/i couldn't stomach the burden of a perfect german, hence this, algorithmusdeutsch... then again, like the Marovigian might have said: german is perfect, in making mistakes pretending to sound intellectual, barely clinging to a razorblade, suffice to say: when drowning... but at least german, a cushion, and a pristine canvas to dig trenches, blush a zeppelin warhead plop into London cement... and then mind the Bavarian whittle shittenholen... enz... must be enz, und plu- arable... namely remnants of a day, and an unfinished crossword puzzle...
vorher narzissus,
schattensuchende
klatschen ein gla-ß-ee,
und entstehen
ein gehockt krähe-
lauren,
sheutod...
carboxylic açid
and all things germanic...
slingshot into elder saxon
and back into
cosmopolitan *******,
a timid fungus like a tongue
hiding in a pyramid of
signatures in bones from
within the grave;
hard to imagine
that it took a ******* hog snout
to become a botanical
Sherlock 'olmes...
as ever,
the Cockney Surd...
namely 'aching,
which translates itself
outside of the local 'appenings...
odd: the laugh is yet
to be perfected.
- playing the xylophone
at the nativity play -
schatten, schatten
werfen on ein(e) mauer...
occupational hazard,
like the saxon N
in between vowels to avoid
a tongue numbing spiral,
an eye rather than a eye...
gambled through two faces:
a 6 and a 2...
lost coordination with
the poly- prefix germanic
of: the the the (point),
id est -
post scriptum:
I'll ensure that tongue of
theirs will become a *******
saxophone,
than a timid wrigglingua testimony
of a tapeworm...
came the pillar of Atlas
and the Zeno talltale of
Achilles and the tortoise,
before the mile became a kilometer,
subsequently
a metre, centi-, milli-...
and 0 = the perfect divisor
"number":
far cry from the Kantian negation
made compact, like
everything Kantian, per se,
compact packaging,
******* tourist he would have been,
if first he left the routine,
and then Königsberg...
last time I checked though,
I have my A through to Z...
0 isn't exactly a number if not
a doughnut tale of a squashed
omicron...
pity they managed to undermine
words... funny...
from words came the icon...
oddly enough painters are
in the confines of the same asylum
criteria of desperation...
colours are apparently a tier above
words... oddly enough...
words can conjure images,
colours... a look at them being
expressed, and they thought
cubism was bad....
******* are all other the place...
and if they are not contemplating
punctuation marks,
they should be showing syllables,
and if they're not even doing that,
we'll, my friend: diacritical
marks are the highest asking...
I'd love to see a truly punctuated
painting...
a painting is one thing:
but the work in progess to accompany
the harsh censorship of
the artistic masochism,
is quiet another...
a painting is hardly going to be
utilised into a chair...
sollte ihre spiegelung
verlassen du,
als geieraustern: innereien...
schauen ihre schatten...
as ever, within each language,
at least a few letters spare,
namely the remnants
of a once great monopoly
and power broking priesthood,
that ****** aesthetic of
epsilon and eta...
remains of the day and
the castrato singalong
remnants of Greek in:
the sigh in dentistry...
prior to the sleep and the wisdom
teeth being pulled out,
asking
the anaesthetician: quo vadis?
- because they never actually tell
you, to take treat antidepressants
akin to amitryptyline as if they're
sleeping pills...
just before bedtime...
a ******* knockout to boot,
and my joy at a ***** popsicle...
because I would never think
about drinking with someone,
and that misery of conversation,
or the current, generic,
exasperating poetic maroons
without a Defoe in sight...
and word that became flesh
that became an image...
such the poverty of language,
but words, but words they bellow
like cretins who never
saw a cow being towed into
a slaughterhouse, bellowing
a torturous epiphany too late...
orange that didn't become an Ibizian
freshly squeezed hangover cure,
and more an O'Hara opinion,
so more to the point:
words, just words they say...
hope to high hell and the gates
of Tartarus that I never ask such
people for directions...
namely they'd speak that
right is "right"
or the upper tier of
Copernican ronin...
flimsy ******* luck,
coming across this cult
of aluminum wrapped
on their heads:
humanity reboots.
