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"teutonic" poems
Thanks thespis for another muse anew, Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song, To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters, before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin, as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis, neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time giving classical balance for wondrous poetry. Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed, Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity, Warped physique not short of history, Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry, nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times, That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest Of man and woman to the cultural matrix Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia, From which was born Pushkin that took poetry Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars, And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear, The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov, Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky. A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax, Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of ***** bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed, poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany, writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus, that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing, but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal, as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles, the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka, that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
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Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
NEUROTIC LAW OF POETRY
Thanks thespis for another muse anew, Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song, To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters, before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin, as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis, neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time giving classical balance for wondrous poetry. Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed, Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity, Warped physique not short of history, Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry, nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times, That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest Of man and woman to the cultural matrix Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia, From which was born Pushkin that took poetry Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars, And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear, The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov, Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky. A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax, Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of ***** bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed, poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany, writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus, that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing, but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal, as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles, the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka, that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
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Todesfugue ("Death Fugue") by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry. Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts
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Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
Paul Celan "Death Fugue" translation
Todesfugue ("Death Fugue") by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry. Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts
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.                           revolution?!    what revolution?! i can't see a guillotine! **** hey! guys! there's no guillotine! there's no talk of a revolution when there's no guillotine... your talk of, a, "revolution" would make Marquis de Sade cringe, and shout down a toilet than out of window of the Bastille.. this isn't a revolution, it's on;ly 2018.... you have to wait!    why are tthe people so slothful, yet at the same time, eager, to work? we're looking at "changes" come 2045...   the year... that apparently stabilized the 2th0 century for 20 / 30 / 40 / 5... no... let's keep it with sucker-punch Billy... i love being a drunk... makes all the sober people look... ******* stupid; and i don't even mean that.... it's just a military fatigue...          it akin to: coulrophobia... yeah... big time... women making excursions for fatigued wool and silk dresses...        one question does the job... *honey, can i play the clown at our honey- berry's birthday party?* do women go into mascara parlors, window shopping, with a man tagging along?          honey... do you really need me to tag along while you shop for make-up chemical parade of tested adherents for your beauty of your expectation of fur... Mike and Moany - the gerbils... i thought you liked them? no...       i can do the sheered woolen artifacts... when it comes to spreading lipstick on frogs and testing their pyrotechnic susceptibility potential... watching the Mike Myers' twins... no... really... count me out of the necessity to make an argument for a race... i'm out... done... i never liked the English existentialist argument to begin with... too individualistic, too finite...              too much of: enjoying  a hell of a good time...     it's a simple economic logic focus... what you're selling? i'm not buying. it's that simple! i don't have to buy what you're selling! stand with it all stacked up... i'm not buying! somehow i think the English intellectuals forgot the basic principles... i'm, not, buying! savvy? god... ugh... i know the French are bad... about their oversee of diacritical application, and how they make no sense when syllables come into play... and the Germans... yeah yeah... i get their scrutiny of method and dedication... their teutonic charge within the confines of ******** screws into place...               but i'm still not seeing an clearer... there's talk of a revolution in the English tongue... so...          where's the guillotine?! oh... so... what revolution?!
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Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
the big IF
.                           revolution?!    what revolution?! i can't see a guillotine! **** hey! guys! there's no guillotine! there's no talk of a revolution when there's no guillotine... your talk of, a, "revolution" would make Marquis de Sade cringe, and shout down a toilet than out of window of the Bastille.. this isn't a revolution, it's on;ly 2018.... you have to wait!    why are tthe people so slothful, yet at the same time, eager, to work? we're looking at "changes" come 2045...   the year... that apparently stabilized the 2th0 century for 20 / 30 / 40 / 5... no... let's keep it with sucker-punch Billy... i love being a drunk... makes all the sober people look... ******* stupid; and i don't even mean that.... it's just a military fatigue...          it akin to: coulrophobia... yeah... big time... women making excursions for fatigued wool and silk dresses...        one question does the job... *honey, can i play the clown at our honey- berry's birthday party?* do women go into mascara parlors, window shopping, with a man tagging along?          honey... do you really need me to tag along while you shop for make-up chemical parade of tested adherents for your beauty of your expectation of fur... Mike and Moany - the gerbils... i thought you liked them? no...       i can do the sheered woolen artifacts... when it comes to spreading lipstick on frogs and testing their pyrotechnic susceptibility potential... watching the Mike Myers' twins... no... really... count me out of the necessity to make an argument for a race... i'm out... done... i never liked the English existentialist argument to begin with... too individualistic, too finite...              too much of: enjoying  a hell of a good time...     it's a simple economic logic focus... what you're selling? i'm not buying. it's that simple! i don't have to buy what you're selling! stand with it all stacked up... i'm not buying! somehow i think the English intellectuals forgot the basic principles... i'm, not, buying! savvy? god... ugh... i know the French are bad... about their oversee of diacritical application, and how they make no sense when syllables come into play... and the Germans... yeah yeah... i get their scrutiny of method and dedication... their teutonic charge within the confines of ******** screws into place...               but i'm still not seeing an clearer... there's talk of a revolution in the English tongue... so...          where's the guillotine?! oh... so... what revolution?!
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Mein Gott! Can't you see, in the Teutonic light, What we proudly Sieg Heil with the torches all gleaming? The ******** beckons, through the perilous fight, Great Deutschland awakens, not sleeping or dreaming! On the huge TV screens, the footballers are seen, Foul proof through the night Brave Germany's dream. O please make that Hakenkreuz banner come first! We're the land of Sauerkraut, brave home of the Wurst.
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Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
The German Football Anthem
.few people don't know, unless they read Sienkiewicz... but the Marienburg Castle at Malbork... was originally constructed from white, & ghostly grey brick... not red brick... the red bricklayers came with it being destroyed from the German erasing their shame at it being, claimed... the whole structure used to be a ghostly shaman color of fog... partly white, partly grey... but never... exactly... red brick... did you know that the Teutonic Order was the first to invigorate / or rather instigate the primordial concept of a... post office? well... i guess somehow had to write out the demise of the concept, or be caught up in it, reaching the 100m finish line. those monks really invented / invested / investigated the premise of a post-office... shame, really, that the post-office is lying on the death bed... and the only "thing" that cana rekindle it is... a relapse into postcards... which will never happen... just as hand writing will collapse into: nothing more than a scrawly stature of pseudo-literacy - of a signature.
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Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
origins of a post office / the color of bricks
Cold white numerals from the Teutonic-honest dash: 9.5°C Not so cold, I guess but not the weather to press the button for the windows to drop I do while accelerating too fast for the road, the fresh air has volume that angry-loves my tired, house-cat skin The wub-wub-wub pulse in my ears has a cause I control for once as the next curve beckons
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Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 9:19 AM UTC
Driving gloves
It’s the Shiite Protestants we fear the most. It’s the ******* Christians Scaring the **** out of us now. It’s those John Birch Catholics Making us fill our boots with *** As in shaking, quaking in our boots, Complete loss of bladder control (BLAD-CON MED AD HERE. I invite Pfizer, Merck and GlaxoSmithKline To get in on this poem: The poet continuing to reject the Dying in the gutter-artist track, Making poetry pay at last, that’s right: A commercial right in the Middle of a ******* poem. Hey Big Pharma: What are you selling? What you got for incontinence, Babaloo?) But I digress. I was making a point about Far-right Christian evangelicals, A significant demographic within the American electorate. Jesus was an Aryan, they believe. Degenerate Art, Literature, Music & Jews must go! It’s time to purify the race again. Time for the Huns & Other Teutonic tribes to Broadcast insidious seed. Anti-Semitism rebooted. Jew-bashing in America 8.0. Need I remind the Tea Party that Haym Solomon-- a Philadelphia Jew-- Financed the Revolution. What about Bernie Madoff? When a smart Jew goes to jail in America, Anything could happen.
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Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
“It’s the Shiite Protestants”
*it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.* revision of Enya: **** away **** away,         against the wind against the wind; mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end Loud Don... bonkers bunch...                                                     now that is random, i wanted to make a serious point, and i will (insert snigger)... eventually. what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of von Kleist against Kant... Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe, i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously and lectured on his poetry, von Kleist committed suicide out of despair having read Kant's critique... but what i want to do: to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and then use each technique to describe it's origin... so for example metaphor... given that poetry is ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v. series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII, and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne) and that offended the king... so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta, who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz                    with fire and sword - the sword that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)... so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean death?', 'only if she doesn't move', so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there and then with great stealth moves in the other direction and cuts her head off from the left... so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō, an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done: nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh... no... you need to drop the anchor:                          poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.
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May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
necrosis of the Latin tongue
*it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.* revision of Enya: **** away **** away,         against the wind against the wind; mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end Loud Don... bonkers bunch...                                                     now that is random, i wanted to make a serious point, and i will (insert snigger)... eventually. what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of von Kleist against Kant... Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe, i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously and lectured on his poetry, von Kleist committed suicide out of despair having read Kant's critique... but what i want to do: to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and then use each technique to describe it's origin... so for example metaphor... given that poetry is ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v. series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII, and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne) and that offended the king... so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta, who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz                    with fire and sword - the sword that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)... so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean death?', 'only if she doesn't move', so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there and then with great stealth moves in the other direction and cuts her head off from the left... so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō, an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done: nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh... no... you need to drop the anchor:                          poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.
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The slipping plates of the planet Grind ceaselessly against each other In terse and violent tension.   Neighbour against neighbour, Conflicting caress of rock against rock Until one gives.                               The tension explodes. Little Boy ten thousand fold Wrecks vast destruction across Land, sea, village and city With indifference For whoever Whatever Wherever. What feeling, what emotion, Crashes through the landscape, Dashing communities, families, Mother and child, father and friends, School children, colleagues, Shopkeepers and trades? Picked up and tossed over and under By wave after wave, dragging crushing debris. A black lascivious tongue Unfurling its fury, lashing The skin of humanity From the face of the Earth. *(And what do I care of the destruction? Of all the pain it leaves behind? Of the ever-rising body count Upon a never-ceasing tide. I am on my way, surfing The fury, feeling all powerful And magnificent, but all the time Controlled and ruined).*
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Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
Teutonic Temper
It is only a big fool that marries from a matriarchal family And a heavy-weight duffer marrying from the matriarchal clan There is always a poisonous cobra, mamba and adder in the matriarchal Beauty. Snaring like calypso to thrash the callow ridden odyssey in the lover As it went for the stooges in Kenya blind to the colubrine station falling in love With daughters, spinsters, wenches, damsels and brunetes of matriarchal heritage They were swallowed by the inherent colubrine queen at the bottom of matriarchy It swallowed them all, lawyers, warriors, merchants, politicians, beggars, billionaires, Lordships of top-notch corporations, gurus of research, legends of foot-ball, din magnates Negroes, Asians, Britons, Teutonic, Luos, Mulmbe men, Mijikenda and all that had money, Their kinsmen and tribes now grieve in a song, Chanting the song of loss in my mother tongue; Sialile papa!sialile papa! Sicha esirove! Sialile yaya!sialile yaya! Sicha esirove! Wanangali wa wabaseve,Niiye wamulile! Emenyele buli abira! yakhaba mukisumu! Ese beve! ese beve! ese beve!ese beve! By-Alexander Opicho (From Lodwar, Kenya) [email protected]
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Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
The Cobra in Matriarchal Beauty
it begins with saint piran's flag... well, let's just say that, there ought to be two "offending" but classicly marxist, separatists governing bodies in, what's know as geo-politics... upper-class retards think that the people occupying the home county known as essex are, complete idiots... well... hello my "fellow" londoner! nibble on some rat-shit, get a pigeon **** ******* on your top-hat? **** **** off! the northerners can't claim, that i'm a southern fairy... in europe there the north / south and the east / west divide... the southerners seem to prosper, as do easteners... and likewise... essex, and the whole "point" of the south-east... no... cornwall wan't to be indepedent, like the basques in spain... and that flag... may i make a suggestion to counter the cornwallians? revert, allow essex to have a teutonic inspired flag in reverse to yours... i.e. a black crux on a maiden's "body". living in essex, i've started to become, irritated by this county becoming a joke fior the whole nation... like a bunch of indians saying goa in portuguese... sure, i know: northern monkeys... wild antics and bits and bobs... essex has produced snooker champions... the other sort of chess-players... the geometricians... and then the serving geographic is simply quote as: sun-tan orange "quirky" accent; and all, from a megapolis that exterminates rats, but feeds urban pigeons. in essex? we have woodland pigeons, and they look like the very-most pristine theologians, if not priests... and they're fat... blooming... and they have the equivalent of a dog collar... and sure as **** they won't have one their legs, reduced to a stump with all the claws removed... like an urban pigeon might, strutting... well... "strutting"... merely limping.
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May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
essex imitating cornwall
it begins with saint piran's flag... well, let's just say that, there ought to be two "offending" but classicly marxist, separatists governing bodies in, what's know as geo-politics... upper-class retards think that the people occupying the home county known as essex are, complete idiots... well... hello my "fellow" londoner! nibble on some rat-shit, get a pigeon **** ******* on your top-hat? **** **** off! the northerners can't claim, that i'm a southern fairy... in europe there the north / south and the east / west divide... the southerners seem to prosper, as do easteners... and likewise... essex, and the whole "point" of the south-east... no... cornwall wan't to be indepedent, like the basques in spain... and that flag... may i make a suggestion to counter the cornwallians? revert, allow essex to have a teutonic inspired flag in reverse to yours... i.e. a black crux on a maiden's "body". living in essex, i've started to become, irritated by this county becoming a joke fior the whole nation... like a bunch of indians saying goa in portuguese... sure, i know: northern monkeys... wild antics and bits and bobs... essex has produced snooker champions... the other sort of chess-players... the geometricians... and then the serving geographic is simply quote as: sun-tan orange "quirky" accent; and all, from a megapolis that exterminates rats, but feeds urban pigeons. in essex? we have woodland pigeons, and they look like the very-most pristine theologians, if not priests... and they're fat... blooming... and they have the equivalent of a dog collar... and sure as **** they won't have one their legs, reduced to a stump with all the claws removed... like an urban pigeon might, strutting... well... "strutting"... merely limping.
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43
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs. millennial, generation y, huh?!     also called the: bearable heaviness of non-being...    say: survivors of auschwitz, and apart from Kundera, i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit      hangover...    and when i speak the native tongue i use double emphasis... everything suddenly becomes italic...     gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja, ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on               a licky-sticky schtaisse: vroom bog-tie boom boom...    everntually language is just that:    magnifique sounds, mein herr,     be that a cello i hear?                       nada... mindlessly i too   feigned a farting brigadier, farting into        a brass horn: worth a gingerbread / pumpernickle        marching rhythm. yes, double emphasis in the native... kosz (koš)... bin...     trza błagać... błagać!         o śmierć... beg for death...              but hetman cossak said smerc... and it sounded altogether better.    a household argument,    after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout an afternoon of general bewilderment:         a heap of pebbles makes more sense than the Orion constelation...               given the mathematical approach to the situation, and subsequent mapping...    because they really did drop a bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki...                 and that's why 21st creativity is trapped in a hamster's routine...     karaoke is standard...                          this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist! so i said: you really think you conquered yapan?            jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican                               jah jah *** buck...       rasta root mon, rasta root.     battered and bruised...                someohow this whole dating scene passed me by...                      and what happened to me aged 21... is strangely becoming the norm                        of giving the circumstance:   i can't remember being of any age, particular.   the quicker argument would coincide with:     give me a machinegun, and march me into a Latvian forest...                    because, right now, it's a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash    or more like a leech,                          and an afternoon spent pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami                      of adverts... calling it a job done, with a siberian brew: cow juice in                        tea...                      liquid werther's original.
0
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
liquid werther's original
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs. millennial, generation y, huh?!     also called the: bearable heaviness of non-being...    say: survivors of auschwitz, and apart from Kundera, i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit      hangover...    and when i speak the native tongue i use double emphasis... everything suddenly becomes italic...     gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja, ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on               a licky-sticky schtaisse: vroom bog-tie boom boom...    everntually language is just that:    magnifique sounds, mein herr,     be that a cello i hear?                       nada... mindlessly i too   feigned a farting brigadier, farting into        a brass horn: worth a gingerbread / pumpernickle        marching rhythm. yes, double emphasis in the native... kosz (koš)... bin...     trza błagać... błagać!         o śmierć... beg for death...              but hetman cossak said smerc... and it sounded altogether better.    a household argument,    after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout an afternoon of general bewilderment:         a heap of pebbles makes more sense than the Orion constelation...               given the mathematical approach to the situation, and subsequent mapping...    because they really did drop a bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki...                 and that's why 21st creativity is trapped in a hamster's routine...     karaoke is standard...                          this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist! so i said: you really think you conquered yapan?            jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican                               jah jah *** buck...       rasta root mon, rasta root.     battered and bruised...                someohow this whole dating scene passed me by...                      and what happened to me aged 21... is strangely becoming the norm                        of giving the circumstance:   i can't remember being of any age, particular.   the quicker argument would coincide with:     give me a machinegun, and march me into a Latvian forest...                    because, right now, it's a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash    or more like a leech,                          and an afternoon spent pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami                      of adverts... calling it a job done, with a siberian brew: cow juice in                        tea...                      liquid werther's original.
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64
*when i was in St. Petersburg i must have picked up a Rasputin virus, a Siberian gnat bite... **** you not; the only misery i have is that my counterfeiting assailants were, at best, middle class, and not aristocratic.* no, honestly, after reading the style magazine with all its smooch bravado of resentment and care... i hash-tagged myself: yep it's trending... i've just about finished a 70cl bottle of whiskey ******* around with Dylan Thomas and St. George... draco ex cymru. but still it hits me, encoding sounds was never so hard... those clouds of sunset look so much better and multi-coloured when they do with sunglasses... i don't know what's in these sunglasses but i'm picking out pinks and purples... which i can't make out without the sunglasses... an L.S.D. trip or what? i wrote this faster than you'll read it, given the skim- aspect of literature, immediate journalistic recycling... they still love Shakespeare, don't know why, don't ask me why, it's an affair of the english education system... well... ploy... conspiracies are welcome posthumously and adequate intellectual material.... was it Marlowe or John Dee the Elizabethan era double O 7 alchemist to blame? never seen oxygen paired up like that! must be a crucifix miracle! desecrate christ subsequently desecrate all remnants of royal authority, **** into the crown of the governor of Liechtenstein: what? i need the loo! the idea of you teaching me manners is like you teaching me Hadrian's is synonymous with qin shi Huang's rattle; rattle meaning the broken spines of the bricklayers who levelled the ground around them with cement... and still the Mongol horde came! Scots looked at Hadrian's accomplishment and laughed drunk with a lullaby. the Mongols stretched their tongues saying: if Europe and Iraq to be ours, we have to climb that, no arrow will crumble it even if shot at the cracks! i love walls, esp. if they're like Malbork castle of red brick... once owned by Teutonic knights... i end up playing abstract chess with their brickwork, a strange arithmetic... girlfriend? what for? have you heard of the aces movement?
0
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Marlowe and Dee and 70cl
*when i was in St. Petersburg i must have picked up a Rasputin virus, a Siberian gnat bite... **** you not; the only misery i have is that my counterfeiting assailants were, at best, middle class, and not aristocratic.* no, honestly, after reading the style magazine with all its smooch bravado of resentment and care... i hash-tagged myself: yep it's trending... i've just about finished a 70cl bottle of whiskey ******* around with Dylan Thomas and St. George... draco ex cymru. but still it hits me, encoding sounds was never so hard... those clouds of sunset look so much better and multi-coloured when they do with sunglasses... i don't know what's in these sunglasses but i'm picking out pinks and purples... which i can't make out without the sunglasses... an L.S.D. trip or what? i wrote this faster than you'll read it, given the skim- aspect of literature, immediate journalistic recycling... they still love Shakespeare, don't know why, don't ask me why, it's an affair of the english education system... well... ploy... conspiracies are welcome posthumously and adequate intellectual material.... was it Marlowe or John Dee the Elizabethan era double O 7 alchemist to blame? never seen oxygen paired up like that! must be a crucifix miracle! desecrate christ subsequently desecrate all remnants of royal authority, **** into the crown of the governor of Liechtenstein: what? i need the loo! the idea of you teaching me manners is like you teaching me Hadrian's is synonymous with qin shi Huang's rattle; rattle meaning the broken spines of the bricklayers who levelled the ground around them with cement... and still the Mongol horde came! Scots looked at Hadrian's accomplishment and laughed drunk with a lullaby. the Mongols stretched their tongues saying: if Europe and Iraq to be ours, we have to climb that, no arrow will crumble it even if shot at the cracks! i love walls, esp. if they're like Malbork castle of red brick... once owned by Teutonic knights... i end up playing abstract chess with their brickwork, a strange arithmetic... girlfriend? what for? have you heard of the aces movement?
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40
When do the lines between like and love blur? What are the signs of that teutonic murmur that changes I like you into I love you with just one skipped beat of the heart? Is it not imperceptible? Whereas love at first sight brings all the boom booms and bang bangs of a new circus in town this feeling I have now did not come with bells and whistles attached. There was no proclamation. As if I'd turned my back, dropped my guard and suddenly there you were. Brand new. And your smile did not bounce off my eyes this time but pierced, a spear hurled to the core of a place I hardly remembered. After that I held you slightly tighter kissed you a little harder and wished for you a lot more than I'd ever wished for me. :)
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May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
To Like or To Love?
*and when they write their novels, the last thing they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are twists in the plot... philosophy books are only akin to novella by creating contradictions, as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap of phenomenology;     some say contradictions are desired faults in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic", meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's                ∞ = a-z....                  the two are incompatible correlatives... crafted to ensure babushka lingua                          sell her tomatoes...                                and all subsequent blah blahs; oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year, you want me to feel sorry for you?               pet a rat!* and will i dicta villager simply,                                                       qualm?!                     you! ruddier! charcoal fat! you sludge-ipsen             you vermont Kaiser guised! you! finicky, thing!             avocado fat **** let us bravado a chin!   that double! half-wit quiff!    fringe alongside the combover! all things elongated towards a giraffe....                              you! squeaky Lombard of Milan! you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian! cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic; defaced, with mention of tectonic; and they did live, a happily ever after,                          which is the sad part; you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber! i dare not carve my name in stone...     i carve my name in lamb limbs...                    so i debase myself on the throttle when there's encouragement of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth; i look upon the toil,     as i might take slightness of asserting the earthenware,       to have milked the cow, or to have leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -         there you are... a kingly kin awoken... there the highlands... and there the deposited   into basin...                              for all pyrotechnics there's still the pedophobia -                 means i have an aversion becoming a father... i don't like children... do i hate to?       ~. really, do i have to? as it strands... i have to. it was Macbeth who looked down, and said: as mere pebble be,         i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens even if they conjunction Aries into      a warring tide...                             there, among the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...      i find time worth embedding a scaling into...           a rigidity, that could never define Romeo, and as said... lost the mc.        as having lost the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
0
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
a stick had two ends
*and when they write their novels, the last thing they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are twists in the plot... philosophy books are only akin to novella by creating contradictions, as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap of phenomenology;     some say contradictions are desired faults in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic", meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's                ∞ = a-z....                  the two are incompatible correlatives... crafted to ensure babushka lingua                          sell her tomatoes...                                and all subsequent blah blahs; oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year, you want me to feel sorry for you?               pet a rat!* and will i dicta villager simply,                                                       qualm?!                     you! ruddier! charcoal fat! you sludge-ipsen             you vermont Kaiser guised! you! finicky, thing!             avocado fat **** let us bravado a chin!   that double! half-wit quiff!    fringe alongside the combover! all things elongated towards a giraffe....                              you! squeaky Lombard of Milan! you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian! cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic; defaced, with mention of tectonic; and they did live, a happily ever after,                          which is the sad part; you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber! i dare not carve my name in stone...     i carve my name in lamb limbs...                    so i debase myself on the throttle when there's encouragement of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth; i look upon the toil,     as i might take slightness of asserting the earthenware,       to have milked the cow, or to have leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -         there you are... a kingly kin awoken... there the highlands... and there the deposited   into basin...                              for all pyrotechnics there's still the pedophobia -                 means i have an aversion becoming a father... i don't like children... do i hate to?       ~. really, do i have to? as it strands... i have to. it was Macbeth who looked down, and said: as mere pebble be,         i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens even if they conjunction Aries into      a warring tide...                             there, among the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...      i find time worth embedding a scaling into...           a rigidity, that could never define Romeo, and as said... lost the mc.        as having lost the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
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66
They're just an assortment .of letters that bounce off the corners and crash into the netting that stands as a barrier but each to his master or the spirit where the level's lopsided, then the line up begins and each letter wins a place in the heart of some beast and words issue forth as if Moses had dropped off the radar and boosted a sports car to get down to the start line and taste some of that water that the spirit had turned into red wine and the words stand in fine print, tuxedo's, bold Romans still bouncing off corners, I'm all for the underdog if he doesn't have fleas and if I catch him scratching he's out on his ear, queer how language finds so many meanings in the slang words that strangle and stifle conversations, I choked on a dialect once and someone performed the Goering manoeuvre which is like the Heimlich one but more Teutonic, thank you and mine comes with gin. This is what Thursday is capable and culpable of, homicidal tendencies that's it the letters stopped moving around there is sound but that's from the street vendors who send kisses by air mail and I am left with the assortment some achievement huh?
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Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
In the madness of Morning where the swallows cough drops
i guess black on white, is the subverssive method, teutonic, given that prussians weren't exactly what the germans later incorporated; ah yes, the mistake upon invitation, to allow the baltic crusades; a black cross, upon a white flag. as someone living in england, i hear this frequently from         american youtubers...     *i didn't ask for your ******* opinion! blah blah!*         that's strange...       i don't know why   people have created this subjective-dialectic monster...                no one is having    objective-dialectics...           they get so ****** emotional... *i didn't ask for your ******* opinion! n'ah n'ah me me me.* comes a time, when, it's really great to shut up...           evidently if someone tells you: your opinion is not welcome,     then free-speech per se, is also not welcome; so much for the "atheistic" community damning subjectivity,      championing objectivity, but when a need to reply comes along and establish a dialogue...      there are only two people,           one shouting into one cave,                 and the other,              shouting into another cave; have these people ever have conversations with people on park benches?        for all i know, i have...    right now?           i'm not talking: you're talking what i've written...      effortless... like a falling leaf in autumn; or as sarcasm goes: thanks for the effort     in exercising your right of free speech; i'm still looking for an objectivity on this site...               but it's subjectivity ping-pong, either how infuriated i can become,     or how volcano-ready i seem to be ready to suddenly snap.   i don't understand how a calmness of voice translates as being objective...      it's just one of those clever tricks                                           of sophistry; nonetheless...                   it's the analogy of two caves... so much for dialectics,                 given the need for third parties and a complete lack of open dialogue...               and, subsequently... so much for this so called badminton                                               of free speech. oh thank **** i'm not talking     and writing on the colour of a flag that could resemble "defeat"... since i wouldn't exactly call it the saudi green of the ethos surrounding submission.
0
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
analogy of the two caves
i guess black on white, is the subverssive method, teutonic, given that prussians weren't exactly what the germans later incorporated; ah yes, the mistake upon invitation, to allow the baltic crusades; a black cross, upon a white flag. as someone living in england, i hear this frequently from         american youtubers...     *i didn't ask for your ******* opinion! blah blah!*         that's strange...       i don't know why   people have created this subjective-dialectic monster...                no one is having    objective-dialectics...           they get so ****** emotional... *i didn't ask for your ******* opinion! n'ah n'ah me me me.* comes a time, when, it's really great to shut up...           evidently if someone tells you: your opinion is not welcome,     then free-speech per se, is also not welcome; so much for the "atheistic" community damning subjectivity,      championing objectivity, but when a need to reply comes along and establish a dialogue...      there are only two people,           one shouting into one cave,                 and the other,              shouting into another cave; have these people ever have conversations with people on park benches?        for all i know, i have...    right now?           i'm not talking: you're talking what i've written...      effortless... like a falling leaf in autumn; or as sarcasm goes: thanks for the effort     in exercising your right of free speech; i'm still looking for an objectivity on this site...               but it's subjectivity ping-pong, either how infuriated i can become,     or how volcano-ready i seem to be ready to suddenly snap.   i don't understand how a calmness of voice translates as being objective...      it's just one of those clever tricks                                           of sophistry; nonetheless...                   it's the analogy of two caves... so much for dialectics,                 given the need for third parties and a complete lack of open dialogue...               and, subsequently... so much for this so called badminton                                               of free speech. oh thank **** i'm not talking     and writing on the colour of a flag that could resemble "defeat"... since i wouldn't exactly call it the saudi green of the ethos surrounding submission.
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61
un-orthodox, i admit, but so was the diacritical marking on iota...        as catholic policy goes the above stated word would be written as cień..            which means shadow. breaking from tradition? how about inventing it?    that's bad too?                   lao che's godzina w...                     varshava часмир? or the next point, disclosed upon the hour's count?           there... floating above me, crow-signalling a crack for the break of dawn (as symbol of the teutonic black on white cross)....   infantalism is the greatest agony, to be called a child is to have no memory of actually being a child...   this is what can only be said to be sad... *vilchór / wilchoor / vilčoor /         wilchør / wilczór /          vilčür / vilčör / wilchœr...* i mean... how many variations on the word vilk / wilk / wolf / łólf do you want? the term vilchoor originates from alpha, not omega...                      question is: should that be an             ee      between v and l... or what diacritical marks are actually missing, or maybe there are too many to apply to the english language?                 i'm all for the latter being true.
0
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 8:01 PM UTC
cień / ćeń / ćęń (shadow)