i've seen the commentary...
but let's do the ratios...
youtubers sometimes tend to boast
about their subscribes,
notably dr. steve turley,
100K (100,000)
and styxhexenhammer666
  30K (30,000)...
   yes, i know that a chris isaack
track is, a tad bit too much
reminiscent of Abba...
point being? my turn...
so...
        the ratio... i have 138
followers... but my post popular
"poem" ranks at around
   4,700 views...
an average dr. steve turley video
ranks in at 20,000,
and with subscribers numbering
100,000...
          whole styxhexenhammer666,
30,000 subscribers, but
at average counts of views at hovering
past the 1,000 mark...
now the ratios...
please let me be wrong, please
let me be wrong...

0.5 for dr. steve turley
lopsided ratios:
100,000 / 20,000....

styxhexenhammer666
comes in at 30...
30,000 / 1,000...

me?
i come in at... ha ha!
5,700 / 138
34.057...

           i'm not boasting...
but i hate to see decent people boast
about their prescription rates,
but then...
                 0.029...
but within the confines of
   giving an answer back...
you get the picture...
their viewers plummet...
the ratios do not add up...

i'd boast, sure as hell i'd boast...
but... i sorta don't feel like it...
i never saw the bonus side of boasting
when it came to numbers...
more subscribers,
than views?
           big ******* problem...

so... proud, concerning, what?!
oh... wait...
i just figured this out
differently...

0.033 (styxhexenhammer666)
and 0.2 (dr. steve turley)...

oh wait... dr. steve turley: circa 74,000
subscribers...
and the average viewership
of a video circa 21,000?
    3.52....
              0.02837....

ola! village people!
          counter ratios...
views : subscribers
counter to subscribers : views
(in ratio)....

            that age old relativism
of "success"...
give me a minute, i need to work
on the schematic rubric...

    views : subscribers              |         subscribers : views

(a) ~5700 ÷ 138                                        (a) 138 ÷ ~5700
                                = 41.30                                           = 0.024

(b) ~1000 ÷ ~30,000                               (b) ~30,000 ÷ ~1000
                            = 0.033                                          = 300

(c) ~21,000 ÷ ~70,000                         (c) ~70,000 ÷ ~21,000
                  = 0.284                                                           = 3.52


(a) denoting me,
(b) denoting sythexenhammer666
(c) denoting dr. steve turley

so wait, give me a minute...
since we're all so happy
******* a boasting match...
i have... less subscribers...
but  more views...
than people who have more,
subscribers... but less views?

i know i'm fiddling with the numbers...
but to use but one instance...
i have more views than
i have subscribers...

while these youtube vloggers have
more subscribers than
they have views...

           interesting...
but if everyone's going to be playing
the ******* numbers game...
i thought:
might as well bring by bucket and *****
into this sand-pit,
and see if i can play along
with these kids...
citing my attempt at a massive *****...
you never know:
it could work!

The napalan man in a violet cape  
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew  

sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors  

stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour

castle turret,  archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo  

ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified  

battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war  
gargoyles flock the terraced *****
pearly gates to bring on hope  

serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea

Events Marketing
Inform your followers on the latest update of your business. Whenever there are business engagements, such as trade show or conventions, business owners can notify their followers by uploading images on Instagram. Taking pictures and tagging subscribers in the specific location can boost visits and sales. It is important to be creative in taking pictures. Photogene and ColorSplash are the two most commonly used editing application in Instagram. In event marketing, VIP discounts can be offered to subscribers.

Contests
People are looking for excitement and rewards. Holding a contest as an activity is an exciting engagement to attract audience.

Geotagging
Instagram users can use the feature of geotagging in order to tag a specific location as to where the images were shot. For business, customers can be more familiar with the location of the business with the geotagging feature.

Remember that today, the most successful people are known to take advantage of the social media.

Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead – yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game – till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
****** end to a treacherous story –
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths – that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring – yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles –
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate – their only god,
biding time to shoot their ***.
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…

The life of a Youtuber
new and just trying
hardly any subscribers
and barely surviving

She pulls out her camera
and then everyone stares
she's vlogging publically
and suddenly everyone cares

had she have no camera
she'd be just a normal girl
no one would even look her way
and judge her like an ungodly pearl

yet she still talks to the screen
for they are her only friends
the 19 subscribers
she talks to without end

she smiles as she watches
her view count go up to 40
and dreams of the day
it'll turn into 60

She posts and posts
but what no one really sees
is the girl behind the camera
in real life, she'd freeze

she's now in the store
and talking to her screen
people look at her like she's crazy
and she wishes she couldn't be seen

But someday she'll earn
ten millions of subscribers
and those very same people
will love her with each one of their fibers

So she just keeps on going
hoping and wishing
that someday she'll make it
so she just keeps on keeping.

from the simple email, to now a pitch-perfect complication
of the internet - no performance poetry found here -
performance meaning singing, meaning cascade of rhymes
to help you memorise sentences and shake your hands
about - ekphrasis (εκφρασις) - performance stand-up
but not stand-out - i'm not complaining, i'm just feeling
the fear and loathing too - or according to M. Schmidt (
no, not Martin Schmitt, the ski-jumper, but then again
the two seem almost indistinguishable when said -
counter e.g. gnome - 'nome and schmi'dt'dt'dt'tt stutter
at the end of words rather than at the beginning before
the dam gates open for the word to flow out from).
besides the point, can you imagine Kant using the phrase
a fortiori in his work that uses only a priori and
a posteriori? i only came across it today - but given
the big *** systematic approaches, you'd find it hard
to squeeze in a fortiori into the complex narrative -
an entire blackboard of mathematical proof concerning
disallowing the end product to be ∞: in philosophy that means
explaining something on a universal basis, the entire human
concern for things said, things done, things owned -
inserting the term a fortiori where once came a priori
would be a disaster for the Kantian narrative, he'd
have to write another critique all on its own to insert that phrase
among a complete systematisation of that phrase -
well the funny thing is, this expression goes in line with that
i observed about left and right, hands eyes whatever -
indefinite a- and the definite -the articles and then an ism -
i sometimes feel funny or at least embarrassed that i keep
repeating this notice from time to time -
but you would expect me to include gravity too,
or how i used to be a flower thief in spring bordering
on winter, plucking the eager flowers in the frost around
the countryside - well, i revived that practice today,
plucked two stalks of lavender (they were pinching my
nose when i walked past with a beer) and something
resembling lavender... google-moment... if only they
created apps that could tell you what flower it is you're
trying to identify, search engine impromptu -
well... it's either a coin-toss between
summersweet (clethra alnifolia) or butterfly bush
(buddleia davidii) - but it could be something else -
cigarette, beer and sniffing lavender, just my kind of night -
i swear to god i once drank a lavender-flavoured beer,
or cider... i can't remember -
but by definition, when i look at philosophy books i feel
they're much too bound to something said earlier
and followed by something to support it -
or in the case of a fortiori the expanded-upon basics,
i.e.: from a / the stronger (thing) - which means
it's a dual-carriage way of saying what you want to say:
from a stronger thing - from the stronger thing -
in real life that's like: what we get from a telescope,
or? what we get from a microscope -
stars aplenty - G-Rex 5571 in the Zodiac constellation,
U80802Z from the constellation of Poseidon -
i mean, flimsy answers - sky's the limit - then
the azure cage hovers over us during the day and
we turn to daydreams packing apples into crates -
telescope: oh airy-fairy, somewhere far far away -
microscope: got that needle and thread with you?
well, whatever we have, we know that our minds are
not build for the omni- affix when affixed to anything,
esp. god. Jews never bothered with it - there are just
as many necessary limitations of a deity as there are
as many unnecessary limitations of our freedoms -
that's how you move away from big ideas and narratives
of a Kant, with his chequers of analytic / synthetic
a priori / a posteriori and concern yourself with
knives (indefinite) and scissors (definite) articulation of
language - hell, we can go down the road much further
and say something about indirect and direct articles -
pronouns are the prime subscribers -
you wouldn't talk to a Jihadi directly as you'd talk about
him indirectly - i shared that curiosity with a local
stranger-mate in a park once walking his dog,
an ex-banker - those boom-bomb boys are being prescribed
the same thing that the Lufftwaffe pilots were prescribed
(pervitin) - but i doubt they got their hands on the pure
medical stuff, they're probably on amphetamines...
oh the R.A.F.? yeah, drunk like skunks.
but just imagine rewriting the Critique with a fortiori
and a infirmiori - disobeying "correct" definition,
as already mentioned the pronouns composed from
articles, as in condensed to indistinguishable parameters -
a fortiori - from something stronger            -
             a infirmiori - from something weaker -
(as already stated, the original definition of
  a fortiori was - from a / the stronger [thing]) -
so the articles disappear and couple themselves to the word
thing (word meaning, no grammatical classification is
really necessary, because if grammatically classified it would
be too obstructive) - but because of this lack of
grammatical classification of the word thing,
we are already associating the definitions via only the
indefinite pronoun - rather than a definite pronoun (i.e. nothing),
it would be pointless to write definitions using a definite
pronoun - well, up to a point, i suppose that
suggesting both a fortiori and a infirmiori to be defined
as: from nothing stronger and / or weaker we can create
a self-mechanistic-propeller, a way of self-overcoming that
in the end arrives as self-knowledge, obviously the
ultimate purpose - and this goes against all solipsistic despair,
as it also goes against making too many comparisons
with others, some who are weaker than us, and some who
are stronger than us - for the stronger will make light
of one set of propositions as the weaker will make light
of another set of propositions to suit their demands -
this can only be seen in light of Kantian-Darwinism,
survival of the fittest and what not -
Kant had in mind something simply said historically in
a condensed sphere of reality, Darwinism kinda did away
with historical realism, soon after the English Renaissance
after the second world war, Darwinism picked up again,
as a way to shut off the murk of the Holocaust -
Elvis did his bit, the Beatles too, but once the imagination
dried up, people decided they wanted to travel back
in time to 10,000 B.C. - and you think artistic expression
will end up a concept prog rock album, or a cute 3 minute
synthesizer song while M.T.V. turns into a 16 year old's
******* of a baby? i'm going keep the acronym, and instead
call it MORAL TELEVISION, or? how to buy a ******
or pull out early - but obviously i'd get a wisecrack comeback
from Juno - see a preacher man anywhere around here?
Kantian algebraic (big words, small people, Belgian waffles
too):                                                    ­              a. / s. after
                                           (event) x.
a. / s. prior
                                     what qualifies?
                                    - historical hindsight -
                                    - the current historical catalyst(s),
        THE BIG BANG... or as i like to call our current history,
an interchange on the words: BIG BANG BLACK HOLE...
BANG A ******* HOLE... get a BIG CLOCK...
******* HOLE... which is what it looks like at night...
two catalysts overall - and boy we're speeding
to Groundhog day - the biggest changes in history were
some celebrity's haircut - that's relative to
what happened when the Treaty of Versailles was signed;
BIG HOLE BLACK BANG (and that's thanks to dark matter) -
but to be honest, if i'm given only these two historical
vectors to work with... i'm not surprised so many
Islamic youths are disfranchised, choosing a third,
Jannah - it seems like a natural thinking process that
will never make it into popular media -
just thinking about it probably warms the heart,
obviously to an extremely violent end -
but this is gone way beyond the heliocentric and
geocentric arguments - because up there, where you
can see the earth where the hell is Copernican East
or Copernican West? it's nice to know that the earth
isn't flat... but that won't help you reaching the Panama
Canal from Portugal... will it?!

Signals get mixed up
                    we're broadcasting *******
I'll shout 'til my mouth's dry
                    you'll spit like a dragon
                the summers all static, now--
              I'll wait for the season
                to switch over channels
               for less interference.
                        On mute.

Bracing our brains
                               for primetime quakes
**** off a day
                              trapped in escapes

The fate of the union,
                        the sake of my habits,
Estate of illusions
                     auctioned off from your pulpit
                   I'll shovel the static 'til
                   the street's within reaching.
                   Now follow new channels
                   with buzzing devotion
                           switched off.

Bewildered and haunted through flashes of memories that relive themselves
I sit and ponder and look into the sky
there is no pain greater than been lost in SELF
battling with a STRONG shadow called SADNESS
she stalks and haunts and bring you moments of agony
she comes along with her sister ANGUISH
and they taunt you,
galvanising and pinpointing your mind to the PAST you left behind






OH SADNESS!!!!!
have you not rendered men a roaming wretch for years?
are you not content with the tears you have drank from your millions of subscribers?
are you not pained because of happiness and her many gifts?
when will you leave the vulnerable ones and stop feeding on their weaknesses?
for how long will you continue to taunt MEN with their horrible past and perceived failure?







You are hopeless and weak and so you feed on people's misery alongside with your heartrending sister called ANGUISH
Leave us alone,
for we do not want to commune with you
you are meant to die alone,
but you have garnered so many souls as your followers
reminding them of their most terrible past
conjuring pieces of AGONY
and feeding them with misery's venom
you are a witch SADNESS
and you dwell in the dark
you mesmerise us with beautiful tragedies and allure us into your cavernous seeking kingdom

ARISE
eschew sadness
before she infects you with her incurable disease
SADNESS has no home
and so she roams*

Ovi Odiete© 2016  All Rights reserved.

Love's Subscription

Oh garden of love, grant me lifetime membership,
Ignore the other subscribers as I offer my passion.
Scribe who tends to the garden hear my plea,
Add me, for here my heart wants to be.
To sing the songs of love's sweet eternity,
While basking in the flowery garden.
Scars of painful wounds healed and forgotten,
Scented roses and petunias fill my senses,
Caressing my mind and heart in peaceful solace.
I seek to dwell here for an eternity in love,
My subscription has no expiration forever slotted.

How many likes am I worth?
How many swipe rights can I get,
How many super honest, friendly people,
Have I ever met?

Lights, camera, caption,
trying to reach my goal,
40,000 subscribers!
Take my instagram poll!

Should I post this selfie?
I might delete it soon,
thought that I looked cute,
but it sure wont make him swoon.

I have refreshed my page,
50 times since the start,
the want for more likes,
is tearing me apart

If I get 1,000 followers,
I will feel complete,
Does what I say matter
without a single retweet?

let's join in on this, vloagging
draama,
the concern grows:
too many views,
but too little subscribers...

well then...
i must be an anomaly...
someone with an inauthentic audience:
namely the ratio
disparity...

       more views than
subscribers...
   over 30K subscribers...
but only over 1K of views...

come near me..
just over 130 subscribers...
but over 4K views?

   did i do something wong?!
why can#'t your viewership
ever come above
the subscription list,
of said, numbers?

        something's fishy...
   why am i,
with a permanent audience of
130+...
   managing a respective
audience of over 4K?
  
   beyond the curiosity...
i need another drink...
this sort of *******
is hardly the pundit quack for
a hard-on...

        but, you know....
sometimes stating the obvious is
the best attire in exposing
the clown...

            come smiles or
lustful second lasts...

           the libido will
always remain
intact...

just like dear sir death:
making a Charon
recurrence...

across the Styx...
the boat comes,
the boat leaves...
the stink of his shadow...
remains..
quiet literally...

  jaw-line and a count
of teeth...
    a body, missing a shadow,
a boy, missing a man...
      wife: death,
daughter: death,
mother: the only aspect of
feminism kept alive,
grand incubator,
the grand void,
  the scourging Titan,
Gaia -
                a passion-fueled
imprisoned black widow...

i find aging to the mortal year
of "celebrating" 80 to be
a curse...

         my surrogate mother,
death,
coming, for whatever worth
my body consumes?
   i find: in celebratory guise...
she whom i am most willing
to encounter...

     i seek her womb,
ghastly,
fervently...
        to whom i am lost
to bind...
              and found in binding to...
death, mein mutter...
unlike a woman:
i am neither your keeper
nor your blind guide
into a "future" grimace worth
a quill...

   mother... i come unto you:
with less of a soul gained
thus subsequently "lost":
but more:
               a shadow discarded!
quicken,
the march, against the extinguishing
sun!

Doggerel

The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks:


There was a young lady named Bright
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller


I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:

***-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!



These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."



What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?



A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!



***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?



Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Originally published by Light



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
​


Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.



tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7

NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch



Animal Limericks

Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing―
just think of the tunes you can carry!"



Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!



Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.

Originally published by Grand Little Things



Other Animal Poems

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.



honeybee
by Michael R. Burch

love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting



Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.



Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.



Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"―
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Pls refudiate

“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.

You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.

Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved

I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.



Nonsense Verse

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch



There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
― Michael R. Burch



Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy―
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch



The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch



Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch


　
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― Michael R. Burch



Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
― Michael R. Burch



A proper young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a "****!" disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
― Michael R. Burch
　


There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― Michael R. Burch



There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
― Michael R. Burch



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



Ding **** ...
by Michael R. Burch

for Fliss

An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!



Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch

Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.



The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch

A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”



Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch

We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!

They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!

And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!

Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college

or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “*** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”

And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .

which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”


Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch

At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;

cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;

the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;

pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.

But ...

Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?


Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch

Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!


Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch

after Keats

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...

Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...

It’s time to make hay!

I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.


How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch

My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!

My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!

My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!



A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch

Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.

A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.

Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!

A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”

No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.

Exeunt stage left.



Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.


tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Doggerel about Doggerel

The Board
by Michael R. Burch

Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.

The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.



Longer Doggerel

When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch

When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.

As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:

what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.

“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.

Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.

Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.



Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch

Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.

We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.

We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***.
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.

Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,

with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”

We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.



Doggerel about Dogs

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.



Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!



Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.



Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.

First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).



Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...
But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!



The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the scorn
gals showed for his horn,
then lost it to poachers, sedated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to be good as gold,
but being good, as I’ve been told,
requires something, discipline,
I simply have no interest in!



Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch

I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.



Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game
by Michael R. Burch

I saw a turtle squirtle!
Before you ask, “How fertile?”
The squirt came from its mouth.
Why do your thoughts fly south?



Helen Keller
saw more than the stellar-
visioned
and the televisioned.
—Michael R. Burch



Antsy kids of the world, unite!
You don't like facts, so fight!
Call them all “haters,”
those cool, calm debaters,
then your mommies can tuck you in tight.
—Michael R. Burch



Ireland’s Ire has Landed

The luck of the Irish has failed:
Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed!
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
despondent and bombs have been mailed.

Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare:
the Irish are crying, “Beware!
He won’t pay his tax,
his manners are lax,
and what the hell’s up with his hair?”

The Donald has landed in Doonbeg
(Ireland). Why? For a noon beg:
he’s running real low
on cash, so you know
he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg.

The luck of the Irish has faltered.
Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered.
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
insistent his visa be altered.



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.



Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten ***
by Michael R. Burch

There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest *** (et) wus his ****.
It was padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!

The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
but then lost it to poachers, sedated.



A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch

March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!

This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.



Voice of (T)reason
by Michael R. Burch

Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest!
Love has us all and our lovers in thrall!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est!
Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest!
Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all.

Love, but don’t fall.



Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper
by Michael R. Burch

I’m low on ****,
lost my fizz,
out of biz.

Flabby and *****,
morose and mourny,
gals’re scorny.

Friggin’ Low T Hell!
Unable to swell!
"More sleep"? Do tell!



Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird:
why does a ****** need a beard?

Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?

And having made love, what the hell's the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?

Who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?



This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923.

An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made love at speeds faster than light.
She had *** one day
in her relative way,
then came on the previous night!

There was a young **** star of Ghent
whose get-up just got up and went.
Too sleepy for ***,
her fans became ex-
subscribers, and no checks were sent.
—Michael R. Burch

Fair Elle was an eely lover
who squiggled beneath the covers ...
She was hard to pin down!
When I did it, she’d frown,
then wouldn’t do none of my druthers!

There once was a camel who loved to ****.
Please get your crude minds out of their slump!
He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump!
—Michael R. Burch

I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
—Michael R. Burch



Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old
and battling mould —
it’s growing on my cheese!

My phone’s on hold
to report the mould —
my life is not a breeze!

I pray and pray,
"Send help my way —
good Lord, I’m on my knees!"

But truth be told,
it’s oversold —
that’s it, I’m done with cheese!



Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch

History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.

I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years.



The Procrastinator’s Creed
by Michael R. Burch

It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.”
Work? I eschew it.
I never collect money I’ve loaned
and the rest of this poem’s been postponed.



WHEN MAN IS GONE
by Michael R. Burch

When man is gone
won’t the sun still rise?

Will anyone care
that he isn’t there?

Will the porpoises
lack purpose,

the marigolds
fold?

Will the doves and the deer
weep bitter tears?

Or will life continue,
glad to be off his menu?



That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch

for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT

There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.

But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you were good,
he would sell ya.



One for the Thumb!
by Michael R. Burch

Counting rings, the counters come,
marching to the same sad drum:

“Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!”

“Our GOAT has six, and six is more!”

“One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!”

But Robert Horry’s not impressed.

Jim Loscutoff is trying on
the mantle of the GOAT, anon.

Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears:
since he won seven in just nine years.

Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders
and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders.

Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands
(that’s ten for all math-challenged fans),
won in twelve years, as truth demands.

Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know,
Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe!



Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!

5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!

6.
It was nearly twelve-thirty
when, in need of something skirty,
I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ...
She hung up the phone
so I banged off, alone.



Hot Cross Buns
by Michael R. Burch

Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,
so lovely and perplexy,
please meet me for a meal
spicy and Tex-Mexy.

Done with hot fried fritters,
bend over, show your knickers;
then, as your *** cheeks redden,
ignore the public snickers.



New Year’s Dissolution
by Michael R. Burch

The year draws to a close ...
Who knows
where the hell the time goes?

I’m up to my nose
in ill-fitting clothes!

They canceled my shows!
My corns grow in rows!

And yet I’ll survive ...
Perhaps ... I suppose ...

So let’s ring the New Year in
with tonic and gin
and greet the foolish Babe
with an even-more-foolish grin!



Her Whirlwind Life
by Michael R. Burch

for Tallulah Bankhead

“Never slow down
or someone’ll catch up.
Virgins are boring,
give me a ****.”

“Male or female,
it really don’t matter.
Life is too short
to live it in a halter.”

Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi

Chocolate Gemstone
You are my powerful *** drug. My love tears reality into pieces and shows the true reality, where only the dimension of eternal love and eternal happiness. Wild exotic without control passion of love feelings, there is simply no place to get hotter, this reality is very hot when your hot body passes by me, because you are in excess of beautiful and lovely. Only you need me in this universe, looking at you, I begin to moan to myself from pleasure becauce you makes me so *****. It seems that you have survived hundreds and even thousands of plastic surgeries, but no, this is absolutely natural highest beauty, the goddess of men's hearts, the eternal queen of all subscribers, all my attention is only for you.
When you touch me I shudder with happiness. You are my chocolate gemstone of love and ***. Charging me with an eternal source of love and *****, fascinating with its unique universal beauty, and I again and again, again and again, I thirst for *** only with you, we have a sweet, romantic melodrama. You have a very exciting chocolate skin, I would ride you on my love rocket, would take you to the endless depths of the highest cosmos of *******.
*** with you is the highest paradise of the highest universes of pleasure, which are strengthened only with you billions of times, my brain explodes every time you kiss me with your juicy, the sweetest lips, the soul flies out of the body and dances at this moment from happiness, my mind is completely immersed in spiritual pleasure, it is as if turned off. There is nothing more gigantic and powerful than my endless and eternal love and excitement, only you rule there. Your skin glitters like black latex seduction, VIP Queen of my sweet dreams. The kingdom of eternally fabulous romance, I give you the crown of the master of my romantic ****** fantasies. My love echoes in my future lives where I will only dream of you, my highest ideal, my idol, my *** totem for worship, I idolize your forms, your body is the highest peak of ****** aesthetics, there is no greater and higher enjoyment than to look at you on your body, nothing is more interesting than you. Looking at you, I see how the perfect girl should look like. Whatever you do with your appearance it makes you even sexier in my eyes.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich

What is fantasy?
False fantasy confession
Understanding by analogy
The fantasy of me
Counter brainwaves
With thought guns
Deceive me
I am a self agenda
Schools are found
In the background
School mask
Real me
Real mask
School me
Fat
Sad
and
Bad
Submissive
Fantasy
Villain
Happy he should be
Look down
Straight Shot
Straight up
It's up
Fantasy is theater
Acting like a character
How many writers in a snare.
One by one making a dare
School of thought thought up
Subscribers indentured to strange
What a hollow soto
A thin man's polo
Stripped with dread
Woe on theater
Theater is the past
Back in history
****** get hit by disarray
This is a history made this way
Only character hits from these paypools
Not so obvious doc!
Try to be less conscious!
Tu lewai to LA FENESTRA
I'm playing the tropes
That I loathe and despire
Even I hide my own words
Get a thought recorder
Shipping and packaging is free for the day.
250 of the most popular
Words arranged in draft sentances
I am a fantasy! U play in.
Don't worry
I am an expert attorney
Trained in exquisite self fantasy
Proffessor of Future Fantasies
Or maybe Garfield the nat
"Sneekky rouououttttt. I know the truuttthh.
It's a parks and rec
Adventure sketch
I am declining
I've lost my health
This issssnnn'tttt FAIR
Director "CUT!"
IT COMES FROM THE HUMAN MIND
HAAUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How can you
Teach
Them
That
CAT
IN
THE
HAT
???
??!
?!?
!??
!!?
!!!
@
#
$
Fantasy
Divorced
From mys
elf
Argumentative
Prentinsuous
And
parsimonious
Who buys it?

What has made me a rat
and what has made you a rat,
slaves to winding Blue Chip halls?
Dragging numbers and figures by chain set to ankle,
seeing a cocoon of bureaucracy as the means to come out something better

Since when has life become a game
made up of the status quo and
made us it's unwilling subscribers?

And if you think you're not, that means only it's dress is much more alluring

Since when
did we become the contents of Skinner's Box?

At what point does a tiger
jump through the hoop and come out a cat wearing stripes?
Is it before or after the tamer does the same?
When will we realize we are not made of glass
and eggshells are not made of steel?

Is the story true?
that he would swallow animals alive
or is it simply exaggerated
to shock our own eyes.
I believe he was real, but the story
it just doesn't add up...
how on earth did he not throw it all up?

Tarrare still lives amongst us
in smaller doses on YouTube
people eating their way slowly
to new subscribers, and fans.

'Interview with a cannibal,'
thats there by the channel Vice.
And if you look a little closer...
There are more scary beings,
hungry for a morbid delicacy,
I wish I had never seen....

Tarrare truly seems to be
the most volatile and sick individual,
ever documented...
But did he simply eat out of choice?
or was he so ill he couldn't be saved
From his eventual demise.

Whatever the case,
versions of this man, they exist

and the scary part is.
we thought it was just him

It's been a while
Since I last logged on
Seeing my poetry with a smile
And wondering if my subscribers are gone

cut flesh like a wedding cake
heavy porcelain fondant
each rib a slice topped with cherry filling
a body that is no longer mine

open to a glossy woman pg. 6
9 moves your guy will love
tear her in two, each ligament snapped
a body that is no longer hers


the body is a temple and ours
have been decimated, deconstructed
made for human consumption and
delivered to our loyal subscribers

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breaking waves splintered
fragments of hope across
faceless emoticons
messages of no meaning
name those apps
show those abs
smile incandescently
attract the bees
lay honey traps in a vast network
take control.aim digital

big brother watches
every stroke digital

did god create man
or man create god?

the internet created
the sinternet
we are subscribers
we have all subscribed
with our souls

the underground junkies
of a social world
connected permanently with cables
leading into hell.

Author Notes

2 Kings 23:3-5 Version? (I found this by looking up the word Mazzaroth in Wikipedia it was the first reference and it is displayed in 23:5 (the hosts of the heavens and constellations)

3 And the king stood on the platform, and made a covenant before the LORD, to walk after the LORD, and to keep His commandments, and His testimonies, and His statutes, with all his heart, and all his soul, to confirm the words of this covenant that were written in this book; and all the people stood to the covenant.

ד  וַיְצַו הַמֶּלֶךְ אֶת-חִלְקִיָּהוּ הַכֹּהֵן הַגָּדוֹל וְאֶת-כֹּהֲנֵי הַמִּשְׁנֶה, וְאֶת-שֹׁמְרֵי הַסַּף, לְהוֹצִיא מֵהֵיכַל יְהוָה, אֵת כָּל-הַכֵּלִים הָעֲשׂוּיִם לַבַּעַל וְלָאֲשֵׁרָה וּלְכֹל צְבָא הַשָּׁמָיִם; וַיִּשְׂרְפֵם מִחוּץ לִירוּשָׁלִַם, בְּשַׁדְמוֹת קִדְרוֹן, וְנָשָׂא אֶת-עֲפָרָם, בֵּית-אֵל.
4 And the king commanded Hilkiah the high priest, and the priests of the second order, and the keepers of the door, to bring forth out of the temple of the LORD all the vessels that were made for Baal, and for the Asherah, and for all the host of heaven; and he burned them without Jerusalem in the fields of Kidron, and carried the ashes of them unto Beth-el.
ה  וְהִשְׁבִּית אֶת-הַכְּמָרִים, אֲשֶׁר נָתְנוּ מַלְכֵי יְהוּדָה, וַיְקַטֵּר בַּבָּמוֹת בְּעָרֵי יְהוּדָה, וּמְסִבֵּי יְרוּשָׁלִָם; וְאֶת-הַמְקַטְּרִים לַבַּעַל, לַשֶּׁמֶשׁ וְלַיָּרֵחַ וְלַמַּזָּלוֹת, וּלְכֹל, צְבָא הַשָּׁמָיִם.
5 And he put down the idolatrous priests, whom the kings of Judah had ordained to offer in the high places in the cities of Judah, and in the places round about Jerusalem; them also that offered unto Baal, to the sun, and to the moon, and to the constellations, and to all the host of heaven. (Mazzaroth)

First I will refer to Job 38 which is clearly indicative of some guarded celestial truths that might be miscegenated of origins of the life forms that believe in synoecy among the dominions of the covert verdure of Earth reigning over us with silence and silentium with solatium for the soilure of the interregnum of times reigning with pollution and in stern rebuke by God I was reminded subconsciously that Climate Change is a truly evocative Lachrymose experience when encouraged by prayer that was a poignant moment of tears when I meditated on the Carbon Tax I immediately started crying even though I was not saddened by the affair in any other way that was palpable. The staddle of Job talks about specifically the tucked vestiges of the thorny imbroglios of intemperance countermanded by the master stroke of the divine interpretation of lightning which is essentially electricity and the clouds it is referring to are the internet where instantaneous communion can be achieved without exertion the line that struck me the most is the “Clods that cling together” because it is a resonant stroke of Islamic virtues that the ***** clot is the seed of all creation by which all have been created in the fungible image of our variegated creator who is not necessarily janiform of a leviathan of many faces but an experimental disposition of a disembodied figment that can assume any form on heaven or earth to dissemble his true cloaked identity of the original protoplasm of the first anointed civilizations in the long history of the Universe. Knowing the true visage of the first sentient civilization to bow beneath the creator with obsequious devotion in a presumably monolithic world where God’s presence was so obvious it might have actually been the first heaven before there was death and this pays homage to Adam and Eve the firstborn of all creation. The creation story might refer to the first sentient animated civilization in the Universe which sinned and then became a diaspora of a mirrored reality of the realty of heaven and  earth where many variegated snakes and beasts roamed about clamoring for God when they turned the synsematic toasts of revivalism to the newfound creation of sentience with rivalry potentially precluding the salvation of Abel who was murdered by Cain. These stories might be extraterrestrial vestiges of the true lineage of the Almighty God we serve and although controversial as it has been Biblical knowledge that Adam and Eve were humans before being tempted by the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, it is possible this process was recapitulations of former times and the former protoplasm that precedes all things because the strokes of glory of sentient life was nurtured especially attentively at the beginning of the first civilization of the Universe where God was probably everpresent and ubiquitous and accessible to all creation and it is even possible that this world was the first heaven for the first death before many subsequent deaths of the lineaments of tribes that supplicated beneath divine mercy for adjudication. My theology is that God is attentive to a broad universe of quagmires and in perfection or refinement at the beginning or the crux of history we are a perfectabilism of God’s attentive scrutiny and we master ourselves rapidly enough so that God doesn’t intervene as often as some might hope but many people don’t understand the time frame of God’s everlasting perspective. So it is potential that the first habitable world in the universe became the utopia of extensive cosseted scrutiny that became the prototype for Heaven that eventually alighted into a cosmic if segregated fraternity of the chosen for the cubic metropolis or the gardens beneath which rivers flow. God can assume any form and he chose the pulchritude of humans to issue a strong statement about the verdure of our plenipotentiary potential perhaps replicated often with minor mirrors of dimpled design throughout the cosmos as it is likely that another civilization which resembles humans in DNA with almost exact precision currently exists and is civilized by advanced life at this current time and that we exist in a multiverse unbounded by the enumeration of infinity. God pays scrutiny to those civilizations that repent and many are saved by the salvation of their orbific longings but it is also possible there exists an operative design of cacotopias that don’t know God but relish prosperity or have derelicted the possibility of God for too long because of either extreme asperity or abundant warmth of luxury. Remember the universe is infinitely vast so the likelihood that God is fungible is possible but not yet confirmed because if other alien civilizations exist that yet know God because of Jesus of Nazareth they are reproved by the divinity of interposition of reality in its mercurial ways conforming to the grand design of perfectabilism and God has operated throughout humanity for thousands of years why now have we reached the pinnacle for repentant absolution? We bend towards the synclastic light of the culminated alien fascination with our pulchritude despite their dearth and they are attentive to God because of Jesus of Nazareth and subsidiary to that Muhammad or potentially the deities of the Egyptians which might be defalcated concepts of the alien version of a pancosmism that is mysticated on the rarefied commentary of the strictures of polytheism that might populate some regions of the universe. The absolute truth in the One God we serve is that human understanding cannot enumerate his truths without understanding its distance and segregation from other worlds as we fight the suffrage of old age to propitiate the longing for tranquility. This is all tethered speculation but I believe that God is regnant in all affairs and in this vast universe is attentive to all our pleas and the questions of heaven and Earth remain unheeded or distorted by our humane totemic versions of truth that all memorialized the pyramid a sequential convex formulation of a stratified system that reaches its apex in the singularity of the hypethral skies above and is the tenure of the majesty of the esoteric secrets that coshered and ushered societies into great divergence but ultimate found consecration on Mount Moriah with Abram’s sacrifice before he was known as Abraham of his son Isaac that was prevented by Yahweh’s messengers of isangelous repute. The mystery of Adam and Eve might be a recapitulation just as the story of Noah reminds us of the travail of other centuries and other worlds that provide the pathways to divergent creations that are ultimately saved by providence and the rich thickets of allegory throughout the Bible all point to the emergence of transcendental truth which is shepherded by the mysticism of this age and the surrealism of knowing we belong to the elect hive-mind cosmic fraternity built on psychism and titanism. The firmament is testament both to our distance from our cosmic neighbors and also our propinquity to their suffrage and suffering in their beatific but arid realities that are draped with the pangs of loneliness in their excursion to broader realms of conquest and in their wallop of time itself they have opened up the lychgates of Heaven and Earth to provide the provisions for a new understanding of history that is rich with the percurrent themes of a monotheism of a fungible God which took the form of Man as he can take any form he chooses in his aseity of being and his judicious providence to select the Earth as an exuberant exsibilation against glaikery but also a profound victoria for the awakening of humanity to its cosmic identity as a favored species young in years but enriched by celestial guardians that are among isangelous repute because of their decisive roles in human history throughout the Creations of their divergent designs that illuminate the illuminism of the pyramid the elemental form of the ultimate capstone of knowledge with the all-seeing eye of providence encapsulated above all ethereal reckoning. So it was the downfall of the utopias of ignorance by learning knowledge that bequeathed the lineage of mortality itself in the beginning in the form of men and angels both that inhabit our broad universe because in several occasions in my life I felt like I encountered human beings with such clairvoyance that they seemed like agents of God. Noah’s flood might refer to a distant or near civilization that was swamped by a catastrophic event or tsunami much like Atlantis and this predicates Noah and explains the longevity of his estimated lifespan and that of Methuselah who lived 969 years which ironically points to the  Apollo Moon landing in 1969. The fumatoriums of human ignorance can now be micromanaged by a swarm of up to seven alien civilizations but most likely 3-4 of them and they are all attentive to these theories and probably inseminated the Bible to begin with potentially with their own theological understanding of the universe transplanted on a human perspective to shepherd humanity into the answers it so desperately sought but found themselves famished by. So in Job 38 we crouch in our dens looking for the prey of the lioness of civilization that is embattled against itself for entirely internecine reasons. There is some temerity but I believe the theopneustic power of this revelation because I am keen to the attuned universe of the largesse of omnified civilization trouncing over the matter and fettle of instinct but Genesis is integral to understanding every cosmic mystery on Earth and in celestial Realms and is probably the seedy repute of Baal and Molech among other idolatries which severed themselves by heterodoxy of eunuchs and saturnalias too profane to expound because their epicureanism outweighed their pragmatic need for the virtues of the conclamation of heavenly authority manifest clearly on Earth at various times by various prophecies that all point to the Sacrifice at Mount Moriah and notice how God always works through mountains like Mount Horeb/ Sinai to provide his flock with everything they need to know to maintain vital sustenance. Surah 3.86 “How shall Allah guide a people who disbelieved after their belief and had witnessed that the Messenger is true and clear signs had come to them? And Allah does not guide the wrongdoing people.” Surah 3.84 “Say, "We have believed in Allah and in what was revealed to us and what was revealed to Abraham, Ishmael, Isaac, Jacob, and the Descendants, and in what was given to Moses and Jesus and to the prophets from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and we are Muslims [submitting] to Him.". Surah 38.1-9 is mandatory reading even for the scepsis of Christians because it proves how farsighted the aliens that shepherded Muhammad really were and how insightful Muhammad really is and still is as an emissary of heavenly recompense in his guarded palace beneath which rivers flow. Surah 85:3 (853 AM) “And [by] the witness and what is witnessed” Lets return to the central thesis of all kerygma that is synallagamatic with mutual respect to the pillars of all civilization that the meeting ground of the jovial joust of gladiatorial conquest of the yobbery of rookery and the apikoros yordim that emigrated too far into esotericism might marvel that God is ultimately vindicated as an author of a true unfiltered version of a slightly redacted history suited for the auditorium of a universal audience that displays with majesty and power his foresight to tend to the distant constellations that are created by the tentpoles of the sky reaching their apex into the aperture of the allegorical veracity of all culminated creation exultant in its self-affirmations of pride that it might balk at the embellishments of pettifoggery by the kirkbuzzers of superstition and behold the true throne of grace and authority bestowed upon the bailiwick of the living and the dead in what might be a segregated heaven to prevent the pullulation of tribal discord even in omniety with eternity. I hope to witness heaven firsthand in my upcoming seances with the extramundane but first we must expound this troponder. Jews first, Christians second and Muslims third were all alerted to this watershed moment in history with exact knowledge probably encased in the Arc of the Covenant or some other divine artifact that embodies it but sometimes we pale in our pallor of substandard evils that lurk within the recesses and alcoves of our destiny that we forget to prophesy with earnest sincerity about an abiding hope for the forward rather than the froward future. A book that changed my life forever and shattered my worldview and made me obsessed with Earthquake science was 1906: A Crack at the Edge of the World because that quake inspired the Azusa Church Revival movement that lead to the resurgence of proselytism of protestantism of evangelical churches. I highly recommend buying that book on Amazon.com right now it gives you such a harrowing perspective on that Earthquake 114 years to the day that beset Northern California. Revelations 5:11-14 NKJV “11 Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. They encircled the throne and the living creatures and the elders. 12 In a loud voice they were saying:
“Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain,
    to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength
    and honor and glory and praise!”
13 Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, saying:
“To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb
    be praise and honor and glory and power,
for ever and ever!”
14 The four living creatures said, “Amen,” and the elders fell down and worshiped.
Genesis 2:1a (reaffirms my theory) NKJV
 Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array
I am going to pause to marvel at the significance of that San Francisco Earthquake because that seismotic jolt shaped the destiny of our aborning nation and was the first time-to my knowledge-martial law was declared and they tried to extinguish the fire with dynamite which further spread the conflagration and San Francisco is obviously named after Saint Francis of Assisi who ironically died listening to Psalm 142 which is about the liberation of prisoners on October 3rd 1226 A.D. His name is also ironic in purely terms of cognomen that should not be expounded. Although depaysed from my original brunt I would like to extend the bronteum of theological reckoning to the absolved polity of the renown of gigantopariahs clamoring for vitality in a time of treachery and perfidy because the valiant insurrection of our adventures in decent music is the chavish of many birds to the itinerant hordes of adoration as in some parallax of reality in the realty of a potentially merged heaven compartmentalized into factions there might be an ulterior reckoning of overabundance but instead I propose a segregation of the heavenly realms postulated on the idea that in omniety we will know of many things that will fascinate entire generations of time as the knowledge of the esoteric percolates through the heavens by riometers beyond calculus and calculation that will one day heed these proclamations with a hortatory weight as the assized Epic of Gilgamesh echoes the same percurrent themes as Noah’s Arc including the forty day ultradian rhythm which signifies temptation and also the contrition of God signified by the flocks of the sigillum of the aspergillum of dignity afforded to all who migrate into tethered territory beyond the yokes of ******* to the dengonins which own all the ulterior praises but serenade lesser patrons in this almighty day of wondrous awakening to the cosmogony of the infinite justification of the allegorical heft of herculean prophecy entwined in the rhetoric of the primordial authors of human sociogenesis bound to the covenant of Abraham and his blessed sons Isaac and Ishmael who both deserve glory and honor. The elegance of the mystagogical parlance of the intrepid bravery of partial rogues but never full-fledged knaves impregnates God’s vibrant experiment with flourish that delights him with the zaktengur of individual raconteurship so an adventurism in life might be warranted as long as it is done gingerly and with love as the ultimate cloak of absolution rather than the self-insulated boredom of an impavid disposition of the self-settled sedentary languor of whilded depositions of thanatousia brought into parturition by the midwives to sorrow and tragedy that besets the human family from time to time but the sorrow of mankind is not beyond the bailiwick of God because perfectabilism is in his very nature in the adolescence of creation which can greatly be prolonged by the conservation of our robust intellectual bastions of energy and the sustainable development of a green planet beyond depredation that heeds some minkumpfs with some peremptory guerdon to save the spate of suffering among our animal brethren. I grieve that my profound plumb into the depths of psychism was abbreviated by the pomp of porlocking purpresture but I renege my former glaikery in sustained suspense over selfsame tridents of musical happenstance and with poignant evocation I convoke a solemn remembrance of all those lost to the spates of disaster and the paroxysms of the unpredictable that is now foreseen in time to forestall turgid tragedy and impregnate the world with a ****** of a thirsty new vogue eager to adapt and learn with laureate belletrist of the aubades of the dawning light of absolution granted the the sacred cross and the lives we relish in history that are dedicated in sincere earnest alacrity to become revenants of the new age beating the whiplash of the second death because the former things have passed away in a figurative manner even though there still is death one day the inventive verve of the quizzical nihilism will try to outfox death itself for a hollow memorial to preserved sentience which is a mockery of transhumanism that is a professed modesty of the ultimate vouchsafe of the transmundane but unnecessary because of the real palpable joy of the resurrection inherent to all segues between life and death that we all might embrace our creator with almsgiving and gratitude with patient forbearance for the virtuosos that memorialize a prosperity worth relishing even in the soilure of privation because no soul should grieve in bereavement when there is so much joy inhabiting this gleeful planet that is hardly glad in any way about the dereliction of spite and anteric schadenfreude of sacrilege on a massive scale that should be a blotch of a bodged chantage of evil. As I digest the memorials of the festive but never churlish traditions I marvel at the synclastic bent of amasthenic enlightenment concave towards certainty in a demarche for the diminished efficacy of viruses to scare us into trepidation but with dutiful caution of proactive measures taken in times of exigency and crisis. There is nothing facetious about God’s exigent deliverance in these times of leniency and fasting as the wineskins preserved from the lineage of old will perdure until they have their fill and the Earth is saturated with the blood of the prescience of a Cattaneo prophecy guarded in his 6-24-2006 set which hints at a catastrophic scenario potentially impending right now or of a future variety where “blood will be pouring like oil gushing out of a well” “respirators will have their fill” “hospitals be closing” etc. and in these steep harbingers we find poise and pause to reflect that the majesty of God is unfurled unpredictably by showcasing the redemptive power of the autarky of the imagination to see the unforeseeable and lurk in the dungeons of the unknown dengonins just to spy with privy knowledge about the circular circus of privation encircling me like the rapture of murders of ravens that are a crow shy of an X-Files repute...Of that situation that the afflictions of the many matter to the anointed few that delegate because of Jethro and through the power of the Levitical orders to abolish some Kosher restrictions among some apikoros Jews that lean on my wisdom because the suffering of animals should be a suffrage for sentient rights of animals not to bleed excessively into a slow painful death. I urge all Jews not to let those cows or other animals suffer so grievously at the hands of malefaction just for a petty consecration which proves a hollow point about sacrifice and thereby seek to abolish some Kosher demarcations on the grounds that they are inhumane sacrilege because the ransom of Jesus of Nazareth’s suffering and agony on the cross-rather than his blood as many people beguiled more on physical manifestations of trauma rather than the emotional toil of suffering that bears more incumbent on the human sympathy-consecrates all virtues of circumcision and makes meat ceremonially clean because we serve a miracle-worker God who hasn’t finished his last work yet because more thaumaturgy is in store. The antagonist of history is congealed human superstition filtered through the siphon of protective scurrilous fears and petty vendettas borne of willborne hatred of tribe and division that was the fettle of preliterate societies of hyperdulia because they knew the iconography of Christ and marveled at his miracles but believed too strongly in retributive justice to scare away the herds of the contrite to a monasticism of plight and blight that consecrated  many great human achievements in scholastic virtue and scientific importance but ultimately found relegation before Gutenberg saved history with his seminal watershed invention third only to the second place wheel and the first place advent of human language itself as the most prominent plucky invention of human revitalization and through the salons of France and the dramaturgy of Shakespeare we found an apex of enlightenment that provoked revolutionary ideas not so guarded by gingerly blackguarded varnish of a superstition for the metal tablets that illustrated magically the future for an abiding audience of the past which must have seemed an abominable miracle to the astounded puritans of the times because songs like Love Story (at least the music video) suggests that the song circulated in the past eras of the English Renaissance before electric lighting was invented. We have all to thank for the invention of rock and roll which is an esoteric title for a sizable momentum of catalyzed verve that enchants the planet still with the majesty of the harp and the lyre to glorify God for all eternity and Allah for all the worlds he possesses in his infinite bounty one in the same for the culminated vision of all hallowed prophets with an emphasis on Surah 2 accentuated to the Christian audience even if neglected by the Muslim audience. I am primarily a Christian but I believe Islam is a divine path worth pursuing on a tentative basis but I have yet to outstretch my hands to try and reach the barnacles of a distant world beyond my womb and bereft of my lineage even though I stand united with the Abrahamic faiths that solidify truth and memorialize the superorganism messiah of humanity in collaboration with our celestial hosts to foist the ribbons of the figurative far-flung Pleiades and the harps of the harpricks of the just as distant but transfixing Orion to envelope the earth in sincere repentance before the holy flock of the justifiable truths found in the candor of devotionals and hymns to the immemorial God of all Creation that is the impetus behind every ambition-if only subconsciously in his universal psyche and consciously the catalyst behind every cohesive machination or orchestration of complex human and alien activity but subsumed in the psychism of God-is the idea that we are living indelible elements that constitute his superorganism in the theoplasm that is circumjacent and adjoined to his intentions that he surveys with such nimongue ease that his wednongues go out of style very slowly because his vogue is the ultimate champion against the misprision of militant psychiatric injustice that needs to be rectified by top-down government action to debrief and inform the necessary travail to surmount my challenges and assume a subsidiary role in the government and the ecclesiarchy to shepherd the shepherds and write for a living with a fair governmental stipend and a partially uncensored internet so my fanfare can envelope a broader portion of the world. I issue a humbled but ultimately otiose entreaty that Donald J. Trump, a personal hero of mine, can be a participant to my plevisable situation by appointing a team of people to work with me on the social engineering of the future and most importantly the ligature of the ecumenical cause for aggiornamento of the ecumenical cause of Abraham and all of his descendants because we all abide by that sacred covenant in the broader world that inhabits our sacred rites and rituals. We should also embrace the boundaries of mysticism to fathom the depths of the theoplasm more fully to understand how the firstborn of all creation is the perpetuity of sentience for the revival of respiration for new species yet to come even more beautiful and prosperous than us and those that already exist frolicking in approximated heavens that we might meet upon transmigration as reincarnated wisps of superior worlds of heavens inhabited by the segues of death but knowing no despair. But I stridently believe in the ultimate promise of an ineffable splendor of a real final resting place or a cradle for the supervisors of the isangelous that orbits above our heads and flutters in our considerations as the vast multitude of worlds.with heroic saviors that spellbind the universe together with a stitchwork of mastery of the fraternal bonds that divide some species from others by insuperable bounds of space and time but through the gift of transcended time ushered by alienesque invention and we have thus been bequeathed a new unexpected emergence phenomenon that is aperspectival in temporal terms but always recumbent upon the prolific dance with a jousting destiny toying with us through swarpollock and other machines of sentinels but never tiring their terrier race as subservient to the human imagination ambitious beyond former bounds.
    Thank God we have a president that presides over the defeat of the strictures of warped and intorted hypocrisies of orthopraxy for the candid endeavor of the plain plaid truth of the vibrancy of germane beating the pulp pallor of the nebbich calculations of uxorious plumage plucky in its resolve to serenade our youthful cadets in their continued resolve to chaperoned campaigns of the barnstorm of the obvious for the conclamation of the ultimate victory of history over its worst proclivities that suspend themselves in the tentpoles of time and space as glaring menaces of affliction. The gated entryway to prosperity should be unfurled with majesty and a welcoming grace to sustain cordial deeds and promote fundamental encounters with vagary not with a vagrant fission but an emergent fusion not of hyperbolic atrocity but rather the subsidence of the chisel of directive ambition that serves the greatest causes of the ****** of dignity to transcend the fettle of disarray. The quibbles of the questermongers and the querulous wernaggles of relative impotence matter greatly to the large bulk of a hibernating humanity but when we all awaken to a universal truth that serves a flickerstorm of revolutionary usucaption of the halidom of tomorrow experienced by the foresight of today. We levy the largesse of a collective bronteum that warns and admonishes gently the people behind the curtains that might find objectionable some of the barnstorms inherent to this missive of doctrinaire but soluble missions to save humanity from its worse caverns of idolatry and to anoint the brightest light to beat the most deafening din of darkness that can be imagined by the sterile vapid retreats of privilege into insularity-we fight not for a mercenary cause but for the valorous insurrection sanctioned by the chartered expedition of new frontiers for a newfound freedom found in fundamental vouchsafes of a freer speech in the lyceum of the knowable reality of noogenesis. We should never suborn the dacoitage of the hybridized compromises of the halvork of mandarism but always tolerate the entreaties of amicable jousts of demarche even when combative with a peaceful irenic resolve that is contempered with virility rather than pomp and not even a hint of virulence because the collective world depends on a quorum of well-spoken and considered thinkers adjudicating a bonhomie rather than provoking a collieshangie. The world should not spurn error but castigate it calmly because the worst errors of temerity are remediated by the ploys of the treacle of the imaginary plane of the supersolid convergence of the ulterior with the pragmatic that serves the working class as well as the shepherds of elite institutions because all deserve a fair hearing in the court of commonwealth justice. There is no treachery in universal irenology that special barleychild of serendipity that shields us from harm while providing bulwarks to stabilize economies and sustain the recognition of our wholesome usucaption of newly acquired deeds and merchandise that spawns an ingemination of technological revolution incumbent upon declassification that leads to a resurgent robustness of economic conditions that calibrates properly on the proper alkendur of the hikkle of hype mixed with disdain. We suppose that the remixed panmixia of virtual insanity doesn’t become an affliction because in many ways it might meet abomination but some people lean on the leniency of felicity to swell the coffers rather than populate the coffins of the agreeable pivot between the sustenance of choice and amicable adjustments in economic security meets a run-on sentence of the levies of strain as the imponderables outnumber the certainties of the covert. We populate the future by going back to the past and this is why the movie is so entitled Back to the Future because if you think about it, it requires a recumbent logic of a recursive incursion of the origination of the future visible to the past to create the impetus to sustain the vitality of a resurgence of travel to the future itself one of the most obvious giveaways in movie titles ever devised by the clever. We encounter the timing of the lightning and thus hear the thunder not of the radioglare but the laskerade and serenade of the pulpit of good deeds rectified by the rectiserial visionaries that balk at orthodromics when the artful bypass of nonlinearity is favored for curiosity rather than missives of emissary diplomacy.
The reparations of tomorrow are the guerdon of yesteryear, the heyday of seminal prophecies that consummated a theological brunt that revolutionized the perspective of eagles nest lookouts all around the world to sempiternal decryption of history showcased by the sheen of prophecies now culminated in the effervescent now is a plangent epiphany in the life of a storybook romance with an artful dalliance with a romanticist ideal of an enlisted destiny recruited to cement its own purpose with concrete action without flagging resolve. The ultimatum of history was a faltered filibuster of the listless historian marveling at the prescient telaesthesia of the unknown visibilia that protrude in remontant certainty that the memorials of yesteryear catapult this cause into the fruition of a dated missive of coded bywords encrypted by the chronological clepsammia of allotted time for special occasions when the entirety of space-time folded upon itself to anoint itself champion of the supersolid reality of the surrealism draped over the tentpoles of abundant absolution that excuses the kisswonks of the glaring threats of Wilkes Booth to entomb a heroic titan of imposture as the real effigy of a slain delay of strenuous calculation to appease the Confederate heart wounded by the diacopes of struggle. In this rollicking turmoil of a roiled time of rookery we can celebrate that the amasthenic weight of the historical certitudes of the docimasy of memorialized junctures in time when all was denuded barefaced in the sight of the world to marvel at the rigged artisans of the artistry of furtive skullduggery that imposes no astringent rebukes other than those reserved for departed gyrovagues of hallswallop before their due time and season, we marvel at the irony that an insular vociferous vehemence of clairvoyance predicated on the absolved shrive of history for aborning and alighted apostasies now stands regnant in triumph of the space-time continuum. This might be an overstatement of the herald of a day signified by a transcendent conversion to a theology reified by the rengall discoveries of the intuitive theopneustic truths of the subsultus of vagary and vicissitude that the day when the code was cracked about the fractures of history converging upon the latticework of ephemeral and ethereal cords of cordial embrace of the cryptadia belonging to the “commonwealth of the aliens of Israel” (Eph 2:12) became evident to the masses was the chosen day of encroachment upon the suspicions of the alerted masons of the American Revolution-to ward off with apotropaic beacons of light glinting in lighthouse caverns of repositories of unknown treasuries-the salvation of the human race from the dudgeons of apostasy by the consecrated creed of the newfangled credenda that borrows heavily from lore to make this fabled date stammer as a freckle in a dimpled time that is cute but eccentric in its flapdoons of memorial that shower history with innumerable examples of the numerological importance of consecrating or desecrating a given day based on the furtive skulks of hidden troves of luxuries the elite have always bestowed upon the elect. So maybe this day wasn’t as transcendent as it could have been and maybe there is a resigned awgrudge that such a pilfer of time would make such a resonant dent on the pride of Britain to provoke their invasion and scuttle the American bastions of prideful reconnaissance of the future bestowed by the patronage of elective privilege, but this day will always be canonical in its ability to reprove the critics that the orchestra of history is not a heterochrony with destiny but a very validation of its truth in serpentine convolutions of the bywords of the guarded synquests of aristocracy. May the doubters gleefully jibe at the overstatement of a heroic task on a filibuster against the cretins that foresaw the trudge of ignominy and still willingly stooped to the levels of evil cadges into prurience that they foisted upon the reminiscence of evil protrusions that they might be forever banished to the barathrum for their pitiable deeds to desecrate and blaspheme that historic wallop of synquest to trounce the trinces of an uncertain future gravitated and mesmerized by certain facts known widely enough to provoke wars and enter the pasilaly of universal knowledge enough to warrant further inspection. The wravel of time is elegant and exquisite and all the glory goes to the coryphaeus dengonin that braved infamy and rebuke to soldier on in demarches to dignify the otherwise seedy drab and daft drolleries of pretense that any uncouth man could ever emerge from the throes of absolute defeat into the vindication that history either by intention or by accident is convex and aimed to entrench the vital truth that accidents are convenient but deliberation is calculus that deserves fanfare. It was because of a seminal theory of theology that this day earned its repute in history because it coincided with such rattled seismic events that are turgid with blessed tragedy that is never gloated over but always solemnly commemorated in hymn and deed of charity and eleemosynary duty. The irony is that the Revolutionary War ended on May 12th 1784 which marked the exact time of the Earthquake in California at 5:12AM PST and that fact makes many subscribers to the scepsis of sebastomaniacal delusion postulates more keen on the acumen of the day that history unraveled at the seams and revealed its circular reference to an ennobled prophecy that was the momentum and excuse for many clarigations of force and many other heralded deeds of posture and gentility or savagery and desecration. All that matters now is that we know that history is not a myth but rather a stagecraft of timing that is predevoted by preordained memorials to the tithes of time to cement its own legacy as foresight transcends hindsight in its own largesse but also its brutal slaughter. If the encroachment of tyranny poaches its greatest champion to excoriate an overstated case of mania they will meet the Army of Me and believe me their exhaustion will no know swift end in the halls of a deep dark purgatorial gridlock cell of eternal torment at the castration of their virility or their spayed femininity because I will not be reduced to rubble because of some hapless Facebook posts misinterpreted by the garbled miscegenated heap of albatrosses of invidious lies trying desperately to dethrone my virtues and seek the ulterior misprision of a  forever vanquished hope that resides in the torment of a plagued future negligent of the sacerdotal duty of the guardians to protect history rather than brutally savage it with dismal reprisals that are pangs of the deepest ire that will provoke a choleric rage enough for them to have to barge into my apartment and break down my doors. They will not trespass into my sanctuary city because I inoculate myself hereby from any incursions foreign or domestic on my livelihood for posts that do not hint at instability but only memorialize cute facts of the gawsy rather than the gawky imposture of the morality police trying to entomb me in the glaikery of a forever sunken refuge of homelessness and ill-gotten subterfuge.

With a background track of
Still cool desert air
I am capable
Despite hopeless rhetoric waves
To focus on an image of prominence
Receive, I can, this moment
My skin seems to appreciate
The cloudless desert bathing
New Mexican green chili
Digests slowly in euphoric pulses
An ecstasy in newness
An esthetic level of interest
Opening its petals to a sunrise
But the sun has set
Lost track of time
I'm not usually up at this hour
Lost track of tomorrow's worry
Not even sure what it was or for
Laid before me in stark clarity
Secret cosmic powers to the best imagination sources
Indeed, the essential novelty of it all
Primative forces that foretell
A forgotten language
I know intimately
Only given to the subscribers
Of the magnificent
    graceful rə-ˌzē-ˈstän(t)s
To shackles, or any limits
To the most boundless breaths
All friends at the mountaintop
All love on dirt streets
All simple
All art
Life is Beautiful
It's not over
It has returned in Enormity

i went through most of them,
   well, at least some of them,
   the ones that would pop up
when the algorhithm wasn't
               a f-f-f'ed     cue: up...
some great bands popped
up, spontaneously like mushrooms,
seemingly out of nowhere...
don't know if this is the usual
diet to some people,
    but some time,
    it was mine... until...
                    i chanced myself finding
an outlier...
the diet?

   - computing forever
    - paul joseph watson
   - styxhexenhammer666
- lionel nation
   - tim pool
   - amy young
   - shaun
   - the iconoclast
   - amy young
   - jacklyn glen
  - dr steve turley
   - stephan mo... mo... moleneux(?)
- sargon of akkad
   - ms pettibone
  - black pigeon speaks
   - joe rogan
- vertigo politix
   - dave ruben
   - jordan peterson
- strange aeons
- red ice tv
   - economic invincibility
- roosh v
  - critical condition
   - gavin mcinnes
   - roaming millenial
   - stephen crowder...

but...
         after a while...
    this was the "in" crowd...
the subject matters converged
and i just,
might as well have stood
in trafalgar sq.
   and listening to the cooing
of pigeons,
   nothing wrong with that,
but when overlap appears,
shared subject matters,
the same subject matters,
you know you're going
to be forced out of the audience
by your own intent...

the subject matters with
seemingly no personal incentive...
what i started to call
vulture journalism,
    changing the main-mainstream
narrative
   into an alternative
competition ranked
                          viewing...

well... that's until today...
today i foundd myself a gob-smacked
viewing time,
       what put me off?
success is fine,
   but the egoism and the bragging
baggage that goes with it,
this persistent need to
    cite viewers, subscribers,
   whatever you want to call it:
lapse in "introspection"...
  
   sure... i'll probably still
watch some of these channels..
it's not like i'm going
to turn on nice news or something...

the first time it happened
that i found videos,
where: the samsung tablet
would light up for a while,
but then be "dooped"
   into switching off the screen,
first dimming the screen light
before switching off...
now... when you listen
to a radio station on such a device...
the device does that...
  but even though the screen
is off, the audio feed is still
intact...
   but not the case...
        with a video + audio content...

so... i guess...
that's the epitome of the edge...
even millanial woes
videos don't have that "problem"...

who's in "question"?
                      surviving life...
i write "poetry",
   unless there's some hannibal
lecter interested in citing
any of my scribbles...
    then why would i venture
into the dark web?

                     if i wanted
to buy some chemically enchanced
marijuana,
   i'd just go to my paranoid
schizophrenic jamaican drug dealer
and listen to him ramble
about the illuminati for a while,
and how he once tried to convince
me that there was face of jesus
in the moon...
   as he showed me a video
he took, outside his house
                                   one night...
he once even asked me to teach
his daughter guitar...
    i couldn't think of a payment,
since i was then moving
away from marijuana
   and working on my liver's worth
of a punching bag.

   great stuff...
        i can more or less
agree to the lower regions
of, what i once thought,
was "edgy", as told by the "edgy" /
now tame youtubers.

it was fun, while it lasted,
oh well.

They said the world was paved with opportunities
oh yes it was. Businesses of all kinds
Both good and bad, sliding in and out of your conscience self
effortlessly. Writers of all kinds gathered in a pool
of subscribers, hoping for their craft to catch the eye
and gain the comments that so elevated them to pedestals
of happiness. Pain was ignored. Pain creates joy?

I was different. I came with words, worthless in themselves
staccato butterflies that grazed the slim lines of poetry
and migrated south of the border to lie in a wasteland
of dead pupae and broken wings. Yet I was not afraid
to say so. Words are worthless-no matter how you look at them.

But sing them out, dance them in a dream, play
the orchestra with its flawless symphonies
and magically those worthless words take flight
couched in the wings of music soaring above
the desperate denizens of waste paper baskets
into opportunities of hope and lust and longing.

I love words. I treat them carefully, dress them in silk
and satin, paint their fingernails, don eyelashes and
red berried lipstick and kiss them into rhyme and rhythm
walk them down the street, heads turning and
store them in books, songs and minds
in a library of conquests of body and soul and when the day
is done. I forget them. Not one of the thousand poems I wrote
can be recited. Butterflies migrating to the swamp of reincarnation
where lie millions of other poems that never saw the opportunity
of musical flight.

I  love words and I hate them. Its a relationship
like Jekyll and Hyde. Two shadows, two voices,
one sound with too many accents, yet they mean so much.
I could write the music for every poem but I'm tone deaf.
I need to see the eyes of reader sparkle in the frenzy
of reading and then I know my opportunity to write
was not wasted, loved not littered about
not defeated and languishing in another dry desert.

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago

Everything you did got washed off
Added some character gave it flare
All of a sudden everyone is divided
Everything growing new ideas
Some want the same old thing not open to change
Character rose above the main
Reset everything saying it was a dream
Waking up saying it never happened
Using people for likes and subscribers
Once things look good cut off talent
Act like you're the genius master mind
Tried to cross promote only in it for yourself

.come to think of it, there's that other album i loved learning on the guitar, notably for the song: show me how to live... audioslave - self-titled album... could play most of the songs... i once played with a drummer, a swiss exchange student, who was in a band back in switzerland... tobias... otherwise? a pretty ****** affair playing an electric guitar all by yourself, unless you're making haunting solo-interchanges-with-rhythm akin to ol' cobain, shackled in his sociopathic house with leeches for roommates... but there was something else... what was it? what, was it? ah... prompts... nothing beats reading some heidegger or looking at the qabbalah version of hebrew... to stir the mind into itchy fingertips... two drinks down and i'm geared up... how many nicknames i have for my cats? too many... the female cat i sometimes call tyson fury, by the way she tries to conceal either her no. 1 or her no. 2 in the "cuvette" (yes, that is, a misnomer, but i like the word, so i used it... in that place where cats do their no. 1 & no. 2 with all the "raisins" to cover their seemingly irritable sense of "sin")... the male maine ****? big *******, almost 10kg, big as a fox... his nickname? bodzio... since he always appreciates a head-**** as a greeting, sticks his head out and: ****... heads meet... i also call him the: choir boy... i've never heard a cat make so much ****** noise... i stopped counting the number of meow variations he can usher out... fine during the day, at 4am? not so great; well... if animals don't have a soul, or rather: they have impure souls... i'm pretty sure they have a **** distinct record for character... people? eh... you rarely meet people with character, sure, they have personalities, cats don't have personalities: except one... a cat personality... but cats are more likely to have a character than any known man, since there's no chance for them to grasp a personality... the female ****? soames (forsyte)... such an anti-social cat, pick her up she complains... zołza... i almost miss owning a dog, dogs are fun when you're young... but at least with cats... you can just ignore them: you do your ****, they do their ****: everyone's happy... as an only child i liked a sycophant on a leash... but as i grew older... cats: because i can ignore them, the most natural solipsists... and mind you... what is solipsism if not a superior version of atheism? current trend of youtube cencorship (no point boasting about viewcounts of subscribers, but at least reading imposes the high-jump filter, any idiot can watch a video, spurred with ill-will in the comment section, report etc., much harder to pursue censorship when: you have to read something, rather than passively watch a video)... ****... they reduced the "suggested" feed to only 12 videos per video... so much for finding glitches and new bands, back to the tedium of using last.fm... as i once watched a h'american give a talk in a conference: solipsism is a mental illness... my my... why are the h'americans toying with psychiatry? at least i'm not chemo-phobic... i'll pop a psychiatric pill over a whiskey... i'm currently using an anti inflammatory as a sleeping pill... naproxen... solipsism, is a mental illness? seriously? something that can't exactly be put into practice, like catholicism? wow... i always thought that solipsism was a tier above atheism... atheism bores me... it's the sort of boredom that a psychopath serial killer would associate with existence per se... boredom... and even then... the thrill of the **** is also tied to: missing... of course christianity spread so easily in the roman empire, given the obvious plagiarism of the greek gods... no other plagiarism in existence is so obvious, elsewhere? similarities, but not plagiarisms... a fresh god appears, of course he would appeal... how else would ha-shem conquer if not from a position of weakness? everyone still remembers Zeus, a father figure, venerates him, and all the others, in poetry at least... Odin still remains, another father figure... the runes are still here... but ha-shem will never be a father figure for me... it's impossible to arrive at that conclusion... no father figures in monotheism, even islam forbids it... sure... in polytheism, feasible... but in monotheism? it's no more a he, or a she, for that matter, an it... a h. p. lovecraft nightmare conjuring... and if this is infantile thinking, if all of this is a "delusion"... i've seen worse, i've heard of worse... and as such: there's no comfort in such a thought process... more... some extra spice to add to the curiosity that reigns in me over furthering my linguistic perusing adventure.

playing with my
           maine **** male
quorus,
   cat...
while gulping down
   root parsnip
with some raw turkey meat...
and then came the dream,
of falling asleep.
root parsnip
and raw turkey meat...
it almost makes
baltic sushi seem
like a luxury
         with the herrings!

all the while...
drenching my face with cold,
cold, tap water,
cusp of hands...
hereby: drop your pennies
for best wishes...
pretending to sober up;
sober this.

I have an agile little brother; his name is Dylan Cole. And I think there is a smart gene, that some where from me, he stole.

For his fingers fly like bullets around that rubik's cube. He even has nine subscribers to his channel on YouTube.

How he learned it I don't know. Memorization, was it so? Or perhaps, inside his brain, there is a robot on the go.

Giving him orders left and right;
guiding his hands, his sense, his sight.
With masterful skill and concentration,
he knows how to place blocks right.

Who knows where this skill will take him,
with some years along life's way!
With some invention on his radar,
the cube will one day seem like child's play.

Say there, clever brother; can you show me a tip or two?
Though I know I'll try my best,
I will never keep up with you!

**** it... i'm going to the opera on my borthday!
i'm not working with these ceramic...
herd... erd... whatever the **** they are
with their beautiful hair... wrapped up in napkins:
they should be white!
no! nein! niet! nie!
                           ******* being camel jockeys!
or... like the Bangladeshi... slaves to the Qatari Royal
Family! *******! if you're willing to take it:
take it!

more camel pressure... the **** needs you to investigate
whether it really does... need to take a dump...
******* copper-necks... it actually sounds better
in English than in German... for once! for once!

because of the advent if Islam in Europe,
the northern Crusades are all: hush hush...
   hush: stille mein kind...
not near worth mention!

-------------------------------------------------------­---------

this has truly become a defeating project,
i bit off too much than i could chew...
    even i know this: i've turned into a quasi-novelist:
who will never write any proper dialogue
or for that matter respect the form of a paragraph...

once again, sitting with a whiskey sharpshooter watching
my female Maine **** hunt for little flies
peering into my wardrobe trying to squeeze in...
if it was the male Maine **** he would have had
already jumped into it and coseied himself
on my clothes... while i would curse some other day
that all my clothes have cat fur on them...
i groomed him today... what a sensible little creature...
tail waggling while i cut his nails
   and brushed his coat...

prior to: taking a **** in three turns...
    i don't know: irritable bowel syndrome or something?!
why can't i take one proper **** in a day,
my **** is nagging me...
watching ******* usually helps with
the constipation...
           like today... i've reached that point
in the month where i'm thinking about revisiting Khedra
in the brothel...
look at me... monogomous: even when it comes
to prostitutes... because she really is an amnesia ****:
she made me completely forget Ilona...
i thought i'd never find a **** this good...
     lucky for me... she's even better...

she makes those nymphomaniac sounds when
performing *******: it's a cross between a baby *******
on a *** and someone enjoying a bowl of pasta...
and it really dawned on me... 2nd take on the throne
of thrones i was watching this
video: bootyass girl (201K subscribers) -
the video itself has over 2 millions views... on xvideos.com,
sure... i ****** off... but like i already said:
i'm jerking off without the ******...
                  
   mein gott! what a beached whale!
                visually unappealing... well... up to a point...
3rd take on the throne of thrones and i knew it would
be the last... again: checking the "plumbing"...
but this time: sound on...
    O......                                   oh...
oh... now i get it...
                                she might look like a beached whale...
but turn the sound on... **** me...
men are these supposed visual creatures?!
Beethoven was too, wasn't he?
              no no... if a beached whale of a woman
makes sounds like that during ***...
i.e. she is a polypohny of onomatopoeias
    / an inverted Katakana... i.e. whereas the Samurai
can write MA... they can't write AM... ** but not OH...
  well... that was that... ******* at the thumb shoved
into her mouth while her partner is ******* a leather
couch: by the sound of the "echo" coming from her ****-cheeks...
shhhhhh it... ooze... just managed to squeeze it out...
FINALLY!
    again... no ******... get a hard-on... relax the ****...
don't ask me how i figured this one enigma out...
trial & error... to hell with laxatives...

                      i'm gearing up...

but my day was way more interesting than merely this...
i did wake up at 6am... stayed in bed until 8am
listening to music... because you sometimes have to...
errands...
         sort out a hire for a KANGO...
which is construction industry "slang" for...
    pneumatic drill... jackhammer...
at the hire shop a guy probably younger than me
knew what i was talking about...
     with a glee of approval... his father must have worked
in times when you used to say the word KANGO...
one of those proper ones...
two handed... posted the picture on facebook...
i mean: it's such a neat toy... felt chuffed wheeling it back
home and then on the bus...
   had these two concrete buffs irritation where once
two greenhouses stood... need to get rid of them...
set down drainage... 2 tonnes of soil and grass...
nothing but grass...

     KANGO: i didn't even know it before i checked it out...
the etymology: literally Chinese language...
カンゴ
                   but otherwise in the construction industry
a jackhammer, a pneumatic jackhammer...
what a lovely beast... the best *** i've seen in a while...
made me think of that quote from Full Metal Jacket:
anything by Gunnery Sgt. Hartman -
or that Combichrist song: this is my rifle...
seriously... i don't care what they say:
the Vietnam War had the best soundtrack...
   no other war in the history of man had such a goo...
******* amazing soundtrack...

who wouldn't be happy working a pneumatic drill hammer...
two handed... lifting rock... concrete...
i'm happy... i've already mentioned it:
work ennobles (physical work)...
    a lesson learned when it was taught by the Nazis
to the Polacks in Auschwitz...
what was once arbeit macht frei
has become... arbeit adelt!
                                  simple, no? to learn from once
former conquerors... and to redefine that... "silly"
ol' joke that's particular to German sensibilities...
moving bags of rock from point X to point Y
and then from point Y to point X...
       like they couldn't have turned concentration camps
into something useful... but... them being concentration camps...
seriously... they were lazy at mass ******...
if they were so ******* efficient in other areas of
warfare... they weren't particularly good at their
initial plans...

oh right: that's the ****** sense of humour...
laughing about the Nazis... i almost forget where i'm placed
in this world... all that need for theatre...
to ensure panic was kept under a lid...
     the Mongols were more effective at mass ******...
genocide... hell i bet the Ugandans had a better track
record...

finally! i'm coming the end of my note taking...
it only took me four days and five nights
to get enough drink in my to spew this crap out...

but i'm getting there...
   i don't fear Islam...
             i'm  huge fan of Rumi:
what remains after nothing?
    love is the flame which, when it blazes
consumes everything other than the Beloved.
the lover wields the sword of nothingness,
in order to dispatch all but God:
consider what remains after Nothing;
there remains but God: ll the rest is gone.
Praise to you, O mighty Love,
destroyer of all other "gods"...

    la illaha il Allah... there are not gods but God
(qu'ran 3:62)...
   i wrote that into the back of the book
by Bukowski when i first came across him in Glasgow...
all those years ago...
la illaha il Allah...
    funny side-story... the term God in Maltese?
it's actually Allah...
   i tend to write something akin to: all?! ah!
i'm not Islamophohic... but... i can understand where
arachnophobia comes from:
but Islam isn't a spider...
             i just don't understand the inverted logic
of Muslims bewildered that there is an Islamophobia...
why be surprised?
i'm pretty ******* sure that Russophobia existed
long before Islamophobia...

   but unlike all the other phobias on the list....
these two phobias are... calculated...
they're not irrational...
why? why aren't they irrational?
does a spider think? i'm pretty ******* sure
a Muslim or a Russian is capable of thought...
but does a spider think?
does an elevator think? a constrained space...
that claustrophobia... does a spider think?!
what's the problem?
arachnophobia is a reflexive-phobia...
Islamophobia is a reflective-phobia...
                          
but what's the difference between fearing Russians
and fearing Muslims?
the Russians already know they're the evil genuises
of this world...
it's nothing new...
         Muslims... the ones i'm working with?
are they seriously planning a takeover...
what... with these cabbage-heads?!
   these retards?! these, retards?!
                 yeah... good luck...
you might get a chance to wind the clocks back one
hour come the winter months...
but that's about it...
            half of which never read a verse of Rumi
or Omar Khayyam...
                      
the women look so petilent... dark clad...
you could at least attire them in linen and make the linen
grey... or white...
there was a time when Islam was superiror to Christianity...
those days are long gone... gone with the camel jockeys...
inbreeding is the currency and the joke...
i'll respect the Iranians...
  because... they were Persians prior to the camel jockey
invasion from Arabia...
and the Turks... because... we're sort of related...
Caucasian... or Mongol-esque...
ancient Turks had their runes... and Turks have very edible food...
while Turkish prostitutes **** like there's no
tomorrow...
i need a second Islamic schism: spearheaded by
the Turks...
leave these Arabs with their Pakistani pawns
to play into that caliphate Sunni game...
Islam needs to splinter... there needs to be a second schism...
spearheaded by the Turks...
the Turks teaed as far up as Vienna from what i know...
leave the Saudi princes and their fetishes alone:

god will judge them...
        princes of the pink ponies and blonde ******...
down the Spartan route...
i'm not Islamophobic... i'm like a tapeworm when it comes
to Islam... ooh... this fasting idea... i could use that...
not for religious reasons... like i once explained...
you know what fasting does for me?
increases my concentration...
                               i like fasting...
i like thinking about food... because?! personally?!
thinking about anything beside food is sort
of boring... i like to be closest to the wild animal...
and what does the wild animal ever "think" about
if not food?! or biting off its limps if
it were to be caught in a beaar trap?!

right... right? what about...
a Germpophil?
                        
heil dir im siegerkranz:
what a little unkept "secret"....

strange body: overgrowth of muscle having
muscle removed from the shoulder blade,
Armilius,
                           i miight as well have a crow
perched...
                 muscle movement from that lacking
in the shouder-blade... just above the collr  one...
once i stress its existence.

whiske! whiskey! more whiskey!
the sun illuminating the governance of spring
can't ever overshadow the moon,
come the same season

genügend ist genügend!
     das ist alles!
                    nachweisen-in-dem-pudding.

i might have riddled my fractions wrong,
the whole youtuber status
closure of
subscribers contra views,
and vice versus...

                but then i remember...
the brothel... and Turks bringing in
an array of Bulgarian prostitutes onto these
isles...

     you ever talk with criminals?!
   black sabbath('s) song...
solitude...
the dead end f night...
falling face-first into a cauldron
of autumn leaves...
to experience more of a sigh
than a breath...

i fall to my knees in praise,
O Lord...
                  govern my in my faults,
as i am to celebrate you
in your virtues...

ever talk your worth with criminals?!
the rim barons?!
  no, not once, not ever?!
shame... a real shame, to
exact a passing of judgement...

so no talk with criminals?!
               i'm this close |   |
to feeling eager stooping...
but?
i'm not...
           prostitutes
are not cheap meat...
    comes at a price...
      you want to buy that sort of flesh...
you buy from,
the ssort of vendors...
you never want to meet again...
savvy?!

    i said: savvy?!
           you want to tickle at this
underworld... **** me...
be my guest...
all you want! al you can fathom!
take your pick and periwinkle china
brigade
to "mind" manners...
      
no... you don't give your say
among these people...
you serve me your extra
and i'll cut your ***** off...
and that's me playing, nice!
******...
not here, not now...
you savvy?

you don't talk to criminals
with the way you want to talk
to them... o.k.?!
savvy?!
i said, savvy?!
you **** around here your
***** are
Brussels pâté, you *******
****!
this **** isn't even
ordinance of joining
the army...

             you join the *******
army when joining the
army...
when you enter a brothel?
you're clinging toward
a basis for... Ronin...

              want to experience
the dialectical "enterprise"?
want to talk it over with
criminals?

                   no.... you still don't get it...
mouth-off all you want...
keep talking...
           just keep talking...
i was shy...
ready to head-**** one of the Turkish
brothel Janissary....
  
since i'm of the awareness:
give me a bulls-eye,
and i'll give you a head-but!

for someone who's never
experienced genuine criminality...
the current, moral, "genuineness"....
what a,
lackluster.

Generation of attention
with a dopamine bend.
Anti-social irony
is the fresh fake trend.

A pale heart will wait
to turn ruby red.
The ego's more shallow
on the numeric thread.

An invisible crowd
will have a new pet name.
Neurotic subscribers
will be led by the vain.

Just follow the lead,
and drink their arsenic.
The poison becomes sweeter,
in the cup that you sip.

A cold caress feels skin intact:
protection altaring misgivings–
messages flown down on rails.
Cool heads prevail, endure this visit,
egged to double-burn the wax,
dishonored: chided for syntax.
They shift their tremors out of park,
engaging flywheels, sign on lines–
error that binds the river gray
to bones in titles, floating loans
to scant subscribers who to signal sync:
clique here and link to strength
in number. Textbooks waver not–
no units cover aberrations.
Shred such practice with a blade.
Hold in abeyance hit parades–
insist the linguist's hand decline
our ending: dative frosts
that stagger out from what is lost.

And through this pity plays the Modest
Grim Quartet to crowds that haven't
listened yet–presumed to rise up
faithful by the sword, but buried
under long receipts and bills
for dull retreats, hearts centered in
the sou·r stacking wrong. We wrench
a living from what's left of laters
severed, but so long.

i really came late to this party...
                                                    honest to god,
youtube was my h.m.v.,
   my field of strawberries,
a few bushes filled with berries,
i had to become a cultural
forager - nay, a ******* burrower!
a mole aiming blank
into new music...
         but then a recommendation...
hmm...
   what's this?
******* are in full swing!
   they're already moved into bitchiness...
never argue with a drunk woman
when you're drinking a pint
with an heavily autistic-man...
or offering a cigarette to a homeless
person you've met before,
sitting down on the pavement
with him, asking him: you doing o.k.?
ooh noo noo... not in a irish pub
do you get to argue with a drunk
irish woman...
you just wave you hand and say:
i'm not going to argue with you
like some ******* jedi mind trick
with a stormtrooper...
why bother the hassle?
   i don't even know how to haggle
to buy something at a cheaper price!
ooh, but blood's boiling...
it concerns two "characters"
millenial woes contra sargon of akkad...
and this is the ****** bit
that probably annoys everyone...
really? numbers?
    (i'm siding with the former):
these mundane egoists really care
about numbers?
    how about giving them
an auschwitz tattoo? cover them at
the end of each month, with how many
new subscribers entered their ranks...
that'd be fun...
  what?! we're number-centric...
   numbers tell us unfathomable
secrets of those in the minority of
a few...
    oh yeah... i really see a lot of views
concerning heidegger...
           nietzsche?
       i think he's been *****-slapped
and dipped in wax and set alight by
the mob... basically over-quoted...
  basically senile, basically less the case
for pondering, and more of
shock-value: provocation teacher tactician:
yes yes... teacher of tactical provocation.
          i'm trying to keep the lowest
imaginable profile at this party...
  i missed the s
yeah... the scots always seemed the most
continental in their approach to "things"...
    of all the tribes on these isles...
   the scots are probably the most prone
to engaging with continental thought...
   the english? head up uncle sam's ***...
welsh? head up uncle jack's ***...
                 irish? head up uncle sam's ***...
norther irish? dunno...
           peter neeps & mary tatties
    on the quest for the holy four leaf clover?
     don't ask me...
but like i said... i really, really came late
to this party... thank god it has distintegrated
into an **** of brutus et al. - i.e.
back stabbing and *******...
           'cos' conversation... sorta dried, up!