one - i don't understand why saying "it's the 21st century" is somehow seen as a compensation for 20 centuries of our inhumanity, or a case of: only improvements reside in us - seems just as false to say - men can overcome angels, as stated by the first Christians... yeah, we can do miracles with technology and ultra-secular communication dynamics - discarding the existence of such beings resulted in hen parties with plastic wings and halos... what a great method to discard such being, and subsequently appropriate their features, if ever needed, but altogether unnecessary... two - that disrespecting heterosexuality aligned with the power of science has made it altogether a pointless endeavour in re-enacting the monogamous nature of swans: if we can breed the many perversions, ahem, deviations, we surely require en equal share of respect, before science undermines any deviations into an economic format of breeding pure heterosexual contingencies... three: who the hell said i was throwing anyone off a roof? i was just curious about the slack pressurising the alias big brother / grey matter dictator into teaching us language, then to later make us into a Koranic cyclops or having to sway one side, but not the other, teaching us vocabulary in school, but robbing us of a fluidity of language beyond school, in society... any rational man would say: just teach me the knuckle, the stone and the stick to express my manners... because, to be frank, i'm not into faking being civilised, just teach me to be a barbarian from the start, don't dangle the magic carrot in front of my eyes when it's a fake... teach me the barbarism you want to suppress later on in life: i'm not into being Dolly 2.3419, and an attache to a sheepdog for herding purposes to take it up the **** and shut up: because a member of Parliament did it to me aged 14; for example.

subjectivity is doubled attacked, it's not the merely rationalist
approach of an objective side of things,
i could understand tiresome efforts
Chinese politics while walking
the tourist plot on the great wall -
in a society that's seismically acknowledging
social or whatever coherence,
i find it a bit of limbo of paraphrasing
trans - or trans-physics, or the active
way to usurp metaphysics, by deviating
from thought as an activity, and more
how words are sense datum co-ordinates
that are like dictators: because it just, feels,
funny, and, offensive. ***** vocabulary,
that's what i call it... after a while you concentrate
on what ****** you off, first the educational
autocracy teaches you a vocabulary,
then come the St. Thomas' terrorists with:
you need to revise your vocabulary...
like **** that'll happen, you don't own
language, i don't own language, you're
little fascist agenda to censor such awoke
the boy that was supposed to wake Barbarossa
from his slumber with the cry: crows! crows!
a cloud of crows! funny how the eagle is a
failed emblem for empires, and the crow isn't...
mind you, the English succeeded with
an empire half-and-half: a lion and a unicorn...
i'd guess as much with a monkey and
a centaur, or at least a Cerberus - something
mythical - well, sure, the Poles are attacked
in Britain... but ever hear about the Scot
being attacked in an English village?
a Scot was attacked just the other day,
because kilts were deemed offensive...
so trans-gender is good, meta-gender is:
had a wee t'ink 'bout it...
   robots start with the pronoun use: one...
royalty start with the pronoun use: we...
                 and in between we have paranoid
they and we... and insecure you and i -
or as e. e. cummings would have it:
    *i say no world
                 can hold a you
   shall see the not
             because
  and why but
                          (who        -
true, but as much of not is entanglement
              with knots - or ought to tries -
  to not or to knot and be -
                              Shakespeare also said:
  funny how i was born neo-liberal,
millennial tattooed - and fake-left...
   i hear the right is a tsunami of focus these days,
all the generation Z are buying into
obstructing gay-marriage, and are adamant
   on not abusing pronouns - hence the current
revival in grammar school education in England -
they don't drink, i.e.: taking psychopathic gambles,
they're prone to social-media overdoses
rather than succumbing to excess ecstasy and palpitation:
i had 190 "friends"... let's just call them vantage points...
   sheered that social media sheep: only 13 left...
but at least objectivity outright says:
       subjectivity is subhuman, science taught us
that subjectivity is the fire between two flint stones,
all in all necessary - but objectivity said:
             two flints! two flints! no fire!
what attacks subjectivity is not objectivity,
it's satire... to humanise everything: good or bad,
with a standard of humour... well... telling a sad
joke to later tell the same sad joke by satirising it...
punch in a face; because there are only so number of
things that are funny in life... the English language
doesn't seem to understand that even the odd chance
of black humour, will not lift the spirits of those,
who, quiet frankly, don't want to be humoured...
the only humour left is not to provision the public
with barbaric satire, sometimes empathy will do,
because it's emphatic humour,
   it's Godot's roundabout humour: the shared experience.
laughing for the sake of laughing is
             a cry from apathy's lost interest in
being pardonably dasein - laughing at all the truthful
autobiographic desecrate is apathy's last
chance to impress: but how foul it all sounds by then...
   the western version of buddhism suddenly feels like
  a taste of pears in november: not sour, not bitter...
just maggoty foul - yucky goo
                  of a plum-shaded rouse of the skin
tinged hue after contact with knuckle and knee.
  but they attacked a ******* Scot in an English village,
because of a kilt...
                                   he knows the strand of ganging up
in hyena numbers and then the celebratory drink
of compensating conscience - they'll sooner accept
     a trans-gender dunno'h than a hot-blooded
heap of tartan - ever ask the homosexuals what
they think of St. Thomas' gospel?
              i think: too much, too early, too innocently.
and if they tell you: speak differently!
they will, i'm ****** sure they will want to
control your grammar without any specialisation -
you'll wonder: summer in Syria?
                     because as racism goes,
they attack the difference, and the difference is only
skin deep, like they did with the Afros of Kentucky,
the Kentucky Afros will spring right back,
    because the abuse was only skin deep,
therefore their soul was enlarged, and they'll
play the blues, and the jazz, and rap, and break-dance...
but if the abuse goes to the depth of soul...
in that it's soul-deep...
                                and because it's white v. white...
it will ferment, and nothing positive will come from it...
no jazz, no blues... nothing of cultural importance...
   it will be haggled in the political market
to the point where both sides will find it utterly
unbearable: and then start to sheer their skins...
        you won't get anything from this soul-deep
attack... if the holocaust is what it felt like,
            then this is a minor post-holocaust episode,
a reminder...
                          and by god, i thank god
for the fact that the Picts are involved -
                                                            whe­re to now?
O Imperium Gladstone paraphrase?
                            it will be hard to beat the unicorn -
all empires donning the eagle duly fail -
centaur and a frog? maybe next time.

Salty rancher spackle is to Earthy diva smackers as Swinging hotel number is to?
Rippling cling bread is to Three lizard chariots as Indigo lime tangent is to?
Nighttime reunion planet is to Nettle lane scuffle as Soaking spider *** is to?
Fancy trance logs are to Sticky fudge lather as Vivacious gator college is to?
Cheerful blossom face is to Secret tractor rocket as Canned gremlin emblems are to?
Jealous pitchfork generals are to Heartbreaking patchwork veranda as Folding robot noise is to?
Pretty rhino rash is to Lost locket vengeance as Back pocket weather is to?
Frosted candy sidewalk is to Sneaky kook code as Shiny waffle smoke is to?
Sapphire cloud romance is to Magnetic comet lava as Blue triangle envy is to?
Vanishing honey melody is to Thermal elf pajamas as Whistling iceboat shampoo is to?
Peach mint politics is to Frozen doll pennies as Rusty anchor catapult is to?
Swollen pony fever Throbbing sword kazoo as Silent turbine science is to?
Obese germ thunder is to Stacked lemon towers as Corrupt moon jockey is to?
Demented insect whistle is to Glass trophy cleanup as Purple geode bubble is to?
Nighttime razor slime is to Lacquered dragon maps as Tint paper mittens are to?
**** camel drops are to Velvet ****** shoes as Slippery red muffins are to?
Flying hot drool is to Pale chocolate telescope as Tin trumpet ballet is to?
Expensive puppy speed is to Flowered duck mirror as Cosmic needle factory is to?
Fractured laser doodles are to Cracked butter gravel as Rubber holster straps are to?
Majestic panther fortress is to Jeweled cork target as Iron swan taxi is to?
Poisonous pepper bouillon is to ****** goat soap as Chrome feather pirates are to?
Digital gorilla scriptures are to Timid hunter stench as Frozen domino video is to?
Eccentric troll opera is to Transparent wax village as Spoiled coral agony is to?
Bizarre green metal is to Pillow eating hamster as Leather cavern ***** are to?
Eternal hurricane evidence is to Powdered rainbow perfume as Smoking yellow prune is to?
Liquid wish cleanser is to Exploding meadow ladders as Brittle rose hammer is to?
Caged foam filter is to Cherry balloon string as Ivory cactus spider is to?
Carbon puppet watch is to Sad kings compass as Elastic lace whiskers are to?
Nitrogen trolley dust is to Lazy elephant toffee as Orange toad choir is to?
Dark pole zodiac is to Blue finger blanket as Illegal bug nozzle is to?
Stinky towel cookies are to White jade caskets as Sticky snail tea is to?
Converting stellated caramels is to Mythic aerosol socks as Rubber raspberry jokes are to?
Flying clock carousel is to Whisky nut worms as Plastic fish platforms are to?
Queasy Vaseline queens are to Moody pigeon pills as Aqua mice fur is to?
Spotted bowl shadow is to Idiotic radiance lotion as Bungalow toad hearse is to?
Gushing chimney fungus is to Funky lamb acrobat as Utopian **** sprinkler is to?
Twinkling bungalow tablet is to Botanical duck rope as Bug hat ram is to?
Broken clock fossil is to Black ginger confetti as Parisian cobra meatloaf is to?
Silly Xerox ribbon is to Obedient raccoon carny as Traditional cat linguini is to?
Last astral advisor is to Elastic badger riddles as Broken circle rifles are to?
Bagged squire channel is to Temporary mosaic cake as Ancient bacon thread is to?
Wireless math army is to Moronic neon money as Pearl razor radar is to?
Rubber buzzard blizzard is to Troubled bubble wizard as Crushed hash ******* is to?
Purple birdy cure is to Tangled frost blossoms as Silken bridal saddle is to?
Unisex owl accordion is to Sugar bottomed boat as Optical nougat treasure is to?
Flavored saline rain is to Black arrow clan as Transistorized clam guitar is to?
Sharpened twig scar is to Mutant beet sonar as Baked troll mask is to?
Boxed noodle secrets are to Traditional guru buttons as Glossy marshmallow strategy is to?
Vibrating melted jelly is to Silver furniture dream as Spewing collated seats is to?
Burnt mountain pickles are to Baby preacher shoes as Sympathetic pilot pain is to?
Narrow portal treaty is to Monkey warehouse vacancy as Painted tornado trap is to?
Porch penny sulfur is to Glowing pony fat as Patched mattress bait is to?
Frigid waitress fallacy is to Graphic shrimp salute as Misted sneezing window is to?
Moist apple moss is to Daddy’s zoom seed as Downtown Pope cart is to?
Tired felon trickle is to Holographic squirrel candle as Wild ray hay is to?
Deadly zero chalk is to Folding wilderness chart as Curved ******* vacuum is to?
Hollow porcelain pellets are to Strawberry rain stencils as Microwave taxi nomads are to?
Wasted machete balcony is to Crumpled creature confessions as Fridge fuzzed fruit is to?
Sloppy demon damage is to Squeaky puppet chuckle as Mental arcade combat is to?
Monster trout stories are to Lewd pirate cocktail as Locked mammal grommet is to?
Rotting rope network is to Tragic toy goat as Cotton submarine shoes are to?
Complex pepper dance is to ****** cloud cushion as Marching taxi holiday is to?
Mental petal collectors are to Spooned barn putty as Dork factory fiction is to?
Hot spotted tops are to Timed stepping pests as Yogurt notching tartar is to?
Crazy dog comics are to Ambitious cartoon sphinx as Pavlov’s zinc ballet is to?
Soiled spinster wedding is to Padded razor wound as Floating fish map is to?
Slippery leopard pants are to Perfumed nut button as Dart wizard party is to?
Needy alien elephants are to Barking garden gnats as Quasar focused paper is to?
Slanted heart **** is to Bronzed cliff sandals are to Cunning jockey jokes are to?
***** thumbprint massage is to Holistic princess memory as Sliding dental sword is to?
Drifting wood whistle is to Fluorescent carpet powder as Foam dragon whistle is to?
Chopped web shadow is to Immortal vermin soup as Collapsing porch conspiracy is to?
Stolen thunder chant is to Haunted comet heart as Swollen throat portrait is to?
Fragrant frost parfait is to Grumpy caveman *** as Random stingray solo is to?
Squeaky polar turbine is to Silent lava fever as Oversized lunar fulcrum is to?
Synthetic dew droppers are to Pocket poster paste as Hypnotic screen dog is to?
Symbolic whirlpool nausea is to Dreaming tree phantom as Log badge bracket is to?
Camp hippo map is to Horseradish seizure insurance as Distant insect mirror is to?
German lady sherbet is to Stuntman laundry wax as Hungry butterfly ghost is to?
Fly smudged foil is to Amped maze coil as Shifting optic terror is to?
Automatic sheep floss is to Panoramic tanker anchor as Throbbing bone pillow is to?
Mutant clown village is to Nightmare translation treasure as Spotted spectral chakra is to?
Blind roach tweat is to Hermit worm tiara as Divine logo ritual is to?
Glueless gun stamp is to Malicious spam pump as Floral toffee pods are to?
Dudgeon mist removal is to Menacing bolt smacker as Boating duke shadow is to?
Costly metal plungers are to Creaky buzzing gushers as Glowing star cushions are to?
Raked barge sludge is to Crusted cream glitter as Zircon gutter babble is to?
Fake gold scholar is to Amish ******* mogul as Faithful ***** choir is to?
Sacred limo prayers are to Fried mice café as Splintered ****** thimble is to?
Dealing rabbit decals is to Pelican bongo festival as Patched equator rot is to?
Freedom gourd gasoline is to Cobblers studying acorns as Desecrated dice crater is to?
Tattered tapestry rod is to Busted particle scanner as Bogus piffle catalogue is to?
Trifle truffle raffle is to Last lamb laminate as Segmented cake goggles are to?
Domestic tackle tactic is to Ticking tic talk as Cordial corps coordinates is to?
Tucked duck caftan is to Sunken ramp ruckus as Wretched ranch rhetoric is to?
Clearly incomprehensible directions are to Useful archaic nonsense as Antiquated skeletal outline is to?
Bewildered beasts feasting are to Lazy busybodies resting as Vaccinating brave volunteers are to?
Lucky wagon dragons are to Famous gargoyle gargle as Formal postman funding is to?
Furrowed shroud chowder is to Borrowed tartan pajamas as Martini mixed algebra is to?
Cowgirl balloon helium is to Chewy glucose habitat as Stationary monument movement is to?
Diamond powered powder is to Diagonal diameter diagram as Purposely condensed expansion is to?
Organic iodine capsule is to Gleaming beach probe as Dominant dome static is to?
Shaving wrinkled targets is to Petting sensible monsters as Selling invisible whiskey is to?
Frozen piano architecture is to Note dotted clouds as Screaming Korean worms are to?
Sonic plant website is to Telepathic climbing clam as Bored protein exercise is to?
Gourmet mollusk cone is to Numb poodle caravan as Asian raven radar is to?

The Airn-Wanderer:

WÆPEN WUNDUM SUNDORGENGA

Waes Ah! Waes Ah, noo!
Beguid! an’ Greatly, unco Greatly Hye, IT!
Wi'in Abysmal-Deep Primal Fyre, IT!
Great Fair Thor's Orrah!
Lookin’ yondir! lookin’ yondir, noo!
Afore avidly, unco avidly
Drank hynne Ah! Great Warlike Orrah!
The Gowblat o’ Noble Precious Gowd Shimmerin':
Gleamin’ further, IT! Ane an' the Same, hynne!
Wi' the Verra Glare frae Bein' o' Power Supreme!
Gift Invincibly Purified IT, hynne!
Thad Enraged Wotan’s ain Verra Chalice o’ mine,
An’ Toast frae Hye-HEREHAND!
Great, in Fyre Ragin' noo, Ullr's Orrah!
Frae Noble Valhalla Rairan Deep
Wi’ ITS Metal Fiery Soul, hynne!
Orra Skye-Substance, orra Skye-Schorcin’ o’ mine!
Noo, verra unco! Core-Martially stylle grabbin’,
Wi’ Black Leather Glove
O’ Total Dazzlin’, an' Verra, Verra ​Core-Abysmal, IT!
Whyte-War, hynne!

ÞUNORE HWÍT CEALLA,

Fyre-Flowin’, the Verra Northumbrian Mead!  
Livin’, Tasty wi’ Pow’r, Great Warlike Orrah!
Niflheim-Watery, IT!

BEADWE, MĪN SWÆTAN,

Frae yon Ironclad Norþan-hymbre!
Frae Hel Itself Delicious,
Unco dyrinkin’, downe the hatch!
Hynne Ah,
My by-gone Days left orra Aflame:
Great Vision! Great Bellum! noo dyin’ o’ mine!
Whileas stylle waes hynne Ah!
Thro’ the Bare Highlands Dreary,
‘Yont South Ruins’ Bluish Burnan Wa,
Deep-Wanderin’,
In search for the Verra Lightnin’ Raed,
An' Flashin' Guide o' mine Devastatingly Immortal!

BĒOWES RĒADA FÝRTORR,

O’er Thae Cauld Moorlan Heights hynne,
Leisurely, implacably, Great Warlike Orrah!
Amyd Hye Rocky Smeddum all abowt me
Strollin’,
Intae the Verra Mirk Unfathomable,
Airn-Flesh o’ mine, hynne
Throwin’,
An' my Wise an’ Bold an’ Proud!
Sensual Noble Dame,
Gerðr galdrs Scho!

MĪN FÆÐMLICE OND BRYNIGE CWÝNE
SÉO HYGEÞRYMME ÁDRÍEGEÞ,

A' Oor Inflamed Naychts! Verra Wyntry Naychts!
Afore the Sacral Stane-Hearth:

WINTRES WÍDERFEORLIC HEORÐ,
HWÆR ÆFRE OND LÍGBRYNE
ÚSERE BRÆD GEMETEÞ,

Stylle deep-burnin',
Guid, Verra Guid Bleezan Orrah!
Scho unco weall! Scho unco weall! Ah say!
Rememberin',
In Lang Robes o' Deep Crimson Fyre, noo!
Her Superior Womanhood,
Full! An' divinely, orra divinely!
Thro' Her Glowin' Mystery Sinuous, o'er endowed!
Hynne stylle, unco ardently! in Primal Lowes, fully Sinuous!
Whare, Thys weall! weall! Scho unco knew!
Ah! Guid, Verra Guid Thundir's Orrah!
Used tae ay lose! nae abeigh!
Wi'in an Abyss Interminable an' Endless Contynent!
Ay, Great Guid Orrah! Masell!
An’ Verra Firey! sinuously Trowe! Verra Soul!
Unco tightly, wi' Norland Passion
Stylle profoundly Wemenlie o' Hers!
Shrouded,
Scho saw me! Scho orra saw me!
Noo, wi’ Courage Ablaze an’ unco Wreððe
Ascendin’
To orra desire! to orra possess,
To hae IT! To unco hae IT! back again!
Ah! LEOFLIC IREN HÁTAN!
The Lone Airn-Wanderer, SUNDORGENGA, Ah!
Frae yon Auld Götaland:

LAND GUMCYNNES GEAT-MÆCGUM,
BEADWE-HEARPENÆGLES EORÐRÍCE,

My ain Lost, the OVERMAN'S HIS-SEL!
Great, Great Mjölnir's Warlike Orrah!
Wi’ Bluish Skye-Gore, frae Thae Cauld Heights
Unco! Verra, Verra Guid O'erhuman,
Hynne, neist tae the Forgotten Firey Ruin!
Totally 'Yont-Human! The DAZZLIN' OVERMAN'S AIN!
Ah noo say! Ah noo tae the Moorlan Stormy Cluds yell! Orrah!
Skye-Imbued

Thundir-Bluid:

NORÐÞUNRES WÆLDRÉOR

Tae feel IT hynne! Tae unco feel IT:
Great Guid Warlike Orrah!
Total, unco Total, in Full New Skye-Gore IT!
Verra, Verra Thor-Hye!
Frae afarre! yet tae me Verra, Verra Skye-Close!
Rumblin' Skye-Destruction o’ mine!
Hynne Total Skye-Rebirth O'erhuman,
An' the Roaran', unco Skye-Roaran', IT!
Great Kvasir's Warlike Orrah!
Afore the Verra Disc o' the Full Mowne Murky,
Orra, unco, IT! in the East Dreary skye-risin', IT!
'Yont-Human, Great Jörð's Orrah!
Supreme Transformation!

WULFES GENIWUNG,

Wi' the New Skye-Knowledge Scorchin'
Owre, owre imbued!
An' in the Soarin' Zenith-Fyre
Deeply, deeply hawkan IT, hynne!
Thro' Thad Cauld Moorlan Secret
Ah am noo about to owre yell,
Frae the Thundir's yon Rumblin'
Verra, Verra Skye-Pride!
Intae my Veins Fiery
Fore’er an’ e’er, wi’ Ragin’ Skye-Bluish Hue
Noo flowin’,
Com on! Com on, hynne!
Dearest Mountayn-Thunderbolt o’ mine!
Taukin’ Ah noo am to ye stylle!
Struck me deep! struck me noo, Ah yell!
Great Fair Thor's Orrah! deep,

ÍSENSCÚR,

For fully Covered! orra Skye-Covered hynne!
In Feudal Skye-Airn Indestructible
Am Ah heare! for ye noo!
Tae attract hynne! out o' Thad Norland Verra Blue!
As the Skye-Magnet attracts the Rare Shinin' Metal,
Yer deadly Skye-Rage wpon Airn-Skynne o' mine!
Tae catalyze hynne yer loudly tellin',
Frae Yon Abysmal Distance! Lone Skye-Voice,

SCÍRHAM IC! BEADWE LÍGETUNG,

Whyle Ah stylle! intae Hye Lowes unco climb
Thad Cauld Rocky Soil,
Whyle Ah stylle unco tell
Thad Vision, most Solitarie o’ mine,
Whyle Ah stylle restlessly, implacably seek
My ain Lost Skye-Sel!
The Hye, Verra Hye! Adamantine Person o' the OVERMAN!

SUNSCÍNE SEOLF OND LINDGEBORGA,

Want Ah! truly unco, want Ah! owre want Ah, hynne!
Beguid an’ Great Guid! Hôm Loga Himna Orrah!
Noo, richte noo!
This kin Ah! still noo unco truly yell!
'Yont yon Whunstane Stronghold's Mirk Well!
Feel, unco o'erhumanly live, hynne!
Thad Continual Flashin’
Frae the Grayish Leaden Moorlan Cluds
Noo the Zenith-Sunne Invisible behynde
Hye-glorifyin’!
Thro’ the Verra Tundir Voice o'er an' o'er echoin,
In shape o’ Norland Hammer frae the Battle, IT!
Intae Veins Skye-Bluish o’ mine!

NORÐANWINDE! BLÓDWRACU OND FÆHÞ,

Next tae my Feudal Airn-Side noo still wounded
By Enemy an' Cowardly, tae Human, tae Cowardly!
Frae the Distance, hynne! shot at me!
Still Mortal Arrows!
Nae Fear, hynne! tae Earthly! tae Miserable,
Surpassingly Miserable, IT! unto the Verra Core!
To the Hye Fair-Haired Gods,
In Strang Norland Dignity an' Supreme Pow'r,
An' Skye-Vengeance frae Enraged Sacral Thule blowin'!
Noo! thro' Noble an' Future Skye-Gore o' mine schawe!
In my stylle the Verra Lightnin':

VICTORIAE SANGUINISQUE SIGNUM
OVERMAN

Noo implacably approachin'!
An’ ye! Sweyt an’ Scaur Enemies, not Quhone all ye!
Ye still cannae, cannae hear?
Yell an’ Furious Bellum, aye!
Frae Loud Thundir-Voice o’ mine?
Skye-Crash frae my Battle-Wounds IT:

MĪN HEORUDREÓR GLADAÞ,

Wi'in yer ignoble ears noo!
Wnto the Sacral Open Blue
Risin’ unco Freed!
Ye still want to *** to orra Heaven?
Hynne, heyre Ah am!
Com on! Com on! All ye Cowards!
Thys is whate Ah orra cam for!
Fecht me! Hand-to-Hand Strang!
Do signal the Attack!

ÞINE UNEARH GÚÐÞRACU OND GEWEALC,
ÞUNORRÁDE, MĪN HILDERÆS!

Glitterin’ Skye Axe-Blade o’ mine winna, IT
Cease to wait to orra shatter,
In a single Thundir-Blow, all yer Targes!
Com on! Com on hynne! ye Cowards!
Do noo hae the Warlike Verra Guts to taste
Gleamin' VARGS UNDA Alone o' mine!
O'er ye thys single Thundir-Blow pourin'!
Ye want still to unco give
Unto Enraged Airn o’ mine, Wonner IT, lo!
Yer Hand-to-Hand, hynne Feudal an’ Essential
Battle-Bluid?

HEOLFRE ANWIG,

Wha hynne want to be the First?
Wha hynne ready is noo to unco suffer
Frae my Verra Skye-Airn noo Skye-Flashin'!
Gunnþinga Called, IT!
Hys, alongside the Skye-Foreign, Nadir's ain!
Miserable, tae earthly, tae human orra Defeat?
Fecht Ah! for the Glare an’ Hye Glory O'erhuman
Frae Bein’ as Pow’r, Bluish-Firey IT!

ÞUNORES HAMOR,

Hynne heyre glowran at ye Ah unco stand!
Wi’ Great Clan-Vermillion Wyld Wraith o’ mine
Hye, Norland-Fair, an’ orra Warlike!
Wi’ Battle-Axe o’ mine gleamin’,
Unner yon War-Glare, ne’er, ne’er settin’,
An’ the Sunne’s ain Disc Refulgent,

BLŌDE ANWEALD, HWÍTE HEAÐUSIGEL,

Wnto deep the Wanwordie World, Mirk hynne, IT!
Richte, orra Ancestral an' Warlike Richte!
Greatly, unco greatly! Flamin'-Firey an' Zenith-Supreme, IT!
Verra Iron-Curse Blindin'!
An’ He cam! the Thunderbolt at length
Unto me He orra cam!
Thus struck waes Ah!
My Flesh, an' Bluid, an' Spirit!
Intae Thor's ain Skye-Force
At once turnin'
Tae greatly, tae unco! Verra Guid Orrah! see
Thro' Nyow Total Skye-Blindness O'erhuman o' mine!
Altogether hynne noo, Great Guid Saxon Orrah!
The Forerunnin’ Presence noo Devastatin’
Wnto me, stick-an-stowe, noo orra IT! comin',

IRSERN-SCÉAWERE IC,
CWIOFYRES BURHWEARD,
BÆLÞRACE OND BRYNEWIELMA GEBORGA,

Frae thowa, IT! in Primal Wreððe

Skye-Essences
Or
Twæȝe Strang Sunnes

Hwenne! Beguid an’ Great, Great Warlike Orrah!
Out-owre Hye Mountayn Glade, sic unco Wide:
The Cauld Vitrified Fort  
Wha's Sharp Surroundin' Gleamin' Wa
Thro' Hye Heat Monumental generated!
TAP O' NOTH waes:

FÆRBRYNE GLÆSFÆTES STANWEORC,

In Thundir-Bluid an’ Frame,
An' further unco Skye-Imbued Ah!
Wi' the Earthly Unidentified Energy
Frae thad Towerin' Verra Steid,
Noo still walkin’,
At length thare surveyed hynne Ah!
Wi’ Fyre-Sight, Deep-Penetratin’ IT,
An’ Auldfarran, Lucid Reason o’ mine,
The Heaven’s Blue Verra Vault:
Proud Storm-Shrine, Dearest o’ mine!
Ane wi’ my Skye-Rage Hye,  
An’ the Atmosphere, waes IT, waes IT,
Intolerably close, yet unco Potent, Heimdall-Divine!
Hynne beheld Ah, lo!
TWA ESSENCES O’ FYRE!

BRYNEWIELMUM CAMPWUDA,

Intangible, Untouchable, Impenetrable, baith Thay,
O’er the Whole Uranic Skye-Arch,
Their Skye-Dominion an’ Primordial Skye-Dignity
Unco haudin’:
The Essence o’ the ΛOΓΟΣ an’ the Essence o’ the REAL, Thay:

STĪELENRA-HEÁÐUSIGELA FÝRBÆREAN
GÆDERSCYPE OND GLÉDEGESA
ÞĀ HLŪDE BECWÆDON,

Twa! Tangible, Visible MICHTY SRANG SUNNES!
Twa, hynne! Let me stylle noo distinctly remember!
Unco Martially an' Norland Colourful!
Great Orrah! Rotatin', Thay A'! Thay A'!
Great Lone Sight o' mine!
Splintered nae! Round Shields o' War Dazzlin':
Ský Skǫglar frae the Auld Wondie Hólmganga, Thay!
Frae Auld! Verra, indeed Verra primevaly Auld!
Thro' Deep the Firey Tyme Conquerin', an' Ruthless,
An' towardis the Fleysche, Fallacious hynne Mortal, unforgivin'!
Crucial Gory Soil in yon 537 A.D. CAMLANN called
Thad haes bin, IT! a Witness tae my ain Shed Battle-Bluid!

BRYTENCYNING,
IC WIÞGEHÆFTE HINE, BLÁCAN ÁNWÍGE,
EFENLÍCAN GÚÐHERE BLÆDE,

Meany, Meany Kingdomes, an' Onslaughts,
A' Bluish-Ironclad Thay, ago!   
Hynne noo, whileas Ah stylle speak, Immortal am, an' waes awready!
Yet Thad nae, nae enough IT proved
Afore the Presence Devastatin' o' the OVERMAN!
Stylle, Ah knew, HE noo in waitin'!
HE WHA! HE WHA! HE WHA unco:
The Verra ENS! thro' the Dazzlin' Skye-Bluish Revenge o' HYS,  
Hynne Mine!
Tae the Yieldin' Ground o'ershadows! an' in an Ultimate Whyte War
Flashin' tae Fathomless Eternity, in Gore Shinin' defeats!
Intense Meanin' Primordial o' Battle Fierce baith Thae!
Hynne unco embodyin',
Afore thys, thro’ Verra Lowe penetratin’,
An’ wi’ Hye, Verra, Verra Skye-Hye!
Thundir-Bluid Thunderous
Awa, awa flowin’ IT, orra!
Loneliest Vision o’ mine:

GEBYLD,

When, Great Thundir’s Orrah!
Wi’ a speed Wicked yet Prodigious, lo! Sublime,
Closer, closer, wi’ the Impetus frae Twa Skye-Rams Wyld
They orra cam!
An’ in a Common Skye-Embrace!
Their Dazzlin’ Blades o’ Vibrant Steel!
Hynne crossin’,
Thus unco, owre imbued waes, waes Ah!
Wi' Thad Verra Hye Steel-Glare, Ah!
Wi' Thad intae Deep Fyre afore Wounded Step o' Mine meltin',
Feudal, unco Feudal Skye-Knowledge, an' Airn-Revenge!
An' advanced wi' Firm Martial Gait hynne, towardis
The Lonely Gleamin', Flashingly Firey,
Rewb-Gem o' Moorlan War Forgotten,
Thro' ITS Sheer Inner Foirce hynne unco Reddenin'!

HERECIRME, RÉOD GIMCYNN,

Whileas the Stellar Wynde silently ensued
Frae Thad Last Titanic Encounter an’ Battle,
Wi’ unco deafenin’ Core-Clash,
Frae Thor’s His-sel, again,
The Whispered Warlike Voice!
Hynne intae Ane Nucleus Whyte
At length blendin’, afore wnto me
Noo orra comin’ IT:

The Shield-Blinding:

DÆGSCIELD GEBLENDAÞ

For rendered orra, orra sightless!
Waes Ah noo,
Yet still able to distinctly behold,
An’ e’en deeper, unco deeper! Great Warlike Orrah!
The Verra Dazzlin’ Core, IT!
Wi’ Verra Bluish Flash, an’ the Skye-Gore
Frae Thundir-Eyes noo o’ mine
Sheer Sharp, IT!
For Thad Sudden Thundir-Blindin’ o’ Mine!
Ah am noo taukin’ abowt,
Great Dunnottar’s an’ Tantallon’s Orrah!
Gift Supreme frae Hye the Zenith-Skye!
Orra Skye-Generous hynne, IT!
Intae an All-Powerful, unco All-Powerful, Ah say!
An’ All-Seein’ Thundir-Force
Thundir-O’erhuman, hynne frae the Thundir ‘Yont-Human!
IT, in Hye Fyre! Skye-turned,
An’ New Unknown Fiery Demons IT
Orra, orra! unveiled:

ÁGLÆCAN WUNDORSÉON,

Athwart Noble Airn-Person o’ mine,
Thro’ the Cauld Blast frae Thad Moorlan Wynde
O’er an’ o’er fallin’,
For the Verra Skye-Vision o’ the OVERMAN,
Guid Orrah! Great Warlike Thundir’s Orrah!
Unco Profound IT waes!
An’ unco killed IT the Unprepared,
For waes IT for nae Unworthy Skellum  
To Feud an’ Sword Foreign!
An’ the Whole Wnivers, in a Verra Flash,
Thro’ the Same Auld an’ New Thunderbolt
Ah waes lookin’ for,
Penetrated IT orra waes:
THE HERACLITEAN, DEVASTATINGLY PROPHETIC, IT!
FIERY SKYE-FORCE!
FRAE THE VERRA AIRN-PERSON
STEEL-CONCRETE, IT!
DAZZLINGLY 'YONT-TELLURIAN AN' SKYE-CENTRAL!
O' THE OVERMAN:
THE 'YONT-HUMAN HYNNE NAE HUMAN!
THAD LIKE CONQUERIN', RAGIN' WHYTE-FYRE,
WI'IN THE YIELDIN' MURKY MIRK VOID SHINES!
INCANDESCENT O'ERHUMAN VERRA BODY!
THAD MINE AIN, AH KNEW,
SUNE AN' SYNE! UPON THAE BENS DREARY,
IT SHALL, GREAT GUID ORRAH! BE!
AN' WHA'S NOBLE AN' SOLEMN NAIM
HYE! HYE! THE ETHER'S AIN SKYE-SUBSTANCE
INTAE ALL-FERVID LOWES AN' METALLIC BRILLIANCY
TURNIN'

ΥΠΕΡ-ΚΕΡΑΥΝOΣ

WAES! THUNDIR-CONSCIOUS, AN’ DIRECTIN’,
THUNDIR-DESTROYIN’, HYNNE CRAETIN',
O’ER ALL THUNDIR-DOMINATIN’,
TO THE INFINITE UNCO THUNDIR-GROWIN’,
MINE AIN BLUISH MOORLAN BLUID
TO THE INFINITE ORRA THUNDIR-FEEDIN’,
Together hynne wi’ my Arteries o’ Skye-Blue
In Baith Spirit an’ the Verra Flow,
When orra struck again waes Ah!
Wnto Verra Death, an’ e’en ‘yont! waur e’en waur!
Skye-Waur, Great Warlike Orrah!
Towardis the Verra Dazzlin’
Skye-Weregild o’ Gowd:

GOLDWEARDA FORNÉÐAN,

For the Loneliest Vision o’ mine
To in Fyre, still unco blinded Ah!
Distinctly behold,
At bein’ hynne, Great Warlike Orrah!
The Sole Ironclad Witness
O’ my by-gone Path Aflame,
Intae ‘Yont-Human Will o’ mine!
Noo unco forged, Great Hye Orrah!
Wnto the Auld Bluid-Rock o’ Rebel Sacrifice
Far awa! in the Snowy Caucasus
Nae longer IT chained!

HRINGUM SWEORCAN,

Meanwhile, lo! At my Mirk Cloaked Back,
Behold ye! Another Identical Skye-Fusion!
For Twa Dazzlin’ Whyte Glows,
Symmetrical Unco Mirrors They,
As if frae Myrddin’s ain Magic,
To View o’ mine orra appeared:
Perfect Pow’r o’ Infinite Reflection, They!
Mine ain Past, my ain Future!
Baith embodyin’,
An’ waes stylle Ah!
Intae the Verra Middle o’ the Glare
Standin’
Wi’ Gleamin’ Claymore drawn, Dearest o’ mine!
Thundir-Hurt stylle, afore noo the

Destroyer of the Past:

ÍSIGE CWYLMING

An’ noo, Guid, Verra, Verra Guid o’ Gowd
Warlike Orrah!
Thus willed Ah! the OVERMAN!

BISENE WRECEND,

Freish an’ Auld! Airn-Feudal an’ Strang!

DUGUÞMIHTUM OND HEORUSWENGE,
ĒACEN BIÞ ŌFER-MANN,

Wi’ Michty Inner Energy o’ mine
Great Feudal Orrah! unco Alone!
Wha's Sole Hye Naim Firey OVERWILL!
IT unco, oan the Gory Battlefield, Ah weall knew IT waes!
Frae the Verra Skye-Dragun! A' Destroyin' hynne HE!
Intae the Deep Fyre, wi' HYS Beastly Wings thus orra spread,
Unco, prodigiously o'er A' HE hoverin',
Towardis the Past allwayes Dreadful e'en, hynne!
Wi’ HYS Scales o’ Enraged Gowd,
The Shinin’ Horror wi’in the Skye, IT!

FÝRDRACAN GLÆD GRYREBRÓGA
SÉ FORÞGEWITENNESSE UNWYRCÐ,

Skye-Perfect! intae the Mirror-Glare Image o' mine, HE!
The OVERMAN o' Deep Fyre,
Th'gither wi' my ain Reflected Bluid, hynne!
Noo, in Feudal Tartane-War stylle thundir-flowin'!
More intensely! o'er an' o'er in Steel hynne,
HYS Supreme Presence greatly tae the Infinite!
Orra skye-increasing!
Intae the noo Unleashed Skye-Pow’r!
Unto my Wounded Spirit o'er an' o'er
Hynne HE skye-returnin’!
As ane wi’ the Moorlan Rumblin’ Thunderbolt
Ah waes lookin’ for,
The Sacral Dazzlin’ Chain Mail Ablaze:

SCÉAWERE-HRÉOH,

In the Skye-Identity e'en most Skye-Asolute IT!
My ain! HE orra, unco flashingly wearin’,
Thus willed Ah! Past o’ mine back IT!
In Feudal Person o’ HYS, my ain! empowered:
GORY GHAIST! by-gone Immortal o’ mine IT!
Still orra Alive an’ Fiery!
Flowin’ an’ flashin’
Thad not Identical unto ITSELF IT waes!
Hynne unto ITSELF most identical!
Quhenne! in Feudal Airn-Flesh o’ HYS,
Great Warlike Orrah!
Thro’ Ragin’ Skye an’ Earthly Pride at once IT,
Most fleshily, intae Hye Fyre Purifin’
Waes incarnated,
Thus willed Ah, Future o’ mine, tae, hynne!
Wi’ the Iyce Cross o’er Moorlan Coat o’ Arms,
Frae Noble Dundarg’s Hye Wa,
In Feudal Steel, Greater, unco Greater IT!
Shimmerin’,
For the Past lived in the Verra Bluid o’ HYS,
Thynce thro' Hye Firey Gore Immortal:  

FULMINE VICTOR
MAGNUS INVICTUSQUE
OVERMAN

Let me Thys, NOBLE GLAMIS’ GREAT ORRAH!
Truly, unco truly yell! waes IT potentiated,
An’ sae waes the Future, stylle my Verra, Verra Ain!
Wnto Dazzlin’ Airn-***** o’ mine  
Wi’ Increasin’ Ocean’s Rage Tempestuous
Fore’er returnin’,

CRÆFTUM OND RÝNE STÍELE!
BEADUWÆPEN,

Intae Single Will O’erhuman
An’ Unforgivin’ Continuum, as Ane,
Whare Ye! Dearest Hye Thundir o’ mine!
At the Verra Skye-Zenith,
Still silently dwell!  
Hynne willed Ah! my ain Image
Frae the Past! Frae the Future! wi’ unco Force,
At once IT emergin’,
Towardis the Past! Towardis the Future! wi’ orra Dignity,
At once IT rushin’,
Intae the Implacable Spiral o’ Becomin’
Thad Ane wi’ the Verra Vortex o’ Return
IT! Great Warlike Orrah! waes,
The Past burnin’, the Future hynne IT affirmin’,
An’ unto the Verra Skye-Core!
GREAT HÖÐR’S AN’ WOTAN’S ORRAH!
Directed,
Noo afore my ain wi’ Fyre Wounded Eyes,
Thro’ each Revolution, ITS unco Strength,
Great Warlike Norland Orrah!
Unto the Fathomless Fiery Infinite
Increasin’:
The Verra Mountayn Thunderbolt!
Ah waes lookin’ for,
For the Increase o’ Pow’r ne’er Identical
Unto itself IT waes,
Hynne waes unto Itself most identical!
As noo met wi’ Ah

THE DESTROYER O’ THE PAST,
THE CREATOR O’ THE FUTURE,
O’ LYFE FORE’ER CHANGIN’
THE GREAT AFFIRMATOR,
HYE SKYE-VEINS O’ HYS
O’ERHUMAN, MY AIN!
THE IRONCLAD INCARNATOR
AN’ THE FEUDAL WITNESS!
O’ MY BURNAN MOUNTAYN-PATH
DYIN’:
THUNDIR-FRAME O’ MINE, HE!
STRONGER! STRONGER!
O’ER AN’ O’ER,
UNTO MY BY-GONE DAYS BLEEZAN,
AN’ THE ROARAN’ FUTURE!
AS MOLTEN SKYE-GOWD INCORRUPTIBLE
NOO RETURNIN’,
WHAR IMMORTALITY ITSELF HYNNE,
IN FORE’ER INCRESIN’
HYE FYRE AN’ BATTLE-GORE,
O’ERSHADOWED IT WAES,  
INTAE DEEP THE WHYTE SPIRAL,
SKYE-RECURRENCE INCANDESCENT, IT!
ANE WI’ THE LONE IRONCLAD IMAGE
UNTO VERRA, VERRA PERFECTION!
SKYE-SPECULAR O' MINE!
SCORCHIN' AN' SHININ' AN' UNCO TANGIBLE, HE!
THE CLOAKED SKYE-FIGURE
THAD WAES NOO
'YONT THAD AULD FORGOTTEN WA,
MY BLEEDIN' SKYE-COURAGE
IN WARLIKE SILENCE AWAITIN',
FRAE THE DEPTHS O' THE ROTATIN’ SKYE-ENERGY,

WEALHFÆRELDES DÆGWÓMA,

PROUDLY AN' INVINCIBLY SKYE-STANDIN'!
WHAR, GUID SKYE ORRAH!
FIERY WOE INTAE FEUDAL STEEL MELTIN',
DEEPER AN' NOBLER IT PROVED!
AN’ WI’ DAZZLIN' SKYE-REVENGE
O'ER AN' O'ER, GREAT THOR'S ORRAH!
IT SUPREMELY, IN BLUISH NORLAND AIRN FLASHED!

For, lo! the Verra Blank frae the Past
Together wi’ ITS Inevitable Feud-Foreign Woe
Hauntin’
Thad cannae be avoided hynne!
Mirk an’ Invisible, IT!
It nae longer existed! It nae longer existed!
For unco filled noo IT waes
By the Devourin’ Lone Lowe an’ the Verra Frame:
The Chain-Mailed, Heated in Airn War-Wame
O’ THE OVERMAN! HE:
WILL, AS THE VERRA INNER ENERGY!
VIGOUR, AS THE VERRA INNER WILL!
FRAE THE PAST, FRAE THE FUTURE!
TANGIBLE, VISIBLE, INCARNATED,
NOBLE WYLD DRAGON,
SKYE-BEAST O’ MINE,

GRYREBRÓGA OND FÆRGRYRE,
WUNDORA WYRM! ÚHT-SCEAÞA HÉ!

FYRE-WOUNDED IN NAE GOWD-CAGE, HE!
O'ER SKYE-SPIRIT O' MINE,
HE! HYNNE, UNCO SKYE-FLYIN'!
WI’ HYS SKYE-GORE O’ER THE BARS INVISIBLE
TRULY MINE AIN! GREAT GUID ORRAH!
DOWNE, DOWNE! NOO
LIKE THE PUREST RHODIUM
WI' THE FYRE-BLUISH
SKYE-ARTERIES O' THE LONE THUNDERBOLT
AH WAES LOOKIN' FOR
AGAIN UNCO BLENDIN',
Unto at Braemar the Verra Battle-Gore,
Afore the Lang Hour, in Kyng Eochaid’s
Martial Hidden Lore,
By the Force o’ Flowin’ Lava
Frae the Cauld an’ Dreary Highlands Implacable
Echoin’
Thad Becomin’ as Increase in Pow’r
IT, Great, Great Orrah! waes,
Backwards intae Tyme! Intae the Future hynne!
For the OVERWILL kan IT!
Destroye the Feud-Foreign Gory Bygane!
When o’er the Gleamin’ Skye-Cuirass
O’ the HYE OVERMAN ALONE!
IT lies visible an’ yieldin’ an’ razed an’ burnin'!
When o’er the New Soil o’ Dazzlin’ Alabaster
Conquerin’
Intae Deep the Future, thro’ Renewed Rage
An' yon Incandescent Skye-Thundir!
Ah waes lookin' for,
HE! My Specular Skye-Incarnation!
Fore'er orra creates!
Whileas thae words, in Roaran’ Wreððe,
Flame-Wounded,
Ah still loudly whisper,
But lo! Great Warlike Orrah!
THE IYCE CROSS FIREY
O’er Mirk War-Tartan, Dearest o’ mine!
Next to Dundarg’s Hye Wa, Ah well remember!
Embroidered,
Close to my Ruby Brooch strangely IT,
Unco strangely, like a Verra Premonition
Gleamed, afore noo

The Mirror-Fusion:

WĒOHES MELTAN

When, lo! Airn an’ Thundir!
Great Immortal Warlike Orrah!
Thro’ the Loud Whisper o’ the Thundir
Ah waes lookin’ for,  
The Image o’ the OVERMAN
Detached ITSELF, lo!
Frae baith the Surfaces in the Twa Opposed Mirrors:
Frae baith thae Reflectin' Skye-Furnaces Gleamin'!
Afore Noble Feudal Person o' mine,
Unco Sightless! Still unco Skye-Sightless!
E'en more! noo unco Sightless!
HE hynne, orra Ah beheld cam!
Wha’s Supreme Hieland Emanatin’ Force
Frae the Directin’ Skye-Lightnin’, IT!
Ah waes lookin’ for,
Na orra, orra Prodigious Sight!
Nae e’en Vör’s, or Heimdallur’s, or Snotra’s Ain!
If nae in Thundir Skye-Blinded as noo Mine!
Cuid, cuid IT! humanly, still tae humanly!  
This noo Ah! in Thad Skye-Fyre ‘Yont-Human!
Soarin’ heare in Dignity o’er Tap o’ Noth’s
Black Vitreous Smeddum an’ Cauld Martial Sand,
Cannae, cannae doubt!
Thro’ Thad Flashin’ Skye-Reflection withstand,
Frae the Past! frae the Future, hynne!
Great Warlike Orrah!
To encounter Spirit Ablaze o’ mine,
To Unleash Wyld Beast Immortal
Thad My Verra Mountayn Path  
Guarded still,
Some Bluish Bluid Stains IT leavin’
O’er the Michty an’ Pure Glass still:
My ain! frae the Clash o’ Life,  
An’ noo! Great, Great Warlike Orrah!
A LIGHNIN’-SHADE IRONCLAD!
Unto me, ITS Skye-Bluish Garb o’ Hye Skye-War!
In an Identity an’ Heat, e’en the Most Absolute!
To Verra Perfection reflectin',
Towardis Feudal Person o’ mine IT noo!
Wi’ Slow Skye-Gait,
Devastatingly, IT advanced,
An’ when afore me at length
IT standin’,
Thro’ the Loud Sound o’ the Thundir, lo!
Ah waes still lookin’ for,
In a Great Whoosh an’ Roaran’ Rumble
Non-Human Deep Voice, IT!
Frae the Past! Frae the Future!
Frae the Verra Brunan’ Throat
O’ the LIGHTNIN’ HIS-SEL!
Ah waes still looking for,
Wi’ Spiral Exhalations unner the Form, schorcin’ IT!
O’ Just Anger frae Primeval hynne Most Real
Forgotten Feudal Lore
The Hand-to-hand Wapin-Storm Harsh!
An’ Skye-Revenge, still Mine Ain!
Unco an’ owre loaded,
As Maddenin’ Heated-Airn, IT again!
Unto the Cauld Blue Vault o’ the Verra Skye
Wi’ orra, orra Dignity
Lonely risin’,  
Thae Verra Syllables!
The VERRA SKYE-INCARNATOR O'ERHUMAN!
Intae Deep noo, Great Orrah!
The Abysmal Skye-Core Bluish-Aflame, IT! o' the

Total Specular Skye-Force:

BRYNEWELMES WORDHLÉOÐOR

The Skye-Conscience, Víðarr-Hye o’ mine!
Most distinctly! Great Warlike Orrah!
HE, THE BLUISH INCARNATION HYE
O' THE HYE LIGHTNIN' ITSELF!
Ah waes lookin' for,
Wi' a Skye-Cowntenance Storm-Hidden
Flashin’ frae Deep the Obscured Skye-Mirk
Thro’ a Battle-Scar intae the Fyre gleamin'
O'er HYS left Sword-Offended Cheek:
Thys cuid Ah! unco Blinded, see!
Intae Deep the Skye-Unknown,
Still, Great Guid Glamis’ Orrah!
Stick-an-stowe a Wonner, Mine Ain!
Thro' HYS remarkably Echoin',
Non-human, hynne 'Yont human!
VERRA SKYE-RUMBLIN'!
Noo unco earthily uttered:

YE, WOLF-WOUNDED!
AN’ PROUD, IN BLACK TARTAN O’ WAR
MUFFLED,
KEEK AT ME! KEEK AT ME NOO!
IN NAE TAE EARTHLY TOWMOND!
DO NOO HYNNE LISTEN TAE ME!
YE, NOO FYRE-IRONCLAD WOUNDED!
THE HYE NORLAND GODS INTAE OWRE FYRE
STYLLE HYNNE HONORIN'!
BETTYR BIDE AN' DIE OAN THE NOBLE BATTLEFIELD GORY,
AN' STYLLE, 'YONT BAITH LIEFES AN' DEATH,
FORE'ER ALIVE HYNNE BE!
THEYNE BIDE A MISERABLE LIEFES!

WULFE BLŌDGA HEONAN!
ÞŪ BLADESUNGA OND LÉOMENA HEOFONFYR,
WACA BYRNSWEORDES WIÐ GEHATUM!

FOR DAINGEROUS! VERRA, INTAE THE FEUDAL FYRE DEEP, IT! DAINGEROUS!
MUST TREOWE IDEAS, IN VERRA HYE LOWES, BE!
FOR THE VERRA MICHTY, WHYTE ZENITH-SUNNE
AN' THE ALLWAYES UNKOWN MIRK DEATH!
THE SAME THAY! GREAT THOR'S NORLAND ORRAH! ARE,
FOR THE SELECTED FEUDAL MAN, IRONCLAD HE!
AS YE, IN THAE HYE LOWES, UNCO ARE!
NOO AFORE ME! INTAE THE AULD LONE TARGE-REFLECTION
THAD IS, WAES, AN' SHALL IT BE, THINE!
HYNNE, HEARE AH AM! FOR FRAE THE AULD SHIELD-MIRROR YER RICHTE SKYE-VENGENCE!
FOR YER AIN SKYE-FORM AFORE YE HATH RISEN NOO!
FOR FREISH VALUES ARE NOO OWRE NEEDED!
WI'IN DEEP PRIMAL SKYE-FYRE UNCO SKYE-LIVED!
SAE, SKYE-LIVE THAIM! UNCO DRAM THAIM A’!
WHATE'ER THE RISK INFERNAL, AN' MOORLAN AMBUSH!

GÁSTCWALE HELRÚNENA FORNÉÐAN,

THRO’ HYE BLUISH SKYE-LOWES, SKYE-DESTROYIN’ THAY
WI’IN YER AIN LONE SKYE-VOICE IT NOO!
FRAE AFARRE! FRAE UNCO AFARRE RUMBLIN’,
FOR CURSED IS THE FLEETIN' HOUR!
AN' SAE MUST BE CONQUERED, IT! GREAT ORRAH! AYE!
IN YER SUPERIOR BLUID NOO O'ERHUMAN, MINE AIN!
FOR BRANDED HAE AH
RUDDY SKYE-FLESH O’ MINE
THAD WAES, IS, AN’ SHALL IT BE!
BY THYS VERRA, VERRA SKYE-IMAGE HYNNE,
YER AIN!
WI’ THE IYCE-CROSS FIERY
FRAE HYE THE THUNDIR’S LOUD VOICE,
IN NAE WHISPER DAMNABLE, NOR AIRN-FOREIGN!
AH NOO ORRA TELL:
YER SYMMETRICAL LONE SKYE-FORCE:
THE VERRA LONE THUNDIR-BLUID!
YER AIN LONE SKYE-WRAITH IRONCLAD!
THRO' ETERNAL SKYE-POW’R,
AN' OUT O’ THE BLUISH LONE SKYE-REVENGE
O’ER AN’ O’ER UNCO, O’ERHUMANLY MIRRORIN’!
TO YE HYNNE OWRE IN DEEP FYRE RETURNIN’,
YER AIN WANTIN’ SKYE-HALF, HYNNE!
TH'GITHER WI’ YER SKYE-SPIRIT!
IN HYE LOWES NOO UNTO THE CORE SKYE-DABBED!
A' THIS! A’ THIS! AH SAY! AH TRULY YELL!
TH'GITHER WI' THE LAST SKYE-PRIZE!
INTAE HYE THE SKYE-BLAZE,
THE HAIL ENEMY LAND HARSH NOO
FRAE CAULD HORIZON TO CAULD HORIZON
OWRE CROSSIN’,
A' THIS! A' THIS! AH ALLON, TRULY!
YER MIRROR SKYE-DOWBILL IMMORTAL!
THRO' STEEL CORE-METALLIC, IN HYE SKYE-FYRE AM!
ABYSMAL LAVA-BLUID O’ MINE!
FLOWIN’
FRAE HYE RED HEL, IT! THY LANE BEHOLD!
YER AIN!
INTAE DEEP THE FUSION-GLARE,
BLASTED SKYE-FURNACE IT!
UNREACHABLE, UNFATHOMABLE, MOST TANGIBLE, IT!
THE VERRA FRAME
LESURELY, NEXT TO YE IN BATTLE
STROLLIN’!
THE LONE INCARNATION
AN’ THE SKYE-ROAR
FRAE THE VERRA THUNDERBOLT
YE WERE LOOKIN’ FOR
HYNNE YER FUTURE, YER BYGANE:
NAE DIFFERENCE! THAA ARE MINE AIN!
INTAE THE HYE FYRE, FRAE YER TANGIBLE
SKYE-WILL! THAD AH NOO HEARE AM,
FOR SKYE-ENERGY CANNAE DERIVE FRAE NOTHINGNESS!
NOR UNTO NOTHINGNESS KIN IT RETURN!
HYNNE WILL, 'YONT DEATH,
THRO' THE LANG AN’ BLUISH
SKYE-LOWE
YE WERE LOOKIN’ FOR,
IMMORTAL AS CONQUERIN' PROVES,
STILL, WI'IN RAGIN' AN' VISCERAL
DEEP PRIMAL FYRE, YER AIN!
FOR YE SHALL STILL LIVE YER LIFE AGAIN,  
THIS TYME INTAE THE HYE SKYE-POW'R!
WI' ITS NEW ESSENCE SELF-OVERCOME,
HYNNE DO UNCO LIVE NOO!
THAD VERRA GORE HEARE,
FRAE MY BLEEZAN OPEN SCARS, YER AIN!
FOR THE WORN PAST DWELLS DEFEATED
IN THE FUTURE AS EMPOW'RED!
INTAE THE STEEL-BLUISH IMAGE AH HEARE AM!
NOO AFORE THINE SKYE-BLINDED EYES
THRO' THE LONE HYE LOWE WOUNDED,
THAD ARE ALSO MINE!
IN NAE SPECTRAL FYRE, HYNNE!
STICK-AN-STOWE, AN' VERRA VERRA SUNE!
YER AIN!
WI'IN THE HYE ZENITH-THUNDIR HYNNE,
YE WERE LOOKIN' FOR,
O'ER AN' O'ER FORE'ER LIVIN',  
AN' THRO' THE HIELAND FLOWIN 'LAVA:
THE BECOMIN' IN POW'R FORE'ER RENEWED
THRO' THAD SKYE-BLUID HYNNE!  
FLASHINGLY STREAMIN'
AS A CONQUERIN' WYLD FYRE-RIVER
FRAE NOBLE HYNNE SUPERIOR GORE,
DOWNE, DOWNE!
INTAE THE VERRA WHYTE CHASM, AN' FLASHIN' ABYSS!
FRAE YON SHARP AN' SHININ' AN' TOWERIN' MIRK ROCKS!
AN' THIS SACRIFICIAL BLUISH BLUID INCANDESCENT
FRAE O'ERHUMAN LIFE STILL WOUNDED, MINE!
WAES, AN' IS, AN' SHALL IT BE!
BEHOLD YE! UNCO SEE YE, NOO!
YE, O'ERHUMANLY BLINDED!
HE WHA! THE DREARY VOID O' DARKNESS
CANNAE, CANNAE! IN ANY MANNER NOO KNOW!
HYNNE IN HIELAND SKYE-RAGE,
AN' HYE! O'ER THE FEUDAL THRONE IMMORTAL,
AN' HEARE! OAN THE SURFACE O' THIS SKYE-MIRROR!
WAES, AN' IS, AN' SHALL IT BE!
WI'IN THE MELTIN' UNTO THE COSMIC CORE
SKYE-GLARE, YER AIN!
AN' NOO! DO ADVANCE!
DO TAKE A STROLL INTAE THE HYE SKYE-GORE!
GANG AYONT! GANG AYONT! AH SAY!
'YONT EVERYTHING! ‘YONT LIFE AN’ DEATH E’EN!
GANG AYONT!
AN' WHATE SHALL YE IN THE END SEE?
AT THE BOTTOM O' THE WHYTE CHASM FIERY?
YER FLASHIN' IN AIRN IMAGE ALONE!
THAD IS MINE AIN!
HEE HAW, HEE HAW ELSE, AH SAY!
WI’IN THE SPECULAR SKYE-POW'R INCARNATED,
THE VERRA SUM AN’ COMMUNION O’ THE ETERNAL TENSIONS
IN BECOMIN’ DWELLIN’ AH HEARE AM!
THRO’ THE LOUD SING FRAE THE THUNDIR HYNNE!
BY HYE SKYE-VENGEANCE FORE’ER INCREASIN',
O'ER AN' O'ER TO YER SPIRIT HYNNE RETURNIN',
YERS HYNNE MINE!

When noo, Great Warlike Orrah!
Upon thae Verra Words, thro’ my Ain
By noo Thundir-Voice!
In an' unco Skye-Rumblin',
Wi'in Thad O'erhuman Blaze wi' hye force condensin'
Intae a NEW THUNDIR-FRAME Skye-Concrete
In aspects o' PURE BLUISH HEAT!
HUMAN ALTOGETHER NAE LONGER, IT! tone,
Ah distinctly hearin’,
When noo, Guid Sundrum's Orrah!

The Fyre-Bringer:

FÝRHEARD HEREWULF OND HEREWÆÐA

A Thoosan Black Banners, in Hye Glorious Lowes,
Orra issuin’,
An’ wnto yon Whyte Chasm the Salute wavin’,
Wi’ the Hue o’ Red-Hel IT imbuin’,
HE, Hynne Ah: the Freish an’ Auld Titan
Far awa, far awa! wi'in the Dreary Caucasus!
Frae ayont yon Suthron, hynne!
Ah kin clearly see!
Rebel hynne Creator, HE!
HE, Creator hynne Rebel!
The OVERMAN! comin’ o’er, still approachin’,
Intae noo deep the Skye-Dance Everlastin’
Thro’ HYS AIN hynne MINE
Skye-Thunderous Sound
Ah waes lookin’ for,
Dominatin’,
Frae Thae Simmetrical Verra Fyre-Mirrors!
Still glarin’
Ne’er e’er to yield, the Twa Skye-Surfaces!
Nor in human, tae human!
Unco Gory Misery, nor Skye-Foreign Blasphemy,
Nor Damnable an' Cowardly Affront
To e'er wane!
At length thro' the Hye Vigour Supreme
Frae the Overwill Alone!
Dearest o’ Mine! Inner Energy Abysmal:
Still Uknown, IT!
An’ in Skye-Reverge freed!
A Thoosan Black Banners, in Fyre, Ah say!
HE, hynne Ah issuin’,
When noo, Great Guid Orrah!
The Skye-Bluid o' the OVERMAN:
Theis! oan Thae Countless Mirk Banners floatin'
In Hye Honour o' the Zenith-Sunne!
Wi'in abysmal whyte runes waes noo graven,
Hye Selective an' Skye-Supreme proved!
Nae, nae IT, for all!
For nae everybody is worth withstandin'
The Return o' Pow'r's Noble, an' Flashin'
Supreme Force, an' Infinite Speed, an' Spiral Revolution!

CÁFNES ÞRÝÞBORD,

Tae the Skye-Limitless fore’er,
In the Form o’ Hye Steel Feudal
Skye-soarin’,
ITS Verra Great, Verra Guid,
Great Guid Auld Carham’s Orrah!
Burnan Wheill o’ Universal Core-Energy
Skye-Central, Skye-Abysmal, IT!
Alongside the Rational Force frae the Thundir-Impetus
Thad waes, is, an’ shall IT be the OVERMAN’S AIN!
In Hye Lowes increasin’,
Tae the Skye-Infinite, hynne!
Most Renewed, most Identical,
Intae the Verra Spiral most Empowered!
The Worthy ENS, unco hynne Joyful, IT!
Immortal owre feastin’,
For intae Thae Rapid Coils o' Glorious Fyre hynne,
Frae Thys MICHTY TARGE O' SKYE-ENERGY PERENNIAL!
Nae for all! Immortality is solemnly worth
Thro' Thad Increasingly Growin'
Feudal Skye-Rebirth Steel-Mirrorin'!
Wnto ragefully Bluish-Ablaze an' Core-Feudal
Noble Hye Perfection!
An' in Eternal Steel Unconditional, IT!
Dwellin',
The Human, tae Human!
Gory Chains o’ Promethean Slavery
Bluish wi’ the Verra Reverberation
Frae the Lightnin’ O’erhuman
Ah waes lookin’ for,
They suddely becam!
An’ at length, Great Warlike Orrah!
The Lonesome Blindin’ Frame o’ Gowd,
Wha’s Sole Hye Thundir-Naim

Overman Skye:

SCEAWERES IREN-EALWEALDA

IT orra waes! Frae the Twa Dazzlin' Mirrors
In Perfect Symmetry emanated wi’in
The RETURN O’ POW’R!
Burnan’ Vortex-Event Universal, IT!
In Slender Lines o’ Whyte Fyre,
The Verra Core Heat
Reachin’,
Intae Infinite Reflections o’ Primordial Pow’r
Frae the Twa Lookin' Glasses, Blindin' They!
O’er All, Great, Great IT!
Njörður's ain Battle Orrah!
Limitless Dominion, an’ the Feudal Rule
Steel-haudin’,
WHILEAS WAES AH! WAES AH!
GUID, VERRA GUID EILEAN DONAN'S
WAR-TARTAN ORRAH!
STYLLE CHAINED IN BLUISH GORE, MY AIN!
HYNNE THE OVERMAN'S AIN, TAE!
WNTO THE AULD AN' HYE! VERRA SKYE-HYE, IT!
THUNDIR-GLEAMIN' BLUID-ROCK O' SKYE-SACRIFYCE:
NAE LONGER! NAE ORRA SKYE-LONGER!
An’ ITS central Rays an’ the Verra Lowes
Intae Ane Flashin’ Ironclad *****
Polarizin’,
A Thoosan Tymes Greater, Mightier hynne:
The OVERMAN!
O’er an’ o’er unto me returnin’,
‘Yont the Reddenin’ Pillars o’ Immortal
Skye-Renown!
‘Yont Death, the Mirk Unknown!
An’ ITS Feud-Foreign Fear,
Whyle, lo! the Steel-Vibration gleamin’
Frae Máni's ain Verra Crescent,
Dusky-Red, IT!
Waes, waes, in yon Murky West
Still IT unco risin',
Unfathomable, an' Potent, an' Dreary,
Unto the Stane Circles’ Builders
Wounded frae Life, at Skara Brae,
Appearin’,
At right angles to the Chain-Mailed *****
Noo orra descedin’
To cross the Region o’ the Heart:
Let IT fall intae the Verra Abyss!
Yet the Sceadewe! Great Wotan's Orrah!

ÓÐENES HÁLIGE CRAWE,

IT stylle leisurely stood,
In Hys Mirk Bluid Bleedin’,
Crossed hynne by the Verra Thunderbolt!
Ah waes lookin’ for,
An’ Hys, frae Kyng Rædwald the Gift!
Mask o’ War IT, lo!
Wi’ Black Fyre bleedin’,
Upon the Cauld Soil, together wi’ Hys Cloak,
Waes IT thrown,
Hynne Hys Mirk Warlike Self unveilin’,
Still Mine Ain!
Nae Gory Fear! tae owre hide:

SCEAD UNDER HELME HEARD BIÞ,
MĪN FORESCÝWA RÉADAÞ.

Little girl in a blue
snow globe.
Pressed white shirt and tartan skirt.
Hair slipping
out of a ponytail or braid or something
like that.
Laughter like a current
to be lost in by a boatman.
Her first time at the beach.
Writing
childish saltwater sonnets
in the sand with her toes.

Paper-plane sky
kisses
sea brimming
out of its seams.
Singing, on-off key,
school choir tone,
'Never Let Me Go'.
Who needs, she needs
nothing
but
the horizon
cupped
in outstretched palms.
Innocence stored
in jagged-shiny shells
waiting to be
buried
in hot, bare sand.

Time comes to shore, oceans
grow warmer,
shallow.
No more of kid braids
but a woman in
azure.
Her whole life having been
a half-moon run
out of deep, dry wells
in search of,
in search of...
in search of
what, but
hope.
Cracking oyster shells
looking for
pearls.

Time again comes to shore.
Cigarette pants for tartan skirt,
in a blue-almost-black.
Staring out
at water lapping before her,
before her, after the sky.
Before,
after.
The horizon is a pretty picture
she wants to hang
on the wall of her heart.
But she, schoolgirl trapped in snow globe,
remembers
textbook phrases like
'Humans are made up of 75%
water.'
So we are drowning every moment,
she thinks dryly.

Water within,
inevitable.
Maybe her skin or nerves or vocal cords
sensed it all those years ago
in the schoolgirl's snow globe.
Like crying, like love,
like fearing, like dying.
Shifting, receding, flowing in
and out.

Could emotions be tides she dares,
dares not
row, row,
row through?

Where did it all leak away?
Was it in the salt
running down her face?
If she is 75% water,
where has it drained
to leave the heart parched,
and her tartan days a distant drought
of memory?

Snow globe melts away.
Wade in, wade in,
have your fill,
until skin is slick
with better pain.
You told the ocean years ago,
you sang in schoolgirl choir tones,
never,
never,
never let me go.

Now it never will.

How sweetly shines, through azure skies,
  The lamp of Heaven on Lora’s shore;
Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise,
  And hear the din of arms no more!

But often has yon rolling moon,
  On Alva’s casques of silver play’d;
And view’d, at midnight’s silent noon,
  Her chiefs in gleaming mail array’d:

And, on the crimson’d rocks beneath,
  Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter’d ranks of death,
  She saw the gasping warrior low;

While many an eye, which ne’er again
  Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn’d feebly from the gory plain,
  Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
  They blest her dear propitious light;
But, now, she glimmer’d from above,
  A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva’s noble race,
  And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
  Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But, who was last of Alva’s clan?
  Why grows the moss on Alva’s stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
  They echo to the gale alone.

And, when that gale is fierce and high,
  A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
  And vibrates o’er the mould’ring wall.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
  It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But, there, no more his banners rise,
  No more his plumes of sable wave.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar’s birth,
  When Angus hail’d his eldest born;
The vassals round their chieftain’s hearth
  Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

They feast upon the mountain deer,
  The Pibroch rais’d its piercing note,
To gladden more their Highland cheer,
  The strains in martial numbers float.

And they who heard the war-notes wild,
  Hop’d that, one day, the Pibroch’s strain
Should play before the Hero’s child,
  While he should lead the Tartan train.

Another year is quickly past,
  And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
  Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
  On Alva’s dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chas’d the roe,
  And left their hounds in speed behind.

But ere their years of youth are o’er,
  They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,
  And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar’s hair,
  Wildly it stream’d along the gale;
But Allan’s locks were bright and fair,
  And pensive seem’d his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own’d a hero’s soul,
  His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn’d controul,
  And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
  Was shiver’d oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar’s ***** scorn’d to fear,
  But Oscar’s ***** knew to feel;

While Allan’s soul belied his form,
  Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
  On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon’s distant tower
  Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth’s lands to form her dower,
  Glenalvon’s blue-eyed daughter came;

And Oscar claim’d the beauteous bride,
  And Angus on his Oscar smil’d:
It soothed the father’s feudal pride
  Thus to obtain Glenalvon’s child.

Hark! to the Pibroch’s pleasing note,
  Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

See how the Heroes’ blood-red plumes
  Assembled wave in Alva’s hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
  Attending on their chieftain’s call.

It is not war their aid demands,
  The Pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar’s nuptials throng the bands
  Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

But where is Oscar? sure ’tis late:
  Is this a bridegroom’s ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
  Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join’d the bride;
  “Why comes not Oscar?” Angus said:
“Is he not here?” the Youth replied;
  “With me he rov’d not o’er the glade:

“Perchance, forgetful of the day,
  ’Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or Ocean’s waves prolong his stay:
  Yet, Oscar’s bark is seldom slow.”

“Oh, no!” the anguish’d Sire rejoin’d,
  “Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
  Would aught to her impede his way?

“Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
  Allan, with these, through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
  Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.”

All is confusion—through the vale,
  The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murm’ring gale,
  Till night expands her dusky wings.

It breaks the stillness of the night,
  But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning’s misty light,
  But Oscar comes not o’er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
  For Oscar search’d each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
  His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.

“Oscar! my son!—thou God of Heav’n,
  Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given,
  Yield his assassin to my rage.

“Yes, on some desert rocky shore
  My Oscar’s whiten’d bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
  With him his frantic Sire may die!

“Yet, he may live,—away, despair!
  Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T’ arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
  O God! my impious prayer forgive.

“What, if he live for me no more,
  I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva’s age is o’er:
  Alas! can pangs like these be just?”

Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,
  Till Time, who soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return,
  And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For, still, some latent hope surviv’d
  That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop’d and now revived,
  Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days roll’d along, the orb of light
  Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless’d his father’s sight,
  And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remain’d,
  And, now, his father’s only joy:
And Mora’s heart was quickly gain’d,
  For beauty crown’d the fair-hair’d boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,
  And Allan’s face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar liv’d, some other maid
  Had claim’d his faithless *****’s care.

And Angus said, if one year more
  In fruitless hope was pass’d away,
His fondest scruples should be o’er,
  And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll’d the moons, but blest at last
  Arriv’d the dearly destin’d morn:
The year of anxious trembling past,
  What smiles the lovers’ cheeks adorn!

Hark to the Pibroch’s pleasing note!
  Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,
  Throng through the gate of Alva’s hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
  And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken’d brow
  Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes’ far fiercer glow
  The blue flames curdle o’er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
  And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
  But light and trackless is his tread.

’Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
  The bridegroom’s health is deeply quaff’d;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
  And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
  And all the clamorous crowd are hush’d;
And Angus’ cheek with wonder glows,
  And Mora’s tender ***** blush’d.

“Old man!” he cried, “this pledge is done,
  Thou saw’st ’twas truly drunk by me;
It hail’d the nuptials of thy son:
  Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

“While all around is mirth and joy,
  To bless thy Allan’s happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne’er another boy?
  Say, why should Oscar be forgot?”

“Alas!” the hapless Sire replied,
  The big tear starting as he spoke,
“When Oscar left my hall, or died,
  This aged heart was almost broke.

“Thrice has the earth revolv’d her course
  Since Oscar’s form has bless’d my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
  Since martial Oscar’s death, or flight.”

“’Tis well,” replied the stranger stern,
  And fiercely flash’d his rolling eye;
“Thy Oscar’s fate, I fain would learn;
  Perhaps the Hero did not die.

“Perchance, if those, whom most he lov’d,
  Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance, the chief has only rov’d;
  For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn.

“Fill high the bowl the table round,
  We will not claim the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown’d;
  Pledge me departed Oscar’s health.”

“With all my soul,” old Angus said,
  And fill’d his goblet to the brim:
“Here’s to my boy! alive or dead,
  I ne’er shall find a son like him.”

“Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
  But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
  And raise thy cup with firmer hand.”

The crimson glow of Allan’s face
  Was turn’d at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chace,
  Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
  And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger’s eye
  On his with deadly fury plac’d.

“And is it thus a brother hails
  A brother’s fond remembrance here?
If thus affection’s strength prevails,
  What might we not expect from fear?”

Roused by the sneer, he rais’d the bowl,
  “Would Oscar now could share our mirth!”
Internal fear appall’d his soul;
  He said, and dash’d the cup to earth.

“’Tis he! I hear my murderer’s voice!”
  Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
“A murderer’s voice!” the roof replies,
  And deeply swells the bursting storm.

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
  The stranger’s gone,—amidst the crew,
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
  And tall the shade terrific grew.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
  His plume of sable stream’d on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
  And fix’d was the glare of his glassy eye.

And thrice he smil’d, with his eye so wild
  On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown’d, on a Chief on the ground,
  Whom shivering crowds with horror see.

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,
  And thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
  Was borne on high by the whirlwind’s wing.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceas’d.
  Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press’d old Angus’ breast,
  At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

“Away, away! let the leech essay
  To pour the light on Allan’s eyes:”
His sand is done,—his race is run;
  Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

But Oscar’s breast is cold as clay,
  His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan’s barbèd arrow lay
  With him in dark Glentanar’s vale.

And whence the dreadful stranger came,
  Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
  For Alva’s sons knew Oscar well.

Ambition nerv’d young Allan’s hand,
  Exulting demons wing’d his dart;
While Envy wav’d her burning brand,
  And pour’d her venom round his heart.

Swift is the shaft from Allan’s bow;
  Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar’s sable crest is low,
  The dart has drunk his vital tide.

And Mora’s eye could Allan move,
  She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes, which beam’d with love,
  Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.

Lo! see’st thou not a lonely tomb,
  Which rises o’er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
  Oh! that is Allan’s nuptial bed.

Far, distant far, the noble grave
  Which held his clan’s great ashes stood;
And o’er his corse no banners wave,
  For they were stain’d with kindred blood.

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
  Shall Allan’s deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory’s chief reward,
  But who can strike a murd’rer’s praise?

Unstrung, untouch’d, the harp must stand,
  No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
  His harp in shuddering chords would break.

No lyre of fame, no hallow’d verse,
  Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father’s bitter curse,
  A brother’s death-groan echoes there.

i can't help what i am...
but what i am not is a spoken word
poet: with that generic exasperation
technique of speaking -
as if, on the verge of crying...

but what i can tell you...
i am a rigid person,
there are 3/4 of me that should
have enlisted in the army,
and only a 1/4 that went to
university...

so... given that i'm such a rigid ******...
i thought i'd tell you about
linear and vertical rhyming...
linear?
oh, that's neat & easy:

.................................... end
.................................... bend
..................................... send
..................................... wend....

basically suffix rhyming...
but! but... what Sylvia Plath
introduced?
   oh, my, god...
      transcendent of
the conceptualization of
"the" box...

her rhyme? alphabetical...
sort of...

        it's more than that...
she didn't pay due diligence on
suffix rhyming -end,
   -ing
    you name it...

you want to know what her rhyme
concept implies?

   **** me, it's sassy...

she was a rhyming weaver...
an interloper...
    words didn't have to necessarily
end in the same boundary
of an echo... echo rhyming
by the standard bearers is one thing...
she made tartan rhymes...

tartan rhyming...
kilt rhyming...

                  and it looked something
equivalent to, this:

  ceremony or Potent -
Still sky, obtuSe -
   one might Say love -
  Suddenly,
        black featherS,
black reSpit -
Season of fatigue,
SpaSmodic,
  deScend...
   Stolidly...
       no effigy... Seem...
pompouS...
                         coarSe copy...
      Bell tongue BirdS...
    Shrined on her SHelf...
too Tough to Finish...
  Seize my Senses...
ToTal neuTrality...
   deScent...
                Sanguine...
  bRick dusk...
Prose...
              plaCe...
            pompouS...
Ne­at kNits...
    weedS obScured...
SHe blenched,
miMic...
   deSpite...
baniSH...
    ******...
too tough for knife to finiSH...

      Head...
so profoundly muCH...
       piN legs...
               thoughtS...
So departS...
       S(h)eets...
Sanity...
      Tongue...
Printed Page...
  Twelve...
Sick man's Eye...
nEVER nEVER found
anyWHERE...

goodbye goodbye...
      eXclamation...
the First point...
            GHost...
   Signify...
cuckoo-land of color fields,
CRisp CUsp...
    
        the girl's dancing!
she's dancing barefoot...
no, i can't fall in love with her...
she's, dead!

    but can you see
rhyming vertically?
   all the lettering,
in capital letters?
  deviancy...
   it doesn't agree to your
box standard form of
rhyme, linearly...
  it's vertical rhyming,
it's juxtapositions on a scale
that might elongate
the winding tongue of a snake
in, anything but maracas
rattling...
sssssssssssssssssssssss.....
a wet snare...
   she's teasing...
she has escaped
the tradition of
the traditional guise of rhyme...
she has invoked
rhyme, but as an intermediating
attachment...
          forget the rigid
end-
                   -ing
with a "worthy"
   sympathiz-
                                        -ing...

what a gall...
she makes the housewives of America's
1950s twice as vampire-like,
and thrice as Stepford material...
   lucky blond to leave so much
"crap" behind...
   i could pick the maggots
from her head and make it
a day's worth of fishing
on the banks of Vistula...

she's dancing in the rain,
and all i have is my Cameo cinema
moment
with my cousin, Justine,
running barefoot where
i grew up on the cement...
and then cuddling together,
getting warmer
over one worth of an afternoon...

last time i heard...
her son Leo was born on
the 15th of May,
my birthday...
  but we've fallen out...
when her husband
put a **** under my father's
self-employment
enterprise...
   and undertook
a practice of stealing workers
from him...
great move... when you join
a family...

        nice memory though...
wish my cousin Justin all the luck
she can muster...
but when it comes to family
friendliness?
none....
                 went to her brother's
wedding... was interrogated by
her brother's best man...

   Polish drunk talk...
let's just say...
his date?
   was flashing her underwear
at me from under her magic carpet
ride of a skirt while we
smoke cigarettes and finished
off drinks, being accused of...
trying... to seriously...
hide her... exhibitionism...

   so i started punching myself
in the face to find target practice
should i ever come across
any more Polacks, drunk,
at a family wedding...
   you never know...

           hell... if ******* wanna tango...
we'll... ******* tango! ha ha.
now all i need is the raw
material... my knuckles
are either furry...
or they're itchy...
  can't exactly knock-out
my neighbors dog...
   i need a ******* mug of
a mouthwash advert...
with a grin that's, seriously
asking for a few missing teeth
to rekindle a smile!

You strayed independent across my unlaid path
impressing me with a hideaway around the thistles
where inlay thigh flints spark like butterfly wings
fused to outstretched but still flimsy present glinting
loose eyes a smoky incense close to gleam igniting
potent tinder sax on a beneficent Burns' night portent
whispering wick lit slivers of be live next to me glen scent
fluttering and roaming through saliva kissed gloaming
a light shaved window opening a misty eyed gap
opportune as a mysterious space between maps

crossed with aye formations and melted highlands
I slide into a bonnie loch when you return my glance
smooth as a swan stroking shallow into deep meeters
the swirl of bagpipes barely rippling the surface meters

a proud union betwixt us found expression
unflagging love notes ** streamed passion
red into sky blue twitchy nerves lend fingers
fondling unfurled clouds into catchy dance rings
retracing steps into tempestuous hearts I rose
so dryads can black watch temptation intertwine
painted inside as I woad your Pictish tartan

only now the pedestal wobbles a little
but you don't fall to my arms
brave destiny's turn is fickle
and straight on without being toppled
you hesitate but give no nod to lead
no quick look behind you as I hoped
shying awry to continue walking
the hot moment runs past cold
safe as before inhibitions land
like icicles on my fanciful back

upstanding Meissen men often talk
of perfection showing no cracks
and chuckled as they left their mark
in crossed swords kilned with clay ores
giving a porcelain lion soft pause
for thought about a heart out clause
and about lifting any kilt or unstuck thought
to keep established ruling embarrassment
but is that parley risking nought?
the mane's trimmed short
too correct to tip the hat
to a potential welcome
down falls harassment
south of the borderline
sad that no one can put
that man lass
yes
moment together again
but ever slow drifting apart
the dream mist
goes on

Highland Nordic landscape
hands bound by twine
the smells of pine
wafting through the forest
the stranger awakes to their escorted fate
the judge, jury and executioner awaits
with bated breath and a heaving chest
behind the forever closed gates
just beyond the mist.

The Rebels want their Freedom
and the right to choose their destiny
The Empire want allegiance
and the spoils of war
to stroll their sequestered land
the suppression they hold unto thee

taken by force in an act of Union
intent on silencing the minority
but the quell of the rebel voice had failed
an unbridled passion and belief
that as natives they would never relinquish
not even under the purge of fire
nor the controls to decide
that resistance of existence is futile
in the face of a Colonial state
that all should bow and abide

emphatic on extending their reach
natives were but minions in their eyes
harvesting an ancient history
as you would brew heather mead
hounding the pilgrims of Talos
tending the ego's of the few over the many
laying claim to what lies beneath the sea
the fossil fuels they ache for
and on-demand that they have
the greatest need.

Dragon Slayer is in their midst
but they do not know that yet
not until this epic unfolds
like a warriors Tartan
laid out and stitched in war
the family crest emblazoned
hues of amber stained in years of fervor

the weight of the uninvited guest
who decided it was best
that they should take whatever they desired;
you land, your dreams, your women -
the nubile pale skin of a lovers breath
tarnished her name, pillaged her sanctuary
before you were able to take her hand
and under the arched stealth of moonlight
and under the eyes of your Gods
solemn oaths sworn and ritual pacts made
that they would never steal the memory
and that this would never fade.

Dragon Slayer would have you heed their name
in time to come when all must decide
make alliances of your own
or squander freedom in the name of history
let the past slip into the murky waters of shame
preserved in the wetland bogs to the west
till the soil broken by man's greed
to populate the last remains of nature
so that he may gorge his already fat belly
with the notion of carrying on his seed
in a world where more are alive today
than have ever been.

You decide:
what do your Elven ears hear
your Orcish eyes see
your Redguard heart feel
your Viking spirit wield
your Khajiit senses fear

the Argonian lizard
his forked tongue speaks in riddles
puzzles await
poisoned logic
and arcane magic
in a time before the world found its feet
when dragons ruled the skies
and breathed fire and ice

the artifacts of legend
lay hidden in the hall of stories
rewarding only the Dragon Slayer
with the wall of voices

will you accept the fate of history
or stand tall and embrace the change
will you go headlong into the cold night alone
whether you be the warrior or the mage
all that is yours by right to keep
your moment of glory awaits

the Greybeards will ask only this:
which destiny will you seek?

beginning with a title... the transcendent bicycle...
because it really is just that...
if you have walked as much as i have:
a marathon from Romford
to St. Paul's and back...
a marathon from Romford to Epping
and back...
       i don't know but i do know that
i might have been aiming for: flesh of my flesh...
aged 34... but i'm still "trapped" inside
the dimension of the bicycle like
i'm ******* quicksilver / the flash...
i haven't ridden a bicycle in well over a decade...
today i found out i have ghost muscles...
the bicycle became the antithesis of
prosthetic limbs...
   it's hardly a Descartes contemplating
a desk and / or van Gogh's chair...
beauty in pickling... depths of thought in:
picking, juices...
how a second birth happens with
the advent of thought...
when... penetrating inanimate things...
to think about objects is to...
become more objective?
         it's not like i'll summon...
a Freudian complex...
using a bicycle... as a Deleuze
did when ushering in the bicycle from
a Beckett's perspective...
  beside the "village bicycle" i hardly
want to give sway to some ******* metaphor...

the bicycle is more than a chair
a chair is such a fermentation process
since you can sit on it...
but can hardly concern yourself
with making a ******* gallop on it...
but a bicycle is not a horse...
but a bicycle is not a horse...
writes the man that...
yes... i have ridden horses...
all the equestrian clubs in Essex can shy away
from the detail of...
i have allowed myself to ride a horse
to a gallop... neck, sore... entangled in:
want of massage... yes...
but a bicycle is not a horse!
it's a dog... at best... it goes where you want
it to go...
the leash of gears the muzzle of the breaks...

the **** i need a car for?
in London... even if it's outskirts /
kilt Loon'don?
     ha ha FARKER TARTAN WILLIAMSSON...
blah!
enriched with hidden energies of
newly discovered... otherwise plainly
shelved sensations of motion...
there's nothing new about a bicycle...
said the man who withheld a smirk
when attesting...
a gap... the same centre of gravity... though...
almost like the buoyancy arrived at
when swimming...

oh how my father tried to teach me...
how peer pressure taught me instead...
it's this exasperating O oh and ah...
that's not really becoming of adding any more
detail to a rekindled love for life...

notably concerning England...
and outer-suburbia...
- when you have been walking these
labyrinth streets for months...
to be suddenly injected with
a very new, but at the same time:
a very old concept... dimension: which sharpens
the genesis of thinking about the sentence...
a new dimension of... speed...
time, space are their own affairs...
invoked for a day by a day...
walking is merely movement...
cycling? that's not merely movement...
that's...             speed...
because... there's a whole chi focus
of X yes precisely X...
        only half an hour's worth of cycling
and i covered the whole peninsula of the area...
unbelievable the detail of acquiring
traffic coordination...
a shared responsibility that a mere
pedestrian might take for granted...
      
tomorrow's a Sunday and i'm supposing
come circa 7am the
traffic should be "slim"...
having tested the breaks and the gears
somewhat proper...

bicycle bicycle... where have you been
all my past decade...
bicycle: grandfather Joseph...
death toll murk... fill the bells!
let them not resound in the night
while i reclaim the wind for my own...

- that i sometimes drift in and out
of solipsism...
yes... that solipsism is
laboratory minded experimentation
with states of autism...
but you're given the excuse
of riding a bicycle...

i wonder what wings might feel like....
a bicycle is not a horse...
a bicycle is more or less a dog...
it's certainly not a cat... meow...
if there was an advent of wind to harness...
but there's me... merely pulverising forward...
the leash the muzzle
all that's frame and the breaks:
downhill...

the lullaby of emotions intrinsic in:
blocking all rancid thinking... all thinking
like so...
Zen by ***... it's not that i know more...
i know... different... but first you have to walk
said distances... before loopholes...
wormholes appear gesticulating the mind
with a provided for, otherwise...

i'm 34 and i feel like i've just...
accomplished more than
having shed feather of my virginity...
never make me feel so entrusting...
never make me feel so demanding "x"...
peddle ******* peddle...
tread-water.... in your pyjamas...
i do remember, like an elephant's cranium
might... details of a historical tattoo...

philosophy books are...
paupers of metaphor...
language is ever hardly elevated into
a bouquet...
i don't want to be in love again...
i don't want to be such an...
undemanding... lack of ambition...
lack of sacrifice...

take me into the woods
and shoot me in the back of the head...
but before you do...
i'll merely ask...
take me into the sort of woods
where the deed be done...
but appreciate walking me so far
off the well trodden path
that you might not remember
how to retrieve a safe-footing back...
take me into the woods of no known
horizon...

guarded by a strict wall of a mile of trees
that block out the otherwise pleasant
azure of the sky come hiding the sun
at sunset... or sunrise...
in that zenith of immobile grey
between the hours of commotion
when nothing is to be salvaged as one's
own... but... abhorred as it too must be...
somehow... shared...

some privy in on England... a land
of fertile imaginings...
when Descartes had his table, and chair...
to fist & fester on...
i'll lay clamour to the debris of alt...

yes: an overbearing load of sensation:
delusional.. let's put him in his "right"
place... let him believe the sole provided
the psychiatric source of angst
no purpose = no posit of transcendence...
no bicycle...
   custard... pie-load...
angst...
               jerking off from "excess" libido...
well... exercise the "excesses" of libido elsewhere...
exert well squid parallels
and more: firm grasp... "tentacles"...
see the same within the confines
of an "elsewhere"...

how ***** i became being so...
muscular abiding... simultaneously... docile... too...
it's not a Lamborghini it's not
a British T... triumph motorcycle...
it's a peddling ingenuity of
somewhat self-origin...

i could have eaten up a Solomon's share
of ****** and *******
that same of wisdom...
should i, could i, would i have
demanded less than was already left available
from the Tetragrammaton...

how did "we" ever learn to laugh...
how was HA... the hebrew definite article spawned
those biggest,
no... those grieving questions...
how a monotheistic deity might be all
good... yet somehow not all powerful...
yet all powerful but not all good...
bling alley... cul-de-sac view:

the algebra not solved: attempted by
numbers...
letters later sieved...
and more letters sieved...
played the party pooper with membrane knowledge
of katakana and Hangul...
because... Latin script does slip...

chi-focus?
the multiplication ascend of:
what was walked prior...
can now be cycled... shortened because no
"lost" time was ever to be grieved...
although... the front suspension is...
an unwelcome addition...
ha ha... privy me on details
like... excesses that are there...
21 gears and when there was a rigid frame
throughout and rising up from
a sitting position is not necessary...

no... i'm not gearing up for motorcycles...
i like the idea...
but also... subsequently... the experience...
of a double-decker... bus...
of a bus of being the transit mahjong skeleton...
pieces... mein alles!

mein alles!             gott, mit... uns!

yes... unbelievable... the demands for yachts...
for ******... diminished into a fizzle....
when a Beijing demand for bicycles
skyrocketed... and all that was left to salvage
was... promises of a Sunday,
circa 7am...

hidden gems of plied-play-dough-esque:
sort of truths...
sort of beefing up... doubting pork...
within the confines of chops...
between me and a prisoner...
between me an a prisoner...
it's hardly the yacht...
the hardly any nuance of bother...
believe the existence of hierarchy...
because the Bolsheviks didn't
come about the first time around...
second try...
escape the English cwown they said...
escape the litany of squares
they-void-thought... "said"...
herr omar bin sa-id...
conquest of the Hey-Brews... "said"...

don't undermine the intricate
tribal workings of...
half-possessed...
half truant... thereby almost totally... true...
associates of Casimir the Great...
there be a god of wisdom
and there be a god of fire...
there be a god of letters...
if so...

the same god will be inclined
to mind...
an apostrophe as much as a surd (letter)
in Ęgli-sh...
when not minding... "it"..
lay an Ę to the side to wreck havoc with...
ha ha!    Щ...

  Ę / Щ... the **** are you looking
at me... like i were the one
who killed your mother with a *******
harmonica / what have these galoshes to do with
"these" galoshes...
what has this pumpernickel to do with
this windmill... "this" is an obstruction...
the proverb states...
what has a pumpernickel to do with
a windmill?

exactly... ****-all!

two-riddle *******' worth... worth of...
newly ******* jargon... and crust of...
for the load that might be minded
invigorating life... as life in prospect...
re-orientating man toward the clamour
of detailing sky...
not on foot...
not on horse...
not via car... will you...
to hell with running down...
a stampede of perspective...

planet... luancy? is that where we are all,
from?
i am born of madness...
i am this salty precursor of i think...
clearly i first arrived...
later... i somehow managed to "think"...
i didn't think first
but i certainly didn't either:
i think therefore i am therefore i think...

i was more on the lines of...
from the lineage of:
trouble...
i am therefore i think therefore i am...
i am not a spider i'm not all emptying and detailing
the filling of gob-***** with
i am hungry i am vector...
i am therefore i think therefore i am...
but this... ****** of french...
premature *******....
of i think therefore i am... therefore i think:

honestly? thinking is sometimes not...
necessary...
sometimes water needs no... glue, metaphor...

Amsterdam's open mouth darkseid
apocalypse abode...
le trio joubran - masar.... a finite quest...
primo.... detailing conquest...
handling crux....

            the cat's in the riddle...
the yard is in a mile...
scrutiny of the Levant...
           leverage of hark... -ing
denote: closure... of "ambition":
this lesser "king"...
brow of the most dignified...

                   keeping with allowance
(an)
  justly, met...
  
give me wind:
   give me... air...
not... hair... i laugh... i laugh too little...
i chisel my teeth...
i scream: nothing primo!
my life but q.
there are more lived importances
that matter, thus...
cradle... diamonds...

"the end".

not drunk enough to listen to classical music,
i dwell in stinking bogs of cheese and pop,
gorgon zoella and tartan elbow patches
on my suede dinner jacket persona.

london, the great stink of 1858,
even the mayor of the city of london opposed
bazalgette's proposal for sewers,
saying he knew more about perfumery
than the parisian prostitutes,
said: '**** stinks for applause!'
well, we didn't get applause from the public,
but a mexican wave of some aztec king
playing the puppets of arousal:
monetaryzoomah the 2nd...
well there's that my sudden compromise:
i always loved organic chemistry,
i was really good at it,
but organic chemistry seemed futile in theory
with too much emphasis on tic-tac-toe
of those migrating diagrams,
trying to enforce the atomic visible
represented by C (carbon) attached to H (hydrogen)
with a tail of a carboxylic categorisation
O= (doubly bonded oxygen) and OH (the alcohol
bit), ****** futile... i just loved cooking
anaemic potions of clear like water,
sometimes scented, sometimes like sulphuric chick farts,
it was basically cooking, i didn't like physical
or inorganic chemistry, actually, university
almost felt like a museum, we weren't students
we were tourists, we were showed the basics,
the impracticalities of later application,
i was never asked to make a bottle of shampoo,
or a toothpaste, or a perfume, i was asked to
recreate theories and cul de sacs of application,
yet actual chemistry is your hoarding of chemical
products in the bathroom: starting with bleach...
never learned how to make bleach...
shame really... the workforce of chemists isn't
given a fair start, no mechanic implication:
ok ok, i'm not into having an existential crisis
in my early twenties, can you just make me robotic
so i can provide the instruments of dentistry
and hairdressing? no? well, here comes an existential
crisis aged 21...
but organic chemistry is still the bomb...
like that onion i smashed after it was dipped
in liquid nitrogen... felt like moses with the two
tablets thrown onto the ground... or a pirate's X...
here...
            it will begin and end *here.
so every time i cook i think of an organic chemistry
experiment, although i've learned that cooking
is a more colourful chemistry, and poly-scented too,
today i made shanghai style braised pork belly
(CHONG SHAO ROU),
sugar, light and dark soya sauce, kashmiri chilli powder,
ginger-garlic paste (plenty of it), spring onions,
oil, balsamic vinegar (good if you don't have shaoxing
rice wine, same ****, different cover)...
cup or two of water... and then watching the water
evaporate and all the active ingredients starting to
cling to the pork belly slices, making it look
as if coated in glistening flour... nunchuks finger licking
smooth... yeah, i eat chinese cuisine using
nunchuks rather than chop sticks...
even comrade mao tse-tung would approve,
after al chong shao rou was his favourite dish.
in addition: **** remembering poems and scaring
children... remember recipes; job done.

Moonup, shades of sangria
hazed in mothwing
      dust

motes. We wrap in
flannel, tartan Seattle
      warmth

accompanied by smudging sticks.
Batteries never charged-
      defibrillator

shock. Flatline.
You said no violets (you
      didn’t

mean it). Moondown takes
time- scores of swaying shadows
      to arc

the parsecs. Inherit starlight,
bank it, never blink; wet stones
      echo

in the noise of stars.

.why? why?! why would i even be, remotely,
concerned?
    esp. with a story from yesterday
akin to that of a feminist poster being
taken down, that read:

    woman
        women
    noun
   adult human female

because some, sorry... i love the word:
****** / doctor "thought" the word:
woman was endangering
transgender people...
                                                 wow!
looks like the homosexuals are on the attack...
can you be a misogynist and a homosexual,
simultaneously? well... apparently you can!
bravo! encore! encore!
    so should i be bothered when such antics
are taking place in: of all places, Liverpool?
**** it, i'm going to have a beer and watch
the sunset - or at least that's what i thought
a few hours prior.

the **** was i doing, watching channel 4
news?!
      i do remember watching it...
why was i watching it?
     for all it's worth...
                they do a pretty solid job,
**** me, they even reported on Iranians
using instagram...
                        gotta love the Shiites...
probably my favorite Muslims...
   given their Persian background -
proud face, like those native Americans
in the film hostiles:
   proud faces...
                        well... if you're going
to root for someone, root for the "underdogs"...
those Persians were never going
to bow down to the camel jockey Arabs,
sure as **** they wouldn't, and didn't...
ah ****...
  that's the problem with drinking,
and writing at the same time...
   in vino veritas...
     shh... it's a secret...
                    one downfall of drinking
and writing...
                      hmm...
                         ­     really hard to tell a lie...
by god it's hard to tell a lie
while drinking...
     why? there's no fun in telling a lie,
spinning a fictive narrative,
marketing character understudies or
fan-bait...
                a bit like:
Chopin...
                     versus a ******* orchestra...
(yeah, sorry about that...
   oath words, i swear,
   are compiled in the category of and:
i.e., they're conjunctions...
   otherwise i'd stutter, or something much
worse, like a writer's block & ****)...
wait...
   what was i going to say?
ah!
   channel 4 news... sure... it pure left,
globalism, multi- blah blah blah
and further blah to the nth term...
i couldn't believe it though!
   obviously the two stories were going
to be spoken about side by side...
     first... the second arrest of Tony Robinson...
apparently yet another, or another yet:
contempt of court...
     scenes from the Old Bailey...
and, d'uh, obviously,
   Jeremy Corbyn opening a placard of
a sq. dedicated to the far right
    "terrorist" attack on... ***...
  can't remember her name...
    Joe... hey Joe... where do you think
you're going with that gun?
Janie's got a gun...
                   this **** never gets old:
Chris Rea: Josephine...
       i send you all my love,
  and every single step i take
i take for you...
i would never believe that so much of
Van Morrison has that many
  jazzy accents in the oeuvre...
moondance:
   and a crisp, cloudless early
afternoon illuminating the birds,
the blues of flowers and the contract
of the about to shoot
  into embers of होली Holī
envious greens...
turmeric, chilli powder,
     cumin, fading cardamon,
garam masala,
                      coriander...
cinnamon,
           then the masalas:
   tandori, achar, tikka....
    then korma and the sri lankan
powder...
blue indians have their celebrations
in spring,
  i'm about to spectate the celebrations
of autumn... win win...
but that's still not the point...
channel 4 news...
  oh ****!
  Gavin!
   Gavin Mcinnes!
    **** me!
          hmm...
   love the tartan suit...
******* looks plush!
about as much style as matt preston
  (from Australian Masterchef)...
**** it,
   i forgot which of the chicken
wings recipes i am supposed
to make tomorrow....
                               *******!
the Azerbaijan recipe, or the...
oh ****... o.k. i can tell the difference
between the porcelain of the Japanese,
and say... someone from Thailand...
whatever... i'll cook something anyway.

i like reading about urban living, primarily by accounts of Frank O'Hara -
no one else, to be honest - where i'm placed i can vocalise
both the vulgarity and the serenity of a Wordsworth -
better had i an art gallery to run,
but my heart is too stony to accept the
chanced frivolous - it's anything beside that,
chanced, basked in, celebration of life -
perhaps i am outdated, and i know i am,
succumb to Kantian idealism, and no strand
of realism - after going to a brothel and learning
a few things, i was told i was a good man -
never did ****, too eager to watch the ******* -
****** tied - and then silencing my ****** -
i guess that's how quasi-country-folk live
these days... i simply prefer the solitude,
not from self-love: but as a way of assurance -
and later assembling - but i learn of the lives
in urban areas, of their little pests and phobias,
of places where people congregate -
and i feel no inclination to do likewise -
i don't even know why i'm travelling to
say something at the Cheltenham festival -
i've got nothing to say...
                               i can create usurpers of older
men, and blind-spot the youth,
        and be incriminated for both actions...
because i can...
                              but there's still O'Hara to mind...
and "all that love he could give in **** pursuit" -
apologies if i don't share that,
  my mentor Spinoza learned as much
in other circumstances -
                         hence the twilight of the man
of contempt and great love -
   as said, paradoxically, frankincense is
a scent appropriated as possessing anti-depressant
properties... yet we speak of: the man of sorrows.
but about my pet peeve, linguistic, obviously:
    the french for hotel - hôtel -
mind you, not trilling the r with mutually respective
   examples of English and French, but nonetheless
harking the r and amputee h in French,
     hôtel - or h'ôtel or h)ôtel - the diacritic mark
above the o is like a bracket, or < (less than) what's
expected in tongue kitted to say:
                                               h'otel - or simply o(h) tel -
        so too garçon - with ç extending into s
   and said: garçon / garson -
                           or with grave markings on a vowel:
that eats all other letters after it: cut-off grave e (è) -
    thus too the circumflex abuses invisible in
Cockney slang, and the eaten up h - via 'appening -
   'n 'appens only ounce -
                                            indeed the fighting took
places above as well as below the 26 symbols -
  in the diacritical realm of stresses and other punctuation
deficiencies - colon over the u for the umlaut,
there the fighting took place -
                      in an urban environment, would i ever
have spotted this? among fast food outlets, neon
and art galleries? probably not -
so akin said: lawlessness above and below the alphabet,
the warring fusion - but so they should have said,
in Mandarin - beyond vowels and consonants,
there are Surd variations of both -
              for aesthetic reasons -
our natural borders -                          and there are also
                    diacritical / exemplified stresses of
both sexes of letters -   some are silenced, some are
pronounced... they never told us that...
               they simply bragged about how naked
English was, and how certain people picked up
all the major eccentric intricacies -
                       to create a bourgeoisie levelling of
what's content with being a noun: intelligence.
there are rules beyond the five vowels and 21 consonants,
in that there's a trans-linguistic appropriation -
some become surds, some become pronounced -
   third limbs, six fingers, or Siamese twins -
                     given the book of revelation, and the phrase:
given power over all tongues - apart from ideogram
languages - and Arabic sidewinders on sand dunes -
you could, technically, incorporate all the particular stresses
onto the English language from all the Latin alphabet
languages... you could, in effect, paint onto all the
English particulars, all the brimful expressions of
diacritical marks being missing: English eccentricities -
you could, in effect, paint, once you have mastered
all the punctuation of pronunciation above the letters,
and below, not unlike (that that) what's already
deemed appropriate between words: i mean actual
letters - attach one diacritical mark to Finnegans' Wake,
and the whole work crumbles... you could effectively paint...
once you mastered the many particular instances of
atypical English deviation - making English, a language
less offensive in a sense that it already is:
for English is offensive in that its universal,
a franca lingua of commerce - and since that is the case:
there must be a status quo lingua - in this case:
English with diacritical marks - expressing all the
obvious deviations - this process, i am gleeful in stating:
will take as much effort as mapping out man's d.n.a.,
that's not pompous, that's actually hopeful,
hopeful in the sense that i spotted this, and someone
will take over in 50 years time, to incorporate
all the public uses of diacritical marks in other Latinißed
languages a pompous: congregation -
nesting on the bare rocks - after all that 16th and 17th century
******* in England and tongue and Empire: doth do, etc.
modernity says? Irvine Welsh's trainspotting Scootish
dialect excess - aye wee and e -
only when all the diacritical propositions are congregated
in the English Eden will we sing hallelujah -
this is a challenge, after all, English with its
Welsh and Scottish, Berkshire and Cornish, Cockney
and Richmond fluffy accents can be feed
this invasion of nuances already expressed:
thus in abstract:                      ABSTRACT

(originally herioglyphs)
        heliographic                     (v. the ideogram -
                                                      or no pyramid to ditto)
        and thus the heliocentric theory -
countered with this, or these the 26 fractions
      of the geocentric notion, England: bellybutton
of the world - as such... helioglyphic - glitches
  or graphics or glyph-on-glyph in that x = y combined with
   x squared and the parabolic curvature and foundation |)
                geographic - geoglyphic -
when then the Greenwich meridian turn into
the Greenwich universal accenting?      English
is fertile ground to apply the many stresses,
                                   sure, make it the universal tongue,
the globalisation vehicle, but dress yourself for that purpose,
accept all the invaders to your schemes invoking the 24/7 global
community... **** up! don't tartan up! **** up!
            with the wigs and the perfumes, and the bowler hats
and the neckties - you did it once... do it again!
                English is fertile ground for incorporating all
the linguistic "anomalies" - sure, little would look ugly if
written litle - soon to the invocation of lyre - or saccharolytic -
    dog's tongue lapping and a thousand slurs later:
                     cha cha cha and kappa and cholesterol
     and cheap and chasing foxes with bloodhounds -
                         and cappuccino - and chisel - chromosome:
                                          cistern (alter. çistern) -
    if something akin to this doesn't happen...
          we're all be playing the Mongolian harmonica,
by default of the 24 hours that are stressed to
be as important as an entire year of patience in waiting
for autumnal grapes and the wine pressed.

You were not in my head, but a Landcruiser purred by;
Splattered screen, muddied tires and I put you at the wheel.
I heard your voice, a smoky laugh, a tale to tell
about the wheels, the speed, the rally.

So, now I read again the tributes;  
Clumsy words from men not used to outpouring,
with whom you’d skidded along forest floors; raced to the line;
grid referenced hidden tracks and Little Chefs.

“Sorely missed by all the team”
“Condolences.”  “I’ll think of you.”
“Burns Night not the same without our Englishman.”
“Tartan Control is clear.”

Mud is dried, flags and barriers stacked away.
The deer reclaim the forest, motors a distant whisper.
Radios, all whine and hiss, tune for the call:
“Tartan 6 is clear and free to stand down. Over.”

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you

Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, *******, *******, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand

This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays

Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** ******* with

With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...

From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** ******* with

.i'm in luck, they're selling it at under 11 quid right now,
stock dry - gone in an instant - laphroaig like -
but not as smoky - but smoked scotch it it
at £10.34 - oh the little joys of having little money to spend -
you end up less picky and less hoarder and
the junk yard.

na głowe sypano mi, tak popiół:
     popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
           popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                 popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                  (not my words... lao che's dym)...

me, beer, cigarette, outer-suburbia -
police whizz past, silent with flare
or screaming toddler and Odysseus' 20 sirens
with wax in the ears of oaring company
akin to Ajax'ς vitality -
along the way, my neighbour (who's mother
killed my cat.. listen, i know he had
heart problems, he was on aspirin -
but kidneys, even if complicated are not
real problem, felines take longer to ****
than do the no. 2, pigeons don't have kidneys -
they're always of an **** diet of diarrhoea;
write like Aristotle sometimes,
forget the facts, be wrong, get it wrong,
never put a glass cup into the waterfall of
poetic cascades - get it wrong, be wrong -
get to know yourself - it's not that dumb
to be predictable in yourself -
if you allow self-predictability you will
see certain social events as being pointless -
you'll see friends and "friends" -
self-predictability is a verb, compounded -
i already know i'll make references to grammar
and it being missing in philosophy -
no, not coherence and appropriate arrangement -
i mean undoing the box of thing-in-itself
and the subsequent tennis with a brick wall,
to surprise yourself when something is unearthed,
a little piece of the puzzle - simulating awe,
the genesis of all that's to come, even awe from a yawn
and boredom... it's here somewhere... i'll karate
catch it with chop sticks.... (looking around)...
i don't know, might be a moth or a fly...

Antichrist: or a summary of Antisemitism - a variant of,
or at least a concentration - mainly confiscated
by Christianity - prime complaint:
a democracy of Anointed One (Messiahs) -
obviously a manifested justifiable practice of Antisemitism -
the throng of Golgotha intelligence quotient -
Jew v. Jew, and one convert from the delusional
4 x 4 (in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy
                                         spirit... hold on!
                                    i make four gestures... and make a fifth
                 with Romeo and Juliet talking -
St. Matthew-Luke-Mark-and-John... penta penta pent-up
pentagon - evidently there's a pentagrammaton somewhere:
ah! i b l i s.                       Surat no. via Rumi - 7:143 - veils and
the one - reward in heaven - more veils, gardens veils,
grapes in heaven veils - stomach a veil - hunger a veil -
rewards in heaven also veils - the poem?
praise be Jesus - and Jason and the Argonauts - and whoever
wanted a strawberry flavoured pastiche to lick tears off -
love's apocalypse, love's glory -
         well bloodhound eyes say it all - droop drool -
droop & drool... Jack & Jill... went up the hill, and passed
the Grimm Bro. baton to Hanzel und Gretyl in the 100m x4
relay of Disney Limps - then rabbinical literature to sober up -
Albotini's Sulam HaAliyah (Ladder of Ascent, formerly Jacob's
ladder - to be: Ladder of Skip-rope; Oxford, hello! yes,
can you please consider un-hyphenating what is desirably
a compound worthy word in the practice of German?          )?
is a bracket necessary anywhere and i missed it?
Antichrist - or a very strange form of antisemitism -
be like a Jew, congregate applauding in the right corner: Jesus -
in the blue corner: Crux Golgothia.
export from Portugal - the said book -
key principle (kefitzah) jumping or skipping (dilug) -
and this being applied to the one practice of mystic Judaism -
the ****** gematria; hishtavut (stoicism) -

me - is it still 20 quid for an eighth?
Sim (my neighbour) - yeah, but these days
                                       they sort of cheat,
                                       you'd get an eighth nibbled on,
                                       twenty for a tenth?!
me - ******, well, we can't expect it to not happen,
         we had coin debasement - clippings of silver
         keratin with Siliqua, third stage and
         all encoded authority is gone: Thomas and Anne
         till death and nail clippings be fraud unison in
         the depart (or when narration extinguishes
         a character, the character is worth nothing -
         the narrator wakes up - all the characters run
         like phantom-hares into nonexistence -
         phantom! thin air!
politeness said: only one **** at the wacky wee ö wee
(umlaut O / double oh, 007 - 00'7 - double u... oh!
                                 i get it!                             Jamie Oliver!)
DEI.GRA.REG.FID.DEF.
   "   (-tia) (-ina)(-ei)(-ensor) -
all that would have been clipped - authority of visage -
the courtesan only knew the mint in silver
and the mint in the flesh - hence clipping of coin
to erase the authority from the holy authority of words -
in the beginning - but once dei.gra.reg.fid.def.jpeg /
                                   dei.gra.red.fid.def.gif.

that ****** moth is here somewhere! there it is! catch it!
                                                             ­   catch it!
SLAM!          and the job is done )                                      ).
i really waiting a bus stop pretending to wait for a bus
toking on a joint - joint is mix tobacco and wee wee
and spliff is pure? i forgot the slang - haven't been
addicted to it in years.
Sim - yeah, that's how it is. work in central london -
         have to get up early in the morning.
         corporate finance - no that's a commercial firm,
         corporate finance - McDonald's, etc.
me - oh cool waiting for  ghost bus - never get paranoid
         then?
(police cars whizz by)
Sim - n'ah, a perfectly decent area, got stopped once,
          three years ago.
and the price goes to the laziest narrator in history - absolutely
no engagement with characters - it's too real, everyone's
lying - this is the second time i spoke to my neighbour properly
in the past.. ooh 2002... 14 YEARS - it's not even funny -
no amount of marijuana will make you feel comfortable -
you can mate and make Kingston handshakes and what not -
this is purity of absurdity and western isolation,
we went against the maxim: no man is an island on purpose,
not by chance like Robinson Crusoe -
at least Crusoe had a talking Friday - we have a ghost
of Michael Faraday on Friday - ******* disco blink blink -
poet... or alt.: the narrator complex - inhibitions toward
character craft and pseudo-schizoid symptom -
believing in ghosts is easy, fiction writers and their ghosts
and abortions, hardly a way to escape from that -
poetry: rebellious narration - just anything with narration,
modern fiction is read like a chess match between deep blue
and Kasparov - or Pavlov v. Jezebel playing gynaecologist.

blank.... blank... wait for the atoms trilled R to make
their toady presence felt -
the more pricier the whiskey the more pristine water,
i.e. you get drunk more easily -
anyone that smokes marijuana and thinks
they're clever are stupid; how many people are out there that are
stupid! - resounding hearsay-hooray!
drugs, ******, crack, blow, marijuana, ****, ***,
  cannabis, dope, ******, mary-jane, 13, M - herb shake -
Humphrey saying to Bogart - that joint. as said in Saudi
Arabic - a Ferrari G.T.I. and MeKubalim HaMitbodedim
                  )
                                  -chism - schism - sky - ski -
                                  cha cha, cha cha - kilo or 100th -
                                  1000 thd. - hundredth a thousandth -
                                  - where then the acute,
                                  timber from Czechs -
                                  kebab from Mesopotamia -
                                  and the Trojan horse to boot -
                                 chatter - chopper whopper -
                                 astoikism - not chew off
                                 curve into cherish but
                                 cravat chew in -
                                 Slavic mining zed - czarna
                                 ciasność - blackened claustrophobia.
a Buddhist clap
                   immersion -
left handed the right hand claps against air
                  )             )              )               )            ) ) )            )
a night at the Opera, right handed the left hand claps against air
(                       (        (            (               (          ( ( (            (
scimitar Luna - so they said, would like an audience with the
further unmentioned mention -
you're mates with neighbours who over 14 years you only
spoke to the count of thumb and index on occasion -
and thus necessarily high -
i was going to write something really important before
i finalised this draft... but i forgot what it was...
got almighty this whiskey is good...
i'm smoking salmon and pickling reindeer hooves and antennas;
a bit like practising Chinese miracle medicine with
whale blubber and Mongolian nostril hairs.

it's not about loving your enemies -
this love sinister must be invoked as: making your
enemies bearable.

i'm sure i had something concerning poetry and narration -
ah! it was... poetic compensation -
a.d.h.d. narration - attention deficit hyperactive disorder -
true - all psychiatric terms are metaphors -
at least outside the psychiatric realm -
poetry as a.d.h.d. meaning: shrapnel narration -
a custard pie of missing characters -
poetry: i.e.: the inability to believe in ghosts
or write characters - claustrophobic or agoraphobic narration?
a mix of both - poetry - the inability to conjure
Ouija fancies - poetry, the over-specialised gift for
narration, but an inability to invent characters -
poetry, the truth of the narrative, and the truth of un-invented
characters, poetry: the ability to narrate, coupled
with the inability to create characters -
fiction and the dumb narrator - poetry and the exquisite
narrator - fiction and the exciting characters -
poetry and the God - our focus is based on that vector,
or bias to that vector - fiction and the Oscars -
narrator and director - when to change from first person
to third person - again Burroughs was right -
images 50 years ahead of writing - a bit obvious,
nothing spectacular with that phrase -
lightning and the sons of thunder: 12 of them -
made the tetragrammaton less spoken and swear words
fucken-uppen censored so the crucifix and **** could
collide - a fine fine excuse - the Boeing 747 first
and later the quasi-sonic broom shoo' 'mm -
poetry as fiction disguised when fiction was given
a seance with pure narratives - splinter group:
philosophy's juggling with pronouns esp. the plural deviation
from first person as if to proper punctuation -
psychiatry and the theory of pronoun usage -
poetry and the pronoun rōnin (macron = umlaut -
count to two, or prolong - reasonable man / **** sapiens, pre-noun pro-adjective / adjective attache-noun, noun counter-noun es duo-adjective, Kellogg's sunrise cockle-doodle-dip-in-tartan-chess) -
only poetry mediates the parallel vectors of prose-fiction and philosophy - it consolidates the use of pronouns, art of poetry alone -
pure narration we're talking about,
the narrator and characters of its fancy,
philosopher and dialectical placebos (character equivalence)
with self-conscious moments, mono-pro-noun - alone i name -
the sacred squash wall of lecturing an invisible audience -
rummaging epitaphs in a graveyard along with birth dates
and live by dates - yes, that sacred we philosophers use -
an entire theatre was summoned to continue in appearing
sensible when writing without fictive apparitions -
enabling a fluidity in pronoun use, without sensible letter
writing, as in dear sir,
                                       me in reverse, thank you.

Isabella stood alone outside.
She was in the garden chasing snow.
Her nose felt the chill, her fingertips too.
The tips of her beautiful delicate toes, were fast becoming blue.

In the corner under the trees, she'd made a snowman.
She swore she heard him sneeze.
He wore a lovely tartan hat, a purple scarf, a pair of soggy bright red gloves.
She thought, perhaps he needed a lady friend.
Next to him on his right hand side, she created a very chilled girlfriend, made from fairy snow.
She built a buxom snow mamma, with a plastic gem in the middle to play the role of mamma's nose.
Isabella found an old Alice band and popped it round her soggy head.
Between the three of them they discussed having an infant, a snow child of their own.
All three of them got ready to discuss the coming child.
Isabella started building snow person number three.
A pretty little snow girl, with strands of straw for yellow hair.
She wandered indoors and pinched some precious pebbles from real mama's plant ***.
Isabella gave her snow girl bright blue shiny eyes.
Mummy let the dog out, he ran around the garden.
So happy to be out and free, crash, bang, wallop.
Knocked Mr Snowman to his knees.
Isabella built him up again.
Mr and Mrs Snowman and their daughter were her friends.
She kissed them all.
Bade a goodnight, to one and all.
Isabella went indoors.
It was nearly time for bed.

The morning sun ripped through the blinds.
She looked outside to see her friends.
They'd gone.
Perhaps they ran away.
It was a little warmer today.
In the garden just a slushy puddle.
Wearing a tartan hat purple scarf and bright red gloves.
(C) Livvi

well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.

Often alone I think of you
rolling mountains covered in a purple haze
both in highlands and lowlands too
running water so pure sparkling bright
making our whisky a natural delight
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

I hear music played from the heart
oh' the sound of pipes and drums
heart racing hairs standing on end
poetry filling my eyes with tears
recited at suppers year after year
in celebration of bards no longer here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

Men wearing tartan skirts with nothing underneath
dancing between swords at highland gatherings
playing games testing their manhood
eating haggis a pudding often misunderstood
porridge,shortbread, salmon and oatcakes
quality food that is for sure
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

History remembered with pride
Mary Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie
Wallace, Culloden and Nessie too
some myths, some true
castles, lochs, bridges and glens
places where lassies are called hen
where houses are often **** un bens
people answering with ah' ken
Celtic blood running through my veins
makes me glad I am alive and living here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

Lazy afternoon rays shaft
     Through Spring's full trees;
The wind cuts laterally
     Leaving the sea.
Through deck lattice
     The grass weaves
A tartan plaid.

     Electric lines,
     Chimney tops,
     Blossoming crops.

I hold out my hands,
Stringing fingers
Through thinning hair.

The artisan
Wove and weaves.
This is the basket,
The rug,
My coat.
Entwine our fingers;
Weave a basket.
Collect your thoughts.

hello skies

charcoal haired stewardess

i know you

the sun arrives over your shoulder

sending your hair

into maple and molasses

flames

just above ocean blue

and white tartan

this escapes you:

get out the lead, lover

but i’m occupied

like a green “IN USE”

bathroom door handle

i hear country music radio

white women singing Billy Joel

my heart turns gold

my veins, silverado

i know

there’s a highway in the air

and it’ll come alive

get out the lead, lover

get out the lead.

I live in Moshi,Tanzania,
As a child,one day I got lost,
A maasai took me to his home.
He lived at the foothills of the majestic Mt.Kilimanjaro,
His home was a kraal (hut)
made of  stone,sticks and cow dung.
I cried for my parents,
So he fed me milk and blood from a cow,
He pierced a hole in the cow's neck,
He put a bamboo and told me to drink the blood,
It was warm but I vomited,
Gradually, I got used to it.
The maasai's  way of life is communilism,
Hunting,gathering and raiding neighbours cattle.
Theirs is an age set system for men,
The children look after the herd,
I joined them having fun,
No  school, no lessons or homework.
Then,there were the Morans,the youths,
They wore black **** cloths,
Carried a spear in one hand,
Their faces were painted with white ochre.
They protected the clan and the cattle,
From predators and other tribes.
They lived in a circle of huts called manyatta.
After being circumcised the Morans were taught the art of warfare
The bravest warrior got to wear the feathers of an ostrich.
The senior morans could marry and settle down,
The Moran who jumped the highest got the best girl.
The Laigewenanis trained the morans to be warriors,
My maasai was a laigwenani,
Like all maasais, he was tall and lean,
He wore a bright red shuka cloth with black stripes,
A red tartan blanket was slung on his shoulder,
He always held a long bladed stabbing spear,
His long hair was tightly braided,
He had ochre painted on his body,
He had no children and treated me like his son,
He would take me to teach the morans about warfare.
But,he had to take the permission of the chief, the Laibon.
The Laibons were the chief religious leaders,
They settled disputes,
They decided when and on whom to attack.
Luckily,after two months my maasai and I had gone to a game reserve for hunting,
A game warden found me.
He alerted the police and I was taken home safely.
But,I missed my maasai and their pastoral way of life.

"A lightning flash... then night! Fleeting beauty
By whose glance I was suddenly reborn,
Will I see you no more before eternity?”
-Charles Baudelaire, "To a Passerby"

The material of the scene burns and
grays, burns and grays in my mind:
City soot in the frost. Cracked plastic.
Broken glass. Cheek creases where you
said your name. Salt stains on a denim cuff.
Scruff. Tartan scarf. Navy wool. Feather
down, laces, leggings, a buckle. Teeth,
fleece, a crumpled hotel matchbook.
No heat lamp here, where we wait and
meet, wait and meet on the windiest
night. Would you scoff if I said
"Love is two strangers trading fire.”

Smaller matter, now, an Altoid tin of
cherished ashes. I have it, and it murmurs
your lines to me, when I crave that kind of burn.
A familiar ice cube down the back of the neck.
These thoughts have sunken—a bag of pennies
in my gut like a phantom step on a dark staircase,
or the imitation of death in a dream.
Saying something about the lateness of the 16,
You cupped your hand, to shelter the flame.

I try to remember the melody.
The harp strings at the nape of
my neck sang mid-shiver, and you
said something else, which I couldn’t
hear over the choir under my hat.
This missing line is my mind’s one
sound conception of Infinity.
And that’s enough for flint.

A lightning flash…then night!*
A flame frustratingly lit, but profoundly felt.
A gasp, a gust like a god's grace, like a song.
Like just enough time for a quick addict’s fix,
like the length of a single, ****** matchstick.

Will I see you no more before eternity?
And do you by chance have a light?

.the better part of a Friday night

grim.. times... what better way to pass a drinking session than to translate some Horace... i see no other worthy time-consuming scoop of any events to follow, this:

humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam iungere si velit et varitas
inducere plumas undique conlatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne,
spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?
credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum persimilem,
cuius, velut aegri somnia, vanae fingentur species,
ut nec pes nec caput uni reddatur formae.
scimus, et hanc veniam
petimusque damusque vicissim;
sed non ut placidis coeant inmitia, non ut serpentes
avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.

some first reading... sounds like chasing a chimera...

with a human head on a horses' neck: should a painter
tie the two together on a whim, and other limbs
collected from everywhere: puff up duck feathers into
a pillow or a bed cover - from "nothing"... hey presto!
that a beautiful woman from the torso up with a
fish's black tail below to boot...
on exhibition: would you, friends,
not burst burst out with laughter? believe: Paisans!
similar to this image will be the book:
in which as in an ill man's dream, in delirium,
the head and the feet belong to different
forms
i use this law and i recommend others to use it too,
but not to equate gentleness with a wildness:
with a bird a serpent, a lamb with a tiger...

angels and mermaids... what is no less or... no more:
improbable? perhaps neither...
but in the guise of monotheism... everything is still
somehow sensible...
where there was: half and half...
what angel of monotheism is a half and half
when contending for existence among unicorns...
mermaids or centaurs?
a chimera and a cyclops... **** with a minotaur...
but... such events of monotheistic grandeour are...
supposedly the better respected...
for all the respect i gave unto Knausgård -
because it comes from monotheism:
an angel is to be seen as more than a mermaid...
perhaps... if the angel is of my form...
has the wings... but for its mouth?
a pecker mask... a 50:50 share ratio of...
what a racial "mongrel" would otherwise burden his
shadows with...
a pecker mask akin to those masks
worn at the Venice carnival:
doctor doctor black plague masks...
with a muffed-up speech... as if shouting into
cotton puffed up...
esp. cotton candy...

and this is a sort of friday where i'd much prefer
translating latin... god... where did all these modern
prepositions and conjunctions from from:
into the fore?! there's only one song of worthy summary...
the specials - ghost town.

- Autorank Total 10 ( higher is reduced to 10 ), professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

poetry and order... yes...
yes... very much akin to rhymes...
and very formal language...
but this is hardly a "micro-aggression",
on my part...

it's funny that i never paid any attention to this detail...

hoc erat in votis

i was never into brian jonestown massacre, more of a dandy warhols' fan, but then brian jonestown released the album aufheben and pawns of the palette started picking up not only seminal citric acids and kashmir's spices, but sharp grooves of some distant geography, which of course, all in all: to my liking.

there's nothing like listening to the opening
track of the aufheben album (panic
in babylon, instrumental) and reciting a
bit of horace; should i be accused of sounding
pompous, here's horace himself

    hoc erat in votis: modus agri non ita magnus,
    hortus ubi et tecto vicinus iugis aquae fons
    et paulum silvae super his foret. auctius atque
    di melius fecere. bene est. nil amplius oro,
    maia nate, nisi ut propria haec mihi munera faxis.

    it was the aim of my wishes: a snippet of arable land,
    a garden, in the vicinity of my house a source of
    fresh water and a grove upon a ***** of a hilly eminence.
    the gods beyond their intentions bestowed upon me
    the loot of my thus lived fate. i have enough!
    i do not implore for more either in this heart of mine
    or among incense or blood of sacrificed bulls at the altar
    where worship is prescribed unto them, but only give me,
    son of May, the chance to use these bestowals.

(translated from polish, and, as would be expected of me,
involved in translation, adding something of my own,
as you can see, the latin prepositions and conjunctions
are reflective of the number apparent in the english language,
but it's hardly a concern with other words,
awaiting a unanimous - not necessarily an N between
two vowels, or because of H, as is exampled by
a great alphabetical distancing of the vowels,
or simply because of the latin tongue-twisters of
the grapheme æ and œ - awaiting a unanimous
decision of the compound words stalled by the hyphen
form, e.g. light-bulb / lightbulb (underlined as a spelling
mistake) by the oxford dictionary committee...
but let's not get as crazy as german spelling
glue... it would make james joyce pale even by finnegans
wake standards of the 100 letter word... i know... english
is a language spelled like shotgun shrapnel, and german is spelled
like a wedding cake or scottish fudge, thick and bulging;
what was i going to say? i took a step into the heraclitean
river and the river took me elsewhere, the ice cubes
in my whiskey citric barley are melting, and i dream
of venice being the modern atlantis along with the maldives).

elsewhere in a grammar lesson:

people think the pinnacle of poetry is coupling
adjectives with nouns, but of course,
given adjective & verb coupling is commonplace:
and when they say poetic v. practical,
they then say the hidden practicality of poetry
via, e.g. 'nicely said;' but of course!
we need a sombre musicality of the tongue
with so much dead machinery around us!
the elders complain about headphone "zombies,"
marching like urban myth lemmings on zebras
toward death... but have you actually listened
to those mechanical sounds on concrete?
horrid! when was the last time you heard an owl's
call in the dead of night in a forest? me!
about a year ago: three by my count.

- Autorank Total 9.9, professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.1 (of 1), cliches -2 (of -3) -

the Cyber Pavlov Experiment

and my favorite "poem" in this ranking system,
which, i guess is an a.i. calculator...
i'm most interested in the professional similarity,
i can understand the concrete vs abstract ranking...
but the noun/verb/etc order?
in poetry? again... this is not a "micro-aggression"...

so, i'm on this page, and i meet my ****** pusher,
sure as hell he's pushing ******,
although it's digital, the site / street corner?
allpoetry.com i get to publish 2 poems,
but can't publish more, i have to comment,
and comment positively,
'allo comrade Stalin! then comment on
2 poems, and get this message:
Congratulations, you've achieved level 2,
and are now an "emerald cat"!
To reach the next level you need:
7 x comments, 1 x enter a contest, 1 x favorites,
1 x edit an item. • What are levels?
i am not playing candy-crush saga!
i'm not! i'm not even kidding you,
what is this ****?!
we've been ****** by paedophiles
anonymous?!
                      please get me off
this ****** grid of the Cyber Pavlov Experiment...
likes and comments and saliva and cookies...
    or premeditated minority reports -
  akin to Orwell's thought crime gestapo -
    god it sounds **** when said: g'eh'sh'tap'oh.
                    or how to use the internet
akin to deciphering and censoring established
media outlets...
                              obviously social media
can't replicate socialism, it's a media outlet,
                  but it can for sure ******* with
all the little capitalistic mind games that lead
to nothing but the Pavlov experiment -
            and that was with dogs...
try that with a ******* Gorilla and i'll watch you
cradle prosthetic limbs while
he rips your original limbs off like he's playing
                a harp:
            then you can rhyme: twinkle twinkle little thumb,
    how i wished you were attached to my hand to my arm
to my torso...
                        that's the same story
we had recently concerning a Mr. Kumbuka...
  who escaped enclosure, and proved the a.d.h.d.
        complex correlation with exposure to
sugar... ****** drank 5 litres of concentrated blackcurrant
squash replying: i'm mad at the keepers for keeping
me on a diet! i do king kong and you do the frenzied
blonde maiden.
              it's still a concern for me that they herded the poets
into an area worthy of zoological inspection,
                meaning that they base their worth on
    deplorable points system: like they're immigrants
waiting for visas to Canada -
                          comment, like, blag and blabber your
way into that new country, known to all of us present
              as Si S / Silicon State... by my count that's
the 51st, or the secular version of the Vatican.

- Autorank Total 2.3, professional similarity 1 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

but now... i'll just post the most "pop" poem from
here-on-in there... for that hard-on autorank...

clues as precursor:
- Strong words: army, audience, beef, box, brick, canvas, cubes, eating, fan, fares, football, lines, match, minced, outside, people, poem, poets, river, scrabble, scroll, short, slab, song, steak, striking, stripes, tartar, tomatoes, wave, writing  
-Weak words: albeit, always, answer, any, bad, be, become, bothered, circa, coherency, could, critic, deliberate, effect, eh, elsewhere, enough, escape, event, form, gather, get, had, happen, hardly, impact, intent, international, invent, long, merely, mind, modest, national, never, nice, nothing, perhaps, personally, presume, question, rarely, reason, recluse, repeating, repetition, somehow, sometimes, started, subconscious, subsequently, succumb, tender, thinking, translation, treat, understand, version, very, want, was, well, what, will, worth, would
- Cliches: to be a, i want

****... too early for an autorank...
so here's a pre-scriptum i wrote for...
what i wanted to feed the autoranking system...

this poem has circa 11 thousand views, "elsewhere"...
and i just... would like... to see the score for it...
the very and repeating: twist on the rotten tomatoes' score
"leverage" between audience and "critic" scores...
i gather that the autorank on this canvas is not...
somehow "deliberate"... i presume i have this slab
of minced beef... and when i put it through...
i'll get... a nice cubism version of a ripe steak: medium rare...

then again: i was always a fan of rare...
mind you... it's never raw, it's not tartar cubes...
it's rare... like the person eating... a rarified recluse example:
like a recluse of a rarified worth of all examples given...
this noun/verb/etc. "coherency" score...
perhaps this a.i. scrutiny hasn't bothered to answer
to no asked question... people can still "un-scramble"
or... un-scrabble bad grammar and understand it...
nothing ever has to be: brick on brick like a long
winding river...
it sometimes can arrive at us...
"lost in translation"... some people speak some
languages with no ill-intent...
they just can't escape the pedagogy rubrics of
subconscious grammar layer upon layer upon layer...
is this... a reason to subsequently rhyme?
personally? i treat rhyme as a phenomenon...
a phenomenon that has to happen rarely...
and when it does: it has to be a striking "pose"...
but enough of the pre-scriptum...
i want to see how this poem fares in the autorank filter...
albeit, this given: this pre-scriptum will have had
an impact on the score...

line repetition, eh? the lines are too long or too short?
what was that poem... when you could somehow
invent: "thinking outside the box" of any form,
or when tender poets started to succumb to the cascade
effect of writing - to merely fill-up scroll speed and space?
it's hardly an event like the mexican wave at
a football match... or how...
the white stripes' song: seven nation army
has become the international... well... that's modest...
the national (english) football clubs' anthem...
when a goal is scored... or whatever you like, otherwise...

or cliches... really?!
how about... oh... i remember this one most fondly...
visual poetry...
fallen... by... jörg piringer...
and unlike any modern painting...
this one really does require a description,
as cited on poetryfoundation.com:

/jörg piringer works in many forms, including visual, digital, and sound poetry, as well as music. In "fallen," piringer combines a visual sensibility with computer programming skills to tumble text from the English translation of The Communist Manifesto into a pile at the bottom of the page. The result is a mass of letters stripped of their original meaning and representing the failure of an idea./ Geof Huth

and no, by no kind reprint...
perhaps modern painting is what it is...
because... there's an alternative, like fallen?
if you can "paint" with words in adverts...
and paint i imply: stress the psychological impact
of coca-cola written in circa: formal scripts -
(why no italics? you can't... just can't,
write a colon and in italics after...
the colon represents emphasis,
as does the italics... tautology or something -esque)
derived from 17th century handwriting...
or... say... volkswagen... written in blackletter &
lombardic scripts... esp. circa 1935...
while all the propaganda posters were on
display...

given all of this? well... do i have to somehow:
bemoan how terrible modern art is?
cubism is not cricitißed - but dada is -
or let's call it... the most bloated
menu of culture citationand)
Barnett Newman painted this masterpiece,
‘Onement VI’, in 1953.
it sold for close to US$44 million...

i can't say such painting is "good" or "bad"...
after a while you just have to call a spoon a spoon...
a knife a knife, a table a table...
onement vi? blue canvas with a straight line
down the middle; form? rectangular...
and that's when thinking can take place...
i gather than modern art is trying to depict:
primodial man acquiring geometry...
after all... only recently i cound the difference
between the western man and slavs...
how the afro-european now lives in germany
and the west... including italy...
and how the indo-european lives east of germany
in some parts of scandinavia and greece...
a totally new discovery...

but... but... i can compensate for modern art...
with what is visual poetry...
if jorgen schmoorgen can do an abstract of a communist
manifesto... here's my take on...
John Constable... because... frankly...
i have yet to properly deal with this particular piece
of writing - as it's fresh... to subsequently aspire
for... a j. m. w. turner... not yet... not yet...
as ascribed to Juba...

the poem itself is... good grief...
always the same with me...
i go to kenya and i'd want to **** all the ivory
beauties...
a mother is in hospital and all the nurses
are black and i'm like...
what a clean and sterile environment this
is... unlike my today which began
finding an acne dot on my little richard...
(i get the joke... spotty ****)...
having to defrost a fridge freezer in
the shed because:
'z przybytku głowa nie boli'
oh yes it does...
not when what someone deems to be
"enough" do you have to count the trivial...
unnecessary things...
which is not a shame regarding my ***
winning a pulitzer price for... never mind...
i claim lack of sun...
black privelege... impeccable skin...
and... ivory beauties...
n'est ce pas?
alternative i have found an outlet to...
it's become brutally boring...
*******...
i found it... in... japanese gravure...
i had to... esp. when 1970s italian *****
classic died... and everyone is doing
this act older than beer and the giza
pyramids... phellatio and you're like:
so when did the ice-cream dream go away...
the peeling the banana...
and all this ******* gagging begin like
there's everyone with their third tonsils
removed... where mouth is no different
from *** or **** to be RAMMED!
lucky for me i still have my third tonsil...
which means i can drink cold beer in winter
and not get a soar throat...
- lucky for me i still have my *******...
god... if i didn't... i don't think i'd have
the "moral compass" to "get away with it"...
unless i was a woman with a web-cam...
in which: it almost becomes akin to reading
a book... it's like: it's there for the sole use of
pleasuring yourself or... as i like to call it on
throne of thrones (the toilet)...
first you do the no. 1, then the no. 2...
then you start doing the no. 3 to see...
whether you've done no. 2 completely...
it sometimes happens that having an *******
dilates the **** to the point where:
there's a shady **** loitering in the "back"
somewhere... which would explain ****-erotica...
in reverse to the act of ****-erotica of being
penetrated... i.e. in this scenario...
finishing doing a no. 2...
after that? downhill a quick side-step for
a no. 4 in the shower - baptism...
but... yeah... the men that shame men with
regards to *******?
they must be circumcised men...
shaming other circumcised men...
i think to think how a circumcised man
could shame an uncircumcised man for this act...
that's like... circumcised women...
shaming uncircumised women...
for jerking off with a web-cam...
uncircumcised women and...
explosive libido... whatever the stereotypes
are... circumcised men...
uncircumcised men...
there has to be a: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar joke around here somewhere...
i'm trying to find it...
but i have found that: circumcised men
shame other circumcised men over *******...
while the uncircumcised men are like...
if only i were a woman and had a webcam...
if society had a niche consumer base for that...
"sort of thing"...
i'd be making money from one
genocide of a fraction of myself ever so often...
i.e. it's killing when the ***** is owned
by a woman (sensible... sensible...
i don't mean the former chinese 1 child
state policy of: statistics at all costs...
even at 8 months old)...
but if that's the case...
then a session of hanky-panky...
sterile... washing under the ******* etc.,
i'm practically doing erotica-genocide
slim film no. 3890... ever since it started aged
8... when i discovered Onan...
way before the white nation army came out
from the hades of the *******...
how the ******* of ***** has nothing
to do with the ******...
the muscles and nerves are wired so to the brain...
that i'm pretty sure a castrato feels
the same...
**** chicken shaming...
it must be circumcised men against
circumcised men: ******* missing olympics...
no wonder... you peel a ******* potato...
you have to throw it in some water
to prevent it from darkening...
that's of course: prior to cooking...
so you have to find the ****** cushion
brigade from time to time...
a "sword" without a "sheath"...
rust or egomania or: motivational talk talks...
because Kant was never going to be my:
bachelor of the year for the 215th time in a row...
kierkegaard famously didn't marry...
erectile "dysfunction":
not a real problem in my own company
or in the company of prostitutes...
but a serious ******* problem among
the "free women" of western europe...
it's like one of those vague "superpowers"...
women speak of turn-ons and turn-offs...
yeah: i too have my limp switch too...
somehow... this "thing" is not automated...
it's not like spam-mail... it doesn't always:
"rise to the occassion"...
the mood swings of my *****...
i'm starting to think that perhaps neurology will
explain more about my brain
than my suma summarum will ever tell me
about this excess of the 21st digit (which
of course includes the 10 precursor toes)...

as i haven't read marquis de sade in a long while...
and i'm not touching any modern erotica,
and ******* bores me
and how japenese gravure is the next best
all-spice of brain fever...
and how: if this little harlot went to sudan
for her nitty-picking a tartan lover,
or if she decided for rwanda...
i have to guess the fiction and fantasy...
for me, at least... has to rely on...
a bull in a porcelain shop...
or as the kama sutra says:
a rabbit **** is hardly going to ****
an elephant ****... lengths and depths...
all round!
which makes you wonder...
genghis khan must have been...
or has to be... the ***** envy shitlord
of a whole lot of people with the surname
Khan in pakistan.

my neighbour came over,
quick impromptu
into the dog collar
and you have your murderer
and the priest;
guilt ridden as if by small pox
she sat on my bed:
no ulterior motive,
no auxiliaries of conscience to back-up
now; a clear would-be **** victim...
jewish so i had to stress my fascination
with the jewish mysticism of kabbalah;
and i did so in all earnest
asking whether i said i am eh yeh correctly:
also the whole bit of original interpretation
the secrecy of the rabbinical
aHa                    aHe              
males as rigid as consonants
women as fluid as vowels *******
missing accents on eden's language of globalization
that's short of tartan english of glasgow
with key stress punctures of trans-punctuation
crafted for either serious distinction on consonants,
or ridiculous aesthetics when given to vowels
of parisian stilettos: fancy ah fancy nah fancy
a mistress in fishnet leggings? yes? no? maybe?
undecided i see. trophy wife material... next!

.that moment, when you realiße... "it's not yet another garry glitter song"... because quiet frankly... you still haven't seen Joker... you're stuffing raw dough into biscuit shapes in a make-shift Tibet... as a raw-treat... and your body is tombstone stiff... but your eyes are on fire and your soul is dancing... synonym parade... because gary glitter can be excused in the same way that: rob halford... rob halford isn't gay... isn't gay the metalheads would otherwise say... but because the song can exist per se... since... a glaring gary is no... jimmy 'the kid-fiddling dj' savile... and he's... no ian watkins... because... if you asked me... rock & roll part II is a gary glitter song? och! ouch! pinch-punch 1st of April is upon us recoil... hell no! i still read marquis de sade... only because by my standards... he's quiet decent... all he ever did wrong was use the imagery of a crucifix as a ***** when asking a ******* to peform the sado-masochistic act of ******* before him... otherwise his phallus was lost in the niqab of the bastille... his uncle though? ah! that's another matter! although: much aggrieved but somehow agreed... you could still buy marquis de sade's novella ****** in London, once upon a time... perhaps you still can... but does that even matter? i am about to get a primer about the Iranian inherent hate for h'america anytime soon... about how h'americans manage to bundle the Persians into the rag-ah-muffin crowd of camel-jockeys and easily replaced arab donors... and those poor iraqis... doing their bit...  who is to forget the phrase: turbanator? i.e. not referring to sikhs... no one besides moi... welcome to l'inglese... the modern lingua franca... and i do feel so sorry so very so very much for the natives that were beither born in Bratford or the rustbelt fly-over states of h'america... if joe biden says: learn to code! guess what i was but wasn't told being ***** from a ******* that was poland come the drop of the iron curtain of the 1990s... coming to the 2020s... me conjuring up the Silicon Curtain?! really? adverse to learn to code... learn a new language! and globalißation will "win"... internationalism already works on a bilingual basis... there's the established language of commerce... which is english... i'm sorry... i'll be kind... "you" will have to move... if not cognitively... then otherwise... i learned yours... learn mine! that's the motto... this is where linguistic nativism comes in... not borrowed time from places like h'america... not some emblem worship... just ol' lil' england... i hope this doesn't reach a wide audience... i am having to consider learning romanian... du-te dracului! that's a starter...

i've found out that, the only way to truly enjoy
a glass of red wine is...
to have also rolled your own tobacco...
and since we're talking the highest quality rolling
tobacco: golden virginia...
after rolling it... you gentle bask it in a lighter's flame
from top to bottom... to warm it up...
so you don't have to finish it off as if *******
through a straw...

that's of course if you're drinking red wine on its own...
but there's a reason why i hanged around
with a few spaniards in the past...
why i went to paris and met this two catalonian
hot-takes... who i later visited in Barcelona...
drank kalimotxo for a while getting ready
to hit the party scene...
was given my first joint in my life...
and... hello lullaby...

next day we toured the sights...
we never made it to the gothic quarter...
or the el reval...
we went into one of those shops
in a shopping mall that sell everything...
that's when i discovered portishead's debut:
dummy all by myself...
and then onto camp nou...
to be honest... throughout all this time...
i felt like a glove...
no really... i felt my company was being...
tested as to whether it could be well worn
and: worn out at a much later date...
i was, what, 19 then?

what will leave me well versed in travel,
jumping continents?
i should really add prague along the line somewhere...
the days when i would solo for a weekend
and never bother with any if at all: precautions...
i can't imagine the sort of trips
my "highschool friends" took...
en masse... and always to a resort -
say, in greece...

the joker scenes are out...
the scene where he's dancing on the stairs...
sounds good... mhmm...
oh... this is gary glitter?
the art has absolutely nothing to do with the artist...
it's not like gary glitter can get away with it...
but... i'm pretty sure he can get away
whereas... ian watkins?
in that crushing defeat of musical genres...
when emo wasn't quiet a thing...
and nu-metal didn't die out...

i'm a cheap ***: all the people are raving /
were raving about a film...
and i'm waiting for the delayed spectacle...
only recently... avengers: end game?
what a major ******...
this "self-aware" introspection into movie
franchises that explore time-travel...
here's an alternative: study chemistry
and get a hippo's ***** ready on the wet
dip... i'm guessing this is a period of time
when: the genre of science fiction will
slowly die off...
i don't see how science fiction can sustain
itself...

- which is always beside the point...
moving on... english... this acquired tongue of
mine...
if only i were so adamant as a czesław miłosz:
had i a translator's worth of shadow,
and baggage running around after me...
like a sacred cow of the Raj...
how did i learn to mitigate?
i don't know... what i do know is...
drinking and habits of listening to music...

it starts off with: listening to some
music using english...
it sooner or later gravitates toward
something in german...
after i tire myself of german lyrics...
i'm heading toward scandinavia...
chances are: i will visit "mother russia"...
but i'll probably sink into
visiting byzantine chants...
once i figured out a way to move
from scandinavian paganism...
work my way past german folk
from the medieval period...
and finally arrive at: αγνη παρθενε...
obviously i will have to stop over
some quasi-folk germanic songs...
northern crusades:
teutonic songs... or the templar songs:

da pacem domine...
pristine times! the drunk carol singers
has sung their bit... there was no rest
for the wicked...
the carol: god rest ye merry, gentlemen
was sang...
reality of the everyday happened
no day shy away from the "celebration"...
i find more comfort in songs
of the templars...
perhaps the gregorians with their calender...
but most certainly the byzantine choir...

of ancient greece and what is known...
what can stand out from byzantine greece?
except from: byzantine bureaucracy?
counting knots in the fish-net stocking
on a centipede crawling out of a harem?

my musical diet: when i drink...
i can't listen to music when english is involved:
for too long a "passing" of: enjoying it...
i grow a beard and satan mount
a throne of wood and amber...
fiddling with it like a mad maestro that
has been given 100 violins and no...
woodwinds... and this is my "orchestra"...
a beard... crux of central europe:
with the zenith on the border of the river
Oder...

i do wonder what this scenario would look like;
if the girl gambled otherwise...
the pretty-****-pick sent by my offspring...
or my full-crop of hair...
and a beard... ***** envy can hardly be
a social events on the pedestrian stage...
but cranium envy?

the diet for a session begins...
it has to begin in english...
but who knows where i'm otherwise willing
to lend an ear to?
i can't be stuck with music i can understand
lyrically...
if i can't understand how to compose music...
well i did once know how to play
the ***-ar... and worked a nightclub
for a mandolin: just to serenade a Fiona
from a window a maggie may by:
rod-it stuart in edinburgh... once...

how romantic of anyone...
hell... this is still in english?
why aren't i pulling the strings of a czesław miłosz
and not retaining my nativspreschen?
why? i love to tickle german...
i love to tickle deutsche more than i care
for speaking english, or... rather...
writing in it...
but unlike a czesław miłosz... i didn't bring
a linguistic ghetto with me...
i don't have a ****** ghetto to go to...
perhaps... if i mingled with enough
of my "fellow", "countrymen"...
much easier said than done: if you're Irish...
and the only THing you have to worry
about is... diacritical nuance...
the THing, the Θing... is an english:
what the irish consider to be a surd affair...
T'h'ING... it's a t'ing... not ******* F even
if you looked at it with a bollocking of
a microscope, either!

- and this once high-school "fwend" once suggested...
'maybe you should go and find your own
fellow countrymen'...
who the **** do i look like? paddy?
an arab, an iranian, an italian...
or some *****-cheeky-cheese-brigade of sorts?!
my, "fellow" and "countrymen"...
on foreign soil? em... allegience to who?
i have severed my ties with Poland...
i keep my ties with Poland on the basis that:
my grandfather and grandmother are still
alive... when i visit them...
i don't expect them to be into this whole:
post-nationalism: internationalism non-nationalism
globalisation gimmick of: at least,
at least the modern lingua franca:
which is the l'inglese....
because... quiet frankly? i have a stash of:
mutterzunge bubbling beneath what's being written,
with some mongrel-german and mongrel-russia
auxilliary...

ah... the natives of the english tongue...
well... it's quiet expansive...
it can go beyond encompassing merely england...
it can go so far as to tread over scottish gaelic...
somewhat irish gaelic too...
only zee Velsh... seem to be... W: whistling free
in their linguistic stand-off...
who the hell even bothers to hear
about any scottish gaelic?
there's only gaelic gaelic: irish gaelic...
and there's welsh...
scotch gaelic? huh? apart from: a wee this
and a wee that?
*******... tartan and god's **** *******
of beer and the side-trash-dish of the savior
of whiskey in a gulp of ms. amber's **** juices
from a...
one of those distilleries...
that served up a whiskey tokaj whiskey...
i still remember the picture...
a girl i was dating took the picture...
in front of her a belarusian jew cosmo...
to her left... a russian looking into the glass
of whiskey with some philosiphical insight
begging to come out...
to her right... a dog ****** with his nose
in the matter...

figures... the ****** will sniff **** out...
the russian will: peer into the glass
for some "magical" insight...
philosophy or what not...

as if insuating: concerning the "little" people
of europe...
unlike the portugese, the spanish,
the italians or the greeks: acronym: PIGS...
but i least i'm no czesław miłosz:
i don't need to move to cam'cam'h'america
with a language in tow:
for some sort of lesson of: preserving roots
for a tree...
my version is apparently:
the bad integration strategy...
esp. on paper...
why would i still retain my tongue...
on paper... in this medium...
citizen ist citizen:
bürger ist bürger ist mir!

heaven behold i have to use alt sächsisch vaterzunge
to speak to the grünschnabel...
i fear for the natives of this tongue:
esp. since hiding behind the stipend of:
the empire upon which the sun never sets...
to have to hide behind a cultural import
from h'america...
or australia... is what gives rise to these
pseudo-communist grey areas of Bratford...
or Islam-came-ah-knocking in
Rotherham...

even i have to escape this...
this l'inglese... this new frontier of...
no frontier at all: except for the skull moon...
and baggage of frohlicht!

is priti patel a civic nationalist?
well i'd be ******* sterile if i didn't say:
a babe with class any loser in
my vicinity said: a banger...
if priti patel is not a civic nationalist...
then i'm not in england...
i'm nowhere...
******* banging bunny... anyways...
and the first time i managed to ******
a black girl for a quickie...
it took just the right amount of cocktails and...
enough coccyx banging into my pelvis that...
i... almost wished for a 12" ****
and the "proper *****"...
no... really... imagine a black girl mixed with...
a stick insect... and you just so happen
to have served her up...
a genuis concoction of cocktails...
the coccyx is bound to appear...
alligned to your poor-pelvis plum-sore...
one time or another:
no ***** envy in sight...

hence my "wish"... give me the 12" cod...
and enough plump *** as that will allow...
otherwise: no...
i would still like to imagine being
circumcised via the orthodox methods:
of a rabbi... not via some over-*******...

why am i writing about this with such fondness?
em... 21... nearing 34...
i can count... how many times i've had ***...
using only my fingers...
that's beside counting the prostitutes...
which... when you forget to trim your ***** hair
and you just end up kissing for an hour...
kissing prostitutes: what a noble affair...
bumble, trumble, tumble, twitter, bitter...
grinder... tinder... don't know:
i can't remember having owned a smartphone...
or a mobile...
that ambition died when:
i was left with calls 10 minutes from a meeting
for a pint... on a bus...

that's... 34 - 21... 13 years with sporadic
casual *** patterns...
oh and that thai bisexual girl... woman...
boy... i picked up from a park bench...
we listened to some jazz... drank some beers...
"weaped"... then had a cigarette in the garden
and ****** while i was kept in suspence...
honestly: i didn't know what i was getting myself
into... it was a thai surprise moment...
sports bra... and... until i reached into
the nadir of the zenith did i find out...
phew... no pronoun debauchery...

13 years and the sort of *** life that could
be celebrated by a *******
harriet turtles of the islands of galapagos...
while, around me, in the vicinity:
kama surtras left right and center!
why would i drift toward...
scandinavian pagan songs...
byzantine chants... crusader anthems?
i don't know: it's hard to punctuate
ridicule into that sentence... ridicule and irony...
self-depreciating humor...

- 'music was terrible in the 2010s'...
perhaps... except of a ****** band: LAO CHE...
i will still be punching myself over
my sentiments...
and "they" can come and speak english
like it's "theirs"...
but at the same time... not be "english" at
the same time...
perhaps it's the north h'american conundrum
of patriotism with the old continent
sentiment "for" nationalism...
perhaps if we all speak this one
magical language...
we can still find ourselves
with unboxing cues in a bazar in Tehran...

and they were Persians before
the Arab camel-jockeys came...
and that spirit of poetry died
and the old antagonism with the Greeks:
too died...
arab camel-jockeys with their... sole book...
and enough time...
enough time to see them sitting on
an iceberg of dinosaur crude fuel...
that truly was and is a miracle...
i still don't see why the Ottomans wouldn't
want to treat the camel-jockeys as they
should have to have prospered:
since no Lawrence would ever come from
ottoman Istambul...

but oh oh: tuba büyüküstün the god-smacker
and the slow death of martyrs' promised: harems...
even a slow-to-understand man
can find his solomon and his queen of sheba...
somehow, "somewhere"...

so much for drinking some wine...
and: it's not like speaking the truth, drunk,
managed to get anyone into trouble...
perhaps the "kind" alternative?
nietzsche on barbiturates?

i sometimes wish i could be alligned
to a female sort of companionship...
without the immediate awe-struck beauty parallel
with: what's actually beneath being
awe-struck... but no...
i will have to do my best with dogs,
cats, the odd fox... and pyramids and pyramids
of stacked ms. amber bottles...

wine and the gods' anemia... or haemophilia...
i never which one it is...
i almost wish i could sentence myself
to the banal grey-ish merger of:
the everyday with a woman...
but... alas... i still have a mother...
and i'm still unsure about the times
when she's lying or telling the truth...
but, given, she's my mother...
i allow her the benefit of the doubt...
having a mother is enough to:

going down the river of keeping a woman
company: in company that precludes
having *** with her...
bad grammar or just the unnecessary word:
precludes...

it's enough to be in a company of a woman
you can't have *** with...
and quiet another...
to be in a company... you can have *** with...
this "can" will probably never
arrive at the sober conclusion of:
you "might" or... that you even "will"...
i guess the antithesis of gambling came
when prostitution wasn't allowed...
a man sought alternatives...
50p bet and all the thrills....
that... yep... 110 quid an hour would never give...
gambling and *******...
the siamese child of desolation of
Moloch and his bride: Ursula (usury)...

what's that "motto"? when the fun stops: stop?
here's a way to figure it out:
see a ***** before you start gambling...
and when you gamble...
bet for a quarter... less than but equal to / no more
than a pound...
i've started to bet on football results:
a win... and the other team also scores...
i managed to find a bet accumulator...
that would leave me off...
over 200K richer... from having bet a pound...

like i once mentioned...
the 3Ps of today's clinical "advice"...
there's the priest... n'ah...
there's the psychiatrist (you'll want to see him
first, seeing a psychologist is pointless...
he has no prescriptive authority...
he's no big pharma loved-up yuppy sort of...
gwy)...
or there's the *******...
priest, psychiatrist... *******...
i did the priestly bit when i visited
a monestary in France, Taize...
i was young and the hormones weren't kicking in,
just yet, and i would have stayed...
but i wasn't rich enough to buy myself
a place at that, kind of, prestigious "university"...

psychologists and psychiatrists...
what the tongue can't lick or taste:
a tongue can't heal...
talk talk talk... but no: suma summarum:
no oeuvre momentum...

prostitutes and betting habbits it was...
settled...
this one maroccan colt with his one maxim:
there's no water in a desert...
ever see more water than that in a puddle
in a concrete jungle?
and that's hoping for: evian...
tapeworm free water... ever?!

so much for tinder...
and so much for... ahem... adverts: ok cupid...
claustrophobic dating advice with no
spares...
if you can't pick them up fresh
from a park bench of uncertainty waiting
for that, that thai surprise?
so much for being a h'american...
and a *** tourist... in Odessa...
of Kiev... or getting milked for the bogus
*****-****-thrill of it:
to genesis the whole model escapade of:
dosh stashed in a porky inch-by-inch
leather itch of: spend spend spend!

ząb... or tooth... zęby... or teeth... the lesser Ezra in me is more bewildered by the non-existent strain of either vowels or consonants in English, than the Chinese ideogram... i agree: you must have an idea when reading Chinese, and a population of over a billion... and subsequently a well-known linguistic complexity, a thrice-over Chinese wall in the eye and off the tongue, to later precipitate into an ease in making the mathematic tongue acrobatic... but then have no theoretic procession to study the complexity, or hear a xylophone... i'm the membrane mid-way between burying the Latin anecdote Beijing... and asking to kiss the hand of Marco Polo... had he wrote the Quran... i'm just simply juiced for one reason, this is my take on the corner-stone rejected... ******* the crucifix, and tickling the feet of the crucified one... as anti-jew as i can be... well: volk zu γoλγoθα... or volk zu γoλγoφα... compass! mein kompaß! alter: volk zu ßιναι! oh look... quantum physics... it behaves gleiche y = w, ~i, >ł.... and into a p.s., as γ = Υ (upsilon contra gamma)... once more, the lesser Ezra in me is bored with the Chinese ideogram, it's translated plain and simple, perfécto arithmetic! and the billion-strong populace... applause to the Chinese politicians... democracy as an pure English export is not wanted... it's decadent, and ripe for only decay... please, god or yoga no... we can do without it! this is the lesser Pound... i could be fascinated with the Chinese ideogram, but i'm frankly occupied with addressing the English encryption.... mind you, that translates as: you missed a spot... and they did keep their language so diacritic-free in order to form the global empire... which can only mean that mad geniuses and other akin stipend students will ever appreciate... but my fascination with diacritical marks, or their lack, is akin to Ezra Sr.'s fascination with the complexity of the Chinese ideogram, or rather the syllable form of not enraging the trinity, therefore concise, xi (ξ), chi (χ), chow (χω) mein (μεjn / μει - gagging ιota: main... mejn... replaced by additional curvature of j), kfu mang thu! kuchi kuchi, kat(h)mandu.. gucci gucci... rattler... or pinky on the black key in a piano concerto... the odd number... thus the english siamese of i and j, the only letters with diacritical marks, beginning with ιota being the one under-dressed... and they are indeed there, for clear syllable intake, as a way to pave for the architecture of punctuation, and what could be later described in the real world, as a punctured rubber tire, or a sewing technique, in the guise of tartan to a cayleigh whirl / orthodox scot that's: ceilidh... ****** me, god's a pauper, leaving him out in the cold of nonsense when man just asks for kejl i, p.s. dogged out hound harking grammaton, and some random number outside of tetra.

pst! look in the woods! you might find him there!
music always overpowered my
need for women, i always found music to
be antidote
  to ensure women exist -
               dunno, dough]nut -
or dunno, it just happened...
      CENSOR MR. CENSOR!
HELLO?!
                  LOSER. HTML
IS INFECTED.... now i'll come off as paranoid...
    but then i am typing in paradox
  land...
                my keyboard is ******...
a case of etymology... *wargi - and
pysk - or usta, and buzia -
one's kiss kiss,
      Tarkan style...
  but i wonder why when i listen to
  in extremo's rotes haar...
i imagine dwarfs dancing,
        but then the prancing pony of
hedningarna's vargtimmen -
       which might    
mean *******, but
then it might mean something
in Finnish... vargtimmen: meaning: close your lips...
in Finnish; so bound to the word trim...
trim your lips.
even though the people didn't move,
a lot of ******* children made Poland their
home... for example wargi, which
means usta... add a p to usta
and you'll end up saying: she's empty, barren.
no wonder the transgender movement
occurred in english... words have no
feminity or masculinity... so ***...
they're asexual, apathetic...
   a male can't own a table
in the Freudian sense of signifying a phallus...
stupid me blaming St. Thomas' gospel,
when the problem lay within the realm of per se...
       i have to add: it's a bit foggy where i'm right
now... and my html is a bit bonkers...
     but it still stands as Finnish and Polish
versus English non-mythical when sniffing
the **** crack of America...
          fog ought to be enough, apparently it isn't,
you need to care to
economise and work to an ethic of working
so hard throughout the year for a 2 week holiday,
   and then end up throwing away your food produce
and then feel irritated by a homeless person...
   so yeah... you're grand!
          i mean i am...
the we is automatically bewildered...
i couldn't pet a woman, women are much more
than cats, and i pet two cats and hate them...
     not having women means i am resistible...
if i were irresistible i'd be insane...
      the magnetism of prefix convergence...
   re- means again, not against...
   and in- can also mean a-,
          every time i speak the scandi tongue
like i might found saying the lazy way an english
man says ****-,
               i feel like jumping up and down...
hed- -nin- -garna!
      hey hey **! jump you mo fo!
                     and i live in england and i care to
take to escaping english, that's really messed up...
i can't listen to the tongue... a bit like my russian
girlfriend said to me: Polish is just static,
sh sh sh sh ch ch ch ch... i mean, the best
***** in the universe are done by the people that
really hate your ethnicity,
they love you as a person, and the person they
love to ****, but then the collective unconscious
comes along, and they say the most horrid
things in between the orchestra of vowels during
the ******... babe, you drowning? i know
i am.
            if a yiddish man would come along,
he'd write yzwz... because that's how h became
z in the grapheme sz and ch...
                 and paradoxically: it's not the smallest
sound... and if the Latin grapheme continued its
existence... and was regarded as the smallest
linguistic unit, it has to mean that
    two names converged... it means that
the coliseum will overpower the church...
   which means that the Latin man had names for
his letters... and it was never all about music
and castratos... it was never a simple a when
the Greek said alpha, or it was never as simple
a b when the greek said beta...
vargtimmen! purse yer lips! ye gods, pout!
  duck-alliances throughout!
   yack yack yack... quack... ******* ponces
and narcissistic nuances...
yes, when w = v = w = ł -
               when it is meant to invoke the ugly duckling,
and a swan, and a łabądz -
my soul is already Scandinavian bound...
  like Frankenstein's Jr., to the fog, the snow, the frost...
      if Spinoza is the prince, then i'm the king,
the tetragrammaton just drops out like
a birth of an antelope - it just drops out of language,
but it only drops out, once you have used
a language associated with diacritical marks...
knowing solely English or Russian Cyrillic won't
help you... it really does just drop out from
the ****** of nothing like an antelope on the savannah
plain... but given there's no diacritical
distinction in it... being born into a language that
uses diacritical markings to ensure there are
distinctions, makes studying the tetragrammaton
all the more fascinating...
English uses no diacritical marks, neither does Cyrillic...
the Greeks are cosmos (polish slang reference
to them being on l.s.d.) with their niqab of
diacritical usage when English Latin remains
slap-stick naked... come on! put on a ******* bow-tie
that might be at least the french acute over
e!         éh?!           knowing the lazy sod, he won't!
but such is the joy of experiencing etymology
with music... to associate
vargtimmen... a Finnish compound word,
with the English word trim...
         or the word dimmed...
           and the Polish clear-denotative word
for lips... i.e. wargi... or usta...
  timmen might also mean: to bite...
  warga is the singular of wargi, i.e. bottom lip,
    to bite the bottom lip...
            does the music in hedningarna's expression
say much? no it doesn't...
   poetry can be the least musicological
         when analysing music...
             the best poetry can attest to is:
gauging your eyes out with it's bewilderment that
it has become such a primitive art,
   compared to the etchings in the caves of
Lascaux...  how that's really said?
                 obviously las-cow...
                  or proper: lascau(x)...
            the two tier of language... those who live
off it as noun-to-noun... and those who live
off it as hand-to-mouth... solely verb in action...
    it's actually a great shame that i should be writing this
and having a father who perfected the craft of roofing...
  i feel more an imbecile, and even more a rooster
in a wheelchair...
        so much for having a russian girlfriend for a summer
and an egyptian friend for no reason;
don't worry, you won't write a biography about me,
  such nuances of language with a personal twist
can remain where they are, in the archeological
dept. of nowhere.

I walk across
to Hannah's flat
in Arrol House
and knock at the door

Mrs Scott opens
the door and stands there
she's a short thin woman
with a face of granite
with a slit
where her mouth is

whit is it?
she says
her Scottish accent
rough as stone

is Hannah home?
I ask

I dunnae kinn
she replies
HANNAH
she bellows
over her shoulder
Benedcit is haur fur ye
she adds
scowling at me

jist coming
Hannah replies
from back in the flat

yoo'll hae tae bide
Mrs Scott says

and walks back inside
leaving me
on the red tiled step

I look into the interior
of the flat
and smell breakfast
having been cooked

I look back
into the Square
kids are playing
near by
on the pram sheds
and over by the wall
girls are doing handstands
their feet
against the wall
dresses falling
over their heads
showing underwear

sorry about Mum
she has a mouth on her
Hannah says
where we going?
she asks

thought we'd go
to the South Bank
see the Thames and boats
and have ice cream
I say

do I need money?
she asks

just about 2/-
I say
for bus fares
and ice cream

I'll ask Mum
for a handout
but wait for the answer

Mum have you 2/-
I can have?
Hannah asks

fa dae ye hink
Ah am Rockerfeller?
nae Ah huvnae
her mother replies

no problem
I say to Hannah
I'll have enough
for us both

are you sure?

yes don't aggravate
your mother more
than you have to

so Hannah gets her coat
and we walk off
through the Square

she's like that sometimes
Hannah says
she's as tight
as a wing nut

we walk down the *****
and up Meadow Row

I ask her how her father is

she says
he's Ok but in
the doghouse more often
as not with Mum
but he's a softy
to Mum's hardness
but Mum says
he's soft in the heed
but he's lovely really
Hannah says

-I know her old man
he's English and a bit
simple after helping
to empty out Belsen camp
in 1945 where some
he told me were
more dead as alive-

we wait at the bus stop
she with her dark hair
pony tailed
with a tartan skirt
and white blouse
and me in blue jeans
and white shirt
and quiff of brown hair
and hazel eyes

she with a budding beauty
with her mother's
touch of tongue
who if roused
could give words
full lung.

Och! Airn an' Thwndir!
An' Urquhart's Wae Verra Hel!
Great Warlike Glamis' Firey,
An' Hwmyd Loch Doon's Orrah!
Downe! Downe! tae thad howch owre miserable!
Ye a' swithe hame, hame! wae ma Airn ***!
An' weile 'yont yondir Suthron!
Waefu', waefu' heyre Ah! War-Ironclad heyne Ȝell,
Wae burr-thistle’s Gowlin’ Storne Micht!
Frae ma verra, verra! Ah ageyne!
Tae the Cauld Enraged Wynde
Unco! intae Æternall Battle Scorchin'
Towardis Moorlan Chain Mail-***** o' mine!
O'er an' o'er IT! increasingly thro' Force returnin',
Wae ma verra Blacklyn Tartan o' War heyne,
An' Silvery Brooch, wi'in yondir Lone Sceadewe!
Unco! wae the Rubye Stane deep-shimmerin'
Naixt tae Carham's Gory Landis, an' the Targe-Hell,
Thro’ nowe Tune Martial, stick-an-stowe Ȝell!
Airn-Curse Core-Firey, Hye-Flamin' IT!
Heyne unco rychte Airn-Moorlan o'er ye a'!
Ah, bye nowe the FEUDAL OWAR-MANN!
'Yont thad Auld Whunstane Tower-Shrine
Togider wae Lang Titanium-Claymore, Airn-Dazzlin'
An' ne'er, ne'er, IT! stick-an-stowe tae wane!
Wi'in theis Bluish Fyre syne! Verra War-Swaird Rairan IT,
Intae Thae Hringiren Æternall, Thwndir-Devastatin' o' mine!

QVOAD FEODALE MEA CVM RVBRA SPATHA
ET RELVCENTE HOC SCVTO AC FVLMINE NIVEO
SCOTORVM INTRA HANC TEMPESTATEM MAGNAM
QVÆ FLOS IGNEVS EST TONITRVO NOMINE ALTO
NEMO GELIDO HOC LOCO IMPVNE ME LACESSIT.

The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

    .  .  .  .  .  .  .

        But at the deeper woods opening he lost his way and became fearful,
not wanting to enter.  The tallest ones, red giants with faces of evergreen
canceled out the closing sky and so he changed his way back as before
to the rounded hills.  And weary from his climb he rested on the back of her
body in lands overlooking down from the brae he saw the ocean swelling
and the stars being born in wild flowers as the hills at dusk were dissolving.
        After two eternal moments in peace, he rose again in the Highlands,
to the braise and harvest smell of musted hay, cottage chalk and bleating
wool.  Now holding the girl draped in tartan, this time without caring he fell
into the black woods of her mien.  And the milk of her body dripped out into
his and slid back waveishly until she was all hair from black becoming straw
in their bed and feathers when the raven appeared.  And the flooding waned
when she flew through an opening unraveled in the thatching roof, shredded
above the funny moors.
        In seconds he was swiped clear, before the shy song lamenting when
the doors, by tidal weathers, blasted open into the mackerel sky, gathering
too like vapours with the dawn, he wafted up, swept away into the airs
on Highland shoals.  Now sailing above the speckled clouds in a darting
school of other drifters, he heard himself singing in heights of sways
throughout the tangle of wandering bark that stretched by branching coral
midway to the moon.  A great oak tree made of lime pierced the end of blue,
nadir to its zenith and into the heavens all starry.  And ringing its trunk was
a line drawn of which beneath lay the drowning world.  It was as if each layer
were one part oil, the other part water.  Looking down, way, way down
and down even farther, he saw the running seeds of striped minnows
who swam by up-streaming a wide river.  To catch up he dropped, again,
all dressed in the colours of rain, with those gladly miners.  But they swam
above the river between the rounded hills.  And the waters ran runny, now
unwrinkling as does the bowl that holds the Milky Way, when someone
dappled by in whisper saying,
        "Come with us twice the road is easy!"
"Where are we?" To himself he mused, as she blew away and by, like a long
dragon flying.  He let his body to sink with the weeds and sedges he saw,
to a beam held with barely a nail hanging, the age old sign set, spiriting him
back again to his place.  Back to the point that draws itself, as does the wind
that winds through the rushing reeds, back to the sun rising note after moon
underwater and from such still sounds was he a reel, just when the post
that was always sheering spoke out and said;
"Welcome!  .  .  .  "
        "Welcome to Minerva."

The North calls her.
Siren song echoing across baron fen.
Pulls at the tartan,
Begs her home again.

That Highland jig,
She remembers with a whistle,
Longs her to return,
To the land of the thistle.

Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble.

My whole innards begin to tumble, whirr around like clothes in a dryer. Pockets not  checked, so their contents are set. Set to begin a cycle of being flung from side to side, swishing around, drowning in a swirl of cleanliness which should of course, ease the pain and wash away those steeped in stains and cleanse a spirit that's been pulled apart. Like a cotton thread. Slowly being pulled away from a wooley jumper as its caught.

Okay, it's caught on a zipper. from an old pair of jeans. Whose paths have crossed many times in outfit combos but now tumbling around together they no longer meld, together. They clash like; tartan and polka dots and conflict each others path to rightful cleanliness.

Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble

Alas, the thread is now long and wearing thin. It has lost its shape and would have to begin again. Once aired out to dry its a mound of mess, a cotton bundle looking all distressed. It tried its hardest to fight the emotion, the tug, of its strings to maintain its strength; but bowed down to defeat when knowing full well that it was beat. How could it now go on in life when it's torn. Torn to pieces and now ceases to exist in a form that would generally state: It! Exists!
Exists as a life form and a living part, how can things continue to breathe without a beating heart.

Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.

Trying to mend the cracks with this battered *****. Mangled with regret and forlorn with spite, how can this reassess itself until it is right.

Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.

It takes time to mend a broken ticker. Time passes by and memories become bitter, tainted with a brush that's tarred, marred with the longing for those moments to still occur. Not for your mind to now blur.
Blur those memories you once held so dear, remembered with a chuckle or a wry little smile. How can you comprehend these again for a while?!

You can't.
You shouldn't.
You couldn't.
So don't.

Thump thump. Beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat. Thud thud. My heart.
broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds.
Crush.
crack.
Crunch.
Reassemble

i keep looking at people become serious diarists, like Paulo Coelho writing the alchemist, which can be an odd experience... i've got ants in my pants and i'm a dog's bone away from playing dead, sitting in mantra of: load off visiting Singapore and never getting the hangover joke of Bangkok... sinus gaping pore? it's all ******* feathery anyway... flusters of rouge should fantasy come to life.

learn to cackle, thus said: invoke a magpie, to learn laugher -
ha ha (etc.), as can easily be turned into a cackle,
only magpies cackle and even funnier,
applicability of diacritical markings,
as if stealing letters of silver spoons...
Scōtlānd: meiné skoot,
overt
           lá                           -nd...
spacing for the macron -
          and hence the acute without spacing...
                          truth to the tooth
and elsewhere bone-shattering governing the rattle
of the ribs... a canary's song least that of worth
with a woad's pigmentation...
               or said ivory to turqouise...
azure, and vented in lavender...
           but the cackle came
with *Scōtlānd: learn the linguistic
arithmetic! the macron und umlaut
synonym... if applying it learn it,
if not applying it: learn Bulgarian,
Oristice the peacocking accents...
        turquoise though:
Eurydice... Orestes... synonym of acne...
so few do, in that the diacritical indication
is a higher-tier arithmetic...
            such that the less implied is
governed by the impeding peacock variation
that suggests Da, in all prevailing -isms,
                   as saying raw, to a Tartar
over a horse limb steak galloping toward Ukraine...
         but here we are: adorning tartan
of chequers and navy that mingles blue & purple...
                       and here we are abiding to
the Faroe Isle recluse...   spelled aisle    said
i'll...      and that i dare not wallow in it much further...
haggis neeps and tatties... wanking over
a cow's testicular dangly... truant to all truth...
        and all truth to the truant rodins....
  thus to laugh excessively is to cackle like a magpie,
   and hark a phlegmish soar with the raven...
                and end all tragedies without
a Hebraic definition of ha as
      the: direct article... for good manners suggest
that no clue be justified in cradling the sigma
of either the zenith of the Babylonian tower
or the spiral of condescending might twirling into
an imploding tornado over Egypt and all things
                  extravagantly Pythagorean...
  or as Balaam said: i rode a donkey out of Yerusalem:
sprechen yiddish.            
               three years among them...
  and i can say with much demand: Scōtlānd...
scootlaand...     if i ever learned to cleanse,
i also learned to adapt... a circumstance of thinking
myself adequately counter-inept to share
   the Baltic with Lapland skiers, as synonymous
and congregational in being translated into Ęglish
          for what already is: a truancy when cultural
criticism isn't enough... because the culture makes
one truant from engaging with it... because there
is no culture to be critical of...
                   a hermit foretold and with clasped hands
   gave alms, and later: with a slow clapping
          made hands orate what the tongue made shoelace-
                                                       ­         (op+. -spaghetti)       .