They come and go like coloured birds migrating
with maps of other countries in their brain.
You are a tree in which they pause, awaiting
an inner signal to set off again.
You stop, you listen, straining to decipher
the simultaneous songs that they intone,
knowing that so many men would die for
the chance to hear just one of them alone.
Summated, though, their singing’s but a jangle
of jarring chords and rampant dissonance,
the chaos that’s passed on from age to age.
And in a daze you dare to disentangle
a single thread of perfect eloquence
and tease it free and lay it on the page.

I am the expanse of purposeless selves before me,/
summated like the stickily-shaded colours under/
a calculus-course curve, whose trajectory marks me across one axis/
to the next, just as I am the small drops of cloud squashed/
into one another as an ocean I now glare at, whose sands/
meeting the horizon are later stewed into the clearer edges/
of a mirror so that this glare may continue. There was a myth of a man/
who projected himself into a pool of water until he thinned away/
into anorexias of young girls with camera phones pointed/
towards their white faces. Snakes eat their tales sometimes./
Narcisuss is a poet. White girls are poets. I've swallowed them all/
into my large black mouth. When I speak: soft-spoken integrations,/
meagre, selfless, hollow-- filled with stagnant historical airs formatted/
cleanly now on a word-processor-- while my hand reaches across my navel,/
bored, digging: then a birth there as my spine cracks across my bedsheets/
with my lamplight flickering as candles once did,/
and shadows wall-dancing with the idea of ancient meanings/
now lost but never once there, self-defining, self-signifying, self-pointing,/
self-shaking self-but-not-self./

the human body
has three hundred and fifty bones
when we are born
which fuse together
as we grow
to two hundred and six;
further simplifying
down to condensed calcium
and summated marrow,
growing our skeletons down
to simpler beings as we grow.
if only the human soul
was not the opposite;
******* into
spreading stardust
particles so quickly that
we cannot put a simplified
finger on exactly who we are.
black & gold.

what's questioned is whether  i'm prone to eat
a McDonald's  or identify myself as a Slav...
that's what's questioned... would i eat a status quo?
it's a hard question... would i rather integrate
            or leave a poor babushka
riddling what could have been
had October come in alter guise in 1917?
              the quo vadis
question is only a roundabout...
a clarifying circus-fair...
                     summated:
we long to live locally... embedded
  into a crucifixion as one might be
    into a circumcision.
                   and beyond such an affirmation?
negligence and a harrowing...
words spoken over lakes:
the instilled nations,
words spoken over seas:
   the instilling of the experiment of
globalisation galvanised...
     words spoken over rivers...
       as standardised narrative woken...
and later cue: unmoved.
       we're all here, with quivers for
a worthwhile of demands...
and still the belief in pacifying troops
of when the word becomes an actual
punching clench for the knuckled signature...
only then i see my coerced duplicate
arranging a feast for fattening politicos en masse.
           ferris and cartwheel summary,
for every eager ****** wetting clot
    of the feminine oyster slurring due to
excess saliva outpouring...
       funny how she earns enough Fahrenheit
when slobbering the oyster trail to a warm-up
and cools her oral into refrigerator standard
while suckling as if at a teet...
                     the mouth cools down,
the fleshy marrow pouch heats up...
        you start to think: Copernicus is next
to explain this conundrum...
              by god i sometimes wish i had the chance
to don mascara... for the fun of it
to make my iris whether blue or green
   hypnotically caged in that socket of
blink blink... blink blink...
        brown and mascara looks just as good
as a a van morrison song might...
well... aren't we all hopeful that it's just another
case of negging?
n'ah... just a duchamp pisoar... worth's
legitimacy of noun in the medium of art...
    my vocabulary can't be as ****** ugly as
what people do to people these days...
i count mine as softcore, Attenborough ****:
worth a narrative with an objectivity myocle;
'cos the other eye still has to squint to look
pretty and infused with the activity
that has a myriad count of termites for
a mother, with that invisible ***** attache
toward: birth as continuum of constipation:
blind drunk Mona Lisa slipped one out
with Antoinnette while the guillotine smirked
and snarled a: chop... chop chop!
it almost sounded like clapping, not so long ago.
    all that was said and was nonetheless missing
was a queue in which everyone sang
      baritone bard sang in duo
                 with a castrated evangelist a cumba
           lonesome texan: don mclean's starry starry night,
by now van gogh (gau not goth) would have
cared, and mattered, simultaneously....
   sha la la la la la la la la la la t'da....
      (approximate count)...
               oops'e said lazy Daisy...
                                 and the day was just that...
lazing with Daisy on a mercurial Sunday
    that prescribed the message of the omni-encompassing
yawn.

Proud of This?(Terrestrial Entanglement)
A toss; ruminating murmurs echoically stir me from my vision, eyes pulled to a close...at once they shutter open to attain the light that flashed between my waking sight and where I found myself just before. A turn; lavish sound corrupts my perception from an active interface; to cathode radiant coincidence. Coinciding incidents, to be most literal. In crude paraphrase "I'm not going to begin to act like I understand paradox'"...an ironic character movement that summated what i saw as a whole...a fish-eye take on the constitution of your shape, peering wildly; might I add mirroring my own resolve; as real as static screen splashed across the blank canvas. That which is the void within a blink..a twitching lens advance.."what are you looking for?" The chills...electromagnetic allowance...lasting the length of the slight a second-hand travels. "why were you looking there?"
One man's hell is some woman's seemingly, audio-visual hallucinatory lectern. From wherefore all is one and none are spared. An exponential singularity, turning in and out and on itself until one is many. Too many to count; see where this is going or don't..."don't go!" or "is this where the sea opens up?" No. One man's hallucination is another man's seemingly orthodox dream, teeming with deja vu, but then again tomorrow is the only time you'll know the night before. Astral apprehension... Differentiate the physical form; a fraction of true manifestation; the spirits been warned. Fractally wandering this fatal wonderment. What was I thinking? Was i waking? Was I dreaming?
"why were you looking for..."

i've recently become a big fan of the Dune movie
from 1984... two year before my birth,
i won't go into the details...
but one detail really grew on me...
the idea of making a word a weapon: somehow
telekinetically charged to release a missile /
a laser shot: whatever...
where have i heard this "line" before... hmm...
oh... right... Revelation 13...
although... the beast didn't blaspheme against
the Hebrew deity: he would most likely
make foul oaths: *******, mate, e.g.,
i swear by the powers invested in me that
i will call the name the name: ha-shem...
but i will not utter the name

   Y       H
       Æ
   W     H

thinking cap on (well... a hat i found, female,
with a pon-pon, that's my 'czapka niewitka')
the Qabbalists might refer to the above
schematic as a magic sq.
a sudoku puzzle might be considered
a "magic sq."

Æ? how did we begin, as sexless creatures...
self-reproducing,
   of the Adam and the Eva of the union...
that's how i see it... but i will not utter the name...
even if i uttered it, i wouldn't utter it like
Hindus of the Raj insert surd H's into their
words... dhal... e.g. you don't hark
you don't trill the R... you language is a *******
babble...

like the French like the English:
the people who have lost the clarity of phonetic
distinction, they were already sleeping together
given tongues concerned...
i'm the ******* barbarian who can speak...

ha... that thing with orcs... that meme...
they're supposed to represent black people...
you sure? i always thought of the Orcs as somewhat
Slavic, if not Slavic then mingling with the Turks
and the Mongols... only now... just now...
have the Africans started migrating...
all those years prior, sitting on their ***** in
the sunshine of the equator...
but the Slavs: the Russian menace?
the knocking on the door of Europe by the Mongols
and the Ottoman Turks?!
Caucasian folk... most of the time i think that
Africans are docile creatures...
esp. up North during the winter months...

you really have to get used to the cold:
to build up an acute sense of something...
in the warmth: no wonder the former great civilisations
are now ****-holes...
you can do so much more in the warmth...
check your ******* privilege...
up north, when winter comes...
good luck with staging intellectual discussions...
good luck painting, writing...
sure... the desert can also **** you...
but there's a slight difference between
being cold and being hot...
ask the insects... where the **** are they?
oh... hibernating, returning to their embryotic strategy:
waiting it out...

right... Orcs depict black people... huh?!
ah ha ha ha ha!
deluded western liberals...
  i don't even know what that word means...
even if i prefix it with: classically liberal...
what the ****'s that?!
i don't literally know, i always thought myself
as liberty first: liberty thirst...
i don't even know...

those lines from Revelation 13 though and Dune...
the weapons they used... they used words
channeled psychically into a weapon and: whoosh!
a blast!

Revelation 13: 5 through to 7

5
the beast was given a mouth to utter proud words
and blasphemies and to exercise his
authority for forty-two months.
6
he opened his mouth to blaspheme god,
and to slander his name and his dwelling
place and those who live in heaven.
7
he was given power to make war against
the saints and to conquer them.
and he was given authority over every tribe,
people, language and nation.

does anyone even know how many people of
this world currently reside in London?
my last estimate read at counting over 200+ tongues...

i just told you that i am celebrating the name
of the god of Abraham - i will not utter it...
i'll say ***** little ****-wit ******* but
i will not utter that name,
or for that matter all the names bound to the tree
of life...

it seems like fair reparations for the Hebrews being
expelled from Europe in the manner they were
expelled... someone (like me) comes along
and has the nerve, the senses the intellect
to appreciate the Hebrew teachings...
oh look... it phonetically coincides with "something":
this "something" being akin to the name of
the Hebrew deity...

because what have the replacement "Jews" brought?
funny... Malta is an ultra-catholic nation...
island... yet their language is a bit ****** up...
they call gott: allah... true... check it out...

i mean: since the 19th century! there has been an identity
crisis, if not beginning with Nietzsche,
then unto not...
i could possibly pull of looking like
the depiction by Luca Signorelli...
if i grew my hair long once more... eh...
long hair... too much hassle... plus donning a beard
and having long hair is not befitting a man these days...
long hair + a beard = no, no... no no... a bigger NO-NO...

because there's a horde of people who "think"...
whatever it is that they "think"...
beside the cosmopolitan messiah's preaching...
expulsion of the Hebrews from their land,
the exodus up north summated by a genocide...
it's not even like the Hebrew constructed the barracks
and the chimneys of the crematoriums,
or the ghostly gas chambers...
so... where are the supposed pyramids of the north?!
nowhere to be found...

good enough that while i write this i have auditory
hallucinations: that i speak two tongues...
one tongue silences the other tongue....
i hear LOSER... that word gets lost, somewhere:
"somewhere" in my labyrinth...
i'm yet to find a psychiatrist that might
talk to a bilingual schizophrenic: supposed "schizophrenic":
the entire world is more mad than me...
i'm pretty tame by comparison:
i'm about to make some pork schnitzels, poach young
tatties and make a miseria (a cucumber salad)...
some asparagus on the side if anyone might be gagging...

that the people kept crying wolf...
wolf and wolf did come...

oh Gemma, Gemma, Gemma... can i call you mother Gomorrah?
i'm not even thinking about ******* her...
i am thinking about ******* her, but...
like the ancient Roman tradition of surrogate fatherhood...
i'm actually thinking about her 11 year old son...
that's how things we done in the past...

because how is passing on my genes
important when... those same genes get halved
in their immediacy, a half becomes a quarter,
a quarter becomes an eighth... an eighth a sixteenth:
so and so ad nauseam...
but passing on an idea...        mein gott!
it's like gambling with your own body's
disqualifications to reproduce properly...
to breed Spartans... perhaps not even so much
as to breed... pickling-intellects of Athens...
something... in-between...

              imagine that, working on a little Frankenstein:
sure... not my own... all the better...
the woman is always a side-"thing"...
i'm curious about the child...
maybe that's what makes single mothers so attractive...
there's a chance i can mould a child
in my own image...
you know, dear reader, where this is going:
and god made man in his own image...

that's what making me so butterfly-riddled in
the stomach... the fact that she's 39 and still attractive
is one thing... i took note when she took note
that at Oxford two younglings... 18? petite blondes
took interest in me... she had to double down...
well... that's certainly bragging:
i'm bragging that i'm observant...
sure... you can have the Lamborghini and the yacht...
i'm pretty content with my lungs,
my eyes, my arms and my legs...

i nawet krucjaty dotarły do mojej ziemi!
a więc sam czas dotarł do mnie: aby mnie obudzić...

people have taken the matter oh too lightly...
Hey-Zeus knows... if i might just tease him a little....
he might just come round a second time...
the wandering stars are proof...
i believe this might be translated as:
searching for a host...

                   i'm currently working with a... wow...
a Latvian... better learn some Latvian...

SVEIKI DRAUGS (hello friend)...
    KAA IR JUUSU DIENA (DZIEŃ)
aha... dzusu or yusu?!

sorted... it's unavoidable to merely ask about
so many coincides coming together,
the great fire of London come 1666...
come on... if anything is to be more blatantly obvious...
it's this, it's this: now... diese: jetzt!

i mean: i could be considered an egoist,
a solipsist... but then again: i share my head
with a quadratic, two tongues and hallucinations
(auditory) in two tongues, towing shrapnel of
Latin and Hebrew... mostly presuppositions
and conjunctions of the latter two tongues...
i once owned a cat, kid you not,
that between meows and other onomatopoeias
spoke to me the word: JABEŁ:
in english the translation would read
as y'ah'b'eh'w... the "stand-alone" W doesn't
have to be a "double-u": it can be a dive into
a simple word like W'hen... or W'heather...
you just don't say the word, just stress the first sound
about to be made...

too many coincides have come together to be called
coincidences...
oh Gemma... why am i thinking about Frankie?
i see them at football matches,
Leeds fans... some drunken dad going mental
over a football match... the young boy he has with him
sort of feels embarrassed...
i yawn... because: it's a football match...
i'll enjoy the game... but: support a team?
you'll sooner find me dead than in a football jearsey...

because: like i ******* care...
i care that i'm not reading Locke and instead decided
to take up the German Idealism route of
sorting boxes from rocks... mountains from seas...
that's me!

Orcs are a depiction of black people... ha ha...
what was the last place that Africans invaded?!
Rwanda was close... having invaded themselves...
that's how the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
was dismantled... the elites of said: entity
became sado-masochists and wanted to hurt themselves...
it's always the same:
and their own do it unto their own because...
they're just "out of it"...
some people just want to see the world burn
around them...
                                 they are psychopaths, sociopaths...
whatever you want to diagnose them with:
basically cowards... cucks...

they experienced too much of life to know what
merely existing implies:
deriving pleasure from merely thinking is a good start...
but, no...
that's not on the table...
like yesterday... a trip up to Oxford became revelatory...
i had a quasi-Ramadam teaser...
i didn't eat anything from sunrise to sunset...
sure, i had a coffee and a cigarette... but no food...
after sunset i tried to turkey-feed myself
some vegetarian wraps...
can you imagine how painful it was to ingest anything?

to hell with a ritualistic month...
i'll do a Ramadam on the sly, impromptu...
i figured... well at least being hungry allows me
to focus on other things...
being filled, being nourished might leave me sloppy
when observing people for potential danger;
so i do that.

It took me a long while
To really understand how we inure each
Other in two or threes, taking each number
Like a closed leading to an open door
Contraltos and passive ancestors have one thing in common
Lies and literature, it took to you to be a good person so what
You took to prison and a cell of broken speech and schools took you in peremptory pleasure, with some loquacity and leisure
Mellifluous or mundane, quoting has some substrata of truth, broken down into placid men in Lenin's underground communist movements
Black and broken like the hungry poverty, of the speech and resplendent sum, inventively locum tenens more than the summated parts of clients
Remeasuring the men around me, finding the inclination within singularities
Violent and breathless broken poetry