There is a hole in the world
All the doors are painted
a shade of liars faces
their colors while arriving
are also fading
but we are still here..
Where corroding slats of
63 year old wood
sound like the screams
echoing across
the crumbling pages of days
burnt yellow beneath the
fire of eyes
The purple pouring through unseen waves in the dusk sky as Janis joplin sang gray star clouds
into my heart
she sewed my wounds
with the ash of
of bodies adrift of lovers
living only in the mirage
air disguised
as smiles everlasting
glass of the
empty kind of love that lies,
and never breathes
yet forever dies
dreams devour you with
tears remembering the terror
in Janis's eyes,
she poured herself out
across the floor of the perishing world
while performing
"work me lord"
"live at stockholm 69'"
to the dark,
we were never there
we were born
into hands that were dying
we breathed our last breath of freedom-
then we were born,
It was then that
I heard the darkness cry.
we are dying..
because we have forgotten
the free gift given,
our lightless bones
loose around the spine
of every bolt we never knew,
strengthened our stance against
the murderous long night.
Choosing blindness,
over looking without sight,
The invisible mountain,
that breathed in our corroding
dusty hearts,
weilding love
against the demons behind
our mirror eyes..
Refusing to call his name..
we have lived for each one of us
just for ourselves  ("selflove")
so it is this then,
we have sold
our freedom
to the lie
named death.

Wraithlike shadows swiftly crawled toward a miami public chess table, dark green ivy growing along the fading checkered table top. the shadows slithered onto one of the benches, swirling upwards until they formed the shape of a dark toned young man, dressed in a long black punk-style trench coat. he wore leather gloves adorned with old runes, as was his black shirt and bandana he wore to keep his white hair back. there were a few chrome necklaces around his neck, the largest being a pentagram on a heavy chain. he sighed and waved his right hand over the table, demonic chess peices appearing beneath his touch, each one crawling with miniature demons on a blackened spire. he closed his eyes impatiently and let his dark aura spread over the surrounding area. the ivy on the table withered and died instantly along with the flora and fauna within a half mile of him. his eyes glowed a deep red
and his teeth, all of them incisors, extended into fangs. he was startled by a light voice behind
Him, "Leon. this is not the time." leon turned his head swiftly and growled, his features softening as he saw that it was the man he wanted to see. "Luminae... on time as usual. hows life in the Upper?" luminae wore a bright white suit, resembling human armani. he sat down adjacent to leon and waved his own chess peices into existence, each an angelic being weilding swords. they turned to be too bright for leon's eyes and he donned his red-tinted, coffin shaped shades. as the plant life began to regrow, luminae replied, "same as usual... holy war everywhere. i'm only allowed to see you now under supervision of three others." as he said that, three more men stepped out along the paths, clothed much like Luminae. leon half grinned, half scowled at luminae. "the boss had similar orders." leon snnapped his fingers and a trio of demons appeared next to the white clad angels. swords appeared
in the angels hands, ready to potentially cut down their enemies, but luminae waved away their
Suspicions. leon also commanded his overseers to remain shadowed. "you start, luminae."
luminae waved a simple angelic pawn forward, saying, "shame you can't join me in the upper, brother. how's the Foothills?"
leon countered by moving his knight, a grim reaper on horseback, dripping blood on the board, "dark... fiery... what else do you expect from hell?" he wore a deep scowl on his face as he said It, emphasizing the last word. "not a bit of sustenance as far as the eye can see.." luminae had seen through the disguise already, seeing that leon was little more than a charred, demonic skeleton, the fake-flesh creating what used to be the leon that they had known in their earlier lives.
as the chess pieces fell, they either burned or were saved by the opposing side. it came down to their final peices being kings and a single bishop on each side. luminae paused a moment, "you've gotten better at chess."
leon looked away, "its not chess... its a warning.. we are the bishops, luminae."
Luminae looked at leon, eyes narrowed to slits. "what do you mean, leon?"
leon sighed and waved a hand over the board, the peices disintigrating and forming a black scroll with bright red lettering. luminae dared not touch it, but read it, a look of shocked horror creeping across his face.
leon continued, "brother, boss wants me to **** you. you know what happens if we die again.." luminae nodded and waved the peices back into existance, seeing the Holy one as his king, and the ****** one as leon's. he looked at the bishops and saw in detail both of them, superimposed onto the peices.
"how long do i have to prepare, brother?" luminae gripped the hilt of his sword.
leon stood, "its already begun..." out of nowhere, tendrils of darkness wrapped around leon's arm and formed a jagged sword. the fake-flesh had begun burning away, leaving leon's true form, sinister and horrifying, shining black before luminae. empty eye sockets gazed at luminae and a hollow moaning shook the new-grown trees.
"goodbye, luminae." leon began to sink into the ground, falling into the Foothills. luminae watched as leon's guardians transformed into cackling ghouls and were released to wreak havoc on the world. luminae snapped his fingers at his own guardians, who followed the ghouls and destroyed them. "goodbye, brother..." luminae looked back at the four chess peices remaining on the board. he walked over and picked up the demon bishop, now safe to touch, depositing it in his pocket after clutching it tightly against his chest. as he touched it, he felt leon's sorrow, regret and anger. he felt little pity on him, though they had been like brothers in their pre-life, they were sworn enemies in the After. these chess games had been their only way to meet and relive a moment of their old life, granted by the High one and The ****** once every ten years under a neutral pact.
luminae also picked up his bishop and gave it a blessing, replacing it on the table for leon to retreive.
luminae sighed and
walked to the guardians. they all took a prayong stance and uttered a line of scripture, and then they were gone, leaving the park as it had been.
* *
Nero felt the intense flames licking at him from below as he descended. as he plunged deeper, the flames receded but the heat remained. when he finally touched the ground, he walked a winding path, past the ****** souls, each in their own private hell. nero scowled at them as he passed and stepped to a long sloping wall. he shook the gloves off his claws and drew a perfect pentagram into the side, opening a hidden tunnel system. he stepped forward and waved the door closed, then continued walking down the passage, the walls depicting numerous sins, ****, ******, deception, lust, and other such evils, all of which Nero had committed. he walked faster, to satan's chambers. the devil sat boredly on his seat, watching the same smokey images of his minions at work. "nero. welcome back to the foothills." the devils guardians set about beating nero until he could barely move. "you didnt ****
the angel, scaly *******. why?"
nero grunted and attempted to stand, "i wanted more of a challenge,
Thus i let him prepare."
the guardians let him stand. "interesting. but when you face him, you better have enough power to defeat him. i shall bestow upon you the power of ten thousand of my highest demons, do not come back empty handed, or each of their ****** souls will burn in your cursed chest."
the guardian closest to him and punched him in the spine, sending him to the floor. "un-understood... sir..."
a pentagram glowed on the floor around him, and he was bound to the spot. he felt a deep cold in him and then an intense burning as he was given the powers.
all according to plan...
*
luminae turned a corner on the golden street, the massive mansions towering over him. there was only one that he sought though, The Holy Ones' mansion, and his throne. he walked tentatively up the steps to the open gates, and stopped when he heard a commotion. he stopped and turned his head, seeing an angel, covered in runes, obviously a warrior as he had a fighter's vest and a sword in a
Scabbard. the angel had just jumped through a window and into a crowd of people, chased by a few Enforcer class angels. they locked eyes for a moment and luminae raised his hand, flashing first one finger then four. the one winged angel looked confused for a second and stood there in thought. luminae gestured towards the main gates, seeing the enforcers locate the one winged angel. the angel fled and luminae continued up the steps, hands in his pockets. *recruit number one...
* *

we walk with faces to the sky
the goddesses on earth
our words from a breathless heartsigh
we appear with old grecian beauty
and not such modern masks
it comes in hand with our ancient virtues
true to our everlasting tasks

hera; dark curls and flaming passion
striking down all who cross her
thin and wary is she

artemis; earthy flesh and midnight coils
gentle to the wild and bow-weilding
athletic and kind is she

demeter; flaxen tresses and tenderness
protecting her wards
mothering and calm is she

athena; thick legs and honey hair
raising blood-soaked war flags
wise and fearless am i

In every moon there is a man
And in every man there is a heart inside of which lives a woman
Who doesn't clean
Who doesn't cook
Who doesn't serve him
Only lives within the walls of his heart
And within every woman living in a man's heart
There is a desire to be free
It is not odd to imagine her leaving
Merely odd to see her go
Riding on the back of an elephant
In high heels
With a bottle of Chateau de Michelle
And weilding the sword of a swallowing minstrel
Drunkenly yelling songs of a time in which she never lived
And that will never leave a man
Whether the next woman comes in riding a golden chariot pulled by blazing reindeer
Or mounted on a shark wearing a cocktail dress
And while he laments her going
She regrets her ever having left
So she turns around
Looks into the vast nothing behind her
Trampled under the weight of the elephant
Cut down by her drunken fit of rage
Burned and eaten by the coming and going of others
And she sees
That beyond the husk of the home she once knew
Lay merely arteries and valves
And no soft place to lay her head
So she dismounts her companion
Lays down her sword
Crashes the bottle upon the rocks
Tears the heels from her shoes
And limps into the desert
Looking for that which she had already found
While he lie
Filling the emptiness of his ravaged heart
With the tender touch of fleeting acrobats

Life  is merely
a series
of before and afters
      begininngs and endings,
    
Sometimes we
are a fortune's king,
    weilding the key
to open
or close doors.

Other times,
our control is lost
and a line is drawn
    by the sword of a skillful hand
marking
         a change of heart
or opportunity.

Inevitably, death bows
to the governing power of Chronus
    holding time in his hands
  
But in between
the before and afters,
and the beginnings and endings
are moments.

   defining
turning
    quiet
stolen
of no return

Moments

The rhythmic newborn baby's cry,
    goodbyes that cast a shadow,
songs filled with Heaven's joy?
kisses that taste of forever,
      breezes that dance with the angels
   or quarrels armed with poison.
  
Moments

Some left with arms reaching
      for they were missed.
 a hesitant heart refusing love
words left unspoken
     time not taken
forgiveness held captive

Looking back
at memories held,
    moments have brought
light and darkness
but the missed moments
    have left the deepest scars
marking opportunity's lost.

So, I try to remember
  that in between
the before and afters,
   and the beginings and endings,
are moments,
    and I shall
adorn them in jewels
and embrace them in peace
lest them not be missed
for soon,
   they too shall pass.

It's about 2:30 in the morning
there you stand
a janitor
weilding your gigantic
paintbrush
in a full jumpsuit
and a bald cap.
Nobody's around.
The mophead slaps the ground
you dance with it
Swirling it all
across the checkered tile
with such grace
and such beauty!
Soak
Swash
Squeeze
Repeat.
What magnificent art
Such extraordinary
masterpieces
being created
night after night
across this marble floor!
Why,
Michaelangelo would be
turning in his grave!
A shame though,
That the paint is clear
and it dries away in about
15-20 minutes
and no one will
ever see or know
the greatest art ever created
by you,
the unknown custodian,
the master of sanitations,
the mop artist.

A glistening, shimmering, cardinal room flushed with  light.
Bright, white, pale, ghostly light that reveals those I conjecture to be the sick.
A pounding, loud rhythm lulls any intellect I still grip.
A fierce, shallow, pained pulse shakes my blue streaks.
All words escape me.
Yet all emotions haunt me.
The sickness draws near, weilding to be a blurry brass.
It feels me, touches me, handles me.
Hurts me.
A once well-kept health now littered with purple smudges.
The violet raindrops on my skin slowly dissolve to a sickly yellow.
Bones inside my complex anatomy quiver, tremble, threaten to crumble.
Yet, it's all over in slight second.
The crimson, glowing, glittering, sentient walls seem to cave in.
The next level, the next trial.
Blurred brass now replaced with a stick with no stains.
By now, I have no guesstimate as to why the fight in me faded.
Sccrrraape.
A gentle scrape, blade, cutting,cold edge slices me like paper.
Though my own rust spills, I feel more alive than ever.
My personal pulse and hesitant headache fade to null.
Hot, burning flames lap at my body.
I would never have imagined a sickness so horrifyingly painful.
A simple warning would never have stopped my doom.
Rip, tear, slash.
Guts held within my willing bowl now pour like Seppuku.
Maybe my own subconscious knew that it was more than I could connect too.
What am I now but a corpse?
Carved wood, turning death into a spectacular sight.
Roadkill, squashed within confines of a simple vermilion hold.
Bed head, Split head, and a  coma that came to soon.
A drugged animal, put down for instinctive behavior.
A gift switched around, like a fetus left dead in the womb.

This is a red room

I am no...Annie Leibovitz
weilding frames per second
in an angled lens
while you tilt your head back
to laugh at whatever it was
that I said.
It's beautiful.
The sound of your laughter
filling in-between pauses
like music,
so sweet and so dear
but I am no Henry Purcell.
The Fairy-Queen lilts like a bell.
It's all so much like magic
how tragic it is
to have your eyes see mine
and still never know I exist.
I am no Girl With A Pearl Earring
I just find you endearing
how if Sandro had found you
decades ago
You would be Venus
and I would be Picasso.
Both so different yet striking
and maybe you'd know
You are my everything.

Words of the masses are gathered in galleries,
Verbage is gathered in cloistering mass.
Masses are gathering to cloister their verbage
Where verbage is cloistered for masses to stash.

Nursing the words from a mind full of passion,
Coaxing the phrases to render them bold.
Weilding the pen with theatrical flourish
Hoping to God inspiration takes hold.

Legions of letters lie waiting in folders
Waiting for praise to hold up it's hand,
Begging acclaim from occasional perusal
To seeking the fame of a publishers' brand.

Passion and pain are an artists' portfolio
Ego and talent are held presupposed,
Preposterousness is taken for granted
But nil recognition gets right up the nose.

Gnashing of teeth and fingernail chewing
Coincide with a confidence fall
But the ultimate down in a work hard done
Is to have your peers ignoring it all.

A kernal grows from fleeting feelings
Inspiration holds the thought,
A thing of grandeur pens to greatness
Breathlessly... a script is wrought.

Dancing fingers grace the keyboard
Lilting music fills the air,
A wordsmith's touch of rich creation
Links the literate portrait's flair.

There tis done.. A thing of beauty
Silently I sit and stare,
Wordlessly, I thank the Heavens
Art is wrought and art is there.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
1 August 2010

and he isolates himself again
and she cries her eyes out in a crowd of friends
and we buy it all just to keep ourselves comfortable
and we lie to ourselves constantly
because the truth hurts and if they fall
we fall

what side are you on?
are we playing the same game even?
are we all double agents
out in the open?
are we all playing pretend
or is some of this the real thing?

is it eerie how i hear you
before you're even looking?

the best of us will be left performing magic tricks
for the guys weilding the biggest sticks

stick to the plan
get a tan
and collect fans
because you need to keep cool
[sure]
not in front of everyone
no
not ready for that
no please
no not while they're here
they
they need more time

you need more


you've had plenty

i've had enough

we all have

precisely my point

the point hasn't even begun to be reached

we're at it again

battling 'til surrender

remind me why


i can't breathe around her

her last wish kept me up all night

sir
they're at it again
we can't seem to stop them this time

we asked them to leave

i believe you
please

grieve





the loss of many
the loss of one man
or any number


it's been keeping me up
no slumber
that's right
every night
i couldn't sleep feeling another one leave
i made myself feel everything i could imagine
happening all inside of me

have they forgotten what it feels like?
have they robbed themselves of what they crave most
because they couldn't handle the pain of knowing any longer?

and now i'm numb
like you

still
                                                  craving
are
                                                  meaning
you
                                                  seeming
in
                                                  playing
love?
                                                dreaming?
no
                                                    for
ever?
                                                   lost
never
                                                    cost
not
                                                   most
once?
                                                   such
maybe
                                                 horrible
every
                                                   hosts
time

never
been shown the meaning
never
had it spelled out before
letters
in the sand
holding hands
no longer there

in circles we had drawn
we sang our favorite made up songs
it didn't matter that we didn't know the words
everyone could play along

i wouldn't remember later
but those songs reverberated
'round the walls of the crater

if i never see you in my dreams again
it's just one more i'll keep drawing until i get it right
one more silent vigil lit by fireflies


this morning ritual of mine is getting old
i've bought and sold enough to trade my soul
i've trained my soul for the day they take it all away
and it won't matter
'cause it's not my game and i never wanted to play
take me to the place you want me
stake me out
make sure it's nice enough outside
a place where children play
with paths for bikes to ride

you showed me in their faces
you showed me and i'll never be the same

i'm falling again
and i'm leaking  for my own sake
i'm speaking for no one in particular
i'm making it up as i go along
as i feel it every word feels wrong

but the sound of these
the rhythm of my knees shaking
the symbolism of an embolism
makes me tremble maybe there's more to stem from

can you trace the outline on the wall?
can you taste any of it at all?
can you hear if he's still in there?
can you tell if he has enough air?
can you get ahold of him?
how long's it been?
don't look at me that way
none of us ever expected this
someone should have expected this
is this serious?
should we be calling someone?
is there a problem?
are we in trouble?
don't you talk to anyone

the wrong mind in the wrong hands
will be forced to make new plans
wrong man sent to a new land
will take ownership and make demands

stained sheet
stars i lie beneath
cars i almost died behind the steering wheel
screaming out my rotting teeth
dotting every line
spotting every guy in the crowd in striped shirts
every spy in every automobile
behind every pile of rubble
behind every "i'm sorry we're having a little trouble with the connection"
"oh you didn't get my text? it must have been redirected..."

*11/5/12

Someone suggests that, "It is not wisdom
But authority that makes a law." Al,
With an obvious emphasis on the but, but,
As Confucius relates, people should be free.
With that all Americans agree, authority
That isn't wizened breaks life's Spirit,
Espirit de vie, instead of fostering it,
Realizing a people like the autocratic
Oligarchic narcissistic nihilist-in-chief,
Self-possessed to the point of being
A king-kong sized terrible-two, like his
Executive branch, which he's molded
Into rot, and it's attempting to destroy
The tree, this country, 'Turtle Island'.

So the as backwards remocrat approach,
While in ascendancy, because dempublicans
Didn't fight their hacking of our elections
Hard enough, isn't real or right, and
'Though it has come to pass, it's not
To stay, so say one and All. "..We(e),.."
Will not be undone, by the mediocracy
That thinks with spooned nose, speaks
With forked tongue, destroying democracy.
A society, fostered by progressing
Civilization, not a cleptocracy fueled
By technocracies' ravaging of the Earth.
For e.g., Confucian's 'Hanfu', "Heaven
Above, Earth below", manifests harmony.

Where man is betwixt, plumb, in balance.
It starts with individuals and "discipline,
Being the art of feeling awe..", Casteneda,
A combination of Jung's integrated self,
With Adler's integration into community,
A Sartrean freedom: "..we are free because
We are not a self, but a presence-to-self,
The transcendence, nihilation of our self.
We're other to our selves, that whatever we
Are or whatever others may ascribe to us,
We are in the manner of not being it.", no
Longer ego ridden, a tool in la machine's
Hand, rather, as it began, man weilding
Tools to better life, in nature's balance.

We can't go back to the righteousness of
Chief Seattle's, "..no one can own the land",
We can tread lightly, stalking ourselves,
Giving back to nature's abundance, a healthy
Skepticism, it's not the self-sacrificed when
We do what needs to be done, rather the false
Ego sacrificed at Thee's altar within.  Then,
As we left no footprints that followed none,
They will echo in all ways, and on, always.
So, on this tragic 50 th Memorial of the
Assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,
Let us remember his shining example, and his
Spirits, "...judging not lest ye be judged's"
Compassion for his neighbor, "...treated as

He wanted to be", for he wanted to be more,
Ever studiously growing.  His dream was for
All who choose awakening.  So too, those who
Suffer, and suffer from false-ego, and
Its projections, in mental cells, built of
Walls of delusions, with bricks of illusions,
Their personal hells, shouldn't be judged
Autocratically, as laws can work and be
Compassionately applied.  Also, even
Though, King pulled "..the arc of the moral
Universe bends towards justice" out of his
As, we know, if we take bullets we aren't
Making them, addressing personal injustices
Stops them from becoming global ones too.

If we don't exercise our responsibilities
Their Siamese twin sisters, freedoms,
Will wither like unused muscles, as well.
"You can't dismantle the man's house with the
Man's tools (materialism)", Audrey, Gandhi's,
"Be the change you want to see in the world,
The root of all oppression lies in (supposed)
Science", though he pulled "Satyagraha", out
Of his as.  What we don't matters as much as
What we do, the manner in which we don't or
Do things brings light, life to them or it
Doesn't, those most attached to life or
Death are more closely death, live on your
Feet or die continually on your knees.  
  
You see, while might might make right, it
Always makes wrong, and fraternity rules.
Just because the invisible coup's lie,
"Hillary's not perfect", was let fly by some
Dinos, linos, sinos, ginos, ainos, hackers,
Kremlin kronies now in the kluckahouse, wicked
Leaks, 20 % of Bernie or bust bots, the US
Intelligence/police industrial complex, (who,
Like king george + his ****, cheney, purposely
Didn't prevent the attacks on 9-11-01, they
Didn't prevent the hacking of our 11-8-16
Elections, installing Trumpler, attempting to
Realize a borne again cold war, extreme theft
Of tax $, etc.) doesn't mean the world must

Fall to Ebony, ivory, the Black and white
Supremacies' cannibalizing the future, tax
Dolla's, in perfect harmony, to replicate the
Past's supposed: profits, pleasures + powers.
"..We(e),.." can stop ivory's: removal of DACA,
Reproductive, healthcare, and voting rights,
Blacks not having to wait till 2040 to get
Another President, instead they can get one in
2020, potentially, etc., for Ebony, and stop
Ebony's getting: rid of zero-tolerance in
Public school + harsh law, shorter sentences,
Earlier releases + paroles, waving of crack
Convictions, extreme war funding, gutting of
EPA's work, etc., for ivory, by dispelling the

Delusional construct of materialism, that
Actual religion, bi-headed, of the false gods
Of mammon, wealth, avarice, and mollock,
Extreme violence, grinding up seed (behind
The masks of Christians, Hindus, Atheists,
Etc.), exemplified in those merx for more's
Through to mercs for unnecessary unending
War's war machine, oiled by the blood of non:
United **** of assassins citizens, white,
Upper-middle-class to rich, supposed
Christians, which most worship, separating
"It from of the state", which is demanded by
The Constitution.  Then we can struggle to
Denotseefy the rest of the 21 flavors of, in

This 'baskin and robbins' of, supremacy.
Only then will this criminal conspiracy of
Criminal conspiracies again resemble a
Nation.  For e.g., take the trillion ton ice-
Cube that just dropped in the drink, coasts
Flooded costing us billions, so oil corps.
Can make even more $, making the egg shaped
Planet into a sphere, denaturing the Earth's
Defenses against the astronomical forces of
The Sun, Moon and continually degrading the
Earth's orbit around them.  It's God's tear,
And as a single tears story is seldom told,
That flood will wipe us out, like the lose
Of $ to get a photo of a golfer on Mars will.

It was almost a fairytale right at the start.
I was stuck, alone, in a high tower.
With nothing but my own
thoughts and fears.
I was pacing, and tracing
back and forth.
one moment to the next,
it never stopped.
You approached me alone,
unafraid,
weilding your sword and magic tricks.
I was amused by your antics
i only wanted more.
you brought your ladder
and laid upon my high tower
wishing for me to reach out,
i was so close yet you were
untouchable.
a fingertip away from the
inevitable.
you climbed and brought me closer
we were one step away from becoming lost together.
our very own happily ever after.
you could sense that i was
terrified by your demons
They followed you everywhere
and never gave you reason.
Your were a fingertip away
from saving me, from myself.
But your demons clawed holes through your eyes,
clouded your judgement,
and seperated your lies.
i couldnt believe the sight i had seen.
your demons tore rips
through our fairytale blitz.
you let them get to you, and hurt me.
they pulled you down,
and pulled you deeper.
down the steep ladder,
of my high tower.
you fell to the ground,
with a much dreaded shudder.
i could see you bleeding
all your pain and misery,
feeding the demons that brought you close to me.
i stood there enclosed within
my safe, secure, haven
and wondered if you would ever
stop breathing.
i am stuck inside my tower,
full of thoughts and fears.
waiting for you to come back
and rekindle my spirits
you will return in time
you are my last living hope
in mankind.
i need the comfort,
the thrills.
i await your return to me heels.
one day you will
escape all of your demons
and finally rescue me from my prison.

Azure limelight faded grey by the bewilderment
I am the King of All living, we remember
infested as the bunny and pine tree
weeping as mothers marry off their siblings
why wear white at weddings, why wish to be a innocent
a bottle of gin is a grin tonic for a child to see as an aching smell of visions last saw
as if Calvary was a horseman weilding a Lance
A tree to Long for us, grown in the desert
Already Peace flown in pure reverence Sang real
The Last Great Initiate,
Oh Reign, Reign, Rain, Rain, Reins, Reins

Dye his skin with the empowered wish of will
A well endless to stare through is warp drive
A might so glorious we all must avert our eyes, a New Motion
a **** gorgon, to start the serpentine on the sabbath
to revolve and molt in a revolutionary vulcan grip
to fly to the sky with birds writ uplift
delight, delicious, appeal. zeal, feel

Iesus covered in Liquid Cheeses
Sweet Fleeces its Christmas Season
Solar Deities yummy as Pizzas
A pie in the Sky is my age divided by the week
A pipe dream plumbed with gooey memories
the weaken ends of my jeans faded blue from seventy
charred black as the temples crystals phase out painted-glass Murals

too light to be mailed, too large to be contained by an envelope
too short to fit in the door way, too effulgent to weigh on the scale
Pi sees Men, laughing as a woman changing clothes on a curbside speaking
seventeen in one hand, zero at the bone in the other
IhavebeenChanced, Iamexceed, Iamtheether, Iamsanctioned
Fletcher Night: folllow your heart

*******... two of my friends almost died in terrorist attacks!

.                     i see a great disasater,
not through lack of innovation,
but through the perpatuation
                                                    ­ of squander
for what was deemed a gift,
but has become
        a christmas present
in the hands of a child
  that islam has become...
if muhammad was alive
                                       today?
he'd decapitate the entire
        saudi family...
    and bring about
             the compensating
reign of *ali...
these ******* sand *******
  have had their disneyworld
of yachts and european *******
for far too long...
   duma! duma! narodowa duma!
pride! pride! national pride!
    what, a return to a horse
                  and carriage?
i don't see a phase of great
innovation,
   even though i'm sure it exists,
and it waiting for monetißation...
     of that i'm sure of,
   within the framework
            of keeping "secrets"...
what secrets?
    there are no secrets,
there are only
skewed lies,
           and unwritten truths...
   that's it...
it's a pretty simple geometric
   allowance that gave us a square
to fathom...
         you know that
        when muhammad
was talking about the dajjal
he meant it in terms
     of an arabic confinement,
right?
   when he said the hadith
        concerning
the east, he didn't imply
    ulaanbaatar - or genghis khan...
what's the hub of saudi arabia east
   of mecca? isn't it riyadh?
        a bunch of ******* fatsos...
        diabetic sheiks...
     amputees in waiting...
bonkers logic...
    no wonder the syrians
         imploded and
turned against themselves...
            these? these are the people
at the crux of a religion?
            so a syrian baker turned
  on a syrian car mechanic...
                      any intervention by foreign
power?
            is a heresy of conducting war...
no foreign power can be allowed
   influence into civil former cordiality
   turned into opposite warring factions!
none!
         the path toward hell
                     is plagued with
good intentions...
          and the west has made
                    a step onto that path...

if the western world populace are
dubbed oil junkies,
    what does that make the arabs?
sugar junkies?
              i guess so, seems the only
rational explanation as to why
  weilding a scimitar
     they'd sooner cut themselves
than chop an "infidels" head off...
******* fastos:
lazy *** sand-******* / camel-jockyes;
oh sure, come to poland
or to russia...
    we'll show you what we did with
the turks, in the 12th september 1683
battle for vienna;
    bull-*******-whipped-woodolf
                        ­               goin' bananas
  in his crematorium grave,
   twistin' 'n' turning,
          while mao tse-tung fiddled with
some egg-friend noodles,
   and stalin fiddle his moustache into
a hipster look: y'ah... well oiled
   giving it the full curls.

It's a tragedy

You gaze into green eyes
Upon curves and stretch marks,
Onto a battlefield of scars,

Weilding two calloused hands,
A pair of average ears
All topped off with a crooked smile

A person you've liked, loved
Stares back from the blunt glass mirror
That person, you, is me.  


It's a tragedy

should i be more mistaken  and more impressed by
a readership, or by the general
population of the world? can everything, literally,
that i touch turn graphite into diamond?
      we, who have magpie
value, are really under-dressed
for the peacock parade...
but wouldn't you
love to kiss that pretty sheen
where the sun don't skine...
i can't be east end, i''m
essex bound... farmer out of his
comfort zone...
next tier come the cow ****...
and if that ain't a bear-knuckle
fight, i don't know what is
drinking home-made wine, with
all that fog and murk, and
everything i wish i could never bring
myself grievances over...
   like a tightening of the ansus,
of losing virginity via the age of 16...
i don't know, you start to
fake the more you age, but since
i'm not reallt ageing, i'm bound to be
one of those: sinister dogs
thrown into the kennel of the streets,
all because i said:
hush your pretty mouth,
we're boundless in knowing who might
kiss it again...
  i mean: dumb as ****, but then again
i kept neithe friend, nor onspirator
akin to Guy Fawkes...
   then you had two children you wanted
to boast about, and i had 20 bottles of wine
i wanted to boast about...
the two never seemed to congregate....
and i was left barren, and said:
and deserts need to exist,
and you said something about
rainforests, and how you needed more squashed
wood for paper for the office -
     toilet cubicles, because the koala
paper was running out...
and ******* a **** out
with grit and sand-paper was no way
to go about wiping your ***....
even if the eastern europeans...
just about the time you deemed my ethinicity
vermin... just about then i turned
all königratte on you...
and said a quiet allegiance against the "free" world...
so said about "free" people, i say: about as free as
your need to maintain a routine...
  and counter wind-farms with
hamster-treadmills...
                            oh man, if you
didn't mention my ethnicity as being bound of
rats... if you only forgot about my baptismal excuse
relevant to the schwarz pest -
    that's so uncool man...
  that's like a Jewish joke when only
Jewish mothers laugh... it's like a joke about
being circumcised... and then having to really
give it your all for a ****... because with your
******* missing... she had all the gags with
her *******, who she nick-named Dorace...
and that like... ****... a keeping a plant
that belongs in the Amazonian rainforest
inside a potting urn... for no better word for it.
but hell, me being an ethnicity bound to rats?
what does that make you clean shaven,
axe-weilding, metro-****** super-gnat?
no, i can see big ben tic toc tic toc...
     i just can't see you making up the cavnas...
talk about reclaiming your capital...
        that sure seems like all the war movies
are obsolete these days, meaing
it's all about a coach trip from Debry to London Victoria...
meaning in the real world...
meaning getting any education at all
was a bit pointless...
   arm wrestling in the cantine would have made
more sense than being taught darwinism...
   darwinism can, somehow, undermine
your natural bully strength...
    and there i was duped into thinking:
survival of the fittest... call it what you like
in theory, in reality it's called:
mind the ******* pedestrian!
   the granny, the pregnant woman...
oh sure, get rid of god, i'll also yawn...
but why give so much prayer / thought toward
a system that can't incorporate you as ruler,
when every parasite is bound to scheme a return
to the privilege of a tapeworm?
don't get it... tell me how that sort of politics works
while i see hurricane katrina in replay...
            mingle the omni rhetoric with
a mathematical rubric, and then couple that to
egocentrism... you basically get the western civilisation...
so much for protest... and so much for everything else...
i lost count trying to keep up with the perfected
chinese... the truest nature adherents...
                the easiest way to control god
is to argue he doesn't exist... well, **** yeah! get a tattoo!
a bit different when you have to argue
against parasites... to later equate them with
the emergence of new technology and the excess of
libido and the unemployed...
                i have absolutely nothing profound
to say... but why obliterate the reason to
find an escapism in a god, when all we're given
to replace theology is: sky, believe in better...
or disney, i.e. dream in technicolour...
                the main point though?
it's war when you equate my ethnicity with vermin...
not enough **** in your system to know better?
wait wait... this is post-colonialism, right?
    mater rus turb...
turbanus sikh vanus... either way ya plonker...
we can add that you eat the same breakfast
7 times a week, and on the 6th day i ate the *****
of having ate breakfast on day 5... and hence
the seagull was born.
    what a caged ******, it almost seems like
the englishman was born to remain abroad,
or better still, along with the tabloid
avenue of recounting his stay in Ibiza...
where he was all hail mary for no one to see!

I hate being a damsel in distress,
Lying on the railroad tracks
with a villian laughing behind me
I’ve always fought back
Tie him up instead,
let him squirm in the coral snake pit
I’ve never liked being saved,
Seen as fragile and weak,
Standing here with my pretty dress and rose-petal cheeks
No, I’m not fragile, I’m not weak
I prefer boots over slippers
Trousers over skirts
I’m not some poor, defenseless litte princess
I know how to weild a sword

But then my knight came along,
And while I’d still fight,
There were battles I could not win,
Not without him
And when I collapsed beneath the dragon’s feet,
My knight came
Weilding a sword of tear-stained steel,
The metal reinforced with soul mates’ heartstrings
And he was brave, slaying the dragon
Even as I tried to get back up on my feet and say “Nay!”
The great beast fell, and my knight turned to me
Eyes glimmering with fear
“I know you prefer to defend yourself,
But it looked like you needed me here;
I couldn’t just let him devour you.”
I stepped forward, booted feet suddenly light
And surprised him with a crushing hug.
“Thank you,” I said, “thank you.
I will owe you forever for this, my knight.”
He smiled at me, relief lighting his face, and replied
“All I need in return is you by my side.”
We sealed the promise with a kiss.

But that still doesn’t make me
A damsel in distress.
I’m a knight, too, just like him,
And we save each other.

This country is run from the shadows
The goverment here is blind

Puppets for the evil ones that lurk and hide behind

They reach for global *******
from deep inside the black

They bomb and destroy there own buildings
then send their troops to Iraq

Must control the world
Before petrolium's obsolete

Before the energy source from the skies
arrives with its massive fleet

Who do you think is running this country?
It's certainly not Obama

Shadow men from behind the scenes
weilding Rockafellers hammer

They're back, They’re back, Were under attack,
The lunar rabbits are out for a snack!
Alert the army, the navy and scrabble the jets,
The rabbits on the moon are down here with nets.
They come armed with cannons with weird purple goo,
They fire brown bullets like moon rabbit poo.
We have to fight back, with our own ***** bombs,
So, Fire the grannies in pink frilly thongs!
If that doesn't scare the big moon bunnies back,
Send in the school teachers, send them in in a pack!
Armed with rulers and dusters and big books of maths,
Throwing questions and fractions and patronizing laughs.

Alert all the animals from around the whole globe,
From the great Megladon to the smallest microbe,
Get the Austrian emu with the horns on its feet,
And the machine gun bees to assemble their fleet.
Call the ninja koalas and the samuari fox,
And rats in the prisons with socks full of rocks.
Ring the axe weilding pugs from Norway’s fjords,
And the peacocks from turkey with tails made from swords
Then maybe we can ride into battle on the back of a beast,
The mysterious king ***** that migrate from the east.
Well almost be ready to hold back the attack then,
I fell for that story once, I will not fall for the same trick again.

i find it near impossible to hold an opinion,
and force myself into dialectics -
i can only fathom possessing an opinion
if i have leverage in it -
               what good is having an opinion
however morally righteous it is,
if there's only a status quo at the end of it?
why do (esp. journalists) feel the need
to have so many opinions, about issues:
they have no power-broker status over them,
i.e. no leverage?
                 often i looked at the country
folk in poland, and yes, their lives were simple,
they had no urban psyche disturbing them
with the simplicity of their lives,
and then i found out:
            urban distractions really occupy
one's mind,
           but the peace of the countryside is
really disturbing, since it has to be perfected,
the peace cannot become agitating -
it must be perfect to the point where it
does not seem inquisitive on the basis of
the urban environment of:
   why aren't you agitated, split-second
buddhist, meditative,
                        why do you maintain
focus on one thing, rather than a kaleidoscope
of change?
             but i found that the majority of
opinions are unnecessary,
   unnecessary because there is no power
leverage to put an opinion into practice...
an image that springs to mind: hot-air
balloons,
          i can't change the palestinian-israeli
conflict,
                and i can't invest myself in
a situation, a place, that i have never been too,
but given the current
                  anti-israeli rhetoric in play,
i have more of a question than an opinion:
          did the germans do the utmost evil
to the jews with the holocaust,
   or are jews actually doing more evil to
themselves after the holocaust,
  becoming fascists?
                   personally i think the latter -
the jews are currently doing more
  harm to themselves than what the germans
did to them...
     because you can do what you are doing,
hiding behind the facade of a comfortable
life...
                 but it's still pointless for me
to have an opinion,
                i can't dress the ******* thing in
stitches and band-aids,
   because i hardly think that my opinion
has leverage,
       i am not a power-broker,
      i'd simply end up as a self-righteous ponce
who "needs" to have an opinion...
   ref. to the ten commandments -
thank god there's an aristocratic thou shall not:
people seem to forget there's no
                       thou will not -
  like any french ponce might add:
i shall have wine in late morning,
   cognac in late afternoon...
  and coffee in the evening...
  airs, perfumes, handkerchiefs, waving
     insolently to debrief boredom
  and empty space...
  with the ****** english nobleman simply
adding: ya'h to boot;
ra ra.
                   but the shall not
is the ambiguity of the concrete i will -
          there is no determination of a will
with a posit of choice...
   personally, i imagine very much akin
to a cinema of consequence -
          a video game,
where i can see all, and i mean all the choice
i have ever made, and play a movie
of being allowed to see the opposite choice,
whenever i turned right,
   in this cinema of consequence i get to
play the result had i chosen left...
            i see the afterlife as non-congregational,
solipsistic even,
     less a labyrinth, and more an incubator,
a diamond womb...
                          +, -, 1, 0, -, 1, +, 0....
that's a representation of heaven for me...
                             its a post-script
   of history with hindsight,
  and the hindsight of having made one choice
already, in death, to make the opposite choice...
perhaps not in the scenario of a cinema,
perhaps unconsciously living
       out the alternative sequence of choices...
but to hold opinions in a bloated journalistic
style is so unnecessary for me,
                        like i said:
i hold opinions over what i have leverage on,
what's the point of having opinions
that i allows me no power to formalise them,
and change the current situation i have
an opinion residing over?
          spring clean, waste of space...
        and the people who are the most
vehement in their righteousness weilding
an opinion, are the most powerless people,
mainly journalists,
                        let's say: only journalists...
personally: if philosophers hated poets
so much as to be excluded from the platonic
                            utopian republic,
then the poets should turn to the philosophers
and retort: keep these ******* out
  (i.e. the journalists);
it's only natural that (a) philosophers abhor
            language being anything but, conversation
and thinking,
   or that (b) poets should not have someone
they deem below them,
  and that it shouldn't be journalists;
after the phone-hacking scandals at
          the news of the world:
hardly journalists, more like leeches.

Pray for the poor bald eagle
Felled by a bullet from a gun
Killing eagles is surely illegal
You better harness your weapon and run

Play for the old bald idiot
Who pays to see your ****** old band
It's him who keeps hollering "Play Free Bird"
When you've just finished playing "Free Bird"

He's an idiot
Killed a majestic bald eagle
Someone took photos
Isn't that also illegal?
Just an idiot
weilding deadly propulsion
clinching the deal with precise aim
He's no amateur
Just sloppy, careless
Might as well be an amateur
Don't feel sorry for the creep
He killed a big old bald eagle

Stay in your homes, for no reason leave
Comfortably dumb in the webs that you weave
Trapped by the ridiculous things you believe
Pray for the eagle, and grieve

Now you come to realize
Roy Orbison was the man
But you never played any of his songs
In your dreadfully ****** old band

The crowd could chant "Pretty Woman"
For all the good it would do
Your ****** old band couldn't play it
Even if they wanted to

A group of morons,
Weilding all sorts,
Chased the lot,
Men, women, old ones;

Threatened blood if they thumbed,
Even killed a few to make true,
Burned their timid decisions,
And dared any opposition;

Cowered into submission,
They handed over their sovereignty,
Resigned to generational servitude,
And an unending cyclical incompetence.

you ******* me once,
you don't get to ******* me twice.

did i just wipe my ***
with a newspaper...
newspaper became more
expsesive than ****,
let's face it,
      i rather wipe my ***
with newspapers than
actual toilet paper,
  for the mere satisfaction...
it's not a pretty dynamic...
i'd prefer a soft
koala* hug governing my
****,
    than this east london:
fish 'n' chips mentality...
this isn't the beginning of
the printing press...
  this isn't some
                sort of liberation
tribunal!
  war begins in the realm of
propaganda...
              steal the mind,
                 arm the people.
   you make people think
what you want them to think,
and they act, upon
the gesture of a zenith's
  worth of
                      abhorrence:
my hands hold the weilding
power of the yield
              of destiny's worth,
toward's historical testimony;
and that due narrative,
            or at least, a memory.

.i don't need to be believed to have to write this ****; mind you, in the past, the best things about h'america was the cultural exports, following the whole made in china "affair", but the cultural export was there... right now? socio-political commentary, which is like weilding to accomplish transversing a desert.

i can't say that my
         experience with "god"
was ever good,
          when it happened:
   hazy, 12 years ago,
it wasn't some sort of epiphany...
far from it...
if aristotle says:
philosophy begins with awe...
granted...

   then at least, whatever this is,
begins with a: fear of "god"...
it's not like you suddenly
get a cult following,
   or brand yourself
a mouthpiece...
     i heard a choir,
i had an iPod with me,
turned it on / off during
the "experience"...
then started running around
an empty church,
before hearing
   a grand wind of dispersion...
****, it could have come
from either "up" or "down"...
but it wasn't a "fun" experience...
what...
   much later...
   trying to sell the experience
off?
        conundrum crux...
false prophets,
or whatever you want to call them,
wouldn't mind bypassing
secular standards of acceptance,
amassing a throng
akin to the jonestown massacre...
i know, i know,
people need something to believe in,
i don't have that luxury...
i didn't experience a person,
that.... that wasn't some intimate
experience where i would dare
to utter a single question,
expecting an answer...
        mute...
                    that was me...
eversholt rd., st. mary's church,
opposite the royal mail group
building...

   i mean, how do you even
come up with some sort of explanation
to the, "experience",
as if it would ever be a "good" thing,
start a cult and ****...
with all the benefits:
but once you're dead...
   and then the waiting game
of life, no life,
attached to a fixation
   of theological jurisprudence,
or rather...
succumbing to:
what "sane" people take for
certainty, belief as a motivational
tool, a boost to free will...
back on earth:
peope are "confused" about
their ***, or ****** preferences...
me? i have to do a juggling act
around something,
that i find people being too comfortable
about...

      you don't get a "1st prize"
for this sort of encounter...
you get... precisely: jack ****...
you receive a momentum
to alleviate belief...
   with a doubling of doubt...
yes, after the experience...
you begin to career in doubt...
you look at the priests
and, remain, bewildered...
         trauma...
  maybe just a scenario of testing
sensitivity...
           was i lost?
was it the marijuana:
   such simple explanations had
no affect on me...
well... if only sober,
judge-strict people had that
sort of experience...

   a ******* choir descended as i lay
under a side altar of st. mary's church
wrapped in a white altar cloth...
thinking would be somehow
claustro-phobia-****** and
absolutely no freedom...
    if people are boasting...
i didn't even hear a word,
   but a menacing presence
that dispersed the choir...
back to the gavin mcinnes criticism
of Islam...
   (a) is the quran a problem
    (b) the prophet being a warlord
  (c) inbreeding...
   but there's a (d) aspect...
  why do muslims have no
fear of god?!
   muslims don't have a fear of god...
maybe reading some
of h. p. lovecraft
will be sobering...
   and i'm drunk,
while talking about sobering points...
**** me...

       muslims do not
allow themselves a fear of (their) god...
punching-bag take it all,
     the sins of the past,
up until the age of 21,
everything seemed orientating,
after the age of 21:
disorientated as if after
a tarantula bite...
              jewish-sucker-punch
or what?
             if everyone, sober,
sane,
   had the capacity to experience
"god", well, that would "somehow"
clarify things,
but it's certainly no standard
of crafting excuses,
there are still secular sensibilities
to be minded...
      i kept my mouth shut,
because i presupposed that there
would be, no chance for kudos,
free rides,
a pope-esque stature...

      then would come the atheists...
and that would take
the core reason of argument...
resembling something
akin to playing football...
without a ball...

              good riddance...
given the experience, i allowed myself
   i somehow managed to sustain it...
but the burden, the inability to
provide factual evidence,
akin to a schizophrenic experiecing
suspicious "whispers" in his "ear"...
how many stoners can you find
that experience
   these sort of "delusions"...

esp. after being indocrinated
via a catholic pedagogy?
how many paedohpile clerics of
the collar?
                carte blanche on the whole
affair of the protruding larynx?
the tonsure is in now way
elevating the concept of the kippah?
i also have a fear:
the fear of plagiarißing someone,
originality can only serve me
to find a debased stature of "sin"...
i drink to calm myself,
i visited prostitutes
   to get away from
                  the harangue of women...

best fwend (" "), a blank piece of paper,
but i see sane people making complaints
about revising the existence of
asylums,
   while i just keep thinking
about digging a hole,
  and planting a cherry tree,
     the "orthodox" madmen are
willing to experience
   a hard-on when it comes
to the mildly insane...

                 while the whole world,
eh, *****-nilly, simply, "happens"...
for someone who has seen
how his freedom,
has been translated from
a physical reality,
to a metaphysical cut-off little richard
and replaced with a strap-on...
   whatever depth i was supposed
to be given in an expansion allowance,
this is it,
  i've heard the zenith,
but now comes the nadir...
       disguised solipsism,
this whole
   self-determination lock,
mild autism,
or whatever you want to call it...
   irreplaceable
   irreplaceability complexes...
the current day-to-day theatre of
society...
     and the sobering after-thought
of having to attend a funeral...

last time i attended one,
it was my great-grandmother...
i refused to throw a rose
into her grave...
   then some funeral-crasher...
a woman,
decided it was necessary
   to speak up against me...
what was it that she said?
    right... now i remember:
'oh, isn't he generous!'
strangling her wasn't on my mind,
but now, it is...
              it's much easier
to forget egoism,
when you have phantoms of visage
                          to strangle...

of course i didn't throw that rose
into her grave,
i spent a few hours
after the drunken wake
thinking about her,
           gritting my teeth
until i managed to grind
a chip of one of the teeth,
and gently playing with a candle...
until the rose started to
turn purple,
    from its deep centered
  burgundy.

life...
            i'm seriously past
making a theological debate,
or an atheistic counter argument...
as if there's a god,
and he's a pervert...
   an existential ******...
i don't think that's how it works...
the simplest answer,
is that of an atheist,
who takes the worst
of man, and ascribes
it to a god entity... which is...
                                          alien;
as kant prescribed...
working from all the phenomena
that can be explained...
if there's only one god,
"it" is a noumenon...
                                    a per se...

i pray i can leave this place,
knowing less,
than what i arrived here with,
demanded to know more
and more, and some more...
          ****...
lapsing into a bed,
that seemingly perpetual
placebo of sleep,
   death,
                      it's no more
a haunting presence,
than having to spar
a friendship with nothing more,
than your own shadow...

            brief human interactions
will justify
   this lapse of making
      sound scrutiny of
"friendships";
   how else, to find a rare
variant of happiness...
        when stating
                              a grievance?

the toll: of the awaiting fact
of one's own mortality,
death is no more a worry
than the mortal fact -

death-locker...
    as much an original sin,
as the unoriginality
of the concept of free will...
individuation...
           then yeah...
the "original" sin is a misnomer
for the casual sprechen
of plagiarism;
but humans will not deviate
from the temptation,
of imitating others,
i guess... its a paradox...
of being indoctrinated
into a brief interlude of pedagogy.

a raw challenge of words - not some tartar genius -
it's a "question" or not - and it's a roulette -
it's a gamble -
it's: words not roasted -
words not roasted in an oven of academia -
esp. oven roasted via a masters in arts:
english lit. or jane austen studies - majors -

i can't exfoliate just yet -
i have to catch the midnight train into tomorrow...
because - "something" needs to be tended
to - and i'm about to become
a very responsible nouveau adulte...
i have no time to talk about philosophy -
how i found the time to read it
is another matter -
but talking about it...
seems pointless if... not also weilding
a hammer - heidegger's:
can we talk while doing something else,
menial - and escape the banality of breathing
by on the side - supposing thought?

the crux of the hammer and the nail...
and this talk - or no talk - escapism of sorts...
the isolated words to be "thought" about...
"representation content" and...
what... "what": "reality" is made of...
a speaking that has to return back
into the yoke of thinking -
and not something as practical as...
hammering nails in... ad infinitum...

knock knock... who's there?
Descartes who? Descartes i doubt the table
but not the chair i'm sitting in;
ever knock knock on a leather chair?
there's no superstition of "jinx" associated...
or i could just as well be drinking...
my "thinking" is already
on the train about to leave: come midnight...

raw tartar steak of genius -
words not baked via an oven of an academic
degree in the direction of... modern linguo?
my way all the way back from:
esters RCOOR'
aldehydes RCHO...
carboxylic acid(s) R-COOH...
all that but above all this...

the austrians really do know how to
make the best coffee...
something a christoph waltz would say...
the austrians are (a)
the germans are (b) - high, low - whatever
floats your boat of comparison -
and i do only have an address and a name...

Der-Franz (Vienna since 1929)
A-2512 Oeynhausen
Sachers Strese 7...
hazelnut flavour... coffee...

hans landa eating a strudel -
is probably the best strudel in the world...
and on all days...
but this... it's also a hugo boss uniform...
it's crisp cut... and...
say all you will...
when a girl might wish for a cindarella dress...
any boy would wish for a hugo boss
that clean cut and readied
for: being ironed twice daily...

as of yet: i'm yet to expect a darwinistic
furore - fever - of the coming of
the close of the 19th century and
the opening of the gates for the 20th century...
second coming of darwinism leaves
me hardly convinced -
oh but it's true - oh but yes yes -
some of us are working in the knitting
of the kingdom of the Brine -

this so-called culture war:
words make bad bullets and sentences
are hardly rifles to shoot them with...
paragraphs like bombs: would do...
if congested into... non-paragraphs...
end of james joyce's ulysses or...
jean-paul sartre's iron in the soul...

the rare events of a postcard being sent by
a philatelist...
or a lepidopterist coming clean
on the metaphor of: the most forbidden fruit...
of which king john of england
would never find out about:
sooner the magna carta...

i'm tired of and i have always never tired of...
byzantine chants...
what can anyone actually remember
of the remains - apart from the chants...
or the bureucracy?
the youth that riddled them with canons
and a library that contained only one
book...

i can't even bother to stomach the correct
grammar -
unless it's a translation...
english: red herring...
french: hareng rouge
german: regenbogenforelle
you wouldn't expect me to succumb to
Ablenkungsmanöver / heimlich maneuver
of a spin-doctor, truly!
english: rainbow trout,
french: truite arc-en-ciel...
german is already given...
polish: pstrąg tęczowy...

nietzsche was right... we are the slavic
equivalent of the french...
we share most of their grammar 1-2 1-2...
why i didn't learn it proper?
they write one thing -
then say another -
i can only see excesses of letters
in written french... once they start
talking... all those letters come
and disappear under the suffix- umbrellas...

otherwise... i'm tired of having the need
to sharpen words -
words: would be bullets -
are not pencils -
sticks and stones and all things
associated with infering information:

otherwise just as last night - attempting to fall
to sleep: giggling and imagining myself...
having walked into the north sea off
the coast of norwich...
shouting: i'm a whale! i'm the beast from
the sea! i'm a whale my primordial
mammalian ancestor! i will swim to Denmark!

talk about living through a drought of:
where the english seems to be the dream-a-lots
having never felt a leash of metaphysics
around their necks tighten and give themselves
unto catholic mantras of central europe -
or how the italians are still christian in name only...
otherwise the go to:
aestheticians and romantics of the fig...

these words are not...
how did i perfect cooking chicken ******* without
the torso or the limbs -
the torso and at least half of the limbs
went into a most perfect chicken soup...
the remains and some frozen goods
went into a **** chicken marinade...
thyme... thyme... check y'er dubliners'
on the surd of H in that one...
it's θyme... otherwise's it's t'inking: time...
not so, paddy o'brian? patrick?

snail-paced grammar:
2 steps forward... 1 step back...
at least in the confines of this leftover:
catacombs of Latin...
we are all the children of Rome -
the hebrew were wrong about two alphabets...
the greek and the latin...
spot on! spot on when it came to...
persian cuneiform and egyptian hieroglyphs!

back-up... the glagolitic and the rune scripts...
somehow accomodating the overlords
of judea... otherwise: really stretching
the history for a personal experience...
what alphabet is this?!

- concept of beauty in the 1950s:
none other than the bleach mingling with amber
that was marylin monroe - the blood of which:
and the modern "beauty?
ava lauren - otherwise i call it:
the mandible jaw of ***-appeal gymnastics -
leather beauty - some worn, torn and -
the jigsaw puzzle that comes naked and
there hardly a kennedy romance at stake...
because even in her mature years -
it's "something" that would appeal
to Rodin's hands...
it's already... it leaves me at ease to ****
like a shotgun into my one "crooked" leg folded
and hunched like a crow perched on a windowsill
of the new-born Papillon -
marylin the icon? untouchable...
ava lauren the limbo montage and:

even this poo'em is proof:
why lament the crux of a would-be Liszt performance?
"views"... if that's anything to go by:
i have an *** and a ****** -
implies... i have more than a head a spine to prop
it on and a tongue's worth of an oyster
dissected between the 32 shells...

that views should count: a fountain of youth!
of a body i am certain...
of a soul: i know what i have -
only after i have lost it -
shared company - rejoice soul! hell doesn't exist!
as they call say: via their slavic proverbs:
the devil is without a soul...

perhaps i'm asking:
are not some of my words infantile?
d(evil) and go(o)d?
do or do not...
come to think of it... what makes people
invite the ****** eye into their ****** *******?
to boast or gloat?
i hardly think so...
from the times i watched...
and from the times i was the protagonist 1st person...
sometimes the third person attitude
is... well... imagine being in a 69 position
of reciprocating each other ******* & "*******"...
faber & faber...

if you have a ******* **** in your face...
and you're slurping and slurping...
what out of body experience can you expect
to have... to really and you really
want to appreciate the face of a woman
pleasuring herself and somehow you
on the side...

bogus and boring the same old
*******...
in that cocoon of: under the bed-sheets...
like two foetuses *******
amphibian bode -
placenta erections and:
the place where no two mouths meet!
otherwise:
she rodeod to the point
of a complete tail turned coccyx erosion!

*** is ***... no need to bring grammar
into this "debate" with a bilingual "schizoid"...
otherwise: hello Chloe...
is Chloe ready for a circus?

for all the *** in the world...
it's never something appealing for the eyes...
it's numbing for the parts that
imitate ******* snipping...
and otherwise... it's always more fun
casually: in third-person...
very much akin to reading a book...

because this piece of writing will not topple
your below average amateur post
from the free-range harvest of:
and this one tested this *****...
and this one was showing off: how she can
still get frisky when pregnant...
and... this sore loser is hardly going to...
because...
the greater pleasure comes from music...
to me *** is a most:
dyssynchronyous act...

how some people still manage to focus on saying
something is beyond me...
i'm left with onomatopoeias...
half-wit compositions of somewhat consonant
leverages - somewhat vowel expansions
of breath...

never does god even into this brothel...
i show him the "niqab" and all that's visible
is either silence of the hebrew definite article: ha...
why would i somehow
fathom a god in forms? not words?
with a c.c.t.v. focus etc?

- ******* on the roses, eating the roots
and sniffing the ashes -
variations of the modern: fine and lean
cannibal... because none of this invokes
the mandarin: specialz elephant ivory
"herbalism"...
cos if beijing don't sniff it...
we'ez knot snifz it... woz!
n00b wording and "get some"...

ל... find me a F(ucking) in 'ebrew, levite!
kametz = no aleph or ayin...
chirek? "i"?
well... it's и in cyrillic... א in 'ebrew...
but the latter is: an A...
the other gay Adam to Ayin...
and: whenever jeffrey "napoleon dynomite" dahmer
went along...
hiding vowels... and two vowels
treated as consonants...
you'd have to be born in London,
Golders Green to keep up with
the Hasidi...
because wherever they go...
the quarter is followed up with a ghetto...
like a bayz payot caduceus... listening: sparrows
chirping!

would a myth of Eve the prozzie Lilith
even matter at this point?

it only comes down to: integrating
or keeping with the purity of the forbidden fruit
that isn't *******...
but... cousin *******!
i've seen how this old forbidden fruit looks like...
it slobbers... it doesn't speak...
it's wheeled around: it doesn't walk...
the old fruit of eden: ******* your mother,
******* your cousin...
because i know what the next forbidden fruit is...
the circa 16 year old...
but that doesn't invite genetic: non-chernobyll
"status teases"...

inbreed far enough so that no outsider
will ever want to meddle with the ****** politics
of: the first ever niqab ultra...
because the muslims were never:
but really were about... the power dynamic
played out in rumi's *******: sufism...
a tier up from: gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
Lawrence! ***** in the air! adhan!
compensated by the christian *******
at the altar...
religious gesticulation toward proving
the existence of incubuses: a very feminine affair...
when the broomstick stops "working"...
and there's no sabbath to attend...
and high-tier french socialite society
moves to London...
and the Viennese patisserie was always better
than the Parisian yoke-riddled flat and custard
agitation prone...

i poke my head out of my whittle
hermit cave...
and oops is supposed to happen...

or... drink enough cider and a shot of whiskey
at the same time... and...
it's almost like you're part of
the baltic culture of eating... kashubian herrings...
or generally pickled herrings...

why the **** did Amon Goeth say...
casimir the great - so called -
told the jews they could come to Krakow -
well, even history says:
first they were jews...
later they were polaks...
or: no... they weren't polaks to begin with:
not with that history allows us to entertain...
likewise...
"they're" not h'americans...
israel seems to be...
somewhat of a safebet gamble...

if i heard that one palestinian had roots
in saudi arabia...
like all those "pakistanis" circa 2001 that
had roots in saudi arabia...

the subject - the **** -
the tender geopolitics in between -
the 7 year madness of nebuchadnezzar
that never made it into a ben-hur esque movie
****...
shame i say...

of course this will not reach a far greater audience...
ah... what am i missing?
a ****** - a plump *** - a decapitated madame tussauds
monsier de sade *** toy / would be barbie or
an otherwise ripe cucumber...

my agony: extending the *******
into a cusp of a bone hard hand...
rather natural -
not unless - the proper deal is associated...
me and my ******* and
the girls being circumcised...
well then...
that would almost be like me...
being james cook having just visited
the Easter Islands!

There is a man making his way through a moonlit field of sugarcanes
He is weilding a machete that clears the way for him
He slashes viciously and clears an impressive area with each swing

The sweat is running down his forehead now
His breath and his heartbeat is all he can hear
Thanks to his tunnelvision a stray swing slashes through the canes-
and into his left leg

The dark stream is pooling in his boots now
He can't quite feel the pain, but panics none the less
The slashes grow more ferocious, a distinct twang sounds with each swing

The man inflicts more wounds upon himself
Each wound strenghtens his resolve in turn
Every swing greater than the last, every step more ******



There is a man laying in a moonlit field of sugarcanes
At first he curses the venture, what a sorry mess!
After that he weeps without sound, what else can he do?

Lastly he looks back at the whole thing
Sliced up vegetation and pools of dark blood
Everything will be ok.