/                              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.