The double 12 sorwe of Troilus to tellen,  
That was the king Priamus sone of Troye,
In lovinge, how his aventures fellen
Fro wo to wele, and after out of Ioye,
My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye.  
Thesiphone, thou help me for tendyte
Thise woful vers, that wepen as I wryte!

To thee clepe I, thou goddesse of torment,
Thou cruel Furie, sorwing ever in peyne;
Help me, that am the sorwful instrument  
That helpeth lovers, as I can, to pleyne!
For wel sit it, the sothe for to seyne,
A woful wight to han a drery fere,
And, to a sorwful tale, a sory chere.

For I, that god of Loves servaunts serve,  
Ne dar to Love, for myn unlyklinesse,
Preyen for speed, al sholde I therfor sterve,
So fer am I fro his help in derknesse;
But nathelees, if this may doon gladnesse
To any lover, and his cause avayle,  
Have he my thank, and myn be this travayle!

But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse,
If any drope of pitee in yow be,
Remembreth yow on passed hevinesse
That ye han felt, and on the adversitee  
Of othere folk, and thenketh how that ye
Han felt that Love dorste yow displese;
Or ye han wonne hym with to greet an ese.

And preyeth for hem that ben in the cas
Of Troilus, as ye may after here,  
That love hem bringe in hevene to solas,
And eek for me preyeth to god so dere,
That I have might to shewe, in som manere,
Swich peyne and wo as Loves folk endure,
In Troilus unsely aventure.  

And biddeth eek for hem that been despeyred
In love, that never nil recovered be,
And eek for hem that falsly been apeyred
Thorugh wikked tonges, be it he or she;
Thus biddeth god, for his benignitee,  
So graunte hem sone out of this world to pace,
That been despeyred out of Loves grace.

And biddeth eek for hem that been at ese,
That god hem graunte ay good perseveraunce,
And sende hem might hir ladies so to plese,  
That it to Love be worship and plesaunce.
For so hope I my soule best avaunce,
To preye for hem that Loves servaunts be,
And wryte hir wo, and live in charitee.

And for to have of hem compassioun  
As though I were hir owene brother dere.
Now herkeneth with a gode entencioun,
For now wol I gon streight to my matere,
In whiche ye may the double sorwes here
Of Troilus, in loving of Criseyde,  
And how that she forsook him er she deyde.

It is wel wist, how that the Grekes stronge
In armes with a thousand shippes wente
To Troyewardes, and the citee longe
Assegeden neigh ten yeer er they stente,  
And, in diverse wyse and oon entente,
The ravisshing to wreken of Eleyne,
By Paris doon, they wroughten al hir peyne.

Now fil it so, that in the toun ther was
Dwellinge a lord of greet auctoritee,  
A gret devyn that cleped was Calkas,
That in science so expert was, that he
Knew wel that Troye sholde destroyed be,
By answere of his god, that highte thus,
Daun Phebus or Apollo Delphicus.  

So whan this Calkas knew by calculinge,
And eek by answere of this Appollo,
That Grekes sholden swich a peple bringe,
Thorugh which that Troye moste been for-do,
He caste anoon out of the toun to go;  
For wel wiste he, by sort, that Troye sholde
Destroyed ben, ye, wolde who-so nolde.

For which, for to departen softely
Took purpos ful this forknowinge wyse,
And to the Grekes ost ful prively  
He stal anoon; and they, in curteys wyse,
Hym deden bothe worship and servyse,
In trust that he hath conning hem to rede
In every peril which that is to drede.

The noyse up roos, whan it was first aspyed,  
Thorugh al the toun, and generally was spoken,
That Calkas traytor fled was, and allyed
With hem of Grece; and casten to ben wroken
On him that falsly hadde his feith so broken;
And seyden, he and al his kin at ones  
Ben worthy for to brennen, fel and bones.

Now hadde Calkas left, in this meschaunce,
Al unwist of this false and wikked dede,
His doughter, which that was in gret penaunce,
For of hir lyf she was ful sore in drede,  
As she that niste what was best to rede;
For bothe a widowe was she, and allone
Of any freend to whom she dorste hir mone.

Criseyde was this lady name a-right;
As to my dome, in al Troyes citee  
Nas noon so fair, for passing every wight
So aungellyk was hir natyf beautee,
That lyk a thing immortal semed she,
As doth an hevenish parfit creature,
That doun were sent in scorning of nature.  

This lady, which that al-day herde at ere
Hir fadres shame, his falsnesse and tresoun,
Wel nigh out of hir wit for sorwe and fere,
In widewes habit large of samit broun,
On knees she fil biforn Ector a-doun;  
With pitous voys, and tendrely wepinge,
His mercy bad, hir-selven excusinge.

Now was this Ector pitous of nature,
And saw that she was sorwfully bigoon,
And that she was so fair a creature;  
Of his goodnesse he gladed hir anoon,
And seyde, 'Lat your fadres treson goon
Forth with mischaunce, and ye your-self, in Ioye,
Dwelleth with us, whyl you good list, in Troye.

'And al thonour that men may doon yow have,  
As ferforth as your fader dwelled here,
Ye shul han, and your body shal men save,
As fer as I may ought enquere or here.'
And she him thonked with ful humble chere,
And ofter wolde, and it hadde ben his wille,  
And took hir leve, and hoom, and held hir stille.

And in hir hous she abood with swich meynee
As to hir honour nede was to holde;
And whyl she was dwellinge in that citee,
Kepte hir estat, and bothe of yonge and olde  
Ful wel beloved, and wel men of hir tolde.
But whether that she children hadde or noon,
I rede it naught; therfore I late it goon.

The thinges fellen, as they doon of werre,
Bitwixen hem of Troye and Grekes ofte;  
For som day boughten they of Troye it derre,
And eft the Grekes founden no thing softe
The folk of Troye; and thus fortune on-lofte,
And under eft, gan hem to wheelen bothe
After hir cours, ay whyl they were wrothe.  

But how this toun com to destruccioun
Ne falleth nought to purpos me to telle;
For it were a long digressioun
Fro my matere, and yow to longe dwelle.
But the Troyane gestes, as they felle,  
In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dyte,
Who-so that can, may rede hem as they wryte.

But though that Grekes hem of Troye shetten,
And hir citee bisegede al a-boute,
Hir olde usage wolde they not letten,  
As for to honoure hir goddes ful devoute;
But aldermost in honour, out of doute,
They hadde a relik hight Palladion,
That was hir trist a-boven everichon.

And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme  
Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede
With newe grene, of ***** Ver the pryme,
And swote smellen floures whyte and rede,
In sondry wyses shewed, as I rede,
The folk of Troye hir observaunces olde,  
Palladiones feste for to holde.

And to the temple, in al hir beste wyse,
In general, ther wente many a wight,
To herknen of Palladion servyse;
And namely, so many a ***** knight,  
So many a lady fresh and mayden bright,
Ful wel arayed, bothe moste and leste,
Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.

Among thise othere folk was Criseyda,
In widewes habite blak; but nathelees,  
Right as our firste lettre is now an A,
In beautee first so stood she, makelees;
Hir godly looking gladede al the prees.
Nas never seyn thing to ben preysed derre,
Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre  

As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichoon
That hir behelden in hir blake wede;
And yet she stood ful lowe and stille alloon,
Bihinden othere folk, in litel brede,
And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede,  
Simple of a-tyr, and debonaire of chere,
With ful assured loking and manere.

This Troilus, as he was wont to gyde
His yonge knightes, ladde hem up and doun
In thilke large temple on every syde,  
Biholding ay the ladyes of the toun,
Now here, now there, for no devocioun
Hadde he to noon, to reven him his reste,
But gan to preyse and lakken whom him leste.

And in his walk ful fast he gan to wayten  
If knight or squyer of his companye
Gan for to syke, or lete his eyen bayten
On any woman that he coude aspye;
He wolde smyle, and holden it folye,
And seye him thus, 'god wot, she slepeth softe  
For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte!

'I have herd told, pardieux, of your livinge,
Ye lovers, and your lewede observaunces,
And which a labour folk han in winninge
Of love, and, in the keping, which doutaunces;  
And whan your preye is lost, wo and penaunces;
O verrey foles! nyce and blinde be ye;
Ther nis not oon can war by other be.'

And with that word he gan cast up the browe,
Ascaunces, 'Lo! is this nought wysly spoken?'  
At which the god of love gan loken rowe
Right for despyt, and shoop for to ben wroken;
He kidde anoon his bowe nas not broken;
For sodeynly he hit him at the fulle;
And yet as proud a pekok can he pulle.  

O blinde world, O blinde entencioun!
How ofte falleth al theffect contraire
Of surquidrye and foul presumpcioun;
For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire.
This Troilus is clomben on the staire,  
And litel weneth that he moot descenden.
But al-day falleth thing that foles ne wenden.

As proude Bayard ginneth for to skippe
Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn,
Til he a lash have of the longe whippe,  
Than thenketh he, 'Though I praunce al biforn
First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn,
Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe
I moot endure, and with my feres drawe.'

So ferde it by this fers and proude knight;  
Though he a worthy kinges sone were,
And wende nothing hadde had swiche might
Ayens his wil that sholde his herte stere,
Yet with a look his herte wex a-fere,
That he, that now was most in pryde above,  
Wex sodeynly most subget un-to love.

For-thy ensample taketh of this man,
Ye wyse, proude, and worthy folkes alle,
To scornen Love, which that so sone can
The freedom of your hertes to him thralle;  
For ever it was, and ever it shal bifalle,
That Love is he that alle thing may binde;
For may no man for-do the lawe of kinde.

That this be sooth, hath preved and doth yet;
For this trowe I ye knowen, alle or some,  
Men reden not that folk han gretter wit
Than they that han be most with love y-nome;
And strengest folk ben therwith overcome,
The worthiest and grettest of degree:
This was, and is, and yet men shal it see.  

And trewelich it sit wel to be so;
For alderwysest han ther-with ben plesed;
And they that han ben aldermost in wo,
With love han ben conforted most and esed;
And ofte it hath the cruel herte apesed,  
And worthy folk maad worthier of name,
And causeth most to dreden vyce and shame.

Now sith it may not goodly be withstonde,
And is a thing so vertuous in kinde,
Refuseth not to Love for to be bonde,  
Sin, as him-selven list, he may yow binde.
The yerde is bet that bowen wole and winde
Than that that brest; and therfor I yow rede
To folwen him that so wel can yow lede.

But for to tellen forth in special  
As of this kinges sone of which I tolde,
And leten other thing collateral,
Of him thenke I my tale for to holde,
Both of his Ioye, and of his cares colde;
And al his werk, as touching this matere,  
For I it gan, I wol ther-to refere.

With-inne the temple he wente him forth pleyinge,
This Troilus, of every wight aboute,
On this lady and now on that lokinge,
Wher-so she were of toune, or of with-oute:  
And up-on cas bifel, that thorugh a route
His eye perced, and so depe it wente,
Til on Criseyde it smoot, and ther it stente.

And sodeynly he wax ther-with astoned,
And gan hire bet biholde in thrifty wyse:  
'O mercy, god!' thoughte he, 'wher hastow woned,
That art so fair and goodly to devyse?'
Ther-with his herte gan to sprede and ryse,
And softe sighed, lest men mighte him here,
And caughte a-yein his firste pleyinge chere.  

She nas nat with the leste of hir stature,
But alle hir limes so wel answeringe
Weren to womanhode, that creature
Was neuer lasse mannish in seminge.
And eek the pure wyse of here meninge  
Shewede wel, that men might in hir gesse
Honour, estat, and wommanly noblesse.

To Troilus right wonder wel with-alle
Gan for to lyke hir meninge and hir chere,
Which somdel deynous was, for she leet falle  
Hir look a lite a-side, in swich manere,
Ascaunces, 'What! May I not stonden here?'
And after that hir loking gan she lighte,
That never thoughte him seen so good a sighte.

And of hir look in him ther gan to quiken  
So greet desir, and swich affeccioun,
That in his herte botme gan to stiken
Of hir his fixe and depe impressioun:
And though he erst hadde poured up and doun,
He was tho glad his hornes in to shrinke;  
Unnethes wiste he how to loke or winke.

Lo, he that leet him-selven so konninge,
And scorned hem that loves peynes dryen,
Was ful unwar that love hadde his dwellinge
With-inne the subtile stremes of hir yen;  
That sodeynly him thoughte he felte dyen,
Right with hir look, the spirit in his herte;
Blissed be love, that thus can folk converte!

She, this in blak, likinge to Troylus,
Over alle thyng, he stood for to biholde;  
Ne his desir, ne wherfor he stood thus,
He neither chere made, ne worde tolde;
But from a-fer, his maner for to holde,
On other thing his look som-tyme he caste,
And eft on hir, whyl that servyse laste.  

And after this, not fulliche al awhaped,
Out of the temple al esiliche he wente,
Repentinge him that he hadde ever y-iaped
Of loves folk, lest fully the descente
Of scorn fille on him-self; but, what he mente,  
Lest it were wist on any maner syde,
His wo he gan dissimulen and hyde.

Whan he was fro the temple thus departed,
He streyght anoon un-to his paleys torneth,
Right with hir look thurgh-shoten and thurgh-darted,  
Al feyneth he in lust that he soiorneth;
And al his chere and speche also he borneth;
And ay, of loves servants every whyle,
Him-self to wrye, at hem he gan to smyle.

And seyde, 'Lord, so ye live al in lest,  
Ye loveres! For the conningest of yow,
That serveth most ententiflich and best,
Him *** as often harm ther-of as prow;
Your hyre is quit ayein, ye, god wot how!
Nought wel for wel, but scorn for good servyse;  
In feith, your ordre is ruled in good wyse!

'In noun-certeyn ben alle your observaunces,
But it a sely fewe poyntes be;
Ne no-thing asketh so grete attendaunces
As doth youre lay, and that knowe alle ye;  
But that is not the worste, as mote I thee;
But, tolde I yow the worste poynt, I leve,
Al seyde I sooth, ye wolden at me greve!

'But tak this, that ye loveres ofte eschuwe,
Or elles doon of good entencioun,  
Ful ofte thy lady wole it misconstrue,
And deme it harm in hir opinioun;
And yet if she, for other enchesoun,
Be wrooth, than shalt thou han a groyn anoon:
Lord! wel is him that may be of yow oon!'  

But for al this, whan that he say his tyme,
He held his pees, non other bote him gayned;
For love bigan his fetheres so to lyme,
That wel unnethe un-to his folk he fayned
That othere besye nedes him destrayned;  
For wo was him, that what to doon he niste,
But bad his folk to goon wher that hem liste.

And whan that he in chaumbre was allone,
He doun up-on his beddes feet him sette,
And first be gan to syke, and eft to grone,  
And thoughte ay on hir so, with-outen lette,
That, as he sat and wook, his spirit mette
That he hir saw a temple, and al the wyse
Right of hir loke, and gan it newe avyse.

Thus gan he make a mirour of his minde,  
In which he saugh al hoolly hir figure;
And that he wel coude in his herte finde,
It was to him a right good aventure
To love swich oon, and if he dide his cure
To serven hir, yet mighte he falle in grace,  
Or elles, for oon of hir servaunts pace.

Imagininge that travaille nor grame
Ne mighte, for so goodly oon, be lorn
As she, ne him for his desir ne shame,
Al were it wist, but in prys and up-born  
Of alle lovers wel more than biforn;
Thus argumented he in his ginninge,
Ful unavysed of his wo cominge.

Thus took he purpos loves craft to suwe,
And thou

Incipit Prohemium Secundi Libri.

Out of these blake wawes for to sayle,
O wind, O wind, the weder ginneth clere;
For in this see the boot hath swich travayle,
Of my conning, that unnethe I it stere:
This see clepe I the tempestous matere  
Of desespeyr that Troilus was inne:
But now of hope the calendes biginne.
O lady myn, that called art Cleo,
Thou be my speed fro this forth, and my muse,
To ryme wel this book, til I have do;  
Me nedeth here noon other art to use.
For-why to every lovere I me excuse,
That of no sentement I this endyte,
But out of Latin in my tonge it wryte.

Wherfore I nil have neither thank ne blame  
Of al this werk, but prey yow mekely,
Disblameth me if any word be lame,
For as myn auctor seyde, so seye I.
Eek though I speke of love unfelingly,
No wondre is, for it no-thing of newe is;  
A blind man can nat Iuggen wel in hewis.

Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge
With-inne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so,  
And spedde as wel in love as men now do;
Eek for to winne love in sondry ages,
In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

And for-thy if it happe in any wyse,
That here be any lovere in this place  
That herkneth, as the storie wol devyse,
How Troilus com to his lady grace,
And thenketh, so nolde I nat love purchace,
Or wondreth on his speche or his doinge,
I noot; but it is me no wonderinge;  

For every wight which that to Rome went,
Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere;
Eek in som lond were al the gamen shent,
If that they ferde in love as men don here,
As thus, in open doing or in chere,  
In visitinge, in forme, or seyde hire sawes;
For-thy men seyn, ech contree hath his lawes.

Eek scarsly been ther in this place three
That han in love seid lyk and doon in al;
For to thy purpos this may lyken thee,  
And thee right nought, yet al is seyd or shal;
Eek som men grave in tree, som in stoon wal,
As it bitit; but sin I have begonne,
Myn auctor shal I folwen, if I conne.

Exclipit prohemium Secundi Libri.

Incipit Liber Secundus.

In May, that moder is of monthes glade,  
That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,
And ful of bawme is fleting every mede;
Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede
Right in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde  
As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde,

That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche,
Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene,
That, coude he never so wel of loving preche,
It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene;  
So shoop it, that hym fil that day a tene
In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente,
And made, er it was day, ful many a wente.

The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay,
Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge,  
Why she forshapen was; and ever lay
Pandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe,
Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringe
How Tereus gan forth hir suster take,
That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake;  

And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse,
Remembringe him his erand was to done
From Troilus, and eek his greet empryse;
And caste and knew in good plyt was the mone
To doon viage, and took his wey ful sone  
Un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde;
Now Ianus, god of entree, thou him gyde!

Whan he was come un-to his neces place,
'Wher is my lady?' to hir folk seyde he;
And they him tolde; and he forth in gan pace,  
And fond, two othere ladyes sete and she,
With-inne a paved parlour; and they three
Herden a mayden reden hem the geste
Of the Sege of Thebes, whyl hem leste.

Quod Pandarus, 'Ma dame, god yow see,  
With al your book and al the companye!'
'Ey, uncle myn, welcome y-wis,' quod she,
And up she roos, and by the hond in hye
She took him faste, and seyde, 'This night thrye,
To goode mote it turne, of yow I mette!'  
And with that word she doun on bench him sette.

'Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet,
If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus;
'But I am sory that I have yow let
To herknen of your book ye preysen thus;  
For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us.
Is it of love? O, som good ye me lere!'
'Uncle,' quod she, 'your maistresse is not here!'

With that they gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde,
'This romaunce is of Thebes, that we rede;  
And we han herd how that king Laius deyde
Thurgh Edippus his sone, and al that dede;
And here we stenten at these lettres rede,
How the bisshop, as the book can telle,
Amphiorax, fil thurgh the ground to helle.'  

Quod Pandarus, 'Al this knowe I my-selve,
And al the assege of Thebes and the care;
For her-of been ther maked bokes twelve: --
But lat be this, and tel me how ye fare;
Do wey your barbe, and shew your face bare;  
Do wey your book, rys up, and lat us daunce,
And lat us don to May som observaunce.'

'A! God forbede!' quod she. 'Be ye mad?
Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save?
By god, ye maken me right sore a-drad,  
Ye ben so wilde, it semeth as ye rave!
It sete me wel bet ay in a cave
To bidde, and rede on holy seyntes lyves;
Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.'

'As ever thryve I,' quod this Pandarus,  
'Yet coude I telle a thing to doon you pleye.'
'Now, uncle dere,' quod she, 'tel it us
For goddes love; is than the assege aweye?
I am of Grekes so ferd that I deye.'
'Nay, nay,' quod he, 'as ever mote I thryve!  
It is a thing wel bet than swiche fyve.'

'Ye, holy god,' quod she, 'what thing is that?
What! Bet than swiche fyve? Ey, nay, y-wis!
For al this world ne can I reden what
It sholde been; som Iape, I trowe, is this;  
And but your-selven telle us what it is,
My wit is for to arede it al to lene;
As help me god, I noot nat what ye meene.'

'And I your borow, ne never shal, for me,
This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve!'  
'And why so, uncle myn? Why so?' quod she.
'By god,' quod he, 'that wole I telle as blyve;
For prouder womman were ther noon on-lyve,
And ye it wiste, in al the toun of Troye;
I iape nought, as ever have I Ioye!'  

Tho gan she wondren more than biforn
A thousand fold, and doun hir eyen caste;
For never, sith the tyme that she was born,
To knowe thing desired she so faste;
And with a syk she seyde him at the laste,  
'Now, uncle myn, I nil yow nought displese,
Nor axen more, that may do yow disese.'

So after this, with many wordes glade,
And freendly tales, and with mery chere,
Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade  
In many an unkouth glad and deep matere,
As freendes doon, whan they ben met y-fere;
Til she gan axen him how Ector ferde,
That was the tounes wal and Grekes yerde.

'Ful wel, I thanke it god,' quod Pandarus,  
'Save in his arm he hath a litel wounde;
And eek his fresshe brother Troilus,
The wyse worthy Ector the secounde,
In whom that ever vertu list abounde,
As alle trouthe and alle gentillesse,  
Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.'

'In good feith, eem,' quod she, 'that lyketh me;
They faren wel, god save hem bothe two!
For trewely I holde it greet deyntee
A kinges sone in armes wel to do,  
And been of good condiciouns ther-to;
For greet power and moral vertu here
Is selde y-seye in o persone y-fere.'

'In good feith, that is sooth,' quod Pandarus;
'But, by my trouthe, the king hath sones tweye,  
That is to mene, Ector and Troilus,
That certainly, though that I sholde deye,
They been as voyde of vyces, dar I seye,
As any men that liveth under the sonne,
Hir might is wyde y-knowe, and what they conne.  

'Of Ector nedeth it nought for to telle:
In al this world ther nis a bettre knight
Than he, that is of worthinesse welle;
And he wel more vertu hath than might.
This knoweth many a wys and worthy wight.  
The same prys of Troilus I seye,
God help me so, I knowe not swiche tweye.'

'By god,' quod she, 'of Ector that is sooth;
Of Troilus the same thing trowe I;
For, dredelees, men tellen that he dooth  
In armes day by day so worthily,
And bereth him here at hoom so gentilly
To every wight, that al the prys hath he
Of hem that me were levest preysed be.'

'Ye sey right sooth, y-wis,' quod Pandarus;  
'For yesterday, who-so hadde with him been,
He might have wondred up-on Troilus;
For never yet so thikke a swarm of been
Ne fleigh, as Grekes fro him gonne fleen;
And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes ere,  
Ther nas no cry but "Troilus is there!"

'Now here, now there, he hunted hem so faste,
Ther nas but Grekes blood; and Troilus,
Now hem he hurte, and hem alle doun he caste;
Ay where he wente, it was arayed thus:  
He was hir deeth, and sheld and lyf for us;
That as that day ther dorste noon with-stonde,
Whyl that he held his blody swerd in honde.

'Therto he is the freendlieste man
Of grete estat, that ever I saw my lyve;  
And wher him list, best felawshipe can
To suche as him thinketh able for to thryve.'
And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve,
He took his leve, and seyde, 'I wol go henne.'
'Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne.  

'What eyleth yow to be thus wery sone,
And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so?
Nay, sitteth down; by god, I have to done
With yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go.'
And every wight that was a-boute hem tho,  
That herde that, gan fer a-wey to stonde,
Whyl they two hadde al that hem liste in honde.

Whan that hir tale al brought was to an ende,
Of hire estat and of hir governaunce,
Quod Pandarus, 'Now is it tyme I wende;  
But yet, I seye, aryseth, lat us daunce,
And cast your widwes habit to mischaunce:
What list yow thus your-self to disfigure,
Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?'

'A! Wel bithought! For love of god,' quod she,  
'Shal I not witen what ye mene of this?'
'No, this thing axeth layser,' tho quod he,
'And eek me wolde muche greve, y-wis,
If I it tolde, and ye it **** amis.
Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille  
Than seye a sooth that were ayeins your wille.

'For, nece, by the goddesse Minerve,
And Iuppiter, that maketh the thonder ringe,
And by the blisful Venus that I serve,
Ye been the womman in this world livinge,  
With-oute paramours, to my wittinge,
That I best love, and lothest am to greve,
And that ye witen wel your-self, I leve.'

'Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, 'grant mercy;
Your freendship have I founden ever yit;  
I am to no man holden trewely,
So muche as yow, and have so litel quit;
And, with the grace of god, emforth my wit,
As in my gilt I shal you never offende;
And if I have er this, I wol amende.  

'But, for the love of god, I yow beseche,
As ye ben he that I love most and triste,
Lat be to me your fremde manere speche,
And sey to me, your nece, what yow liste:'
And with that word hir uncle anoon hir kiste,  
And seyde, 'Gladly, leve nece dere,
Tak it for good that I shal seye yow here.'

With that she gan hir eiyen doun to caste,
And Pandarus to coghe gan a lyte,
And seyde, 'Nece, alwey, lo! To the laste,  
How-so it be that som men hem delyte
With subtil art hir tales for to endyte,
Yet for al that, in hir entencioun
Hir tale is al for som conclusioun.

'And sithen thende is every tales strengthe,  
And this matere is so bihovely,
What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengthe
To yow, that been my freend so feithfully?'
And with that word he gan right inwardly
Biholden hir, and loken on hir face,  
And seyde, 'On suche a mirour goode grace!'

Than thoughte he thus: 'If I my tale endyte
Ought hard, or make a proces any whyle,
She shal no savour han ther-in but lyte,
And trowe I wolde hir in my wil bigyle.  
For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle
Ther-as they can nat pleynly understonde;
For-thy hir wit to serven wol I fonde --'

And loked on hir in a besy wyse,
And she was war that he byheld hir so,  
And seyde, 'Lord! So faste ye me avyse!
Sey ye me never er now? What sey ye, no?'
'Yes, yes,' quod he, 'and bet wole er I go;
But, by my trouthe, I thoughte now if ye
Be fortunat, for now men shal it see.  

'For to every wight som goodly aventure
Som tyme is shape, if he it can receyven;
And if that he wol take of it no cure,
Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven,
Lo, neither cas nor fortune him deceyven,  
But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse;
And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse.

'Good aventure, O bele nece, have ye
Ful lightly founden, and ye conne it take;
And, for the love of god, and eek of me,  
Cacche it anoon, lest aventure slake.
What sholde I lenger proces of it make?
Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon,
If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon.

'And sith I speke of good entencioun,  
As I to yow have told wel here-biforn,
And love as wel your honour and renoun
As creature in al this world y-born;
By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,
And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye,  
Ne shal I never seen yow eft with ye.

'Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to?
Ne chaungeth nat for fere so your hewe;
For hardely the werste of this is do;
And though my tale as now be to yow newe,  
Yet trist alwey, ye shal me finde trewe;
And were it thing that me thoughte unsittinge,
To yow nolde I no swiche tales bringe.'

'Now, my good eem, for goddes love, I preye,'
Quod she, 'com of, and tel me what it is;  
For bothe I am agast what ye wol seye,
And eek me longeth it to wite, y-wis.
For whether it be wel or be amis,
Say on, lat me not in this fere dwelle:'
'So wol I doon; now herkneth, I shal telle:  

'Now, nece myn, the kinges dere sone,
The goode, wyse, worthy, fresshe, and free,
Which alwey for to do wel is his wone,
The noble Troilus, so loveth thee,
That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be.  
Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye?
Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye.

'But if ye lete him deye, I wol sterve;
Have her my trouthe, nece, I nil not lyen;
Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve --'  
With that the teres braste out of his yen,
And seyde, 'If that ye doon us bothe dyen,
Thus giltelees, than have ye fisshed faire;
What mende ye, though that we bothe apeyre?

'Allas! He which that is my lord so dere,  
That trewe man, that noble gentil knight,
That nought desireth but your freendly chere,
I see him deye, ther he goth up-right,
And hasteth him, with al his fulle might,
For to be slayn, if fortune wol assente;  
Allas! That god yow swich a beautee sente!

'If it be so that ye so cruel be,
That of his deeth yow liste nought to recche,
That is so trewe and worthy, as ye see,
No more than of a Iapere or a wrecche,  
If ye be swich, your beautee may not strecche
To make amendes of so cruel a dede;
Avysement is good bifore the nede.

'Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees!
Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no bote!  
Wo worth that beautee that is routhelees!
Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote!
And ye, that been of beautee crop and rote,
If therwith-al in you ther be no routhe,
Than is it harm ye liven, by my trouthe!  

'And also thenk wel that this is no gaude;
For me were lever, thou and I and he
Were hanged, than I sholde been his baude,
As heyghe, as men mighte on us alle y-see:
I am thyn eem, the shame were to me,  
As wel as thee, if that I sholde assente,
Thorugh myn abet, that he thyn honour shente.

'Now understond, for I yow nought requere,
To binde yow to him thorugh no beheste,
But only that ye make him bettre chere  
Than ye han doon er this, and more feste,
So that his lyf be saved, at the leste;
This al and som, and playnly our entente;
God help me so, I never other mente.

'Lo, this request is not but skile, y-wis,  
Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon.
I sette the worste that ye dredden this,
Men wolden wondren seen him come or goon:
Ther-ayeins answere I thus a-noon,
That every wight, but he be fool of kinde,  
Wol deme it love of freendship in his minde.

'What? Who wol deme, though he see a man
To temple go, that he the images eteth?
Thenk eek how wel and wy

Did you see it?
That brother can do it
oh yes indeed he can,

like a young trout at dusk,
in a sweet still lake,
like a pouncing cheetah,
from many yards out,
like Wille May in the outfield,
for a soaring high ball,
like the most monstrous of great whites
rising from the dark depths & exploding
out of the ocean seal prey all clenched
in its merciless jaws,

like a cobra after transfixing its quietened mark,
like the most glorious of lithe pole vaulters,
like the most dandy of sweet young gymnasts,
like the great bull Magic Johnson springing over all & slam
dunkin' that rocketed ball as the whole court is helpless & the
people rock & its more points on that board,
that brother did it

just tore that Southern Hate right on out
of their White Pride hands,
brother just plain did it.

Unser Wille ist nur der Wind
der uns trägt und dreht,
weil wir selber die Sehnsucht sind
die in Blüten steht.

i might not be the smartest crab in the bucket but... Darwinism enforces hierarchies... politics enforces: hierarchies... how hard is it to not see: political biology?! if nature has hierarchy in place... then: the supposed "man-ape"? you're telling a man he's actually a walking abortion... that's all you're saying... now: i can figure out something for myself: but... that's me! i drink alone: i can figure out the recluse, perhaps not the nature of the recluse: but the desire to be a recluse... hell... i was primed to some quasi-alpha... but i wanted to forgo this inherent: trajectory... Darwinism is... politics: it' universal politics... it's: you want to look at apes and forgo the need for beauty for: this long? ugly heads of the Hydra... come on! you don't require Islam as the driving force for the motives: you need motives per se! it only take 0.000001 of any scale... or measure... to take a noumenon from a shadow: mustard seed genesis... into a full phenomenological exegesis of worry... but it's too late by then... the chess pieces are already moving... inclined to free-will or completely without it... it's just sad to think that: when Darwinism employs the argument for hierarchies: real-politik is somehow "devoid" of said: employment of synonymous measures: the worst of woman brought out the worst of man.

well: after, say... a 7 day back to back **** fest of drinking
solo: a litre of herr whiskers & ms. amber
even my liver opts out...
i call it the furry liver stage: or: the onslaught of
pate...
but by then it's not only my liver that's asking
for a breather...
my heart's no longer into it...
and my mind is exhausted to boot...
heart, liver & sensible Brian are looking for a reboot...
oddly enough... i'm more than willing to give it
to them...
it's not like drinking & writing during the night
while going for a marathon cycle run to sweat
out the toxins... it works when you're having
a drinking ****... but not at the end of one...
you can't just fast-track the toxins out...
you need to... pickle...
i call this stage the honey-trap...
it's alcohol "abuse": unlike the use of ******
from what i've seen in pop culture...
it's the opposite of doing a cold turkey...
the honey trap really begins when you're about
to go to bed: even though throughout
the whole day you didn't think about drinking...
you did go to the local shop for two pints
of milk & bought & expressly drank a hipster can
of IPA... burped for a minute...
the fun really starts when you go to bed...
it's a honey trap although:
you're sweating: stewing or pickling your take...
you have the most amazing night
dripping cold sweat... waking up three or four times
during the night...
the APAP, the naproxen or the phenergan dosage
isn't enough...
you need to fall asleep by draining all the brain
going to your brain: direct it to your intestines:
as ever... you eat too much you want to sleep...
but this is during the night:
you're not going to really eat...
lo! & behold... 2 pints of milk disappear...
after all... if you ever puked up milk you notice
the fatty cells split from all the other matter:
the proteins & the sugars...
it's a pretty looking cocktail...
but i just adore the sweating & the toiling...
of course with milk you'll eat something sweet...
coming down from 118kg because of concerns
for my blood-pressure i was given
the option: lose weight: or we'll put you on
high-blood pressure tablets...
at the zenith of the **** i weighed in at 96kg...
one night of the honey trap
and i jumped up to 98kg...
         one day's & one's night's worth is enough...
i've been slightly sleep deprived enough to know
that i have a rekindled want to spew...
from the hear & the brain...
here's back to mr. liver being the punching-bag...
plus... you don't really want to be hangover
when going to the Turkish barber...
you want to have allowed the toxins to leave
your body: slowly... not via exercise...
i still don't know...
£120 per hour for some ******* & oyster dipping...
or... £12 for circa half an hour's worth of
getting the ***** on my hair trimmed
(since i go for a haircut at a unisex salon)...
i don't know...
the trimming of the ***** (sorry, beard) would
only cost me £10...
ah those Turkish barbers...
but he asked at the end: would you like a hot towel?
i declined once... not this time...
so what was i expecting after having my beard
trimmed, shamed... having a close encounter
of the third kind at the "event horizon" where
skin meets hair with some cool whip
& a classic razor?
well i wasn't expecting to find him drop
the electric razor & add finishing touches with
scissors...
he did put a hot towel onto my face...
started my face & beard with it...
until he then folded it round my face
like a doughnut ensuring my nose was playing
peek-ah-boo... he then told me to relax...
outstretched my hands...
sprayed some lemon zesty spray on my hands...
then started to pull my fingers from
their knuckle sockets...
massaged my arms with slaps and "bites"...
took up my arm and folded it to the side:
each arm... between each arm he crudely massaged
the back of my neck and the collar-bone...
the towel still on my face...
for £2 extra? all this when i only walked in
for a trim of the beard?
he then applied some "olive oil"...
anything by OSSION... this turkish brand of male
hair products... top of the line...
the Fwench can hide with their alcohol infused...
trans-man baby products...
point being: this is so much about make culture...
there's nothing to do with:
make-up... nail-polish...
the end product doesn't even matter...
it's the experience...
a man can groom a man in such a way
that a woman couldn't... ever...
oddly enough i have hair to not give a ****
whether it's the Turkish barber or some
blonde bombshell giving me: something just shy
of a crew-cut... i don't miss having long hair...
one man in history pulled off
having long hair & a beard:
i'm not the one to pull that stunt off...
long hair & a goatee: i tried...
but if you're going for the full beard?
short hair...
                   & if my liver doesn't like it:
when Brian and Hertz is up for it again...
so be it... i'll allow the liver to check out early...
but so much is wong with...
the worst of woman has brought up the worst of man...
you: "you" heard of the current craze hitting
university campuses...
so more & more women are entering higher education:
imagine to my shock: the men they're left with...
the ones no longer bothered about
spiking drinks... no... these days they just walk up
to a girl & "syringe" her: that word has been
elevated from a mere noun: to a verb...
it implies spiking her directly...
i once drank a spiked drink once...
idiot me...
but i'm not a woman...
i found a slap of pavement along my dizzy faze
& ended up walking home with it:
finding my own bed...
i don't remember where i left that slab of
pavement... but i clung to it like it was: anchor...
i was with some girls: full clown make-up:
Halloween... they just dropped some ecstasy &
were dancing like the teenagers they were...
i'm pretty sure that drink was not intended for:
i could tell... 3 guys and 1 girl were playing
this boxer arcade game seeing me drink the spiked
beer...
punching at bad (good) as they could...
i guess they didn't have the sort of punch to
punch a clown...
terrible experience...
         ugh...
    but the worst of woman is bringing up the worst
of man...
incel culture is not terrorist culture...
oh sure... it isn't...
last time i heard that a jihadi performed his acts
of terror by first killing his mother...
i'm pretty sure must have heard of some jihadi
that killed his mother prior to going on a rampage...
right now? i think my mother is obnoxious...
an obnoxious brat...
but then her fractions are all wrong...
it's two days short of a year since she lost her father...
i lost a grandfather & a friend:
but her grief is a hierarchy above my own...
so i have to let the whole ******* ****-show slide...
i have my grievances but they somehow have to
ferment in: how she has had grievances with her mother
over why she wasn't informed earlier
about the dreaded affair of: eintreten tod!

oddly enough i'm about to visit to get a time-bomb
of a tooth fixed with root-canal surgery since...
these days... your best bet at any sort of "tourism"
is: health-tourism...
no chance of me getting root-canal treatment
in England... the easy way out: pull the tooth out...
it's a healthy... semi-healthy tooth!
it can be treated!
no treatment available in England:
****-off i go to Eastern Europe...
mind you: it'll be nice to immerse myself with
a people that speak my mutter-zunge for a while...
where the whole world won't be there...
plus i'll have no internet access...
i'll finish that vol. 4 of Knausgaard & read
some Rousseau... happy days:
unhappy days...
my dementia riddled friend won't be there...
but i'll be the one who'll take his grandmother
to the graveyard & make inquiries as
to why: she couldn't have informed "us" sooner
about the dire straits...
i'll be the grandson making the *******
inquiries my mother: her daughter is not willing
to make...

my uncle: her brother: her son is yet to make it clear
how he knew about his impeding death
2 weeks (circa) prior... he came round &
had a blast talking about: "putting things into perspective"...
he asked for some chewing gum
prior to the funeral surface...
& while the coffin was lowered into a shallow grave
(why shallow... oh... you know...
they were intending to cremate him,
rather than seeing his dead corpse in his most
formal attire) - my grandfather had a fear of
cremation...
as much an atheist as he was:
he still believed in resurrection rather than
the traffic of reincarnation:
well... it's not like reincarnation is "wrong": wong...
but you must be a people with a libido that
allows you to have as many people
as you like: for most living in poverty...
for a people that prefer less people
but a higher quality of life...
"perspectives" alter... no?

so as they lowered the coffin into the shallow
dug-out... his chewing of gum...
it's only fresh now... in the moment i was numb...

even today: esp. today... of course if i'm going
for a blood-test i need to sober up: slowly...
i can't just sweat out the toxins on a bicycle ride:
but a glorious storm from France arrived...
in between trying to snooze in some sleep
while listening to the ** debut
& Trentemøller's - The Mash and the Fury:
there was the sound of rain...
beating against my windows...
the cold sweats & the night...

come circa noon while i cycled to the barber
shop i was still sweating: what was it...
circa 10°C?
it just so happened that once the barber
"doing" me tried to wipe off my sweat
for the 2nd time to no avail that the head-barber
told him: blow some cold air on his forehead...
it worked...
as they trim your "event horizons" they also
treat those areas with some baby-bottom powder
sprinkled on a brush...

between the 3Ps...
priests, psychiatrists, prostitutes...
there are the one singular B... (Turkish) barbers...
esp. ones that keep a pair of budgerigars
in their practice...
enough said...
i could count a 4th P: ahem... poo'ets...
but... come one...
some of us are smear merchants when we
don't get the proper credentials...
some of us are not fit for an underground
streak of luck with an audience...
some of us are not built to last:
outside the immediacy of the crab-bucket
mentality:
few make it for the ultimate game:
the: rattekönig game...
                  
it almost feels like an "unfair" exchange
of resources...
the worst of woman brings out the worst of man...
so those supposed male-feminists are
having a field day at universities being
out-numbered 3:1... aren't they?
it's like revenge ****...
but with added spice...
          thank god i'm your sort of everyday
man: i feel no solidarity with...
ahem... my "fellow" man...
thank god i like to focus on what
i want...
seeing how i want very little...
very little seems.... brimming to the fore
with a fullness i never: not once...
hoped for...
                      lucky me...
but there is no solidarity with man:
if an incel begins his trajectory of terror
by first killing his mother:
i'm looking for a name of a jihadi
that began his rampage in a similar way:
although one thing is sure...
why are all the right-wing "extremists",
incels... branded as... mentally ill...
while all the jihadi "soul-jeers": simply not?

seems rather unfair that one side is about
to be treaded via a pharmacological concoction
while the other side is to be:
left alone... yet still making inquisitions
into the "argument"...
        that's my beef...
i'd say both sides are terrorists...
but one side isn't treated in the same way
that the other side is...
shouldn't all sides be... psychiatrically
evaluated... given the same "happy" pills?
to me... that's not fair...
one convicted side gets an Imam and the "psychiatry"
of the Quran...
the other side gets the "happy" pills
and...        what literary focus?!

perhaps it sounds better in Deutsche...
dies welt ist für ein feuer:
das wille machen
           nacht drechen zu tag...
meit gott! it does sound better in German!
who would have guessed: ist so!

"When the Thin Whyte Duke
And the Prince lay colde
When the fools stande talle
And the bigots bolde
The man of orange shall seize the throne
From the one they calle "The Clyntoone Crone"
Then men wille weepe and children waile
(The internete declare a "FAILE")
To no availe fore I have seene
The worlde will ende in twenty hundrede and sixteene!"

Kaiser Clown

borrowed shoe:
stolen foot.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

auf die frei zungen ich kennt -
   (of the three tongues i know) -
ich kennt zwei
    und kennen eine:
    (i know two and know of one):

auf die frei: ich lieben dieser
                        äußerst
(of the three: i love this utmost)...
                      
    in my youth i spent a good deal of time
watching Disney's Robin "fox" Hood
cartoon in German, somehow it rubbed off
on me...

      i was never born with anything even remotely
resembling the love of the English language...
can there be a love akin to the Anglophile
that excludes the love of the language?
i love everything English except for the language...

each day i'm slowly planning my escape
into womb of the mother of the isles that
was first spoken in Saxony...
         tired Bavarians? tired Pomeranians?
but the Saxons were a landlocked people
who gave them the courage and adventurous
spirits to claim the seas with more than
oars and steer the winds with
sails?

      English didn't come to me as some
poor Romanian kid listening to current pop music
or back then, early 1990s... movies from Hollywood...
i didn't want to speak gimmicks...
i was ****** into the deep-end of speaking this
tongue by starting off a mute...
even with the influences of cartoon network
none left a too great impression on my ears
as the German version of the Disney cartoon
of Robin Hood...

   even after watching the English version many years
later... i can still hear the German dubbing
and i can't escape it...

auf die frei zungen ich spre(s)chen es
mit ein konkurs auf substantive...
(of the three tongues i speak it
with a bankruptcy of nouns)...

        at least i have made progress with predispositions
and conjunctions:
i am better coordinated...
but how... how can one be an Anglophile
without a love of the language?
i can adore the way the English care for
the countryside... how traffic is managed...
how taxes are collected how foreign cultures
can slowly integrate and everyone can feel
somehow, seemingly at home:
even if the natives do not for a while...
but without a love for the language
i cannot be a true Anglophile...

                the beauty of Shakespeare disintegrates
when a simple German neo-folk is played to me...

   in der zwölften stund (sage vom untersberg)

- in der zwölften stunde -
at the twelfth hour
- wenn die raben fliegen um den berg -
when the ravens fly around the mountain
- tun sie lautstark kunde -
they loudly proclaim
- von des kaiser macht und tagewerk -
the emperor's power and legacy
- solang der kaiser schlafet -
as long as the emperor sleeps
- tief drunt' im dunklen bergensschloß -
deep down there in the dark mountain *****
- solang fliegen auch die raben -
the ravens will fly
- hoch über seinem marmelschloss -
high above this castle of marble...

   no words in English, and their meaning make much
for... however simple they might be in German:
the simple fact that... they're spoken in German!
das: sie sind gesprochen im Alt...
    
it is only natural that i sought out the origins of
the English tongue in German,
as much as i am not interested in the etymology
of designated word:
i could never be this youth exposed to too much
English culture wishing to sing pop songs
or utter single line pin-pointers from
films: ehrilch mein schatz,
   ich tun nicht ein pflege
   (frankly my dear,
    i don't give a **** / care)
    or... ich wille wieder (i will be back)...

so the indentations of learning English in a later
developmental stage of language acquisiton
didn't rub off on me: as it does on people
with accents of their mother tongue
who never lose it... and merely culturally appropriate
English as a spoken tongue of culture
and not a "cultured" tongue...
native tongue: a shape-shifting accent
of an educated "class"...
    even today! West Ham was playing Everton,
Toffees... ******* Scousers... Liverpool dwelling folk...
two younglings asked me to speak to one
of the managers who took their banner away
expressing disgruntlement with
how the football club was being managed...
huh?! am i still in England...
i have an easier time understanding Scots
than i have understanding anyone from
Manchester or Liverpool!
i can't understand them!
maybe that's why the Scots are like the Irish:
they come from a proud literary history...
oh... i spoke to an Irishman today at
the football game... woke up at 3am to come
to the game... i understood him perfectly...
i can understand a Scot and an Irishman...
i wouldn't be able to tell you an Irishman
from a North Irishman...
but i could tell you decipherable English
of the Scot and the Irishman from
an undecipherable, local, "polyglot"
mishandling of the English language with
such local accents and idioms as that of
Liverpool or Manchester...
can't understand the *******: even if i tried...

obviously i can't relate to a love of Russian...
as they might say in Poland:
better 6 years of **** rule: by fire...
than the subsequent how many decades it was
under the rule of the Soviet rule: by ice...
a slow burn of war is more demoralising
than a quick stretch of spandex and all hell
and all fury and all hearts united
than this scuttling of rats and shadow-bullets
shot from shadow-pistols!

of course i would naturally side with the Germanic
side of my upbringing:
i have no itch for rekindling any Russian brainwashing!
and i know that the Germanic side of "things"
has become a breeding ground for feral creature-oids
that resemble as best cuckoldry and at worst
the shadiest parts of the ***-scenes in Amsterdam...
but... bone-headed Russians and their
pride... that Russian pride... it's one of those intoxication
liquid i want to drink any of!

hmm...
   perhaps because i know English as a utility,
there's nothing romantic in it for me:
i buy bread with it, i ask: i used to ask for directions
in it, i ask someone in that conventional
formal way how they are and hope for the less *******
that most Americans reply with: how all is dandy
and it's all Texan blue above and not
the grey of the island skyline...

i did think for a moment: i should haven taken a step
further and attached myself to Swedish...
or Norwegian...
but then that's what a German would do...
as an Anglo-Slav it was only natural for me to succumb
to the allure of German...
the natural dynamo...
i fall on German and the German falls on Swedish...
or Danish...
**** knows who the Scandinavians fall on for
inspiration... the Finns?!
after all: the Finns are somewhat Scandinavian:
more Inuit people than...
        
one is a tongue one learned: or, was rather thrown
into learning...
but it's unlike a learning from it being passed on...
no one passed English down to me...
i'm a first generation immigrant...
i learned the tongue in the same time
as my parents learned it...
unlike all those 2nd generation immigrants
who were born in this land
and learned this tongue outside the dynamic
of their parents learning the language:
the only difference being...
i kept the mother tongue, the native, intact...
by refusing my parents' claim that:
if i only spoke English at home,
the English i acquired from being schooled
in the English educational system...
if i forwent me speaking my native tongue
to them: their English would somehow improve...
that they would, somehow, miraculously not have
a foreign accent!
as a child i picked up three majors things...
Catholicism wouldn't take me... i might have been
baptised without my consent...
but i had all the necessary obligations to
give or not give my consent when it came to confirmation:
i haven't been confirmed... i head too many
Gnostic Heresy texts as a teenager...
their idea that somehow i would mistreat my native tongue
in order for them to gain something for it...
like most Pakistani 2nd generation children...
perhaps, maybe... a few slip through the netting...
who still pride themselves on knowing Urdu...
most? with their loss of the mother tongue pick up
their own idiosyncratic accents within the confines
of English: they are literally children robbed
of bilingualism by their parents...

i mastered it and by mastering it found it with
shortcomings that only the tongue i was born
with could expose...

today this alpha looking male sat next to me on the train
and spread his legs... smiling... listening to music...
**** me mate... how much spreading do you need to do?
what i found:
poetry, best read when commuting...
i'm building up a complimentary package for a friend
of mine... she sent me macadamia nut shells
and dried pineapple and honey and...
a feather... i said to her: i will not send you anything
before i compliment a feather you sent me with a feather
of my own... i went cycling two days prior
and: imagine my luck! some magpie... ELSTER...
was either shedding her feathers or was in a fight...
i picked up about half a dozen ELSTERGEFIEDER...
magpie feathers...
on the train... you're better off reading a book
of poems than a newspaper...
the optics are much more clarifying...
none of the claustrophobia and oczopląs
               of a tightly-knitted (printed) column or opinion
paragraph... spread out text...
  poetry books as an alternative to reading newspapers
in transit... that's how i imagine "it"...
once upon a time newspapers were tightly knitted
beyond the scope of the printed paragraph:
it would require the solitudes of Sundays
to sit in calm and quiet and read them...
these days: that tabloid press with headers
and exploding wordings for the newly acquired
people of literacy: the addition of pictures...

nothing new, therefore nothing old...
mein herzenskummer ist was giBt
                   der Sonnenaufgang seine
      rinnsal auf schüchtern farben...
und! unt!
        der Sonnenuntergang seine
    busen-auf-verkörperung:
                auf: das nie vergeht!

                   how easily the displaced spiders...
turn to new architecture of the spider web
should their former and no sooner
than sooner: distraught with the havoc
of a man's quill of fingers having to differentiate
walking into a spider-web confusing it
with: are my eye-lashes camel's now?!

some shifts at work are terrible,
esp. when working with two females...
everything is wrong...
even telling after-work jokes is wrong...
talk of fish fingers... loads of ketchup...
that's wrong too...
top it all of this one is joking about the other
and the other is lesbian
and she has a new girlfriend
and fish-fingers: well... i am a man and i never
equated the smell of ****** with fish...
i know that tadpoles and ****...
but never fish... fish fingers... *******...
ketchup? i joked: that time of the month?
no laughter... no laughter...
if women are joking about their horrid ****
i better not be asked to, ******* joke!

better working with mute men on zombie mode...
i'm already a year behind having my social medial
stalked... sure... they can stalk me when they
figure out my middle name and some Slovak
diacritical markers... not until then...
just because i look silly when ice-skating
and everyone has seen the video doesn't
mean i'll give up my internet presence so easily: so...
i have a project aligning myself to German
so close to my heart i can find it forgiving...
to desire in the heart-of-hearts
to: **** this tongue enough to speak it when drinking!
because i find that Wilhelm was sort of right...
about how Germany was no empire
expect something on the continent
that gobbled up a part of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
because the Germans were an established people
and there was no sailing spirit in them...
after all: one might be inclined to think they
wanted to upkeep the romantic, familial orientation
of Christianity...
but the powers, the colonial powers at be...
whether the French the English or the Spanish...
who does, Christianity belong to, these days?
one might have asked the same question
before Christianity spread to the Nord Lands...
prior to its prior occupation with the Syrians
and North Africans and the Greeks...
Romans as a side joke?
who are the current mass of Christianity if not
the former colonies of the English
the Spanish and the French?
i know of Christians in South America from
the cross being dumped by the Spaniards with
vain hope... vain hope of the French in Africa...
and the English in Africa... and North America...

at least the Germans didn't... spread this...
Christianity might be allocated to about 12 individuals
within the confines of a single generation...
beyond that? money-grabbing money-laundering:
a religion with only the sole focus on LOGOS
while reading up on Zhuangzi you have several
other, dutiful terms to meditate on...
i might have been smitten by Hindu thinking before
being doubly smitten by Taoist dialogues...
one still remains a categorical imperative...
outside the realm of dialogue:
the best way you can help the world is
to help the world forget you and you in turn forget
the world...
obviously i'm doing X and counter-X...
i'm writing... by extension of writing i "want"...
or is that: "i" want to be remembered...
but thinking is no telekinesis nor is speaking
any telepathy...
             i speak... like today... i get this oddity of looks...
first she asks me: oh what should i reply
to my friend... just been to a Hen-do...
strippers? oh sure... there were strippers...
first time married? no... second... so what's the ******* point
of a hen-do? cluck x2 laid eggs x4?!
  
so her friend sends me a photograph of her newly bought
dress... laces... or whatever the ******* call
a would-be reimagined-curtain...
i tell her: she could pull it off... if she was a size 0...
the lace could really add dimension and curves to
a thin body...
to hide the skeleton...
but you know what would work for her?
a meringue dress...
you know the type? a one piece...
cut just above the ***** line...
simple: smoothed over... no patterns...
all the way from the cleavage to the feet...
so then she shows me her wedding dress...
it cost her £130 while her friend paid over £2000...
exactly what i was describing...
she just sent an AWW and tried to deflate the question,
or simply avoid it...
yeah... she looks like a flayed torso...
because... SHE's fat...

           eat all you want and as much (perhaps)
but at least burn it off...
if there's no work in the fields:
then there's no work in the fields...
but there's enough rubber burning on the bicycle
to escape the monotone drudgery of
urban living... as i found today,
upon Hook Lane cycling up to Chigwell Row...
there's no need to eat excessively...
no comfort in all that fat without
a leather chair or enough warm clothing...

treating people as these existential morons:
conceptualizing the non-existence of free-will is one thing,
another: to debrief them: life is without agency...
a choice-less Darwinism where
jelly-fish are somehow automated: sprouts:
well... no other life could or would ever be!
people without free-will is one thing:
the shackles of the dynamic of choice...
one choice sets you free, subsequent choice shackles
and inescapable binary of freedom-no-freedom...
science governing the flip of a coin...
but... people, robbed of any sort of agency?!
of self-authority over themselves:
so, so easily mangled and mishandled leaving
their fate unto... no fate: double sure...
unto others?!
i watched a few horror movies in my lifetime...
none seem as horrifying as this +mundaneness
of the horrible leftover: forgotten...

i must have a Germanic attitude toward these matters...
i was born into the living spirit of the ****** tongue,
the membrane in situ staging the conflict
of Rome vs. Greece...
or Germany vs. Russia...
i see no end to it...
i was born from the Germans trying to burn out
the Jews from "my" lands
while the Russians trying to subdue the flames
all the while...
i was still borne from a history that required
a solitary antagonist...
less so an protagonist of solitude...
either way: i was going to slither my way through...
like water like serpents...
wie wasser wie schlangen...

mein herz bricht aus hungrig flammen
als ich stürzen blind Samson's
already toppled temple
            
i know i that i will not write the sort of beauty
that's poetry that's everything that's
Zbigniew Herbert's
Godly Claudius
the Game of Mr. Cogito
Mr. Cogito observes his face in the Mirror
the Seventh Angel
   (my favourite of the angels listed?
Dedrael - the apologist and cabalist)
   to name but a few of the poems...

it brings such relief that i can't bring such
beauty into this world: perhaps if my mind was
not muddled by the utility of English
and my romance with German -
perhaps but only perhaps:
i don't even know why i started to write poetry:
maybe it was my lowest ebb
psychotic running on steam and pretend
legs between Edinburgh, Glasgow,
London, Dover, Athens, Belgrade,
Katowice...
                    walking into a bookshop buying
a copy of Rumi's verses...
buying Dostoyevsky's the Brothers Karamazov
and, just by chance... Bukowski...
what was so supposedly special and hiding
within the poetry of this man?
absolutely nothing: i was mad enough
to try it then and to keep at it:
not really knowing why...
  
compared to Zbigniew Herbert i write trash:
perhaps i read too much fiction,
even autobiographical prose: prose in general:
i don't know how to shut up the ten mouths
on the tips of my fingers but
i know how i can seem menacing
on a shift at work... hood pulled over my head
leather gloves squeezing each knuckle
asked by the atypical extroverted woman
whether something is wrong...
pulling my hood up, smiling, yet still being
compared to the grim reaper...
jokes aside: someone is counting the time...

a welcome break from Knausgaard...
this little safe-haven of poetry read in transit...
finally! something that's not mine
and not in English!

that's the terrible difference between men and women...
going to the Fulham shift i was sitting
behind three women... i'm guessing two were
newly arrived brides of war from Ukraine
who also picked up a Thai-surprise bride...
birds sound chirpier and more pleasant to talk
to... sitting behind them reading my little poetry
book... with a magpie's feather for a bookmark...
the women talked... about?
photographs... filters... instagram models...
plastic surgeries of people wanting to look
like their photographs...
impossible dreams! dreams of women...
and some womanized-men...
on my way back... same book same bookmark
and a young man sat down next to me...
put on some decent music i could
make out through the headphones...
angled his horizon to look over my shoulder
as to why i was reading a book with so much
open space and so little words...
not any fiction, not some constipated prose
of imaginary conversations...
and i could feel his leg pressing against mine...

perhaps i am not gay but i can't imagine
being friends with a woman...
i truly can't... there's either *** for me: with women...
or there is friendship with men...
with each man i meet i can achieve this
transcendent: otherwise unpackaged will
of subduing and seduction that only a woman
can provide me... but a conversation with a woman
is painful: at least for the majority of times:
there might be a special place for a woman
who might not necessarily:
but is probably older than me and shares
the same sentiments as me...
probably lives far away and thinks that hand-writing
is like exposing herself all naked...
will go out of her way to send me a feather of a bird
from over 3000miles away...

while i will send her a necklace with a single amber
stone on it... or i will send her a crab's pincer with a hole
drilled in it and ask her to buy some leather-string
to have herself a second necklace...

at work Stephanie the supervisor had to make it adamant
for me alone to know that i would be her Alpha...
whatever the hell that meant...
Alpha... well yeah... because i do try to ensure that
everyone is treated fairly...
the Asians boys of Bangladesh and Pakistan caved it...
this work or this cold of England
finally bit them...
     it's an unrewarding work if you don't have
an escape plan, like i do...
i'm always flying to other pursuits outside of this
work... customer service... being polite to people
that might not be polite to you or simply ignore you...
but even my standards i thought they were
taking it too far...
but i made a pact with them...
they took out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured
out shots... if there's going to be a snitch among
us... it will be the man who does drink...
so when asked if i'd like a shot i replied: why not!
the weather calls for it... whiskey to warm up!
mixer? oh no no... straight!
plus... you can't mix Jack Daniels with Fanta, can you?
a few new colts were bullied into peer pressure
of silence, asked if they wanted a drink: said no...
me? i had a drink... i'm not snitching...
well i did when Stephanie was coming round
when i just said: nothing about the drinking...
but if there are 7 of us standing in one place...
but i'm the only one giving any customer service
by giving directions and good-evenings while
they're just standing talking to each other,
having a good time? apparently some people still
can't internalise being drunk for their own
self-amusement, drinking is somehow: getting together...
clearly these boys haven't been alone
and drank a litre of whiskey each and every single
night for months on end...

what really bugged me is when they took out a spliff
and smoked it between the four of them...
even as the customers were coming to see
Tottenham beat Fulham 1 - nil...
oh for ****'s sake... it's one thing having a cheeky sip of
whiskey on a cold day to warm up...
but to also smoke marijuana on a shift?
in full view and easily scented air of winter
before customers?
these guys don't want this ****** job...
thank god none of them are either bus drivers
or train drivers or plumbers for that matter!
maybe doctors who forgot to take out a pair of
scissors from a patient's body when
the patient is getting stitched up?

the worst i ever did was drink the night before
and sobered up on my way to work...
ah... not to mention that one time this
girl tried to scout her paranoia from prior relationships
with abusive alcoholic boyfriends onto me:
a man she just met... pampered with an array
of chemicals whether that be a cologne or this alcohol
containing face spray...
who i later tried to sooth by bringing her my homemade
weisserwein... cloudy... like any weisserbier...
chirpsin'... 3 way conversation conspiracies...
until the lie stood on dwarf's legs rather than stilts...
and to think: no i wasn't thinking seriously about
getting into a relationship with her...
she tried to get me fired for "apparently" drinking
on the job! a person she just me...
neurotic ******* *****... it's good that i showed her
what she would never, ever... get...

the difference between men and women...
the shift finished... prior to finishing we already knew
that there was some major ****-up on the tube...
the signals went down...
no Circle line, no Hammersmith & city services...
no services on the District line
from East Ham to Earls Court...
ergo? you'd think there might be a northbound
service to Edgware Rd. from Putney Bridge...
nope... Earls Court is a 4 x 4 junction...
sure... there was the southbound service
from Putney Bridge to Wimbledon...
and whatever service that's a station after
Earls court toward Richmond and Ealing Broadway...
as i'm guessing from Upminster to East Ham
and from one station after Earls Court
to Edgware Rd....
this girl was supposed to come with me
to Stepney Bridge from either Romford or Chadwell
Heath for the shift...
i was 15 minutes late because i felt like getting some
tea and an almond croissant...
she was? an hour late...
by the end of the shift when the transport invonvenience
was building up we went for our debrief
and she was all irritated in the eyes
when she wanted to get an Uber to Hammersmith
or whether it was she thought about going
without telling me: where that would cost her £50+
quid...
                  so when i told her...
i'm not going down the Putney High Street rail connection
because: (a) look at the ******* congestion
of the crowd and (b) i don't need to go to *******
Waterloo because that's ******* south of the river...

mmm hmm mmm... what, should we do?
i told you... i'm either walking or getting the bus 220
to Hammersmith...
debriefing over: she stayed behind for banter
and all the things that hinder an extrovert,
esp. a female extrovert... un-decisive, fatalist,
everything just ******* happens by some whisper
from astrology...
    Aquarius said to Libra that the waters were
about to spill... i ****** off from the stadium
like a hart... shook hands with the managers
thank you goodnight... as i was walking out
toward Hammersmith some young stewards were
shuffling really quickly it all looked very much like
they might be scratching vinyl...
i asked... you heading to Hammersmith?
yes yes... see! that's i like to see!
male to male camaraderie...
we have this unconscious motif of: from *****
you came to ***** you shall return...
it's a bit senseless to go to war these days...
less senseless when you're trying to get from
point A to point B...
there was about 40 of us running for the bus...
amongst us? 1 woman...
***** AHOY!
   obviously i left this girl behind...
her other option was asking one of the managers
to giver her a lift... ******* free-loader...
by the time the manager would have clocked out
all the other parties i would have wasted an hour...
just to get a lift... and then what?
stranded with her? even though we weren't going
to the same point B?
   i left with the *****-mentality... happy too:
because i could read my poetry book in the prized
possession of solitude... and no solitude...
because given the hour... something freakish was
bound to happen on the train or tube...
and it did... some proper English boys talking about
not wanting to take a nightcap in Romford heading
all the way to Shenfield joked when this guy started running
down the train carriage...
and those SKANKS so drunk who were blocking
the doors: subsequently delaying us
subsequently not catching their train blah blah...

well... just as today happened: talking so freely to men,
boys, young men, first point of "concern" / conversation?
establishing "taboos" or habits...
you smoke? you drink? first time you got drunk...
when did you start smoking marijuana first?
and then a natural progression into...
so... what music do you like... just... so naturally?
with women? even with Francesca,
this butcher boy of a lesbian...
it's a cul de sac sort of conversation...
she only talks about herself,
even today i received a text from her...
i broke up with Natalie... broke up i.e. she met her
on Tinder... she stayed round her house
for three nights... Natalie made her lunch for
work one time... cooked dinner another time...
4 days and nights they dated... already broke up...
there you go... Tinder-dating-shoplifting hearts...
window-shopping romances...

free market capitalism? sure... but not when
capitalism overstretches its influence
and we're worse off than the despairing existentialist:
PHILOSOPHERS of the 19th... the precurosor
fabric... i'd say the 20th century existentialist
philosophers had it easier...
but anyone in the 21st century, thinking, even remotely:
would be hard pressed not to express something
of substance bugging all of us:
no great war, no great upheaval,
proxy wars, the Thespian dictatorship over all
the other arts (with the exception of pop music, perhaps)
and the journalistic juggernaut of the quickened
availability of almost anything and nothing...
the free market of capitalism having invested
in creating this... Frankenstein in pieces...
this IKEA ******* LEGO model of a Frankenstein:
but at least Frankenstein bothered to construct
the entire monster rather than creating this
shattered Pandora's box... left in pieces and in
some realisation of a Copernican West...
in a Copernican East... Copernican "west"?
there's a "west" without a setting sun?!
up in outer space?
                         capitalism all fine and dandy:
but not outside the realm of a couple worrying about
how many kettle and toasters sets they will
have to buy during the year or even the wardrobe
needs revisions, or whether it might be worthwile
to change the wallpaper in the living room,
or what movie to watch on a date night at the cinema...
all of that is gone when the free market made
us profile ourselves... with some of us being pushed
so far as to fake cubist like pictures of ourselves
and subsequently implement plastic surgery to
double-fake ourselves...

the shrapnel-shelving-of-self...
it's like people are a library with no alphabetical order:
free market on psychology, morphed beyond
any concern for dreams: if there were any
as the luxury of the Freudian rich...
this... what happened to historiology in the modern
sense as stressed by Heidegger?
a study of history of the people by the people
or at least by individuals... morphed into this grotesque
pop psychology: archeological mapping back
to the primordial Pharisee of Ape and Aping...
farce: Darwin's Curtain of History...
   will we ever remember the beauties and horrors
of centuries from the 16th to the 19th?
no... everything of said years is nil: null...
because the ape's origins quickly morphed into
the man hunched over a microwave adamant in his
belief that... the carbon footprint of producing
a kilogram of chicken meat somehow, somehow would
"save the planet" than producing a kilogram
of tomatoes... given that a kilogram of tomatoes would
only yield a fraction of the necessary calories
than a kilogram of meat... and still the growing
of one kilogram of chicken would cost the planet
less than growing a kilogram of tomatoes...
who needs tomatoes in winter?!
eat, your, ******* root vegetables! carrots boyo! carrots!
but chickens don't need solar energy, nor suntans,
nor greenhouses... chickens cluck just as much
in winter as in summer... and eggs are a year round
product... plus you only need a barn in winter
to keep chicken!
tomatoes rot... chickens? they grow old and die...
until they grow old they still produce eggs...
and when they die? you eat them...
you can't exactly call a chicken rotten if it isn't already
days X already dead, can you?
it might not be as fresh... but...
ugh... no wonder

Zbigniew Herbert: from mythology (of Rome) -

   in the end only the superstitious
neurasthenics carried in their pocket a little figurine
made from salt, resembling the god of irony;
since then there wasn't a greater god.

then the barbarians came, they too greatly prized
the idol of irony.
           they pounded it with their heels and sprinkled
it into their dishes.

no clay-monster of the Levant can intimidate
me now!
not armed with these words:
let us witness the great divorce of man from woman!
let us watch!
pray... let us be brothers and friends and
secretly wishing we were lovers:
in the thinning air... let us talk about the strange
glow above the Thames hanging over Kew Gardens
as if: as i said to him:
as if the sunset still claiming an eye
in the night...
      what woman? what woman could i share
this romantic conversation with?
my interaction with women is so blatant so cold
so forced to claim the male in me and the woman
in her that it's only ******...
oh sure... i was going to the brothel...
but i was coming home already late...
i had two pairs of socks on, drawers, trousers...
a tank-top a shirt gloves and a thick coat...
by the time i would get out of all those layers
and have a quick shower...
half an hour i would have paid for would have become
nothing more than 15 minutes...
not enough time to get a hard-on
of being in the mood...
i already had more than ***...
a conversation... and no woman has yet to actually
provide me with one...
perhaps we are not in the trenches...
but men have always managed without women...
for as long as time knows...

a shift prior... at West Ham... ******* guy with a bald
head and a face as endearing as a plump baby
we great with a handshake that turns into
a thumb against thumb contest and a hug
tells me that i should come and find him at Cavern Cottage
and he'll sort me out with some free food...
hey presto i go and find him
i get a free steak and ale pie...
i know it's a one off...
    we already get discounts for burgers from the burger
van... but it's nice to give a reminder when
being invited...

     we do our rounds in the park...
among the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshi who at first
thought i was British when asked:
oh no... i'm not British... an Anglo-Slav at best...
from that lineage of Anglo-Saxons...
the Saxons who came among post-Rome rule
Britain and mingled or not mingled
with the local Celtic and Welsh and Britton populace...
i'm the second wave that didn't make it
because the British Empire collapsed
and the eastern Europeans were not too dearly minded
in the history of the British Empire...
but they know that i'm from Poland
so when asked: where are you from? there...
and "there"... but i've been living here since i was
7 so there's no "born and bred" argumentation
with me and those in your ethnic stratum
concerning any anti-Pakistani villification
of those in the "upper-castes"... blah blah...
they know... while the three of us walked around
this 40 year old Yugoslav woman
who escaped the Yugoslavian collapse of
circa 1992... starts talking as i switch her around
so she can have a walk with us to warm up her legs
from standing stiff still...
where are you from? oh... here...
i'm not going to tell her what i told the boys...
not after she deflects my attraction to her
by paying more attention to the Pakistani boy
of 20... i'm closer to her age...
but... then she does this sick thing of asking
me to hold her empty cups of tea that
have an unused teabag in it and some dried milk...
oh... right? i'm going to be your waiting boy?

******* testing women... this woman is past her prime...
i know it she thinks she can "test" my patience
by me being her ******* pet-shop-boy?!
fine! fine...
the more and more i talk to women
the more i find them diametrically opposed
to any sort of psychologically asexual universalism of:
ecce ****...
                 women have: and will have to...
sexualize everything from Aristotle to Zeno...
there was once a maybe female version of Aristotle if
only the: give me the drill... i need a bigger hole to see through:
these eyes aren't large enough...
if only there wasn't an oppressive patriarchy...
the oppressive "patriarchy" of autistic geniuses?!
oh... that one... the sort of men cowering
from female sexuality?
  wow! how oppressive!
                    magnificently oppressive!
we all should be so magnificently oppressed by the man
who discovered the wheel by meditating
the O(micron) - what came first?
the wheel or the omega, or was it the sun?
if Prometheus brought down fire... by teaching man
that scratching flint against flint could illuminate
the cave and give man a second womb of poison-fire...
before the forests turned to ash...
before Pompeii's negative of a whiplash of history...

i tried loving women... i loved them for:
the many months i would rather not use
the fingers of both my hands for...
    absolutely un-relate-able creatures...
what *** beside that of female would whisper in
man's heart to leave their minds without
reason to stage the Trojan War
                        or bring architecture to kneel:
like Xerxes: but the madness of Xerxes was rather
beautiful wanting to lash the Aegean into submission
rather than that little Pharaoh ***** who might
have said: best to chisel down a rock face
and glue together sand with egg-whites and spit
into bricks and polish up a craggy mountain:
lest we forget: from a lineage of a people
that once said: let us "reinterpret" the mountains!
pyramids...
                at least the South American tribes invented
the pyramid as an altar... not a tomb...
but we're no smarter than they were dumber:
the myopic-vision strategy of the vantage point
of: what came prior... with hindsight...
but hindsight only works in reverse...
the unmistakeably irreversible past
within the confines of the motto: the terrible
has already happened!
  
                       and some variation of the historically
terrible isn't already happening,
on some microscopic level?
                           not if / not yet?!
                                             hardly...

poetry is air and not the prose of water...
i am stranded between wanting to breathe air
and at the same time more in need to drink water:
no wonder i cannot rest with merely breathing air...
if only i were to breathe air and leave my efforts
with so much nuance as to allow others to breathe
the same air... alas i am like that saying of Heraclitus...
i'll pour you a glass of water
i have prior to drank... leave it for you to drink a day
later: it will not be the same water that i have drank...
i wish i could write like these words might be air...
but it's... aqua post scriptum et plus aqua
post scriptum ad fluenta...

                    verschließen dein augen:
    sehen wieder... immer wieder:
                               bis: es gibt
                             nicht freude:
noch aufschub träumen...
                              kalt silber-rasierer
                                 schneiden auf
mondklären... nacht als auch wirklichkeitstoff.

i cant find my willie it must have fallen off
it seem to dissapear when i had a cough
ive looked in my pants my wille is not there
cough was really loud could be anyway

i will have to make a new one.  from a piece of wood
stay hard for evermore like a willie should

Doch manchmal fällt ein Licht
durchdringt die tiefen Schatten
auf das Herz im Kreis und bricht
der Wille wahrt im matten.

i woke up with a fever... obviously i was drinking heavily last night... i was thinking about Caroline Aherne... from the Royle Family... that sit-com that's unlike any soap-opera and the instigator for the current channel 4 google... goggle-box... trash... i'm ******* feverish... i need to sweat some of this alcohol out... i have glue-eyes... things look fuzzy... or, rather... glued together too much... but i woke up and just remembered those Somali beauties on my last shift... how nervous they looked... licking their lips... i was just thinking: ****, ****... ****... like most Muslim didn't think  having a blast in Cologne... in Rotherham... i'm pretty open to foreign cuisine... i'll eat anything that doesn't move... like i'll **** anything that does... ****... did i message Khedra last night? i must have... like my current fetish for ginger haired women... freckles no freckles... whatever... i'm still "coy" when it comes to ol' raven Caucasian hair... well... Turk or Mongol? they're one and the same... but i woke up with a dream... a 2nd Islamic implosion... a second schism... spearheaded by the Turks... like the first one was spearheaded by the proud Persians because they were like: no ******* camel-jockey... no sand-****** is going to dictate to us... i swear i borrowed those slang terms from a Sri Lankan... honest to god... or allah: in Maltese... but i woke up... remembered that a ******* was inquiring about me... babe... i'm just not longing... i've had a ginger spell put over me... give me a few days... i'll exercise like mad... drink more white wine... let me just get ***** a little... i don't want to come to you with a limp: whimp of a whittle 'ichard... right... now i know what this fever was about... western culture... a load of *******... the Islamic attire for women... the niqab... the suppossed oppression of women... OR... excatly... OR... the salvaging of the male libido... seriously... why would i want to desire what's left plainly in the open... readily avaliable... why would i want to put up with so much *******: tease?! cucks-galore... i switch off... put on a pair of sunglasses: the night's too bright... i see the logic now... just now... oh no no... i'm not akin to the western narrative... at best i'm a subverter... i just can't follow the narrative that: men's fault... for not getting a hard-on... pop some pills because... that's what women did back in the day of being liberated by dropping those anti-contraceptive pills... no... no ******* MEA CULPA... no! i'm always just ******* dandy with prostitutes... and... randomly... a Thai girl... a black girl... after enough suspense and alcohol for both of us... white girls have become Victorian-times Irish nuns for some of us... i literally don't think they're Madonnas... ****** up girls: sure... but holy? you have to be kidding me... i'm actually kidding myself... but the niqb actually makes sense... personally? in my Islam... those niqabs would be white... if there is to be a second schism in Islam... they would be white... or linen prone... a material that would allow some breathing room... but it truly is a salvaging of the male libido... i mean: except for perverts and all the other outliers... men can quickly switch off... from any ****** activity once they reach a certain age... concentrate on something abstract... wed themselves to Sophia... while watching idiots go through their motions of hard-ons and juiced up oysters worth of ****.

vultu mutabilis albus et ater...
        of changeful countenance, both white and black...

that quote alone...
        from the book: answer to Job... by C. G. Jung...
i can make peace with Herr Jung...
       i'm very familiar with his... good nature in writing...

i'm feeling good... best day ever...
made my father some meatball spaghetti for lunch
for work tomorrow: i'm ******* working
and all... stewarding... loitering...
it's not working... not when you're herding people...
it would be work if i had 20 cows under
my supervision...
            the "work" is a joke...
**** easy... just put on a facade like you're about
to count how many teeth they have
with your knuckles... inside or outside
their mouth? erm?!            both...
just pretend... it's a "job" of pretending...

but at the same time: play the game of FWENDS...
that's important...
   also... tend to your fellow coworkers...
   make sure they get the breaks...
   be firm with others...

West Ham vs. Frankfurt... love it!
         going to brush up on some of my Deutsche!
grr... obviously spoken with an English grammar
logic...
          ar du haben ein güt zeit?
              alles (ist) güt?
    
in China, himmel ist runden und die erde quadrat...

yeah... that should work...
English grammar is pretty much German grammar...
we'll: sehen... we'll spiegel...
bounce back and forwards...
             after all... post-apocalyptic Sächsisch
that broke their own rules when invading these isles
and mingled with the Celtic and Welsh tribes...
well... maybe not so much the Welsh...
               finally! some other German breeds...
i'm starting to think... Saxons... Pomeranians...
Swabs... oh... Frankfurt... that's Hessen territory...
oi oi! we're going to get a bunch of Hess!
        i look at the Germans and immediately think:
dog-breeders!
            rot! Russ! rot! Russ! viler! viler! raf! rough!
r'ah!

        its truly amazing watching these two old rivalries
take centre stage...
it's never ever pretty when it comes to Polacks vs.
the Russians... let alone Ukrainians...
but it's like: when it come to the Ing-leash
those proud post-Saxony Saxons: i'm pretty *******
sure some Saxons were like: we're going to stay...
oh... wait... why didn't that migrating horde
of fighter come back?

ah ah... i see... i've seen it already...
when i was young... a blonde was the archetype of
beauty for me...
as i've aged... red heads... Celtic red heads...
i'm going absolutely ballistic over them...
freckles... no freckles... whatever...
skin... complexion that could compete with milk...
i'm driven nuts by these red heads...
******* cuckoo... ****** Tunes: wolf whistling
in my head...
i don't care... the lighter tinge... the darker crossing
into auburn territory ginger...
*****... **** me: she could even grow a beard
and i'd still doggy-****-her...

             that's why those invading Saxons didn't
come back... because of the ginger ***** and *** galore...
same... i would have stayed...
no questions...

   so a few sentences in Deutsche... sorted...
   i'll practice tomorrow whenever i come across those
few that come up to me and ask in that
goot... achtung achtung accenting:
  mein goot Bwi-dish ascent... ya?
    oh... ya ya... das ist goot...

                                   h'eh h'eh...

but it's so different... i have absolutely no animosity
for the Germans...
they became mesmerized by an Austrian...
and... come to think of it... an Austrian is not
a German and a German is not Swiss...
i think it's that simple...
           it's fun... over 'ere in Europe...
it's so unlike H'america... we're juggling ethnicity
rather than race... race is so boring:
so H'american...

                        but i close my eyes... i've had enough
to drink... like clockwork...
my body just jumps into a drum-beat...
the best i could find... it's insatiable...
i can't resist grooving to it...
using both of my hands to tap out the Morse Code
of the rhythm...

   the Brian Jonestown Massacre's: Panic in Babylon

i seriously had a terrible day in the kitchen...
i was working with premade beef tartar meat...
what's this?! i ask my mother...
it's mush! it's mince!
             i couldn't eat a steak tartar with this!
i like my steak tartar finely diced...
yeah yeah: capers, gherkins the whole shebang...
raw egg yolk blah blah... i don't do raw mince...
that's baby food... i need a bite...
so she replies... make some meat *****...
fair enough...
             but i make the mistake of adding some bacon
into the mixture... and a pinch of salt...
oh **** me... that's salty... i thought it said:
unsmoked bacon...

****... not even the breadcrumbs and the yolk helped...
what to do... what to do...
or the paprika... what to do, what to do...
i need to salvage the meat...

right... make enough tomato sauce...
but don't season it with salt...
pepper... Italian herbs... Kashmiri chilly...
    o.k., o.k., no salt... that should balance out just right...

and there's me grooving to Panic in Babylon...
tapping away with the beat...
while at the same time... closing my eyes and thinking
i'm stirring a *** of freshly brought sinners
in hell... don't ask me why...
if i were to rewrite Dante's inferno...
a completely different affair...
i wouldn't take Virgil with me...
and we wouldn't even descend into hell...
i'd take him around London... but i wouldn't be taking
Virgil... i'd be taking Horace...

              klar als tag!

where's that quote i was looking for... it has to be in here
somewhere...
i knew i had it somewhere...
no... not under Lucifer... under Aquarius...
ah... there it is!

          Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres:
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

and as i typed this... QWERTY...
Christopher Latham Sholes... in on par in my books
with the Sejong the Great...
the story goes... Marquis de Sade's uncle...
Abbé de Sade of Ebreuil... had a library of books
you would read with only one hand...
ergo? you'd *******...
personally? yeah... the ol' Marquis gave me a hard-on
in the past...
the QWERTY model though...
it's beside a concept of a piano...
after all... there are so many combinations
of lettering that erode your memory:
but you rarely have to look down to look
at what your hands are doing...
depending on the size of the keyboard...
you just peep down and reposition your hands...
but that's why you have two SHIFT buttons...
why wouldn't you?
esp. if you're trying to type out a quote verbatim...
you're holding a book in one hand...
you're crow-pecking at each digit of a letter
with your index... because you're transcribing...
you do need... you do need two shift buttons
for the upper-case... you can't just switch-on
and switch-off CAPS LOCK... pointless...

now i have an urge of biting into some raw garlic...
or... onion... no... not pickled...
i need some adhesive that's also a repellent...
i have too many spiders in my bedroom...
i'm afraid that i'll eat some in my sleep...

i'm still vehemently adamant when saying:
i'd shoot Freud in the back of the head...
like an Andrei Chikatilo.... why?
i just feel like it... terrible ideas...
or, rather... too simple... it's not even the horrors
of cubism of modernism...
do i have to race bait the ******?!
all of the Hebrews that entertained Europe
aas their home for over 2000 years lost
their Mediterranean sun-tan anyways...

oh right... that's how it works?! they get settled back...
the Yids... the Hebs... and what do they flood
Europe with? their enemies...
the invading Islam falafel...
       cool cool... good to know...
       i'm on the receiving end... well... i'm not...
the western "powers" might have capitulated...
try that same **** in Russia...
as much as i want to love the Germans...
at least the Russians are sensible...

     because what?! "on the right side of history"
sort of happened with Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya...
Syria? did it?!

that quote... about Aquarius and Lucifer...
plenty of delusion people where i'm at...
why should i be any worse...
i'm only joking when pretending to be the devil...

ich bin teil aus das macht, welche immer wille
     böse und immer arbeiten güt...

  i am part of that power which eternally wills evil
and eternally works good...

well... we're... "we're" sort of waiting to pounce...
seeing how Western Europe has been left to
the power hungry cucks of society...
           i'm siding with the Russians:
because as a ******,,, Ukrainians?!
undermined the stability of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth... they ******* sided
with the remnants of the Mongols that didn't
******* back to Mongolia but occupied
Crimea... ******* lemon *******
squint copper-skins... what?!

                i love depitcing our differences...
is... is that... a "problem"?
you know what proverb...

  jeśli wejdziesz między wrony, musisz krakać jak i one:
when you come among the crows...
you must croak like them...
Rome... blah blah...
  there's this animosity building up in
me that's becoming unhealthy...
  i don't have the stomach...
   but in the near future... i see...
someone...
                     someone who will erase
this Islamic curse from the face of Europe...
it's simple Newtonian logic...
  it's simple... i don't have the voice...
i don't have the ambition(s)...
                 i prefer to drink... draw circles...
scribble my little laments...
shout from the heights of the Bastille like.... de Sade...
i drink: i don't dance...
   there's plenty... we're readied...
       i want Saudi Arabia to burn...
             i want a second Islamic schism...
this one? spearheaded by the the Turks...
   i want Jesus t be known as...
the Lord of Mosquitos...
               that's enough... this ****** is going
to fall back into line with hell's democracy:
or else!
           he has had too many years of ownership
of time!
hell's rebelling! ich besagt: hölle ist rebellieren!
genug! das ist es!

he's no son of god... he's one of us...
         he's the Lord of Mosquitos...
                why, though... this waiting game...
keeping it a secret?!
well... no wonder... god is a... ahem...
            marry ****** with Elizabeth Bathory...
you get?! no no... not a bloodbath...
                      because?! nature is benevolent...
oh sure it is... it's so nice to men that will never get
a chance to hear a moan...

what prompted me?
a message from my "girlfriend"... a Turkish beauty...
raven hair... i wish it was ginger...
whatever...

seriously... that's how this world works?
i'm getting a message from my *******: "girlfriend",
hey, how are you... telling her...
i'm good... your lips are like ******* mangos...
mush mush... see you soon...
while the women i work with are single mums
in their 30s... thinking they're hot stuff and i'm
like... i'd be sooner seen ******* a camel... toe...
whatever... how oblivious to you have to be
to the whole situation?!
i'm calling prostitutes my girlfriends because:
well... at least they like to ****...
and these supposed "free" women...
"free" as in... entangled with raising children...
why, would, i, even, *******, bother?!
they're not mine...
            where does it say that i need to "man up"
to raise someone else's *****-sprank?!
if there's an authentic war... not waged
as proxy by H'americans... sign me up...
but... raising some else's chiuldren?! *******...
not via dating... via being a surrogate father...
but even then... nein...
                 niet...                         nie....       no!

nature has a cruel habit of being... raving revealing
in what's considered to be fair...
didn't the anglophone world popularise Darwinism?!
so... what's the ******* problem?!

i just texted my Turkish "girlfriend" ******* back...
we're good... i'm getting paid... tomorrow?!
obviously i'm gagging for it...
but i'll need to... exercise... get my mojo back...
harsh cardiovascular... white wine... etc.
i want to perform... i just can't imagine ***
on a regular basis... in a relationship...
regressing into... having to watch t.v. together...
tell you what... my mother made this discovery
today...
the t.v. show: the Royle Ramily... ****... Family...
and... Googlebox...
  it's like a precursor... although...
the former is funnier...
       no... because it's not a soap opera...
        it's not predictably blind to people's expectations...
now that she text me i'm sort of getting a hard-on...
now that i text her back i'm...
oh... right... she wants me...
           it's better when it's that ******* obvious...
i.e. between men and women...
you want her... she wants you...
        she had about a dozen bad *****...
now she's texting you: come back... Lassie! come home!
Caroline Aherne... i always... always...
what a lass... i can't stress it enough:
give me Tuesday... i could become lazy with her
in front of a... an aquarium... i hate the t.v.:
how about somewhere in Scotland...
with a fireplace?!
                        i'm happy with this Turkish *******
messaging me: where are you?! are you o.k.?!
why not... any woman is enough treasure...
i'm not going to tell a ******* from a nurse
apart... i can't: i don't want to...
      even though there are supposedly more
women in the world than men...
  n'ah... that's never going to be an armchair
in my mind... that "armchair" is going to remain...
"being" an armchair outside of my mind...
"somewhere" in a living room: as a ******* armchair...
not... some... abstract... safety-net...
in the... "back of my head" quiz...
      i don't have a ****** fetish... a niqab: skunk
oomph...
            as Khedra said...
just because you don't have unprotected ***...
sorry... sorry... just because you have protected ***...
doesn't mean that you will not catch STDs...
oh man... that's harsh...
***** *******... they probably don't wash their
hands after they've eaten or taken a ****...
  well... that's me done... i can have unprotected ***
with a ******* and no worry about catching...
Syphilis...
                    tested, proven, done... if i get a wring-worm
puking up a mushroom steering wheel for my
monkey brain to facilitate: i'll let you know...
but even at work...
  around women... this one gives me the most dirtiest
looks... why? she hasn't figured me out...
she tries the intimidation tactics... hugs me...
keeps clinging to me mishearing her say DARLING
while i thought she said DADDY...
****** insinuations... blah blah... blah... blah...
i'm not a gangster... i'm not part of some
criminal underworld...
             but brothels aren't exactly hotels...

prostitutes aren't exactly your next door neighbour
sort of
gals... are they?
so if one messages you: with  a longing?
winged Hussar... she has a mouth...
a mouth that could melt....
a  **** of butter...                    tiresome irk.

The Dutch are the eternal
Dam Nation, Rotter's is
what the Belgians said
when a **** in Holland
refused to let the Manequin
Pis insert his wee little Wille
in what he assumed was a
Zuider Zee open to the public,
especially as it was in an area
that had been recently zoned red.