Taking dinner from your litter
not a drifter seeking shelter
an organiser
sympathiser
Hero of the oppressed
the distressed
While millions wait in hunger
shipwrecked
poverty entrenched
capitalism unchecked
Does it make you wonder
if your contempt
for the dumpster diver
is justified?
Use the planet
for your plunder
it is a little ******
your appetiser
could quench the hunger
of a village over winter
Does it upset you to accept
your excuses
are inept?
The diver of the dumpster
is an enigma
a free thinker
challenging you
with counterculture
to wake from your slumber
reject
excess
redress
Food injustice

anyone spot what's so wrong with these?

Al Muhajirat
@ummmuthana2
sisters come to the land of freedom!
we have everything here for you...
Dawla university to learn your deen
and practice what you learn!        meaning religion in Arabic

first of all... can you please string-me a
complete sentence in fluent Arabic,
then add the relevant idiosyncratic
markings of geopolitical: here's Scottish
with a fragrance of Yiddish,
here's Welsh, and here's Northern Irish...
no, seriously, i'd come with my spare clothes
and tent, but i want you to encourage me
to do so in fluent Arabic,
otherwise you just sound like some Jehovah's
witness strawberry picking (not even
random words but) established words...
in the times of the quasi I.R.A.,
so much for home comforts,
like **** will i ever abandon the sedative properties
of alcohol... fair enough on
the Ram Bam Dam month - fasting does make
me focused... i'm just waiting for someone
to find my writing so offensive as to **** me,
properly, so i'm dead, not this puny amateur
crap that leaves me partially disabled from
the life i used to live: mainly Spartan,
physically; can you ******* just do it properly?
i'm tired of faking death, even death is
*******... it's like a case of Rasputin...
when is that ******* going to die?

Oum Dharr Ash Shaami
@UkhtiB
Wallah, your family will be the biggest
test for you once you make Hijrah. They're
either with you or without you.
                     i swear to god
               and Mecca to Medina 622 trip
    respectively...
                                 so you're basically saying
that northern people were Vegan turnip pickers
while the dawn of civilisation came from
Palm Springs and the shaking of coconuts?
my ancestors must have really loved the horseradish,
and given what the end product of monotheism
gave us: globalisation, and this frightening media-centred
origin of all things... mine's quiet obscure
in all honesty, and i like it like that...
thank god for Scandinavian mythology being
remembered, i'd call the Slavic history a complete
success on ethnic cleaning with the incorporation of
Christianity, the prime ethnic cleanser tool...
what a great improvement...
               haggling with the Irish, are you?
well... save me a spot when the next congregation
of Worms takes off... i'd love to don a bishop's headgear
and spit into a burning fire to get a sizzling critique back...
call it bacon? i'd call it anything i'd like.
eat bacon, economise salt.
                                               and no, god isn't taken
seriously, never was, never will be,
                                we have too much human potential to
risk in not expressing itself: humanism,
or another word for it? making tyrants the prime fetish...
not bedroom fetish... real life,
                 on the public pavement fetish:
we love them! we pet them like cats...
until they mature into people that gauge out
the cats' eyes... Vladdy Vladdy Vladdy...
a Sr. Christopher Wren man of kindred spirit would
really love to see St. Basil's Cathedral once more,
like he might want to see the orange of a carrot,
or the yellow of banana, but not necessarily
the van Gogh sunflower covert gay ****;
i heard it, it comes from the ****, the great big blank
entombed in the great big bang...
what a great choice of words to describe our history...
big... bang... a blue balloon would do just fine...
and for all that censoring of subjectivity in the west...
all that censoring of subjectivity?
means we all share one concept,
      the most tyrannical form of government,
not democratic, but autocratic, meaning we accept
everything on an Utopian level...
it's Belgium alright, flat as a pancake...
the plagiarism plateau - we all sound alike,
feel alike, isolated, redundant, and most probably
prone to terrorism and such-like adventures...
the BBC went bankrupt because of the Jimmy scandal...
Blue Peter's ship was capsized by the tears of
irrefutable lack of judgemental destiny...
Disney... well, Disney's just a placebo drug:
it eventual-ise / -ize / -eyes, something becoming
eventual, incremental revisionism toward
a predictable result - Disney placebo L.S.D. -
more from the tweets from Twatter

Umm Dujana Britaniya
@UmmDujji
Sisters who want to help making hijrah can
contact me on surespot: UmmDujji May Allah
put us on a path that will please him most.
                                          a secure messaging service.

and finally
Bakr Britanyia
@OmmBakr
food free... house free... ya3ni (like, in Arabic)
                           that's it, i'm done,
i've never seen a language incur so many mutilations,
it's not even funny, it goes way beyond circumcision,
or tattoos, or piercing... it's revolting...
                             ya free knee
                                       ya fry fri? huh?
                     ya free nigh?
                                     3 3 3 e...
        *******...
                                       when is this ****** carousel
going to stop?! neveR?           oh, i like that,
write a capital letter at the end of the word
when asking to revel in dropping the exclamation mark
ditto: neveR?              v. never?!
                                                         ­       yes,
language and the entrusted phonetic codices entrusted
to me are what Thesaurus Rex does to the dictionary,
a multiplier, and a Bach sympathiser, he
engages in language polyphony, i.e. synonymous
covert tactics of saying the same **** via
the long-way-round... bubble gum Gilgamesh...
i've seen weird **** done in the English cuisine:
sandwiches with crisps in them,
i've seen chips in buns... but come on... avocado
on toast?! what's wrong with guacamole?
that's why i mentioned Gilgamesh, say g g g,
you know, acquiring a vocabulary is one thing,
practising it effectively is another... and succumbing to
mortal pangs is yet another...
                                  and i can't do crosswords for
the love life... it's just BLANK...
                                        i don't treat language
as a way to learn in, and then waste it on games...
this is this and that is that... clear division...

nonetheless i'm still peeved about these tweets...
i'm betting the same people who endorse
a full competence of Arabic have these kind of minions
who they keep restrained by only spitting out
a few Arabic words, and only signifying words,
instructive words, not anything resembling ego...
which is a shame, ****** unconvincing mind you,
i'd love to do a Byron scenario with them,
but it's the barbarism of their fake adaptation
of Arabic that is worse than their beheading propaganda...

*a jak chcesz? to ci po Polsku też coś zaśpiewam, gnoju.

Vote Corbyn,
Let's make him win,
He's the man for the job,
We don't want the Tory snob
To sell off our NHS, she's not fit to negotiate any deal for Brexit,
We need her to exit
Number ten,
She's lying again,
Corbyn has planned the budget for the labour manifesto,
Yet on this, May is still being slow,
She says she's strong and stable,
Yet we are able
To see she's actually weak and wobbly,
The opposite of what she claims to be,
She wasn't going to call a snap election,
Again she's gone in the opposite direction,
Corbyn wants to make a brighter future for all,
He doesn't want any of us to fall,
He cares for the homeless, he wants to abolish tuition fees,
This is what our country needs,
He's a terrorist sympathiser I hear you say,
Yet for May to sell weapons to Saudi is perfectly okay?
He's explained himself and answered all questions given,
He's a man who is very driven,
She's Tory through and through,
For the elite and few,
She's all for bringing back the barbaric act, she likes to fox hunt,
I, alongside many others, think she's a ****,
Corbyn is down to earth, a friendly man,
Many say they don't think he can
Run this country too well,
I think I'd rather have him do his best than be in a land of Tory hell,
He'll do us well,
He'll do us proud,
I'm a Corbyn supporter
And I'll shout it loud.

Blue shirt
I can’t trust a boy like you.
Sectarian sympathiser,
driving brothers apart.

I see a glint in your eye
whenever I
lean in for the unanswered kiss
self-assuredness is your favourite

amuse bouche. Nice with a fine wine
tastes a little like shellfish.
Picpoul de Pinet
for a girl that’s hardy on the outside.

Just when I am starting to turn
purple on the lips
you breathe air into me
and hide again.

----------

Believe me,
there’s red in these veins
and flames in my lungs.
Your eyes

eye me up, river blue.
Chip fat and *** smoke
make out for a foul cloud but
girl, you’re the pearl of the night.

Your mouth is the glossy phone
I should answer,
wanting love on a tongue
like a pillow of wine.

When you grip my shirt,
expect to connect, I end up
pouring out puddles of nothing,
your lips apart like violets.

If
I were
Immortal
I would desire to become a sympathiser

.           W A R N I N G.
                WARNING.
                  warning.

   Santa Klaus is a *******,
who goes into children’s rooms
after dark, while Rudolf, a ****
  sympathiser, metaphorically
     promotes, Khmer Rouge,
      plus The Red Brigade,
as he waits in the snow with
a Rufous nose collecting ***’s,
from insomniacs, the homeless,

                      and

           Domatophobiacs!

W A R N I N G.
                WARNING.
                  warning.

   Santa Claus is a *******,
who goes into children’s rooms
after dark, while Rudolf, a ****
  sympathiser, metaphorically
     promotes, Khmer Rouge,
      plus The Red Brigade,
as he waits in the snow with
a Rufous nose collecting ***’s,
from insomniacs, the homeless,

                      and

           Domatophobiacs!

In human disaster
There is only one sympathiser

That is
  
     Smile

title: f-in-fat
body:
limited
function:
selfie-
hard-on        502 bypass... again: more fun than google-whacking

in English phonetics this word can almost be
conflated with: AS OF...
       i know... the F can be hardened: well...
"hardened" into a V... while the S can be put
against a mirror and made into a sort of "chiral"
Z...  
         UPA UPA genocides...
                           Ukrainians burning the Polish
flag - even digging a grave for the white eagle...
Up Ah... Up Ah... Up we go... Ah... Up we go!
ASOF that now can become... AЗOВ:
the best boy-scouts for... a long long time...
no... i wouldn't get involved in the matters of
КAЦAПЫ - so many clueless people out there...
so many... Nietzsche once mentioned that
the Polacks where the equivalent of the French
in the Slavic ethnicity...
           well... who are the Czechs, i thought they
were the French... but then again...
in his height of madness he claimed to be
a ******... so many clueless people...
                it's a bit like asking yourself the question...
what's the difference between a Serb
and a(n) Ukrainian... not much...
geographical but still the same **** sympathiser...
- i woke up today and made my mind up...
i promised myself to only read philosophy books
in my native tongue...
and i stuck true to that... Kant, Heidegger,
Kierkegaard, Spinoza, Tatarkiewicz, Voltaire...
but... i broke the rule when it came to Nietzsche...
i'm about to break the rule once more...
but, come to think of it... i already invested
my knowledge of English in this philosopher's
literary output... Nausea...
      the best months of my teenage years
were spent reading his trilogy where the protagonist
had my name: Matthieu...
    the Roads to Freedom:
Age of Reason, Iron in the Soul, the Reprieve...
now... i've had in my collection a copy of
Being and Nothingness in English for a while...
i'm tired of reading excerpts from my favourite
book (Bertrand Russell's History of Western
Philosophy) on the throne of thrones (the toilet)
so... i picked up Sartre's magnum opus
and skimmed through it... rereading the passages
i already underlined years ago...
passages about SINCERITY and BAD FAITH...
oh... wow... so relevant today...
no... i'm not going to get into the any ad hominem...
oh my my... these ideas i don't need to
dig a bilingual trench for... i can work with
these ideas directly... in English... i don't need
to subconsciously translate Kant from ******
to English... hmm... well... i do have a literary
background in Sartre... to return to his raw ideas...
this could be fun...
                    i'm guessing it will not take me 2 years
to read and meditate as it took me
when reading Hiedegger's Sein und Цeit...
yes, the time is right...
                something to counter all the moral
grand-standing virtue signalling ******* of the public...
people caught up in the world having
abandoned their truly worthwhile little almost
solipsistic lives... i mean: WORTHWHILE...
what i like about French philosophers...
they invoke... objects... Descartes used a table...
and perhaps a chair...
Sartre? he uses mirrors... and a keyhole...
i'll use mirrors and smoke...
  no need for fire...
                         that comes later...
oh... and a bicycle...
                                 it's going to be a welcome
break from all that heavy: lead... Germanic thought...
i want to take a break from meditating on
Heidegger and Kant...
some French influence will do me good...
while others... go on holiday to the Caribbean...
on cruises... and still hate themselves / hate being
there... can't relax...
   i'll drink some whiskey... scribble... doodle...
do the washing... hang it on the washing line in the garden...
go for a bicycle ride...
and change my mind... who's going to influence
me next? who am i going to become with this
person? i already mentioned this before:
it's the art of necromancy...
isn't it necromancy?! isn't it?
   reading a book by a dead person...
  not that sort of magic... not LITERALLY... but:
LITER-ALLY... em... via literature...
      read a book by a dead person: you're a necromancer...
aren't you? oh... and add and devise some
original interpretation... or a bit like...
using a fork as a knife... and a knife as a fork...
yes... spring is coming...
     i can feel it in the air...
only last night i killed my first mosquito...
    the insects are stirring... next i'll be gagging when
taking out the garbage... drowning maggots
in bleach... but that's different to...
well... my first girlfriend had this memory of...
pouring salt on snails...
   hmm... drowning maggots in bleach...
well... they're maggots... and i'm not exactly going
fishing and... i'm taking out the garbage...
i don't want the trash men to puke, either...
    then there was this one time...
back in Poland... 7 years old? maybe...
wandered off into the woods alone... then by a brook
encountered two boys playing sadist...
i inquired... so... what you're up to?
oh... we're smearing this frog with lipstick...
then we're going to set it alight...
         right... ****** off i most certainly did.

.            W A R N I N G.
                WARNING.
                  warning.

   Santa Claus is a *******,
who goes into children’s rooms
after dark, while Rudolf, a ****
  sympathiser, metaphorically
     promotes, Khmer Rouge,
      plus The Red Brigade,
as he waits in the snow with
a Rufous nose collecting ***’s,
from insomniacs, the homeless,

                      and

           Domatophobiacs!

poetry as some vague: pick-me-up...
      "poetry"...

there comes a time in a man's life:
say, he was young and foolish
and by foolish i implore anyone to conjure up

the self-deprecating fantasy of
a james joyce insistence on proclaiming
to the world this... miasma...
no... this myopia of ambition
in the literary realm:

to give unto the world a... "unique" perspective
on life, this... original sin of
prior to me not foot has trodden this path...
well... oh well well...

how void these ambitions of uniqueness
are...
stupor, agony, angst...
lethargy and all the thesauric affluence
of verbiage: like a bouquet of rose
tinted grimaces...

i was not allowed to cry to mourn my grandfather's
passing...
however stingy my grandmother
the mother of my mother was...
he died of impromptu neglect
by someone ripping all the stamps
from envelopes posted...
as if she wanted him to unwillingly known
that no one cared...

it only took a month for the deterioration
to unfold...
i sooner bumped my head on the radiator
in my room, bleeding from my head
sooner i bled from my head
than i uttered a cry, a wolf of agony...

because i was denied mourning...

angels of modern technology...
a seance with my grandfather's son,
my mother's brother...

3 weeks he spent in a medically induced coma...
30 minutes shy off of receiving the call...
i couldn't grimace,
i couldn't fake it...
my face contorted as best it could
to fathom some sort of sanity,
politeness, cordiality,
the socially sensual appeasing, appealing...

but then the video call was cut
and i spent a minute's worth of eternity
contemplating
our morality: "our":
whims, necessities,
money earning habits
money spending gambits,
frivolities and follies...

what was once a man, without due grace
to compare to a butterfly...
simply by sensual agitation
and reaction to light, sound, colour,
darkness...
was now... reduced to a recluse of
the mortal shell...
foggy eyed glass of seeing
murky brain... two hydroceles on the brain...

he vaguely spoke of Valhalla,
how we would feast on beetroots...
if my absence of "ambition" concerning
crossword puzzles was never more adamant
than now, then now:
talking to what was once a butterfly:
regardless of ascribing grace,
but at least virility and an imploding
mortal purpose...
now... a larva... a cocoon even
was what become of an identity
once called: Martin...

does Martin know Martin?
because: sure as **** i don't think i've been
speaking to Martin...
hell... two hydroceles are not two
imaginary horns protruding...
nor is this a gangrene of the work
of electronic tectones
of vaguely associating dreams with
sleep and sleep with death...

i peered into those eyes and tried
to make recollections...
coming to the fore the recollections
of vague, social justice poetics of
the cult of the token ethnicities
this semblance of appearing to live
alongside the Hyperboreans
this allure of desensitising the volk
of the northern cranium
like these people will allow
a language to become a gross grammatical
grotesqueness
on the grounds of a historical lineage
whereby my past is so dissociative
(as oppressor) from the victim -
this allure of the toothless animal
having a grip of the jaws so tight
that regardless of bone by mere evolutionary
ingenuity: necessity is the mother
of all innovation...
this grip of the jaws and the acidic potency
of the saliva easily able to leech
onto anything living and morph
it into protein, fat, carbohydrate,
vitamins, mineral, fibre components...
by suckling to a monstrous grone
of pleasuring-agony of the feast...

bad poetry vibes, otherwise a sensual realism
of the impeding: knock knock...
knock knock... someone's... ooh! at the door...

the world is strangely happening
while this personal crescendo unfolds
and i am wrapped and i am warped
into the minor tickle agony of world-speak
of journalistic world-speak...
weltsprechen...
                           talk about the weather,
talk about the premier league
and whether Liverpool f.c. or Arsenal
still have a chance of clinging
to the league title against
the cigar smoking Guardiola...

weltsprechen... weltspreschen...
me? i like the alt-Germanic addition of the S
because the germans tend to slip
into ich: with the Greek X or Spanish J
for ha ha...
with an addition of S to make -sch- equivalent
to Ś...  akin to Rammstein's song:
ich will...         it's actually isch will...

Ś: DAS IST DER WEISCHER SH'AH
                                                                     Š
שש
               by count 6 arms and 6 candles...
by count a protruding E
and almost a W
although wonk to one side...
an F's marriage to W...

       usher in the argh of a hark at SH'AH...
on the second H(ebrew)...

poor Edie... neglected by my turmoil...
her stay in London undermined all my attention
to create a fantasy of carousel rides...
it would be easier on my heart
to burden myself with tales of her
past with unfaithful partners...
two stones one bird
of my existential 0 at Greenwich
when she retracted her posit
on my claim: the meridian line is more
important than the equator...
at least to us... 17h30min apart
from flying to Lihue from London...
11h apart when stationary...

and she had the child-like tenacity to convince
me that God somehow invented
the equator... ha...
as i clocked in with Prometheus (the movie)
the citation: god does not build in straight lines...
besides one:
the straight line of you are born
and then you are dead...
the only conclave resisting the geometric
abnormality of god and the capacity of
straight lines:

one is born and one is dead
one exists then one doesn't...
ha... the ambiguity of the shrapnel words
of conjunction that are: then...
one is... and...
arguments allocated to:
but one is in heaven then one falls
then one is relocated to a heaven once
more? that is not the rite of the gods
to be bound to a heaven
then disgraced, then humbled...
incarnated among us mortals
to then relearn one's presence as the chosen,
the elect, reconveyining in one's
former abode?!

du haben mich... schrecklich denken...
zweitekummer: a second grief...
for worth of salt
and the yet unexplored Dune universe
that has come as a relief to all science fiction
and Star Wars
in that in latched onto the Islamic universe
and incorporated a second Lawrence of Arabia
myth...
for if Spice and Arakkas...
then Salt and Earth...

                  salt the equivalent of spice...
for us aquatic creatures
to truly belong among the rubble and mountains
we would have to be impregnated
by the tides of thirst and
of distinguishing **** from ****...
to retain the less fluid morph
of the agony of bones and nutrient loss...
to distinguish **** from **** unlike
our humble companions the pigeons...

only days ago i attempted to fall asleep
to an audiobook...
what other audiobook besides
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
would i care to listen to?
for a book so slim...
so much was invested in the curiosity of
Harry's uncle... Vernon Dursley...
such imaginative work by the people
who brought the book to life...
because? seriously?
              well....

the pure stroke of genius came with
the only visualbook that
was the Shawshank Redemption...
more than an audiobook... more more...

höhepunkt:
                      the pinnacle... a phrase of
revelation...
unlike when a lion "tames" an antler mammal
unlike when a spider stuns
and subsequently cocoons they prey
immobile...
death has no voice: only the tightness
of life...
yet... with a creature who will not be eaten
so willingly...
by fraud and self-
    earthquake and sea and fire...
by cancerous growths
those replica botanical spurs of mistletoe...
the voices of the softly weakened
limitless agonia
the mortal gives up his mental faculties
to Death... death personified...
vaguely speaking a speaking...

          this brood of the Nether Lord...
who makes an egotistical incision
to reassure the living:
of the transition period... from animate
to inanimate to animate once
more as grains of sand in the desert
upon the winding of the winds...
and the time, scaled... to imitate droplets
of water...
countless rain drop by drop
covering the entirety of the earth...
both the fertile plains and the inhospitable
distances either north or south
upon the glaciers...

       ich haben gesprochen mit Frau Tod...
the body is there... "there"...
weakened by 3 weeks in a coma,
once recognisable, a masculine threat
on my own integrity concerning the number
of ****** partners...
a prompt to bust my nuts (as it were)...
mortgage paid, money saved,
retired mid 50s...
           and now what?
obliterated plans of a future
spent living back with an 80 year old mother
drinking beer watching t.v.
listening to ****** music
       friends... friends... now like vultures...
clinging to the money...

SĘPY...          vultures...

                     and poor Edie and all of Reyla's
upheavals coming back to Kauai:
ka-wah-e
                  from London...
i did bring the fox at Greenwich
and the two ladies were introduced to London
in the grand style of a Tudor boat ride
from Greenwich pier to Westminster pier...
grimmacking scar-lock of Reyla's face
at every corner... my best estimate overwhelmed
by the sight of such urban conundrum
that it should not: ever... have a chance to exist
against her usual sight of Kawaikini
in the morning...
so much walking... walking everywhere...
walk walk everywhere: but not a seat to sit on...

who could possibly be a fan of violin music?
i asked that once...
because it was just a precursor to
all that guitar and wig lasoo ***** jerking
stage fright fuckery...
before i discovered:
Tartini's violin sonata in G minor
                            
unlike the death wish upon cremation
of the serial killer...
Camille Saint-Saëns' danse macabre?
too ******* jovial!
where the macabre "macbeth"?
the devil weeping is nowhere to be found!
but in Tartini?! oh! aplenty!

the phantom stormed out of the english national
opera... after the first act of
the die zauberflöte...
switch to a scene from Lethal Weapon 2...
Alfons... but but... you're bleak?!
black? bleak? black beak... pity...
but... das opera ist in ĘGLISCH?!

         zee vuck?!

      the phantom stormed out of the opera
and took the girl to get drunk
in the catacombs of the Embankment
in a sherry and other south European wines...
Gordon's Wine Bar... 47 Villiers St (WC2N)...
Trafalgar... the National Gallery prior...
i was on a date night...
but why was Reyla so adamant on staying
at home?
but i know...
time for Edie, mommy... to spend the time
on the town with her hubby...
crying so adamant to let mummy translate
all the *** in the hot-tub and bed
into peacocking without a bothersome "brat"...
who might have liked Camden Market
more than being taken to the up-street
market at Portobello...
by then the Japanese garden didn't matter
in Holland Park...
so stupid, world and the word so stupid...

'i known best'          without not yet...

                 but if only she could have seen that
phantom of the opera production at the king's
theatre... then watched my storming out
of the opera production
being asked by the security staff
         at the entrance / exit... 'will you be returning?'
thank god no...
   this is a complete disaster!
would the english dare to translate an Italian
opera? could the French ever dare to sing opera?!

the English's audacity to pretend to be more
than... the operatic... the musical...
English ≠ Opera...
          
     how can i salvage the 2nd most intrinsic feast
of life while also having to cram in
death...
        well... now i can truly peacock and disregard
any notion of the 37 old man with a
******* sort of worth of a 21 year girl
to ease my take for take of seriousness
maybe in the 20th century as a serious painter
but as a "poet" in the 21st century?
more like king crimson's song:
21st schizoid man...      bilingual, mind you...

but what is bilingualism in the realm
of the polyglots and polymaths?
a stern entrenchment...

this vague allure to subscribe to a life
of contentment, of happiness....
what are they, these allusions
when contending with the clenched fist
of Frau Tod and her cohort of death-speakers?
these reassuring bodies weakened torn
and half-made half-dead half-willing
half-crux foundations of the compass
markers...
if not North then south and east
to Jerusalem and Mecca?

               what of this life to be lived
with the impeding
                                 nuance... PTSD+ us all?
alle von uns?!
                             alle von uns?!

              i drank a little to sever the nerves...
now a bicycle ride for some buns...
and more whiskers for a cat already playing
with the idea of barber as a serious
profession... so no... not some Russian
gimmick of a demon disguised as a cat
(le chat noir) with a streak of professionalism
as a joueur d'échec ***** sympathiser...

e-shek?                      d'eshek?

i will shreak....       shriek!
                i will let the winds know of my breath!
is that how you utter szachy (chess) these days?
i've been playing backgammon by myself
toying with chance, perchance and i no longer
care for the difference...

enough!

Shortly after the Joint Chiefs signed and presented the plan in March, 1962, President Kennedy, still smarting from the Bay of Pigs fiasco, declared that he would never authorize a military invasion of Cuba. In September, Kennedy denied the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Lyman Lemnitzer, a second term as the nation's highest ranking military officer. And by the winter of 1963, Kennedy was dead... killed, apparently, by a Cuban sympathiser in the streets of an American city.

Shortly after the Joint Chiefs signed and presented the plan in March, 1962, President Kennedy, still smarting from the Bay of Pigs fiasco, declared that he would never authorize a military invasion of Cuba. In September, Kennedy denied the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Lyman Lemnitzer, a second term as the nation's highest ranking military officer. And by the winter of 1963, Kennedy was dead... killed, apparently, by a Cuban sympathiser in the streets of an American city.