungover and lazy
with wanting to waste as much sunlight
as possible
because just because because because                    because

— The End —