god, if only the english could un-numb their R, and return to the rattle-snake trill... what wonders could be born... every time i hear an english person pronounce the R... i think they're about to swollow their tongue, as if rolling it backwards to numb the R... yes... swollow... swo-swo... only cockneys of east london say swa-swa swansey... *****... deep in essex you: ooh... ah, eric cantona... swollow, akin to saying the word: slow... rather than slough (berkshire, burp-shy-err)... **** me english is fun, it's like owning a g.i. jone action finger, and still playing with it aged 34... compared to all other languages (notably the european ones), english is like play-dough... you can **** with it so much that you can almost forget being bilingual; and no, whatever the upper-crass tell you... trilling an R is not a posh thing... it's talk of the 2nd serprent in the garden... the rattlesnake who warns you, rather than tempts you to try and eat from the tree he's wrapped around.

two words that spring to mind,
   out of the blue;
words that sound better in a native tongue
    than in an acquired tongue
of saxon descent
            mingled with norman -
the words?
    military instruments -
(a) originally *maczuga
   but with my diacritical stressors:
                     máczūga...
    i give it a rest there making
           the foreign word sound better,
after all, we have alternatives:
    cudgel, truncheon, cosh, nightstick
  & bludgeon...
   still... the m'ah-choo-g'ah (ga-ga)...
   i don't know... but i know what sounds
   better in
(b) topór      (acute o? t'oh-poor),
meaning? axe... now tell me the foreign
word sound more grave
                   than the native word?
  the (a) argument
  has worthy counterparts, but (b)?
        tell me you wouldn't feel a shiver
  hearing topór,
              when otherwise hearing axe?

p.s.
    the same with the word
                       for hammer -
    i.e. młot (mmm-what?) -
               of **** me, the tool has a baby,
the belittled henryk młotek miodowicz
        (henry - little hammer - honkeysuckling).

i can clearly hear how english mutates...
a book review by a channel... better than food...
the book he's reviewing is goETHE's captain faust:
and the non-avengers...
but no...

i don't hear: stick an umlaut anywhere you please...
i, "for some reason"... do not hear
a: Θ... a göethe... or a goëthe (ladin alphabet -
the germans know about this)...
there is this... goe-ether association...
it's sometimes a riddle of goë, göe...
or quiet simply...
the remains of the ancient latin grapheme (œ)?

educated people make this distinction -
and they'll catch "you" out on it...
since... they represent the Hyacinth Bucket brigade...
gynocentrism doing a snail-trail:
one step forward... two steps back...
it's beside what the linguist "says":
a bucket is a bucket a ***** is a *****...
otherwise? glorifying such a harsh reality
of a surname like: bucket... but not beckett?
no... "samuel"? well then...
it's not a bucket if it's somehow
translated via chernobyll as: bouquet...
is it?! is it?
because even in french: they self-cannibalise...
i.e. they "eat" some letters...
they write one language: but speak another...
what isn't bucket what is nonetheless
bouquet? well... isn't it: bouque-?
it's not even that... boo-k for the ones that
still hear... and can write grafitti schlang...
in some variation of a german...

becuase educated people can get away
with treating GOETHE...
as?  '/ˈɡɜːrtə, ˈɡeɪtə'...
or in simple-me-and-you being bilingual...
fiddling around we arrive at:
Göerte... which is "said"...
but this "lunatic asylum" exception has
to be written: with a clarity of a *******
Greek THETA... a fin! the end!
which always makes lying easier...
when you can: say (a)... but... but...
imply (b)... like some "metaphor"...
some forever useful tool of nuance...
some "spectacle"...
it's easier to lie when... you say (a)
but are "implying" (b)...
then you can blame it on...
not allow the literacy of the masses:
quite as much... you require... exceptions
to the rule... to **** out the lesser educated
"people"...

don't get me started...
born? Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
perhaps i should have never left...
3 years in Edinburgh...
over a month in St. Petersburg...
somewhere in Paris, Stochholm, Venice...
Athens... Belgrade from a distance...
Amsterdam... two weeks in Kenya...
and a nonchalant attitude surrounding
London... a strong distaste for Warsaw...
a myth of Cracow...

and no, i haven't been everywhere...
but... after a while... does it really matter
where you go, if you're bringing
expectations with you?
expectations and postcards?
clichés? clichés expectations and postcards?
and... a whole lot of strangers
you haven't met?
tourism and: feeding the ghost town
mentality... perhaps a ghost town would be
something to behold... instead of this...
atypical metropolitan casualness of avoiding
each other... busier busier: and no more
busy than once pronounced dead...
but wait for it: you're at least given a "scene"...

but no... i know one language that
makes pedantic orthographical observations...
but i also know a language that...
write one way... speaks another...
whichever way, best, to suit it...

and you "know" it would only be Fa-Ber'g -
no... borrow the j- from je suis...
if that last E was not an acute É...
but an grave È (grave... or? gráve...
grrrr'av... not a hey hey grave...
GRA-Vity)...

hence? my point exactly..
if the diacritical markers are respected
in fwench... with an acute É and a grave È...
why do "we" need... I(i) and J(j)?
why not... I(ı) and J(ȷ)?

besides... ever imagine writing an autobiography
like a Knausgård... defender of the runes
for a sentence in volume 1...
major google-maps ****** *** volume 2...
i write that with a "glee"...
i mean... you can be immediately be put off
writing an autobiography...
just to avoid the mediocre descriptive elements
of using something more complicated
than a hammer...
for an otherwise... less than a hammer's worth
of banality: evaluation of modern banality /
procrastination...
no one we have been given these complicated
tools... and to the best of our abilities we
best procrastinate, using them...
i hardly think a hammer would be used
to... pretend to play the drums...
but yes: Knausgård... the defender of runes...
irony... but the mr. google-earth guy to turn to...

yes... and before i discovered a past...
there were the runes... and there was
forever this latin morph of the barbarians
"thieving"... but there was also the glagolitic script...
apparently! and before that there was the greek!
and... somehow... i did arrive at having
to master some vague understanding of
mother cyrillic!

- but prior to... did you know what
slavs love cabbage? all the pakistani point this
out: slav love cabbage!
today? i watched the film Layer Cake
and made some cabbage soup...
Layer Cake being? the pre-to-a-bond-film
taster for the actor Daniel Craig...
it was hardly a Guy ******* Ritchie film...
woz itz? but... a decent actor advert...
with "hindsight"...
if i watched the film then...
or as i whatched the now...
and all the known actors jumped the train...
well... cabbage soup... base?
a decent polish / jewish chicken broth...
most of the chicken goes into a ***...
except the *******: you make a *******
roulade with that...
and proper potato bakes...
potato bakes like Heston Blumethal
boils a soft egg...
tatties in cold water... until they start boiling...
then you hunch over them...
boil them for a decent fiver...
turn off the heat...
again... hunch over them...
like an inquistive condor waitig for
the water to stop bubbling...
asking the question: are we all ready...
for the oven? yes, my toy soldiers,
are we, ready?

apparently they taste like christmas
tatties in waistcoats!
my my... what a lovely affair!
cabbage soup? you really need a complete
lack of imagination and a work-around
using root veg...
the european way...
but what is preferred is ensuring
you make a cabbage soup like...
a slav treats a cabbage like a frenchman treats
an onion: you suffocate it...
an hour minimum...
until the crass ******* boils out...
and you're left with...
a sweetness... and softness...
bay leaf all-spice (english spice) included...
some kiełbasa (etymology?
root... kieł- derived from the plural?
kły... canines... suffix -basa?
baza - base... canine-base...
something that requires an understanding
that elevates the dog, "debases" the man...
no quran reader will understand this:
for lack of a better word: shaming food...

where would pakistani cuisine be...
without the pantheon of hindu spices?!
i'll eat like a dog and in so doing:
live a tier above a king...
i still find it highly unimaginative...
to call one fruit "forbidden"
and one meat: "impure"...
whatever Gabriel spoke to Muhammad...
never really explained crab meat...
crab meat crab meat...
the Maldive muslims eat crab meat...
what's crab meat again:
when it concentrates a comparison
with ol' porky porky? scavenger of the seas...
what's with the muslim beef on pork?
and god was critical...
of his perfected animal worthy of
consumption... looks pretty silly from
Beijing... so Beijing is ensuring that Muslims
"look silly"... well... "live"... silly...
so god was so... this that and the other...
then he lent his "all knowing wisdom" and said...
no... this one animal... which you can...
butcher and make use of...
all that's missing is the oink and the hoofs!
or whatever it was: i can't eat the oink,
the grunt remain's the bacon's owner...
and perhaps the "hoofs"...
but such a pristine animal...
tapeworms come... much larger in size...
from aquatic flesh... so...
tic-toc... tic-toc... pull a sly porky on me or...
Gabriel my ***...

the Pwophet sez!
much easier these days: to, "get away" with "it"...
camel jockeys turned oil barons...
yachts... whizzed-up-*******-white-****-****...
and never... the odd-ball from
that long extended lineage of the family
living with a cuddles *****, soft toys...
east of Beirut...
that pencil girth's woe explosion in the sky...
"built" by people...
who employ slave Bangladeshis for
a sunday's worth of sabbath cricket in the desert...
i thought that deserts were only good
for waiting for qurans and dinosaur blood
and myopia and... the odd dehydration
hallucinations?!

i'll eat some sushi to sober up before
i accompany my mother: circa 60 getting
a hip replacement surgery done on her...
i'll sober up: but first things first:
spew...

mind you... below you will find some
ancients inscriptions...
i had to wonder: if the precursor text
of the anglo-sphere people...
the germans and "celts" of the british isles...
the welsh... the scandinavians...
was bound to runes...
before the latin men came...
what did "we", the slavs, use?

before the greeks allowed us entry into
the realm of mediating the otherwise:
quasi-fathomable?
cyrillic is what came: AFTER...
but there was a prior...
i'm no longer interested in the prior...
no more than i am interested in greek...
i once slurred russian cyrillic
for not having any diacritical markers...
i knew they had them...
but that they were... crude...
for lack of a better word...

how does that theory sound?
the: ex Africae omnis est Africanus...
sorry... what?!
giving my scrutiny of phonetic encoding...
am i closer to speak...
or thinking, and if not thinking,
then, reading?!
by the looks of it...
i devolved from encoding in
chinese... perhaps not so much:
sanskrit... but i most certainly suffered
moving across Siberia: obviously: not "i"...

mind you: i've looked at "it" and thought...
me, reproduce? add a stranger to the equation
of my family? i'm just happy to end
the libeage... thank god i don't have
some inheritence complex abounding...
no expectation, no "legacy" akin
to a surname like Rhodes (circa NY)...
i was born with one ****** surname,
which changed... i'll die with another ******
surname: that never made it to a status
of Eshlert... nonetheless! i'll leave...
like a ******* Einstein of an acronym:
E = MC... good for me! bravo ty! bravo ja!

beside the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm yet to read something...
from... Congo... perhaps i'm just too ignorant...
or the -igger shade was just too much
that it... grabbed my attention and
i forgot that the victim olympics didn't
happen every 4 years...
but every... whimsical time-span of...
a quarter of the length of a fortnite...

whatever: all out of africa implies...
i'm writing in a devolved chinese...
frozen bits across the siberian fickle desert...
next stopover? Novosibirsk!
no need for pyramids in Novosibirsk...
no "awe" to be found...
when you're toe-dead numb from
frost bite.... is there?!

my letters are a sieve... they allow meaning
through like hands praying to cusp water!
it's, the, reality...
you have ****-wit socialists on one side...
and then... this hyper-inflated
darwinism is all historism on the other...
middle ground, people!
"democracy"! i stand stand both the marxism...
or the darwinism... but arguments failed...
or? we can have the extreme of both ends
of the argument! enough of reading
Pasternak will teach you...
hey... shhh shhh... the collective can
congregate any minute now...
they don't need that many intelligent people
to rally them...
what your, "your" side needs, though?
if enough brass people: stupid enough
to entertain, to lulluby...
em... that's now much to "go on"... is it?
the intelligent with pour gasoline
on a fire...
the entertainers will simply pour
cold milk into a saucepan that contains
milk you're warming to...
melt some butter some honey and an egg yolk
to self-remedy: devoid of big pharma influences...
a witches' brew for a cold and soar throat...

side note: do i "worry" about not having children?
if i lived on the Faroe islands,
Greeland, Iceland, Norway -
i most probably would probably mind...
small town mentality: enlarged...
then again: my family, "my" and "family"
is not exactly accomodating...
why am i not spending time with my grandparents?
at least one side... the "patriarchal" side
drops off: accomodating the madonna anyways...
a sister (my mother) and a brother (my uncle)
are waging a war...
this... "eastender" soap opera is...
i don't have the finances to grativate away
from it...
enter children? and they'd be more ******
up than i already am with my libido
and no outlet... i've stopped seeing prostitutes:
no because i felt "bad":
that one time we only pretended to be
leeching / kissing oysters just because
i forgot to trim my ***** hair:
like some western feminist argument
about the exploitation of romanian women "matters"...
when... the labourer drones of men
of building sites... coming in to work...
hangover... might perhaps... stop...
fuelling the english lush economy...
i didn't want to have children because:
family-wise? things, "things" are messy...
and there's no magic carpet to get me out
of here... not when the last surviving remnant
of a past... i.e. my grandmother,
talks to my dementia riddled grandfather
with the words...
and he stresses them: you no good...
skurwysyn!
elaborate? sure! z-kurwy-syn...
from-a-*****-son..
my grandfather's mother...
well... let's put it in facts...
my grandfather is an illegitimate (
oh **** me, i spelled that right, drunk)
son... his mamma then married...
the father of this illegitimate child...
was a polyglot... spoke 7 languages...
emigrated to the U.S. of A...
remarried, fostered some shards of glass...
and sent his last postcard...
from Niagara Falls... before jumping
into the kamikazee sun...
oh my family is perfect...
then this mother of his...
had two children with a man...
who would beat my grandfather...
which is why he became a "pioneer"
coal-miner aged 15 or 14 or 16...
then this one kid ended up being
fostered... then this "watermelon" of a kid
(nickname) came out...
from a love affair... and when the "*****" died...
his quasi-foster father lived with him...
and in this custard: he...
the father semi-god-know's what...
abused the old man for putting up with
him as a love-child: in wedlock...
and... well thank god there was
no epitaph to begin an end with...

me and children? i am gracious,
i am kind... i don't want them to inherit this
history... which is worse than
a history of germany... at least those *******
had the nazis... which is worthwhile
in terms of exploiting them via video games
as those: evilz badz guyz!

i always think: the sooner i'm dead -
the more chances i have
to either dream... or breathe...
currently i quasi the former and accept
the reality of the latter...
but me and children? my, own, brood?
em... for some capitalistic driven darwinism
pressure ploy of narrative?
taxes and retirement plans for
the western: placebo: aged?
grand'm'ah and gwand'p'ah not fit under
the same roof... set them on the butcher's
path toward the "shop" of wrinkle
and: pristine effortless economic
endeavor... the pig's the lot...
economic meat and... about as barren as a dinner
plate scooped up for examination
once a pauper sat before it to supper...
ingenious! if only, if only we were all born
into a Charlie ******* Dickens' lot of life!
then, only then, we could, we could
perhaps, perhaps: write about it!

i have seen how people have lived their lives...
how... they had wish to write about it...
which always involved a lot of other people -
movie scripts written by directors
and not... actual manuscripts of scripters...
they would write... but then:
started to gag from **** at the mere of thought
of being: brutal, honest, honing...

people either write an honest autobiography,
they ghost it: have someone write a biography,
they write an autobiography that's
designated as: tabloid...
but most importantly... they forget...
a "Moscow"...
when i was in Moscow... i felt like i was
in London for the very first time...
a last time...

i did mention that i didn't envy the russian
diacritical approach...
the odd: miss and "there"...
but no... i didn't envy them...
to me there was no russian orthography...
there is an orthography: which you mind
above any metaphysical discussion...
when, and only when... aesthetics comes
into play...
i.e. rz = ż and ó = u and ch (cerp i ha) = h (samo ha)
this is how orthography is born...
sorry... i'm too "busy" dealing with
orthographic ******* to even mind
your "metaphysics" or a death of (it): interim...

as i stood at the feet of the tower of babel...
i started to su doku the pieces that
pleased my eyes... and the pieces...
left in leftover arabic squiggles of
the remnants of the 20th century...
and the new emergence of environmental
beijing free-of-syndromes to spawn
the 21st... or...
the child of a one-child-state-policy
without a Beijing... only a gradual evaluation
of... concerns for...
not giving birth to yet another ****-wit
of the world's counter to: another
****** of a gullible persuasion...
given that law is blind...
he must have been born: deaf!

- you didn't see me coming;
i didn't even see you leave... -

since the greek letters i tend to most "forget"
are:
- gamma lower-case (γ) because
of the upper-case upsilon (Υ)
- lower-case zeta (ζ) becaue
of the lower-case "11" (ξ)
- eta, lower-case (η) is no real grief
with lower-case EPSILON (ε)
until... you enter the cyrillic
"debate" of е and э...
- lower-case NU (ν) and lower-case
UPSILON (υ)
- Ξ (Θ, Φ) i.e.: XI, PSI, CHI, PHI...
return: that first 'un' is an ale'ks...
alex... but it's not an X in the way that
CHI expresses itself in CHurCH...
lay-teΞ...
- then again... greek orthography begins
in SIGMA... those... quasi-germans...
those remnants of the northern / teutonic
crusade... those Pruσσianς...
or... Prußianς...
the greek F and the greek "F"...
key into a keyhole: Φ...
key turning in a keyhole: Θ...
the iota of four uses... Θ, Φ, Ξ... Ψ...

but that's only the greek... i will not touch
on the glagolitic... until, barely skimming
the draft months earlier...
until i come with my own diacritical markers
and show you: how i was wrong...
yes... the russians do use these markers...
but they, mostly... do not "accent" them...

because i'm no Ezra Pound i didn't have
to imagine going as far back
as the Taoist ideogram...
because i remained bound to the anchor
of europe and...
i really didn't find anything of worth
in africa encoding: silence into their
verbiage with anything:
beside the odd spell of hieroglyphs...
so? i am not an Idaho man...
or whatever mid-western miss-western
******* the genius came from...

i don't have an ideogram:
i have a synonym... the sound is exactly
the same... but Charon 'ave their eyes!
mind you...
ądam and ęwa are off limits...
as is: ł... then again: given that i write in english...
em... "yes, and no"...

but here's my rubric... a rubric implies:
i will not narrate this crap:

don't get me started on the russian variations
of Y... i once said... because the greeks had
names for their letters... and the romans didn't...
well... in western slavic: Y "why, I" has a name:
e'GREK... iGrek... e and i are interchanged
between the western slavs and the islanders...
but the russians?
let me Shakespeare that for you:
pre-scriptum - don't ask me...
how oh how a german umlaut infiltrated
the alphabet: i blame catherine the great...
you have...

е (ye)
ё (yo)
й (-y-) - which acts like a "ȷUDAS"
ы (ý) - alt. to? ıGREK
ю (yu)
я (ya)

all that's missing is a: иы variation?!
let me check my pentagram of vowels...
e, o... u, a... oh right... IO-T'AH-T'AH-T'AH...
sinking the ******* POTEMPKIN!

it's for the best: i'm entrenched in two languages...
which makes me "schizophrenic" /
bilingual... ergo? i have to write in at least:
four... pepper in some latin etc.....
and modern slang? i need that...
and some german... and perhaps a dash
of Gaelic... and some scandi-navigational
pseudo-romancing the rosetta stone...

the rest is quiet "simple"...
a french-atypical acute... because there's no gr'ah-v'eh!
grave ole...
and a dot... like the dot used for no real purpose
in english...

i.e. ь involves the acute...
while the ъ involes the "horde" symbol...
either the dot above the Z in ż or the caron
above the R: ř...
alternative interpretations invoke
even more: 'hide and seek" mechanisms
of the russian Y...
  объект: interJEct with an obJEct...
thus? there just seem to be gradations
of hiding a why (y) with its added vowel...
and its mutant й... crescent mongol moon...
and all the rest of "it"...
since when you "borrow": yew borrow...
you get something along the lines
of: e.g.:

ć.        ць: c.f. surnames ending with -CKI
ń.       нь
ó.      "u" or? Loonin...
ś.        cь
ź.        зь
dz.     ž (dzik - boar - the wild adjective is a tautology)    
ż.      ř       rz   (зъ) or? ж...
ł.       woad... łagodny (he - gentle)
                        łagodna (she - gentle)
š.      sz.      ш             (sh)
č.      cz.      ч               (ch... you're not foreign
to graphemes... mr. Æ ms. Œ...
you simply haven't seen it applied
to consonants... only vowels!)
щ     šč     (szczypta - pinch -
a germanic, saxon "ch" is a cz...
or a caron above the C...
ch' ch'.... akin to the caron above the S...
sh' sh'... so far away from "god": YHWH...
yet so close, so, close!)
ha ha... a "dangling bit"...
and i thought the russians weren't
good at hiding "things"... from ш to щ
you have hidden: a caron a "c"...
a ****'s CHeap... in a dangling "left-over"...
of an otherwise caron S... heap of SH SH ****...

in terms of the cerp and ha and samo ha?
the greek χ (chi) comes into play...
but not like a cheeze...
more like a vowel-catcher breath...
eerie as ****... a HA HA with...
cHA cHA! i.e. like the surds you allow
hindu words access to: gnostic -
'nostic... or... knife... i.e. 'nife...

it's no surprise for me, now...
out of all the black caribbean kids,
the indian and pakistani,
the africans... i was one of the first
to: come out swinging from under
the iron curtain:
distrust levels? high... near almighty...
not enough "japanese" in me
to squander a late debt from
Hiroshima or some other etc.

in some remote original draft...

as ever, i drink, and am a nobody, but then i find myself inclined to look upon the god of gods: whatever remains of worth for the phonetic encoding... whether latin, greek, rune, cyrillic, or ⰒⰑⰃⰀⰐ ⰒⰉⰔⰏ (another googlewhack)... the glagolitic phonetic encoding... sure, first they'll ban the runes in sweden, before realißing that... there's another alphabet... the glagolith...
                  Ⱉ = Ω, given Ѡ = ω...
         this alphabet has been suppressed, long enough!
to be honest? i've never seen a more beautiful letter,
anywhere, other than in the glatolith...
     Ⰿ = M = ᛗ...
                      maybe that's why i like my given names
so much...
                            ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ
                 i too! i too have a past!
             i don't need to peer into pseudo-arab ***
the quran religiosity of hieroglyphs
of the northern africans, camel jockeys!
                             there's, oh there's so much
more at stake than the runes...
                what of the Kiev Rus vikings?
this, this is their language:
                ⰕⰑ          "ⰏⰑⰆⰅ"          (może = maybe)    
(to = this)
                                                   (ⰜⰀ = trzeba, trza /
                                                            tsa)­
            ⰕⰔⰑ (tsa)           ⰃⰀ (ga)     ⰂⰀⰓⰉ (vari)
               (gadać = converse... gavari)

    Ⰴ (d)                ⰆⰫⰕ (żyt = fathoming life)

                             ⰆⰫⰕ (worthwile noting:
this is out lot of, a, life)...

      ⰛⰫⰛⰍⰀ (szyszka = cone, of the ᚦᛁᚱ /
                                     ⰡⰑⰄⰟⰀ - fir /
                              jodła tree)

see, i can't solve crossword puzzles...
      i don't know where i would begin,
fathoming this sort of "plaything" thesaurus...
i can play a solitaire mahjong,
i can solve you a su doku puzzle
without wanting to compensate myself
by competing...
                  
   but i do know...
                    what conjured the atom,
the letter?
  what conjured the atom, the letter,
and subsequently, the alphabet?
        noun...
                  the cipher conceptualißation
of making a name, smaller,
so small, in fact...
that letter emerged, and names were
no longer indicative...
of a meaning...
  so much so, that units were
formed, fathomed...
and when merely giving names
to these units, akin to the greeks,
alpha...
        which had to become a-lpha...
and beta had to become b-eta...
          well... only thanks to the latin men...
they became songs...
sing-alongs...
   very much thanks for the H vowel
catcher of the hebrew god...
ah... said the castrato...
  b'eeh sang the castrato...
           em...
  obviously the devil managed to keep
some of the letters...
z'ed...
                 it's still bewildering...
how the latin men "reinterpreted"
the northern runes...
   as the greek men "reinterpreted"
the north eastern glagolitic script...
and to think! to think!
    Ⱃ = R = ρ = rho...
         but what happened, "elsewhere"?
ᚱ = R... but... but... where's the trill?
R, as a letter, looks like it's about
to hide a leg... and start rolling...
ripping apart all other onomatopeias
associated with the rattle of a rattlesnake,
or the sound it could make,
to associate itself with the sound
of water boiling... where did that "go"?
with the french hark "innovation",
and the english tongue...
being bitten and left numb by
a tarantula?!
                      
  point being... i never imagined myself
much of an archeologist...
i always found:
  if you state your "necessary" freedom
to speak?
you're a tongue inside one cranium,
at a particular time, in a universal space...
but, like kierkegaard,
you care more about a freedom to think?
i'm "here", i'm "there", i'm "i'm"
like heidegger might state...
                  using this very modern
language that's english...
          but then sliding back into...
an obscure region of history...
      in two places at once...
        at a universal moment in time,
in a particular space...
                   talking exhausts me,
whenever i start speaking for more than
ten minutes,
there is a cotton mouth infestation,
my tongue turns into a serpent about
to shed a layer of its skin,
and, if i'm lucky,
i will not swollow the tongue...

                    and why wouldn't the runes
be more protected, but currently under
siege -
             both the latin text and the greek
text (respectively),
had the ambition of performing an
x-ray on the runes and the glagolitic texts,
treating them as pseudo-hieroglyphics...

but they found similarities,
   which made this foreign phonetic
encoding systems relateable...

ᚠ = F
                ᚢ = U         (copernican "up-side-down")
ᚨ = A (strange sort of arithmetic, / \
                                              )
               ­ ᚱ = R (d'uh)
   ᚺ = H...
           ᛁ = I
               ᛋ = s
                ᛏ = t (what's with the "bending knee",
so much for the supposed: "arrow"),
               ᛒ = B...
           ᛖ = Σ = E...
                   ᛗ = M...
                   ᛚ = L...
                  ᛟ = o - crude version of circle...

so? the latin men had an easier way to
fathom the runes, and ingest them
into the x-ray vision of post-latin...
   the greeks with the glagolitic script?
much harder...

         Ⱂ = Π = P = ρ (rho)
                 Ⰰ = A = ᛉ = Z...
             Ⱇ = φ = ᚦ = θ...
                             Ѡ = ω...
                Ⱑ = A...
                          Ⱔ = ε....
                                            Ⱚ = θ...

but i agree... you couldn't get "our"
peoples to where we are now,
with these pseudo-hieroglyphics...
   after all: Ⰿ (M) is a beautiful letter...
in glagolitic terms...
          but... it's too complicated for us,
at this moment in time...
it might have had all the necessary
practicality in its necessary time...
that it was allocated to...
but... given people these days
are looking at X-|ɔ\
                              / \ /_ / ?
                            how ******* hard must
it have been, when,
the phonetic encoding,
was as hard as it, to now, us,
it seems?!
                   so... whatever is happening
in sweden, right now?
       i'm not bemaoning it,
   i have a tattoo... it reads: Sienkiewicz...
the swedish deluge of 1626–29... a.d.,
          **** it, ban the runes...
i've "just" discovered the gagolitic phonetic
encoding, the sort of **** that
st. cyril and methodius had to work with,
and it wasn't as easy as translating /
incorporating the runes...

                     oh sure, i'm waiting...
                 first they ban the runes...
   then they'll have to learn something akin
to the glagolitic script...
             returning back to their x-ray
latin lettering...
                       i still can't believe that
james joyce got away with writing finnegans
wake... without ever employing a single
diacritical marker...
spewing out... what became the modern
english grafitti spreschen...
   e.g.: lolz...
                              und: L8ER...
it's like: the worst of the worst of what
already is the worst in the form
of the h'american demands for acronyms.          

after watching an old couple walk
past me into the supermarket:
    or unlike the men climbing
           the matterhorn:
   which from postcards seems so
much more majestic in its formidable
shape than the goliath everest
    (from postcards) -
                 5 miles, a dark forest,
  and i can show you where english
druids chant: satanus in excelsior!
   and i thought i spoke bad english:
it's: in excelsis satanus...
       i would have approached them,
but then i was alone,
      and there was one idiot shouting
and about a crowd of twenty disciples:
you could hear the murmur
   adhering to the chant from a distance
of about 300 metres...
                    i only had beer on me,
no goat blood, no woad pigment...
                crash a party when they
were having a party in complete
darkness?
                     it's a good thing there was
a song change on my headphones
               and for a minute i picked it up...
wait a minute: i thought i owned
these woods, walking at night?
               ragnarök blood of Hvalba:
unfortunately the norse founded
kiev,
           so if they founded kiev,
                they must have past where
i made mark as: the land immune to
                                       the black death...
if i were an academic with a stipend,
   i'd write another boorish book on the matter
to attract moths...
          but the old couple, hand in hand,
shrinking but not exactly disappearing...
     in me the inherent conceptualisation
of a twin, like a limb missing,
  but with all my limbs intact...
              yet still a twin gleaming in my mind,
as the story i was told in my childhood
no echoes like a behemoth ghouling:
    they said to me:
   did you know that in this world there exists
a person that looks exactly like you?
         what? so i started looking,
      not leonardo, not brad,
                    can't compete -
            if i really am the stronger twin
                 who sent my twin to the plough
and the hearth... am i not to suddenly
    lick ash?
                  but the old couple:
   what a rarity to see, dwarfs,
                                  of former majestic
forms... elsewhere the single mother with
a baby in a buggy at 10 minutes to 11 during
the week, bewildered by reading
frozen foods labels...
           oh... about the supermarket...
grr... mein gott!
                    Surabhis! Surabhis everywhere!
the joy of walking into a supermarket
last, aisles as spacious as any king's
    lonely castle...
        but in the hours 12 in the afternoon
till about 5 in the afternoon?
        traffic jams!
                   zombified shoppers, women,
of course, children to boot...
                           how many times i might
have bumped into them...
      gaze lost, hazy eyed...
                 sometimes i had to walk down one
aisle, emerge from another, just to pass
  a woman standing fiddling with her
hair...
           the new meeting place, apparently,
but that's beside the point,
   the more i listen to radio,
  the more i learned that i'm far from
a music snob...
            take for example:
       free deejays's song
                            el amor es un party...
what? cuba not pretty any more?
              but there's a worthwhile observation
in there:
        only rich men have the chance
        to play a woman's game of "the chase"...
        only rich men get to "chase" women...
        the poor schmucks?
                          ****! have to live with them.  
****... i need to find that
    one exchange in ingmar bergman's
film wild strawberries:
            when the old man wakes from
a dream-memory in which he is
the ****** of a **** scene...
        where a woman is teasing a man
to the point, until he transcendes
                   a teasing woman,
                       and finds a Jezebel...
so upon waking...
                the "children" are picking
flowers in the rain...
                          and there's talk of
abortion...
       at this point it's gone beyond
castration...
                      the conversation invokes
the death-mask of man,
    or man as tomb, and woman as
the robber -
                         apparently once impregnated
man cannot ask for his ***** back,
and in some twisted way:
           and as much as i'd like to "cheat"
having found the screenplay online,
   i have the misfortune of owning the ****
movie...
        and how i like returning
to silent cinema, black & white, foreign,
with subtitles...
                     at this point,
because didn't place the subtitles: on top
of the screen, but at the bottom...
   well, **** me: am i looking for
Cindarella, because focusing back
on those faces means i seem them without
lips and merely eyes and noses,
   and perhaps a chance to spot
   a wriggling, morphed into an insect
st. peter's, if not van gogh's ear!
              or the lost "art" of handwriting...
Cinderella? my focus is so low from
      the action, that i might as well be
  watching, either a ballet, or a *******
riverdance!
             dr. isak borg (a)
marianne borg (b)
        dr. evald borg (d)

such a weird and heart-numbing thinking
went into writing this...
i have a history, a past:
regardless of having children and with
their existence: some sort of guarantee
for a future...
that i have a past, a history,
and it exists... outside of its current
written format,
that i can escape with or without having
children: that i would have probably
later ***** mentally...
having ingested all this third party
quasi-history propaganda
for the only history that's being
salvaged: the insect prone libido
of a status quo... well then...
let my "failure" be the patent for all future
success.

How beautiful the sunrise when it came ,
for I had waited so long ,
In vain,
how lonelineses. sweet tears I feel ,
down my cheek so bitter the pain .
Yet I walk were emporers once stood ,


Londiniam lies abandoned .
the Classis lit long since sailed ,
their. Masts beat against the wind .
The  river Thames glistened from the morning sun ,
Past it’s banks and statues of gods ,
Monuments to Caesar and suns of the gods  lie face down in the sun
broken in two ..

Why should I return for there is nothing here ?
And yet ,
the girls with yellow hoods shunned by the graceful good ,
call me back with their come to bed eyes .
and here I am ,
with ladies of wanton jewelled hair .
For now the Tudor warehouses of
Commerce swell what was once forgotten.

Matchsticks piled one on another ,
and look at them all too full of pride ,
to stupid to see .
Women with weasels in their hair ,
So elegant and fair ,
for the ladies in their yellow hoods say “ beware “

Now the suns rays that lie low ,
a ball of red ,
were quiet embers burnt and flowed ,
Only to find that ,

her Queen awaited
the suns rays of majestic glory ,
as if all of England looked to its shores .
her Golden Hind .
Monsters of the deep ,
Dragons ,
Serpents. ,
Demons from hell itself ,
yet
the evil seas could not swollow this ship ,
or return it’s bounty to whence it came ,

and the women with the yellow hoods hid their faces in shame .

I love my ladies in all kinds
But **** why must cougars blow my mind
I done seen alot of hot young girls and boy there fine
But as im looking at this cougar i rather have mine
Shoot i ll baptist myself in your water if that have me saved
A been a bad boy you can whip me till i behave
**** these cougar ladies is definrtly some to crave
And as a bonus you can use me as your personal *** slave
When im bad you can put it in my mouth
I mean force me till i swollow every bit
For my reward i get to **** but thats not it
As a women i know guys put you in alot of mess
So let my hands do all the talking they ll surely relive your stress

Sometimes when i feel so weak
and i just think
"One more drink"
I look up into the mirror right when i take a swollow
and i see my mama
I see her crying for me and my lost soul
but what can i do?
Stopping isnt an option
It hurts to much to be sober
I just want that amber liquid
Running down my throat
The slow burn of all my
Worries melting away
Untill there is nothing left
The bottle empty and my heart cold
I pass out in my bed
With my pills by my side
Waiting to acompany my screaming headache
In the morning
But at least a hangover
Is the only problem i have to face
When im drunk.

Every word,
And evey smile,
Laughing and joy,
Let's stay for a while.
Sharing secrets.
And from the start.
You had a piece of me,
A piece of my heart.
I was there for you.
A shoulder to cry on.
"Through thick and thin,"
An unbreakable bond.

But you forgot,
What we had.
For someone else,
it makes me sad.
He means more to you.
A change of perception.
I dont want to hurt you.
Im now competition.
But
i dont want to compete.
But
You don't need to me to feel complete.
I thought you did,
But now I realize,
Your true intensions.
So was it all lies?
Was that "bond"
Really there?
All my pain and suffering,
You didn't care?
You
You tell me your selfish.
But I say your more.
And you still tear me down,
Until i hit the floor.

You cant breathe,
If he loves anybody.
And you cant bare,
If that person is me.
I just want,
My friend back.
When did,
Your heart turn black?
Mine never did,
And it never will.
I just want everyone happy,
But you can't swollow that pill.
I won't allow,
You to ruin.
All we have.
We don't have to end.
You don't benefit,
From seeing me smile.
But i want whats best for you,
Please stay a while.

A friendship and a relationship.
Are completely separate.
How could just drop everything,
Like you don't give a ****?
I listened you.
I respected you,
I supported you,
I loved you as my own.
I held you at your weakest point,
When you trashed my throne.
And what do I receive?
What do I get in return?
A guilt trip,
And a lesson learned.
I don't want to accept,
Your insensitivity.

So just know,
No matter what.

I will purely love you,
From forever to infinity.

A swollow died ,
but as it did it began to fly
for a thousand wings now lay upon its breast .
And upon that breast lay   It’s  head ,
and upon that head ,
a golden crown.,

And upon that crown of burning fire ,
Plumes of smoke were lifted higher .

And then from. that shrill from that birds beak ,
came unspeakable anguish that languished deep .
For death was sprinkled everywhere.
In falling ashes that lit up the sky ,
came winds as fierce as the swallows eye ,
More deadly were the winds that blew ,
that fanned the flames from that swallows crown .

And so life can never be the same ,
as what man uttered to clear his name .
Of all his fossil fuels he lights that burn carbon
into this burning night .
With all the coals that forever burn
Poisious gas that choke and wheeze ,
that brings the child upon her knees ..

A swollow dies his wings are singed ,
It still sings a song no one can sing .
But if they could what would we say ?
for another Forest has. Been burnt today .

Low tide -
oysters scattered across
the sand that cacoons
our feet

black hot -
we are nothing more
than a forty a day
bad habit

dying -
smoke filled lungs
desperate to swollow

air -
when all there is,
is dust

Mixing metal shrapnel
With my ******* powder.
Reality; lost its handle.
Death; surrender Your power.

Listening to them
Is **** at gunpoint.
I only follow him,
The rest burns in my joint.

Pigs squeal for your green,
Or to join them in their stye.
Surrender to greed?
I'd rather die.

Ill swollow the hollowpoint
Rather than society's pill.
Burn the faces of the coined,
Resist the demons on the bill.

Fight with me.
Bleed with me.

Die with me.

Victory is ours,
No matter the outcome.
Monsters by the hour,
This is what we've become.

March Forth.

He said :-

This love's a place I cannot live
and the prison I can't escape,
for my love you freely sacrificed
and my dreams you nightly ****.

You are the pillow on my face
you are the needle in my arm,
you are the bullet in the brain
and the pills within my palm.

But I could never hate you babe
I could truly ner' be free,
for you are the rhyme and rythmn
that flows inside of me.

So I am holding on and digging in
holding you and holding ground,
for I know you feel the same way babe
at having me around.

So plump the pillow roll my sleeve
aim straight and swollow hard,
and when we play the hand we're dealt
I will be your joker card.

So holding on to promises
holding ground whilst holding you,
I will take life's slings and arrows
and see this sentence through.

Suffocated by agony, dazed with confusion
Stuck in reality, that I'd druther be an illusion
Skinned alive, right straight down to raw emotion
Not a save harbor to be found, on my life's raging ocean
A living oxymoron, I'm raw to the touch but inside hollow
How much more will I be forced to swollow

I must be looking mighty strong
See the universe, keep piling it on
Can't anybody at all tell
Still in the middle of my living hell
Birds tweeting like nothings wrong
Mocking me with their sweet song

How much longer will I stand in front of life's curtain
Knowing only pain and sorrow are for certain
Drowning in the deepest darkest grief
Innocence, love, joy, and sanity, stolen by the thief
How much longer will it be till that final decision
Before it's made, that final incision

I must be looking mighty strong
See the universe, keep piling it on
Can't anybody at all tell
Still in the middle of my living hell
Birds tweeting like nothings wrong
Mocking me with their sweet song

Only a shadow of what I could of been
Being made to atone for mine and other's sin
I've tasted on my lips everything that could mar
Inside and out I wear the battle scars
Should I step behind the final veil
Slice myself out if this prison cell


©Pauline Russell

Words I can't say out loud.

Sometimes I'm over come by the urge to swollow a bottle of pills
I won't, but I want to.

I really, really like ***,
but I can't have it as much as I want,
for fear of being labled a ****.

I regret most of my decisions,
but I will never tell a soul.

I Don't want to!

Okay.

That's cool too.

You hurt and numb me at the same time.

My soul is becoming lifeless.
My eyes feel like they're bleeding.
My heart feels more alive when it skips a couple beats.
I like the feeling of feeling hungry.
I would rather feel the pain of an empty stomach.
My mouth is dry.
My body never sleeps .
I can't feel my face.
My tongue is swollen with bite marks.
My jaw won't stop locking.
My throat is so soar that I can barely swollow.

But you never seem to let me down.

Deep inside my head I am jumping off the tallest mountian and nobody knows.

But you're here to help. Right?

INCURABLE LOVE

And i thought my love for
you was contagious...

that the desire that sickened my veins
would infect your bloodstream to puncture your heart...

that the virus that suffocates my lungs-punctured by intoxicated oxygen-
would absorb into every particle that you swollow
into your cavities
holding captive my breath to kiss your lungs
and poison your bones in an elixir of
infectious passion,
intense admiration,
and--.

i am sick
as every cell craves you and aches for your love
so that love is a disease consuming my essence in decay, and rot, and soil
as only the return of such an overwhelming emotion
-oh my physical weakness-
could give cure...

CURE ME!

to suffer is to die in this aliment for i am weak and vulnerable to this epidemic!
please touch me and ease my breaking bones by tracing every wrinkle and line on my skin!
Please kiss me and ease my fractured lips by filling the cracked muscle with your wet tongue to remind me of a taste better than the medicine staining my throat!
Please look at me so as my pupils may dialate in my love for you beneath the sickened lids that blink back acid tears!

CURE ME!
CURE ME!

And in turn i will spread incurable love

There are girls that i love trying to scrape their lives together and swollow their words to hide how bad they hurt
The girls who are drawn tight like an arrow ready to leave at a moment's notice so they don't get left again
The girls that got left behind so many times that they want to do the leaving this time
These girls have bruised hearts and dark minds
But i love them and i hope they stay because i Don't know what would happen if i got left.
I try to calm and sooth but it doesn't seem to work
But they have other people helping and they seem to help better
I'm not enough
So they get better people to help
At least their helped
I just hope they'll stay

I feel my heart slowly crumbling
Does it still beat or does that fail too?
Has the warmth it once held finally turned as cold as my being?
Has it finally given up on my like everything elsein life?
Down, I feel my mind tumbling
Words fall upon my ears as it breaks
"You never meant anything to me"
"You have always just been a pawn in my game"
The world is falling in on me
I wonder
Should I stay?
Or should i go?
The answer, nobody seems to know
I feel the bruises you  left on my soul
Did you know you caused the scars across my wrist?
The bruises spread out over my swollen fist?
Of course you do, and you are so proud.
Now the pills I will swollow down
Before I go, I'll sit here and write
Desperately, my tears I will hide
Clawing at the surface, while inside I die
And slowly fall asleep as my eyes try not to cry

She said "Hey you" with so much syrup. It hit me and slid down my arm like thick cold putty. My tongue felt spent and numb like i'd burned it or something. How do I respond to that? She speaks like a low note, like shes humming. Like the dial tone of someone who could actually feel sorry.
God, i'd cut those words into my flesh if I still had that kind of anger left. I want to make a raging claim. Instead I just wear her same condescending tone like its an oversized coat. Choke those raw words out of my throat...
     I say, "Hey there!",
Chipper as ever, and swollow hard like it doesn't taste bitter.

What the heck am I suppose to do if I can already see they have closed their minds. Its not their fault.
I can see how and why too, broken hearts from hopeless narcs...
They say remedy comes from inside I say please dont swollow your pride, take a look around, arrogance is what push us aside,
So kneel down to the being who's with you when you're griefing because only they know the pain you must be in. Pardon my preaching,
I aint trying to hurt your feelings because I know that you rather be in your room hanging from the cieling with a noose around your neck
but understand you must change what you believe in It's all part of the healing process.
Life is what you make of it and I chose to follow the prophets.
Living free I dont want to make any profits because proof shows the poor people are the best ones walking so stop all the **** talking, blessed enough to not think much of it but thats just one of my problems.
I'm scared of the darkness, overcoming my fear is progress so I face my nigtmares by embracing knowledge but still ask for Gods help because the heartless leaves me thoughtless.
They never ask why they just stick to their jobs, and trying to come up with solutions for non existing problems It's nonsense.
Now lets just be honest, the alpha and omega is just ticking the clocks, yes? So ofcourse Jesus (pbuh) will walk the earth at the days of apocalypse.
Astaghfirullah.
Take it as promise but dont knock on my door for more Im just repeating what God said.

I'm sick of being tired,
Tired of being sick.
I create this negative atmosphere,
The air is polluting and thick.

I can't help but see the negatives,
In everything I seem to contact,
Relationships, friendships,
Its like their only here under contract.

I feel like no one wants me,
To be around, even for a chat,
"Get the f*k away from me,
You ugly, hairy, fat, twt"

I know its all in my head,
But reality distorts in there,
I know people love me,
And people truly care.

But the wave of darkness,
Surrounds my skull,
I'm scared I'm loosing this battle,
The void might swollow me whole.

I try to be the light,
That makes people smile,
But I'm hidden behind this light,
I've been hiding for quite a while.

The face is a broken image,
But broken on the inside,
I don't want people to see this,
Thats why I hide.

Please, if you know me,
Just talk as if we're fine,
Ignore any insecurities,
They're not yours to deal with, they're mine.

There once was a boy,
Who fell in love with a girl
An incredble story
Inspiration for all

But you never can tell
What is hiding beneath
Inside each fairytale
A dark truth underneath

So the boy had his deamons
From life lived long ago
He kept them as a secret
So the girl won't find more.

But as time passes by
And the secrets revealed
And their fairytale life
Seam to rumble downhill

In this darkest of times
Almost all hope is lost
This boy suddenly finds
A flame covered in dust

Worming up by the fire
Watching it be restored
Come alive with desire
To swollow the world

Thou unique and refreshing
This bond ran its cours
And with renewd ambition
The boy got on his horse

He came back to his home
Where the girl built their nest
Face to Face with their deamons
They woav a bond built to last.

And somewhere in the desert
The flame dances her dance
Glowing stronger then ever
Breathing in every breath

And althou far away
Never really appart
Since the flame and the boy
Share the same unique heart

The journey to freedom has been so long.

I thank the figher in me for digging me out of the hole that tried to swollow me.

To be honest I thought I'd be dead by summer.

But here I am.

Standing tall, still covered in mud.

Letting go of my love is horrifying.

The pain is so deeply rooted.

But it's time to break free.

I choose to jump of that cliff of sorrow, not knowing what's down there.

Swollow your medicine
Be a good girl now
Taste a little bitter
But I can't afford the sugar
To help it go down

so glottal, that arabic is,
                       it would amuse me
  to hear an arab recite
these two words
                as someone chinese
    attempting a trill on the R...
let alone a frenchman having
to stop harking that letter out,
or the english
applying the numbing,
linguistic anaesthetic to it,
                 i.e.
                                 amuse me:

gregory
  brzęczyszczykiewicz
herr otto, standartenjunker
   (borrowed from the cult film:
   how i started the second world war)...
    
or: stół z
    powyłamywanymi nogami -

gutton gutton clob kup-ah!
                                  glutton q k,
mmm'kab, mmm'qab...
         ******* linguistic turkeys;
help! help! he's choking!
   he's about to swollow his tongue!
heimlich! quick! maneuver
   maneuver! run around the poor
******* in circles, chanting
      magic spells in cymru,
               while clapping like a seal
in between rubbing your stomach
  and patting yourself on
the head, for a kippah, akin to
manna to descend from heaven!

that's the second time i was offered to have a *******, i honestly wasn't ready for this one; Khedra was telling me that the girl with the glasses was in a good mood, she stressed it as: she's really, really in a good mood, how about you give us extra and i tell her to come up? i replied: i've just come back from a 12 hour shift, i'm only after a quickie... SLAP... well yeah! i slap her *** during *******, pinch her, bite her... i follow the Kama Sutra to an exactness, obviously i have read it... i know that some women don't get it, but the ones that do? well... it makes ******* all the more fun, after all, we're not slimy mollusks wriggling about, there's more to us than mere caressing and *******... you don't have to **** out all the alternative kinks, although... i'd love to enlarge the ****** to a full body latex suit... i'm not going to lie...

she clearly missed me, i missed her,
but when she came back she knew i was already with
two other girls, Michaela and... oh my god...
i forgot her name: but not her face...
the one that talked too much during ***...
i hate talking during ***:
i don't need "god" in the bedroom...
eyes speak for the eyes,
lips speak for the lips,
phallus speaks for the phallus...
etc.
            but in Khedra's presence i couldn't
just... pick someone else...
i picked her because i knew i'd be guaranteed
unprotected ***...
that's how the rock rolls as it were...
you establish a trust with a woman when
she sees your approach to hygiene...
and then she doesn't even bother asking for more
money... hell... oral and actual genital interaction
unprotected... i forgot how good it feels:
although, like i already mentioned:
i'm also a big fan of condoms...
why? you never know how a woman will
put it on... it varies so greatly...
one will **** it on... another will stretch it
and put it on... various techniques...
  some will look you in the eyes others prefer
not to look: probably reimagining you as
some monster...
i'm no Don Juan, not some Casanova:
my pockets are not that deep...
                        i'm a crustacean lover...
                               sure... if i had more money to shower,
buy gifts... alas: all i have is Ovid's lament
to girls... i can... give them a book of my poems...
a ****** gift, i know... but hey: beggars can't be choosers...
but i knew Khedra missed me...
why? she wanted to be on top this time round...
she usually wants me to arch over her
and do her... sorry: take her to the monastery
of missionaries from Portugal in Japan
(some ******* of my own, thinking)...
i was startled at the fact that i left a ******* imprint
in her...
she sat on my slid it in: right...
*****... it's like with bras... it takes rigid fingers
to undo a bra... the whole point of penetrating a woman's
******? you don't aim for the floral pattern for the *****:
that's for oral ***...
   for the gob to slobber all over it... tongue whirlwind...
when penetrating? you're basically "pretending"
to be aiming for the *******... the distance between
the ****** entry point and the ******* is pretty short...
it's strange how it works...
but i knew she missed me because she recognised
me... already two or three cowgirl giddy-up attempts
of her and she was having those hot-shivers...
she was quivering... hey!
she had to stop from time to time because:
the hot-shivers were attacking her...
    no... of course it wasn't a full ******... but a microcosm
of one...

point being: i didn't ask for permission to try all
the other girls... she told me, she told me:
YOU HAVE TO TRY ALL THE OTHER GIRLS...
she also asked me... tell me, truthfully:
which did you prefer? Michaela, the short fat
girl with ******* or the girl who was sitting opposite
me? the tall, legs to the heavens?
so i told her... the former...
i had a thing for this pornographic actress...
oddly enough also Romanian: Jasmine Black...
and i was like... i need to find me someone similar...
hey presto! Michaela!
the exact proportions: i wouldn't say fat,
i'd say: a pretty plump plum of a woman...

Khedra just kept slapping my chest...
i just kept slapping her ***... biting her chin:
the usual round of bollocking...
i'm done with the English approach to ***...
double standards: yeah: ooh ooh... keep it in the bedroom!
shh! shh! and then once in the bedroom!
all the ugly kinks come out...
all those ungodly conversations: "conversations"
about mummies, daddies and "god" knows what else...
there's no talking when i'm *******:
again... i will no desecrate the altar of this much
pleasure by bringing: and in the beginning there was
the word and the word was with god...
and it was... ever heard of an Eclectus or a Quaker
Parakeet talk, without man talking first?
no! in the beginning only the gods could talk...
mind you... hmm: ooh! ooh!
if Prometheus (the titan) brought down fire to men
and was punished for it by the gods...
who brought down the word (communication,
writing) down from the gods to be left among
men?! who?! who?!
was it not the jealous god, who's name i will not utter
but encrypt?! so the Hebrew deity
would be seen... in the Greek mind...
as a Titan! well... no wonder he's jealous:
the people who venerate him are constantly punished!
why? if Prometheus was punished for brining
to man the fire... the Hebrews are punished for the fact
that their deity brought down "telepathic" communication:
writing, scribbling... and the gods watched
on and saw: well... ****'s going to hit the fan proper
when they start scribbling graffiti on cement walls
thinking they're ****** clever...
dyslexia strong! they'll muddle up the sounds
and overcomplicate their spelling(s)!

i love it... writing *** and about the gods...
it's like the perfect combination for... ah ha ha: disaster...
the days of scientific rationalisation are over:
it's time to return to mythology -
look at it this way: mythology is the antithesis
of journalism: i'm sort of having a backlash
from all the journalism: degraded journalism,
tabloid rather than investigative journalism:
we're not talking high quality journalism
of All the President's Men... we're talking trash:
at best a journalist tells me that X happened at Y...
or there's the editorial section of a newspaper
where i get opinions: a cul de sac of opinions...
since, it's the "rhetoricians'" corner... what sort
of dialectic do you think newspapers allow?
    it's slim... with those "letters" to the editor...
journalism as shambles...

    as i'm writing this i'm gazing at the most beautiful
in heaven... a late summer lightning storm...
lightning without: either thunder or rain...
as if the sky was a giant jellyfish + brain and i'm seeing
it think... wrestle with itself...

- i honestly don't know why i allowed the *******
of my cats give them names...
but they stuck... shouldn't the owner of the pet give
his pet a name, rather than allow the ******* to name them?
QUORUS... honestly? it's not that bad...
quo rus: where are you going, Russian?
and he's ginger... fair enough... makes sense now...
but he's what? 7+ years old...
so... back in the day any conflict with Russia didn't
make sense... my cat's name just makes sense now...
i didn't name him... perhaps: qua rus,
id est: as being Russian... Quorus?! are you a Russian?!
last time i heard Maine ***** came from Maine:
north America...

mind you: Andrew Lloyd Webber got it spot on in
Cats... when he, or whoever did: wrote that cats don't
have one name, they have several names...
they have a name for whatever i feel like calling it...
my female Maine **** is usually
called ヤマモト (ya-ma-mo-to) whenever she's
imploring to be let in to the house:
but in her persistent silence, she just sits by the door
giving no indication to be let in...
i forget how many names i have given Quorus...
but i sometimes: secretly give him the name
******... but that's between me and him...
either ****** or AZRAEL... poor ******...
each time i go into the garden to refill my cup with ice-cubes...
i leave the bedroom: he's sleeping quietly
as if pretending to be a cushion...
the moment i leave he's up and standing on the spot
of the windowsill where i perch to drink and smoke...
looking out for me...
whether or not i will return or not...
then he'll jump onto the roof above the kitchen
and play the CERBERUS' role... watching the lightning
storm (without thunder or rain) with me...

hmm... what happened today?
today i was relaxing after a mammoth shift juggling
over the weekend... i didn't feel like doing much...
i cleaned the house... because i'm a ******* pedantic...
i need the house to be clean:
i can't allow my parents to clean the house for themselves:
my mother's arthritis doesn't allow me to just
leave a massive stink... mind you: it felt so pointless
vacuuming... i wasn't picking much dirt from
the floors... and then obviously mopping the floors...
i like the smell of citrus on wood...

then? a quick bicycle session on my Trek Merlin 5
"Rolls Royce"... recycling empty glass bottles...
buying a whiskey and some pepsi-cola...
oh... and some MAJOR good news...

what's for dinner? pizza... homemade, what else?!
there's probably one thing i love making more than
ice-cream... esp. mint choc-chip ice-cream...
one day i'll make me chocolate ice-cream...
i hate chocolate ice-cream...
i have this fine potent mint growing in my garden...
the ice-cream came out amazing:
i didn't even have to add any artificial colouring:
just the right sort of colour... pale green...
much much paler than the colour of my irises...

ENDLICH, REGEN!
         ich brauchen wasser für mein bäume im mein garten!

but there's only one thing that gives me more pleasure
than making ice-cream... ooh...
making pizza-dough! i love sculpting that
*** of a lazy lady of yeast... the smell of yeast
is about as intoxicating as the scent of wet
rosemary or thyme or mint in the night
when it rains and rains and rains...
nothing can compare to making pizza-dough:
well, apart from making mint choc-chip ice-cream...
or synthesising esters in a chemical laboratory...
or synthesising polyester...
the event horizon on that ***** of an experiment:
ha ha... two liquids... and you're just pinching
the "good stuff" from the two liquids not mixing...

like i told one coworker: i rather enjoy listening
to music when i fall asleep...
but... but.
if it starts raining? and i'm about to fall asleep?
the music is turned off and i fall into a lullaby
of a symphony of necessary tears...
some people would tell me that there's no Bach in rain:
i.e. that there's no polyphony that can be ascribed
to rain: i **** right disagree...
that's like saying the sound of the sea is the same
as the sound a river generates or for that matter
a lake... or... a foot stepping into a puddle...
or the sound of a waterfall...

it's only a Monday and i'm already exited for the week ahead...
i couldn't wait for today because i knew i would
be recharging... father's lunch for tomorrow?
sweet peppers and sliced iceberg salad as the base...
on top? pancetta, strawberries,
goat's cheese... figs... with a balsamic glaze dressing...
tomorrow? Khedra didn't appreciate my ****** outgrowths...
she told me, strictly: your kissing is prickling me...
i agreed... my moustache is too long...
i ought to know better... it becomes half a bother
and a bother fully to boot when my moustache
"wets itself" when i take a sip of ms. amber's metaphorical
**** juices...
of course i'm still growing the FU MANCHU...
upon strict orders of the Turk... my love-patch needs
to be as long as my actual beard... and my beard needs
to hide my entire neck...

so tomorrow... i'm excited about visiting my Turkish barber
and getting a trim...
that's tomorrow...
Thursday? i'm off to the brothel to ****... simple as
1 + 1 = 2... i'll do the West Ham shift, finish at 10:30 and
then get my silly ***** wet...
maybe have a *******, maybe not...
i'm paying back a debt... i already stashed half of it
(£200) in my writing desk... i'll take out £200 more tomorrow...
a ******* Lynyrd Skynyrd sing-along
when you're debt free and only working on a debt-system
without any credit... i never understood
the point of the credit system...
why, would, you, use, credit?
why, spend, money, you, don't, have?
after working level 5 at Wembley... for that... tribute
concert for Taylor Hawkings... the managers asked me...
do you suffer from vertigo?!
which vertigo?!
the height vertigo?! didn't i tell you that i used
to be a roofer?! i must have...

height vertigo? yeah... i sometimes have this wild "idea"
in my head when i'm standing at a decent amount of height...
my legs start trembling, i start to grip some barrier...
some stable object... why? i start thinking about jumping
down! that's my height "vertigo": i start thinking that:
just perhaps i have a parachute or an exoskeleton!
although i have another "vertigo": it's a monetary "vertigo"...
i hate to be in debt... i never spend on credit...
either i have the money and spend it...
or i don't have the money and, ergo: don't spend it...
i abhor monetary "vertigos"...
     of course i think about money...
some people are geologists... some people are economists...
it's not that hard to confuse the two,
equating: pebbles = coins...
after all... what are coins? if not peanuts... certainly not
peanuts... then most certainly pebbles:
nuggets of copper with insignia:
"things" of "value" that are only allocated value
because someone said so:
like the usual critique of religion... it's all man-made...
sure... and economy is also man-made...
i abhor gold: i could never don a gold ring on my fingers...

sure... press some gold into a circle...
slap a pretty face like that of ol' Lizzy on it! hey presto!
"value"... otherwise, what?
mind you: a tickling on my legs...
it finally started raining... a spider was made into
a... a... banana-boat man...
escaping conflict of rain... i picked him up from
my tickled leg... put him on my hand...
dropped him off on my private library's shelf...
on... level 3... the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam...
i should get some flies for him at some point...

eh... spiders... flies... foxes... it's not like they're
exotica that certain women like...
i just figured it out... the men women choose to mate
with... oh! it's so certainly most necessary
for the men to have "sleeves"... yeah... at least one
hand covered in tattoos! women love men with
sleeves... the only "tattoos" are on my brain...
but i've witnessed the aesthetic of reproduction...
on the sly... the men with sleeves get to...
oh this one dude... i could "hear" his testosterone being slurped
up when he was giving the duties of daddy
with the buggy watching over his 2 week old babe...
or that guy two doors down...
mate! you're ******! why? you mother-in-law
is coming to see you 5 times a day! you're living about
20 metres from her! you're ****** mate!
me? i have ms. amber and philosophy for company!
i don't think i could talk to a woman: "privately"
outside a specified environment...
sure... women try... we talk on shifts...
if i have to be cold and exacting: exclusive...
hell... this one manager tried it with me today...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
so i replied to his "ha ha": fair enough...
i'll be more EXCLUSIVE next time...
      
                     i know that they employ complete air-heads...
retards... and they are licesened as security "guards":
i was telling my coworker: i'm really reluctant to get
the "baddge"... for (1) the hours are longer...
for (2) the pay is not much greater...
for (3) i only want to do this part-time,
don't get me wrong... it's great... but it's only great
when i say it's great... not when "management"
tells me it's "great"....
there's probably a point (4) and a point (5)...
but... ah... whatever...

hmm... it's back to Andrew Lloyd Webber
and the Cats musical lyrics,
coupled with the 13th Warrior transcript...
between
            Ahmed íbn Fahdlan íbn...
  and Herger... íbn this íbn that... name? IBN...
ha ha... that's like with cats...
Quorus "íbn" AZAEL "íbn" AZRAEL "íbn"
RYCERZ ZAKUTY-ŁEB....
   i.e. knight-mutton-headed...
a mutton-headed-"knight"...
                 chained-head... i too thought that
cats ought to be by the fireplace when it rains...
this one? prefers the company of the activities' of dogs...
i wish i owned a dog... instead?
i own a cat with an invisible leash...
he doesn't go far... i wish i owned a dog for the simple
reason that he might eat what i ate: letft-overs...

but i can't wait for Wednesday... the woman doing
my mother's nails called up: she's having trouble with her
1 year old toddler...
it was supposed to be a Saturday for my mother
getting her nails done...
i just sat there...
she can do Wednesday... but she has to drop off her
autistic older girl and come with "that" BAHOR
(crying baby) to a manicure and pedicure session...
but the baby is a RUGRAT... a little DEMON...
ooh! ooh!
me me! me me!
i just heard that there might be an issue...
i jumped in my head: hit the imaginary ceiling
then came back down (no glass)... i can do it!

come to think of it... cats are predictable creatures...
why? they're changeless...
but babies?! oh wow! it's like i'm back
in a chemistry lab... but instead of dealing
with potent substances... i'm dealing
with the "non-existence" of a soul!
i love it! i love it more than slapping prostitutes
riding me while they slap me in the face
and i slap them in the ***...
that's not true... the only girl that ever slapped me
in the face was Ilona... a Russian rich girl poor boy's wet-dream...
Khedra slapped me in the more appropriate place
while admiring my chest and stomach hair...
pinching my *******...

i'm going to have the time of my life on Wednesday...
i'll be baby-sitting! what's wrong with baby-sitting!
at worsst and at best she'll be pulling at my beard
and i'll be reversing the "talking parrot" sounds
of mimic... i'll be clucking... she'll be clucking back...
i'm too STEM orientated to think about life
subjectively... i'll be a male with a baby in my arms
on Wednesday... and a ******* in my arms
on a Thursday...

of course i'm going to take a picture!
i love babies... it will be so unlike petting a cat...
but it will be like petting a cat...
but unlike a cat: babies are forever unpredictable...
i'll slow down on drinking the "amber juice":
why? i want to have some fun with a baby...
i hope we can do whatever it necessary to
not relate... like the memory of my great-grandfather
in the kindergarten... him as a shadow
playing the big piano and me playing the toy piano...

MALVINA... that's the BAMBINO'S name...
the first girl i ever fell in love with:
i must have have been 6.... she was this albino blonde...
and her name was MALVINA...
this is going to be such a trip (if it happens)...
she's going to be pulling at my beard...
i'll be looking into her eyes
of disorientation...
thank god... she's not mine...
i can gladly keep watch of children that don't belong
to me... more willingly than you think...
i couldn't... some ideas need brushing up on...
i need to keep an eye on those...
but... from time to time?
if i get to become a baby-sitter?
i'll be a baby-sitter...
it's a welcome alternative to having to please
prostitutes...

hmph!
perhaps i'm an arrogant "****"... today i walked to
the local saying good-afternoon to one old woman...
saying another hello
to: hello Matthew... hello Matthew...
we grabbed each other's hands like in the 1950s
movies... when two Roman noblemen greet each
other... i.e. shook arms instead of hands...
we pulled the left hand on top of the hands
shaking: so? the four-hand-greeting...

there's something special about acquiring the "familial":
locus orientation that 20th century cosmopolitan
existentialism simply missed...
i can't wait for Wednesday... twice: thrice better than
sleeping with prostitutes... a sample of fatherhood...
i just... eh... what can you do?
it's not up to me... is it?
i can't exactly make women choose what's
to be chosen... if they chase after idiots.. idiotic times...
i came to one single mother once...
the one that "thought" she smelled alcohol on me...
i came back to her:
with homemade wine: cloudy... so? i chose
Franziskaner Hefe Weissbier...
you, girl, are going to drink my homemade:
cloudy wine... i'll drink...
a coorporaate cloudy beer with you...
single mum... her son's name? Friedrich...
i read his poem out-loud to him...
i also brought around a homemade banana loaf...
***** wasn't buying the myth...
oh well...  a guy comes round on a bicycle:
he has a banana loaf... homemade wine (cloudy)...

there's this much of love i am willing to give!
beyond that... ON YOUR, *******, WAY!
there's no point!
you've been hurt, i've been hurt... no!
i'm happy to just deal with a woman who needs
baby-sitting... doing my mother's nails...
needing someone to take take of her baby...
i'll do! i'll do! i'll do it!

it's ******* sad... for however much you want
to love: you're told to love less...
and by the same amount of "less":
you're asked to love "more"!

to love as yourself: you're never going to love
yourself as there might be a male "self"
to speak of: you ******* idiot!
you're a ******* toothpick in the waterfall!
i'm not saying "man-up": i'm just saying...
there are reality checks in place...
why do you think all the grandmas are *******
grandmas beginning and ending with?
where are the men?
in, a place, allocating, the most, bothered, men...
their... safeguard... from... interacting... with...
women....
me? i like to be the mediator...
that's me... between ******* and toddler...
eh... "ring baron" of a woman of: "beached whale"
value... what?!

that's Wednesday though... toddler Malvine is
here on Wednesday...
tomorrow's a Tuesday... that's a trip to Istanbul
for a beard trim...

i lost my beard-envy when i heard this one
Arab colt say: i love your beard, sir!
sir?! beard? i have a beard?!
i need to trim my mustache to kiss her in a way
she wants to be kissed...
but a beard?
i can't wait for Malvina... the toddler...
i want those:
chubby-bubbly-bub-bub-cheeks pressed
against mine... pretending to be a father
knowing that i'm not: a father...

i want cheese on top of the toast!
i want to keep all the Talmud secrets,
i want to keep the secrecies of babies
akin to the alignment of women.

p.s. and i have to agree with Bukowski in his
wisened post-mortem publication about
"going all the way"... there's no battle worth fighting
except with oneself... going all the way...
writing into the night... watching a lightning
storm: hearing no thunder...
thunder eluded me yesterday: there was only
lightning and then the glorious fall of rain...
in his own words:
and you will: you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame fire...

i am alone: i am not alone... i'm writing this post-scriptum
during the day because i felt that the night
was too beautiful to waste it upon completing
this "little effort"...

i just can't wait for tomorrow...
i'll take a picture of the two of us on the grass...
hopefully i'll get her mother's approval to jump
into the hot-tub with her... my little BAMBINO...

hmm... why is it that babies are as generic as old people?
when we're born we have universal needs...
when we're at the closure of our mortality:
it's all the same for either man and woman...
babies look alike: whether male or female,
the same is true for old people...
it's only in our prime that we seek out diverged
***-based needs...
men want particular things
as women want particular things...
men crave solace in aloneness...
women despise any talk of solance
equating aloneness with loneliness...

   what happened to the inquisitive old men
of antiquity akin to Socrates?
why have men not bothered to inquire about the intellect
when all their youthful toils of the body
have been completed? it's so stereotypical
of middle-aged men to assume that philosophy
books ought to be read in old age...
nope... that's completely untrue...
philosophy books ought to be read in a man's
20s... and by the time a man is ripened for old age...
he ought to be able to mix his early reading of philosophy
books (a priori) with his experience of life
(a posteriori)...

but it's not enough to simply say: logic... philosophy...
reason...
the Chinese Taoist sages covered pretty much everything
that modern science: finally caught up with...
what's ontology in Chinese philosophy? XING...
what's inherently me...
no... whatever the current trend is in western thinking:
implosive "western" & "thinking" i will perform the rite
of Pontius Pilate over... i will wash my hands clean
of the whole affair... this pseudo-intellectualism
this... GAME... of "GRAMMAR"...
there are far more interesting categories of words
than simply pronouns... nouns: for a start are more
interesting... how there's very little chance to catch
a diminutive noun in English... hey! that's a start!

you can't say beak (of a bird) in a way that beak:
allocated a diminutive suffix to the noun...
you have to say: little beak...
ah... but in other languages you can do just that!

dziób - beak... the diminutive being?
   dziobek... little beak...
                                             like i explained to this
older Turkish woman i was working a shift with
(god i fancied her, only later did i find out that she was
Turkish... that doe with fear in her eyes...
i still fancy her...) when she asked me about my accent...
i told her: to have an Essex accent you have to be born
in Essex... she lives in Kent and the Essex lads are
horrid to her... but i told her: since i'm bilingual...
there's this natural buffer zone for me to not have
a localised accent... i can have an generic: cosmopolitan
London accent... but even then... i'm a chameleon...

ha! to think that i didn't ask for permission to **** other
girls: Khedra actually demanded it!
she told me: you have to try all of them...
her ******* habbit and harking at non-existent phlegm
from her throat and nose...
well: good that i don't like *******...
enough of caffeine and nicotine is just about the same
for me...
the moment she mentioned having a *******
i was like... this second time ought to be better...
the first time i wasn't prepared...
i'll juggle the finances and take out more next time...
first time? with all that ****** changes i was sort
of disorientated...

but i can't wait for tomorrow... why?
i'll be babysitting! i'll have a BAMBINO to look after...
this gorgeous woman is coming over to
do my mother's nails...
she wouldn't have come because her bambino
is so much hassle these days...
as my mother was talking i was erratically nodding:
please bring her! please bring her!
i won't be drinking too much tonight...
i need to wake up at 7am and make an important
phone-call come 8am... then i'll wait...

seriously... that's the best dichotomy of: the life
of the other in your hands...
from slapping and biting prostitutes to then ensuring
my large hands take to tender care of a baby...
ooh! i'm sizzling with giggles and burps and farts
and stomach gurgling sensations...
i'll put on some vinyl record for her...
i'll focus a bright light on my little Frankenstein...
i'll bring down the word from on high into
her ears and then through her mouth
i'll try to steal the first word from her mother's
attempt at communication...
she already performed a mimic of me when i started clucking
my tongue... she clucked back:
the cluck of a horse buckling on cobblestones...

i'll have my little Frankenstein experiment...
i'll work around words and settle for onomatopoeias
first... i'll imitate sounds that humans are allowed
to make... it will be like going to a brothel:
but better... better still: it won't be my child...
it will be someone else's child...

come to think of it... it almost feels like that scene
from Game of Thrones... when a baby is brought before
the Night King... it will be such a welcome break from
the already idiosyncratic, unique character of my cats...
i can't change them: not that i can change a cat's ontology...
or for that matter being able to change Quarus...
ibn ****** ibn Azreal...
                 but i can travel to the moon and Antartica with
this baby... i can revel in leaving my first footprint
in the psyche of this child: not mine...
grant me the bare minimum of at least 3 hours
with this loose canon of an **** that will probably ****
the entire length of the Thames' river...

nothing to do today, cleaned the house yesterday,
there's still plenty of left-over pizza...
i worked the entire weekend... even yesterday
i didn't drink that much... but my body went into shutdown
relax mode... i went to bed at 12am and got up at 12pm...
Show Me Love crushed me...
walking around so many women fried my brain...
the moment one approached me for a handshake
and a wave another approached me to dance with her
then another approached me to "face the mirror"
and make me smile while doing a mirror-wriggling dance...
not even in the brothel did i see so much:
ripe, flesh...
by the end i was exhausted like a Solomon might...
3 years later... one for each night... and he still didn't
manage to make the rounds of his harem...
so? well... back in the day they didn't have ******...
so? he asked for a few willing men to be castrated...
he cut their ***** off and said: here... be their playthings...
otherwise female homosexuality will not allow me
their arousal upon my return!

well... sometimes a little bit of bitterness does seep into me,
it comes in, but: it does take off its shoes,
it asks me whether it can smoke a cigarette,
it does all the very formal things i except certain states
of mind to allow me to "challenge"... it only comes
when a woman ponders my state: why aren't you still
married?
i swollow the "pill" and in turn ponder...
hmm... why? why?                       hmm... why?
isn't it obvious?
                             i could swear it was obvious!

the best conversations i ever had were with myself:
on paper... akin to this...
the cost of living is not worth putting too many hours
into working...
working is far better than stealing...
but i'm also not going to follow the route of rich people:
how do rich people get rich?
through loop holes that poor people can't navigate...
like my neighbour (who killed my cat)
she only own an off-license shop...
   but she... blah blah... she had three "bulgaries"
in the past 4 years... some that happened at noon...
some in the middle of the night: me? i'm usually perched on
my windowsill until 4am... i saw jack-****...
evidently: a scam...
                  
born into a Catholicism: yet i have retained all the Protestant
traits of honesty... even i once exclaimed
that England "used" to be a high-trust society...
it still might be: but in London you better have
double-standards... esp. with the Somalis taking breaks
on shifts... some you can oil-up toward your
persuasions about work by managing to
give them free food... otherwise... Sisyphus at his toil...

until tomorrow Malvina... until tomorrow my temp.
joy of a Bambino.

A game of cat and mouse. Chasing my self around my house. I've been racing for an exit, an escape, a way out. The door is locked and the walls are lined with grout. I've grown to the ceiling. My room is crushing, I am nieling. Locked in my tomb. I am looking for healing. Shaking with hunger, I'm on strike. I don't wish to continue my plunder, life is a slowly drifting slumber. The Comfort is numbing. My days are limited now to a finite number. I am at ease in the most sadistic of ways. Calming nerves by the bottle. Death serves me so I Cottle. pills will bring me curves. The short, sort with an upper to snort, downer to swollow. It is fair that my life is hollow. I hate to rued the ***** to illude my crude attitude I've stewed. So I will no longer relish food. Still, by choice. Perish

perhaps one of the last few glitches in
the youtube algorithm...
i once mentioned the channel
    hakiri ditari...
               looks like... 666MrDoom is feeding
me up-to-speed 2020 releases...

beside the point...
           brain for fudge... packing...
no exoskeleton to crawl into and become mush...
even if... ms. amber dresses herself
in a cancan attire of a bourbon tongue:
slick...

no real geometry for a god, no god...
thought... here: jigsaw says 'ello...
      and bye-bye...
           when the body is fully retailed...
for the debt to be paid...
for the worth of day...
when all bones are given the ol'
arithmetic... and some new muscles
are discovered: that... "once upon a time"
were treated like mollusks
on the dodo-pact of exodus from existence...

a snail exists...
   i, man: insist...
          a vicious cycle...
          a stone a moon a sea simply is...
a snail exists...
i, as man: insist!
               the golden calf is coming...
i'll look more mediterranean by the day...
i'll become indistinguishable from
the... libyans... or the greeks...
sacarcens or... whatever float me boat:
that particular day...

   lucky me... vamp in december...
i truly can't remember when i last sported
a farmer's suntan!
i'm... white?!
         pass the porky crux of burn...
avaricious suntan...
          suntan... not heretic... antynom...
ah!                    fa'n'ah'tic!
       suntan fanatic... briefly...
               this year... because?
what a strange spring we've been having in
england... no one can remember
such a glorious april! no one can cite
to memory: such a blissfull may!
              i'm white as a... what remains
of the boar: through a pig...
and into what becomes leather... shoes...
and a leather belt...

   everything is treated as an economic gain:
everything: except for the oink...
pig ears are a delight in manhattan... apparently...
if only the pig had...
   crude... camel... hardened toes:
well... you wouldn't eat them...
or bite your own...
bite your nails but find gagging mechanisms
when it's not a fly... but a hair...
floating in your soup...

                 exoskeleton of the body...
or for: the body... god, thought, soul...
sorry... i was too busy today...
i was so into using this brilliance of a...
    magnusson hand-saw...
that... well... it looks like i "forgot" to
check my "other" blood-pressure...
or... i want to reach the point of maturity
where jerking off will be too boring...
where: like today...
the hand can be used for better things
than checking for impotence...
or... frost-bite on this tundra of love in:
zee...         westliche länder...
   hyphen? westliche-länder...
no hyphen compound? westlicheländer?
hyphen? westliche-länder...
no hyphen compound? westlicheländer

i.e. heidegger ponderings VII
"aphorism" XXIII...
         'why do the french have an academically
governed language'

i was just about to ask a... similar question:
why is english a shotgun (shrapnel)
of german...
  moreover: why is german a chemistry-noun
enterprise compounding fudge-patchwork?
more so: why are there remains
of german in english in chemistry...
only there... are there blatant distrusts
of hyphens...
                       dihydrotestosterone...
in english...
              freundschaftsbezeigungen        
in dutch deutsche: no... no dutch...

hyphenated / compounded... myopic i...
    shrapnel 'oi! over 'ere!
                     painting and... laying bricks...
contra...

  hand-saw? well... that could be up for
an oxford dictionary consideration...
the first stage is an inquiry for a hyphen basis...
hand saw has to make entry as: hand-saw...
before it can tease... the german...

    hand saw / wood saw...
                      either way: shrapnel at first:
petition to the oxford dictionary:
it might get a hyphen: precursor to the proper
compound...
                       handsäge / holzsäge...

handsaw / woodsaw...
                   umlaut adam-isch:
ä - yes... sage and thyme (surds of bindi) -
and rosemary... sa'g'eh...
    rose mary: rose-mary: rosemary...
                   all that is required?
a plural article and a pronoun:
    i saw hands!
                        past participle of: seeing...
a mime!
            and no mimic... eh?
tough little brandenburgian-chesnut to
swollow: since: the proverb states:
if the swallows are flying high in the sky:
no chance of rain for tomorrow...

i tried to dissect a liter of bourbon
into 4... the best i could get away with was
a portion of 3...

the old germans and the new germans:
the prussians...
and the otherwise shy germans
of austria with the hungarians
in their bosoms...
to remember: when the prussians
and the lithuanians were the last
pagans of europe:
and the teutonic order...
having pickled barbarossa went back
home...
where to: mein herr?!
east: north... tease the rus!
           such is this old matriarch
of a continent... i have no expatriate
sentimentality of the english
fior italy... or the new found cheese fetishes
of the ****** women for...
i'm so obscure when it comes
to love affairs with the p.i.g.s. -
well... yeah... even greece...
                    rozpierdol mnie na serbii...
albo... macedonii... lepiej!
wrak na krymie! lepiej jeno nie wiele
lepiej!
    
      will there every come a time when
i'll fall in love with Warsaw?
        will there be a time...
when i pass through it...
   and not feel... like a paranoid schizophrenic?
east end of london...
    i submerge myself into what
a h. p. lovecraft couldn't stomach of
new york... and... no... none of that
eerie oddity of...

from under the iron curtain...
it's a make-shift of a sicilon veil and:
that joke about how copper-wire
was invented: two scots scoubbling
over a penny - stretching it...
and of course... the pandemonium
of the pill in rubber...
the hounds from under the iron curtain...
if only i was looking for
a marriage meme... if only:
most certainly - and love brings with it
that sort of certainty -

   you have to excuse me...
lost all ambitions to express a freedom
of speech with a video...
i much like kierkegaard's posit of what
writing allows:
where... is... the megaphone?
to write is to escape the often bout
of thought: beside the "narrative" of thinking
and its mingling with claustrophobia...

"too many" ukranians and mongols
in the parts of warsaw i've passed...
   and that... is hardly this...
disneyland of bubblegum and pink that
london provides with its...
deserving reach into...
how did the raj indians survive if not
bribe their way out with well-above-average
culiniary-skills?!
the spaniards and south h'american gold...
gold contra the spices...
blah blah...

ever hear a greek speak and forget he was
either greek or speaking greek
and think... outlandish of me... i must be...
speaking to a spaniard...
lisp signature 'ere... lisp signature v'er...
****-oh-little-me...
this world is too big for my little problems
and conquests of...
     propensity! it's like...
watching: four weddings and a funeral...
thinking that england, circa 1994...
was some sort of mythological land...

       i was ate... back in 1994... and i was in
Ęgland... yes: ******* liberals with that N
of yours... have your way with it...
Napelon or Nig()er...
bounce bounce: siamese twins:
twiTTing... giGGling...
                                                       gaLLoping...
     because... like... "never"..
   N-Dynamite wasn't a depiction of...
                        jeffrey dahmer -
the lesser: more sedated "if only" scenario...
"orthography": or a tux without
a bow-tie scenario...
because i still think of orthography as:
it would be desired...
to have some diacritical marks...
since... hydra: the hovering d(.)t
above... can be cut...
and there would be no clarifying certainty as
to a... noticed "difference"...
ȷokıng asıde... ȷust lıke so...

   mind's split: and the apostrophe?
a susan: i don't know...
well... cyrillic... please!

                Wojcicki (what's apparent)
                Вoйćıцkí (what's being revised; as...
                what's being: under- / over-stated)
    
         and no cyrillic! doubly please!

perhaps in exile - perhaps just scouting -
perhaps less an immigrant and perhaps
none of them: the above...

                             ottomans for supper?
anemic anglo-saxons for aperitifs?
                           right now...
                            "elsewhere" confirms
the same concerns for crux...
vector status as might: "being" and a "here"...
here: da... and now: jetzt...
                               clearly...
       some words as just pardonable in their
confines of english... they might as well
become relegated to the status of myth...
clouds... psychiatry and / or...
a spectacular gem to behold...
   not in real life... but in the acted
representation of a james murray...
                    
               this is hardly a medium to
bemoan... or to call forth lacklustre scrupules
of indolence... to breathe...
with these words... in a limbo of libido...
and what's happening "elsewhere"...
how shouldn't i pay a visit to a recess
of my mind... and make clusters of
a memory that erases all that comes forth
as... pitiable justice to further a hope
for eloquence... without all that:
of a desired / yet derided...
                                             etiquette...
the straitjacket contra the liberal arts
of attire... the catwalk seen-by-the-other...
the god the mystical "other"...

                    does... peeling an apple...
slicing it...
take away the joy... of eating it... with
each bite... with the skin intact?

I stand alone at my watch ,
amugst the howling winds and seas,
that have raged against this land .
Curupt this anchor held fast ,
for no autumble tide shall keep this watch ,
or seagulls in search of prey ,
circle  ancient mariners lost out at sea .



she whispers “ come “ .
I can hear her amid the seagulls call and the crashing of the waves .              
Is there  no lantern for me to burn so she might rescue me ?

And the rain it falls like sharpened iceicles that whip against my face ,
doth it sting my eyes and bring manacles for me to embrace ?


Yet in days I have waited ,
and the years have gone by ,
do I now stand here alone without hope ,
or a final goodbye?

This ship I await brings only hope to this land ,
of truth my fair maiden ,
out of loyalty grand .
It shall bring peace to this nation if not joy to my heart .
And when it’s anchor hits water should my soul ever depart ?
shortly not for though this waiting brings only sorrow to my eye ,
she still holds up a lantern to my sight ,
as the days have gone by .


My feet are not steady ,
should I stumble and fall ,
and yet I grow weary ,
should the reaper ever call ?


If these waves that are before me should ,
Swollow me hole ,
then my heart on wings must fly out to her
carried on a sceptre of gold .




how the swallow sings so sweetly ,
they pass me by in numbers as my fire burns cold .
For I ...

(. * waves and seagulls. can be heard *)

“. My darling my love “
she cradles me against the seas
“;a kiss as I lay dying ,
her dress ,
abandoned to the seas ,
her  heart cries out ,
as I lay dying .

My flower ,
my little crumb has sailed this stormy sea ,
and now I’m sad to say ,
she has to bury me.

******?
    ******?!
      an abortion in its earliest
stages is... ******? so what the ****
is an *******
              into a tissue?
genocide?! at what point is my *****
your high-ground
for morals in reverse? i went to a catholic school,
and we had this "debate"
aged 15, or 16... that ***** you up for life,
i guess that's worse
than being kiddy-fiddled  by a priest in terms of
intellectual self-fulfillment...
******?
         ******?!
      really?
              well me *******
is apparently genocide,
because all the women shoot
out are vacant eggs... oh, but that's no ******...
that's just ******* galaxies!
so why not strap my ******* **** to
your forehead and tell me
when it's sunrise, for ****'s sake...
   and he-**... a bowl of cornklakes
                and a bowl of porridge!
oh... so what happens
when in the *** act you swollow
my *****?
       am i going to start calling you
a ******* cannibal?!
oh some do... and they then ask:
                    what would my daddy think?
****, that tongue needs a niqab,
or a james bond intro
                               of: for your eyes only.
so where are all the pretty girls on
the streets these days?
                  hasn't christianity created a niqab
of domesticity?
                           or something seen through
a paparazzi camera lens?
               you been to the fish market lately?
see any ******* mermaids?
   nope... all i saw were dead cod heads
and squids...
                         now... that really is the trick
  worth a niqab equivalent...
                  hide them in rooms... eyes staring
at walls rather than at people...
                             perhaps that's just me...
           perhaps i haven't visited
       kensington gardens or knightbridge
for a while...
             there is a niqab concept in christianity,
the men wear sunglasses (even at night),
        and the pretty women are seen through
a camera lens... in a land, far far away,
beyond the seven seas, and the seven mountain
ranges...
                  but this abortion = ****** *******...
answer... is me ******* into a tissue
                                                   a genocide?
   and you gulping down my *****
                                         make you a cannibal?
as the story goes: just because you asked me
to ******* into you, gives you, power, over me?

One evening when the lights were still
bright  and shiney bawballs that dangled
and  had once clung on for dear life,
now started to fall .
one by one  .
then the elphs and the nymphs  !   ,
one and all .
they knew the end had begun. .
The pixies fled to the four corners of the wood  ,
along with the fairys who were upto no good !
For even the angel who sat on the tree
saw from far away what was to be ,
the creeping darkness on this twelth night opened its mouth to swollow
them whole !

so The Angel spread her wings of light
and devised a plan for only one could
be queen of this land .


And so the night put up a fight
as the harpie stole souls that were
not hers by right ,

before she was vanquest by  her hand
and sent back to never never land
and when the centaur and spinx
had fled the kind angel said
whos next ?
And so the clown that slumped against a tree just laughted and laughed,
then when his head fell off
he laughted even more ,
even though his head was on the floor .
Then when his arms fell off he laughted some more .
Untill his insides split and everything ended
up on the floor .,
and so he laughted some more .
So mother said put your toys away that tree has to come down today .