/                              don't know...
      maybe the song mein teil
just made me do it...
   or perhaps i became "lost",
or rather, bored with
video uploads in the sub-media?
perhaps i just like to
sit, "quasi"-drunk,
   imitating a balancing "act":

  drunk...

  of a "clue" into
      deciphering buddha...
but a turkish akimbo on
a windowsill?
          surely i can't be drunk
and do such a posture?
   guess i'm: seriously *******?!

but i am,
and i have a wrath
  that will eat everything in its way
and itself to conclude
     the ploughed field.

they could have encompassed
the happy, catholic labourer
on a construction site...
  where: feminism?
   falls flat, since there voices
are confined
to the canteen...

                 construction industry
is a no go zone,
   for feminism...
                but if they do want to
go there?
           industrial roofing...
         in summer:

   YOU'RE MORE THAN
******* WELCOME!

                     come! come!
               vee nee'd'zzzzzz uzzzzz!
    (k is not even
there...
   while you're at church
giving it the boston terrier
                                            "lap")
better­ than counting sheep
while falling asleep:
count them....
1 by 1,
    1 by 1...
                   drop... like... flies....

mein teil!

            can't expect me to respect
the army with the women
so welcome...

     but i do expect the last
"army" to exclude with good intentions...

namely the construction industry...

    any women found
in this economic expression...
and i'll be looking for
a sioux on advice on how
to pitch a tent with
               a ******* bedsheet!

(making ****** sounds,
with a protruding tongue,
slapping the forehead...
"moment"...

           nope... lost by
surd encoding pass at this point).

        but it did happen...
how on earth blackadder
degenerated into mr. bean:
i'll never know...

    guess translating thespain-spresch
works,
even if you're a plumber...

will this writing flop, or fail?
hell: i hope it doesn't succeed!
for starters.                 

but apparently it's all:
hands up in the air,
   like i just don't care(!)
   attidute...
          so heaven-sent
    thong-negligee-und-lace'end-tights!

**** me!
               an over-sweated in
bolsheviks' cap!
                                      well done!        

since, if making **** is a liberty of
the opposite ***?

         what is the liberty of the equal
perspective: of the *** speaking
with this tonuge, that shares the same
constraints, rather than "the same"
concerns?
    
what? and capitalist corporations are
not synonymous with the western
concept of communist communes,
collectivist "farms":

just like my grandfather predicted....
capitalist corporations
are hardly differentiable from
communist collectivists;

                           n'est-ce pas?                 /

My tongue runs over my swollen gums.
I taste the blood.
I feel the aching zones
Between off-white and red.
It stings.
There's not enough room in my mouth.
My tonuge runs down the row of 16;
There are two prongs sticking up
Where they shouldn't be.
Wisdom teeth.
Four corners, four teeth.
My teeth are textured.
Some feel smooth
Some ripple
Some have edges that grate against my tongue.
One tooth hides behind another
Afraid of the air
And the water.
The tooth that once housed a hole
Is now thicker than the rest.
Thick with plastic
Or whatever it is they use.

It's a cavern of discomfort
Cause by my own doing.
Blood.
Plaque.
Pressure.
I should've been a bird.

This is a procession of bodies.
Him on the couch, right next to me tonuge stuck too far down.
You there too far away. Too confusing. Too much too anything. Too little everything.
Another stuck somewhere in the middle. Cute and sweet and here for now.
One right at my fingertips. A friend. A must have filled with so much hope.
Another too clingy, without spark. In no certain place at all.

And there will be others...  I think.
But what I have learned,
body after body,
Is that this is how the procession takes place.

Happy, or so it seemed
Happiness with you seems like inadequacy
Happiness may feel like a bad stomach ache
Or saying goodbye over and over again

Maybe happiness is biting your tonuge
Telling everyone you love “no”
Watching yourself slip away
Pushing yourself off the highest peak

Maybe happiness was finding myself at rock bottom
Watchng you bury me even farther into the ground
Watching you laugh as you put the dirt over my face
Making sure I was really dead

Happiness was actually getting up
Brushing the dirt off
Looking myself in the face
Finding myself alive again

praying towards the roof of the mouth, cathedral hallways
you said
on my knees elapsing
towards a response from you
but you’re carving out your tonsils in the kitchen
you said
i said
think of the excuses you left on the floor
roll them at me in between eyes
You can smell it
you said
You can smell it on my mouth
mopping the floor with your sight
it’s frightening
waking to
shattering keys
leaving keys in
locks and bed and shelves and waking to keys in loopholes and
a headache
like the swelling of a wave before
he crashes back in
to himself
back in to the shore line of
his face. his face of uncertainty,
uncertainty quivers
the tip of this wave
into a sea of uncertainty
flinches at outstretched hands
fingers readily echoing the ******* of mothballs under the sink
until the pipes are collapsing
upon the cloud we fell in love under, ripe and ready  to rain
when we thundered, and we did, it was not a
drizzle, a collapse, a clap from the gods but a murmur
but nothing.
"Nothing under this sun could hurt me,” I tell myself
(other than) myself,
With my counting numbers,
counting colors,
counting potassium,
iron,
ounces of water
like
128 is 1
8 ounces in 1 cup
1 oz, maybe one and half, in a shot of:
reflux, knee **** reaction, temporary relief
from scrubbing the sickness from beneath your fingernails
with nothing to gain
but body like a jackknife
but my spine cocked like a gun
a body thinning like winter
changing before my eyes
I realize
I hate things that change instead of falling apart completely
humidity picking scabs from the walls
and the rash on your neck.
brown skin running from the blonde of your hair
I miss untouched spaces on your body
the things that touch you but aren’t me
things that change you but aren’t me
like sea to sky, there is no definite line,
between what is
and was,
the first dream I had of us
fingers tracing fingers and I awoke to life-
a fantasy ever since.

But now,
I am sorry for
lashes that drizzle
their whippings onto your cheeks.
minute counts,
minute wishes wasted
Hammered away at my self
, wrapped in sheets unfurling,
peeling apart form my body like
snakes shedding skin,
the coil of his tonuge like
the coil in a car, burnt.
tar, gas, antifreeze drips from
words. Words.
I always get stuck
on words. a word, the words,
let me return—
While eyes silently ran the maze
of your arm, you tell me
“this is too beautiful to be an accident, katie.”  
but if this is not an accident,
then it is changed,
but not by me.

i.
you were a field report
of illness 
of twenty mountains 
and mounds which 
we could not
step over. 
instead, we leeched 
upon boulders in
the sky, which 
eyed us down with specific uncertainties.
divided doubles of 
destruction,
presently

ii.
it touches the lips.
you bought me a drink.
with the tip of a glass, nations, countries, worlds
spill down my esophagus.
cosmopolitan, please
cultivate on the curve of a tonuge licking the lips 
inching upon the longitude of the spine

iii.
i guess we were dreaming
of other things, instead of right now.
when we were dreaming,
i was chewing the inside of my mouth
picking apples from orchards
where we never went.

iv.
instead of a journey of the world
it is not taking motions while i had the chance
this is natural
flinch.
this is time weaving braids
of memories with nimble fingers

v.
I’m scared to remove the splinter on the underbelly of things,
like the mold under the carpet;
both are soiled with avoidance.
we cannot apologize for
now until later,
but by then its always too late

vi.
i walk on the sides of my feet for months because
of the fear of what lurks
under, the tiles
is a growth unfolding from the center
and not a journey out, but a growing up
apart

vii.
a criminal chained to the boy in
a bed which is a sea
arms wide
and eyes like florescent
light. unnatural and ultraviolet
infectious affection

And the blind venture on the misgivings
          of what they do not see.


But heed whispers from
         a snakes tonuge,
to bite them upon there vulnerabilities.

Seeping Ill words beneath
                             there morality.

Man does not need the whispers
of snakes to control them,
but the reality of humanity.


To  awaken the truth
                    that were just human.

That dredwire tonuge soaked in black hard tar spoke only the piece of the puzzle which was converted into lies.

/if there's a "there", i.e. a here, which must involve looking at something, rather than feeding nothing; it is somehow a pronoun... since if there's a "there", there must also be a there, as concrete as a here... which in turn comes with, rather than without: looking past, without a looking past a past....  made concise via it... temporal vectors, and spatial coordinates... yet there's still a "there", which is here, worth observing, i.e. the sehen es, die nichts auf werden (es); a language of coordination, because only a german, could understand a german thread of thinking; but given that i'm no german, i can only rely on crafting relay compatibility./

                  schauend...
      looking,
or rather pop swedish
for:
           blick-bei-etwas;
daft comparison...
               lest we remain
attached to a generation,
that become suddenly
exposed to a plague;
i intergrated,
with the host body
and the parasitic tonuge,
what now?
hanging chandelier
in a supermarket?!
                 fat chance....
               the demands
of the living,
                     whisper their
saccharine struggles
                         past the grave
and into the night.;
with only ghouls to risk
an answer...
                 please,
leisure death so more,
the times are gagging for
such an assurance!
        as ever,
         castrato vocals make,
my, day;
     notably the schveedish
typ.

perhaps the opening line of some little magnum opus
does not begin with either
lineage as proof of authenticity:
as if ideas travel in biology and cells
and not in the aether of some strange and quantum
comings and goings of collective-ego monstrosity
to parallel god
                     the omni- litany that combines the intrinsic
humanity of comparative... relative:
nouns spills into adjectives... i have a vision of
a paragraph that's only filled with p: in mirror:
with an added T, i.e.:

¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶

           it almost looks like musical notation:
half a moon standing on two legs...
at least that's with regards to seeing without speaking
but reverse ¶
   with something akin to the skeleton tongue
and flesh eating eyes of
the Huan and Ming and D'dzin:
       where do all the ying and the yangs
the demons and the angels find
refuge? i'm guessing somewhere a mile short
/ furthest away from Beijing...
Bay of the Jinn: although i don't know much about
where Beijing is situated
but at least in my mind there's a story about
a sleeping beauty
   a beauty and a beast
and... not that many "charming people" except
for exiled creatures...

       so i wouldn't begin... like so: i'd end: unlike so:
replace ¶
   (the ideogram that lends itself to the complex
spiderweb matrixes of then returning back
to crude sounds)...
Old Japanese still used Chinese
ideograms to conjure up sounds: hence the need
to make the eloquently crude in writing
but speech nonetheless of man and man alike:

etymology and onomatopoeia
along the lines of
thinking about three birds...

the crow, the cuckoo and the sparrow...
why?
etymology and onomatopoeia:
i will even employ two languages
to explain:

vox et resonantia:
the coo-coo...        otherwise by name:
due to its behaviour
a seeker of cuck and helpless mother...
the helpless mother so blind from grief at
the infestation of the parasite
much worse than the bird of brey
and the savagery of hierarchy:
that a bird might eat its own kind
that man would toss man in a cauldron
but the coo-coo became a cuckoo...
how onomatopoeia begins
and ends:
but from there a noun...
cuck-           -ooh...     the male surrogate
is a cuck... and chicken was arrived at from
the onomatopoeia of cluck-cluck-clucking?

               (remember, the computer sonic
jittering of the sparrows:
coded messages, ask chatGPT for html code
about how to encode sound...)

the crow as much said:
KRA! CRA!

   back to the cuckoo in another tonuge:
the suffix -łka...        mmmm'gła (fog)...
   kukułka... regardless how to give sound a form
and say it is bird: k ú k ú
          or if you prefer: the apostrophe can be used
in the English tongue as a diacritical marker without
clear abode: making English a syllabary:
kú kú can be(come) coo-coo but then coil, hyphen:
but can be ku'ku'
                                 yet that sound is clear: distinct:
hard to imagine
so many other things in this world
that make themselves not(!) known (yet not): unknown
like a bucket has no dimension of sound
beside something vague
like tectonic shifts and geology
laughter: of thing crunching thing...
but a bucket doesn't equal a cuckoo:
there is nothing distinct it doesn't breathe fly
or:
i just rearanged: i not i: some letters...
and out came b u c k e t
and out came g r a v e
                    but not so the wind which
is a staggering onomatopoeia
just like i think the name of the god of Abraham
who is beyond the Christian
i don't want to brag
but a patriarch is a patriarch and
not the Muslim Prophet
or the Christian mystic posit of the anti-thesis
of Messiah: in terms of Moses being
a military leader...
                    so the son of man and my brother
and all that talk...

we are still to talk about the crow...
CRA! CRA! you hear it...
the only insomniac bird i know
and i've spent long nights alone
and what bird could i hear in the night
in the cosmopolitan area where men
fled to sleep and conflated death with morose
inflations of a day against the canvas of history...
the crow: the crow would be the only bird
flying in the night sky...

Cracow: Warsaw:
Kraków: Kraken:
           -en
-ów:                        City of Crows...
and a city called Warsaw? by the Uprising mad genius
****** said: let no brick stand on brick
but so much we learned from each other
brother Deutzsche and brother Ruś'yn (Ruśyyn)

war is education: but how many more lessons
are we going to teach each other:
beyond these false educations of neo-con proxy war
new age politics...
how quickly Syria overcame its fear
and said to both Russia and Iran what it had finally
heart to say...
there has been a Christian triumph in Syria:
the quick expulsion of the wicked coward
came through Christian intentions for Syria
and not Islamic:
by now only the Pakistani and minor Islamic nations
are testing the barbaric waters of expansion:
but if said expansion is most crude
in England with...                  virgins...
the idea is vague and almost stupid unlike
how stupid the many gods but
the strength of pagan intellect was equivalent to
saying: the Mongols burned the library of Baghdad
the early Christians bruned down the library of Alexandria...

cra! cra! i heard in the night... oh! oh i know that bird:
i will call him a noble guest of memory
and one who sooth my thoughts of death:
but if ego is the only toy i will have to relieve myself
off: i will gladly give up the toy ego
and its deceptive utility as a character building
tool: this deception of ego
this worm in the flesh of the wound and fruit
of the garden...
i will give up the toy ego
and pass into the realm of elements

                    so i asked:

- c<n you wr^te me the html code for encoding
a soundbite of a sparrow singing?

- to encode a soundbite of a sparrow singing
in HTML, you need an audio file
(e.g. sparrow-song.mp3) hosted on your
server or an external link.
here's the code:

               <!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
               <head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta name="viewport"
content="width=device-witdth,
initial-scale=1.0">
        <title>Sparrow Song</title>
   </head>
               <body>
<h1>Sparrow Singing</h1>
     <audio controls>
<source
    src="sparrow-song.mp3"
  type="audio/mpeg">
Your browser does not support the audio
element .
        </audio>
           </body>
                    </html>

or what letters: best approximation of moan
and moo and moon
and the  cow godhead sitting upon the orb
with less a crown
and more a **** on the crown...
i overhear stories of how feminity was crushed
with the passport to the 20th century
and 1980s cinema and babysitting
and retirement state funded
or else by other punctures...

                        i touch crystal upon the glass
of glass it is said: sands...
of earthworms i have laboured like one might
over hyenas and spines
of the elders of the dinosaur humanoids
having escaped like taming
t-rexes and mammals being behind
the extinction of the mammoths...
while keaping the timeless lase tradition:
from lizard unto mammal and to insect
humanoid you will strive...
i have enough time on my hands...
i'll be bored tomorrow...
i can wait with God in the shrine of Yawns
i prefer silence:
God prefers music:
i prefer the Church of Yawns and Yom Kippurs...
and Alms...
     but if god deems music so worth the choir
i prefer yawns... souls rebelling:
whispers... moans of ***...
i like the plethora of sensations associated
with sound:
music is perfection is mathematics
i prefer philosophy and mud...
so i don't reside in the Hall of Vowels blind
by zenith of praise and voice
no echo submit
but is music is mathematics
i prefer the philosophy
and a woman moaning
and a coworker farting
and and and...

a crow's call does not need to be digitalized...
it doesn't need to be encoded:
nor does a a cuckoo's:
they are so much like us...
but a sparrow and the sparrow's language:
needs to bypass the Vatican Dyslexia:
and enter the realm of Cyborg and Japan...
and how to decode or at least
make good of the letters: sparrow...