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Aridea P Oct 2011
Jakarta, Jumat 31 Agustus 2007


Ya Allah …
Segala puji bagi-Mu
Untuk hamba sujud kepada-Mu
Berdoa meminta ampunanmu
Dari khilaf yang terus muncul

Ya Allah …
Bila hamba berdosa
Tunjukkanlah jalan-Mu
Bukan hamba yang kau siksa
Namun, syaitan-syaitan yang terkutuk

Ya Allah …
Hamba ingin hidup kekal
Menikmati dunia hingga akhir hayat
Merasakan indahnya kebahagiaan
Sekalipun hamba berdosa
Hamba siap menuju akhirat
Andika Putra Jul 2019
Yang jalang meloncat telah tiba & kita merangkak menjauh sutera & kau melihat pada selangkang merebak dedaunan riba.

Kini menjalin kepada alang-alang, merayu kepada segala buangan.

Yang terbuang kemudian terjerembab ke-Esa-an/ pertolongan/ makian/ gelak ketidak sudian.

Semua bajing meloncat-loncat kala malam tiba & aku tidak menemui dirimu menjalin asmara, pada bantal dan kerangka bunga & batok-batok kelapa bersumpah pernah bersimfoni di gedung tua bangka.

Katakan semua yang terlihat menemukan artinya, berbalik dan melenggok tiada suka. Aku merusak gelanggang samudera, dan menemukan orang-orang bercumbu di dalamnya.

O Gayung merambah kepada sujud-sujud La beruja. Melirik kepada hampa & tau kah, dirimu mencintai duka.

Semua manusia kemudian melambat

Gedung-gedung berselimut jas pekat
/kini duka melihat rembulan siang

Merajut benang & diam-diam melempar bebatuan.

3/7/19
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.i lied in doubly toasted rye bread and some larry tesler epitaphs... toasted rye bread... better with baltic sushi... raw herrings in a creamy sauce... perhaps a creamy sauce with dill... more like apples and pickles... toasted rye bread with baltic sushi... herrings... smoked salmon is luxury... just the basics will do... a smoked salmon can have its bagel... as long as the toasted rye gets its herrings.

some thigs just have to wait for no apparent "rightness"
of time - a corvus corax album from 2009 only arrived
into my ears late sunday evening -
mille anni passi sunt - and no... i do not know what sort
of radio station would play this sort of music...
nor anything from 13th cent. "pleb" music of the countryside
or "heretic" monks that do not fit the criteria
of "classical"... i.e. "worthwhile"...

two sips of ms. amber / well a decent double with
pepsi max will jolt the memory:
or at least that's the hope -
yesterday two decent doubles allowed the coils
to unwind - alas - no pen and paper -
but a witness - a cat sleeping in a chair:
i'm pretty the sure the world won't mind if:
another of my diatribe spews heads into two
directions: infinity and nothingness -
                              perhaps tonight i will pick up
the scraps from what i "ought" to have written
down...                well... this is hardly
going to be words penned to paper to be later
required oratory material...

i can't exactly call them thought experiments...
if i believed in thought experiments...
i'd be... an oyster... or a clam...
  basically an mollusk - not quiet a stone...
but a shell - how did the oyster get his shell?
and why didn't the stone get...
a cell of celluloid / cellulite brain?
              the mountain has muhammad:
of that i am certain...  thought experiments...
not when you're about to do some manual labour...

i've been asking for my neighbour to put
up her garden fence for 15 years...
if not me then someone else...
she's put up a 5th of the garden's length...
the rest would remain covered by the foliage
in my garden... one storm... nothing...
two storms... nothing... then something...
the 5th of the garden length would topple...
until a new 5th of the garden's length would
be put up...
roots... ****** roots...
well... i felt lucky... this year we saw 3 or 4 storms
batter these islands consecutively...
the guys that were going to put up
the fence came... i gave them 250quid to cut
all the shrubbery in my garden...
after all: i do have tools... but a chainsaw i don't
have...
the fence is up... but the garden is in part
barren...
the shurbs and trees are gone:
i'm thinking of planting some dwarf apple / pear
trees... the plum tree took to the earth a few
years back... the cherry tree (morello cheery):
i'll give her another year:
she bloomed last year but only bore 2 fruits...
maybe she's shy...
well great... the shrubbery is gone...
but... roots... those ****** roots...
       we are talking london, we are talking:
a city built on clay...
it doesn't take long... not even half a meter
of digging before you reach this playdough
fudge layer of the soil...
     even if it is a dwarf tree or a shrub...
a holly... as i learned... even with a fork and mini
fork... a proper ***** and a mini *****...
a blunt axe and a heavy hammer...
digging up the roots'-head with some of
the roots intact can take somewhere between
2 to 4 hours...

                yesterday i managed 3...
which took me... roughly 6 hours... while i
uncovered a 4th...
   manual labour... better than going to the gym...
i really didn't know i had this muscle
in my body... or this sort of cartilage...
this tendon... i think i stood before a whole class
of students of medicine and gave them
an arithemetic of my lower thoraic and almost
all of my lumbar muscles...
but that's the beauty: i guess...
once you get on your knees and work with
earth, with roots, trees, once you unearth
the earthworms and cut them in half as you're
digging: well... they have an in-built clone
regrowth... the only music came from the birds
celebrating: renovation! food!
i wished for a radio... but then i uttered
a word or two and meditated on it -
perhaps it was a word - perhaps it was a phrase...
later that day i made east european dumplings...
a filling of last sunday's poacked chicken
meat (which is always a problem -
what do you do with poacked chicken meat
after you made a decent clear soup from it?),
mushrooms - sauerkraut - spices - blah blah...
but... first i sniffed my hands...
imbued with all the scents of the earth...
the dirst and the clay and the wood merging...
that... for the sensual contrast of later working
with flour and water for the dumplings' dough!

yesterday i lay in bed on this ******* carousel
wheel of "narrative"...
what if i forget it... i'll wake up and write it down...
7am... write this sort of ******* down?
i don't think so... lucky for me yesterday ended
with heavy rain... i almost wanted to fall asleep
to the sound of rain... it wasn't loud enough...
for a long time: it's either with earphones in...
or no... no other alternative...
      most relationships probably failed because:
"i wasn't there"... when trying to find the la la land
of nox...

               when writing: even feel a senstation
in your feet... as if you feet are standing
on the ceiling? the whole body translates into
a mild sensation of up-side-down...
ever write and while writing: feel the insane barrel
of laughter from a sensation that your feet
are attached to the ceiling?
   never mind...

   my eyes shouldn't be staring at this glaring screen
this late anyway... i should be listening
to radio.fama.pl with the screen blacked-out...
perhaps a candle in the room...
but mostly the light coming from the cigarette
being dragged... nothing more...
today is an exception: superstitious in that:
if i don't write this today:
tommorow would be cindarella of this...
no memor: there's already barely any cohesion...

today i was lucky: i only dug up one root-head...
2 hours... given that i had to do so...
while at the same time not disturbing the fern...
even thought the roots of the head were
weaving themselves around the fern...
had to tie up the fern so she wouldn't get in the way...
what a pretty man-bun of hair...
hail shiva!     or any other long-haired deity
that does... boquetes of hair for a living...
the fern was spared...

   back in the garden... a literal swamp...
that jasmine and her labyrinth of roots...
not to mention an ancient copper plated tube
with a cable that i dug up... and the old fence posts...
these biggo concrete dollops with metal...
literally a swamp... if this isn't what Ypres looked
like on a good day: then i'd be swimming
in cow-**** shambo on a bad day...
and this London clay... it...
you don't even dig up half a meter into the earth
and... you get a puddle of water...
work... in these conditions?
do i look like i'm going to mud-wrestle?

what sort of thought experiment can you take
into manual labour of this sort...
the sort that isn't going to the gym...
thought experiment = entertain a hypothetical
x, y and z? the "what if"?
i need to take a phrase with me...
i overheard it somewhere...

man is a human: doing...
woman is a human: being...
so i took that...

along came descartes and kant...
      along came the word ontological:
misnomer - oncology -
with oncology came: the cancer within botany...
mistletoe... if you've ever seen it grow
in the wild... go to Poland...
Warsaw will do... 10 miles in either direction...
after all... Poland isn't England...
there's no Royal Society for the preservation
of trees... mistletoe in the wild...
botanical cancer... now if i am to have
cancer... unlikely... i'm more prone to alcoholism
related deaths and dementia -
i just think of mistletoe... botanical cancer...
and it's in the tradition to: kiss under it...
anyways and who...

                    cogito ergo sum...
is that an a priori statement...
                     or an a posteriori statement...
it's hardly a maxim -
   a maxim according to which you'd be able
to extract an imperative of sorts -
caterogical or impartial - imperative and
and adjective of your choice -
                        yes... where i come from...
certain things are given SHE-pronouns...
most things botanical... except the oak...
an oak is a male in botany...
where i come from... the sun is female...
the moon is male... unlike in english...
where the words do not give pronoun impressions
designating "***"... that comes later...
with pictures... borrowed...
     comes with the turf... emoji hieroglyphs:
h'america first...
                         well and second...
                i don't hear news from France about
"misgendering" someone...
given how french grammar has explicit masculine and
feminine terms...
so... on your own...

i hear the debate... but... i don't even have
a two cent's worth of an argument...
              the iron curtain is down...
i'm in england and i'm looking at the silicone veil
and i'm saying: there's no me on the moon...
and if i'd really want to escape...
antarctica or... afghanistan... among the pashtun
women...
problem with both... i don't play the ***-tar
so good as to remember all the radio i'd miss...
i once heard the most beautiful adhan and cried...
then again: what if the mu'azzin
sounds like a goat grabbed by the testicles about
to be castrated?! and not the mu'azzin
i heard recorded?
i once cried hearing...
                         vaughan williams - fantasia on
a theme by thomas tallis...
once again when hearing ola gjeilo's...
either o magnum mysterium or northern lights...
beauty is transcendental: a priori -
          true beauty is transcendental: a priori -
because these pieces of music i heard for the first
time... and rejoiced with tears...
crying and laughter - not antonyms...
                                           implicitly i.e.:
when you're crying you're laughing vice versa etc.,
it's hard to laugh at music...
one can laugh at one's ****** response
to the body... but not when the body has found
serenity... or anguish...
             of a burden of the heart...
the ears to listen with... and that the eyes would
be far better off... without sight...
as two agape holes of a cave through
which a stream flows and arrives as a cascade point
for a waterfall...

i won't "solve" cogito ergo sum:
whether it's a priori or a posteriori...
what did cogito spawn though?
res cogitans - res extensa -
                     we're talking manual labour...
thank god heidegger didn't come along
with his hammer and suggest that someone
intent of working manually would...
somehow talk about philosophical matters on
the side...
                       that's the "hammer"... "apparently"...
no... it came down to:
man is a human: doing...
  woman is a human: being... i had to exclaim
out-loud trying to not interrupt the birds...

it's just convenient... to call man a human doing
and woman a human being...
do                                     b-ING-o!
be                                 b-ING-o!
               try another language...
                i'm sure it sounds better than just that...
человеческое дело...

          just as i thought...

                     ludzkie dzieło - ludzki czyn...
but i think i concentrated on the latter:
ludzki czyn...
                         after all: ludzki byt -
doesn't really translated into: ludzkie bycie -
with bycie - being -
                            isn't being: interchangeable
with existence - as in onto per se, for being
to be grasped from omni ex: out of this and every
other instance?
    
who would take a thought experiment when
undertaking some decent manual labour?
thought experiments are for sitting in a leather chair
and farting into it - basking in the glory
of theoretical solipsism - later translated
into a crowded tube train...
imagining oneself farting scented candle
magic fairy dust of dried strawberries!

             i don't have time for thought experiments...
i'll give up my hands to the earth
and to the trees the earthworms and the roots...
my bob the builder's ***-crack to the winds...
or... my akbir to the birds...
               my al-qiyyam to the work before me...
my ruku to the morning...
                  my sujud to the setting sun...
         and that last bit... counting the number
of new parts of my body i've used...
but no... no thought experiments...
three words in latin... yes...
                              five words... sven the seventh...
perhaps... but certainl a bilingual crossword
puzzle... and definitely meditating
on cyrillic letters... and greek...
        i'm yet to escape the grip of runes...
and of braille... and of hebrew...
                              and return to the old father...
   who still seems rather unreal...
to think that "my" people had a pre-existing latin
text... and that it somehow is not tied
to the runes... nor to the greek (as such)
nor arabic... not sanskirt...
                  a revived interest...
                          on the british isles anything
can be a revived interest...
         if marx came up with communism in
england... i can up with...
a tatto parlour where people don't make
a mistake of having chinese ideograms
tattooed onto themselves...
                                           ⰁⰉⰅⰎ
    ⰝⰅⰓⰐⰑ                       -
                           in decline because?
                               shared patterns...
even with the runes... R and not ᚱ
                        ᚠ and not F?
                                     ᛒ and not B?
                                              agreed upon...
           but i guess just because we share this...
latin text without any latin being so much
spoken outside of maxim / proverb / the crown...
no latin slang...
                            whatever this was...
i had to write it... a second time it would have
suffocated me and given me amnesia upon
waking.
"Bahwa bukan kesedihan yang nyala
Di ruang mata, melainkan hakikat rela"

(Kisah Soe Harry, 2 - Astrajingga Asmasubrata)


aku datang padamu dengan surah yasin
dan rasa ingin
bertemu yang tak bisa dicukupkan oleh
simpuh sujud
seorang anak yang imannya sedang
runtuh. ayat

demi ayat menjelma percakapan kita
tentang hakikat
hidup dan mati: tentang hidup adalah
seluruhnya ibadah
dan mati adalah nikmat tertinggi. mad

dan waqaf menjelma tempatku berhenti:
tempat aku
meluruhkan air mata saat terbayang
wajahmu yang
tak bisa lagi kupandangi. aku bertanya
seberapa rindukah

tuhan padamu tetapi tak ada jawaban
meski telah aku
cari di setiap lembar yang sebentar lagi
menuju akhir.
aku bertanya akankah kau bangun untuk
sekadar menyapaku

tetapi tak ada jawaban meski aku telah
sampai di ayat

kun fayakun.
2017
dengan apa aku harus mencintaimu?

bertahun-tahun aku habiskan untuk
mencari namamu
entah pada do'a yang mana atau
pada ayat ke berapa

dengan apa aku harus mencintaimu?

bertahun-tahun aku lewatkan demi
menemukanmu
entah pada sunyi yang mana atau
pada sepi di mana

dengan apa aku harus mencintaimu?

bertahun-tahun aku arungi dengan
menyusuri jejakmu
entah pada dzikir yang bagaimana
atau sujud yang mana

dengan apa aku harus mencintaimu?

bertahun-tahun aku membayangkan
wajahmu pada
setiap entah dan setiap langkah yang
ngungun lalu

aku bertanya:

dengan apa aku harus mencintaimu?
2017
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
as written, by a non-convert, but rather by a fervent observer, outsider.

if ever a belief -
namely a firm grasp of emotions,
and in that: against
frivolous ambitions
      and flag-on-a-pole sways
to the four winds:
or as in islam -
   to listen (
takbir)
to obstruct ******
urges (thoughts,
in the process of prayer)
          (
al-qiyyam) -
to shower respect and
in that: also odes
  akin to the sufism (
ruku)
evidently the more extreme
version of the japanese
"handshake" -
to then blessing one's
abode, i.e. the earth
       (
sujud) -
and lastly: to be tutored
   (
julus*) -
                and isn't that a mighty
fine pentagram of
      the loss of the four senses
and the remaining one.
in evolutionary terms?
  to me, god is a being
that evolves by becoming
more and more non-existent -
the shrinking forever,
or a needle's puncture into
"reality" -
               what with
man's hustle & bustle
  of skyscrapers, cars and
      peanut butter.

p.s. as the title implies:
ruku (90°) vs. eshaku (15°) vs.
keirei (30°) vs. sai-kerei (45°);
next thing you know,
  i'll be doing the 1-80(°)
   and talking into my ***.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
unlike man with a petition: i prefer to hunch myself to craft a shadow like a crow: rather than kneel... because my "prayer" constitutes a ? rather than an question... i rather stand tall and hunch to inquire, as any inquisitor might... kneeling? worthy of a nation of eagle-worshiping and peasants; bogus-deity-scaffolders; typically with the genesis ex: egypt. i craft a shadow from a strong frame, bowing... i bow before god, rather than kneel, rather than takbir, al-qiyyam, ruku, sujud, julus: is there anyone actually listening to learn? called the "lesser" hand-shake.*

make a cameo of me on
the part:
  where i don't have
       to film it; mmm'kay?

i'm a cyclops,
but i have a third eye that's
missing...
i'm looking,
  and i'm looking:
but there's the persistent
third party:

            sources.

if only modern technology
didn't give birth
  to man's artificial third eye...
people are spotted all around
with their third eyes..
     who the **** is going
to blink twice when
the person having blinked...
  has blinked?!
              
          i'm happy with two...
keep the third;
   i can only be so bothered
to enter the cyclops dimension.

       seriously? seriously?!
the ******* sirens singing
    chopped your 'ed off or
something?
              ******* tea-bag worth
of intellect... munchkin
                                      Barabbas.

these days it ought to be
called  mathias vs. polyphemus
     rather than david vs. goliath...

and to think: the drunk me sees
more clearly than my sober
    contemporaries...
      that's ******* sad...
               sad as sad can be:
without an urn worth of sand
to call crematory ash.

       this world is not worth being
attached to, even with the remains of
                                      Roo-m'é.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
who are these people fooling? light "pollution"?! sure, if you're standing directly under a streetlamp, i could concede a point being validated... but in the scottish highlands, near ben nevis, drinking ***** in a smoky bothy - where light "pollution" is zero through to nil, down the road from a pub that served up sheepshagger ale; did i see more stars? i hardly think so; it almost feels biblical when they show you the heavens on television, and the heavens you see at night with the naked eye: what, that's it?!

winter is knocking on our doors
like the angel of death on the doors of acient
egypt...
            the first night that amounts
to seeing frost,
as i once mentioned, paparazzi frost -
twist your head, twist is right,
   the frost paparazzi are taking snaps,
more so, they look like stars...
these tiny diamonds -
      there are more stars on earth than
there are stars in the heavens...
           winter is knocking on the door
of late autumn...
     frost paparazzi are at it again...
i'm holding a glass of ms. amber and my
finger start feeling numbed -
pinched by the ***** of frost pinching
at me...
                 **** feels good...
          the moon is slightly but just about
right the paleness of azure,
          an orb of a frothing sea...
  and there's that debate of light "pollution"...
the **** are you talking about,
seems to me the grand lying dragon fell to earth,
i see more constellations in william blake's
account with the naked eye, observed:
there are more stars in the heavens than there
are grains of sand on the shores of england...
well... hardly.
    even in the remoteness of the scottish
highlands, i see as many stars as i do
in central london... light pollution by ***...
            the dragon fell to earth
and dragged more than a "fair" share of a third...
        bullshitters in the propaganda
machinery of television never poised to
disclose the william blake naked eye observation...
once more, paparazzi frost amounts to
more stars during winter,
than the stars above...
            man has, to be adequately said,
in need of humbling...
this one convict called be a hunchback angel...
*garbaty anioł
- well, no, paul was wrong,
rather i was wrong:
boże czemu to tak boli,
           usłyszymy zór pizdy garbatego anioła
i.e. god, why does it hurt so much,
we'll hear the tongue of a
                      hunchback angel's *****!
man has walked the walk of pride for
to long, he needs a hunchback baptism -
             i find has lost a degree of respect
in being humbled for too long...
                man has walked too proud,
too solipsistic for at least 50 years,
50 years is enough,
        man requires a humbling...
               you know what is identifiable about
a hunchback angel...
islam will tell you...
                iblis / satan is the hunchback angel...
whatever the koran states:
         satan did bow, but regretted it,
since he became lodged into a perpetual
crow-like...
the islamic story is actually a story of
japanese etiquette...
  iblis was asked to perform a dogeza -
hence the pose of the praying muslim - sujud -
when in fact he rebelled and performed
a seiritsu -
   he was, unfathomably tested -
god said, perform a dogeza before adam,
satan replied: but i only bid
myself most humbled & most ashsmed
before you in that pose -
   god insisted, and as satan began
to procrastinate before the icon of adam -
god stopped him at the stage of seiritsu.
    akin to milton,
      i find the story more in the great
humanitarian's favour,
     than in the story of the bench-marking despot.
my, could you ever find more perfect
similarities, the map of europe
circa 1347 - 1351 - the black plague -
and the years circa 2001 - 2017 pending -
the spread of islam -
and what area is still, persuasively, immune?
po-land,
either that, or they clearly wash their hand
after taking a ****...
   hygienic hypersensitivity...
                      and yes, inside poland you
hear of the idiotic catholic conservatives,
    but at least there's some humour in that,
rather than the bombastic sound of terrorist bombs...
history replica -
   islam is the black plague for the poles...
         given the geographic proofs...
     god, i just love writing religious poetics,
it just has to be the most fertile ground for
expression...
    secularism is so barren for the poetic
spirit...
                  there's always the zeitgeist to mind,
there's always the mundane everyday *******,
that always follows up with:
    i'd sooner be seen trainspotting that crowd
surfing with a populist "poem for the people"
sort of material; seriously,
  trainspotting over pop. poetic creep-custard
of verbiage.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
you know what sweet sensation of
whiskey hitting the nervous system,
just after you've been awake for more
than 30 hours...
     and every gulp you start feeling up
a touch of cushion,
   like it might be your mother singing
a lullaby to you as a child?
****'s all... fuzzy...
                    fictoid...
  which is the alternative of a factoid:
an item of unreliable information
that is reported and repeated
so often that it becomes accepted as fact...
well borrowed from real life,
that's focused upon it (life,
or the narrative) being usurped from
being staged...
i still don't know how drunks manage
their quasi-epileptic
        space-oddities by climbing
7 stories of a building,
  to simply know on the balcony window
from the wife: refusing them
entry via the conventional route,
of utilising a front door...
               true story that,
****** managed to do the spider-man
up nearly... wait... circa two metres
per storey...
             sigma, circa: 20 metres
up in the air!
                 that's not exactly 100 metres
of comparison while holding
your breath in a jamaican sprint...
          blind wind playing the flute
of a pine forest...
                but there are certain sensations
you just can't suspect of
being the product of a Saturday night
revelry in Essex, England...
                some drunks do the Dante's
inferno expedition into:
       everything and anything -
   but only when embarked upon, solo.
my excesses of insomnia are
countered by my "excesses" of drinking,
       what could possibly be wrong
about a teddy bear among romanian
****** dreaming, awake,
  of a pillow?
                it's not even a comfortable
numbness,
      it's a mollusk encapsulated by
the safety of an oyster's shell mentality...
         i mean, there's only so much
much of the FIFA world cup you can stomach
before seeing a proper game...
   and when you do manage to receive
the spectacle of a 3 - 3 Spain vs. Portugal?
**** me... that's like receiving
the ******* eucharist!
                        RAMOS!
                       ­          ******* child of
            a one ******* ball-sack of Franco...
   and those Spanish eyes:
you know the ones...                    (    (
romance with a real tear-jerker...
             but what more entertaining
than the football is,
   the behind-the-scenes preservation
of the political narrative by minors,
minor-intellectuals, and:
                  behemoths of swaying the gamble
of history...
Iberian eyes?
        i'm starting to call them
                          siamese Shiva diamonds...
muguruza has them...
                           very idiosynratic...
in vino veritas?
    i find twice the amount of truth
in a dose of sleeplessness and whiskey...
       which usually ends with
a knock-out and: the great void eating
            all concern or, "need" to dream...
hell with a brain like a sponge that
requires quasi-x-ray
               to suit-up to the everyday
in the mythos timing ref. to boiling an egg
in real time...
         RAMOS!
          you already know of the extra
long football socks, and the rolled up sleeves,
   Puyol would be a proud
second-far-removed-claim-of-fatherhood...
not that's the case...
      beside the point...
                but there's no distraction from
my perspective,
              an appreciation of, sure,
               but you can't exactly forget
the premature ******* quasi-thrill
of listening to the bundestag match of:
left-to-right, right-to-left,
             and something in between
being plagued by a w. b. yeats quote about
all centres,
            apart from the gravity hard-on
of god, which, for reason for the four seasons:
always seems to hold,
   tight like a ******* mousetrap,
tiger pounce...
        very humane, in terms of a rodent
passing bypassing being a plaything
of some bonsai feline...
                ha ha! in vino, veritas?
every tried a dosage of sleeplessness,
   and something more, strict?
   a Dublin ****, or a Glaswegian
                                           apple juice?    
****, the mingling with sleeplessness...
you'll speak more truth than
the C.I.A. would mind giving
                two shoves to a shovel over...  
nudges? sure...
      nugget crisp and...
                  oh but i like the current
digression...
     the facade...
                      the momentary month of
blissfully forgeting the talk of politics,
and imagining the head
of Commodus being kicked about by
                          22 legionaires...
no greater cathedral to make man's
concern stupendous,
        than in a prayer-house of amnesia...
and, there isn't a reason as we'll somehow
forget for half an anno after the month?
circa, of course...
                                                     well?
by the sober judge i make my plea drunk...
and should the judge drink?
          first i nail him to a cross,
   and then: allow him to pass judgement...
who the hell doesn't pass
crucial judgement concerning sexuality,
on the throne of thrones,
without first doing the no. 1,
  and then doing the no. 2,
                   and then not doing the no. 3?
i should be all "hot-and-bothered",
   should i?
                          a case to say:
                                 don't date, on a diet;
because not on the cruel slab of
the altar of mammon are two naked
bodies suddenly: phantom?
         does eating, **** the butterflies?
what sort of contract for an hour,
require a prenup of eating,
      for a time constraint that's more than
            the actual: non-verbum flex,
                          which constitutes an hour?
RAMOS!
                    always the central defender
role...
              because... well...
              given the hard-on for the tournament...
you can somehow listen in on
political-football kicking-off simultaneously...
while the Tsar is found stark
naked, dressed in gloat, gluttony and glee,
the little people can take to tongue and chess...
little people, like the Warsaw pundits,
the staggering delayed pleasure Londoners...
and Berliners-***-Bavarians...
               and whoever the hell is left...          

ah, the quiet life: and it's little wonders...
   but a Tsar that appears so well attired in his
self-with-nation
                             goat-fat smile,
    like a Davvy Cameron prior:
      plump doughnut and plush well oiled
cheecks with missing bones...
                     plump little doughnut...
can't help but admire
   the arabian formal checkers pajamas...
sorry...
           i forgot it's high-fashion over
there too...
             houndstooth print
                                   coffee-table-cloths...

come to think of it, this western-union
euro and the post-nationalistic experiment?
**** the tongue, before claiming
a dead soul, to control the living thought...
i only allow english for reasons
that i can speak it, above a certain
framework of its native contraints,
   but if another Belgian is going to think
i'm going to let him perform a sujud
on me like i were some half-wit from Congo?!

the swiss still make milka...
                   so...
                                see you in Ypres?
and yes, truth is a form of audacity...
                               Benelux: Banalflux;
cite Forrest Gump to boot, if y'all wanna.

— The End —