This is where the-
Spaceship of poetry has landed me
English  is beautiful a color to  paint with
But Swahili is the breast milk
A mother's breast is sweetest
be it canine

English was crafted with unique abilities
Expressions smooth like whiskey
Words that connect to the soul
God really blessed the language

I am grateful that I can write
Construct like engineers and designers
God endowed humans the ability to create
But only  poets can create with words

I turn to Swahili now
To feed  hearts with its-
Charming soulfood
From planet to planet
As my spaceship of poetry traverses worlds

I thank God for the talent
And my journey He will guide me
My destination to be the shinning star
Twinkling the beauty of literature

To shine like Venus in the morning
is my desire
To love you dear Poetry
And embrace you in Swahili and English

To feel you in every way
And inspire hearts of humanity

I have an issue
One that weighs heavily upon my heart
One that, if left unchecked, threatens to tear our social moral fiber apart
An issue I will express in English, with some help from my old friend Swahili
Hii imenisumbua akili, kwa hivyo kuiongelea ni kitu tunastahili
Hii story ya immorality tunaichukulia so so light
Dem akiji'expose kidogo mbele ya kamera haina mseo, tunampandisha cheo kwa society, all of a sudden ye ni socialite
The new cool, eti ‘good girl gone bad’
Hiyo njaro siyo polite
We have a lot more to live for than that which we seem to be aware of
It’s not always about a good time, or lack thereof
Our reputation as a culture I believe is something we badly need to take care of
Siyo game
Siyo Jokes
Si eti mambo na fame
It shouldn’t just be about who drinks, who smokes, who vomits and who chokes
Hiyo lifestyle siyo dope
Na siyo right
Six hundred and seventy something ways to die… choose one
I refuse to go… speeding down a highway, drunk out of my mind, on another booz run
However, I may not exactly be the right person to point out how messed up you are
On a scale of one to ten?
I’m probably as guilty as you are
*******!

Lack of money is lack of friends; if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you. ~ Yoruba
War has no eyes ~ Swahili saying
There can be no peace without understanding. ~Senegalese proverb
A leader who does not take advice is not a leader. ~ Kenyan proverb
If there is character, ugliness becomes beauty; if there is none, beauty becomes ugliness. ~Nigerian Proverb
Unity is strength, division is weakness. ~ Swahili proverb
Wisdom does not come overnight. ~ Somali proverb
Knowledge without wisdom is like water in the sand. ~ Guinean proverb
Home affairs are not talked about on the public square. ~ African proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
Make some money but don’t let money make you. ~ Tanzania
When you are rich, you are hated; when you are poor, you are despised. - African proverb
A man who uses force is afraid of reasoning. ~Kenyan proverb
Traveling is learning. ~Kenyan Proverb
What you learn is what you die with. ~ African proverb
He who is destined for power does not have to fight for it. ~ Ugandan proverb
It takes a village to raise a child. ~ African proverb
Poverty is slavery. ~Somalia
The wealth which enslaves the owner isn’t wealth. ~ Yoruba
Much wealth brings many enemies. – Swahili
You are beautiful, but learn to work, for you cannot eat your beauty. ~Congolese Proverb
A pretty face and fine clothes do not make character. ~Congolese Proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
A close friend can become a close enemy.~ African proverb

Ominous notes are spewed from the *****,
Shaking the chandelier.
“It’s a syndrome he suffers from, one of being half-reared.”
The monotonous metronome ticks at allegro
While the all too sure foot taps andante.

Entrancing sweet air surrounds that ever-thinning hair
While I chew on half of a pear.
Wear and tear quickly begins to take place
While I erase the ink on my page to make space.
To make space for answers to these overwhelming questions.
I’ve never been much of a winner in this race.
And I’ve heard pace is the key,
But I have no such interest in locks.

Oh yes I’ve got golden goals,
But not the type of gold the count uses for bitter revenge,
Gold more likened to The Idiot’s investments.

Thetis by what mind did you dip only my fingers?
At sunrise my left side malingers.

Hello Mr. and Mrs. Jones I’m a sales representative from corporate united
Can I interested you in a genuine grin this evening.
Oh…that’s fine, I get paid just to ask.
But regardless, I could really use some conversation at the moment.
Would you mind ministering me with melodies?

I scrape the insole of a misfit pair…
Staring and staring at the ground waiting for it to shake.
Trembles are a sort of comforting contagion.

Oh it’s long been cold enough to build fires,
But I’ve only just collected the wood,
And I see no value in conversing alone outside,
Splitting the options with a razor, the sheets are more comfortable.
Lonely days bring still shivers multiplying,
My skin’s grown thin, all my warmth radiates out.
Oh I should have been a pair of scuttling claws…
The salt water is purely a majority,
My spirit is displaced into phytoplankton riding waves.
There there are no graves,
No cremation or consolation.
Just rest.

My I’m tired, I’ve toiled and tilled till morning
And still haven’t seen sprouts.
The bull in my chest shouts and I’ll I want
Is to wring it’s neck.
I’m tired of walking amongst bloodsuckers and
Angry hordes of minotaur’s.
I’m tired of constantly treading over manmade floors,
And walking down the hall
Only to find my destination…a steel locked door,
Then having to implore upon the janitor.
I’m tired of dancing all the time,
Just let me stand in silence.

after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
(i actually like this line, apologies for vain-thought).*

"68% of Canadians respondent said that minorities
should be doing more to fit into mainstream society
instead of keeping to their own customs and languages..."

53% of American dittoed likewise...*

              a failure of multiculturalism is a failure
because: it didn't celebrate bilingualism -
i call that the Gaelic effect in Scotland just so
you know it was spoken in over-shadowed Gaelic
within a Glaswegian dialect...

  multiculturalism failed because it was easier to
make a lot of people deemed as schizophrenic
rather than have the ability to be bilingual...
multiculturalism is a failure because it made bilingualism
taboo and instead said: ah... be bisexual!
multicultural societies actually gambled on bisexuality
being more needed than bilingualism,
and anyone still bilingual and not bisexual
was ripened to be harvested by psychiatrists.

but i do wonder what these post-colonial societies
would have made of what the natives might have asked
them...
              i think the natives of America would have liked
the immigrants to appropriate at least some of their
cultural traits... and no keep them in natural reserves like
some talking monkeys...

it's not enough that i have to give up a part of my soul
that i then have to twang the tongue like a banjo
with all that Texan ma'am ******* like those Arabs
in Lebanese American Universities...
oh please, stop this *******,
   i'm puking with the French on the question:
if globalisation is to be arrived at, why is English
the language of choice in achieving it?
              it's not a minority language, that's for sure...
the most poker-laden expression? sure, it is...
but i thought that within a framework of globalisation
(as Napoleon said): if a man speaks two tongues
the first head of the hydra is cut, and two emerge,
hence            the ambiguity of god
      and the proud expression of lizards
and their spies (cats) and why the first letter of
the tetragrammaton is shaped as      Y....
          hence the ambiguity of god and his Machiavelli
in terms of whether there is a world beyond this
one, and whether that diabolical Machiavelli (in all
his despair) did so on purpose to show god the sifting
process...
                    yes, that face of the marine iguana:
smiles like a cat,
              sitting proud on the rocky beach...
yet it has unfamiliar mammalian eyes instead of
those slit-eyes of noon akin to serpents and cats...
            and as Machiavelli said: first time round was great,
second time round: i just don't understand why your
first incentive is somehow better?
        they simply can't know if the first version
is better than their own...
         got to feed them the knowledge of nothing,
so at least they can better what they're been given...
as did Milton, make him less of the two evils...
   what with inhospitable earth and the dream of
colonising mars... or as the history of stars suggests:
stellar evolution sort of does away with Darwinism...
Darwinism is the one form of paper that you
wipe your *** with... it's not a napkin for your mouth:
that ****'s for your ***.
                 at the centre so too iron: as in haemoglobin.
     and we never say stars in a constellation of stars:
those are white dwarfs...
                 is our stellar nebula origin to be resurrected
for a moment into a planetary nebula and then into
stellar ivory of the dwarf?
     personally i think we'll end up being a black hole
unless our right / left politics will lead us into ending
as a neutron... which can only be seen with subatomic
particle goggles... of when Mars and its two moons
housed all thing stable, we are at the stage of the dying
star: hence all our Apocalyptic thinking and bring together...
   Mars experienced the average / massive stage of
a star's life... it's the only planet that shares our common
thread of being solid rather than gaseous...
                    Mercury is equivalent of being the sun's moon
and not a planet if Plato is a declassified planet...
         that's my suspicion concerning u.f.o. sighting and
governments showing us the output of NASA
and then lying that they have this "capacity"...
    old Martians... after all: there were only volcanos on
earth, and then the dinosaurs...
      ******* about with time gets you into these
custard clots of: huh?! i didn't invent the Darwinistic
concept of history worthy noting, Darwinism invented
itself, it's just that after being popularising
the humanities' aspect of the theory came once
the science was debunked... which always sounds like:
see next year, after they told you i'd be
       using a chicken leg fibula for a toothpick:
oh sure, let's get together the Friday after that,
by then i'll be scratching one twig against another twig
to get the fire going...
             after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
the point is: multiculturalism failed because
  it created a toxic environment for language...
it didn't respect bilingualism...
         it respected bisexuality: isn't that the talk of the town?
all your home-grown terrorists? they only speak
a few words of Arabic... they have been harvesting
the toxicity of a multiculturalism that didn't deem
two language in man to be acceptable...
        and no one cared for the trade benefits?!
how the **** did they miss that sort of plus?
         surely if you're going to trade with the Chinese
you'd send a merchant to China who spoke Mandarin,
and not Swahili, right? common sense.
   if the multiculturalism of England embraced my
bilingualism, i'd be selling English crap in Poland
and perhaps vice-versus... but they said: nope, nadda,
n'ah... you schizoid... da' ****?!
               oh right, so i'm a slot machine or earnings or
those ******* farmers of the urban wheatfield of
thought that psychiatrists are?
   am i talking Dutch or something? me integrating
not good enough? a multicultural system that doesn't
respect bilingualism... deserves what history gives it;
and by now... i'm at Drury Lane: fanning the flames.

PLANET NAIROBI (When the sun goes down)
Nur…
They were on the verge of losing this battle… it was only a matter of time, and he knew that. Through the window, he saw them advance, with a fierce swiftness that would have put anyone opposed to them at unease. Trembling uncontrollably, he reached for his weapon and held it firmly, ready to martyr himself for his family’s honour and legacy if need be. For they were not, and never would be known as a family of cowards, they were royalty... and he would rather go down fighting than cowering, that was the bottom line. But he knew that his sword, as well forged as it was, would be no match for Rath and his five hundred man strong battalion. So, biting his lower lip he waited for the pounding footsteps to reach the top of the stairs where he stood, the one solitary guardian to the throne. Martyrdom was his destiny.
“Let he that stands between Rath and the throne fall like the city walls!” Rath’s dominant voice bellowed as it got closer, too close for comfort.
He braced himself.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. And Nur... Prince Nur, finally got to come face to face with the scourge that had terrorised the lands of the sea for so long. A man of whom he had heard about from stories as a child growing up. A man that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. Nur realised that he had always been afraid of Rath, long before this moment, how was he supposed to fight this man when he was clearly at a disadvantage? For it was common knowledge that to go into battle afraid, was to go into battle prepared to lose.
Rath was a gigantic figure, and exuded the air of one who was accustomed to crushing his opponents and hadn’t experienced defeat in a while... if not ever. This man stood at almost eight feet tall, with rock hard muscles that seemed to pile on top of more muscle, threatening to tear through his dark skin. His long locks of unkempt hair fell over a face that could only be described as menacing. He had a permanent scowl that was complimented by his black, soulless eyes. And as they stared each other down, Nur couldn’t ignore the presence of sheer evil he saw in those eyes, a shiver of dread ran down his spine. He raised his blade.
“A child?” Rath barked, “A petulant child? Is that what this Kingdom’s defences have come down to? An infant?” He waved a dismissive hand at Nur.
“A prince!” Nur responded defiantly, raising his blade even higher and more confidently. This man may have been the epitome of terror, but Nur would be ****** if he was going to be talked down to in this manner, this was his palace.
“A prince huh? Prince Nur I presume? Your father was a brave man, I respected him. Even if I met his acquaintance only for a couple of minutes, before I slaughtered him. But I do respect a king that fights alongside his men, as opposed to other cowards I’ve had the pleasure of killing that had barricaded themselves in their chambers and let others fight their battles for them. King Thur was a rare breed... but a dead one all the same.” He laughed remorselessly as he said this. “And soon you will get to join your warrior father foolish one.”
Nur lost all sense of fear. Infuriated, his nostrils flared as he swung the blade with all the ferocity he could muster, slicing deep into Rath’s right forearm. Time slowed to syrup as he saw his adversary’s blood stain the sword, but realising that it wasn’t a fatal strike, he turned around swiftly, switching his stance just in time to see Rath’s massive blade come down on his head. Then there was a deathly silence.
The afterlife was nothing like he had pictured. It smelt of... he couldn’t quite place that peculiar smell. It wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Then he turned around and saw her. He deduced that she was probably the source of the smell. He noticed that smoke came out of her nostrils and mouth every few seconds after lifting a sticklike object to her lips. Nur mused at how wrong the high priest in their kingdom had been when he spoke about the place in the sun... the afterlife. It wasn’t anything like he had described.
But wait a minute! He realised that the sun was still above him, in the sky. He could see it. He could feel it on his skin. So WHERE WAS HE? He felt dizzy, unable to comprehend. Only a minute ago he was in the royal palace, facing certain death. And now he was... he didn’t know where he was, or even what he was. Was he dead? Transcended? Was this just his soul? If so, then how come he still had his senses? All these questions raced through his mind at the same time. He turned toward the lady, who seemed unaware of his presence. She was tall and very light skinned compared to him and her hair was tied in ponytail at the back of her head. He couldn’t make sense of her attire though, she seemed to wear a lot of clothing, garment over garment that covered her arms and legs. She was also extremely beautiful and had a slim womanly body most warriors would **** for, he noted, and felt himself flush. He tried to see what she was squinting so intently at and concluded that she was just staring into space as she drew, he realised now, on the tiny stick and blew out more smoke. That was when he noticed how high up they were, this palace stood almost five times as high as theirs. It was overwhelming to say the least.  He got up and walked over to her, deciding to leave his blade behind so as not to come off as a threat.
“Greetings?” He said politely. She jumped as if she had just seen a ghost, dropping the stick she was holding. He had clearly startled her, so he took a step back lifting his hands in the air to signify that he meant her no harm. She breathed rapidly and began to speak just as rapidly in a foreign tongue. Nur couldn’t understand what she was saying, but the hostility in her tone and her demeanour was hard to miss. He took another step back, ready to defend himself from an attack if need be. He had heard tales of an island with warrior women who could match, and beat, even the strongest male adversary in combat. He decided to tread cautiously.


Nasim...
Nasim Naikuni was beyond peeved. Who was this ******?  He had scared her half to death and almost made her fall off the roof, not to mention burn her favourite grey, three thousand shilling trouser suite when she dropped the cigarette. And what annoyed her even more was that he didn’t seem to register how ******* she was. He just stood there with a blank expression on his face, like a schoolboy waiting for his mistake to be explained to him. Nasim couldn’t stand slow people, they got under her skin. She was yelling at the top of her lungs, which was taxing to say the least, seeing as she had been smoking just seconds ago.
“Are you slow?” She shouted, tapping at her temple repeatedly. “What makes you think you can sneak up on me like that you fool? You almost killed me. Do you realise that?” Then she stopped and studied him, out of breath. She noticed that he seemed unable to understand English and so she switched to Swahili, “Nini mbaya na wewe?” What’s wrong with you? Still there was no response.
She gave him a once over. He dressed strangely. His large, golden brown pants that fluttered in the wind seemed to have been made from an expensive material, though it was like no material she’d laid eyes on before. It bordered somewhere between silk and suede. His shirt was also made of a similar material, but leather brown in colour, matching his leather boots that were laced and reached just under the knee. He stood an inch or two shorter than she did, but she guessed that was probably because she was in heels. He had long hair that seemed to fall halfway down his back in one long braid. He looked almost exotic as he tried to communicate, but she couldn’t place the language or his ethnicity, for his skin-tone was chocolate brown but his hair looked almost like an Asian’s, dark and straight. He spoke in a tongue she had never heard before. There was also something really classy about this boy, whom she guessed to be around eighteen years of age or so. It was like looking at a darker, more pampered version of Sinbad the sailor.
Nasim relaxed a little and decided to give the fellow a chance to introduce himself, in whatever way he intended to do so. He seemed to pick up on this and started explaining something to her, making a couple of gestures, and at some point she thought she saw him mimic a fight, and then  point to the sky. Nasim still didn’t know what he was talking about, but felt a semblance of communication begin to take form. He directed her attention to another part of the roof, probably where he had approached her from. And she saw the blade! With catlike agility she swung her purse at him, the blow caught him square on the jaw with a thud! The bottle of perfume she religiously carried around in it serving a different purpose on this day. He hadn’t seen it coming and so had no chance of stopping it. He staggered backwards as she made a run for it toward the staircase but felt a hand grab her ankle causing her to tumble onto the hot cement floor. At that moment her heart sank, for she knew that she was done for.


Nur...
Nur was perplexed, he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve the assault. The lady had seemed to be calming down, but all of a sudden she had lunged at him with a weapon he had first assumed to be a bag. Though, she didn’t strike with the strength that a warrior would have, and also had made an attempt to flee. This told him two things. One, she wasn’t accustomed to combat... and two, she had attacked more out of fear than strife. Which meant that she posed no immediate threat to him. Also, she was the only person he had met so far and his only hope of figuring out where he was. He couldn’t afford to lose her, not just yet, so he decided to try something he was ashamed he hadn’t thought of sooner. Nur spoke into her head.
‘I mean you no harm.’  He said, and waited. No response. He tried again, concentrating harder this time. ‘Can you hear me? I mean you no harm’
‘LET ME GOOO!’  Her thoughts screamed.
He could understand her, they had made a connection. Progress...

One year later. Nasim...
“Good afternoon people? You’re hangin’ out with me Nasim Naikuni on your favourite show Voices, where you can throw any question you have regarding life... and living it, at me and the voices in my head will answer them for you... yeah, you heard right, the voices in my head. I’ll be takin’ your calls for the next hour. Let’s begin shall we?” Nasim spoke into the microphone just before a voice-over added...
“NASIM NAIKUNI, THE ONLY RADIO PRESENTER THAT’S LITERALLY GONE BONKERS!” And then was followed by some rock music. ‘So what?... I’m still a rock star... ’ Pink’s lyrics belted out as Nasim removed her headphones to take a breather before she talked to her first caller. A breather... and also to have a bit of a chat with the voice in her head. She walked out of the studio into a corridor where she was out of sight, and concentrated, her eyes crinkling from the effort.
‘Hey, are you there?’
‘Uh huh.’ The prince replied.
‘Okay, we’re on in roughly three minutes. Make me look good babes’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘True dat. What are you doing?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘It’s one in the afternoon... ’
‘This is not my planet, therefore I’m not obliged to follow its rules. I can have a one o’clock breakfast if I want to.’
‘Brunch.’
‘What?’
‘Brunch, what your having would be brunch. Breakfast... aaand lunch?’
‘You see? You get all high and mighty on me about this and you even have a name for it? If it is so wrong to have breakfast at this time, then why would your people give the meal a name? I’m just saying.’ Nur said mockingly.
‘I give up’ She replied with a sigh.
‘Nas... Nas?’
Silence.
She walked back into the studio.
“Caller... you’re on air. Shoot.” Nasim said softly, leaning into the microphone.
“Hey Nasim, lovely job you’re doing by the way.”
“Why thank you dear, but I don’t deserve all the credit you know?”
“Yeah I know... you and the voices in your head... ha-ha! Anyway my name is George, and I’m kinda’ in a predicament at the moment. You see, I have a wife and a family... two kids, but I kinda’ got into this relationship outta’... obligation as opposed to real love...”
“Obligation?”
“Yes. I met my wife five years ago in uni’ and we dated. But looking back, I only got into the relationship because I felt I’d led her on and she loved me soo much, I just couldn’t disappoint her. So I got stuck in a phony relationship, at least on my part. Next thing I know, we are pregnant and... It’s been we ever since.”
“So you want to what? Get out of your marriage?”
“I want to be with the person I truly love...”
“Hooo... **! Scoreboard! Now we have lift off. And how long have you known this person that you truly love George?” She said this with a tinge of amusement in her voice.
“Six years... and we’ve been going out for the past two.” He sounded ashamed.
‘He sounds ashamed.’ She heard Nur say observationally.
‘No kidding.’ She retorted.
(In the past year or so, Nasim and Nur had come to an understanding somewhat. After she had struck him with her purse and the little scuffle they’d had on the rooftop, and after convincing herself that she wasn’t going crazy... or that the cigarette she had been smoking wasn’t laced with marijuana or some other hallucinogen, she finally gave in and listened to the voice speaking to her in her thoughts.
‘Please, just give me a chance to explain. I need your help lady!’ He sounded desperate.
She felt sorry for him, but still suspected she could be going nuts.
He continued. ‘I don’t know where I am. My father is dead and I don’t know where I am or how I arrived here, and you’re the only one that can help me right now...’
Nasim, touched now, replied. “How am I supposed to do that? And how are you doing this telepathy thing? Are you really doing this?” She shook her head violently, like a wet dog trying to dry itself, “I’m very confused right now.”
He looked even more confused. ‘Talk to me in my head, I think it is the only way we can communicate with each other.’
She didn’t know how to.
‘It’s simple, concentrate.’ He said reassuringly.
She tried. Still nothing.
‘I could hear you a moment ago, I don’t understand. Let’s try this slowly, repeat after me... Nur.’ He told her.
She heard him, and was thinking what?
He repeated, ‘Nur.’
She tried thinking the word he’d asked her to repeat as hard as she could but he didn’t seem to be getting anything. She decided that the cigarette must have been laced with something. Here she was, on the roof top of her work building trying to master telepathy, with a stranger who just happened to own a sword. This had to be a dream, a nightmare.
‘I must be high.’
‘Yes! Yes! You’re high!’ She heard the excited reply.
‘What?’
‘You did it!’ Nur said happily, ‘you figured it out. And yes, I was also meaning to ask you about how high we are.’
She had done it. Nasim could hear him and answer back, she felt oddly proud of this accomplishment. Then she asked puzzled. ‘High? You get high?’
‘I am high.’ Came the naive reply.
‘Oh...’
‘Why are we so high up? The palaces on our island are half the size of yours, are you that many in your palace that you need to build it so tall?’
Then she understood. And laughed... ‘Who are you? And how did you get here?’
‘My name is Nur... Prince Nur... how I got here? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ He was being honest.
And thus begun an adventurous relationship between the two. Nasim took him to her apartment that day, passing curious and disapproving looks all the way. The most difficult part being trying to explain to her boss why she was coming from the roof in the company of someone who dressed like a ******, as he put it. She made up something. And he gave her one of those I’ll accept your story just because... looks. Nasim found that hilarious. But she was glad she had asked Nur to leave the sword behind to be recovered later. That would have been a tad difficult to explain. They got to her apartment block and were met by more disapproving looks from a group of nosey old women, the type that love to mind everyone else’s business but their own, as they walked to the lift. And when they got into apartment F6 on the second floor, she introduced Nu

that you may read poetry without a tongue, with a plight
of sore eyes, of eager eyes, only eyes,
and shelter yourself from the rain
with a hand agreeing to greet it falling extended:
plucking mushrooms as you
might be reasonable meeting it with
umbrellas - but umbrellas
far beyond the flowery gutter of scent
and decaying ambition where the frugal
fungal arise like lechery of goblin ****
celebrated - some might add
a dice throw of Macadamia nuts -
eyed i too you the death-stinker;
this is the English revision of Zulu -
primitive tongue extended into abstract,
by those speaking English as foreign,
my English is an English reversed on
the colonialists - its a robbing tongue when
effectively used, with this in mind
i'm starting to think the Irish are bigger *****
than the Welsh even with the middle exported
as V into France and the longbow-men -
remember the antonym of German compounding
is the hyphen in English - optic talk -
failed rubrics of arithmetic for one,
failed rubrics of spelling the other -
i wish you knew English as well as you once
you knew Swahili - i actually wish you knew
Swahili ably talking to you grandparents...
i'm not your grandfather, even though
i wish he wishes he was -
you became gluttonous in tongue as they in body,
fat overdose from mono-linguistic apartheid -
you let them undermine the bilingualism
inherent in you... the Prussians
and the Russian and the Austrians never stole our
tongue... of course we devolved it borrowing
too many words, but loan nouns are never able to evolve
into slang, into urban talk that deconstructs nations,
where once was France now there's only Paris,
the same with England and London;
that you may read poetry without a tongue,
and make tongue read unto mind a Braille -
goosebump fidgety prickle - sour palette without
saying Thai in York - for the eyes to see the deformity
at hand, for the tongue to turn silent for one evening
alone, Venetian snares of the omni- eyed fake
entrusted with Cerberus' oath (only howl a wake
when your master Hades passes into the Styx for
voice of democratically reprimanding judgement over all
souls to arise from droplet into their own content
river form); for i too would have taken to resurrecting
the tongue, but the tongue was forgotten for a purpose
of agility in sports and un-thought poetics of excessive
rhyme, hardly the jazz, hardly the blues,
and hardly poetry - jazz i agree beyond measure a mint
cloud among the down-pouring heavy-clad-grey-clouds
of Mozart - i admit the blues the invigoration -
but rap? rap i just don't get.
me and this homeless man just laughed it off:
and i'm a Brazilian (blue tracksuit bottoms,
yellow t-shirt, green hoodie) - Eminem nemo Emo?
get the beach bleach out... we're going to stain those
starfish as coordinates' worth of horoscope... twirling
twirling twirling... cartwheels a'hoo a'hoo a'hoo ha hey.
i mean, sorry, i don't get the "hood" -
i don't get post-grunge either... i think i'm getting old -
and it's true what they say... the only black friend
was a drug dealer - wanted me to teach his daughter
to play the guitar... i said i listened to Bob Marley's sons
and he said i listened to culture -
racial stereotypes can be fun, i guess, if you're honest
about them... keen on the Illuminati,
so i said: anything better than Kubrick's eyes wide shut ******?
n'ah? hell, if it can't beat that, what's the interesting part?
or as i itemise the rewards the Koran states...
those 72 virgins... is that a metaphor for gym membership?
if you're a lazy drunk like me... the last thing
you want is 72 eager beavers.

A baby from Burundi sits next to me today.
He coos and drinks and swallows his mother’s milk.
His father speaks Swahili. Smiles, tells me that his last son
Is going to grow old in Rochester, NY,
Where I sit in a white-walled waiting room, watching
Mothers drag their babies by the armpits to be weighed.

A boy with braided beads holds up four fingers and tells me he is five.
He is too skinny. His pants are sagging and his iron is low.
His mother takes his vegetable checks, stuffs them into the back pocket of her jeans.
What the little **** needs is two percent milk, she says,
Her gold hoops fluttering.

Her son struggles with the small wooden chair he is carrying.
It drags along the carpet, hitting the high spots, and his tiny biceps flinch.
He sits, facing me, while a name is called. And another.
Another woman’s son hands me a book and waits.
He is watching my face and I watch his mother kiss her boyfriend in the first row seats.
He tucks his chin to his chest when I ask his name. Whispers, tells me Jayden.

First page. What color is Elmo, Jayden?
Shoulders shrugging. His lower lip, puckered out and innocent.
What color is he, Jayden?

The color of Jayden’s skin slaps me across the heart when he says he doesn’t know.
He was born in Rochester, NY,
With trash bags and Burger King wrappers wrapped around the fence
That separates his house from the street on which he will grow old
Too soon.
He starts kindergarten in the fall and I tell him Elmo is red, like his t-shirt.
Like his mother’s fingernails.
Like the tomatoes and bell peppers and beets he has never seen.

A girl who went to my High School carries in her youngest child
Who is old enough to walk, but wobbles.
She calls her daughter “thunder-thighs” instead of Jazmyne
And strips off her shoes. Her belt. Her gold bracelets.
The scale says Jazmyne is too heavy for food assistance.
The state says her mother isn’t poor enough for welfare.
The girl I used to know leaves without her daughter’s shoes or the food checks she came for.

In conversations of pretension
We talk about first and third world.
Pretend that America is the land of second chances
Where a baby from Burundi can grow old in cashmere sweaters,
Even when his parents couldn’t pay.

The father who speaks Swahili looks at his shiny watch and his family’s vegetable checks.
Smiles. Tells me his last son is going to grow old and full
In Rochester, NY.

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

pierdolony tasiemiec, ten mój angielski.

it's a strange affair, asking for gender neutral pronouns -
last time i checked, a pict taught me english,
and he, not once, suggested
that the category of pronouns
was a gender case,
or a gender neutral ground
             for that matter...
thank **** i am using this as
an acquired tongue,
otherwise i would be confused
as to what this whole affair "means":
i.e. it means *nothing.
do these natives even realise that
they already have gender neutral
nouns?!
        oh yeah, if you check out
some of the other european languages
you'll realise that there are pro
gender nouns for objects that
do not have the mechanisation of
a ****, or a piston?!
     throw three ***** into the air
and hope that they catch them
and start juggling.
            english doesn't have
a masculine & a feminine ascription
of "******" differentiation of objects -
the english language has the already
gender neutral articles:
   the point, a point -
   a sun, the sun -
           it doesn't treat the sun as female,
nor does it treat the moon as male...
but other language do that...
       but gender neutrality of pronouns
is a bit like... don't know:
    talking sign-language swahili to
a chinese person?
and then this talk about *** lives
and household chores...
  who the **** said that cooking
is a feminine enterprise?
who let the women into the kitchen
in the first place?
  talk to an organic chemist -
he'll tell you:
i relax making culinary experiments.
once upon a time perhaps it was
a case that men hunted and women
cooked...
     so all the michelin star restaurants
are run by women?
   cooking is a feminine "enterprise"?
man, have you lost your *******?!
who said that women can cook?
oh right, that's a tier up from the insult
that women belong in the kitchen,
oops...
            the last meal i had was a pasta
bake, with the pasta not done al dente,
and after baking: mush...
   any pensioner would be happy
to slurp that carbohydrate mush up,
through a straw any time...
  bad *** = divorce? try overcooked pasta,
or undercooked potatoes.
      that **** gets me steaming
puffing screaming obliterating any if any
there was an internal monologue...
  why is cooking deemed a feminine
            "chore"?
                    why can't cooking suddenly
emerge as both art and chemistry?
but it is just that...
                 who said that women belong
in the kitchen?
            i didn't say that...
   nor did hell making a broth of sins...
   and suddenly, what? the idea is infantile?
go with the flow, no point breaking
a sweat by imitating a ****** building a dam
to clog up the popular view of:
   well, given my dreams, i'm sure as ****
scared of dying, and waking into one
of these dreams...
     where in the woken-into-dream i'm
not the protagonist, but merely a cameo;
my fear of death is not that of amen obliteration,
but the idea of waking up in a dream,
and as i already said: with but a cameo role.
once again: who let these women into
the kitchen, and why is cooking stereotypically
a feminine affair?
                 doesn't anyone relax and loves
to see the transformation of food
like a chemist might with chemicals?
              again, once more:
   you can get your gender neutral pronouns,
but once you allow pro gender nouns...
    i.e. a chair is a man, a table is a man
(masculine) -
         a candle is a woman, a mirror is a woman
(feminine) -
oh, wait, right, english doesn't have
this grammatical dimension of things being
categorised by gender...
      it only has the microscope the (i.e.
direct article) and the telescope a (indirect
article)...
     point being, this isn't even my fight...
i'm quiet literally a bystander,
the english language is inorganic to me,
it has been acquired,
   it's not organic enough to make a former
slave into the slapping slur rapper of exponential
slang source...
          i don't know how this mutilated
elephant man of a tongue is going to survive
this "epiphany"... " " (yes, that implies
sarcasm, as perfected by the english themselves)...
      i almost feel sorry for this to have
arisen, someone must have taught you
cheap native anglo...
   now i get the english gender neutral noun -
but a gender neutral pronoun?
  you'll have to start speaking french,
or polish, to get a gender neutral pronoun,
given that in these languages:
nouns are pro gender.
                                            sorry;
you simply can't turn your spreschen into
hieroglyphs overnight and expect me to understand
you, with, what the current year suggests,
leaves me without a rosetta stone
to decipher the jargon that's transcendental slang;
maybe if i spotted some gender neutral
pronoun graffiti on the streets,
then, maybe;
nonetheless, once more:
   this is not my fight, this language is not
an organic extension of me,
   it's an inorganic implosion -
to me this language is a parasite,
        and i am its host -
bo inaczej nie powiedział bym swego
pierwszego słowa: tak,
   jeno inaczej - jak już powiedziałem przez
swego, krasomówczym, pasożyta.
and if my ethnicity is vermin,
   guess what... this language but is a parasite
in me; the day i die, is the day
              i finally rid myself of it.

Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house
and an incredibly sweet hooknosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creeley Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the Zoo, the
intelligent puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in wornout polygot
Swahili, and the rippling rythyms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queen
we had a long evening's conversation
Then he tucked me in my long
red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind? Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his
manna? What English Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share in his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.

.you should really see the two comments left, and the 700+ views to begin with.

mind you, i did write an ode to the gods
(yes, that infantile pleasure,
not associated with cosmopolitan new york
atheists)...
how the roman plagiarißm of the the greek
pantheon happened too soon,
how the semite god ate up ba'al
and beelzebub "too quickly"
   turning them into fallen angels...
      like how he infiltrated the roman empire
due to their close-up plagiarißm so early...
father Zeus, father Odin remained...
as did their phonetic encoding...
as did the glagolitic script turned cyrillic...
sorry... where was the african phonetic
encoding? beside the hieroglyphs?
  what's swahili for:
red earth, gave birth to me?
   nyekundu dunia, alitoa kuzaliwa kwa mimi!
see... that's african speech:
but what are the letters behind it?
last time i checked... there aren't any!
and i came from africa?
maybe the anglo-deutsche did...
i didn't... i source my origins
in india... after all... indo-european
is my higher category, the mongols...
i don't care if the germanic people "think"
they originated in africa, i've come from india...
people who minded phonetic encoding,
had an alphabet,
              i'm still stuck with germanic
people with african stereotypes not being
able to swim...
   heavy bones they say...
    **** that and the whole i.q. "conundrum"...
i still watch t.v.,
       after all, after prometheus
brought down the flame from olympus...
some demigod had to bring down /
steal the rod of zeus / electricity...
and turn the t.v. into the modern fireplace...
the b.b.c. had this 2nd season running,
killing eve...
             sandra oh and jodie comer...
there's this instance in season two,
when jodie comer, villanelle...
  is interrogated by aaron peel...
                and "kind" aaron is asking villanelle
all this philosophical quips...
anselm's ontological argument...
    occam's razor (i wish)...
            he has so many books on his
bookshelf...
   yeah... books you look at like comic
book strips, books you don't actually read...
books you look at...
            and what does villanelle do in the end?
she brushes aaron's nose with one of
these books "he's read"... what is it?
ha ha!   a dictionary of philosophy...
a... dictionary...
basically short-script...
                     cheat...
         you really want a dictionary
definition of philosophy? a philosophy dictionary
definition, a sound-bite?
you know... last time i checked...
i read bertnard russell,
kierkegaard, kant, heidegger...
not for a dictionary definition...
or regurgitating rubrics akin to
a university lecturer...
        i hate regurgitation...
                i read for myself,
  in the end, hoping, my narrative could
find expansive ground for work-arounds...
i don't like playing the happy
harpsicord dancing monkey...
    to give "proofs"...
              i don't like people,
akin to villanelle, when questioned
on a university entrance critique...
               like i might "know my ****",
or not "know my ****"...
                                       pretty boring...
i am starting to resound in the conviction...
there's no point in knowing other people,
there's only one person worth knowing,
yourself...
       mind you, i'm still waiting for the alternative
phonetic encoding system to come
from africa, as an alternative counter
to the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm not seeing it...

   tender skin: the moon does see...
     zabuni ngozi: ya mwezi haina tazama...

eh, chinese script is all syllables and no
letters...
        glagolitic - Ⰿ
        rune - ᛗ
        roman - M
        greek - μ
        hebrai - מ
        devanagari - म
        arabic - م
        hieroglyph - owl
        mandarin - 冊
        hiragana - ま(a) み(i) む(u) め(e) も(o)

didn't i mention this already,
interchangeable, between a letter and
a syllable... given the hiragana example...
depending on what vowel
you attach to the base sound (consonant),
the vowel modifies the base (consonant)...
five ******* variations of the consonant / syllable...

           ergo? no atomic reality in these languages...
syllable understanding...
the mendeleev table...
                He: helium...
             Xn: xenon...
                          Na: sodium... etc.,

            depends...
   after all... a base letter (consonant) in hiragana
looks like the following schematic:
i.e. no one really knows what M looks like,
like mmm-humming...
without an added vowel...

                                     ま(a)
                                      |
                   め(e) ----- "x" ----- む(u)      
                                   /    \
                                 /        \
                          み(i)          も(o)
                                                            
.Nietzsche was wrong about dialectics, he suggested that the non practice of dialectics, even the anti presupposes a polite society, he invoked that comparative tenet of a society in saying: a polite society does not engage in dialectics (finding the truth of opinions).

which is akin to the slander against Voltaire,
that not engaging in dialectics
one has a chance to have an opinion about almost
everything, there's no chance these days
to have a polite society as there is no chance
to establish a Utopia... the way dialectics is
avoided like some surreal horror movie
is to have many opinions, to not engage in
dialectics is to be opinionated, hence Nietzsche's
style of utilising aphorisms and as many
maxims as possible, without useful applicability;
it's like that metaphor for a venomous bite,
the carousel of the many many thoughts,
likewise, no truth are established, since many
truths are proposed - hence the paradoxical
venture into nothing, simply walking in circles
on plateau nihil, it's polite, well of course it's
politeness! politeness by having many opinions
readied for a quick change of subject or
the simple act of shame and shutting up.
all this? with regards to a woman writing about
her abortion: we, the great reverse-amphibians,
so she's writing about it... 4 weeks in she's ready
to erase the dot... they tell her to come back 12
weeks later (sadists... why not remove the dot
rather than wait for the geometry to construct itself?),
again... why not remove the dot and the abstract?
she mentions a dot... remove the ******* dot!
the tadpole outside the gooey yoke is fastened
to maturing in the fresh water stream or lake,
i can hardly be a human being inside the ******
if my **** and bladder muscles are not matured,
i'm an abstract in that sense, tadpoles ahoy!
now see how living in a "polite" society i can't
engage in dialectics but have to reverse the process
of discussion and engage in picturesque comparatives
using toads? it's called applying anaesthetics - well,
an anaesthetic, or a placebo - in polite society people
get over-excited, unconditionally so, over-stimulated,
unconditionally so, with having to muster having
many opinions, politics can become a circus de facto,
de facto as in: detached from rural England.
so if we'll never attack the status quo with dialectics,
will be constantly multi-opinionated, changing the
subject all the time, and when challenging, we'll
only feed an anaesthetic, an anaesthetic that will become
a confession booth in a catholic church:
a quasi-solipsism, the listener and the other person
talking, mono-dialectics, so well entrenched these days
that there's even a good reason for practising
psychiatry rather than a catholic confession in church,
psychiatry is, after all, a secular version of the catholic
practice - more intimidating though, since you're
facing each other, rather than sitting at parallel positions,
shrouded in secrecy of the wooden mosaic wall of
the booth... i'm just wondering if this attempt to feel
the naked soul does not intimidate the clothed body
more to later undress itself in ***.

i was directed to this place by Marty Feldman, and he said i should say this password to gain entry: float like a chapati, sting like a vindaloo.

i' not good at making passes at someone's death,
just yesterday i was thinking
while a quiz show took place with haiku clues
regarding famous people, so i wondered
aloud: would it still be the correct answer if
you said: cassius clay? what a cool name,
colossus of clay - what the hell does Muhammad
and Ali have to do with african rooting
when you hardly speak Swahili? a bit pointless,
but a name like cassius clay... unstoppable -
already mythological, rather than a family
feud between Ali and the Caliphs after Muhammad's
death - maybe he should have confirmed his
baptism as Muhammad Ali with a confirmation
akin to catholic practice and added a surname, like
Khadijah, well... if Mozart is turning in his coffin
for his music being turned into a muzak
or a Porcupine Tree tree song, then the first wife of
Muhammad is turning in hers... a wise women
of sound economic acumen could be compared
by secular standards to Gabriel's voice, women tell lies,
just today i saw plain Jane turn into a stunner,
she was gagging to go on a date with a guy of her dreams,
by media standards a subsequent loser in Morocco,
at a photo shoot of practising flirtation a half-and-half
love affair between the Gothic island of the Caribbean
that's England and the Bahamas flirted with olive skin,
blue eyes and pecks, and an ego shaped like a woodpecker...
or an u.z.i., poor guy, got to make a show,
but the ***** is out! she noticed her eyes!
what further shahada of scheherazade?
just one more night, just one more night, one more, night.
demigods and men, traces of narcissus in man resides
in his eyes, nowhere else, man and woman fall in love
with their eyes, rather than narcissus and the complete
visage, but as i once said: imagine narcissus looking
into the sea - he might as well have fallen in love with
the stillness of the lake rather than the image represented
by it - across the seven seas he roamed, across the seven
zeniths, until he came across the Lake of Echo,
and heard the echo of footsteps beside him, to have seen
the natural mirror by moonlight, and settled to lie,
disguising himself as a flower worth recycling:
each god in polytheism his own individual, reigning ideal
in the pantheon of gods: solipsism - with man's intervention
a notably study of, himself.
although i'd love to chat thoroughly about this,
i'm not so sure i want to - hear the words:
you're a good man... you're a good man in a brothel?
you think a ******* would forget saying that
and continue? *persona incognito grata -
a golden crown on her tooth that i peered into with her
Ukrainian accent speaking polish, i lost my virginity
to a French girl without any connection - proceeding
from the way she decided a child learning a new language
aged 8 could not be considered a native speaker
for a psychology experiment - i gave her a silent lesson
in history concerning Napoleon and the last heroic act
of warfare, after that, civilians were utilised like bombs
or rifles, the many guilts after all the killing seized.
anyway, today i decided to cook two knock-outs...
the first was intended as a kolhapuri chicken curry,
the latter was chicken do'h pyaaza, with the later
the title, indeed the fenugreek incident, fenugreek
being a concentrated version of kasoori methi,
if the Turks invented hot & sour with a pickled chilli,
the blue Indians invented a whole palette of sour and hot
with this dish, and the crucial ingredient that's
fenugreek - although the crystalline form of this spice
is more potent - the recipe asked for one tablespoon
of the raw products, the leaves (kasoori methi) -
i added a teaspoon of the concentrated stuff -
what a disaster! i asked for two tasters to tell me that i
wasn't tasting bitterness in the gravy as if i added some
English ale revenge against continental beers...
because the excess of the component of intended sourness
of the fenugreek turned into an ale-like bitterness -
hence the notion that sour isn't an antonym of sweet,
but bitter is - hence sweet & sour rather than
sweet & bitter - you can have a turkish pickled chilli
and still have a compliment on the palette of hot & sour,
but imagine tasting bitterness - excess of concentrated
kasoori methi does the trick - and since Faust doesn't
have an Igor like Dr. Frankenstein, he turned himself
into a hunchback, and started picking out most of the
fenugreek crystals from the gravy, one by one, ony by one,
hunched over the sauces - until the bitterness disappeared
and the intended sourness came through -
it took a while, but Faust as his own assistant kept on
saying: stop lying, stop lying! i want to eat this sauce too!
that's the thing with chemistry and cooking,
i received a present not too long ago, an arsenal
of spices, which means i can punch-bag you a Peshwari
naan with raisin and almond stuffing (a bit of sugar too),
and i can add the raw ingredients - i'm richer with
spices than with drugs or gold: turmeric is also known
as saffron - although saffron is more potent,
turmeric does the same job... coriander powder, cumin
power (also seeds), mint the prime garnish for
do'h pyazza curry... garam masala made from scratch,
meaning i have: cardamom pods, cloves, black cardamom,
mace... and i can make you a kohlapur masala...
honestly... in this great culinary babylon of english society,
from pizzas to chinese to Kentucky to New York
street vendors... i'd give up the cuisine i was born in
and convert to India's palette... i don't need to convert
anything else... religion can remain with those who
barely read, or who read and cite only one book...
let them have it... i don't care...
i already converted to a non-religious fascination with
mystical Judaism (sorry Allah, couldn't do anything
with your name, it didn't fit the Latin revision of thinking
about it), and as such, converted to a dreamy everyday
of India's culinary prowess - Kama Sutra is nothing
compared to the recipes from Kashmir or anywhere
where the blue bloods fascinated the merchants rather than
scalped them in berserker rage among the puritan
envoys.

Ekhafu ya kamevele niyo ekamayanka elurende!
It goes a Bukusu saying, from Kenya,
It has it English equivalence as;
The most productive Milch- cow
is the one that often dies at the creek,
And truly Proffessor Ali A.  Mazrui
Africa’s global intellectual Milch-cow
Has died today from his drinking creek,
At Birmingham hospital in New-York,
His death is a deep wound
To the world of knowledge,
An impeachment to the voices
Subscribing to classical reasons,
An old wine skin to the new wine
Of nothing but global democracy,
I mourn you Mazrui in this solemn dirge,
I grieve for you deeply from my heart
I grieve for you as you grieved Okigbo,
When the bullet took his youthful life
at Nzuka battle front during the Biafra,
My mind’s eye is seeing you,
Like my Mr. Giraffe the driver
In your political epic
That tried Christopher Okigbo,
Mazrui the global son
Sired in the neoclassical times
We shall miss you,
As there is no whence
That cometh another Mazrui
From all the four corners of the earth
Rarely will he come one more Mazrui,

You failed your O’level exams at Mombasa Sec School
As you humbly basked in Muslim poverty, in 1943
Not because you were a stooge
But a genius of cultural radicalism,
Refusing to answer a history question;
Who is the Archduke of Canterbury?
Dismissing it as academic sham,
For what value has Archduke of Canterbury
to an African, Asian or Mexican boy?

You were denied a chance to study
At the then colonial Makerere University,
You sublimated to Edinburg and Oxford,
You come back into its deanry of political science
You met Milton Obote face to face,
When he was an African-English song bird of Gulu
You shouted loud when Id Amin plotted to **** Okello Oculli
You were then detained for this noise of humanity
You voice was heard,
And you were exported to southern Tundra
As an exhibit for non-white intellectual
Mazrui let me mourn you for the efforts
That sired intellectual democracy in Uganda,

When I reminisce of you Mazrui,
Pages of African Conditions open
Widely before my mind’s eye,
I see your intellectual pilgrimage
From Rudyard Kipling to Julius Nyerere
As you made your Al Hajji stone
at the graveyard of  Shakespeare the bard,

You met Daniel Moi face to face
Daniel Moi the Kalenjin Cow of Dictatorship
And black Maestro of ethnic terror
You took this despotic Moi cow to the well,
You pleaded for it to drink politics of reason
But Mazrui I pity, you were unlucky;
Kalenjin cows never drink whatsoever
From the democratic wells of political reasons,

Mazrui Maalim the star of Islam,
I envy your for your elonguence
I envy you for the unique power of ideas,
I envy you for unique intellectual bravery,
I envy you for constant intellectual dynamism
For your firm stand against utopian socialism
For your intuition into Nkrumah’s Leninist czarism,
And Senghorean cultural despair in paradoxical negritude,
For your firm stand against Ngugi’s literary tribalism,

Mazrui the stellar saint of Swahili Nation
I remember your glowing tribute
In eulogy of Julius Nyerere the swahilist,
When you held the world stand-still
With your cadence in tribute to Mandela
You have used every English word in your scholarship,
Indeed Mazrui you are the African sky
that cannot be vilified by any  ***** mouth,


Mazrui the angel of good thought
You cautioned Wole Soyinka in 1988,
When he embarked on his racist mission
That made him to call you a white African
Or a non- African African, An African Arab
In his blurred thoughts in dint of bigotry
Emanating from your Jekyll and Hide
Vintageously Serialized at Albert Schweitzer,
You sang to him ballads of the scholar
On the African of the soil and African of the blood,

Rest in peace Mazrui at the Fort Jesus
Let your glorious name and teachings
Remain permanent to the future people
As the stubborn stones of the Fort Jesus,
As your name takes the official knighthood
Of the leopard skin on death of the leopard,

They come uninvited to our shores
frightening the lovers of the sun and  sand.
The water is now a blue, wet poison.
There is no bottle with a skeleton label
only the shadow of fish as huge as ocean liners
trying to stow away passengers in a dark hole.
Like African slaves we go unwillingly to the unknown land.
There is no time to prepare for this death, this injury.
Screams are heard and not heard like distant echoes on a
mountain in Switzerland. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
Yells ***** down to the distance like heavy iron anchors.

This creature does not speak English,
Italian, Swahili or.....
It only knows the taste of blood. It wears hatred around his
neck with the faces of victims close to his teeth. It is savage this
thing, this monster, this bully.
Where did it learn to hate
then eat what it hates?
Did a God really create this wet Frankenstein?
I think it created itself.
It grew heavy with the impurities of never loving, giving, serving or
blessing other~.
My God! it does not prey before eating it's favorite morsel~
man.

i've been in a prison of my own making...
it's kinda perfect, i get to read books
rather than watch television...
the blind flamethrower albino ******
is on the stats -
i end the night with a self-gratifying
exercise - the main sub article concerns
itself with **** and male *******...
never mind the ***** cut off for ******...
and never mind the Madonna-***** complex...
why, the problem is sorted:
if you don't get a hard-on with prostitutes
then you can blame it on ****...
otherwise? well, you'll hardly be the one to blame...
i see you using your ******.... the blue diamonds...
the litmus test is quicker done...
go to a brothel... once you get an *******
with a ******* all forms of feminism prescribing
masochism to men will disappear...
this erectile dysfunction will become a hoax...
it will become basis for the other thing
Freud is famous for, putting it nicely
the the Medusa-Madonna complex...
you can't be Oedipal with economic stresses...
someone has to take the blame...
******* is one strand of attitudes exercised...
we will have no Mozart, no Shakespeare when
we censor **** and bargain hunting celibates...
you basically censored the freedom of language
like you did undermining the European Union,
and European doctors giving way to an exodus
due to your cheap xenophobia...
X-factor contestants as doctors? i'll gladly wait and see,
you congest life into suffering akin to animals
in slaughterhouses... boy, i'll wait.
your Vermin will be your death angels... you'll
want to die, you'll be gagging for death when i'm
through... and yes, i remember my great-grandmother,
who remembered the 2nd world war...
as i said: ****** was gassed... due repayment of equal
measure... the Ypres guise of suburban Warsaw in
the trenches, in the ghetto; harsh, isn't it?
humanising something human when the soldiery
artefact is brought up? it must be harsh...
too much faith in the Luftwaffe, i'd dig under the channel
and let the Panzers roll in... this is my method
of appetising grievances to be rid off...
my grandfather asked SS-men for candy,
my great grandmother escaped the Nazis...
this is a healing process... i've taken the *******
and applied it to the star of David, ******* with it...
so it looks like reading a book on a prayer mat...
but that's not the bothersome triad -
people forget the success of Freud in the other department,
you can't pinpoint the influence of *******
without having to recognise the influence of
the Madonna-***** complex -
which would explain much more than scapegoat ****
is privileged by... why would i get an *******,
drunk (well yeah, at every opportunity a ******,
Virgos' tear) with prostitutes, and not be bothered
by *******... abstinence won't help...
it's enough to be governed by a psychiatric conundrum
of the fabled case of ******* your mother...
why all the blame on man? typical feminism...
Platonic feminism, Darwinism's feminism -
have they bothered to subscribe to the idea that it's not
simply a male affair? having professional pornographers
is the problem... a bit like at the Olympics...
the professional high jumpers are one thing...
you jumping into bed to frolic is another...
it's hardly a mono-****** affair ascribed to only one
gentrification - when you're a ******* decathlon
enthusiast, *******, working, cooking, raising the ids
of kids... you're supposed to be there,
specialised in the erectile business, and nothing more...
the hammer to a nail... redundancy following suit.
and what man will succumb to this?
perhaps he's talking Swahili or he's Somalian...
because, believe me, that's where you'r herding the flock
girl... i don't really care where the whites end up...
this Islamic attack on western culture is nothing,
nothing, compared to the apathy western women
implanted into western men's psyche...
a few terrorist attacks are nothing in comparison...
as said the once parallel now intersecting
conversation between King Solomon and Sheba...
these terrorist attacks are nothing compared to what's
coming... i blame Darwinism partly for having staged
a coup d'vie, meaning? i really can't be bothered!
usurp my indolence in the affairs of mind and body,
make me into your ideal dietary requirement checklist...
this thing we're experiencing is worse than
terrorism... feminism has made us indolent,
non-responsive... non-competitive...
we're basically trapped in a hamster wheel where
women fancied themselves to champion ethnic defence
strategies.... ruby ***** of all hues go round...
i was never a saint, but i wanted to be a sinner...
try that like winning the lottery...
if the white man dies, i won't even care to cry...
i'd be clapping... clap clap... clap clap...
i'll just know that i left the ideal hue of ***** behind;
what?! i liked to **** too! but obviously i
was given the poker hand of angling a repertoire
akin to a monk like Martin Luther.

I want to know more than one
Haitian

I want to know more than three
Jamaicans

I want to meet Nigerians that speak
Igbo

Kenyans that laugh at the Swahili I learned in Berkeley
Ugandans that correct my Mandarin
Tanzanians that teach me how to say it in Cantonese  

I want to tour the holy city Ile-Ife
trace the pilgrimage path of Mansa Musa
then circle back to Timbuktu

See the reminders of Aksum
See the remainders of Kmt

Touch the Earth and envision the buildings that my ancestors constructed
thousands of years before they were invaded thousands of times
leaving the still standing walls that others never believed were thousands of years old
till their, “science” said so

I want to board a barge in the south and flow north with the Nile
I wonder what eight others will join me

I want to walk the same trail
that was the first trail
compare my foot print
to the first foot print

The vision I see
The things I want to do
The escape I want to take

Isnt one that is new

Its one that is old
so old that its in the blood
in the very fabric and design
of all that claim

Human

What I want is a realization
no
a reawakening
of my genetic inheritance
of my ancestral birthright

What calls me is the land so old
its true name
its original tongue
is the only
can only
be labeled

The First

There
that is what calls to me
There
that is what pushes me
that is the very intangible force that pulsates my heart
pumping the blood through my veins

That place that is forever older than old
yet
In a constant state of
Reconstruction
Recreation
Revelation
Renovation
Revitalization­

Revolution

I want to breath the air in that place that is always in a state of newness
I want to feel the frequency in that place
where there are as many words for new
as there are people to speak them

That is the place
That is the space
That is

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

Poetry is like electricity,
But without a switch,
And stronger;
Like lightning.
It strikes you, and suddenly
You're a pianist;
You can speak Swahili;
The color green tastes like
Starfruit (only you've never had it
So all you can think
Is, "Man, this forest is delicious!")

Poetry is a zap from nowhere.
It makes your hair stand on end;
It makes you half afraid and
Half eager. You start flying
Kites with keys and fixing the satellite
In storms because it's awful for
A second, but then
You're never the same.

I know.
I've been struck so many times
And each time, I've traded
Gibberish for English,
Sight for insight,
Words for love,
And love for words again.
I have heard voices bellowing
And crying
And laughing.
I have seen smoke and sunlight
And smelled sulfur and
Tasted honey and salt.

Maybe I am not "smart,"
Always leaping into danger,
But I can't think of a better way to die
Than  to be struck by poetry.

I USED TO THINK THAT DOGS THOUGHT IN ENGLISH,
BUT, OF COURSE, IT COULD BE GERMAN OR SPANISH,
IF YOU TELL THEM TO SIT, THEY MAY NOT RESPOND,
JUST RUN AWAY TO THE BACK OF BEYOND;
I'M LOOKING UP 'SIT,' IN RUSSIAN, 'GET OFF
THAT ****** CHAIR,' IN CROATIAN AND 'COME
HERE, THERE'S A GOOD BOY' AND 'WELL DONE,'
PERHAPS WE JUST NEED AN 'ESPERANTO' SO
THAT THEY WILL ALL DO AS THEY'RE TOLD,
OTHERWISE WE WON'T LET THEM COME IN FROM THE COLD,
'STAY,' IN SWEDISH COULD MAKE THEM PEEVISH,
'FRIEND,' IN SWAHILI COULD MAKE THEM AN ENEMY,
WE DON'T WANT THEM TO BARK, MOPE AND PINE,
DON'T FORGET THE MAGIC COMMAND - 'NEIN, NEIN, NEIN!'

yo! "homie"! you speak the tongue that you attribute your roots to? thought not, a hollowed out shell of a body with no tongue to wriggle out of it... i guess back home you couldn't play that ethnicity card, when unable to speak Swahili, right? immediate castration, ****, can't play the ethnic card here, since i don't know how to converse with my native pride... i'd call that **** parenting skills, that your parents overdid the integrating part to the point where we're talking Michael ******* Jackson... in inherent evil of bilingualism... i never allowed an englishman to step into my abode and force me to forget my mutterzunge, why didn't your parents teach you theirs? ah... could play the race card with respect to origin, you'd be treated inferior being black, among blacks... then again, if you taught me a word or two of Swahili, you'd earn my respect... instead i'm getting a hip hop "poetry" rant that's just annoying.*

i don't why the alt-right is deemed
so controversial...
         i only have to utter two words
to set the record straight:

          MARCUS        GARVEY

and that's it, self-explanatory -
    the call of an ethnic state has roots
in what marcus garvey stood for,
what did he stand for?

  for the blacks to return to the mother -
for the black americans to return
to africa...

         funny, how there's a similarity
only that in the latter instance:
      there's no where to move back to...

and i do wonder: do africans look down
upon afro-saxons or jay-z?
        if you ask me, from what i've seen,
the major charities,
the white chicks doing their bit
on aid trips to africa: but no black!

i'm starting to suspect that post-african
settlers in europe or america
would most probably feel inferior
     among the natives who remained,
they would probably be like:
you ancestors allowed us to be sold!

  come on, do you think it would be
easy to catch an NFL player or Goliath
of the NBA?
                   i can attest to something,
some people dream of
                a homogeneous society...
    but few actually manage to visit one
once a year to "celebrate" christmas...
let me just say:
                     it's nauseating...
           it's not that it's anything but
what i'm not used to...
  chancing upon two black guys
         in the centre of Warsaw is like
watching a very much, rare event...

        while in Ilford, Essex,
just tickling the North Circular
i'm back where i am with what i am used
to: little Islamabad...
         and i can sort of see both sides
of the coin, in that i think about this
multiculturalism nonchalantly,
               i shrug my shoulders and think:
****** time to be english proper -
born & bred...

                               yet the argument still
stands...
                    the africans in either europe
or america would feel intimidated,
nauseated by returning to a homogeneous
society...
                   it still stands that marcus
garvey would be considered alt-right these days...
and while once upon a time
the jamaicans sang about their homeland
Ethiopia, they smoked a joint and then said:
ah... let's do it tomorrow...
and on the next day they sang some more
rolled and smoked another joint and said:
ah... let's do it tomorrow.

We met during a meteor shower
at a party on Cloud Nine
And we were high, high, high
         out of our minds

Drinking the Elixir of Life
     From Vampire bartenders
The bumble bee of time
                whose sting is reality
And idealism is a crime

You were trying to plant trees
with seeds inside rain drops
Like Redwoods and Populus tremuloides

I  think your father was a giraffe made out of sticks from the Swahili language
              by the carpenter that is your mother
Who you look like

I wonder what you would carve from the
   wood of your harvest
A Wife like the Blue Fairy?

But you only saw in colors of green
With absinthe stuck in your teeth
you wear windchimes and windmills like earrings
and hummingbirds nesting in your ears
Your blood is honeysuckle

You caught me a Shooting Star,
              Calling me Eyelashes and Pretty dresses
I  like it best when the stars fall,
sizzle sizzle pop Like the beginning of time
and water fighting for its Life

I asked you, "Have you ever cut down a tree?"
            Pause button lingers on your lips
"What does that feel like?" I ask.
Your reply, "Hot, like the burn on your chest from the sword you made for the King of Aliens."
"He was just an Ex boyfriend" I reply.

You continue your work, eyeing as ghosts
     linger like houseguests on my shoulder pads
Pretending to be my consciousness
I put my morals in the recycling bin last week.
     And threw my soul into a Wishing Well.

You said you were going deep sea memory diving.
Amnesia a Past time, last time, previous life girlfriend you had
Who cheated on you with Reincarnation

You say that's why the dinosaurs
are extinct

I ask you if you need a ride home in my Time Machine.
It's made out of cardboard and childhood memories.

There's a monument in Georgia, Elberton's the nearest town
Off of Guidestone Road, this monument is found
-
Thereon is inscribed, 10 guidelines for mankind
Written in 8 languages, these guidelines are defined
-
English Spanish Hebrew, Russian and Chinese
Arabic and Hindin, Swahili if you please
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10 Principles of Rule, 10 Principles of Right
The Wisdom of the New Age, so Lofty and so Bright
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Read them very closely, understand what they do say
Read Precept number one, what message is conveyed?
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Reduce the population! Pray tell how's this going to be?
Not to hard to figure out...World War Three

One day I was in the rural areas of Turkana County,
walking up and down perfidiously ,
in a style of  the devil when visiting
Job  the son of Amos in the land of Uz,
It was in fact in the Northern region of the County
near a town known as Small Spain,
it is bushy and full of wild animals,
i was  on assignment by a certain NGO,
to give food,*******,drugs and clothes
to the dwellers  of this desert region,
All over a sudden I pumbed into a riff-raff
of  peasants, wearing scrofulously lugubrious faces,
one of them , a young man was on the ground
reeling in pain from the snake-bite,
he had been biten by a deadly desert snake,
A yellow Mamba in fact, it left its fangs in his muscle,
it was pathetic and sorriest, as there was no clinic nearby,
the nearest hospital was one thousand miles away,
and  you know,there is no road,no vehicle nor bicycle,
no horses nor water boats, only Carmel,,donkey and goats,
were there plus few emaciated native cows,
Luckily enough a white man  who stayed nearby,
surfaced from nowhere, he also owns a small aero-plane,
He spoke Italian,Spanish,Swahili and Greek like a native,
so I don't knew which country of Europe he came from,
he picked the snake bite victim to his home,
he asked me to come along
we boarded his plane to Kitale,
where we have a government hospital,
We flew across the hills of Turkana land ,
thousand and thousands of miles,
it was i, the white man  and snake bitten man,
three strangers on one another in the aeroplane,
Bound strongly by human love beyond identity,
Our patient began getting worse and worse
In fact  he had began getting dull and motionless,
we landed in Kitale, the white man bought a taxi,
we rushed to the hospital, all us panting frenetically,
we got at the hospital found nurses having lunch,
they were slow and relaxed, as if death is their dish,
the African nurse who came was all but un-started,
she began asking  for the age and the  tribe,
The tribe of our snake bitten friend,
She also asked for where he works,
And where he often goes to clinic,
worst of  all, she asked where he goes to church
she again demanded for seven hundred shillings,
the white man gave her the money,I was broke as usual,
He gave her a bank note of  one thousand shillings
she declined , she instead  wanted loose money
she ordered us to look for her the  loose money
before  she could begin treating our friend,
before we got the loose money  our friend died
of heavy poisoning of the blood, snake bite
He roared like a bull in the slaughter house,
on his painfully preventable death,
the white man was very disappointed
the white man wept, he went back to his plane.
In a similar stretch with a case of  a referral hospital
in Eldoret, also another town in Kenya, it is big,
it is called Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital,
it has the largest cancer management unit,
in the whole of east and central Africa
from Congo to Seychelles is the only one,
it was build by tax payers money,
but local politics as influenced it otherwise,
workers and Nurses are substantially locals,
in fact from one clan, now they speak strangely,
patients from alien clan are never treated,
they must bribe to be treated,
if not you  go back sick and eat your tribe,
or if you are introduced by a local politician,
you be lucky to be treated your cervical cancer,
they charge medical fees exorbitantly,
but once you pay no doctor will come,
in fact patients who are admitted for in-patient,
rarely come out  alive, if they are one hundred,
eighty of them will die,twenty will go home,
only to come back after a while and then die,
out of this despair another white man from Germany,
has established a modern hospital , just nearby the referral,
it offers absolutely free cancer treatment services
as Africans keep on facilitating death of their own kin,
Blessed be the womb that gave birth to a European.

happy birthday me when i'm dead...
all those balloons had helium in them,
and all your celebratory  encores
and choir fancies were but chipmunks
in my imagining how,
otherwise, the celebrations took place:
i told the Japanese army to
bomb that ******* Tsunami...
did they listen?
                           noo.
                                     for ordinary
people like me, the only chance to see
organised crime, is to look out for
Jehovah's Witnesses knock on doors...
ginger!               ginger!              Swahili in Haiti!
that's the closest we'll ever get to seeing
the Italian mafia in practice -
and who the hell writes poetry in order
to wait for an interview?
  she publishes me... she ends up in hospital
with water in her lungs.
        you heard of the fascination
with those old migrant to the English coast,
central European pelicans on these isles?
took them over 2000 years to come back,
and they're shy creatures...
   whoever thought about writing poetry
to not utilise their shyness by otherwise waiting
for media interviews: is a ******* potato-head
stump worth a piñata bashing.

Yes, I can see it now.
It's so vivid in my head I can almost taste it
After all these years
Swahili as a official language of Africa
And one currency for the whole continent
Land is for all who live in it
Agriculture is bigger than any mineral resource
Borders are just lines drawn on a piece of paper
Color is the thing of the past
Political leaders are not self obsessed cows who are self serving and only serve lies to the poor for supper, empty promises for breakfast and tax burdens for lunch
A Africa where being an African and proud is something to be celebrated daily, not just a show-off play dress up thing once a year
A green Africa where more trees are planted quicker than their cut down
Green energy is embraced
Churches are open shelters for the homeless
Teaching is a respected profession
Every child goes to school
And no child crosses a lake and walk 5km to school
Schools actually nurture kids talent and don't just train them to be working slaves
Private and Public schools, clinics, hospitals or anything else are held at the same standard
Men actually take care of their children and baby mamas
A CEO is given a same respect as the Janitor
Corruption is no more
**** is legal
Pigs are flying and...

Wait, Pretty obvious I'm high right now
There's no way corruption will end
Well, there goes my joint.

they say that 2000 years without Israel
will necessarily bleach your skin,
that ancient fable of the Mediterranean
olives, turning into haram pigmentation
that god forbade to eat:
     ask them: why so pale, so like us?
why are you so pale, brother?
                  too few of us have seen ghosts,
unless they be ghosts of our former selves.
everyday, people disappear with their
selfless acts - everyday: puff! gone.
i never write to entertain or distract,
i'm a non-oratory sort of guy,
i imagine myself like a larynx punching
bag that people speak into -
a persona non grata, but otherwise a
persona esse: that necessarily is.
grata... grata... grata... gratis means
free - i really don't have that vindictive
american woman, stay away from me
sort of attitude: one peg, two peg, three;
but i do like that ancient seemingly
under-used word - frajer -
whereas said in anglo: frayer -
or *******.       the whole bejesus
and           yacht debate asking for saintly
interludes in the general grime of ****
said, **** done - and of that inherent vice
in us? the part where the ants took to
the tarantula and impregnated themselves
with the venom: and turned on each other -
as any civilised thing ever could be.
          what's the difference between
blues and punk?
     an extra chord?      see me blink?
           white boy blues: punk -
three chords -            and so the Mongolian
horde hoarding skulls in Baghdad -
and that's me, sitting ever so lightly,
pretty orange like a peach: apathetic tongue
in the ivory bull terrier grip of a handshake -
a girl might have once said: with
the pulverising stare, he could sit on the pavement
and across the street a fox took to
goosebump nibbles, while a girl walked
past the fox and the fox didn't stir from the spot.
wet snare *****: that's what they called him -
but on top of all that: everyday, the world
crashes in: newspapers? i call them avalanches.
they have non-filter: condoms with a slit in
them - and every time she's gagging
for legislation into birth control,
the Chinese dicta has been revised,
     and she's thinking of honey honey feed
me homely snug and cuddle: scented lavender
candles on your way out, including
the autographs.
   i once claimed that the television is akin
to the Platonian anecdote of the cave -
       now i'm starting to realise it's the outdated
variation of a campfire:
               vatra: and soon our hushed
capacity to tell familiar stories -
once it was talk of whole bodies: now
dismemberment and disembodiment -
                         soon enough a *** or a Juan
in Spanish - soon too łen or when -
łej           or way - those are not: chiral twins.
from what i can remember i found it hard
forgetting my northern Swahili -
         ****** hard, i couldn't have that post-colonial
tattoo done on me -
            but it still haunts me,
how one man took apart the Pharisee Israel apart
and where people had coppery visage: dimmed
gold of the skin, and one has to compensate that
taking apart with his own ethnicity in a biographic
similitude - been there, done that,
off the Unesco map for a century or two,
a Napoleonic haven sort of bollocking,
       **** 'ed over 'ere: old MacDoogle e ah e ah oh,
ha ha. Catholic shortening Mc
         Protestant on a wild surf of St. Thomas' Gospel
and all things trans...
as it should be known: transphysics -
god is dead, poetry is dead, metaphysics, is dead:
nou vogue: TRANS! ***** slap that ****
across the knees: say gnostic (surd g), then say
diagnostic... seem: or properly understood.
******* wankers and cowboys and other
ulterior gunslingers; but the prima ballerina aesthetic
found when excavating the ęglish?
                never talk ***** in public:
really, really vocalise that Cockney bulldozer
vs. culture when vocalising more tongue and less
**** when ******* - appearances are everything
after all - talk pretty, talk lily -
talk rose: and when it comes to the knitty gritty:
slosh!        i mean diarrhoea slosh -
            i mean: not unbuttoning a shirt but
ripping it open: fanciful that: equating courtesy
and otherwise doing the Frankenstein to a limp
**** with words of encouragement...
        (oh the sarcasm i enjoy hiding in symbols)
but i never understand why we talk pretty
and play ***** - why not talk ***** and play pretty?
       this revised "aversion" / ~aversion toward
fascism is really taking hold of people:
        the only difference is that there are so many
charismatic sprechen pseudo Deutsche -
                   i'm starting to feel left out;
still though, concerning the first point:
they really are pale -
                 2000 years without Israel:
it will definitely take them 500 years to get that
Mediterranean hue back of palms olives and dates -
        understandably the siding with
balaclava Palestine:        'cos you're white and
you said ku klux sneezing - or from what i heard
of recent history, my fellow colonial thingy-ma-jigs
     are internalising inherent violence of
the past and shoveling it all at the young -
   many o' man's woes as nothing more than
an evasive self: kindred of the lunatic.
me too: i too wish to have been able to stage
a confrontational and subsequently condescending
conversation with my great-great-great-grandfather,
       but i ain't got the **** or the V, and
                                  not much about the Welsh-middle
of the longbowmen and Churchill's cigars;
funny thing... smoking cigarettes, you get this
taste flashbacks... just now i recounted the taste
of my first love's ****** juices mixing in with my
phlegm cough-up... surely memory is not cognitively
abstract, like tattoos aren't really abstract:
to prove a point i coughed up a memory
of wild strawberries yesterday: well... fair enough:
today it's a memory of eating out (as they crudely say):
Poseidon's pearl.
does **** have to be constantly floral or aquatic?
    oh the cascade into faux pas and cliche: endless!

by my account the 20th century is still asleep,
what with the outdated publishing world,
thanks, i can buy toilet paper, cheaper, elsewhere.
i take the: you will regret it if you don't
route with five beers -
the usual: a rich neighbourhood,
great houses, **** me, love to live in one
of those, but wouldn't love to pay the electricity bill...
and doubly usual, a colt rummaging in his
emotions in a park, atypical of affluent neighbourhoods,
the young males doing the Werther: sad o me
impression... violins aplenty...
it's a sinister choke (rather than a joke)
for the reality... so he's in the park,
i'm on the pavement admiring the rich folk:
nice barns... very nice barns... shame that no one
really lives in them... forgive me, it's Saturday:
the noblemen and noblewomen are
the lesser tourists in London...
the point of ensō? to write as if holding your
breath with a thumb-up-yer-****...
all very much *** pistol worded: god give
the queen a pension... and the nutcracker
the eat end.. for some ******* and brawling...
cheeky little ****... but you walk down these streets
and think: economy squat, or squatting standing up?
or, perhaps... you keep those Victorian street lamps
and i get a good view of what pyramids multiplied
looks life? but serious, i walk enough outside of
experiment königsberg i get visual
inspiration, i forget encoding sounds in order
to do the blatant of: making people, visualise things
that aren't there...modern fiction...
or alias for schizophrenic diagnostics type A...
******* never go away... ****-poor in writing the
**** book, needs a film to give it a compound
of steroid-amphetamines...
two books... two!
high fidelity & the scarlet and the black that
encouraged me reading the books after seeing the film...
i too wish lord of the rings came out later
so i had the chance... **** reading them now...
they're like a two volume edition of Proust...
chance meeting with the meat-heads at the gym...
i'd rather be found pumping iron that reading
a two volume edition... plus... i chose a class
of associated writers... Joyce the Proust,
and Pound the lampshade....
yes, i too wish i was lefty and liberal minded...
but i'm odiously right and liberal minded:
meaning i like a drink and a joke...
we all wish to be lefty liberals -
                                   we all do...
it's what called: the key to the hole concerning
entering a playhouse where everything
is minded without political lingo -
or what Einstein did to physics -
   the butterfly and tornado...
                       the biggest croquet heap of *******
i have ever heard...
             given enough light-years... the universe
just, sorta, becomes, two-dimensional...
      so this rich kid depressed walking alone in
the park... finished my can of beer and started to
**** about with the fence...
   rattling the beer can against the fence...
for a xylophone impromptu -
  **** me, those houses grand but nothing to say
about them except for: barns...
                      scarecrow personalities and
puff here, puff gone the next lives...
who's children could enter a quiz show and tell you
more brands then countries...
    Angola is probably a mountain,
                    Trinidad is a term for lake in Swahili...
and Nike is neither a goddess nor a parasite but
    a new pair of trainers...
so under a street lamp i crushed the can of beer
and tried to aim it at the nearby trash can -
missed, waved my hand in a downward spiral
and felt nothing about keep park aesthetics pristine...
  walk a bit further... ****** on someone's garage door...
no, really, it's asleep... it's too early for those
  who are published to realise there's a modification
going on... a bit like Napster... sorta like it...
   we're bypassing clerics and censors...
****'s for free, obviously... but to actually, experience,
the ultimate freedom, wouldn't you want to do
it, even if it's for free?         the capacity to experience
    full freedom, without a profit margin,
without even caring if the thing sells, or doesn't...
with paper priced at about 30 quid per month
and unlimited ink?
                                     always... at the turn of any
given century... there are those still recycling
the previous century's ideas in order to simply
buy televisions... no wonder the television
is a hypnotic eye of shadows according to
Plato's puppets' experiment -
       rich house, poor house...
                         it's all the same.
sure, i published a book, but the drugs are in
instant access - it's the only true reality of what
was once deemed the Schengen principle -
obviously that doesn't include people, but ideas...
as once, travelling to Glencoe, in a Scottish fish shop
a three layered tier of importance:
  c. the people who talk about other people (gossip)
   are < b. the people who talk about
                    events (journalism), who in turn
   are < a. the people who talk about ideas...
         Scotland... a village chip shop... and that as a
"bumper"sticker in the window... i must be in heaven.
but those people in journalism and the publishing
industry forgot, or quiet simply undermined
the privilege of being able to exploit an environment
so adamantly - they forgot that the internet is
not about making a buck - who would want to make
money in a completely free environment?
               bypassing the many rules and regulations
  of creativity's fatalism, and the author's right to
buy a kettle or a washing machine?
                               if you were to ask me:
where can i get clean mineral quality water?
          i'd tell you where, i know where to find it,
takes about three miles to get to the source,
but i could show you were to find mineral quality water.
i'm giving them 50 years... 50 years before
the now free movement of ideas entices the authorities
to introduce censorship of some kind...
                    at the moment it's all true and really
Schengen... in principle, as in practice -
         because, there's, no, desire, for, making, a, profit...
is that noble? well, n'ah... it's more or less:
         for the love of something that, with due hope,
will **** you con. all expectations for seeing the summer
solstice for the 70th count-to-remember summer -
    and all that arthritis handshakes with shadows -
as ever: the turtle reached his 100th birthday  -
  synthesising nothing -
            man reached his 70th birthday having analysed
all the potentials to prolong his life,
        synthesised the 70th year,
          without really analysing the allocated 30...
and for all that science, and hope for celebrating an
achievement of the total human endeavour -
left the rotten wrinkly ******* in their own faeces
and ****... because, well... not analysing the world
with only 30 years to spare... wisdom, suddenly appeared
at the age of 60... but this sort of analysis was
a bit like saying: just be happy with your synthetically
prolonged life...
                                because how many people, these days,
can claim to have acquired the analytically prolonged
life of the ancient Greeks? null.
                   as it stands: people live up to
a prolonged age... with the ***** avalanche pulverising
them to die as soon as possible...
               almost like the fruit of knowing good
and evil... the conjunction already plays the narrative joke:
                  not: good from evil...
   but: good and evil...                                so are we to
expect a differentiation? no!            we will do both
simultaneously -
                                   **** seeking justice in the mouth
of another human with a justice whip -
            i want to experience theocracy in the intended
format - i.e. hearing it from the horse's mouth -
               and since the horse isn't here...
   i'll just watch the theocratic cinema of Syria for
the moment... and see how democracy perpetrates
idea worship - for what's left of the twilight engulfed idols.

because why would you want to write something, that might make people do things? why bother writing coherent instruction manuals for televisions? why not write "incoherent" Kandinsky moments? why not go along to the Cabaret Voltaire? why not say that the only twists in the plot of philosophy books is based upon contradictory statements of the narrator? why even bother requiring that Apollonian sensibility of making things ultra-geometric rather than hyper-geometric? if there's an opposite argument, i would recommend reinventing the ******* wheel.

the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
  can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
        i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
       for the love of doodling -
              and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
     just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
         making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
                    they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
         and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
        can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
   i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
             and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
   websites... funny concept...
   they're like a library with only blank books in them....
  you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
   or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
   the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
   or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
   and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
     man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
                        the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
     while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
             is my writing perplexing?
  isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
   perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
  and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy...  i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
   when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
       to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
    m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
   into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
    because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
                    that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài          - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
   when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
                 it was never going to work...
    but that's what we're left with...
     a gigantic mess...              every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
   which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
       it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
    skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
                  all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
        we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
            modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
        would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
   phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
    for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
  index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
   headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
  as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
   and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.

to be honest, you should have got to me when i was 21,
back in 2007,
i don't say this lightly, but i figure, these days,
the unbearable lightness of being is all i having going
for me - the silent waters merge with enough
tectonic force to forge canyons -
i didn't suddenly, spontaneously succumb to
madness, genetic idiocy wasn't passed down to me,
the only mental illness that you could have ascribed
me with was world war ii, the memory of seeing SS
men in black uniforms in my town of birth...
i'm not one of those people that slither into a leech pucker
**** on stereotypes, i loath the idea that
all of Eastern Europe is considered slave trade,
******* or construction workers...
but i'm neither here or there...
yes the Cartesian unit of i am when access creates
the aeroplane lag of sound compared to seeing a plane...
the **** is 20 miles behind,
                          these days
no one presupposes thought first, thought comes last,
and the ability to think as a pleasure akin
to golf is long lost... i used to possess the medium
with which i tantalised myself with a pauper's
idea of life: thinking... i actually loved it...
then the pain came, and i was forced into the macabre...
but hate is so exhausting, esp. when you see
no trial for retribution... i'm just scared i won't be
able to provide for my parents... when i go out on
my numerous periodical walks at night looking for *****
i'm sorta saying: well, if they won't care, i won't care either...
i'm about to do a Moses, i know where i can find
a fresh source of water... and i'll eat grass if it comes to it...
oddly enough the horse herbivores manage,
i'll manage too! i don't have any feminine company for
support... Frankenstein mode... go!
i'll become a ravenous creature who forgot the basic comforts...
and i'll relish this hope of having accomplished it...
either that or the liberation through death...
and let me tell you, consistency helps, when thinking
of death as in synonymous thinking about morality:
things gain a lucidity, a clarity that adds just simplicity
to the debate that you'd never have thought would be
appropriate to later see an opera in an overcrowded
place... i'm not writing this as a fetish of suicides,
i'm writing about the reality of: how when thinking about
death on a recurrent basis you simplify life...
or how you extract the essentials from life,
or how you treat life's nibble offerings as entire meals...
i'm in no position to want death,
                        i'm just in a position to feed off it...
as a toddler in a hospital i was bottle-fed
by a nurse who made the rubber ****** incision
a bit too big for me to almost choke to death
while being fed... i told you, i'm the intellectual
version of Rasputin... hence my unconscious
aversion to women... perpetuated... shame really...
lovely form... could have... wait a minute... why
are my ***** tickling with goosebumps as if i possess
feminine arousal? don't know...
and all the joy in the world concentrated
by possessing two *****...
                                             say that's cricket,
or football... whichever, the Coliseum lives on.
so like i said: blood sizzling on the brain,
being diagnosed as schizophrenic - again, a good metaphor
for being bilingual...
                                         they looked and they looked...
while i too was searching, good joke i've conjured:
what do you get when you invest in grammatically
categorising words when writing philosophy?
the (a) subconscious and the (b) unconscious -
i say... wait for the trans-generational Syrians!
they'll be a fun to watch... they'll be talking about someone
descending in Damascus with a two angel entourage
asking everyone to perform dodgy ******* positioning...
*******! on the carpets! Aladdin pronto! now!
well, the reason that philosophy books haven't
adjusted to utilising grammar means that grammatical
words are the equivalent of the subconscious,
the unconscious part comes from actually adhering
to trust, the trust the majority of people invest in when
structuring sentences... say the word noun
and up pops Aristotle and says proper names...
well nouns are actually names, seagull chestnut tree,
anatomy baritone megaton p - or p.i. or *** or he,
or 3.14 ha ha. but using grammatical words to basically
shove and recycle configurations is crucial...
but like i said, you should have reached me back in 2007,
when i was 21 and husband material...
i only drank on weekends (and not everyday),
i had a budding social life (now my very social active
is bound to a relationship with the merchants occupied with
selling liquid amber) -
i had my problems, sure, but i never expected
to be practising Christianity, given the equivalent of
Cain a life of forgotten ordeals...
              like i never expected to walk into a church,
hear singing, reality checking that i heard singing
with an iPod, so i did hear singing,
                            being alone in the church,
then, all of a sudden, random stars starter roving the
night skies... not Rottweiler comets, stars...
      all over the ******* place... sometimes
in     .                .    formation, usually just single stars,
once in a         .
                      .     .           formation...
hence my aversion to western society... oh right, i'm
the mad one? hallelujah!
                                             so back when i was 21
i could have had it... the established norm of a
respectable life of a roofer, or any kind of labourer,
and honest to god... i would  have loved it,
had my career in chemistry not taken off
to become a laboratory technician in a company or
a school... i wish i had that chance to live the simplest
of lives (which doesn't mean i'd like a second chance
of stabbing at it by reliving some fake identity thieving
form of reincarnation, if i lived in a country with
1 billion i might believe that lie...
given i live in desperate country, i'll give that idea a pass)...
but practising Christianity in its purest form
is ******* hard, i knew i shouldn't have cried
ALL THE WAY THROUGH that Mel Gibson film...
i did, the spoken Aramaic got to me... i swear to god
i cried the whole way through,
              you can travel to Essex, Romford and ask
if anyone remembers a teenager crying all the way through
the movie, given the fact that a few people joined in...
and using that as example, the plight of the
African-Americans? i don't get it... if they started speaking
about their plight in Swahili i might get it,
but they're just N.W.A. to me, and given that i don't
come from a post-colonial background, i simply don't get it,
oh sure, i'm using the language... but that's about it...
i use the English language like a telescope,
unlike Newton who designed the **** thing...
verily impersonal; as is the annoying fact... who in the world
invented this antagonist concept? last time i
checked there was no Antibuddha...
                                               buddy bud bud...
Sensimilia... poach the roaches... yep, jar of pickled mushrooms.
why the haphazard arrangement?
                                  i started loathing fruits since 2007,
can't eat them... resorted to only eating vegetables -
Yorkshire collie or prudish Scottish Lass?
                                          whichever,
reinventing onomatopoeia,
                                  recapturing the polymath idea of
sounds, and what sound would i get if i touched a
rainbow? Bob Marley reggae?              just asking...
  this is an idea in how to write an aversion but a new
version of the onomatopoeia....
                                it's a game that's predicated on
a hide & seek format,
                                  i might be shouting into a cave
for an echo,
                        i might be woodpecker knuckling a
knock on tree... the disguise of sounds comes with
the randomness of quick digressive changes...
          just an elaboration of what came about in
                 Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich... the sad part?
me, clarinet and being ****** into a solo heist of the heights.

so she write this article, this amanda
foreman,
   a historian and with four girls
and one boy that's almost the fifth and
i'm wondering:
god, where has this headache come from
where is the man?
                life's too perfect to seem
to rhyme, or worth wasting your time
remembering some obscure Versailles verse
worth a shining ****'s worth of
a crown readied for a one-night stand...
**** me, a five+ female household,
i hope these muslim martyrs wishes what
they got themselves into...
   the true martyrs have three entry
points...
           mouth, vaginal, ****...
            if you can't spot the true martyrs
i'll tell you about asking the watermelon man,
or herbie hancocks, or in comparison
by ol' joe...
      treating his quasi-alzheimer stories
like your favourite jazz standards...
herr bitebonbon, dresden, auschwitz,
and some other memories:
  a drowning man will cling to a razor blade
to stay afloat, like any old man:
what bugs him now is not being sad,
but being foregetful...
he replays the rubric every day:
he says:
sure, i'm dead already:
but i want to remember myself dying!
   old people and their jazz standards of memory,
i am old, i feel old,
   oh ma'h feel'ah rob'eh m'on...
   patois or 'alf the pitied peshawar mamí son...
lumberjack my *** were 'ere bootleg
a stump of wood mamí sis...
  ya rite?
           *** we boss the 9,2,3,oh,5...
and call that a freq.,
  man that boy to a prrrrrristine:
shakin' m'ah timbers floating a-high...
man, sum tim' the talk ain't talk
it's called: scare-alley-cat-talk
feelin' a gush of **** talk-ji
  of an incubus toying with ya
little mums' crisp clear elijah of buttock
say in: **** as smooth as
a mouth slicking a rota of a hooplah...
talk cool: play the dumb infant...
next time you know:
   yo be talkin' to mama bear an
pleading for her Mississippi pancakes...
**** you not...
             she a one woman with
a five daughter brothel...
good lucky lucky luke if there's any
eager...
                last time i checked:
neither word, nor piano nor horn earned
****...
        just a nice ref. to: ooze...
  like washington's monologue in
fences didn't earned him oscar:
but a director's role none the less...
lady guesses to choose...
and her choice is always wrong
while her guess is always good...
          my, why a mighty site these days:
a man that stays at home becomes
a better cook than a woman,
who isn't all too eager to enter the outside world...
there's always the idea of a death by
a grizzly bear and i think of entering
a bear enclosure in the danzig zoo...
  and the little bear that ate my cardigan button...
and the bear mama...
      god, i love that memeory,
because it's so unreal that it's real because
it happened and my mind became
a ******* ******* trickster thinking
that my faculty of memory didn't dig
that far back...
         the child always remains with the man
that the child always was,
   but the child never became,
and the man who always imagined the child
becoming the man he is,
never said to the man un-becoming the child:
you were never this until "i" became you,
and "you" un-became me.
30+ hours wide awake and i'm still
trying to succumb to falling asleep
to fidgeting...
                        sure, nice trick, juggle three
oranges... then more into the iron league
of juggling three watermelons my
dear, common man.
         classical music acted upon the same
jerking off technique
     that excess rock did to solo guitarists...
chopin was a ****** on guitar...
he had no rhythm man...
            why do i know this?
the japanese, those wannabe white-ohs
pretend to be chopin...
they ******* ski-jump to boot!
                    chopin had no style because
he had no rhythm...
actually liszt ****** off the most,
smoked the most cigars and prematurely
******* with the most number of lovers...
    i really feel for that poet who cried himself
to sleep seeing him "perform"...
           you can solo the ******* want,
but the only rhythm on piano came with jazz...
i hate ******* for their lack of appreciation
of jazz... i hate to be a white guy telling them:
hey... jazz over class every day...
  you people, yes: YOU PEOPLE
ABANDONED JAZZ IN A MATTER OF
AN AMNESIAC TRYING TO REMEMBER
A DISTINGUISHING ASPECT BETWEEN
A T-REX AND MARC BOLAN!
how can you just give up rhythm piano,
the democratic soloing of each instrument
in a band in a matter of what,
20, 30, 40 years?
     LOSERS!
      rhapsody of the nincompoop...
hit the trends you ******, with your
nike airs and your shaaq attaq?
  canary in a colemine?
how 'bout a ****** smiling at me?
how about: pearly whites in a colemine?
talk kit-kat chunky pale white boy:
i start talking ivory...
                     hey: if the black guy ain't
the canvas of what i'm about to x-ray
i don't know why he shouldn't find his
root in the skin in the tongue in Swahili
so we can keep it neutral and not so,
******* lazy: english, keeping up with
post-colonialism Kardashians' shenanigans...
come on... they left sonny trashed nodding
at the piano: just one more note,
just one more note...
          boom... crescendo and the death's head
gravity pulled the gracious ***** down.
it's just a shame that they gave up
on jazz so quickly,
                   and turned to white *****
gloryhole ******* - which must imply:
Ethiopians in Japan...
              hey... you tell me:
last time i heard i heard the whale was
mammal, and that there was the Eskimo...
pop doesn't really bother me right now;
you left sonny clark nodding to his death
thinking he was falling asleep at the piano!
NOW... ******... BLEACH ME...
I ******* DARE YOU!
robert johnson didn't meet his fate
at the crossroads through a jealous middle
class white girl either...
given the times, being a white guy:
i guess that's also my fault...
oh look... there flies the cuckoo:
and here's the nest.

A thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail
takes at least five months.
In five months:
a fetus is the size of a papaya,
a small home has been fully renovated,
2,450 dollars in rent is paid if you live with three people,
Swahili has been learned incompletely,
the grief of a dead high school teacher is finished,
a person sinks in, gets comfortable,
the planet has turned its back,
Loestrin has travelled out of the system—
who’s to say it’s not just like the Appalachian.

I’d like to make a rope out of my hair
tie it from Georgia to Maine
sail a two-pound apology all the way down
to make up for the places my body will never make it
because five months of footwork
is too long to stop nurturing a life
that is not worth living anyway
but this way
I don’t have to lose.

Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

I stumbled on you behind the zipper
It’s not a tripper but a ripper
Looking through your eyes can you see me peep
Looking through the veil can you hear me lick
Looking from above can you hear me sip
On the golden lips can you hear that teach
On the frozen tip can you taste the heat

Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

(Swahili)
Ni mwangaza unawika
Ni mawimbi yanatunza
Munda huyu umefika
Ni mapenzi yanawika
Na mvua umepita
Na kutunza haya matunda
Kuyaweka kwa tumaini

(English translation)
The bright light is burning
The storms are mesmerising
Now the time has come
And love is calling out loud
The rain is passed and gone
And the seeds are to be sowed
feverently placed in peace

Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

I stumbled on you behind the zipper
It’s not a tripper but a ripper
Looking through your eyes can you see me peep
Looking through the veil can you hear me lick
Looking from above can you hear me sip
On the golden lips can you hear that teach
On the frozen tip can you taste the heat

Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

Audio can be accessed on
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/dicky-licky-tick