Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.

only failed states feel the need to export
their failed ideologies elsewhere,
the west? a prime example of ideologies
(coherency of ideas rather than thoughts)
is bound in the West...
sure, they "defeated" the communist power
in eastern Europe, and reduced it to
a mere Brothel Bloc of nations -
have you seen any pretty girls in Poland
these days? i haven't - i only found
the mediocre - reality is harsh...
better get used to it. or is this a deceptive
plan to encourage a memory of
Reyland de Châtillon? may i remind
you that Tartars (Mongols settled in Europe
fought alongside the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth in the battle of Tannenberg?) -
of **** please, have your little
Hastings - do i look like someone who give's
a dog's ******* of care?
we managed the Mongol invasion and we managed
to conscript the Tartars against the Teutons -
filthy son's of ******* had it coming...
the Irish? too preoccupied with the construction
industry of New York. you here for a crab cake, paddy?!
i thought you were... and why do you think
there were no croak! croak! crow's croak! attacks
of Islamic terrorism in Poland? the outright far right...
once ****** came it knew how to manage Islamic
deviation - oh **** me, god ahead! with your
colonial past it won't be hard hiding the Hydra,
should be a piece of cake, and have it too...
i wished for Poland to never join the European Union...
my wish was to keep the Slavs keen on the finality of
Communism expressed by China -
forget your little tiny wee xenophobia of Bulgarians
and Romanians and Poles working your ****-stock...
you'll never attack the Chinese... you won't,
you need your Christmas presents - oh look
Chicken Chow Mao War... hot or cold makes no difference....
you're basking in the sunset of Hollywood -
hardly the gift to the world -
you're not what you think you are...
you just cut off the hands and legs of able workers
in northern England and exported the limbs off to
China... no, you have, admit it.
the current election statistics of electoral power looks like
the demographic of England exiting the European Union,
xenophobia rife! they just cleverly disguised it
behind enough vocabulary and the stiffening of the lip:
village people ** ha! no one bothers 1 billion Chinese,
fear of a Chinese Genghis, we should thank them for
their repose in acknowledging gravity and magnetism
as the prime rulers of state affairs to build.
praise the Chinese... i'm not a gambling man worth's of
Shamrock... i only wish my fellow ethic men chose wiser...
as it turns out only my grandfather (a party member)
is most secure... my father isn't... i ain't for **** sure nodding
a yes of 20 years in Florida or Sarajevo on the banknote
of retirement according to Wałęnsa -
you see, religion got in the way... could have been
communism's wrath-child, the Polish Pope, ha! swayed
the dialectics.
if only communism survived in Europe,
we would't have this capitalistic filth ruining the place...
the current electorate situation in America looks very
much like the democratic blue-belt of certain democrats'
votes: a line from London to Reading,
from New York through to California... fear the blonde
ferret... i say: fear the blonde ferret...
bite like liposuction: Rasputin eager and necessarily
anti-Tsarist... you know there are Belarusians living
in St. Petersburg, old royalists i mean? they live there!
failed states leave a mark on people:
usually excessive individuation -
the failed world - how one man can report on the
spaghetti incident - the Messiah complex hopeful -
excessive individuation leaves no
nation-building plot-line to equal China -
a toilet blockage in recognisable via faces as modern
fame - Ezra knew China - he knew China so well
it was China the dragon defeating a Mongol hyena that
knew him - the westlich pact was nothing of a
concern for axis tribes; die sparsam verschwörung -
in the dead of night, the far-right awakens;
you knew this was coming, no point playing
dumb Irish with this one on the basis of luck...
you will not find yourself
masquerading a yurt for a semi-detached bungalow this time
(because of the stairs);
you have no time to look pretty, no time to govern,
your angelic facade will only claim so much
diary and dietary requirements fulfilling a point
by point inspection of moral furthering...
as if nothing ever happened; but it did, and it will do
so again.

THE RAT AND THE PREGNANT WOMAN


A story poem

BY

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



Dedicated to;
My mother Neddy Nabisino Mayende Kuloba Makhakara
And her mother Maritini Nabengele Nasenya Mulemia Namugugu Ilungu wa Wenwa.
The story telling power of these two ladies is the primary source of my passion and love for humorous and peace bettling stories. I owe them all the recognitions.







OPENING SONG
How do I start telling this story that I got from my
Grandmothers when sited around the fire yard in the evening?
I don’t know how to start surely,
For to day I am very shy; all of your eyes
Are on me, looking at me like ocean of looking organs
But let me embolden my self with the belt
Of a story teller that my grand father gave me
And commanded me to preach peace
Through story telling in every place I go
So my spiritual service to humanity is telling stories
Is to soothe and heal wounds of humanity
By softly telling peaceful stories
Let me then cough to clear my voice and start;

Long time ago, but not very long time
Some where between the centuries of twelve hundred
And seventeen hundred after the death of the other Jewish
Story teller who died without a wife, who died on the cross
But others say he died on the stake, his name was Jesus,
There existed only two kingdoms in land which is known today
As Bukusu land found in the present east Africa or Indian Ocean coastal Africa,
The first occupants of this vast land is the sons and daughters of Babukusu
Or the ones who like selling ironsmith products
And hence the name the people of Bukusu; the people who sell,
The two kingdoms were the Kingdom of muntu and the kingdom of manani
The citizens in the kingdom of muntu were short men and short women
Handsome and beautiful, slender and not assertive in their physical disposition
But the citizens of the kingdom of manani were all cyclopic,
In their everything; the manner of walking, talking farting, micturating
Farming, breathing, snoring, smiling, singing, whispering
Their whisper was a noisy as the tropical thunderclap
They were tall men and tall women, very tall
Their young person was as short as the tallest
Person in the kingdom of muntu,
When one of the citizen of manani snores
All the citizens of Muntu along together with,
Their king Walumoli wa Muntu had no option
But remain awake throughout the night,
Because the cacophony of a snore from
The sleeping courts of Manani was not bearable,

On many occasions Walumoli wa Muntu
The conscientious king of the muntu kingdom
Had arranged to talk to Silinki wa Namunguba
The ostensible king of the Manani Kingdom
About the cacophonous sleep robbing
Snores of daughters and sons in neighbour kingdom of Manani
Only to cow and chicken away in a feat of prudence
Lest Silinki wa Namunguba will suspect him for being
A night runner or a thief of *** perhaps
Who roams his compound during the wee of the night
In hunt of any of Namunguba’s wife maybe
Perchance having gone out for a mid-night *******,
This is how legendary snores of the sons and daughters
Of Silinki wa Namunguba the king of Manani
Has remained unchecked for ever till today,

One time an ugly passer by happened to be seen
Traversing the kingdom of muntu
In the early afternoon some two
Hours after Walumoli the king
Had just cleared the last plate
Of the mid day meal from
His last wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
He always eats her food last in the afternoon
Because it comes on the table steaming youthfulness
He loves his Khatembete wife, the wife of his old age
The wife he married by use and show of the royal regalia
The powers and dignity of the king of muntu
He married her when he his a king, the scepter in his hand,

Going back to the ugly passer by
It was never known where he came from
Not from the east where the Indian Ocean is
Not from the west where the vastness of the land
Of black people of Baganda and Bacongo
Baigbo and Bayoruba or Bafulana of Nigeria
Or the sons of Madiokor Ngoni Diop in the Senegal,
Not from the south from shaka the Zulu and Mandella the wise one
Not from north in the land of Dinka and Nuer, Ethiopian Jewish and the Egyptians,
The passerby was ugly and from no where, in a dress and
A very ***** dress that fumed out a malodorously stenching reek
He was a man in attires of a woman; this was a taboo in the land of muntu
He was left handed and a heavy weight stammerer, with an appalling
Protuberation of   a hunched back, an enormous hunchback
Enmassing entired of his masculine shoulders,
When the wind blew his loose dress followed it
Leaving the man’s thighs and then bossom naked,
Leading bystanders to a strange discovery; he was not circumcised
He was old like any other father, he had beards
But not yet circumcised, his ***** ends in corkscrew of a sheath,
This was a taboo in the land of muntu, in the kingdom of muntu
Which Walumoli wa Muntu the son of Mukitang’a Mutukuika ruled
For the spirits, gods and ancestors as well as foremen of the kingdom
Behooved that all male offsprings of the kingdom of muntu
Whether born in marriage or out of the wedlock
Born the blood or born as a ******* must and must be
Circumcised in the early teen hood
They must be circumcised before they grow the hairs
On the face, on the chest, in the scapula and on the areas
Surrounding the testicles, the **** and the endings of the backbone,
The man again had six fingers on the legs and on the hands
He walks slowly like a porcupine, his dress was in tartars
He was violent to every one he met
Insulting old people and old women with words
Of bad manners not used in the kingdom of muntu,
He terrified and beat young children, including the royal children
And grand children of Walumoli the king of muntu
He again had to beat and chase nine young virgins
Who had come from the palace of Walumoli the king of Muntu
Away from the forest when they picking fire wood
As well as playing a game of hide and seek with other palace lads,
The ugly passer by then chased to get hold of the
Nalukosi the first born daughter of
Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
The beloved last wife of the king of Muntu
All other virgins ran home, but Nalukosi remained behind
In the inextricable grip of the ugly passer by
She screamed with hysteria of a hypochondriac
She screamed and kicked with her wholesome mighty
The stubborn passer by never left her alone
She gnawed the ugly passer by with
Her girlish claws of her fingernails
But is like the passer by was mentally disordered
He was a ******* of some time
He derived some pleasure and instead
Enjoyed the girlish scratches of his captive,
Before the eight running virgins reached the palace
Together with their companions, the playmate lads
The shrilling scream of the captive Nalukosi
Was sharply heard at the palace, first by King Walumoli
Who called his wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
To come out of the hut, the kitchen and help to listen,
Immediately Mukisu wa Mujonji the palace keeper surfaced
His face displayed genuine askance of an adept military man
Whose martial arts have rusted for a week without usage
He confirmed to the king that the cry from the forest
Is of the one from this royal home of your majesty the king
And none other than the ****** princes Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The pride of her father, the eye of the palace,
Without hesitation the king permitted the wallabying Mukisu ,
Permission to run in a military dint and find out whatever that
Was eating Nalukosi Mukoyonjo the familial heart of the king,
Mukisu wa Mujonji who was clearly known in the kingdom of muntu,
For his swift running like a desert kite, he already twice chased
And gotten single handedly two male gazelles,
Without aid of a dog nor aid of fellow hunters
And delivered them to the king as a present to the palace
Which he achieved because of the speed of his legs,
On this royal permission he unsheathed his matchette
And went away like any arrow from the bow
His shirt trailing behind him like mare’s tail
Or like the flag on the post on a windy day,
Not a lot of time passed.
Mukisu wa Mujonji is at the spot of struggle,
Between Nalukosi and the Ugly passerby
There was no question or talking,
The first thing was Mukisu to sink the Matchette
With all of his mighty into the tummy of the ugly stranger
The bowels of the ugly stranger opened puffwiiii!
He breathed and gasped twice then succumbed to death.
His grip still strong on the leg of Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The ugly passer by reached the rigor Mortis
When Nalukosi was still strongly gripped in his
Beastly hand, Mukisu wa Mujonji with all the skills
Used a Sharp matchette again; chopped of the hand
Of the ugly dead passer by off, from its torso
At the point of the muscular elbow,
Now Nalukosi was extricated, but not fully
From the grip of the dead ugly stranger,
The chopped off hand is still knotted at her leg
Around her leg, the dead hand also grips.
Nalukosi jumped here and there to throw away
The leg and the dead hand, but it was not easy to throw
The hand still stubbornly gripped around her angle,
*** time passed, each and every one of the kingdom came
Including the king Walumoli wa Muntu himself
And his nine wives, Khatembete Khobwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
Came last, as she was energyless due to rudely shocking tidings
Which the escaping virgins and lads had given her
That the ugly passer by had turned into the ogre
And had swallowed her daughter Nalukosi
That he had swallowed her piecemeal without chewing,
People of muntu came and found the ugly passerby dead
The left had chopped off its torso
But still hanging loosely on the leg of Nalukosi
Nalukosi jumping, kicking, screaming
Screaming away the dead hand from the grip of leg
But nothing had forthcame her way,
Walumoli wa Muntu could not afford to see
The hand on the leg of her beloved daughter
What could he tell his wife, is your all know
Dear reader and audience to this song;
Even the mighty and the wise ones
Generously bend when under the pressure of love,
Out of this dint, even before Mukisu wa Mujonji
Could display his next military card
Walumoli wa Muntu grapped the dead hand
That stuck of the leg of her daughter
And pulled it with another force that
No man born of woman has
Never used since the creation of the earth
By the gods and spirits of Muntu,
The hand come off, he throw it
On the cadaver of the ugly stranger,
He clicked and clicked and hissed
With anger like a wild turkey
In the African thorny forest,
He ordered the dead one to be buried
Their without haste, nor ceremony
Mukisu wa Mujonji buried the body
Quickly in a brief moment with precision
As if he was taking notes
From the lines of the poem
OF Pablo Neruda on how
To bury a dog behind the house
This time burying an ugly stranger
Behind the forts of the kingdom,
After all these women, children and men
Of muntu plus their king Walumoli
Went back to their houses hilariously
Broken into a song and a wild *** dance;
Makoe eehe! Makoe !
Nifwe Talangi Makoe !
Talangi!
Khwaula embogo sitella
Nifwe Talangi!
They sang up to midnight before
They all retired to their beds
Respective beds with panting thoraces
From heavy singing and dancing.

There is connection and disconexion between
The living and the dead, the living fear the dead
And dead loves the living,
The dead want the company of the living
For the living to accompany in the land of the dead,
When the ugly stranger was killed
And buried uncircumcised with the hunch
Not plucked out of his back
The gods and the livings dead
In the realm of the ancestors
Of the kingdom of Muntu were not happy,
They never wanted uncircumcised old man
With a hunch back to join them
And worse enough with the six fingers,
The gods and ancestors really god annoyed
That Walumoli wa Muntu has done them bad
He is only caring for the living, the pre-mortals
Especially his last wife and the daughter
But he has neglected the ancestors,
Why trash to ancestors a stark humanity,
They communed among themselves
And resolved to sent Namaroro
The god of dreams, dreams as messages
From the ancestors and dreams from the gods
Namaroro visited Namunyu Lubunda the palace
Prophet in the Kingdom of Muntu to pass
The message vesseling unhappiness of the ancestors
And gods in a blend of gloomy read to execute
A vendetta;
This is when in the wee of the night that Namunyu Lubunda
Dreamed and had a vision of a old man from
The east is warning of the coming long spell of starvation
That will befall the kingdom of Muntu for ten years
                                      That Namaroro told Namunyu Lubunda
As for ten seasons of foodlessness
Behold a begging kingdom
Behold a starving throne,
The scepter of Muntu is a disgrace
To the holder
Then Namunyu Lubunda set forth by dawn
To the Palace to meet Walumoli wa Muntu
In his, palace before any other royal chores come up,
Both good and bad luck combined
Only to have Namunyu Lubunda to get the king at the palace
He got him fresh and relaxed chewing the cup of fortune
In his full ego, all his wives had submitted to the morning dishes
To his dining hall in the palace, he moved his hands from
One plate of food to the other.
Namunyu Lubunda entered with a submissive salutation
To the royal, He bowed and declared the glory of the king
In typical standards of the ethnic composition of the house of Muntu
Walumoli wa Muntu Mukitang’a Mutukuika
Majave Kutusi Mbirira Omwene esimbo ya
Kumukasa,
Walumoli responded with a feat of dignity to Namunyu Lubunda
The palace prophet, as he roared to him; come in
Come in son of Lubunda son of our people,
He did mention the name of Namunyu Lubunda father
As he fears his words may escape with the power
Of his kingdom the scepter of Muntu
To other insignificant families in the kingdom,
Let me announce what brings me here; intoned Namunyu
Go ahead and announce my holiness
s the prophet of this kingdom; responded Walumoli,
Misfortune is awaiting the kingdom
It will eat this kingdom away
Like a ravenous hyena on the ewe’s tail
The ancestors and the spirits of this land
This kingdom of yours the son of Muntu
Are immensely offended with your recent behaviour
In which you commandeered all villages
In your kingdom; from east and west
The **** the innocent passer by
With your owner hands that handle the scepter
You killed and lay to rest the foreigner
A pure omurende to the kingdom of muntu
You buried him uncircumcised without contrite
In the cemeteries of our foremen who asleep and circumcised
Why did you lower the dignity of our forefathers
Who never share a roof with uncircumcised person
To share the ancestral realm; our emagombe
With hunchback foreigner not circumcised?
This kingdom is condemned to all spell of curse of death
Ceaseless hunger famines and starvation
Women dwindle in their reproductive capacity
Rarely will you come across a pregnant woman
Food will be difficulty to put on the table
Even the sweat of your brow will go to naught,
You will not be buried with insignia
Like a pauper you killed will you be buried
The house of your wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya is a house of no consequences
For even your daughter Nalukosi stands cursed
She will not mature to be wedded into a marriage
She will hover the earth under heavy agonies of hunger,
My assignment is done and over
With or without your permission let me go.









THE FIRST SONG
Our song continues dear brethren
Come join me in arms we sing
Joyous singing of these songs of peace
Telling the world peaceful stories
As we enjoy sitting together around my grandmothers fire yard
Warming our selves to her lovely fire inherent in her good stories,
These songs will sing the glory and success of the king of Manani
It is an irregular Ode to Silinki wa Namunguba the son of Mwangani,
The son of Tunduli, the son of Wajala Njovu, the son of Welikhe, the son
Of manyorori, the son of Chumbe, the son of Kajo, the Son of Mabati, the son of welotia,
The son of sikele sia mulia, the son of Toywa,the son of siruju, the son of Mango, the son of Mulwoni sinyanya Bakhasi, the son of Mbakara , the son of Makhakara wa Nambuya, the son of Mukoye mulala kukhalikha w0nga, the son of Zumba the son of God.
Silinki

that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an

The Tartars thought that a neat
clean hole in your head
would let in the gods
and you could hear their whispers.
A neat
clean hole
in your skull.
An honor for those worthy.
But what if
a hole
is to let things out?
To let out the pressure
to let out the whispers
to let out the shouting
and the voices of your inadequacy
ever-present.
When your thoughts are too expensive
to ever want to keep
could a neat
clean hole
let them go?
A hole in my head
and a hole in my heart
to let out the pain
to let out the love
to let out the heaviness
and the lack of hope.
But I cannot drill holes in my chest
or my head
So I punch holes in my skin
Until pain bleeds out like water
through the tiniest crack in the ****.

In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.

mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
                                       ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
                                       or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
       *** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
  lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary             collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg *sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
      will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
   ******* par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
    guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
    (heresy input, never start a
sentence with an)          and
there you have it,
                  writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.

i can't imagine a better maxim for a marriage:

   when both of you are young...
and... instead of being
these "star-crossed lovers" -

with a rubric
                  of the thwart(ing)...

to marry: when both are still in love with life...

                    from a nation-state into
the ***** of a diaspora...

what a fine word...
   the mass-influx of hyping around
the otherwise, fake:

       migrant workers...
like the current argument for
british sovereignty:
we will not have any of the bureaucracy
from Brussels...
but, we, will! have...
those romanian fruit & veg pickers!

it's hardly a joke:
more like a choke...
                    what's the difference between...
leaving one part of the country
for another: part of the same country...
and then... being daring enough...
to leave the country: thoroughly...
and have to learn a new language?

dual-citizenship...
go back? stay here?
hmm... i'm not really fond of speaking
or writing in ******...
the germans dissolved...
the russians too: dissolved...
i'm pretty sure that language can
remain intact... as it is...
under the law & justice party...
once they focus on the breeders
with tax-free incentives...

Chicago! what a fine diaspora hub
for the ****** "expatriates"...
good thing i never made it to
h'america: in stripes...

the friends of my youth...
most of then? crimminals...
        the nicknames we had for each
other:
i remember being taunted as being
an... "angol"... because my father wasn't
their father and wasn't part
of laying down the foundations
of "bones" for the dockland light railway...

i left a nation: still in its infancy...
and to its infancy i will drink!
but as a language: not a people...
not a geographic location...
a metaphysical manifestation:
if the word be a faustian signature...
yes, my lord... i see the pinching
itch of the natives squandering it...
like it should not have been...
a frederick hohenstaufen II experiment
in a nunnery on Sicily...
mute children... raised by nuns who didn't
speak: pretending...
to see... what language was genesis primo!

my allegiance is to the tongue...
it might allude to the fife and drums...
but dealing with the rascal
who deems...
that god save the queen be treated
with irreverence...
i'm not as daft and yobbish to glare
with a hydra giving birth to an extension
of its neck-load girth...

give me! the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
and i'll show you le marseillaise!
i have long ago pledge my allegience
to the tongue...
              
because? well... to be honest...
under all the supression from the...
(a) herr meisterstuck:
         the day:
        
        the prussians... "forgot"...
they were jumbled up with the lithuanians
as the last pagans of europe...
and then they decided: whatever it
was that they decided upon...

i hear some russian... i hear a down syndrome
person talk...
it's all lovely and sing-along...
but it's hardly by strict obligation
to the latin script... is it?
i have to nibble at pitty-worth jokes
to aid my...

diaspora: involuntary mass dispersion
of a population from its indigenous territories...
last time i checked...
i was born into a city famously known
for its practice in metallurgy...
i was the never-to-be grandson
of Die Krupp ambitions!
    i would leave my hometown and...
well... there was Warsaw...
or the... brain-drain train "elsewhere"...
from a nation into the grand...
vacuum of the diaspora...

except in england...
       the no. 303... most of which settled
in either Scotland or... Stratford-upon-Avon...
elsewhere... some other... "elsewhere"...

well...
   given that i have had had a choice...
ha ha! comma? sir?! that that?
      given that i have had - had a choice...
well... imagine... perhaps there's something
about Fwench... but i'm chosing sides...
it's not in Norwegian...
so... b'leh b'leh b'leh... b'leh...
                      
               i just have to borrow some german...
speaking this... hybrid saxon having
buggered enough afghanistan-esque brit druids...
the zeppelins were always dropping...
soap-bubbles...
          i tease oh god...
i tease... but this music is so... so...
oh so delight-ful!

                   die könig im gelb!

ah... to marry: when both are in love with life!
terrible affair: should... "life" somehow
matter: to disappear...
this love a suffocation for the best ****
they had in... ever...
and there's nothing of what life is concerned
with...
either children or... being infertile...
but to be in love with life...

the russians can't proclaim a diaspora...
then again: the "mafia"...
i've heard of an italian mob-esque...
      disposition... subsequent undercurrents
to boot...
an... irish mafia?
bothersome details...
         i still pledge my alliance to a Dickens
over a a Shakespeare...
because...
by chance... i might find some poetry
in the prosaic? by Shakespeare alone:
i'm... "expected".... aren't i?

bad news from York-and-the-shire...
Rotherham... and the... prefix ****-
   and the suffix -stani "debate"...
                   do you even know
how... let's not go there...
to term a bogus inconvenience of...

'what the hell is concerning you...
to fathom from cloud-9 a ****** notion of...
being out-bred?!'

an economic war... is a slow war...
it takes time...
it would take the amount of time...
to turn a once proud town focused on
metallurgy into rubble...
some stayed... some moved to warsaw...
some... played: a joker hand de facto...

i am: this... subtle... p.s. curiosity...
had i only come to breed...
rather than to otherwise...
nuance... allegiance...
zu die zunge?! alles!
             die menschen?
                     jeder seine haben!
             die schwach wind und der flagge?!
ist: die schwach wind: und der flagge: nein?

perhaps there's a stressor
of impetus in german that's not allowed
in english...

     ich bin hier für die sprache...
              
it must be translated... such it being:
oh such a wonderful... phrase...

   to marry... when both... are in love... with life...

zu heiraten... wenn beide...
                           sind im liebe... mit leben!

art-*******-and-funky-funky...
parsley-sage-rosemary-thym­e...
        what? thyme? there's a phi or a theta
to posit... instead...
you took the Dubliners' route of: paddy...
tad... and toink!
                'ucking scoundrels!

i will call... the greek-chinese ideogram...
I(ota) the key... and... "thereabouts"...
a keyhole of O(micron)...
it's an id: representation...

                 squashed: yes: 0... for better...
"graphics"...
    
to be young... and to share a half of both:
of being in love with life...

       Φ = the key enters the keyhole (I, O)...
    Θ = the key is turned... (Io)...
         Ψ = the door is opened...

        enough... Beijing "abstract" concerns...
for anyone?
       what's the abstract of rotation?
                                   oh... i guess: 'micron!

so much for abstracts as: only from boing-boing-xin...
some letter can qualify to be
apprehended in ideograms...
B - bossom or a fudge-yeast-byproduct
of a full ***...
              etc. or... Φ, Θ, Ψ...
       now by adding the brackets...
and time has a geography...
from the height of mythology...
to the depths of journalism...
that's... a vector:  (Φ, Θ, Ψ)...

     it's a key... a door... a keyhole...
                            an opening... n'est ce pas?!
hey! let's complicate it further
with: mr. squint... chop-sticks...
dragons... live vermin sushi...
    and counting dry grains of rice...

i'm not: Česlav Miloš...
to begin with... Czesław Miłosz was...
a Lithuanian...
because Copernicus wasn't ******...
"because and because"...
                     sides... all this talk of:
"allegiance"...
**** it... it's a cosmopolitan allegiance
to... the commonality of tongue...
shared to the point...
when... old fictions wrestle with me
and i'm confined to my own cubic...

for english is a language i can
entertain...
allow... yes... this parasite can erode
its host's cranium und...
                                  grauangelegenheit...
it was never... so imposing...
as a german tongue or a russian tongue...
therefore and thereby?
      an easily qualified tongue-donor
with the expanse of thought:
a complete and utter brain-drain on...

now...
there's a difference...
the english will not know it...

there's the nation... and there's the diaspora...
can the english... claim h'america...
or canada... or... australia...
as a nation-extension toward the confines
of a diaspora?
no... i don't think so...

that: quintessential inconvenience of
being merely: english...
   more prone to a local geography...
a devonshire... a derbyshire...
               someone of york...
  lost in new york...
                    a people with...
an imploded seance of diaspora...
    from the humble little island...
to: whatever fraction that was supposed
to make one impose on...

had i just been Irish... and "somehow"
forgotten my Gaelic...
or been that Welshman and no longer
with any Cymru...
well then...
but i come willing because...
      beside the mother and father...
the maternal grandmother and -father...
who will i speak my "native" and "mother"
tunge / zunge to?
          
i rather imagine marriage:
as when both of them are in love with life...
and in love that being said:
a little tale o' whittle england:
make it big in h'america...
        
         this... the most complete...
antithesis of a diaspora...
                    or rather: what lingua franca
was... and what l'inglese is...
and how: even if arabic tried...
and even if: mandarin would hope for...
well... hardly...
jackie chan kung fu and muhammad:
english is more popular than islam...
**** it up: camel jockey!
oh sure... they're "muslim"...
conflicting opinions... once:
speaking in english "arrives"...

                   i'm here: to turn up the volume...
because... i might as well have been
born in estonia... and speaking... estonian...
and never having left estonia...
been very much happy for the euro
and the... thumbling russians... somehow...
"retreating"...
well... if the russians are retreating...
they're: trying to revise being
an indo-european mongrel with...
accents of scandinavia concerning
the founding fathers of Kiev...
and them being russians:
what the hell do we do with the ukranians...
and the mongols that settled and became
tartars?!

yeah... the russians are on the retreat...
    this little island that... hopes for a diaspora...
instead... shuckles...
it has to settle for a h'american empire...
an australia... a new zealand...
ogh! mein! gott! no expatriate diaspora!
no tea with mussolini typo excursions!
mein gott! v'er vill youz goez?!

         zee f'ikkin moonz?! on a sputnik flarez?!
light up baboon *** numero uno:
then whisper among the fwench...

yes... very much brilliant...
         to be alive... and to marry so young...
and be helped: so young...
and not be thwarted...
   'coz crazy bunnies had the best ***...
great: to be alive, so young,
and married: and married to each other
and at the same time: having life marry you
to love it: to be together and married
to a love for life:
and... just... somehow...
having a co-dependent... of reciprocated
self-interests...

                            even in poland...
a soviety satellite...
with concrete chicken-shacks... ah yes:
that... "once upon a time"...
better the ******* state as my landlord
than some grubby liquorice ****** 3rd party:
libertarian "full dislocusre of mammon's
expression of par-tay"... sort of *******!
give me the state, the grey-suit and the gimps!

or? shackle me up for a stipend
working the sloughterhouse...
to boot... a house filled with 20 dobermans...
and 5 rottweilers...
i'll slaughter your cows... for the steak chops...
as long as i have the dogs to cuddle
and imagine myself doing the greater:
cosmic-karma-good...
the dogs... the harem of dogs...
no... women need excuses...
the dogs!

                 hell... a woman would require...
anniverseries... flowers... pinnace for a tsunami...
crumbs... what's a loaf of bread?
details... something to be minded as:
once being a plughole...
blah blah... hands for cushions...
        
              plus... women can't drink...
let her everything else: apart from the whiskey...
if she really wants to drink...
tell her to sober up on some Stendhal or
some Balzac... but don't let a woman
try to outcompete a man drinking...
she can drink...
but not... in that most... ugly: crab-feast
of... "detail"...

the english man... england...
h'america, australia... new zealand...
oh... wait... you were hoping for a diaspora...
weren't you?
yeah... clearly i didn't find an affair of
the imitation of greece...
took charge of the latin script...
inverted the mediterranean sea...

i speak your language: doesn't imply
i've shed the "ethno-nationalist" tattoos of "d.n.a."...
for a people to have made it bitter...
with the teutonic order over access to the baltic sea...
what's the baltic sea?
it's like the black sea...
the baltic sea is about as useful as...
well... the danes and the norwegians
held the toll and price of passing...
just like the turks or the byzantines held
the key of the bosphorus...
the baltic... is a "sea"...
just like the black sea is a "sea"...

did you know... there's a caspian sea?
yeah... it's a "sea"... more like... a lake would
be so much better...

the english could be akin to the arabs
from 200 years ago...
instead: sitting on a tonne of salt...
and waves...
and open horizons...
while the arabs sat on camel ****...
sand... and dinosaur juice...
and materialistic leprosy and limp-****
viagara palm tree impromptu...

sure... the lottery ticket of the past,
oh the most glorious past times...
        nothing lasts forever...
       so it seems...
            here's me celebrating Dickens
to the last... breath... because...
keeping up with speaking my native
language: when there are no
prussians, no russians...
           no austro-hungarians...
and there are only...
ukranians and lithuanians readying
to guilt-trip me over the failures
of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth?!

in this language i can...
ale... nie... w... tym!

ethno-centricity is an ethic identity within an already biased ethnicity of a nation-state, the bias comes from a collective aggregate... to me the following examples are ethno-centric, all the others succumb to the collective aggregate of a nation-state, as such an ethno-state... but ethnicity is like an eel... you try catching it, it wriggles out into a decentralised form... origin? probably the church-state of the vatican... so tiny, it fits into a city... a state within a city, the antonym of a greek city-state... more like a ******* bedroom-state; i just can't see ethno-"centric" attitudes as pale shadows of "ethno"-centric compulsion for rebellion... against the collective aggregate... it was either the kashubians or the silesians that crafted a petition to invoke distinct diacritical marks to the latin alphabet, deviating from the orthodox collective of a nation... once more... i stopped believing in individual will a long time ago... whether in a palace, or dying on the street... we move as one... i'm really looking for some muslim to invite himself into speaking polish, without arousing any suspicion to craft a terrorist attack... first of all he'll have to drink... mind you, a pinch of salt in a beer, takes away the agitation of your throat, you might receive when drinking it cold, in winter.

we used to have such beautiful ethno-"centric"
terms,
  such etymological diamonds to orientate
ourselves around with -
called the irish *celts -
   called the scots picts -
called them prussians (quasi-germans) -
called them silesians, called them galicians,
called them swabians, called them saxons,
call them merovingians,
                  called them angevins -
we had names for these people -
    decentralißed - locals -
           we had the muscovites -
cockneys born within the earshot of
bow's bells...
                  the tartars (+ the raw steak) -
we had the burgundians -
                    the normans -
   the pomeranians...
   in spain: the basque, the catalonians...
                  the masovians, for ****'s sake!
                    all this: a vocabulary peacocking...
reduced to blanks...
     inert tongues of "category" -
  reduced to a mecca of congregating around
                    crude, barbaric nouns -
either black, or white...
        no mention of cinnamon...
   either european, asian,
  east europe, west europe... virtues!
       the **** do virtues have to do with anything?!
it's a vocab. drought...
                     ah... **** on me:
why bother with local distinctions...
     let's put them in a blender and see what
colour we get...
       however many red berries you throw
into a blender, your throw in just a few
blackberries / blueberries...
                   you're still going to get pale lilac;
i have no idea what ethno-"centrism"
actually represents...
          it hasn't exactly reached the upper-tier
of differentiation...
             tell you what...
you really want to speak to some who actually
is ethno-centric?
     ask the kashubians, or the silesians,
or better still: ask the cornish (people of cornwall)...
i would perhaps ask you the welsh
or the scots... but... well ask the scots and
why they suggest an ideology of
ethno-"centrism", when there is no
ethno-linguistic worked from the beginning...
namely gaelic!
at least the welsh still retain their
primary ethnic identity of speaking
their ****** mothertongue!
                   no tongue: no ideology, the end.
yes, yes, nice nice, great that you distinguished
yourself with a *******: glaswegian accent!
not good enough... this glaswegian masquerade
would sound three times as better
  when you could be bilingual:
speaking english and gaelic...
      i only met one person who spoke it...
a schoolfriend's mum...
              i bet she also read w. b. yeats -
yeets? or is that yates? or should it be yæts?
               never mind, as the kosovans;
kosovo and the last echo chamber of former
yugoslavia, gave an answer:
pretty **** clear, late 1990s ilford:
you could see crowds of kosovans on the streets,
the proud boys soon disappeared
                  while the dust settled back home.

Tis all pre apocalyptic.
Weather warnings, walking strangers.
Tartars and martyrs.
Mystical messrs.
Mothers and daughter.
The devil he caught her.
People are scared, if anyone cared.
Tearing their hair out as, if silly string.
The birds flying backwards.
They're losing their wings.
Impromptu performance.
Encouraged encounters.
With wise men and sages, as was writ on the pages of folklore.
Then criminal law.
It's just being broke.
By the sisters and tartars,
My God they awoke.
Wearing suits fashioned in satin by tailors, bespoke.
Wrapped in screens made out of smoke.
World became scared.
Most sacred Tatari awakes.
(c) Livvi MMCV

.at what point am i not... so ****** angst-prone teen... suppose c. g. jung and... akin to h. p. lovecraft... when there's a keter: ha-shem: ehyeh asher ehyeh... so many "deviation" from the name... new gods... new names... cthulhu and abraxas... jesus ******* ****... + christ all you want... nothing desires a sanctimony of the sacred... nor the death of a chris cornell... unless... it can only be pardoned with "the passing": i.e. death... patient spider... patient stone... patient stab-in-the-back... the solipsistic russian nation of mongrels... to lesser ears: the tipshar of albert alexeyevich razin... udmurt & "udmurt"... jokes... are... currently... reclining... how they would suddenly feel obliged to: scoff-off on a whim... the dead: are sleeping... "concept" of Katyń... no... the dead are besides sleep: they are the tombs what we agitate into life: the best we can... from neither the realm of sleep nor the realm of death: life is our... grace... death: our downfall... there's only mindinf the "creativity" of being left with the in-between...

lay my tired bones and aches into this everyday
shallow grave of sleep:
    i care not for dreams or for other:
unfathomable "questions"...

and when all is done and i have,
no more use for sleep...
lay my tired mind and captured
breath of 21 grams of worth...
into... the sleep of sleep...
        into the architecture of death:

and let neither the obnoxious
insurgence of a dream like heaven
or a dream like pandemonium...
starve me from exercising...
        my... wish to retain obscurity
within the confines of stones, bones...
rust and decay...

lay my bones and aches into
this everyday shallow grave of sleep...
lay my mind and "soul"
into the grand architecture of death...
don't think that you will find
me content with sleep and dreams...
so much so:
content with death and a dream
of dante's geometry of heaven...

   somehow i can cherish the sleep
without the dream...
as i can death...
     should death sentence me to
a fate of Sisyphus: and no demon guardian
with a leash, a hot-rod of agitation
to be my shadow...

who said: the fate of this cheater
of the gods: orpheus the gnostic...
   sisyphus the gnostic...
was to roll the stone... under who's supervision?
tell me again: of that... cat-walk
of evolution...

from the hunched ape to the upright man...
and... the comedy...
back to the hunched spine:
of how an ape borrowed a crow
to ponder... or took a cat and petted it...
in vain hope that:
when sleep would be the spice to escape
the gross mundaneity of recurrent:
similar days...
      a dream...

sisyphus rolled the stone...
sisyphus could just as well... have sat on it...
how one defines eternity:
the grail of vanity...
                        is how one can
master enough: cognitive labyrinths...
to be entertained by a stone...
or "nothing": yes... esp. diese nichts...
and... da(s) nichts...
           the extremes of mediating:
ontology... aeons before the cinema
of saturn... aeons before jupiter...
gloom... and aeons more bound to
neptune...

             the planets: seen: by the naked eye...
no telescope postcards of:
oh yeah... it's there... naked, blunt truth...

as the gnostics might have said...
there are three tiers of truth...

  prosta (simple) - einfach
                           pusta (empty) - leeren
                                          czysta (pure) - rein...
anything outside of simple geometry
of explanation is... the fourth (exempt -
via the thesaurus of antonyms) -
but by the fifth: gradation...
                
truth is beauty... which is devoid of geometry...
no wonder then... that was is most
beautiful... is harangued by... the criticism
and... its self-implosive hypocrisy...
truth is a beauty that...
                    suggests: not everything
good is beautiful... a moral act is not beautiful...
that it is necessary...
one is obliged to find out...

truth as beauty is: simple...
   it is empty... and it is... pure...            

truth is both: good & evil...
          those topics of necessity and...
the... not necessary "additions" come to mind...

it's no longer worth citing truth: per se -
science... facts... a rubric of psychology
in a secular... materialistic world...
a logic behind a soul... body / meat and two veg...
what soul?

truth as a regurgitation of scientific facts
and statistics... a new an old orthodoxy...
perhaps: perhaps not...

          all in all...
             truth: what i can muster to deem vague:
because what's required is not...
nor will it ever be: in vogue...
   a hyphen prefix stressor:
             truth-
                                     and...
   the three adjective suffixes: with the hyphen
included -pure
                        -empty
                                 -simple...

death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
        death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
       if only life was a dream:
that didn't require me, to fathom, it...

"reality": and the so-called "questions"
i.e. reality being... that sort of canvas...
of walking around in...
someone else's... fiction?
at least the rocks the stones have
a somewhat agreed-upon reality of bible:
geology - and no worship: etc.

letover: just... snippets...
but the original theme is given light...
on why it's recurrent...
why did sisyphus toil with the stone:
did zeus give attach to him
a shadow handler with leash
and a fire-riddled poker like the man
was less a man and more:
a work-horse?

couldn't... the myth come up with...
and finally... sisyphus sat on a stone...
curled up his once ***** spine...
took thought before the court of eternity...
and decided: lest i be... "mistaken"...
what happened to gregor samsa
is one coin-flip...
  
   yes... today i was cleaning the shed...
and i was witness to a genus of spider...
when touched by an "invisible" hand / poker...
once... will fli: bellyside up...
curl its anorexic extensions and
play dead...
honest to "god"... spider play dead better than
dogs pretend, to... play... dead...

no... one day... i wasn't faced with
the fate of gregor samsa...
although the mush and the exoskeleton
of thought god soul and:
journalistic nuance of:
the alt. to priests of the 20th century...
carl bernstein / bob woodward /
  paul avery...

once upon a time in the 20th century...
where... journalists could be credited
with status... of... Manichaeans...
when journalistic integrity was:
credo... and... the ditto-heads
were... the apes in a zoological
confinement...      splendid times!
days when... one would... admire...
journalists...
          
   mental health / psychology /
the iron maiden of... finding a simple daft...
expression of... also... made...
coincidental with catching a breath...

          the worst kind of "reality" is
bound to the "future" of the narrative
and esp. off the narrative...
of what... is the sort of people...
that also: deviate from reading a paragraph
of fiction!
"reality" and... -itz...
                          the reality of:
someone else's fiction... a solo project...
from under the iron curtaian...
through to: and including... the silicon veil...
much later:
  but hardly the bed-fellows
coming to terms with the niqab...

      i die: believing that there are...
countless impromptus... serving me...
akin to make replicas of richard the lionheart's:
odes to being: without "stock"...
while john, lackland...
capitulated... for worth of the time: that's ripe...
an affectionate: gyrocentric whoosh!
of a ****-buddy...
and the magna carta was, ahem...
signed...

                     kant... the forever basis of...
the bachelor party:
no stag no hen parties...
the deafening stillness of...
sometimes and "something" in
between...

confines of: pity me for petting cats...
but... he loves me... he loves me not: sunflowers...
i totem a cat... not the petals...
for hope of these grand architectures of dreams:
that people: supposedly acquire...
they even mind telling others that
they have had recurrent dreams!

who are... these people... who have had
recurrent dreams?!
i want to know them!
who are... these people...
who have had recurrent dreams?!

   - moi! ******* son o' german: **** it...
both...               mir!     mich!
the orc: the east... extensions of the mongol
borrowed space by the slav...
hardly... something from...
bothersome south... akin to africa...

stereographs of the modern...
western: "man" is... orcs are not... associated
with... mongols... slavs:
the u.s.s.r.?
they are... allocated a status for...
african migrants from 2015?
on those... inflatable boats?
these... these... are your... orcs?!

           ha ha! pale orc... ching-chang-yin-yang
orc... etc. etc.
            no... never down south...
not when hu-chow and salman ibn
hussein took over kenya
and the the east coast of africa...

i imagine the orc to be meme: toe in toe
with the mongol -
the tartars of crimea...
      pale orc: what?! zee zulu black
panthers: panthers of south h'america?!

hassan i sahba... without exception of
muhmmad... and his name was...
muhammad ibn "abn / abu"...
pray pity: but! there was
a figure of grandfather and uncle:
sometimes the father gets it right...
sometimes...
sometimes the mother gets it right...
but... for fear of ******...
i drink and i tell you...
i'd sooner want
25% of me under my wing...
than 50% of me...

for the love of grandchildren...
god knows what one is to do with children...
send 'em to the crows... and swans?!
i can... love is diluted...
25% of me with the grandchildren...
which implies...
that 50% of me is not relegated
to dispose of with:
a mimic impetus to
"continue"...

                we can be friends at 25%
replica: in its immediacy...
at 50% we're talking: *******...
or on the rare occassion:
it might work: jesus joseph & mary...
according to the zodiac:
jesus was a bull...
joseph was an ares...
mary was a pisces...

           alternatively...
your pick of rat pig and barry...
      yes, of course...
            all formality of a tux-lingo...
dear sir...
sky 'as fallen!
   kind regards...
             better this... than a crossword:
for pedsntry in straitjackets?

new-age ******* of re-learning literacy
because... 2nd act of...
the phantom: all opera shun itself
to the nieche...
masquarade...
                   new learn ways of spell..
new learn ways of recite...
bogus trivial
abracadabra variation of
sudoku...

                    christine was
never a christopher was never: but probably
was a byzantine... cataphracts...
a name for every kind if beloved:
an ogling father in tow...
to mind bori g conservatism...
and all the flamboyancy of lies...
white lies: and hardly...
all the bitter truths...

     all that is mine isn't...
crown and the breeding: what i most likely...
in that: most feel obliged to fear:
the patience and stealth
of spider pin-knuckle rubric...

yes... hello: "today"...
and tomorrow... *******!

random extract:

                 the thuluth:
and the thoth: that became
             the signature of muqlah shirazi...

Power to the people
Power to the people

You can put ice in the fire
Melt the water to your empire
You can conquer undiscovered
But you’ll never touch the current
Of the oceans that are raging
You can put moon on the horizon
With the mercury and uranium
You can control the titanium
Bomb the earth soil into tartars
But you’ll never touch the current
Of the oceans that are raging

Power to the people
Power to the people

Big brother is in your bed
Fornicating, replicating
On the picture you are taking
Socializing with your shadow
On the drone zone mitigating
The debauchery of the century
On the high street no mercies
The butcher of the children
On the thunder of tomorrow
The harvest of their blood
Replicating, fornicating

Power to the people
Power to the people

No peace signs on the windows
enslaved to the tick tocks
in eruptions of the melt down
more resistance to the parties
as gunshots cause collision
In restrictions and confinement
The FEMA camps and martial art
of eugenics anti-populace
covered inside the media
stricken corporation
No peace signs on the windows

Fire power to the people
Fire power to the people

standing on the hellbender periphery...
something happens in
the anglo-lingual world...
something correlating injustice...
"whiteness" - the babylon circus...
you name it... and somehow...
this doesn't explode to other areas
of the world, but merely implodes...

perhaps it's the same in france and germany...
how scandinavia (notably sweden)
succumbed to this: i will not or rather:
i don't want to know...

i actually miss not having made
myself available to my grandparents
for this past month...
i'm pretty sure i would have read
and read and stayed sober...

4 years outside of the confines of both
england and december teasing january...
a hip-replacement surgery of
a very demanding mother...
turns out... her worries were unjustified...
if the surgeon was happy...
the nurses were happy...
it required almost a month of passing...
her vampirism draining me...
until some physiotherapist explained
it to her...

but that's not enough...
to vacuum each day to better keep her
impulsive-compulsive ticks in check...
as much as i like the joke of owning
two bonsai tigers...
and i haven't minded the cooking,
the ironing, the whole Cindarella shabang...
but when there's all that...
and there's the father loitering
around waiting for a new contract...

all the great things i ended up doing
with a degree in chemistry...
this is my last outlet...
get busy scribbling,
drinking and... over-rating my ambitions...
but all these anglo-lingual problems
just invite themselves in...
i listen to them and...

on the doorsteps of Russia...
can you imagine what sort tangos this
multi-cultural experiment would dance
in Russia?
that's practically an Asian entity...
or in the Balkans with its still preserved
Turkic presence of Islam...
anywhere where...

- i really can't see the problems...
other than this: this is a very terrible piece
of writing... look at it...
flabby, disjointed...
different problems in Russia...
or... ha... written in the vicinity of London...
with a mind-set still bound up
to having Belarus and Ukraine as neighbours...
and Russia too...

on the hellbender periphery of "whiteness"...
this whole: we were colonial powers once
argument... is sort of dead on my ears...
even i can attest: the darker skinned Kenyans
and the lighter skinned Nigerians...

i'm actually tired of the whites
who are pushing their transcendental *******...
never more free if they didn't push their
ideas and instead learned a new language...
apparently england fares the worst
when it comes to bilingualism...
circa 30% of its 15 - 35 year olds speak
a second language...
compared with Denmark: circa 90+%...
germany circa 80%... Poland thereabouts...

for some reason i was never taught
to "love" my fellow-countrymen... being an émigré...
how much of it was an automated: self-exile
and how much of it: we did this for you
to have a better life...
better life - as i now ask...
it's a life... i don't have comparative literature
to call it any better or any worse...
it is what it is...

i'm tired and i'm drinking:
which usually implies that i will be more honest
than usual...

the better parts of me i've left with other people,
what i have accumulated is,
the worst part of them... mostly their: sanctimonious
appeal... or the bigmouth strikes: yet again...

even Russia is a multicultral societ...
but there's no prancing beyond the better part
of the trough of Moscow's snippet piglets...
moss-co... opt in or opt-out...

the lost ability to consecrate one's life
in postcard snippers of photographs:
that once upon a time other people would take...
but now you take yourself...

imagine a man that masturbates once...
every "blue moon"... on / off...
what door is opened most frequently
in the house? the fridge is opened more times
than even the front door...
and then there's the selfie barrage...
because... looking into a mirror is no longer
enough...
if photography can be an art-work...
what the hell is the photograph
when one can focus in on something in a mirror?
are people who take these photographs
are afraid of looking in the mirror?

to have to stand completely stark naked...
mollusk-esque...
and the world's not quiet an oyster...
and all that: one punch sucker and it's
not so much a one punch k.o.,
and a one punch k.o. and a postmortem...
i've seen one of these examples:
"i.r.l.": i even hovered over the body
with a bunch of bystanders and said
out-loud...
'well... this sweet ******* is
not seeing next spring' - i.e. getting up
and having life-support machines
attached to him...

evolutionary: to begin with...
it's norman normie normansky...

oh yeah, i've seen a one punch post-mortem,
i've been to a brothel,
and i've been to a strip-club...
but still in Russia...
and esp. in Poland...
on the periphery of "whiteness"...
and there was no "cipher" to follow-suit....
what's expected is...
not expected...

because the button of cleavage...
which... let's face it...
one can't distinguish it from the peach
of an ***...
i wonder: would i, ever be bound...
to the grand canyon; "exemplification"?
please, stress any "further"...
two croissants doing the rub-rub
in an imitation game for two mollusks *******...
as ever: looking for
a tomahawk and a... scalp...

but in Russia: you would never see
this pseudo!
pseudo is a cuss-word reserved for petting
hunting dogs...
when you want them to aport! in reverse....
not in Russia, not in Poland...
good cuck-luck taming Ukraine...
perhaps all these ******* ever knew...
was how to seem: mouthy...
appropriate... and what better place to start...
than some obscrucity equivalent
to Rotherham!

oh i see it... when the THETA becomes the V...
rover nor rho-f-f rho-f-f...
******* r and am!
or simply quartz... and spam canned ham!

i was never expected to be the thief among
prostitutes...
kissing and the dosage of the reprimand
buther... cut always below the bulk
of a knee... survived the thinning
of the shins...
in psychiatric terms my "codition" is alluded
to as: the crude soup...
never was a more sane man demanded
to feel inadequacy...

but i salvaged for better complaints...
this is not even, remotely assertive of...
when i want and i will not
disparage from sound savegery
and... "that thing in the back of my mind"...
the sane people call it:
the hallucination of morality...
they're all hush hush about it...
they don't want to be prescribed:
shock-treatment of... being dropped into
an ice bath... to hell with their bowties!

jesus mary and joseph...
i could never become a jack the ol' ripper
though... i became a tapeworm of kissing
when it came to the canvas of
prostitutes...
parasitical lips... bite-down tooth envy
of my great-grandfather...
what i could never kiss...
i always wanted to bite to tease with...

now my libido is satisfied...
i can claim not being the hyperbolic outlier....
i don't need a wife,
a mother in law... a child...
a shadow life of a Chikatilo...
to lend myself to Cain...
i can absolve myself with the rites of Abel...
how... oh how this most pristine how...
i only supposed i'd be dead...
and not playing both "victim"...
prosecutor... and inspector columbus to boot!

conventional language scares me...
there's so much hiding behind
immovable objects...
that in turn the moon or the table become
quasi-deities in a world
littered with demigod *****!
of the polytheistic gods...
which one... didn't chance a common semblance
to a *******?
perhaps i've earned this rigid tongue...
rattle and sawdust itching from it...
first bound...

last resort: this is not about to become
a conventionality of language...
this is not going to become...
an aud lang syne...
this is not going to become: tea-party
forget me: forget me or taste the forget-me-not!

revised lent topic: on the hellbender periphery...
how these post-colonial former subjects...
well unless you're in Poland,
Belarus, Ukraine, Russia...
mein gott! i really should start knocking
on Russian's door, more often...
this sort of ******* that's allowed
in England would be... most likely...
quickly suppressed...
for the good of the people:
it's always: for the good of the people...
oops... " "...
yeah yeah... "for the good of the people"...

the colonial ambitions...
and the guilt of being white in eastern europe...
which is why i can never master
the english conundrum...
while kenyans are darker than the nigerians...
but in their dark-choc...
seem to be basked in coconut oil
that oozes from the Indian ocean...
Kenyans who import timber from Ghana?
and the Nigerians...

oh sure sure sweetheart!
we can revive the Balkan enterprise...
you just say when!
we'll have the christian serbs run amok...
over the islam minorities...
sure sure...
it's almost akin to: teasing Russia
to climb out of its Caucasian bed-root...
when it ****** with the Turkic peoples...

and of course... coming across the
Afro-Europeans of the colonial present, past,
and future... there was only one history
of / for the Europeans...
origins in Africa...
sorry... what about the Indo- prefix?

here we have the sanskrit...
here we have the hierogylphs...
but... what of the writing of ancient
Kenyans?
i'm no better... came st. cyrill and his greek
contra the glagolitic...
which is... probably southern slavic...
and... there were the runes
and the ancient romans fighting
the tribes of Danube... but never as far north
as the Baltic did they come...

but in mind: i'm always going to be bound
to the periphery knocking on the doors
of Kiev and Novgorod...
with the Mongol also citing:
he too knocked...
something happened... had his hand cut off
at the wrist with the remnant budding
leftover of the Crimean Tartars...

so... this passover former colonial...
"grief" is now running former colonial society's
mischief?
am i white, or am i asian?
i will never know...
Islam and what? the crusades of the baltic states
by the teutonic knights?
and Europe and Europe and Europe
without the english, the myth of troy revived
in Italy... and the proud yet backward
greeks...
i too thought: if it's not feral enough...
it's feral enougn where english is not spoken!

after all... england is a far far away place...
even if i'm currently "living" in it...
it wasn't invaded and all it had to propose was...
its own ******* to the external world...
pristine england...
pristine p.s. england...

this anglo-phile... ahem... "problem"?
in ukraine or in russia?
it's a problem and a problem of this sort
is treated with a sort of amnesia...
equivalent to:
today's Monday, yes?
oh... today's not a Monday?
will i still you if you mind calling it a Tuesday?!

the body intact bound to a vicinity of London...
the mind... detached... elsewhere...
perhaps it was the over-rationalisation
of the darwinistic approach...
again: even copernicus didn't or wouldn't
have entertained such an over-reach
of his heliocentrism become dogmatic...
copernicus who?
exactly! only someone like wittgenstein
would celebrate copernicus...
the west only celebrates galileo:
because of the trial...

i can attest though... mendeleev is secure!
is it perhaps odd...
that some ****- would not find
differences between a croat
and a moldavian?
a kashubian and a silesian?
a scot an a welshman?

imagine my ah! gasp!
the tribes within a tribe...
the "home" team consisting of liverpudlians!
and the "away" team consisting of scousers!
liverpool f.c. supporters of the former...
everton supporters for the latter...
but we're all white!
i'm "white white" because i've acquired
this tongue and i can...
somehow... forget mein: wurzeln...

mind you... elsewhere?
that word... root? in deutschezunge?

wurzeln: decipher: nurse! scalpel!
wur-zeln...
no no... this will not do...
wü-ř-eln
alternatively...
wü-ž-eln...

and that's not "woo"... it's a V-not-U...
voor-zeln!
alternatively there's the ż (rz)...
which is equivalent to either ř or ž...
ř = r(z) and ž = (r)z...
"when" and "where" you know that's
an orthographic distinction to begin with...
i.e. ř = r(z) and ž = (r)z
when rz = ż...

i really have "real" problems to mind
of my own, on the periphery of:
the "western lands"... st. cyril is biting at my toes...
as ancient roman bites back...
the alphabet intact...
you either learn some greek...
or you don't gloat about being lazy about
not having acquired some passable "knowledge"
of cyrilic...

so? here's to taking another selfie from the perspective
of fearing to look into a mirror...
and here's to some new obscure modern hieroglyphic
take on the "thumbs-up"... and: shmiley :)!

better i stick to the diacritical markers...
niche point of interest...
niche to the point of claustrophobia...
but of all these anglo- problems?
these "racial" problems?
yes, yes, racial problems in "eastern" europe...
of real concern...
the russian empire and the kazakh people...
mongol remains...
ottoman remains...
western europe now being nothing but
shame for the rest of us...

"the rest of us"... "us"...
"we" could have said... before they had a chance
to gloat... to buffer gloating...
to pride themselves beside pride per se...
to mistake pride for gloating...
before "we" came and learned their language...
and found the leashes of their starved
dobermann hounds...
the mediocre liberal elites of the dutch...
the belgians and their... swiss ambitions...
hell: did they really have to invite
the swedes into this "problem"?!

perhaps this is written in english...
sure as **** it's not written by a native...
i'm no more an englishman than
a parsley root is a ******* carrot!
although i dare say...
that essex hue of being: toasted...
coming from a lazy afternoon at a snippet
of a Brighton beach?
the well-tanned look?
no... even i don't want to fake being
Thai in December...

i thought i'd ease the "tension"...
who can say: i'm piglet pink with a dash of
cranberry... cosmopolitan cocktail whenever i
pretend to "feel like it"...
otherwise porky leather...
and then... the layers and hues of...
copper and chocolate *******...
then there's that amnesia rust...
and there's always that porcelain japanese...
the albino iranian and we can have
a ******* **** contrastic hues...
copper over there, some cinnamon over here...
some chocolate in between
and some porky leather 'ere...
personally i think i'm more sepia than white...
there's still that visible blood in my veins
that allowed me to conjure up:
the blue-bloods...
better in german: der blaugeblüt...

perhaps: when in rome...
well... the vandals and the rest of the evil brood
had to, at some point...
tell the romans... you're not being yourselves...
there's no longer a social cordiality in place...
there's no more: when in rome...
because i'm not native of these lands
and of this tongue...
but i will not be... smothered by some
*******-worth-a-roasting debility mongers
and mongrels of: subversion!

you should visit Russia from time to time...
if you get a chance to **** a siberian
******...
hell: don a ******, she'll tell you she's
on contraceptive pills...
then "all of a sudden" you'll find yourself
wondering: matt! i think i'm pregnant...
months after the relationship ended...
and she's on her next pair of gloves;
but she's calling you... for you to pick up
the pieces...

diese englischprobleme ar nicht mein "sache"!
and if there's a heaven...
i pray to god i speak some obscure dialect
of german... bohemian german...
silesian german...
i'll even settle for gothic german!
not for some love of the people...
i just want to imagine myself as having
died a: lebkuchenbäcker...

a gingerbreadbaker...
since *** didn't cut it...
and ******* became a yawn...
there's only this...
the remains of exploring language
without having those stiff, polite...
practical, teasing an escape from solipsism,
formal... samples of language use...
this is the best i can offer...
to use language for the sort of reasons...
that with the language thus used...
i will not have familiar ground to stand /
walk on... since this language does not
exist in the dignified everyday:
lick-the-envelope... seal it... send.

we were making this by the campsite
the night before the battle of
grunwald ('groonvald'),
we were united, the tartars joined us
and brought the following recipe
for the fish we caught on the river:
preready mayonnaise,
gherkins with a bit of gherkin brine,
white vinegar and some capers...
we omitted the chives and parsley
because there were none, the day before
we slaughtered the teutons.

years later the same thing happened,
although in suburban enclosure,
and with perfectly running trains,
and all seashores tamed with foot,
and the aviation traffic,
the new adventurers had to embark
not with astronaut gear but
with their egos, crafting shipwrecks
and glaciers with their minds from
the most apparent mundanities
turned into sour spark tingles
of colours turned into tastes on the oyster's
nano tentacles in the saliva sea.

I breathe deeply, moonshine sweetly dripping from my tongue,
the time has come to move away and
so I move my still into today,
This still and I go back some time,to when the wine we drank was blood red,good red,full,
the time of Tull and martyrs,Khan and Tartars,when men were men but then came industrialisation,the undoing of a once great Nation and you may mock but I say,'put a sock in it' we hit upon what we thought good which turned our forests into firewood,burnt in factories belching smoke,smoking's bad,is that a joke?
We built the century into a city with no thought and certainly not an ounce of pity for those whose clothes hung like rags on a nail,set sail for war to steal some more,oh we were good but now we lack the firewood to build a fire in the grate,
this state ruled over by the Queen has seen much better days,so it's better I remain, bound in the mill beside the still with moonshine sweetly dripping off my tongue.
I see what's done and is being done and when we go to Kingdom come we'll go with cap in hand,
a beggars band,a beggars land
an 'Ozymandias'
in the sand.

tears are unlike tigers fed by buddhists: oh god... i wish i was a woman, then i’d not have cried my tears drunk, but sober, like any woman does, like any woman has... and my correction what inhabited by tartars fighting the teutons with the tartar i took as blood-relatives and the tuetons as politically-related; ivan made the entitlements of the title of tsar as worth cenroship of the coupon for the lean meat in hunting for war among the pole’s marshall law in dostoyevsky. be warned... my blood runs decided into the harvest of wheat and sweat, rather than the parlor room and chandelier corsets; while boney m filled the rest - inviting islam into europe by ignoring poland.*

so drunk they want a rewrite...
i missed the joke...
got a rewrite instead...
was i plagiarising?
i don’t know... you know.
originally intended like sunrise...
instead taken as copyist of sun-and-orange...
can’t be repeated... but i wanted it said...
but they didn’t want it said... they wanted it unsaid...
wanted it seen but unseen and therefore thought
and when transmitted not really thought...
just willed... comparatively ingrained and lost too...
it was a charlie murray quote that got me...
i thought i was testimony... oh right... now i remember...
gay **** is really emasculating...
it’s like watching 90 minutes of football...
gay **** does that to you... really there
among ******* videos...
i just like watching the eyes...
i make eye-contact...
and it’s almost bowtie with the suffocating gag
of the girl...
but no... it’s more like niqab in the night... joke...
******* is more emasculating than football...
honest to god hear my prayer - while heterosexual
*** is really discouraging from transition
of daughter to ****** to ***** to wife to mother...
nibbled ******* unless it was islamic hide & seek!
ah... call mohammed... i need my head chopped off!

Borodin's On the Steppes of Central Asia

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is stained with victory.

Have you ever watched your love goes away?
It's like
Wild cavalry horses of Tartars storming
Dust and smoke in your soul's  sky
And a  swamp of blood is your  soul's village
you turn and see
all village is destroyed
whipped by fire
your flesh
whipped by fire
your house flesh
there's nobody left to mourn
all ashes everywhere
and now
what's left to live for?
how to live from now on?

The ordinates concealed in your infinitesimal rationale
Insufficiencies portraying vestibules in your feverish attires
Every new soul you see makes you feel homeless
Dizzying altitudes you feel inside the depth of cavities
Indifference on pain and sufferings you crave for
And,
Hell; you feel inside grandeurs of perspectives
Hate; for the dearth of adulation on you
Liken Gaia could have never taught you of your frailty
Postulation of Karma and de-carnation of meanings made you converted
You were on the path of revolt
Against, say, cosmos!

Every symbolic gestures remind me of your meddlings
Penultimate; utter grievance of never ending poignancy
The night sky could have never baffled about your existence
Palpitation could have never made you shiver
But you have cried,
Of your loneliness!

Say,
A tiny fraction of clairvoyance I gave
Pulled you down into the puddle of wanderings
Instigation of a melody; created the symphony
A mere touch; drenched you into the silken lake
I spoke for your heart and you praised
Then, I gave you love but I got caged

How could I have done whatever you wished?

Since nobody knows,
The culminating dichotomy of your pantheistic ideas,
And of a maggot growing inside you
Breathless desires governing your feet,
And the time falsifying your plutonic ancestry
Mosaic glittering over your virtuous self,
And the tapestry of vanity covering your abysses
Depleting number of Hordes and Tartars fighting for your existence,
And devalued meaning of your modern-self

All those songs that never could soothe you
Teeny panting of your blasphemous heart
Multitude of distances you travelled
Series of condemnation bouncing between you and me
Your fleeting poverty
Your affections on materials
Like you die the death of pertinence
Love shall never please you

Nonchalant, over the,
Embargo you created on the faith
And the game you created on the bliss
But you shall never win
Since, you are a mere human soul
Bless you!!

Borodin’s  "On the Steppes of Central Asia"

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is stained with victory.

Borodin: On the Steppes of Central Asia

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:

While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,

Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:

A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is glorious with victory.

Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute.  But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute.  Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the ***-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is bright with victory.

The sky, the sun, her footsteps in the snow,
cradle of old, forsaken beatitudes,
are coming back to fill your interludes
with all the broken brights you'd wish to know.

And then what's left of life is rushing through:
the waiting, the quiet sense of duty,
the lost strength, the feeble bolts of beauty,
the ageless sand that's piercing through the blue.

You will not get out: the woodbine's cracking
Bastiani's walls; all the tartars smacking
the gates, there's nowhere else to go.

You'll soon know what's the price of solitude,
but now, to fill the final interlude:
the sky, the sun, her footsteps in the snow.

Power to the people
Power to the people

You can put ice in the fire
Melt the water to your empire
You can conquer undiscovered
But you’ll never touch the current
Of the oceans that are raging
You can put moon on the horizon
With the mercury and uranium
You can control the titanium
Bomb the earth soil into tartars
But you’ll never touch the current
Of the oceans that are raging

Power to the people
Power to the people

Big brother is in your bed
Fornicating, replicating
On the picture you are taking
Socializing with your shadow
On the drone zone mitigating
The debauchery of the century
On the high street no mercies
The butcher of the children
On the thunder of tomorrow
The harvest of their blood
Replicating, fornicating

Power to the people
Power to the people

No peace signs on the windows
enslaved to the tick tocks
in eruptions of the melt down
more resistance to the parties
as gunshots cause collision
In restrictions and confinement
The FEMA camps and martial art
of eugenics anti-populace
covered inside the media
stricken corporation
No peace signs on the windows

Fire power to the people
Fire power to the people

for audio follow
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/fire-power-to-the-people

this... this long awaited bottle
of wine; that's for omome,
but not you... if there's going to be
a me and you...
we'd needd a ms. amber...
and some hereafter...
that bouting with the bridge
and bride of hades
and... whatever...
come tomorrowland....
i will not birdge any gaps
or any other interludes...
save those bits that welcome
the last of life and that killing joke...
here, now, the better half of
me... closed circuit worth of a
pundit...

lingo sputnik that one into an equation
for the basis of oasis that
never clamoured to burden the eurotrash
with blur
and pigeon shtiting clarificastions....

manchester chequers...
n'ah n'ah hey jude... ******* worth
of wriggling and teasin'...
  
happy to have made cheese...
says anyone beside...
an alex james...
   gear up to be riddled, moi...
something sharpening in
tone-deaf pain...

no... 4 down-under
3 across a "crew"...
             he's also greaved in
the soloist "moisting up" of suicidal tendencies...
linger me for that spot
leverage: major major of rationed bacon...

you really don't want the kinds
of me crafting a ridicule of
your naked ***... making
tabloid "oops"
of that always appeasing moon
whips and tenures...

two birds with one stone...
except the arithmetic of twenty-two...
and there's a whoop-catch
of the better half of rottten tomorrows
of the intelligent:
hardly an i.q. tester, tester, count...

i come from this affair all..
all ******* dehydrated...
and fixated on a d.n.a. of the wirth
of argumentation for the worths of
tomorrow...

hardly the happy slap...
          we... the governing
lords of salem...
                        that last misendeavour;
culprit, corrupt...
of that what's best salvaged...

mein besitzen!
           az én saját...
                               mano savo!

refresh... the death upon the crucifix
of golgotha...
then again...
that death of being impaled...
to dangle with death in tow...
but then... being impaled...
all that glory-******* the tenets
of homosexuality...
then one is being impaled
via the transcedence of buggery?

it's one thing to dangle on
a crucifix... hands outstreched...
quiet another...
to have ones hands tied
behind one's back...
being impaled...

           na pal z tym skurwysynem!
i will just listen to enough
wading through the glories of
the cossacks mingling with
the crimean tartars before...

                             crucifixion is
hardly the worthy bargain of torture to be...
exemplified...
there are so many, more...
na pal...

   to be impregnated by a quest
of making **** *** normie-proud...
at the crux of where the pelvis ends and the coccyx
begins...
at the point where the birth of the iron maiden
welcomes the weeping willow...
as a response of being
the sulking bride of commerce...

i do pity the emblem of the crucifix...
there's being subject to the pike...
one can be made to suffice in this
instrumentation of torture...
with a leonardo da vinci exegesis...
the limbs extending...
but never quiet so on a pyke...

                          butterflies of all
held hostage high heavens...
as ever... the inglorious stump...
sharpened... a death proclaimed...
two weeks short but then
the interlude... of the agon. of "waiting"...

it's called the highest crucifixion...
the lesser **** forthcoming...
the hands are tied
and the body is made to pivot
on the pelvis come coccyx...

              no angel will come here:
in spite... or repose...

                    i have lost my amibitions
to imagine... thus, this,
this torrent of whimsical expenditures;
bone-breaking
copper nibbling skimming
of loitering examinations of:
the awaited loss of value.

i put the index and ******* of my right
hand... the tips... in a V (5) shape...
and i see a third eye...

then i count the number of holes in my body...
two nostrils...
one mouth... 3...
two eyes... 5...
two ears 7...
                    one ***... ha ha... one *******
/ **** duct...       grand total? 9...
what does it in "mean"? P...

i've returned to the land of jokers...
seriously... i never appreciated Greek philosophy...
ancient Greek philosophy:
because? there was no Byzantine philosophy:
well... there was...
the New Testament...
which had it's ******* pride whitewashed
by the Turks sacking Constantinople...

see... i don't believe in any Judeo-Christian
ethnical trap craps...
i don't... it's a load of dog-whistles and
bigger dog *******...

i believe the New Testament was crafted
as a Greco-Judeo "conspiracy theory" against
the Roman Empire...
i'm actually thrilled that my heart
entertains this idea...
why else would the Greeks keep the notion
of empire alive far longer than the Latins?
they would become Byzantines and not Greeks?
they would... morph the Glagolitic script
into Cyrillic?

mein gott! and i'm sort of like an Arab...
the Teutonic / northern crusades against
the last pagans of Europe:
who "we" coupled with with the ******-Lithuanian
Commonwealth... **** me... "we" probably
even employed the use of Tartars to defeat
the iron-numb-skulls on horseback...

i think i'm lucky: i haven't won the lottery:
but: boy... i have...
the historical lottery...
    ZERO post-colonial guilt tripping...
last time i heard: it took **** Germany &
Soviet Russia longer to dismantle Poland
than it took **** Germany to conquer France...

eh?! the memory of Napoleon went missing?!
maybe the French girls just love to ****
foreigners... maybe they're easily approachable...
i'll blow a bubble-gun at them...
surely they'll submit... ha ha...

no no... i just did a U-turn today...
i became drunk on my own "intellect" / memory...
i remember buying this book as a teenager...
Tao... huh? and this one passage stuck with me:
a categorical imperative unlike any
German thinking:

the best way to aid the world:
is to forget the world
   and for the world to forget you...

it might have been a hardcover exemplar of what
Tao was about... but it didn't cite anyone...
only yesterday i was listening to a podcast
by Carefree Wandering... this Barbarossa shackled
by / in Shanghai...

a name dropped...  Zhoung Zhou... ergo?
the Zhoungzi...
     it was a really hot day today... today was a really
hot day... i "forgot" about painting the fence...
instead i did the ironing inside... shirt off...
then i prepped the bbq...
   turns out... my female cat likes music...
she loves the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
  i love the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
     **** me: i hate the Beatles and i hate the Rolling Stones...
to me there's only one FAB 4...

i'm like a giddy... chirpy sparrow singing...
albeit with a poker face...
when i worked security watching them live...
but with an element of retrospect...
because... that wasn't me at the gig:
that's me ironing shirts...
and watching my VERONIYA relaxing
with the music being played...

there are two greatest compliments in this world...
another person likes your cooking skills...
yeah: they actually eat the food you cooked
for them...
and?
an animal enjoys the music you're listening to...
the animal is not freaked out by the noise
that's the transcendence of a tap-dripping tap 'ap ap ap...

i don't know which is better... probably
the latter...
            you know: when you listen to music...
have a memory of a gig... you worked security on...
then you're ironing shirts...
and your female Maine **** is not ******* off...
and you're sort of: all "itchy": but it's not an "itch"...
it's a "feeling": a feels...
            i was born with it...
                    when i was younger and my father ******
off to England to better our economic prospects and
i didn't see him from age 4 through to 8...
my mother through the age of 6 through to 8...
grandparents... two dogs...
Bella... Axel...
                            Joseph and Hella...

i'd get gifts sent back to me...
a Nintendo this and that...
        i was generous... i shared...
but when i shared...
i had this numbing-excitement sensation...
whenever i witnessed people using my "stuff"...
i can't explain it... it just felt much better than
an *******...

like the case of scent in the film Perfume...
i can't capture this feeling... this tip-of-the-fingers
sensation...
excited mingling with numbing...

**** me... Veroniya loves AROUND THE WORLD...
it has become my new favourite
Red Hot Chilli Pepper song...
and they are my "peers": i hate the Beatles...
i hate the Rolling Stones...
but? i love Bob Dylan...
   best way to appreciate Bobby?
on a train from St. Petersburg to Moscow...
overnight...

Metallica or Godsmack... once upon a time...
the former... but these days?
the latter...

that's where i parked "my horse":
because i wasn't going to unwind with ego-tripping
***** pageant mechanisms
for allowing competition:
why is it that all the pretty girls
become prostitutes...

please tell me it's untrue: but... it's true...
all the pretty women become prostitutes...
all the "ugly" men are leftovers...
shadows... but hum in on some beached whales
and it's more than likely that she
will replicate... itch... ooze... ugh...
fair enough...
      i need my mind to be crisp...
i need to be getting numb and drunk with
the sages of Chinas... yeah... the plural...
from 600 years before Chrissy..

         i'll blame it on the fact that it was a hot day...
or i'll blame it on... ****...
i got intellectually drunk today...
i knew about Tao a long long time ago...
but i was never told the pinpoint
the anti-Confucian element...
really?! ZHUANGZI?!

                         that helps...
   i never liked ancient Greek thinking to begin
with...
            German thinking? yes...
esp. correlating an antithesis to **** ideology...
i loved that part... Heidegger above Beethoven...

the dead rest: the living live as if resting...
the dead are NOT: at rest...
the dead are resting...
while the living are simply living and resting
at the same time...

i have made a 180 return to to Tao...
today i became drunk from the intellectual
play on what could be a...
play on words: more... a play on word-idea...

who did i support?
in the Wimbledon final?
i am an anti-racist... but when i heard....
she's playing tennis for the Arabs...
for the Blacks... blah blah...
i switched off... please... sport?!
no politics...
   ******* of narrative..
  you just destroyed Afghanistan...
   Iraq... Libya...
        why do you suddenly summon
a care for Ukraine?!

                                  *******!
nahts steht hunger starr in unsern traum!
ja... ich... hassen mein haben menschen!
das letzte サムライ....

              alle letzte! ah! was ist verloren?!
beste zu tanz! beste zu tanz!
beste zu singen!
             mein herz... mein: werden...
mein: etwas...
               mein: letzte hoffung und liebe...

kommen sie mein am wenigsten
      wollen von ein kind...

         mein kind... mein kind...
mein einfrieren luft...
                     mein: hämmern erde...
das tanzen freuer...
        mit wasser: irgendetwas...

shift shaft: shuffle... SH...
wechsel... welle... mischen...

                   das ist gut?!
                       men born for merely a grave...
menschen geboren für
    nur ein graB...
                             nein nein: niet: ein sharpened S...
you saw it! ein B'eh!
graB...
                
                              i think i will die a happy man...
i think i will die a happy man because i
anticipate so many people dying unhappy...
the guilt-tripping-gripping...
i wish i lived a long time ago...
i wish i lived years ahead of stated times...
me?!
i'm trying out Daoism...
   or rather... returning to it...
           this be the zenith:

i must stress it in German:

dies sein die zenit! das ende...
                         the wind fills the pillows...
while my thoughts clamour for hiking
clouds!

from the depths of a drunkenness that's melancholy:
the most sobering truths...

co to jest: świadomość -
to jest... narodziny pamięci...
i nie-pamięci tzn.: akt zapominiania...
w tym że człowiek się rodzi
w stanie pierworodnym:
a pierworodna świadomość
to "jedynie" najczystrza imaginacja:
co potem staje się:
zagmatwana, jako taka "druga"
za pomocą zmysłów:
nie jako ta piersza:
          czerpioną z świadomoś ci
samej-w-sobie...

nonwendigkeit:

not wrtten... but how a German might say it...
non-vendish-kyte...
or... sharpening the caron of the invisible S
entrapped in the G...
to a... nonwendiśkeit...
non-wendiś-kajt...

like... ich is also isch... which is also:
iść: to go... to walk...

NOT WHEN DIG KITE...
digging for kites?
or... Keats?
    
   no one serious, no matter of seriousness...
just sounds... encoding of sounds...
Hangul or hieroglyphics...
most certainly too much drinking...
oh: and a translation...

ha! if i were a Milan Kundera and wrote in Czech...
right... even if i wrote in German...
how many years later would
a translation arrive?
writing in ******...
ugh... the etymology... Slav...
the English imply the origin of Slav...
is labouring under a "lost" E...
hmm... should i start calling the Russians
for clarifications?
let's see...
   Slav has an etymological root in Turkic...
which Slavs? the Yugols?
the southern... Slavs?
you're all ******* Franks?!
Swabians?! are you? last time i heard we
ref. to ourselves as the remnants of
the Sarmatian inquisitiveness...
some... Iranian tribe... Aryans...
  
******* sputnik historians...
makes my blood boil...
little things... always the little things make one
into a ******...
punctuation marks... displaced...
i'm a pedantic beast...
Slav is derived from Slave for Turkic...
really?!
Słowianin... word-smith...
słowo: word...
     ANIN: you want to know the meaning?
having no master...
word without a master...
slav(e)... the English approach...
let's suppose...
secretly i'm rubbing my hands waiting
for the Scots & the Welshmen...
why? why... because i can...
because i will not be subjugated to
etymological dunces!

******* Western sling-shot targets...
Bristolians...
Devonshire pompous *******...
what are you... some ******* proto-German
with ambitions to make a history with
Anglo-Swabians?
the winged hussars of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth: no... didn't... no... n'ah...
didn't come to aid Vienna...
well... i was told to learn the history
of the Norman invasion...
& the life of Edward the Confessor...
whom i very much adored...
i can't bring my history to these isles...
my "tattooes"?
in the script it states:
black-African... black-Carribean...
but not anglo-slav...
sorry... ha ha! i "feel" discriminated!

******* English ***** thinking all Slavs were
slaves of the Turks... yeah... maybe...
the Serbs! the Balkan Slavs!
us western Slavs waged wars with the Ottomans...
now my barber is a Turk & i thank god no
ethnicity touches my ****** sprout...

see! the English stress their values...
i managed to call them: universal
on a ZOOM call...
sure... "universal"... but hardly without their own
fault... come... come one...
who's kidding who?
labouring under the strict obligation of discovering:
DISCOVERING... not learning...
history...  sure... up in Edinburgh...
the local are... ******* up in arms
with standardised Elizabethean English...
*****...
     pompous Derbyshire whittle boys!
toffs or wigs! either of them!
        i want to bark in a way that i might
spew a spare tooth!  ****'s sake... hark! hark!
i want to bite! i want to bark!
no... you don't spew etymological spoofs
and get away with it...
i'll just round up some Ukrainians...
some Russians...
Tartars & the Cossacks...

        it insults me... "thinking" that...
there's this clue of a... oh... "merely" a "missing" E...
to arrive at Slav from Slave...
blood... is... boiling... & i'm not even on the side
of the imbecile surrogates of marzipan C4
explosive vest quests...
my grievance is... eh... more personal...
no Iraq or Iran invoked...
    i like to watch...
i need to watch...

           i like... still life... decay...
     what once was fruit is now cider...
  you don't confuse etymology though...
i.e. where does the term German come from?
the man with the germs?
the sickly **** bring-along?
******* Anglo *****...
broken bonkers on their audacity...
always the prideful wankers...
they were & are... pandered prideful wankers!
i ****... but you couldn't tell...
these ******* stick of ***** wasted!
ugh!
  as much as i love them as much as i hate them!
hey! hey!

so... what's a windmill to a
pumpernickel?

pronoun neutrality in the plural...
what the **** happened to the ROYAL:
ONE & WE?
did that simply... "fizzly" put?
one might,
we were expected...
to hell with trans-gender grammatical rights!
what next?
trans-physics! then state it!
metaphysics & metaphor is a load
of *******,.. as is the thesaurus...
let's do... trans-physics...
i'm clueless as to how we'll begin...

i'll just check with the Russians...
the seem to be the most informed people...
i stopped looking at the setting sun...
when i started up a conversation
about... tortoises...
reiteration... between Tamil...
Hindi... you can speak perfect Hindi...
& Urdu is not some superiority zunge...

to the steppes with you!
tam! dalej! wio!
huca! tym rze! dawaj!
fio!

       pampered Englishman...
when were you last invaded?
ha ha... oh... right... your beginning of history...
so... Darwin was a... ahem.. a...
"mistake"?
ancient Rome knew of the **** similis...
they paid enough attention to it...
but not as much as might not be required...
sorry...
you might right: but only on the sly... with a slight...

i drink the DARK WATERS... the sharpshooter
liquid... whiskers without a cat! hey! you *******
meow i'll turn you into a ******* pear! face first! hey! hey

imagine any Chopin...
well Chopin might just have stopped
the impromptu barrage
of jazz...
bill evans - portrait in jazz (1960 Album)...
but a Satie?
but a Debussy?
oh, mein, gott!

john debney: the aramaic
and the music brings me to tears...
i know i know it's a mel gibson
fetish fest...

it's either bill evans or it's
sonny clark...
and there are those
who: putting it lightly...
have some gravestone grief
over what michael
hutchence did on
the loose abstract of the noose...

not my "thing"...
at least jazz allows
the soloist pianist...
the crescendo...
the bass player
the sax sexed-up whizz...
no alto please no alto:
trumpet!
and we're all right in bingo...
rolling besides there's
this grand spectacle known
as the Niagara...
and it's neither Niger nor Nigeria
nor Bulgaria nor:
oh... right you are sir...
******... we will need
this excess on the rubber-ball
bounce severely excused via
Broadmoor "ltd. esp. if your name
is not peaches,
or jackie o lem(m)on"...

mr. bananNa to you:
heathen disbeliever!
the joke reaches its conclusion
when all the people laughing at it...
are somehow: dead...

it was such a dandy place to hive...
abrupt when the bass...
did its solo:
and it was this higher tier
of the plucked cello...
this rembrandt of the 20th century
moving some distance:
toward a "forward"...

this would most certainly require
the most bleak defence for all
this creative bulldozer...
an auschwitz to be certain...
some germno-esque
and a Vienna limitation...
a mongolian gold-hoarding...
the mongols that remained
in europe... and called themselves
tartars, and this the neu-crimea...
and this lesser love circumstance
of the London dating scene...

my always reserved
and my always "missing" / otherwise
sub-plot jazzy London of
an elsewhere...
bill evans handshakes a cousin IT
of a chopin and the world is allowed
to spiral out of control...

jazz on piano and rain is cascade...
what is felt and what is not composed
for the advent XIII...
raindrops on the forest floor...
raindrops on the begging
frank sinatra...
raindrops of tinsel and some will
have to propose...
when leisure was a synonym of leather...

disorientating piano...
jazz piano...
give me the trumpet and let's forgive
the alto sax...
to each hell his hounds!
to borrow, to beg...
to growl and to scuff!

to each hell his mercenaries of choiced
hounds!
blood-thirty cherubs of ****-mongrel
hinter of cerberus: standing before
the log indigestion of the fore!

this angelic face and the woman
to come!
to have to have "innonce" being
whispered in my ear...
as nothing more than:
**** this Jezebel while you might...
it's not more a metaphor...
when what's gagging is
to also to be applied for: minus literally...
wholy within the confines
of the dostraught metaphor.

as does the jasmine...
the flower prospect matches
the beauty of the genitals...
but sure as ****...
it doesn't match up to the face!
the face is a schizophrenic's nightmare...
the flower is the genitals
of that i am most assured...
but the face?
"androgynous"... sorry...
what's that? "cute"?!

just becuase: one *****...
should even concern(s) itself...
for the death, the egg...
and... all that's concerning
a *****-count:
    prized-detail of all...
         the mountain-top of
morality is...
           not... nor was it...
an expectation booster...
                     it was only there...
as a buffer                      -zone...
   forever the no-man's-land culprit
and some sketchy: in de facto...
something from Madrid:
or - mandras spices from Milan...
or the Goths in north africa...
there's just no need to hobbo
people into the open of a history
without a genghis khan impetus
to *******... the remnants
of the mongols: the tartars...
or how a steak tartare came into
"being"...
                forget how there's
a rubric of 1 x 1 1 x 2 1 x 3 1 x 4...
is in need of being clarified...
     i am... happily... bound...
to the... dodo project...
as i do not... feel inclined...
to be of... a darwinian imperative...
congregation: set-piece...
it tires the shriveling *******'s worth
of leftover life out of me!
to hell with these ideologues...
they put on a mid-western accent
of the newly approved
eucharist benders of
catholic revival in the sensible...
protestant peoples of the world...
a darwin is like a kant...
but with a better comic-book script.