ich wollen ein iranischherz herauf Nörden.

or simply Njørden - often the j is a softening pronunciation -
i want an Iranian heart up north -
that's what is says - imagine why he lashed out
with the words *sheisse ausländer -
miniature form of Dostoyevsky -
at 18 he was confused - his father probably
heard the words... hearing that he lashed out...
this is the proof of the power of commandments -
take one to extreme, and all the others seems
permitted - honour your parents -
he didn't shout out allah'u akbar - he did
a little maxim veto - as said unto me one,
may these bullets turn into revisited tongues -
the west has no concern for poetry -
i wouldn't make Iran an enemy,
after all... they're the ones that appreciate poetry...
mm ha ha! so given Iran's flavour for poetics
i can only applaud at their sensibility -
i too was once duped into thinking that watching
a movie i might lie to a girl and ****** her -
poetry is dead in the west... i don't write
for the west, i write from the west, which doesn't
mean i respect the west -
thanks to feminism we're cruising into
an affair of what feminists don't anticipate:
the impracticality of old age creeping, creeping,
creeping... with large families there are at least
chances of a benevolent child who might care for
his parents - in the west with surrogate foetal-things
it's hardly a bouquet of flowers sitting pretty on
a table - the problem are already waiting...
thank **** if you're rich... if you're poor?
well... hmm what a Disneyland awaits you -
**** stained and **** smeared dying for your idea
like any Communist might; well, i'm not going to
help you... ask Oxfam while the money you donated
ensured that only a penny reached the poor poor
Africans and why 99 pence reached the bureaucracy
of keeping a charity afloat - i know where
i can find fresh water... you have to cross a barbwire
fence, feed 10 horses 20 sugar cubes and you're
at a little stream of clarity... then you do the vegan
diet and sorta'h waiting for a heart-attack...
or you take a Russian Empire banknote with Tsar
Nicholas II to Switzerland and buy yourself out
with euthanasia... either way, win win.
every ****** time i go back home there's the Krähewolke -
i'm starting to imagine myself as the boy instructed by
Barbarossa to watch for the crows and a second life -
it's a small town, used to be industrious,
life here, there, everywhere, now a town of pensioners -
a European squabbling with a European but ignoring
the massive signs MADE IN CHINA, MADE IN CHINA...
MADE IN CHINA... why you blaming me for what's
going to happen to you too? you think this is the steam-engine
days of industrial revolution? do you have an Instagram
account? no. well... if you aren't going to be a third party
advert unit you're worth jackshit -
but still that Krähewolke of summer, thousands of them
swarm the sky - i'm not saying because i'm there,
i'm saying i'm there dwarfed by such a sight...
krähe die messerschmitt - so poetry is written by
*****-whipped English teachers, or it's the medium of
the weak, it has many voices but it doesn't have a voice,
it needs to be pretty, it needs to be neat, it needs to
have a prosthetic metaphor stashed in a pile of **** flare -
some say it even has to be as coherent as an Ikea
manual for putting a table together, people all of a sudden
trash the calculator and attempt mental arithmetic in
terms of reading... what... a... load... of... crock-****...
hyphen... mm... the Germans knew the immigrant Saxons
would speak less and less German and even of lesser
quality than the Turks... the Germans invented chemistry -
the Anglo-Saxons invented hyphenation... but it's so
******* weird that the Englandish outlandish will
hyphenate a word like overt-usage but never include the
hyphen in chemical nouns, like: Hydrochloric acid...
dihydrogen monoxide (yes, the d'uh hoax),
phosphorus pentachloride - what remains of Vater Schwaben
in English is bound to chemistry's language,
where the standard use of hyphen is disallowed -
the German original took on a different optometrist -
the English revision took on yet another (different) optometrist -
the eyes of the English starring at a German word
began to dizzy-up-whirl looking through a kaleidoscope -
the Germans just saw: schieße schrapnell!
achtung! achtung! die wort ist die fondant...
mm... gobble gobble gobble - pristine smile of sharpened
teeth in a smile! klebrigzähne sprechen sehr kleine-eine-miner.
well... if you're going to write a Monty Pi Ten you might
as well desecrate a foreign language with the grammar of
the one acquired - very much interested in how grammar
is reflected by Arabic left-to-right, English right-to-left
German right-to-left,but Latin left-to-right - all the genus
names - **** sapiens: rational man - or the up-kept
(******* ***** -φρεν - alt.  hi-yo in Beijing) desire for:
the instilled continuance of the rationalising man...
rationalise this! knuckle dusters down the East End -
gotta be a **** before you can be a Cockney Wiseguy -
say ooh la la say soo - bud weiss err - say ooh la la say soo -
amphetamine George says: ethanol Scottish Gaelic means:
twins sedative and un-inhibitor - talk of Enzymes -
south and shoo, north and nothing, east and extra territory,
west and **** / Vancouver - van coup verily ******
voulez-vous volleyball aha! write poetry like a dictionary
entry - spandex, annex, fly-flex - it can really become
a tennis match after a while:
   roses are   red
                   violets are blue
             i'm so in love with everything that's dead
    that i decided to call the past the necessary glue.
an article by Bryan Applied concerning poetry -
and why all poetic hearts are bound for Iran -
karaoke the current trend in the west for one -
living at a time when cooking books sell,
and plagiarism is celebrated more than any awkward
originality, but everyone still owns microwaves
and opts for ready-meals -
the rewards of old age aren't there because families
have become atomic based on individuals -
oh right? the article, it's long, ****** me off -
"we turn to poetry in times of need, but can it really
help? and why doesn't it sell more copies?"
ah the selling questions, i forgot a capitalist thinks
of poems like hamburgers...
i'll put in a bracketed word pending in the title and give
you a brief overview of the article...

*** and whiskey interlude

i don't write poetry... what i do do is **** poetry;
why do fellow artists hate poetry?
poetry in the hands of the old and young
thinks itself ******-like, the one art form that
says no to violence, no to intolerance,
no to drastic actions of revision -
keeping the Shakespearean sonnet won't do the art
any favours, it's the art too easily accessible,
because anyone can apparently write it
as long as they get a clue than a rhyme is necessary -
alternating rhymes are not that important,
i asked for a steak tartar, instead i got
plated a shepherds' pie - i asked for raw,
all i got for nanny picked and donning diapers -
poetry is best suited for that dynamo of reaction
known to internet trolls - trolls should overpower
writing poetry, they're intelligent enough, and
democratic too - cold-stone-heartless *******
should pick up these floral arrangements and
do an iron maiden make-over with them...
poems should be torture instruments,
they should never be treated as floral arrangements...
i don't like weakness, neither does nature -
when i walk into the museum of poetry
i don't want to see avant-garde art, i want to see torture,
they really did underestimate the vis poetica -
when i read poetry i want torture, i don't need
safety pins, straitjackets and other torturous
instruments of conformity - but from what i'm seeing
that's all i'm getting - ask any man why the construction
industry is ******* - women on site, women in the
army - feminism has infiltrated sacred sites of
manly brotherhood... you don't see a man stroll into
the fashion industry... well... unless he's a ****** -
a Grimm Brother's tale: once upon a time...
you could listen to a radio on a building site...
then women came in... we only heard symphonies of
hammer and drill... that alone made us deaf...
sure... we worked dangerously, we died more often...
BUT THE THRILL! **** *** bye bye... go on, wave at it...
it's like Titanic's maiden voyage... it's not coming back!
feminism's ugly head should have shoved itself once
more under a horse's galloping hoofs - a few times -
it played with the brotherhood of man - we're no longer
men, we're insurance policies, safety nets,
no wonder the Jihadis are fighting for our libidos -
cos i honestly think they are... they want us to feel the Mojo
once more from the frivolous spirit of the 1960s liberation
that only became slavery of the fake sinner -
**** it... applause gentlemen! applause! thank **** for
me donning *******, i'd be a real loser if i had to hand it
to myself without it... these days it's called the ******* -
the monk's sheaf of chastity - reduce a man to a *****
and you reduce a father to alimony cheques.
what?! ain't that true? i told you, **** poetry, don't
bother writing it, **** that pacified ***** into obedience -
you own it... without you you'd still be crying about
what shame it is that a nation that produced Shakespeare
undermines poets while keeping this old **** ticking
all the boxes of worthwhile inspection... i wish i was
the 20th century example of when poetry had some respect...
at any other time more so in the 20th century -
but we missed that train... shame for us to have inherited
such a past and the internet - so if not so keen on poetry
why Shakespeare the celebratory idol? twilight Sir
****-a-lot is coming - or so i hope.
so this article, citations:
a. Wordsworth 'thoughts that do often lie too deep for
     tears',
b. poetry is the language of crisis,
c. poetry as peak experience constructed from
    the shabby, battered bricks of verbiage
    (otherwise known as talk with a mouthful
      of spaghetti),
d. TS Eliot: 'purifying the dialect of the tribe'
     (too many dialects to make up a tribe, to be honest),
e. funerals in particular are what's called
    poetic crashing the scene, every subject,
    every opportunity, you'd never call a poet a
    polymath,
f. the healing power of poetry... the healing power?
    i never signed up to take a Hippocratic oath!
g. a permanent record of failure... or the allure of a permanent
     record of ridicule by others, so the minor success was
     there too - as in a boy buys a kettle
     is a success story, but a boy writes a poem is a failure -
     is that vocabulary as commodity without
     a handkerchief?
h.
              a sense of abandonment looms...
              the obnoxiousness of this article is all too apparent,
      i rather be headbanging to some ***** M: Ra Ra Rhas Putin -
(even surds deserve a bit of love) -
i might finish the citation of the article... but then again
i might as well cut it short - inc. in the Culture Section
of the Sunday Times, Bryan Appleyard -
people resent poetry for stealing what comes naturally -
really? so i'm a thief? a lot of people don't invest in
vocabulary - they convene to invest in flimsy investments
of slang - after graduation from being teenagers the investment
in **** suddenly disappears - grown-up vocabulary takes
over, comprehensive English, not slang English...
people don't acquire naturally (i.e. easily without discomfort),
if i were to complain to the people for treating me
as a thief rather than a poet i'd ask them to teach me to
do crosswords... a pain-in-the-***... i can't do them!
so i guess that if you're able to do crosswords you can't
write poetry, or give poetry a freedom away from all those
dusty technicalities / identifiers as such -
for poetry doesn't make anything happen
(WH Auden), it probably doesn't, but if you choose a boring
life, a lot happens... 11/15 is the feminist ratio of poetry's
Forward prizes in the genre - k k, a fraction - 11:15 -
new testament? or the old's citation? yeah... why do they
cite the bible like making bets at the bookies?
Gospel of St. Luke 15 to 1? they're betting on the 4 Henchmen
of the Apocalypse - gambling even in the testaments.
performance poetry seldom stands up on the page -
yeah, wheelchair bound, or in pop culture lyricism -
that competition between R.E.M.'s man on the moon
(yeah yeah yeah yeah), and Nirvana's smells like teen spirit,
hello hello hello 'ola! (later the yeah yeah hitchhiker's story);
did i tell you i got barred from a pub in Collier Row for
speaking poetically? a ****-hole of a pub anyway,
walked in with a pair of dolphin flippers and a shark
fin, spoke some words, made a few friends over grapefruit
ale - then a few days later got barred, because i apparently
"threw a pint glass across the room"; that's me booked
for the Cheltenham Book festival for sure... right next to
the cookbook aisle where people will be expecting to make
humble pie and cider squint tarts.

It's me, TIRED...

To be honest, I am a little burned out. I am an important feeling, as well as an important word.
You want to be me so badly that you even say that you're me
You have done nothing to earn me
I feel so ***** when you use me in those un-natural ways
I will not be your scapegoat that you use to fool other sheep!
Why you wanna be me so badly anyhow?
Is it because of this flat earth thing?
I know you say that you're tired of this and that, it's hard to figure.
Trying to be me just to change me?
Well fyi, i am tired when i wake up, tired when i go to bed...
I am tired at my daughter's word graduation
Yes, I named my daughter Drowsy
Let me catch one of you hair brain's using my daughter, and you'll be sleeping with the fishes.
See, I am the original TIRED...that makes me REAL TIRED
There's plenty in my family
You are going against the FAMILY
I treat you nice, right?
Mess around and you will meet my uncle, DEAD
DEAD TIRED
If you ask him, your only good tired, is DEAD TIRED
We will let the coroner be the judge of what you are then.
It is bad enough what you do to those rubber round things on your car
They did not complain, but just showed a little wear
So, what do you do? You changed their name from RUBBERS to TIRES
Just to rub it in that you put your weight, plus the weight of a car on them.
Keep on rolling TIRES...someday may you find some rest my friends

I got these fools

I'm quick to put people in there place and they just put me anywhere
Making me sick and me?
Sick does not hold tired's hand
I don't even like what SICK does
Sick goes along with whatever just for attention
Just like you try to make me go along with your wide eyed lies?

Hey wiseguy
Kiss my ring or you can forget about it
Words are in the family, and dear to my heart

I don't even know how to feel right now

Knock it off meatheads, or you will see what is important

Now, go on, and remember, don't speak my name unless you're asleep...in that case, it's ok to dream
I got guys there too...family

Now stop trying to be me, gangsta...or get you some of me!

the REAL tired...and fam

PS. No little birdy better not show up and tell me things I don't want to hear. That birdy doesn't deserve the trouble.

and wouldn't literature suddenly change, you take the works from early 20th century, and further afield, and what you come across is the entry point of vulgarity... perhaps the unnecessary censorship of "pardon my french" stretched for too long, and became all too ridiculous, but, for some reason, vulgarity in literature is unavoidable, given the contradictory elements: you can see a gang ****, but can't see the word f&$@! it's almost sad that we have turned to vulgarity for some sort of cushioning of the falling emphasis, yes, it means us moderns can't contest with the squiggly-clean attempts prior, where no vulgarity was used, but there seems to be a reason as to why we're injecting vulgarity as being necessary, for whatever reason, it's there, and it will remain there, since we're asking the question: but why can he, and i can't?

i was never a fan of hegel,
   i doubt if i'll become acquainted with his writing
any time soon,
don't know, i feel awkward reading him,
and skim reading his *philosophy of right
that inspired a marxist critique,
to only find that the book are ****** "aphorisms"
that are nothing more than lecture notes,
i'd prefer poking a hippopotamus' ****
to be honest...
       i remember owning a doberman dog
that bit into a **** and inside were these crawling
parasite worms...
       traumatic? no, like any archetype
of a scientist i peered in to get a better look
at the kneading mass of worm...
          looked like, exactly that:
kneading dough...
                you choose sides, i chose hegel's
precursor, kant,
   and read him, read him good,
and i found that: well -
   apparently the bachelor saint of konigsberg
never left his routine: he married it!
and i have mine...
   can't complain...
                 and to "think" that germans were
once the thinking europeans...
       to think that the germans were once
great thinkers... looking at the germans now
is like watching sheep attempting to
stray from the sheep-cult baah baah matra...
              there's a sadistic pleasure i get from it...
don't ask me why, ask me how:
for the love of god whenever i read a philosophy
book in english i feel dumber than to begin
with...
         i can read only one philosopher in
english: heidegger, since he toys with language
to the point of insanity,
   and he'll never make it to the bestseller list
of books, language is too complex,
and the toying with "inverted" commas
(commas of enclosed ambiguity as i like to
call them), and the spontaneous italics once in
a while, has already made him a cultish figure...
mind you: the sunday i read the culture
magazine, and spot a book of poetry in
the bestseller list, i'll buy champagne...
     this is one of those "lazy" poems, in that:
i can't just imagine myself drinking,
  i have to write something, otherwise i'll just
end up drinking, and that's not good for anybody...
mind you, i picked something up from
that hegel book...
  the connection between the latin:
ibid. (ibidem) and the ditto...
              well?
     ibidem is a ditto in the footnote section...
again, the joys of paraphrasing /
          using the thesaurus...
            they're one and the same, although
not quite, although: a bit like -
although: not quite like - although almost certainly
quite like...
    although one being in a footnote expression,
and the other in a written section of any
said or unsaid text...
          ergo ibidem qua  ditto (therefore
in the same source as being the same thing
again) -
    mind you, that's copernican for:
     still need the n.e.w.s. to read a map -
  the **** will a 3D earth do to navigational
enterprises? nothing! it'll just stick the image
of an orange in your head, and make you
steer into a whirlpool!
            i guess the biggest mistake is to write
to your contemporaries, but have a stockpile
of books by dead writers...
   i mean: who on earth writes a modern novel,
having read don quixote? no, one!
              even nietzsche thought he was a hot
shot saying: no one in germany has read
stendhal, not even the german professors...
   *****, i read that on route 86 bus to school
when i was 15 / 16, the only book that i wanted
to read having watched a cinematic adaptation
starring ewan mcgregor & rachel weisz....
funny you should say, i have perhaps 3 / 4 books
by living authors, which is slightly
intimidating having to extend the claim for
necrophilia, i.e. i don't own a library,
i own a graveyard.
                 once more: i just can't ****** well read
philosophy in english, can't do it,
i tried reading a bit of the hegel i own in english
and i just cringe, i have enough nietzsche in
english to doubly cringe and mind what happened
to nietzsche: sycophancy.
            regurgitators of maxims - a very pop.
pastime in the anglophone world...
   but i wonder, in summary -
   is it better to tell a good joke,
                                       or to utter a wise saying?
i'm starting to think the former,
       all the tyrannical kings always spared
the court jester, but never the wiseguy...
                             plus the immediacy of returned
laughter, than the mud-thick waters of
ponderance that ensue from a wise saying...
  plus, at least the stupidest thing people can
do with a good joke is laugh...
when it comes to "wise" sayings -
                               genocides can ensue;
ah, right, hence the peppered punctuation for
double emphasis, and the all too necessary
vulgarity.
     p.s. uttering a wise saying only make them
wise: upon one's deathbed -
ergo, i don't believe in maxims,
   esp. nietzsche's style of bombardment
with maxims...
   it's like the modern version of internet spam...
in the end, the only wise saying a man
ever uttered: was his epitaph -
  and the irony being: someone else said it
for him.

I remember black guys in junior high
used to say that
and I didn't know exactly what they meant.
I still don't.
But it's an expression that sounds
like it'd make good rhymes.
Here goes.

"I'm wise
not in disguise
I may be shy and a wiseguy
but at least I'm not Captain Blye
Pay the way to the real magic bounty
apparently occasion during the
Vietnam War it seemed implied
by the underlining of the soul article content
in that Bruce Springsteen on the
cover of Time Magazine issue that came out that
seemed to start off the revolution
of the summer of '68
an issue I picked up with the underlying
when I landed on 1st St.
an open psych ward that summer
So one of us is a traitor and the real
Fletcher Christian - that's all the
underlying meant - of all of us
who were into the name.
But it sure wasn't me, I'm not a Navy type
butcher, though big girl there, Army brat
through and through
Yes Sir Captain Blye
I'm arise
and not in disguise
or Louis Nye
and Sigma Chi
and the dunce the Fly
and the desire to move up to the sky
and us guys
who like to get a little high
****, the squares call it,
though to me it's natural
so I won't make any lately
and about thinking I'm one of the guys
Yeah the Mighty High of Joy's song
Captain Blye
a man named SKy
and the fictional Joe Clay called a ****
back at the U of Ketchum
I think was it's name
but that was just implied."

One time my father was getting hassled
by some wiseguy from Detroit,
but all dad had to do was make a phone call,
and the young, dumb wiseguy
was chastised for hassling an old friend.
And I still have that secret little phone book
of numbers—those numbers—even though all of them are dead.
Maybe if I have to, I can call them all in hell.

When I was a kid,
We drove past
One of those endless Michigan cemeteries,
And my uncle caught me staring,
Maybe with more fear
In my face than necessary.

In his gravelly, wiseguy voice, he said,
“It’s not the dead you need to fear,
It’s the living.”

After that,
I never feared the dead,
And I never trusted the living again,
Especially him.