It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until:  a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.

I like you in the morning,
your eyelids still heavy with the innocence
Of sleep
The sunrise still soft on our skin s

I like you at noon, in the heat of day
Pronouncing German, invoking laughter.
What I would give to stand with you,
The sun warm on our faces, our hearts
In some lost and faraway place
If only to quench our Siamese wanderlust

I like you in the evening,
Your strong arms around me
Watching HGTV;
Or when you play me sweet melodies,
(that violoncello will steal my heart)

And yet,

I like you best at night
when you dream aloud-
Hands searching-
Breath quickening-
Skin touching-
Words failing-
One becoming-

You are most wonderful at your most vulnerable,
Most pure

Let’s discover the world together-
Tomorrow?

Over the hill which was dusty and complete lay perfectly nothing.
It stood and it stood with its big cow lips.
Reluctant to say anything in a disappointing display with some of us elderly and expecting entertainment and come all this way I listened for exactly ten minutes, aggressively.
This entire situation had been recommended to me at a party at which she was drunk.
The hill at night was reluctant to purse its dust and listen aggressively to plaintive violoncello.
The spider-lady in the living room was reluctant to sleep with the shortish man but liked the way he spoke.
For exactly ten minutes no one was sure if various members of this post-rock band could be pinned down as anarchists.
So everything stood with its dusty cow lips, disappointed.
Stood and stood like nice white kids from Canada in a cruddy hall full of apparently random images, begging to be taken seriously.

der völkisch rückkehr: and legal terms, in england it's illegal to run a brothel, but it is not illegal to be a *******; i honestly didn't mind that one of them stole my debit card once, or my saracens beanie i "bought" off a pair of drunk essex hunks at a liverpool st. pub for 2 pints of beer; when i went back to the house of cream pies and bourbon and dimmed lights asking for both, i did manage to persuade the **** to show me a stack of stolen debit cards, probably 6 inches thick; hey, you mingle with the underworld of crime, you have to mind your manners even more... which is why internet trolling is such an adrenaline thrill of unsuspecting idiots about to get a fair game.

i have a tier cake of options,
and yes, the first is a custard base of heidegger,
the folkish return -
and return to the country, away from
globalical-centric "comrades" of
classical music,
  much that can be said, must be unsaid,
in that folkish music desires an anti-pop
fervour...
i simply adore the germanic folk music,
i have enough fetishism in me to
revive the genre from the stampede of
beethoven or brahms from an elvis...
but that's just music, i haven't started...

do i feel pittance, do i feel a mea culpa
twice the crap, thrice the *******?
oh, right, it's called a pittance with a woman
who earns more ******* coins
in an hour than the supposedly "honesty"
worker on 0-hour contracts in supermarkets
these days?
is that modern day caliphate or modern
day slavery?
   *** slaves what?!
          you have a prosthetic leg for a *******
violoncello, hop to fiddler on the roof are
you?
                 i'm not a β-mensch,
               as i am not even a quarter of an
α-mensch...
     i am not either **** beta, nor a **** alpha...
       i'm an ω-mensch, an omega-male...
i don't know or will never know how to
compete...
    either i don't have the adrenaline streak
at competing, or i find that being β (2nd),
in that psychological alphabet st. is worse
than being being ω (nth) - last choice of man...
psychology was to rigid for me anyway,
β-males vs. α-males,
         no one managed to conjure up the un-
competing ω-males...
the monks, the philosopher types...
        it just became too much after a while,
esp. with articles such as

i slept with a *** worker 18 years ago and
the same of it still haunts me,
verbatim (from dave):
more than 18 years ago i did something
that remains one the biggest regrets
of my life. consequently, i am still struggling
to come to terms with the events that
unfolded one night in a city in the netherlands,
which i consider to be appalling, irresponsible
and immoral.
i was 21, single, exhausted and under the influence
of alcohol. at the suggestion of my "friends"
we ventured into a city centre red-light
district. a combination of my lack of will power
and peer pressure meant that i was
persuaded to tag along, i'm sure you can
imagine what happened next, and while i used
protection, it still seems stupidly reckless...
    the toxic shame and humiliation
are proving impossible to erase, particularly
since it is common knowledge among my peers...
    i feel isolated, lonely,
   scared of people's perception of me,
jealous of their happy family lives with children;
deep down i believe i'm not a bad person
and what happened does not reflect my
view of women...
                         *dave: dave dave oh dave,
you wouldn't be such a poncey wuss with
a prosthetic leg...

a. you know she's the one that bring all
the condoms,
b. you know she always has the tenacity
to tell you she has regular *** checks?
c. ever seen the uniform of prostitutes
in a brothel? the bulgarians prefer stewardess
greys:

prostitutes > psychiatrists > priests.

after i lost my virginity to a french psychology
exchange student 3 years older than me,
university *** life was like an
elephants' graveyard,
   i probably experience oral *** once,
between the years 18 through to 20,
before losing my "virginity" a second time
to a ukranian ******* with a golden tooth...
you can't imagine how intimidating that
row of naked legs were in the dimmed lighting,
we drank *****, ******, i never forced her
into oral ***, she ****** me off,
and then we just lay there, and she
uttered the words: you're a good man.

then there was the puerto rican chubby
in amsterdam who laughed when i wondered if
oral *** was o.k. with her,
refusing she asked me:
    is it o.k. if i **** into this bowl in front of you?
no problem.

then the bulgarian girls in goodmayes,
the ones i used to oral kiss,
and then break the greatest taboo of kissing
them on the lips,
the one with an ****** saying it's only
the 2nd time it ever happened,
the one i ****** then jumped into a shower
and trickled cold water all over myself
to cool off while she masturbated in bed,
then the one i kissed and she giggled like
a schoolgirl being kissed for the first time,
then the veteran that has a pair of lips
that could have just as well been used
to circumcise a lot of boys;

and then this strange incident at a party,
a girl sat at the base of my feet,
and forced me to stroke her head like
petting a cat,
   until hours later, alone,
   she encouraged, but at the same time
lay stiff like i was to turn into
a necrophiliac, to which i replied:
   my hand went far down south already,
if you don't respond, i'm not doing anything
more.

then this other one,
  the gem...
   she only started perfecting giving perfect
head, at the same time we broke up.

i do remember my first kiss, aged 5 / 6 / 7,
her surname was kot, and she had two
younger twin sisters,
her father worked as a trucker,
   and i thought i we could settle for an anchor
rather than a pair of golden rings.

so i double up...
you know that the founder of the nation of islam
was a concubine of abraham?
      men didn't invent the niqab et al. etc.,
that attire for women was invented by keturah -
or hagar - i don't remember which
ran between two mountain tops looking for
water... until satan came around and said:
*****! stop running!
   the islamic matriarchy is founded upon
a concubine, the mother of islam is a *******!
so why do you think all this
talk of "modesty"?

and who is among you with a clean slate?
  i ask, one more time -
           who feels morally superior to *******
than seeking the health benefits from
a *******?
   what has talk actually ever solved, in totality?
i am neither the erstemensch (α)
             nor the zweitemensch (β),
but esp. not the übermensch...
   i am the letztemensch (ω);
and thus saying: remember a man has two points
of entry, a woman has three,
you really think it doesn't take a man
to live with the conundrum of 72 prostitutes
rather than virgins,
while a woman's heaven suffices with
3 men?

    i find no desire to ******* the alphabetical
psychologism of the darwinistic plateau
in a "competition" staged between the alpha / beta...
i'm happy being the omega,
  as the absolute antithesis of the alpha male,
since the beta male is not an antithesis of the alpha
male: the only antithesis of the alpha male thesis
is the omega male...
  so far removed from the **** & adrenaline
& ******, as to call himself, something
akin to newton, or leibniz;

and as all omega men: there's the inclination
to either homosexuality, or prostitution,
that myth of chasing women is about as **** and
thrilling, as a benny hill sketch,
byproduct of α / β antagonism without
recognising the **** omega?
     paedophilia or lecherous perversity...
how can you call it a perversity,
breaking a *******'s sacred command of
never kissing a client on the mouth
but subsequently breaking it,
       and giggling like a timid schoolgirl?

on the rare occasion that it does happen,
bad news, i was already fired up
to get on with the work,
of painting the corridor,
    when i was informed that
the boazeria (wood panneling)
had a lakier / lacquer finish...
at first i thought that i was
******* at the person giving me
solid advice...
    i stormed out of the house
thinking of the impossible,
yet what dragged me into reflection
of the possibility of: the abyss
of so many lives interchanging
social cordiality hiding beneath
a depth of life: worth more as solid
bricks, than as would be novels...
dare i: suckle at thost most mundane,
and do so, without any
responsibility to burden my
       already freelance devoid matter
of fact, as if: there was no
duty, no inheritence tax on
say, the english speaking world
effort of the memory of 1066...
       well... 1410 is quiet another date...
when the northern crusaders
were vanquished when a nation
of newly converted Christians were
wed to a nation of polyphonic pagans
of ancient Lithuania at the core,
extending: from the Baltic,
                              to the Black Sea...
sad almost, yet blinding nonetheless,
to be bound to the accummulating
eyes...
               hunched, sitting at the tease
of the river before the high tower
of the setting sun, before the altar
of žalias and mother May...
           of course no heroism...
saison: added the zest of bitter
orange, based using French yeast...
had i not peeled off the etykietkę,
the label, i wouldn't be writing this...
thankfully some passing stranger
noticed me, asked me for a light,
thanked me (he too towed
several beers to his abode)
    and without a lost in translation,
lit.: hold on / trzymaj się...
   ty też / you too... came my reply;
had Sisyphus been giving the task -
or told as little...
    anger arose from an immovable
object, yet the day was retained,
in the smallest of fathomable
vanity projects, thinking, or spare
morality, vagabond ethics, Democritus'
dogs and other howling
in crematory urns, graves,
and within spying crow beaks
perched in pretending sleep martyrdom
statuettes...
           are we to **** a poem
for worth of rhyme?
     or suddenly, the uncontained
gong, and rattling chains, crisp to
the 20th bellowing frost-bitten echo:
as replica, of a chattering chess game,
king a tier above the pawn,
pawn the numerous analogue,
a queen, a bishop, a rook,
                   a knight... and a long lost
******...
        but by nighttime the concern
for lacquered wood panneling was gone...
anticipating a full moon
that the calendar later refined as:
till Monday....
       ah... not only in Germany such
beer is drank...
           sure enough ***** comes at pure
night, czysta noc,
        but prior to cliché sword dance with
sweet, come sour, come the barking dog...
perpetual autumn with accents of spring,
till that orb and Atlas and Louis XIV ego
market assurance of a tomorrow:
   HEFEWEIZEN...
         hefe-weiß-bier...
   meddlesome murk and twice worth
the romance associated with the fabbled
smog of London...
     and just today...
   it started in Naples:
        schatten, **** and a fondness for
scalding frost:
              but before the ladies started
investing in botox,
    and elsewhere apart from the lips,
before came lips like
early flower buds teasing a comparison
to Violeta, and the violoncello...
          vigour and violence...
    sophia loren and nature playing
with dice...
       sack of pears each side,
cider on the left, poached with cream
on the other fused with cinnamon
and cloves...
       and a pair of lips,
    like poststamps and sealed envelopes...
before nature was robbed of
throwing dice...
           gambling and sieving and
all manner of alchemical fabric...
whether chicken prior
   to the egg or vice versa...
   the lips of sophia loren
came prior to the genenric:
   industrialisation of a plagiarised
beauty...
                bad expriment,
or simply bored...
                   stash of doodled ideas
and sketches -
   sie ist ein modell und sie sieht gut leer,
    genießergelage auf bandwürmer
    und champagne flöteglass sträusels
             on gestrig erbrechen...
   pardon mein schwabian,
     tiz noot too güt...
    ol Fritz didn't teach me well,
but I happen to notice...
   Italy, albeit fascist, enjoyed
a colourful revival under
the watchful eye of holywood...
a Roman holiday...
       huh... no wonder I'm teasing
roboboy and thinking:
surely the only complimentary
exponent of the third *****,
to compliment my reading of Heidegger,
must be a more, public, figure...
    ah... the biography of
Leni Reifenstalh is waiting...
once i finish the ****** affair of
a historical novel, and a lost tourist
who was supposed to have summoned
a quest for inspiration at Marienburg...
if we're looking for artefacts
from the third *****...
   who better stand as antonym of
Heidegger, if not Reifenstalh?        
as are we all, tourists of history...
    it could have been a fascination
with the Weimar Rep.,
                      or the Polish Peoples' Rep.,
but...
     history seems rather,
congested... and that hardly mentions
Jacob Ripplestone...
                          a fascination
as concise as it is consistent with:
in the days when journalist are thieves
of time, and kings, their marionettes:
part etiquete poodles,
      part lunatic patrons,
             part honing devices for
small town tourists...
                      and to think: the night
as yet, so young.