b-dumm dumm
b-dumm dumm
b-dumm dumm
b-dumm dumm tchka ta weh...
tchka tchka tchka b-dumm

dumm dumm tchka tsk dumm tchka tish
dumm dumm tchka tsk dumm tchka tash
dumm dumm tchka tsk dumm tchka dish
tsk dumm b-dumm dumm tchka dumm bash

b-dumm dumm tish tchka dumm dumm tash
b-dumm dumm tish tchka dumm dumm tash
boom boom boom tchka tchka dumm bash
dumm bash-bash, dm-bash bash, dm-bish

tchka tchka dumm dumm ting
boom boom tchka tchka dumm bash ting
shik shik shika tika tik tik ting
boom boom tchka shika boom ting bish

boom shika tchka boom bash boom ching
boom, b-dumm dumm tika tika tika ting
boom shika shika boom bish bash beng
tika tika tika dumm boom boom ting

boof.. ka tchka boom boom cha
b-boof boof ka tchka boom boom cha
boom boom ka tchka tchka boom tish
tchka tchka dumm tsk tsk (dubudu) kish

(dubudu) (dubudu) (dubudu) tish
(dubudu) (dubudu) dub dub tesh
(dubudu) (dubudu) (dubudu) tsk tchka dish
dub.. b-dub dub taka tchka ting

dub dub tchka tsk dumm tchka ting
dub dub tchka tsk dumm tchka tash
dub dub tchka tsk dumm tchka ting
dub dub dub, b-dub dub dub mmm
b-dub dub dub, b-dub dub dub mmm
b-dub dub dub, b-dub dub dub mmm
b-dub mmm dub
b-dub mmm dub
b-dub
b-dub
b-dummm

Ol' Mr Rilash
the authority on panache
and once chef of Ben-Ash,
had neglected to trim his tash.
It itched and made him scratch;
Unhappy on upper lip.
A plan, a plan it hatched.

...then one time in the kitchen
on a snoozing Mr Rilash.
His tash did something brazen,
or silly or quite brash.
It pulled away and dashed
crawling through plates of mash
and hopping over paprikash
it made it to the window ledge
via the crockery left stashed.

Was it brave or was it rash,
the escaping captive tash.
Leaping and waiting for the splash,
It saw it's trajectory down below;
and landed squarely in the trash.

If this be a poem then strangely how apt that your name rhymes with Rash!
I'd babble on about how you are vile!
But that'd do me nothing constructive  or earn me no dime!
And it'd take more than a while,
Oh to tell them you slime?
Be as silly as this Rhyme!
But I get to remember that Tash!
Or would it be Rash to refer of you as Trash?
I'll do no such thing!
For that be your ways to adopt!
I'll hold my head high!
Knowing I loved my Wife!
And I fought without end for my marriage I did!
You will atone for your actions,
I shall have no joy or knowledge of what punishment he shall for you bid!
But I'll hold my head high for this I won't lie!

only days have past since the end of the most
depressing period in the year:
in terms of music...

i welcome January as that month where i can return
to music, to serious music...
if it weren't for some of the songs
i will cite: i would find even more allure
in the Adhan...

but thank god or the devil for the month
of carol singing is over!
the month of carol singing is over!
the "god" has been born - we'll see him
in 33 years to come -
and with his birth the carol singing
can finally be silenced...

why oh why do i find christmas such
a melancholic period?
the carol... even if nietzsche found
reading thomas a kempis' imitation
of christ to be a depressive lot in life...
i too have read it...
and thought of the joy i experienced
for week in Taizé (Burgundy)...

Burgundians in France...
the Kashubians in Poland -
or the Silesians...
how seemingly loveless it is to peer
at intra-national entities...
with a dear eye scout for the details...
the germans love to sing!
wasn't it an austrian that came along
with an opera in german when
all the operas where still in Italian?
to be honest...
it sounds much worse in England...
i favor Händel... greatly...

john suchet can have his Beethoven ****...
his 52 week long saturday 9pm
1h show dedicated to the deaf dunk'e...
i quiet like the backdrop of Händel's
life... the composition for the fireworks
on the Thames... Charles II in general...
point being:
the carol season is over...
i can return to what keeps me well met
with countering any hunger for
new music, even from the genres
i'd appreciate more...

there's no: last christmas - wham!
all i want for christmas - mariah carey...
fairytale of new york - the pogues...
merry christmas everyone - shaky stevens...
the usual suspects...

all that singing for a stone's worth
of a sad little heart...

give me the songs of anon.!
llibre vermell of montserrat - stella splendens!
cuncti simus!
carmina burana - bonum est confidere...
minnesang - neidhart - meine die liechter schin...
refenbogen - gott vater sparch zu abraham...
hugo von montfort - fro weit
konrad von würzburg - hofton...
wolkenstein - wer ist, die da durchleuchtet...
german 15th century anon. - ich var dohin...
ditto - mit vrouden quam der engel...
neidhart von reuental - sumer deiner suzzen wunne...

and the last can go on...
which i find an alternative to classical when...
when jazz becomes too congesting...
there is always an alternative...
and classical music doesn't have to be:
the ultimate counter to modern music...
even if jazz helps...
there is an alternative to what's being
pushed among former newsreaders
who have become "d.j."-'ey-'eys...

how naive of my to have the following thought:
if german was to somehow disappear
from the face of the earth by a lightning bolt
and become a lake of tears...

would i borrow anything from
the 20th century - the anglophonic victory
and subsequent gloating?
or perhaps just a songs from
the medieval period -

and even if the medieval period was
as glum and ignorant as modern rubrics
of science demand -
a scientific can't leverage a joy -
with such certainty of knowing -
with so much certainty -
with weather forecasts...
i demand myself to not watch the forecasts
and beckon my moods on the weather
and the weather on my moods...
if there's anything organic to be retained
with regards to weather -
if i were a farmer perhaps i'd listen
to the annual forecast...
but on a day-to-day basis?
why rob myself of this last desire for
a surprise?
why be robbed of the organic sensation
bound to air, to the electricity
tickling the skin when a thunderstorm...
then there's a deluge and the frogs start
speaking in a crescendo of their
curriculum of barrage and referendum:
and simply fall with
the cats and dogs and reprimand
the man who bodly goes into down...
a man who takes an umbrella with him
out of his residence...
and never will never buy an umbrella
on the whim... being surprised...
what joy when all you buy is predictable...
when all you buy is... an addiction focus...
to feel any better:
how can one feel any better buying
an umbrella spotaneously?!
what greater joy comes from buying
an umbrella when it unexpectedly starts
raining!
and what of the joy of running barefoot
in the rain! what of the joy still harvesting
our eyes our ears our nostrils!
has science really served up the right sort
of an anaesthetic?!
that we are incubated by pure mind...
pure reason and all the trivia crescendos
any mind will want to warrant further...
when not a single ounce of joy in song
can be captured?
intellectual complexity of song:
progressive rock and hyper-inflated pop...
classical music you will never be able
to whistle to... will never be able to take up
with a guitar and play the skeleton...

perhaps edvard grieg's:
in the hall of the mountain king...
but only perhaps!
play me the skeleton accent of any piece
of classical music! from 'ear alone:
this... but the rest? hardly a whisper,
a whimper a whistling pete the piper would
have minded in inducing hyponosis on
the rats...
that whriling crescendo...
the bombast pandemonium reaching
******... the cloud of bats and satans descend...

who cares if peter sutcliffe wants his ashes
to be scattered in yorkshire...
my bigger pet peeve was that he wanted
the cremantion to have....
saint-saëns - danse macabre
to be playing in the background...
yes... for all it's worth: the shrill violin...
the: scratching of nails on a blackboard...
the running of a fork or a knife
on a piece of ceramic plating...

also of note regarding today:
- vierschanzentournee -
outside of the english-speaking world...
there's much more than merely
an Eddie 'the eagle' edwards biopic...
come on!
a world darts championship?!
darts?! the pub go to thing if there's
no pool table?!
that's gonna be an olympic sport?
so what's so terrible about ski jumping?
or the biathlon?
or indoor volleyball for that matter?
the english and their cricket (ok...
i concede to the genius of the sport)...
but lawn bowls?!
what's wrong with... nip'n'tuc pin bowling?
curling... that's also a serious sport?!
tennis versus ping-pong...
which is like throwing darts...
and those demigods at the olympics
with the very recent south korean women
in that sport of archery!
darts and archery... savvy? Lu Bu... Jumong...
never mind... a fellow "countryman"
of "mine" might win this tournament this year...
a дaвид кубaЦки... why would i upper-case
the kappa or the delta...
when the letter of curiosity is the... Ц "ts" C?

- liverpool's second team with the help
of Gomez... Origi... Lallana managed to beat
the first team of Everton...
boys vs. men... 18 year olds etc.

- i finally perfected oven cooking
butterfly chicken *******...
temp. at rest? circa 165° farhenheit...
circa 30minutes at 200°C...
the roast tatties looking pretty and smiling
at me with that roastie brown...
etc. etc. - but the juice on those butterfly
*******?
who would have thought that
stuffing the ******* with the skin still intact...
in between the skin and the meat...
a healthy nugget of butter either side...
fresh thyme...
au provence sea-salt (rosemary,
thyme etc.)...
succulent enough to make you forget ever
wetting your appetite for
a chicken thigh... or a drumstick...

- and finally getting what i want...
the mirror vanity project of:
not needing a turkish barber to trim my beard...
finally! i'll admit...
whenever in a barber shop and sitting
in front of a mirror...
i always close my eyes
and let the barber do his work while
i relax...
perhaps the presence of two bodies
in focus on a canvas of mirror is...
well it's not exactly a third party detail...
the subjective experience is beyond
the necessity of being captivating...
i can't focus on my face since
i don't have any compliments for it...
and a barber working his way around
the excess hair that i should,
technically, tend to myself...
i never liked being pampered by
feminine men...
although: a barber can become...
and butcher the whole thing...
then again: feminine men?
the men who cook, are... feminine?
perhaps they're not engineers...
they are not metallurgists...
but... a **** good shave...
a **** good meal, cooked to perfection...
they're no more feminine than
the other definition: the men of aesthetics...

today i became a man of aesthetics with
regards to: how i want my beard trimmed...
i became the gardeners of my own
garden of chin neck and cheeks...
side-burns in tow...
and the evil 'tash...
slim on the sides...
and a bulging uvula of hair dangling from
the chin and its vicinity...
the evil 'tash trimmed so i can sip
some god's blood / ms. amber:
forget god's **** and all that's beer and cider...
fake it making to sit hunched until 1am...
push this over the "finish-line" and
say adios today!

perhaps i once "glorified" laying out a tier
of "help" of the 3Ps...
the priest, the psychiatrist, the *******...
of the last?
well... imagine wandering the labyrinth
of the english outer-suburbia for long
enough... fiddling with bricks
with the tips of your fingers until
either rust or diamonds spark of the scratching...
i would do ever so often...
stroke bricks, harshly...
go up to the oak and fiddle with its coarse
bark etchings...
a week would pass and i would
have my fingertips readied
to bring before me an example
of human flesh...
was it was tender as ******* an oyster?

i needed to revive a compensation
of sensation...

i once made myself visit the barber
after a long repose...
did i find the barbershop experience
more: rivetting... than any experience
bound to a brothel?

england: prostitution is legal!
but owning a brothel... isn't...
if in amsterdam i was given both the freedom
to seek the advice of a *******
and... smoke marijuana freely...
this paranoia-shadow of smoking it in england
would... simply fizzle out...
i wouldn't be some obnoxious ****
trying to get my rocks off with the "gateway drug"...

why did i smoke marijuana?
i simply "don't know"... but of course i do!
it gave me an escape from
being congested with parrot narratives
of the cartesian RES COGITANS...
i experienced...
the most unbelievable due of:
RES VANUS... the empty thing...
no more thinking than if i were dead...
tightrope spectacular...
it would seem that nothing bothered me...
there were no petty social rubrics to be cited
or be bungled into: the sire of sight
before me: and a bending crux knee...

but there came a time when
going to a barber was... so much more than
going to a brothel...
of course: you can't appreciate the one
without the other in making the statement that...
the latter overpowers the former...
nothing of my grew that would have
to be trimmed and tended to...
i wasn't magically circumcised in
a brothel via oral *** to allow me to
enjoy *** more...
and since i can't be circumcised:
this caduceus of protruding veins entwining...
and since ******* is...
at best the closest i come to satisfaction...
and all else is: pretending and...
ensuring the other party is satisfied...

no wonder i would allow myself to showcase
all the possibilities...
before having to retract and state...
petting a cat... getting a haircut and having
my beard trimmed...
but since i can trim my beard...
and if i need a haircut...
i'll be satisfied with the Auschwitz
syphilis crew-cut...
so be it...

barbershop... how can these men sit
and stare at themselves...
it's different when you're doing it solo...
but i rather see the vampire
and nothing before the mirror otherwise...
i would love to see myself: "myself"
on the canvas: 'fairest of them all'
in the snow-white fable mirror...
otherwise there's me looking more
like a ******* over-inflated
pupernickle... pumpernickle that uses yeast...
and this bloated ****-head's face...

but also this barber: this harlequin...
i wouldn't mind sitting before a mirror
in a barber shop... if i could also see
this barber-harlequin doing his aesthetic trimming
on an empty space...
so i tended to close my eyes...
while in the brothel my eyes were also open...
this whole: milan kundera debate
about those who **** with their eyes
open and those who **** with their eyes closed...

still... going to a barber was more
than getting a *******...
she... and i just imagined getting
indigestion from binging on gulping down
raw oysters...
and how many oysters would it take
for her **** to be turned into the taj mahal...

come to think of it...
what is best taken from this spew of words?
no rhyme, no meter...
well... there's that umbrella spontaneity...
isn't there?! that ought to be kept...
in spirit of the times when too much
is made predictable...
when predictabilty is certainly least
warranted...

will there be: the evil of my ways?
oh sure sure... walk into a brothel...
see the Nazgûl waiting in the ante-chamber...
and you ask one of them: which one of you?
and this other replies: that is against the rules...
you have to chose...
******* strapped on... then pulled back...
imitation ***** and: evidently
******* ******* is a bit like ****** *******
in movies...
and you do...
but in the back of your mind...
you have: Solomon and his prayer being answered...
his "wisdom"...
and of course the harem...
and then you have David...
prayer or no prayer... sure-as-**** no prayer
when it came to killing Goliath...
and... David's harem of psalms!

but i'm pretty sure that circumcision should
be... something requiring a man's
permission... baptism shma-anabaptism...
abracadabra-water trickle blah blah *******...
that i can survive...

there's still this 15th century german music to mind!
which goes outside of current,
appreciation of escapist music...
shawshank redemption: mozart...
or jazzy jazzy bleu ooh blue...
there's medieval folk...
there's old christian music that's outside of...
and in the measure of retaining:
the Cramp... the Krampfmuschi...
not this ******* coral singing...
no wonder i'm always depressed...
i'm always depressed when they start to coral...
what sort of achievement is merely being born?!
oh... right... when you have an a posteriori
light ahead of you...
when you don't commit suicide...
instead you decide: nothing more fitting
than a public spectacle...
i will not hang myself in "private"...
i will make sure that my psychological agony
of those around that have instigated it...
will need a spectacle!

carol singing out of my own ***...
he might have survived... i don't doubt it...
in all the icons...
the nails were nailed...
not at the wrists...
not in the tarsus talus region...
if they nailed him by the wrists?
and the tarsus talus (leg foot wrist circa)...
oh yeah! he'd be walking! third day!
but if you have a hole in your:
just above the metacarbal digits?
and how modern t.v. portrays crucifixion?
that... he wouldn't be hanging by nails alone...
that his arms would also be tied with
rope?!
what's next ******* spectacular was
to be awaited?!

whatever the clues:
i have a night to catch...
a night that's deserving of my sleep...
and tomorrow...
will be: tomorrow.

Dear Ex,

Been figuring how to write this letter to you.
To you Carol for Helping me be independent
To you Beatrice for making my Trust Grow
To you Tash for teaching me good ***
To you Carol for teaching me that crying is okay
To you Olive for teaching me hangover remedies that actually worked
And To you Beth, for making me stronger than ever.

Its strange sometimes, I sit and reflect
of how it would be if  I hadn't been in your lives as a lover, then.

Would some chunks in my life be missing because I wouldn't have learnt any lessons?

Would I be a Better Lover?
Would I still be innocent because I wouldn't know a painful heartbreak and how it felt to really want to revenge and hold on to Anger?
Would I still be a ******?

The fights, built me.
The tours, made me exposed to races,tribes,religions all specrums of life.
The laughs extended my life
The friendship made me love.

Yes, there was pain
there were tears
Curses
But all these, were corners of the road that I journey to, to perfection someday.

You taught me how different love was.
It can't be defined in a single word.
ha ha, I remember, to one of you, foot massages  and a shower together every night meant I Love you
For the other, saying it after every hour meant I Love you.
Its different.
IT IS BEAUTIFUL.

This is a note of gratitude.
Saying THANK YOU, for making me a better Lover.
THANK YOU for making me a better Mother.
THANK YOU for making me The BEST Best Friend
THANK YOU for now, Making me THE BEST WIFE.

I Am Happy.
And unlike a large number that would hate Ex's
and curse
and regret,

I choose the Route of Gratitude,
coz this far,
I will say
You Molded me
To the better person I am now.

I Respect You.

©TheUnspoken

If I die
Who would miss me
Mom?
No she doesn't trust me
Dad?
Jordan was always the favorite
Tash?
He always hated me
Allie?
She always did to
Jordan?
He probably would
Samantha?
I hope she would
All these people
All my friends
My family
All have
At least one thing
Against me
But who
Would miss me
A piece of southern trash
Good for nothing
Good at nothing
Samantha deserves someone better
So does destine
I'm not good enough
I never was
I never will be
I was a fool to think I was
Nobody would miss me
I'm sorry
To everyone
I've hurt you all
And now I see it
And I'm sickened by myself
I love Samantha and Destine
But I'm not good enough
So if I did die
Who would miss me?

Ach, a delicah constitution, have I

me auld bones are getting wearier

if somebody sneezes I have a cowld

its getting worser the more I get older

I can’t get a dacent man

but I’m looking as hard as I can

I’ve got a little piece of land

so for a dowry he’d be grand

See, since I buried my first two

it’s not easy to get a beau

and these day’s I’m not such a pretty view

I can be a bit contrary

and my moods oft vary

but unlike my sister Mary

I haven’t got a tash long and hairy

I don’t need any of that *** stuff

I can tell ya that for nuttin

Its help around the farm I’m huntin

I can make a dacent cup-o-tay

and I’m handy at baling the hay

so if your up for a bit of honest toil

and your humour don’t make me blood boil

Come marry Teresa Rafter

when I’m gone you’ll live happily ever after

Tonight as I lay upon my pillow of nails my heart falls into a thousand galaxies. The pain that love has tattooed upon my heart has become more than my shoulders can carry. Thousands of stars have been plastered upon my skies with the words that each of you skatter to the wind. The beauty that each of you my friends share with rhyme and love is beyond that of imagination. My only regret as the time winds down is that of not reading more of each your poems of eloquence. You have bestowed so many pictures to my heart and to my soul. These are images that will bless me with fiery, graceful pictures of elegance until the ends of time. What no one has gathered with these words of my heart is that it isn't poetry. These are and have been nothing more than my legacy. My twisted rhymes and challenges to the hearts brain have been little more than an explanation to those that stay upon the path. My family, I have blessed with letters written with tears and shaky hands. Though some of the words may have been blurred with pain that splattered upon those pages, what was not wiped away should help them understand it wasn't greed or a lack of love. It wasn't against God nor did I lose faith. There comes a day when the rock in the sling can no longer slay the beast. It is then that that the giant and his sword of agony pierces the angels wings. The day has approached for the anniversary that I placed a promise upon the second finger from the right. My final poem will not be upon a page, but it shall be upon the stone that I sat my future and I gave my heart. Upon the mountains dust shall I leave the letters. It is upon each of your sights that I leave my second legacy. For my wonderful friend I found a star tonight. It was the brightest in the sky. I called that star, KimStar as I promised. If you shall look for the brightest star that is the star that I fell upon my knees and begged God to touch your body and heal your soul. You shall have my poem by my mornings light and I will make it shine. Tash oh Tash your heart your heart. No bigger blessing has God bestowed upon us miserable excuses for life. You are truly Gods Angel. You should know a creep I'm not. Tonight your beautiful voice shall I hear as the angels hug me tight and carry me past the stars. Wanmin, I can't even find a place to start. The beauty that you have delivered into a darkened soul have been so gracious. Thank you for the kind words that melted my heart and gave light to my darkness. Oh my God Gregory, tonight you have brought the tears to my eyes that washed the pain from my heart. I had no idea I touched you when you needed it. Be not deceived my friend. It wasn't you that has been blessed. It is I that have been touched and blessed just by being in your presence even for a moment. Your words are genius. Actually they should not be called genius, you deserve more credit than that. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Free mind. I have not finished the poem that we started together, but I shall try to, before……. I am ashamed that my words could never match the words that your heart placed upon our poem. Your friendship….. I can't express my gratitude any more than to say. Wow, you are all heart and your soul is an old soul that is perfection. She writes, oh does she ever write. If her poetry you havent over indulged upon yet, grab your fork and spoon and prepare for a meal that will satisfy your soul to the depths of eternity. I meant every word I said. Your eyes tell the story that your words describe. Put those words upon the page my friend and bless me with one final eternity in your words, but be kind. A poet makes or breaks those that encounter their pen. My friends as I close my eyes and beg God for no mornings light grieve not for life is only what we make it and when the winds blow all that is left is the hopes that you touched a poets heart. One last and final request. Leave something upon my page for those that shall read it after me. Thank you my friends. It is each of you that I think of tonight. Farwwell

It's been a year since you left
and I still miss you a lot.
I'll always miss how much
fun we had together.
I'll miss you forgetting me
my name since I look like mom.
How you would have cartoons
playing in your room.
I know that it was due to your
memory problem.
But it was still good 'cause it
let me know that it wasn't a bad thing.
But I'll never say on here what I watch
when I'm in my room.
That's for my family to know.
But I will say that you watched some
cartoons that I've loved since I was 5.
Thanks for filling me with happy
memories and funny moments.
For saying things that made me both
confused and laugh at the same time.
Thanks for always being supportive
of me and my choices.
Thanks for doing what you were
supposed to when I asked you too.
Thanks for being there when I hurt
my knee.
Even though, there was nothing
that Obama could've done to help lol
Thanks for asking me to sing outside
your door and telling me that it was
wonderful.
And, you're right, Oma.
I'll never know how wonderful it was.
I never think that I have a good voice or
think that I can sing.
But it's nice to know that you loved me
and my voice.
Sorry I sang it in the hallway but my
shyness got the best of me.
But thanks for being patient and
listening to my songs.
You were a real inspiration to me and
I loved every second I got to spend w/ you.
Whenever I sing and listen to Miley Cyrus'
song, "I Miss You" I think of you.
I just wanted you to know how much I miss
and love you.
And I know that I'll be able to see you when
the time comes.
But until then, please keep watching me
from up above.
And I've never said this to anyone before.
But, I consider you and PaPou to be my
guardian angels.
I miss you and love you everyday.

Your great granddaughter,
Tash or (atleast once a day)
Manda <3 :)

RIP Oma

Do you cut a rose before it blossoms?
**** a child, and then you lost them
Fetus lost within the womb
Like your virginity that’s been took
Like a breakage of a package
Wrapped up within bed sheets
Trying to untangle yourself before it’s too late
Haven’t you heard no *** before marriage?
Not wanting to look like “that girl” that doesn’t thinks
But he says he’s different
He pretended like he cared

3 weeks later I’m trapped
Trapped between the thoughts of being a tennager that's young , free , & wild
Not wanting to accept the duties of being a soon to be mother
It was a mistake I say
A mistake
"I used protection" she said
Forcing myself to look at my stomach thinking about how my once tiny stomach will become bigger & bigger
readjusting my belt as if it was hurting our baby
My baby

It’s not mine
It’s not mine
Don’t keep it
Those were his exact words before he upped and left me
He gave me the choice
To be left alone with only having the baby as a reference
Praying that he/she doesn't resemble their farther

2 hands
2 feet
2 eyes
2 ears
1 nose
1 mouth
2 arms
2 legs
1 heart
But unfortunately I let those hurtful words make my decision for me
Turning my unborn child home into a barrel
RIP
Rest in peace was those exact same words that were imprinted on stomach
Before my child left this world in a garbage bag
I could’ve sworn I heard "no mommy"

Blaming the doctors for killing my child
My sweet precious son
I love you

By :Tash Carter

A soul’s vine is encased with demise.
Towering stalks desiccate to bister mummies and
Aflush dreams of romance capsize into sour, obsidian soil.  

Exhausted leaves crumble when the sun goes down
And amber tears of stinging sap drizzle from hollow sepal’s
That once hugged tender safad petals in the raw night
Like a child clinging to their eham biar yadashte.

Eclipsed roots search for taskeen semblance.
Divest thorns flourish on their throne,
Devouring golden seeds of promise.

Tishna fruit wither into ember dust,
Particles brushing away in the restless wind
Until all that lays are flattened memories

Forgotten, forsaken, fanni.

Word Search
Machana Ruh (roo): A Wilting Soul
Safad: Pure milky white
Eham biar yadashte: That feeling of something from our childhood that gave us inanimate affection. Something we, still to this day, can not let go of because it carries all our intimate memories and emotions (Like a teddy bear or blanket).  
Taskeen (Tash-kean): The warm feeling of home
Fanni (Fa-nee): Mortal fragility
Tishna: When a person is dehydrated to the point of death

me? every time i'm reminded by
my body that i have
hidden, waiting,
unhinged
     rhythm sections of a body,
hand, fingers, tapping
on a folded knee,
a dragging leg doing
the basis heavy bass
of a drum-kit...
               these ******* are from
the all-spice of the iberian
reconquista...
         sign me up...
                back on the old continent
these are not mayan hybrids...
no covert-slang
of an ethnic group...
i'm pretty sure the Spaniards
are still Spaniards...
   ****, i had to return
to an alternative to
the tetragrammaton,
and a Jewish influence
after netanyahu
did he best to remember
his ancestors
   seeking refuge under
the umbrella
of mieszko...
yes, thank you...
now wipe your feet
clean before leaving...
you want a ****
you'll get your
**** and your yom kippur
to boot...
  (oh, such a nice, looking
"boy next door" jewish
****-it...
           cow-lick
of a Hitlerite comb-over) -
(here, seeing fame,
or an ongoing comment
section...  n'ah...
   i'm good with the jack,
              chill)
big mouth,
ordained with a:
appear taller than
you already gifted 6ft+...
   scare yourself with
a shadow
that in your possession
like spare change...
     sure...
is little Judy bringing
her Ethopian friend along?
    - because:
i just haven't been mind-******
enough sieving through
all the post-colonial society
crap of... once great...
now just east anglia,
northumbria...
          and a bit described
as welsh-land...
                and devon...
rap sounds better (in) Hispanic...
  la poloné
                      of Haiti...
take me back 150 years
and claiming: a Gnat on Leon's
collar was only a good man...
yeah... but that moustache...
being short wasn't as bad
as donning that comic tash...
  and that ugly: mustard brown
of khaki... ugh...
    lagerfeld would have
had an opinion about that...
sure... SS-schwarz...
       on a mission statement
from the fashion industry...
   the nazis just knew how to dress
their pawns...
  except for the leader,
stuck in a nostalgia of khaki...
or as IS used to say:
send your troops
attired in loose clothing...
         schwarz pyjama(s)...
airy, fairy, ******* breeze
*** the Iraqi plains wind...
                   o.k. i found no
path in h'eh'zeus...
       perdón mi virgen novia...
guess we're going
to the opposite sight of a harem...
3 to 2 ratio of available holes...
            plenty of *******
             fudge to boot...
oh i like my foul mouth...
which is what happens
performing oral *** on
a *******...
no protection for the tongue...
good to know i'll ingest
whatever is "necessary"
and fry it on some
      hydrochloric bath-time...
seems like i rap...
   albeit in Spanish...
    perhaps they're bragging...
       perhaps they're doing
anything what a cotton-afro-head
would otherwise do
with a tongue...
       i'm pretty ******* sure
there's little oral to genitals
action in the department of:
a man sat on a chair...
a fifth leg appeared...
  ancient jokes from ancient
greece
about the size of the phallus
and the status of whether
barbarian or the civilized man...
me... neurotic about...
that extension?
        oh sure...
                the minute i think about
owning the responsibility
of a woman
i start thinking of the rare
instances of...
girlfriends armed
            with hammers...
i had to relax on some judaic
influences...
        but then i discovered
a "counter-culture" to religion...
i figured...
before i fall in the abyss
of an animalistic
       genesis...
beginning to explain
and ending with an explanation
via the chimp...
         i'll let religion go...
        it's only by coincidence
that the tetragrammaton
encompasses
both the strength to laugh...
Há
     and to sigh,
        āH...
   vowel-catcher and a vowel-crutch...
    laughter-skeleton...
a British sense of humor
can become so exhausting,
so nuanced...
           that... the obvious byproduct
would always become
               sit-coms with canned
laughter...
   since... when is it a joke...
when you (also) have to explain it?

yes... Y the inverted implosion
of gUD γΥΔ:
                     three-dimensional
space (0, 0) corodinate...
  and the wave of W...
              for the cosine graph)

huh?
delta (letter)
from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Δ is life, i live for Δ. did you
know Δ is the key to life? i did. Δ.
this page was last edited on 20
        February 2019, at 00:50 (UTC);

well there was that fetish of
mine for both hebrew theology,
german and...
the question: why did the jews
find safety in poland,
but...
             only crafted yiddish
from german?
                
now i know there's a safety
net...
        juggling...
3+ languages standing
on the ledge,
and before me...
flight...
   and all the etymology i will
ever want to cipher through
and have no assurance
in being given the stage
to apply to today's
everyday usage...

        beside the borrowed
prefixes from latin: dis-
or greek suffixes of some variant...

fashion statement:
clothes worn like
     an animal would wear fur(r)...
i also tend to forget changing
my clothes on the whim,
on the hour, for the occassion...
fashion statement:
to wear clothes like an animal
dons fur.

learn from the best:
                               **** the rest...

I want you to open me up
And examine my insides
As if you we're trying to get to know me
Closely
Vividly
Like a Mortition trying to see how
I died
Like a butterfly
Cocoon first
Step by step
Cut me from my chest to my belly button
Slowly removing my organs
Lay them close enough so I still feel attached from my brain to my liver

Let me fly
I wanna be free
Let me fly
Let my soul be released
I wanna go to heaven but heaven isn't promised if I'm living like I want to go to he'll

He gently took my heart out
Not noticing the cracks on it
As if he was a doctor who started
pulling me from the womb
Darkness
Cold
Death
His breathing picked up when he seen my arm twitch
Knowing that I'm not living but I wasn't dead either
He continued to take out my organs
Placing each one side by side

Afraid to go any further down
He stopped .
He counted my fingers
He counted my toes
He counted my tattoos
He did everything
It was like he was trying to soothe me
Protect me
Be gentle with me

Let me fly
Let my soul be realesed in the summer air
So when those that miss me can feel my touch
Let me fly I wanna be free
Let me fly I wanna be free

As if my soul knew it was time to come back to me
My angel
My dearest angel grip the ankles of my loved ones
Capture their souls while their walking
So it feels like their stepping in a dream
Kiss the wound on my mother heart and inform her everything will be ok
Soothe my unborn children
Rub my stomach and gracefully whisper
"Mommy loves you "

Stitch me back up
Making sure you include every tear drop that left my eyes
Every laugh or chuckled that I released seeming as life was full of laughter
Readjust my body so I could be laying like I would in my coffin
My child
My child
Don't be afraid I am dead but in still living

Let me fly
Let me fly
I promise I will take your souls with me

By : Tash Carter

The way we deal with death is funny.
The child expected to cry,
must stay strong for his peers.
The adults have the luxury of tears.

So why the difference in action?
When the cause stays the same?
The adult may have lost a member of kin.
The child, however, is broken within.

Everything must end.
The way we cope with life as kids.
Replaced to see it like adults.
The loss of a friend, sister or mother.
The death of a father or a brother.

Everyone has a mechanism to cope.
Giving them time and space to heal.
You have your religion and empty prayers.
I have my broken universe and empty stares.

-Tash

I loved you since you first laid eyes on me,
Since that very first invite over for tea,
Silly 'tash -
with just a dash of caramel wax..

Did I trip and fall
on the curb or on you that very first night?
Whichever floats your boat -
And then you fell for me too,
a few steps further, with all your chivalrous might.

You learnt me so well, now you get to remind me
how I'm no good at all with goodbyes..
All this time I'd forgotten about it,
busy trying to unpick all our hows and our whys.

Drive off to your bright new life, will you -
As my figure gets smaller in your rear view mirror..
I can't wait to meet you for tea when you're eighty;
Our promise, my true love, my best friend, my matey.

freddie is the 80's storm 19.06.18

you are beautiful
tuesday was cannabis green
camden had a storm that's colourful
rocking like a true queen.
perfect was the tash
and the jacket that's iconic
spreading round camden like a rash
freddie is more addictive then kronic.
suspicious of whats occurring
to many things are ringing
trying to stop the blurring
made in heaven won't be  singing.
80's is the best decade
its when queen were top form
the ballet will never fade
just like freddie who was infarct storm.

Kianna,AS,Harshitha,Mo, Pearl,Jesse, Tina,Avery,Mrunalini, Donna.
Eli, MAM,Ava,Sylph,RSB,Starving,Michael, Sandra,Austin, Nolan.
Pure, May, Benji,Madelle, shez,Black poison,S-zaynab, Sally,Brandon.
Alyssa,Beautifully,netasha,Rob, Mikey, Anthony,Ashly, Tash, Mister,Frey.
Najla,Thomas,Darrell,RBM,Robert,AHarris,TheGirl,Larr­y,XRhymes,Elizabeth,
Naeema,M,Roumen,Masterchain,Blank,Nylee, Charles,Junior, Sol,Kafka.
Cloud,Danny,Edmund,Melody,Monika,Carrie,Orion,Ronell,L­ogan,Grace.
BR,Eva,JJ,Bardo,Eleni,Rick,Tia,Godawan,Melan,Xant,Bri­anna,Botan.
Thank you all very much for being the Special writers that you all are.
I have not forgotten the rest of you I shall do another poem like this soon.

to "buy" the trill of an R...
roll a stone...
to hide a sparrow song...
to verge upon a molten crack
of stead... and a heave of stone...
to purr unlike the comforts
of a cat, wheeling a chair...
this: "summons"...
purr this sparrow this
gladly come advent spring:
swallow by uno servitude
a quench an april...

       purr the riddle of
a suppose we...
via geisha... ****... around
and juggle...
it was never a "b.l.m."
Senegal 4ever... *******
afro wand... sort of...
i'll sooner **** a mongolian
squint
than some afro-*******-webel
queen esque
plateau suffice...

          harvest...
me dying...
       i have no *******
replacements to bother
history with!

- - - - - a moses...
a don juan...
                 a ben

to fall in love with a woman
is to somehow:
but not "somehow"
completely disappear...

it's to change your ego
for a foetus -
or: a "mouth" for an "****"...
then the trajectory
of dilution come
the "greater" numbers:
or the purpose of digit
and numbing...

that's a "now" and by "now"
there's only a posit for
cipher...
to love a woman
and not to love love...
how i once was too...
lodged in some a priori
juicing up...
some Cinderella...
              
               never again:
write and drink...
after all...
what is 500ml of jack daniels?
apparently it's, circa:
1000+kcal...
that's like what?
a milkshake of
half a cow or a dozen
lamb shanks?

so sober me, marathon / +a half of
it and the whole
worth of a day...
and that's sober moi...

"my" ego and all this bundle
of foetal-esque metaphorical
coagulation...
verbiage is gloat is goo is glue...
isn't...
a parody of a sunday's
schematic of hours...

         i'll just hope for enough
of off of anything
to find purpose and
some linear trajectory / alias
vector...

but never to hope as i once
hoped: drinking will spurn me on
and i'll wriggle in and out
some spaghetti masterpiece...
sober's only
and at best sober safely does
the sorrow's least...

then i'll walk and take grudges
against the rubric of toes
and a pair of knees that
somehow refuse to kneel...

that there ought to be thought:
to base a genesis with / for...
the 1980s of what's supposing a this
and a supposing a that...

             that there's as much
of a frankentein's monster
that might (without a who)
rebelling not against a birth: de facto
v. per se,

but a death:
since there's a rebellion against
birth
and not death...

so insufferable this life
without enough time to spare
yourself over
the full growth of a sequoia
or a century's width of oak...

i'll throw a stone or suppose
that i cling to cringing at
climbing a mountain:
or... the moon the scythe...
what isn't...
               the brick & scythe
is not... hammer, orb...
live-along live the least & most...

bravado and some variant
of Croat... Silesian is like new
Swiss jargon & cheese...
my brick for a hammer,
my scythe for a sickle...
my vierte ***** swab:
               dull void V of a i.r. "us"

those anglo-swabians...
who, what or rather,
when are dough?

there is meaning behind:
variation(s)
though and though(t)...
              a cat making a summary
of its **** with a slick
lick pop and tying it altogether
sort of a custard & ****...

i have a leash on, studded,
just for pretend purposes...
there's the latex, the cherry...
the fuse... and the gimp clad
sacred and divine da vinci
chicken scribble of

there's the suppose me orc,
suppose there's africa,
and there's suppose sahara isn't...
but there's the mongol
and the siberian tundra...
1000+kcal of bourbon that's
like, what?

count the highest stake in...
knee-caps?
my ego my foetus my **** whole
w'ah w'ah peddling fascistic
fictions...

Sven der SŁASTIKTIK:
   vs. herr Šven:
                 itches of "anti" cool...

how: isch and ich...
         and how there was always
an implosion of sounds...
how juggernaut:
these letters had nothing:
first concerning vowels,
second concerning consonants...
then somehow the *****
of syllables...

  herr hirsch... mr mr...
l'inglese... non franca...
best version of jar and salem /
Sue of                                 "
the jiggling squat lot of
the humming of
the anglo-
prefix spectrum of...
the "ditto-of-things"...

secular anglo,
ßĀß...
              save me, i'm drowning:
throw me a blister!
throw me razor!
lead me to catch onto the edge!
the concern for...
the mythological blonde...
i.e. yes, woman...
a female yellow hair
thrice removed ****...
come together, house party...

yes... my most "evil" deed...
putting my index
into a mouth of a cat, yawning...
to pretend: the least...
of catching some variation
of rye... no... "unawares"...

the anglo-saxon blonde...
a myth in the hands of tired
history...
my mouth is my *******
is also the gate of jerusalem
is... if the african are such
pristine jew-esque hoarding
news...
then... i'm  in *******
limbo... i.e PDND...

lost the plot / scenario of that
acronym: shelved in
the chasm of what became:
telescope... 20th century...
the 1960s gwand... cultural...
"event"... thingy...
that word that's...
international off jew...
the yew the state...

no more anti-semitism...
we're not killing jews now...
there's the... iraqi... the iranian...
the syrian and the israeli...
who the **** requires...
prefix contention for...
jew?
                    killing pale miscreants...
no?
      barber highest tash...
who is going to call this
heave of rock holiest...
this parting of the Baltic
this source of the Dnieper
some alternative Kiev...

who?!
my god of stone-dodging
impotent mountain heaves...
these supposedly lifeless
letters... these only hebrew solves
the quest sort of primo
antics?!
western, anglo-saxon...
liberal "sensibilities":

if only they came as
anglo-swabians...
there was no mythological
sexed-up blonde to rot with...
beside the geisha bride...
the mongolian horde leftover...
because...
do i have to?
**** a picasso's head and triumph sort
of gaze as an insomniac version
of a hard-on...
do i need to be ****-friendly
with the smear of
cinnamon towing copper tinged
with: the discovery
of coco makes no sense
without the discovery of sugar...

coco is coffee...
pointless... gold is...
Caribbean sugar... no less...
the supposed english
as the best tourists...
****'s sake all this
toe nibbling **** licking
parody of:
the racist and skimming a depth...
arriving at a parody
of essentials...
the athletic jews
counter the intellectual
africans of the coliseum stage...
the mythological blonde...
or some germanic alias, root...

      - something "non-essential":
that non-posit of the realm
of a variation anglo-sax:
contra bass                          (E):
mythological brown-gesture
& beater and clown -

wasaby swabian...
    brown-nosing
  fudge for glitter goo...
              i'll be dead & more deader
than a harrowing Sue...
because...
  loiter at best of a quest...

throw a cut-off branch...
at a forest...
there's this...
    "mythology of ethos"...
there's this dream without
a diatribe of piquancy...
                there's this polka-dot
alignment pastiche,
brown-nosing
the otherwise "riddle"....
there's this grey this fudge...
this skull filled with
amber and filled with herring...
there's a mythological Baltic..
there isn't a Volga...
which is... a river...

i quench to fathom: the summons...
best this mythological blonde...
this posit of excavation:
i will not be either "here" or "there"...
there's the genesis
africa but not the siberian
tundra...
           because the sound
do "verb" do hinterland... do...
*******: walloping...
                  
                come fudgefudgefudge...
custardpiecustardpie...
ottoman ****** cuts... ich vs. isch
fervour of ******* "last".

.i simply can't get this song out of my head, for a second day: nancy & lee - summer wine... just like i couldn't get jimmy rodgers' kisses sweeter than wine (then again... that might have been the jackson browne & bonnie raitt rendition, i'm guessing most probably the latter)... as i'm pretty sure it's nancy springfield and lee the 70's tash-donning pornstar - sly upperhand singing on the side in between eating oysters...

as i knew i would end the day and begin
my catch-2-hours of: night proper with
a bottle of wine...
how else to celebrate: 'you know,
i really enjoy working with yeast-dough...
oh hell yes, it's much more fun than
the usual dough associated with poaching
dumplings... it's the perfume of yeast...
catch me with a cube of fresh ones
and i'll sit for a while just sniffing it...
yeah... sniffing fresh yeast before actually
using it...'
or at least that how to do it proper
without wanting a take-away pi-za-za...
the sauce is extra herby (extra
basil and oregano) and there's
an added chilli or two...
and enough mozzarella to drown a slice
of ham in with a mushroom or two...

cooking... whoever said it was supposed
to be this pre-****** liberation
1950s postcard homecoming of the housewife:
who said that cooking was a feminine
"job"?
after all, who is Milo Minderbinder?
and who was the cook on the Pequod
or was it Essex?
perhaps that old saying from the Demeter:
it's bad luck to bring women onto a ship...
bad luck indeed: having to name a ship
a woman's name...
but cooking... he hunts and then has
the audacity to cook the **** thing?!
stereotypical - i guess...
what else could i possibly write:
to "correct" myself...

was that anything, in italics, as an introduction...
akin to talking over a radio playing
in the background?

otherwise:
'it was of your making and
then objection, inference and resignation
and revolt. well done'....

and and and...
how best to sum a slow-pacing...
i would have never managed to: well done or
do myself by reaching for the skeleton...
like: it was of your own making,
then an objection, then an inference -
pause: resignation and a crescendo of revolt...

the dignity of walking (cogitans per se)
is being referenced...
and any comment is not a kick-in-the-teeth...
but perhaps i... lack the basics in
identifying very common psychological
apprehensions...

how can something can become so simple?
did i over-romantise it with the latin?
in terms of morality:
i "trans-gender" myself as
new pronoun!

θought: i.e. I ought...
besides, there's the crude manifestation
of a will... when all the knives have
been sharpened...

a comment and i don't know what to do with
it!
i don't know: like it? love it?
dislike it?
can i just keep it, can i just sit on it?
can i pickle it?
can't it wait?
am i expected to provide a dialogue?
which is why i rarely comment...
i could never leave comments
or annotations on books i've read
in the past...

it seems so simple, though!
it's like everyone is supposed to keep this "reality check"!

'it was of your making and
then objection, inference and resignation
and revolt. well done'

a well done i'd call an inedible roast
of beef... a well done i'd call:
chewing gum chicken ******* that
were allowed to sit in the oven for
a period that: doesn't excuse them being
165 degrees when a thermometer is spiked
into the flesh...

what is so "blantantly" obvious!
william buckley jr interviewing norman mailer,
public intellectualism and being drunk
at the same time...
and this horrid testament of gory:
for the better health of the public discourse...

i imagine all the books that never arrived
at the hunchback's angel's purvey
of: what's worth reading... and what isn't...

there i was "thinking" that:
the per se suffix attached... "something"...
it's clearly not a noumenon: res per se
(thing in itself)...
and if it's thinking in itself...
it has to be complicated... adored for what it
is... esp. if it's not related to
some moral θought: I ought...

of the comment provider...
it's quiet staggering...
when you can emphasize with someone...
you hope they're writing about themselves...
you dare not think they're writing about you...
but... in their writing: they are like you...
writing about yourself...
so no... they're not writing about you...
they're writing from a "solipsism" venture
into the horizon "undistrubed"...
you can only retort... i've just come back...
from where you're thinking of going...
and it's not what any hope wishes
itself to envision...
for better or for worse...
for either life or dream...

it's so simple though!
i should listen to strangers more often!
(a) it was of your (own) making
(b) then objection
(c) inference
(d) resignation
(e) revolt

what's that in terms of schematics
and geometry?
that's a pentagram! i haven't seen...
schematics evolve past the square...

that's why i don't like commets...
if i could comment on everything i've ever read...
third-party sourcing someone for
a first-person reply...

perhaps i'm not playing the psychology
game - if it even is a game - at all?
the psychology was just a tow-along
dog with a leash and a muffer...
fair enough: muffer "vs." muzzle...
FF ZZ...
there was this concern for:
what sport will there be demanded...
for man to perform... if he truly
takes walking to the task of countering
all other pleasures: coinciding with
a physical exercise of the body?

i call this: prompt...
how could i not come to such a simple
conclusion, prior?
how could i have possibly coupled:
the freedom of thought...
free speech...
when being... bound to an otherwise:
automated body...
an automated heart... a conscious-unconscious heart...
same for the liver, the kidneys, the brain...
and how... only when it fails...
do people... give it any conscious effort
to mind its existence...
a heart-attack will leave the heart in the hands
of someone who will prize it above...
as long as he is able to sacrifice an eye for it...

walking is where thinking "happens"...
it's a forever dasein since there's
no real "here" or "there"...
and... there's the pervasive interlude...

to have to abhor explaining "things" to oneself...
what are the chances of conjuring
the royal-we or the royal-one...
in that first person via third person meddley?
is there a "they" to be made inclusive...
from a perspective of: the horde of hallucinations?

perhaps i am mad:
but i do know that such conditions do not
become viral,
or at least they shouldn't...
it's not like a schizoid hallucination
can be passed to the next person
with the impetus
of a common detrimental cold: or... zee flu...
you can't "somehow" ingest
symptoms of something akin to this:
without a self-regarding
violition to become... debased to begin with...

i will rarely dare to leave a comment...
on anything...
in so doing i will always want to bypass
"the work"... "in question"...
and speak to the narrator...
because whatever this is...
is it's own purpose...
once i click on the save button...
i do the Pontius Pilate deed...
this poo'em becomes
an abandoned house...
it becomes a squalor...
it becomes a "*****"...
a point of reference for all things
public... akin to a toilet...
**** on it, **** on it... comment: yes do...
**** it... ******* over it...
take Alice with you for
the walk through the corridors of...
not another imagining of not yet another
Elysium...

sometime ago: this would have been...
exactly january 8th...
at ten minutes to 1am...
perhaps it would have been five years
ago...
where was i five years ago?
somehow not right now, "here"...

after a while i get a brailled response...
⠼⠁ view... it's cruel... to have to resort to +
a ⠼⠁⠼⠁ is ⠼⠃
well because of the equals (=) symbol...
morse... contra braille...

count them! (⠼)...
⠁(a and 1)
⠃ (b and 2)
⠚ (j and 0)
⠊ (i and 9)...
and all the other "numbers"
follow suite...
because you really couldn't
write an la dièse: A♯
in braille... then again... perhaps you could...
but that's how i figured out...
it's not exactly the case that
people are born into wheelchairs...

some skydive... some ride horses
competitively...
some scale mountains...
they fall...
i like walking... i always liked walking
more than i would ever care for running...
ignorant of me then...
to "presume" that people are born into
wheelchairs...
like "nothing happened"...
ever...
that 101th carrot a man would eat
being going blind...
or rather: not eating that 101th carrot...

ask blind willie johnson what he
thought about picking up the guitar...
better than waxing a phallus
with forrest gump intent of also playing
the do'whip stoopid toto too!

no... something happened...
Melaine Reid... sure as **** she wasn't born
in a wheelchair...
that's not being mean:
but can i at least enjoy walking when
i don't have a need for the 50th goldstruck marathon
gimmick to celebrate the olympics:
but not the ping-pong or the archery?

can i? it's not like i'm about to swim
like an octopus with inks spare
for a page... that just requires
a dabbling in... a Rorschach?!
really?

who is this person that would have written
either circa 15th century german music
or the dignity of walking (cogitans per se)...
well... certainly not circa me, now...
i was expecting a slow night...
to have written something and not have
clinging to it...
i was welcoming it to have passed
with the purpose of time as:
neither classic... nor worth any intellectual
debate...
something private for those...
wishing it to be most private...
never a taunt...

you can guess when a comment is asking you:
is this a taunt on purpose...
or a taunt... without purpose?
- about how to start a d.m. escapade...
how something is not, "punctuated enough"...
or how... when diacritical markers come to play...
it's somehow... "overtly-punctuated"...

feed me to the lions! feed me to the wolves!
never expect me to go down easily
as being fed to democracy in the lineage
of anglophile "public intellectuals"!
give me the wolves! spare me the mob!
the anonymous mob of the comments!
i'll probably sound german when
i have to: reiterate:
geben mir der wölfinnen...

perhaps i chose the feminine...
over the masculine... thinking of the valkyrie:
kyrie eleison!
when wolves showed up...
or the crab-bucket intellectualists...
i said it once... i'll say it again:
crab-bucket intellectualism...
even in my darkened abode i will never levy
myself to leave a remains of my self...
not in the comments...

but then again: i am chasing
1 millions words as a pauper...
semi-, oh lord! i have somehow missed
the calculation to offer: relief with!
precision!
if these not be hebrews...
then they must be anglo-ßaß!
esp. h'americanißed anglo-sächsisch...
the scurge of the spitz...
the pomeranian... the bohemian...
the bayer...

oh i'm content with my dole...
my dice roll...
i usually ridicule myself...
there's no better humor than...
self-deprecating humor...
and it always involves...
not succumbing to cheap psychiatric
metaphors associated with
a melancholic... i.e. the diagnostics...

rhyming should only happen on a whisper
of a whim...
spontaneously...
there should be no...
dissection scrutiny.... no fibula no tibia:
oh god... there's also a crest?!
what's a coccyx supposed to be?
ancestral tripod / pivot...
something we'd make of a monkey
should he not jump at your command...
break a few bones,
wind him up... until the jack 'n' box
would pop out?!

it's a poem: it's not a book...
it's certainly not an investment worthy
of these modern binges: season rocky XI...
star wars episode... X...
or some spin-off...

if it were as simple as the retort to the question:
why do you **** people?
- why do you pluck flowers?!
dracula, b.b.c. and what not...
it's not exactly a cliche if...
there's an afterthought lingering behind it...
no "great" punctures onto paper
would ever give
the secrets of constellation or...
if it wasn't for the drinking and the loitering
in the antechamber of spontaneity...
what sort of whim,
what sort of "inspiration"...
what muse... would be bound to loiter...
in a day...
for a day: where the zenith is here...
and the nadir the everyday welcome "chores"
that have, already been disclosed...

i looked at the output of the commentators...
someone's bound to be peacocking...
for a solid minute i thought i was
i.q. 95... sub-minimal...
and a reply to these comments would be?
a "conversation" with this current mask,
of a voice, only 10 minutes later: 10 minutes
too late...

so... why bother?
there's a better vision in my head...
10 minutes from now...
i'll be pandering a cushion
to allow my heavy head to fall into its cusp
and ready me with 6 hours of blissful night...
perhaps i'll dream: i hope not...
unless the dreams are less dreams
and more: ciphers...
upon waking i do not meet the litany of:
i think, i am, i will be, i hope to be...
instead... with a backlog of a dream...
i will wake up as:
de- and -cipher...
half an hour upon waking...
having to relax my strict rules of memory
being reserved for "things" that happened
to me when i was 4 years old...

that's when i break the rules for having
an extensive memory...
when i dream and sleep...
or rather: when i dream i forget that i slept...
and when i sleep and not dream?
i'm left with a hangover of not being awake
for 8 hours plus...
"conundrum" or what?

but if i do dream... those 8 hours of sleep
will seem like a breeze...
otherwise i'm ******...
when i wake up and persist with eyes closed...
de- and -cipher...
de- being i... and -cipher being: the dreamed...
past-participle...
perfect grammar doesn't really matter, now...
given that the royal-pronoun game
has been abandoned...
what with no care for the royal-we
or the royal-one...
one was not expecting to come across
the Mongolian Vay... of They... of the horde...
seems times are...
some on the way in... some on the way out.

jaymi hensley 100% wrightpuff not 80    16.08.18

don't no much information
had to google with elastics
did learn about the wrist and frustration
downward spiral with weight and end to  gymnastics.
but landed on feet
the list of achievements exceed a meter
hope this is not pointless and sweet
poetry is unlike you and  sinitta.
do you have good taste
clear are your innings
no white rock going to waste
peter was leading in hastings.
great was your tash
you did do a  80's painting
how i wish we still had flash
and of course i knew you were waiting.

i hate being subject
to the artefacts of shame
by men who have been
subject to:
male genital mutilation,
in the act of
msturbation:
look!
no scented candles!
no. 1, & 2,
and subsequently no. 3!
a throne of thrones!
but no, oh no!
don't blane me for
your, "kippah":
sure...
because being
circumcised increases
your testosterone
feud...
you can't "enjoy"
jerking off
because you've been
given the... "snippet"!
*******!
no, i mean that:
LITERALLY!
your egoism is a pile
of dog ****'s worth of
an excuse to say:
****** economics,
"short-comings"...
i have *******
because i know
that with a woman
i know how to peel:
and when i *******,
******* "on"...
yes, that scene from
that film
shape of the water:
i too, casually,
genocide one
into a tissue...
i just hate
dealing with the egos
of circumcised men...
it's like they're:
not what
an ian brady
could ever grow up
to be...
when circumcised:
it's like the second
emblem of
the ring that
confirm marriage:
no jerking off...
woman at hand...
sorry... no...
the egoism of
circumcised men
is why i sometimes
forget to sleep...
listening to
   karen straughan?
*******, soft-core
*****...
  why i'd rather
prefer to pet my cat
than touch a woman
that wasn't a postitute?
you forge an alias
for a god via
circumcision
     indebted to
solipsism / autism....
and... "there's"...
   "no problem"?

and what care do i have...
jerking off,
when i the genital-mutilated
at-loss,
crop of ego to bother
myself with
am left: scuttling
for both ***** &
minor;
the extra skin:
no ring...
ergo: no impetus
                      for a woman!

so... cutting the "excess"
skin...
                  i'd love to love
a woman with "excess"
genital skin cut off...
  maybe i'd...
paraphrase:
oh the intact skin
makes me *****, alright...
i ******* more times
than a woman might allow
debriefing me
over the oratory haitus
of the 9 month sacrament
period in...

  i've never attempted
doing ****...

                  as you do...
cut off the schmuck:
don a kippah...
fore: no golf!

     i will not be fed guilt
by men with
circumcised *****
when i *******...
given that
a circumcised ****:
is an unnatural precursor
for a rose-bed's worth
of the floral pattern
of ****!

i'll ******* in the high &
mighty's command...
telling jokes to a ******'s
worth of god...
you turn your egoism
counter to the missing
flesh...
of curating the paintings
of the missing
cartilage of van gogh's
ear...

and did you know...
ed gein was the authory
of the majority
of 20th century's
culture?

          oh Awoolf Hittite
wasn't even close...
for the worth of pleb
having missed
the middle man...

maybe that's why i "forgot"
my incentive
to quest for women...
maybe i was forever
born with a disadvantage...
well...
if you haven't been
born without a circumcision...
the excess of ****
is worth... what?

sure... *******
doesn't make sense...
when you've been circumcised...
****'s worth akin
to the seasons...
only with the "excess"
amount of skin...

            but being circumcised...
are you not
constantly exposed
to the "need"
for a gratification
of interaction
with woman?

            so...
circumcision is like:
impetus?

          i was always
supposed
to be lazy,
          or i was never to
qualify as justifying
a woman's completion
in the satiated quip or:
ready red ******
harvesting a need
for the itching beard's
borrow of 5pm shadow,
& stubble?

compensation:
"excess skin"
and...
the...
shavings of legs and pits...

please...
i can't deal with
the egoism of these
circumcised men...

and i'm not surprised...
*******
makes no sense
without, that, "excess"
of skin...

   come to think of it...
FGM makes sense
in a world where
males are not given
the "kippah-tattoo"
of a "necessary"
loss of skin...

women can *******,
no problem,
uninhibited...
so...
   i am to be subject
to the same shame tactic
of circumcised men,
not being
castrated men?

the "excess" skin is
there for a reason,
no. 1, 2, & 3 on the toilet...
no 3rd party welcome...

thank god most of ****
movies are performed
by men with
their snippets' worth
of: "improvement"...
that's how i learned
to peel my phallus...
without being
circumcised...

           but circumcised
**** egoism?
   in a dynamic of
                  the "hooded wink"?
no...
         when you tell
your ***** sister
to stop doing
the: come the *******,
ergo the whole ****:
in the form of *****...
videos...
     of...

     i still prefer the solo acts...
the softcore...
and yes...
that canadian psychologist
was right:
i will never **** these women...
given that i much prefer
1970s: Boogie Nights
*******...
the burt reynolds' 'tash...

grannies by my arithmetic
"count" worth of realism...

she ***** savvy: smart...
with her "excess" skin
of the genitals...
  but some ponce of a "Jew"
with a missing scoop
of an impetus:
who the hell deserves to be
given a second
impetus to be associated
with woman,
via a missing "excess"
of the ******* skin?

one worded association:
do i look
******* ******
to you, or nein?