Wee cosy, tranquil Gatehouse Library
Ah come in quite a lot tay see yi,
Tay read yir books and use yir wifi
                An' chat tay Joannie,
Sae noo Ah'm goannie sing yir praises,
                Ah'm pure dead goannie.

Ye're sic' a cultural oasis,
Wan o' ma favourite learnin' places,
Yir books can form the verra basis
                O' Scottish brain power,
Enrichin' minds an' cheeky faces
                O' Scottish wean power.

So let us pray they never close yi
Tay those who would, we will oppose yi.
We'll be the storm an ill wind blows yi
                At sic' a crunch time.
The only closin' we'll allow
                Is Joannie's lunch time.

Ever have they dwelled in that sickly city,
That even the flowing ice avoided
As it crept down from the heights,
Devourving all in its path.

Among evil shadows,
Did they practice their craft.
In the primordial conurbation
Of forsaken Yir.

Since time immemorial
They have met in silence.
Beneath Yir's dark obelisks
And the backdrop of jagged mountains.

Many believe them necromancers.
It is even said in myth ,
That they were the ones to create man
In order to spite the gods .

But such memories ,
If ever there were any,
Have long since passed
From the revelries of thought.

None have seen these sorcerers
Or that sable city of Yir
Since the ice had receeded
In more recent ages.

In fact, not even the location
Of that monsterous place
Can be agreed upon anymore,
Which many count as a blessing.

For though the city is lost,
And unseen by the eye,
The meer mention of it
Disturbs and unsettles the mind.

As if it's raven spell,
Was never truely lifted.

So aye
We wir watchin
that David Attenborough
or tryin tae -
fower weans tearin up the joint,
an she's like,
See if youse dinny shut it...!
an aw that, ken -
You no gonny tell thum?
So ah'm like,
"Aye.  
Wheesht, youse."

But it wis amazin, like.
These fish.
Years oot at sea.
Tiny wee at first,
dodgin sharks an jellyfish
an aw sorts,
awa oot, miles fae land.
(God!  Youse!  Take it up the stair!
Tell thum, you!
"Aye, boys.  Listen tae yir ma.")

Then wan day, like
they get the urge, ken?
Got tae go.
An in they come,
surgin fae the sea,
these sleek, silver bullets
fat wi feedin.
(I'll no tell yis again!)

Nothin, an ah mean nothing
is gonny stop them.
Waterfalls?  Nae bother.
Just pure hungry
fir the lassies, ken?
The boy Attenborough sais
they dinny even eat!
(That's it!  Ah tellt ye!
Here you!  Take some responsibility,
wull ye?
"Eh?  Oh, aye.
Away tae yir rooms, boys -
yir ma tellt ye.")

These pure ***** divils
will loup up sheer cliffs,
baws burstin, bi the look ay it.
Poetry in motion, ken?
Like, ah dinny ken, pure water
brought tae life, an that.
Jist pure savage.

An then, haw -
they find the lassies!
An it's jist, like,
'splurge'!
Done the deed.
Gemme ower,
job done,
deid.

An there's this shot.
Ripplin shallows,
just fill ay the twitchin bodies.
Craws an bears an that,
queuin up fir the bonanza.
Jist, like,
totally
spent.

An she's aw,
Here, is that no terrible?
Pair buggers!
Eifter aw that!
An ah'm like,
"Aye."

But see inside,
ah'm thinkin,
"Lucky,
lucky *******."

Kriekgeguard: Sö tall meh how ya doeth wit despair,
and all fir of flams flewing and chewing yir up,
that the hole time yir piercenality waz,
so streing to solve it, but yir did it,
in wreighting of odders wreighting yirself down,
for yirs and yirs and yirs, the hole time
and wie all wanted tingz easey,
sö as yi sayeth, you maketh things hart,
möre difficult for understanding,
how to deal cards with comeflict
as it is with the absolutelysurd world?
Crosstianity, come thinkets, is nothing 'ese aftir all.
So cometh rill empairic, roll yir thongue.
Tall true the true tailing.

Sore: Tired Ae got.
But righting is noting,
it is a smull bud of rose,
and roses out of noting,
Ignore how day and day only tell you:
"You are a great prose stylist, you know the craft, I don't"
For a fukd, Ae might be called a prose cyclist,
but it is not me, it is the kisses muse,
you never forget it for a fukd,
first you note in, then you synthesize, symphonise, syncrosise.
It is all just music.

Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart

When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!

Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.

This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve

Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”

Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop

These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”

So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light

Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.

Ah didny recognise him fae the eulogy.
The meenister'd nivver met the lad, Ah could see.
A hero?  Aye, mibbe.  Jist a name tae maist ay these fowk.
But ah kent im as a boay,
the daft wee scapegoat, ayewis in boather,
but nae real hairm in im.
He wis the lad wha'd get skelped, the noise
makkin the teacher turn is heid
jist in time tae spot im skelpin back.
Mairched tae the heidie again.
"Yir a bad lot, Barry.
Yir faither wis a bad lot too."

Puir Baz.
Da in the jile,
Ma aff her face on smack,
an him, daft, funny, doomed.
If onybody at hame had cared enough
tae keep the schuil photies,
they'd have shown a wee freckly laddie
wi a too-open grin,
year eftir year,
jersey gettin tattier,
teeth getting gappier,
still grinnin while the rest ay us
were far too cool tae smile for the camera.

Ah liked im.
Didny unnerstaun how the teachers
were sae ***** tae im.
There wis far badder boays in the year.
Ricky ****** Jackson - a nasty, sleekit wee body,
yankin ab'dy's strings.
But his da wis rich
an the teachers fawned ower im.
No Baz, though.
Cannon fodder, richt enough.
Tackin the flack fir the rest ay us.

Exactly the kind ay lad
the ******* Army thrives on.
Ah canny feel the patriotic pride,
canny picture the self-sacrifice,
the heroism.
Ah can juist see im,
daft an grinnin,
daein whit he wis tellt
an gettin killt.

Mind you,
he wis aye headin for the poppies, that yin,
One wey
or anither.

1:   Ah’m the Boss Man.  Me.

2:   Dinna ****** swear.

3:   Go tae Church.  OR ELSE.

4:   Mind yer lip wi the Auld Dear.

5:   Nae ******!

6:   Keep yer hauns tae yersel.

7:   Whit isna yairs, isna yairs. Dinna forget.

8:   Dinna fit nae ****** up fir whit they didna dae.

9:   Keep yir ehs aff her nixt door…

10:   …an yir ehs aff thir gear, as well.



Mind now!

Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

It was silent. His body sunk into the earth.
His soul long gone from there. He had died
A gun upon his arms.

When they come a wull staun ma groon
Staun ma groon al nae be afraid

He had died with a home that his dream would
live on.

Thoughts awe hame tak awa ma fear
Sweat an bluid hide ma veil awe tears

Later they had told us he had died with courage
and valor.

Ains a year say a prayer faur me
Close yir een an remember me

The shots continue he fell by the
tenth.

Nair mair shall a see the sun
For a fell tae a Germans gun

A ******* grasped in his stone
cold hand

Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

He saw a line of faces, brown, black
and white. Some were smiling others,
crying

Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

His body sunk into the cold, wet ground
As God opened his arms, for a boy
drenched in blood.

Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*

A group waited in the wings. Soldiers
from many places. Who fought to keep
their shores safe.

any reading of a philosophy book, outside of university, is mapped without the sort of strategy to receive a grade, for a "correct" interpretation (rather a regurgitation) of said work (mentioned below); to say it in simpler terms: i do not ever think that understanding a concept - in concreto - is worth some sort of "passing on the genes" (memes) of one individual to another - given that a meme has become pop culture, and as the french would put it:
        ce crasse et petit irritante chiotte valeur de merde
                                                                ­                        (i.e. un cliché) -
truly written like and englishman -
   a meme is that crass and small irritant bog's worth of ****
                                                            ­                                           ( " ),
   at least that's peckham french, del boy french,
                         i was well informed about this french dialect.

- and to even "think" why there are so many blue
indians, and so few piggies; perhaps it boils down
to the fact that the blue indians believe in
   burial within fire, rather than earth,
  and they prefer to surround themselves with the living,
rather than with the dead; and piggies do,
  graveyard upon graveyard,
    and that constant "nostalgia", idol-worship
of the past, where nothing greater can come again;
for those who surround themselves with the living,
their existence rages akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial... but for those who surround
themselves with the dead,
   their existences decompases akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial, a heart-broken: nightmarish
earth. -

for some reason, i always get these
"revelations" (for lack of a better word) -
as one might receive a signature
of a thunderstorm in the form of
lightning upon the sky -
           and it usually predicated by
listening to a few pop songs -
   and then listening to the
    *cantos of templar knights -
            but then again, you sometimes
really need extremes,
     as the canadian sayings goes -
we only have two seasons,
    one's winter, the other is construction.

but this is about technicalities,
one could even cite the following as
the part of any contract, the terms & conditions
written in the smallest possible print,
   lodged in hardbacks worth over 30 quid -
not your cheap bestseller paperbacks -
   those too could be appreciated,
   but akin to pressure to keep a worth's of
expression in sanctum of a hardback?
   take the year 1996 for the cantos 1st
on toilet-paper (paperback) - but in brick?
take the year 1970...
  and where do the technicalities come in?

   - heidegger's ponderings V, aphorism 41 -
technicalities akin to the rules of
a game of cricket, or at least the pointing system.

but count it nonetheless, half an hour to scroll...
12,700+... till i got to april the 8th
  and resurrect a memory?

.  ע   ‎
יהוה ‎‎‎
א‎
                  sighs from on high...
      and laughter into the depths.

let us just say, that digital is
the new hardback edition -
    to condense my works into toilet-paper
till take more years and more pushy-pushy
tactics, to transform
     a hardback into something affordable...
but in reverse...
               what comical inversion,
   30 years will become 300 years to come
  about for someone to wipe-their-***-to-mouth
fathom of what went on at the genesis
of the birth of the internet,
   in some obscure location,
                  like a catholic school in england.

now the germanic pilot-plotline (regarding
aphorism 41, ponderings V):

    promo enigma-alchimia in vivo lingua,
             anti ipse (dixit) in lingua vitro.

(we're not in posh-boy grammar school,
the language is dead, it's become play-dough,
a malagrammaton-monœgo:
for a man's tongue is to his befitting desire
to state the terms of play).

da / ein-da / die-da          vs.                hier   vs.
                                      die-hier / ein-da

( there / a there / the there        vs.
                                                ­                 here    vs.
  the here / a there    -
                                
                               ­ atheistic scissors of
definite/indefinite articles/articulation of
    what's near, and what's far away,
     the dualistic-dichotomy of here&there,
  then&now...
           as far as i am concerned i cannot narrate
this akin to a vampire romance page-turner
bestseller... too many organic chemistry diagrams
concerning electron migration, sorry) -

   but given the "blank" slate genesis, starting
with articles... they go beyond being categorised
as definite or indefinite...
    namely... am i, or can i be assured that
      there's no X variations?
    i.e.
                da     ein da
                      X
       die hier     hier            ???????????????

               isn't ein hier merely "being"?
imagine being forced into a there -
                  without being the there,
akin to a zeitgeist, akin less!
      zeitgeist = a there (communism),
  but the there? that's what hegel
said of napoleon entering jena:
       "das ist ein weltgeist!" (capitalism).

and who are the anglophones?
  i cannot respect these "peoples" -
they constantly stutter when it comes to
  their lack of diacritical application,
they stutter... i might as well call them
the strabismus race...
    and if darwinism is to be the vector-catalyst
(hollywood was thrashing american cities
for decades, what damage could this
observation could possibly do?) -
  if darwinism is to be the prime historian,
that darwinism replaces actual history
and becomes neither in vitro, nor in vivo,
but in situ? why do scientists wonder why
universities are undermined in their
humanities, when scientific populism of
biology (i.e. darwinism) has undermined
papa historia? am i... missing something?!
     if you undermine a credible study within
the humanities with enough darwnism?
what do you get? inertia...
     you can burn crosses, but you can also
burn an image of a monkey into a man's mind,
the same result occurs!
      personally, i'd rather burn crosses,
i might end up drinking beer and joking with
a few skin-heads around an unsual campfire.

the other side just... "debates" loud-mouth
******* who haven't learned the gymnastics
of looking up those grandiose black-holes
of blah blah.... blah blah blah... blah...
     i'd like to ask them... does your **** of talk
ooze a perfume of.... strawberries?
   and the punk-fist fields... forever! ooh...
****** *******' salsa! shwing yir hips
ya bunch of conclaves (p.j.w.) - privacy
                     justice warriors).

        taoist's foregetfulness

grounded in maxim primus -
  to allow the world a breath, allow the world
to let you breathe as you deem fit,
   never too soon to be bound to genealogy,
esp. that of the genesis bound to
the new testament -
  for if the old testament begins with poetry,
and if truly metaphorically chained,
then how pitiful is the genesis of
the new testament, which begins with
  something as sorrowful as the nadir
of greek culture, the expired logos,
   a genealogy, with the greeks ransacking
the jews under roman rule,
  just like the ransacking of constantinople
by the venetians in 1204 (4th crusade)...
who'd start a "holy" book without poetry,
but a ******* geneaology?!
          no wonder poetry these days isn't
a rare appreciation...
    but cheap and as tsunami natured
   in its "production" as tabloid press,
  toothbrushes, toilet paper,
                        toothpicks, among other
                                               paraphernalia;
the new testament is such a massive turn-off...
if you don't begin with poetry,
esp. that of metaphor translated into imagery,
and instead begin with a branch of logic
that the new testament begins with, i.e.
genealogy... and then expect latter poetics
in the text to be taken literally?!
          clue the keen me into the clamours
of the poly-schismatic version of events...
    sure, christianity is a "polytheism",
                           in that it's poly-schismatic.

and of the garden, should adam have approached
first, as he would have done in asia -
         he would have talked with
the serpent sæwelō -
           perhaps that same serpent of
   caucasus - first, to have a thirst of
knowledge tamed - although never really -
  for the serpent sæwelō would have
tempted adam: eat of this tree, its fruit,
  and your thirst for knowledge will be
forever satiated!
   so said the serpent of order
   so said sæwelō (ᛋ), the sun-snake...
the serpent of illumination -
                            the golden serpent.
and so adam bit into the fruit,
   and such thirst as never before filled him,
a thirst for knowledge that hasn't
as of yet seized -
     for the fruit, which adam imagined
would be sweet - was actually filled with salt.

  and we are initiated into the myth
of how the other scenario took place with regards
to a woman approaching the serpent first,
       yes?
                and for the woman, the serpent
of chaos, known as ansuz (ᚨ) - the siamese -
who said both truth and lie simulatenously
  also known as the god who's name begins with
yod, in the roman tongue (Y),
                          and he said:
  you will know the difference between
good and evil -
    ah indeed he said so, but that said, it would
imply acts being simulatenously both,
rather than either / or -
he continued: you'll be like the æsir (gods)!
      knowing such distinctions,
                   and will know the meaning of fate,
and justice, and due recompense!

as etymological mutations occur,
   and translations into other tongues
go, let's begin with:

sieg heil - old english - sigel - hail sun!
       if ever a führer (the few, the rarer),
                        so too the sun's eclipse -
   louis xiv wouldn't have minded,
    but at least he ****** to his
         cockerel's content to praise sunrise -
but as it stands, an etymological
           "mutation" in translation: hail sun!

-------------------------- p.s. p.p.s. p.p.p.s. p.p.p.p.s.
    f(p.s.) ad infinitum: borrowing from
mathematics, i.e. f(x) - heidegger
invented the algebra of writing in a certain style
that's only worth a neurotic / autistic pedant's
worth of bother...

   let's just say, in terms of style,
                                        it's purely hellish,
   you can only go as far with a text
when the variations
  range from dasein, to da-sein
   to da-sein to da-sein (i.e. da-ßein) -
    to whatever else is enclosed in the book...
i haven't got the time to write
an expansion of these milimetres
            and a litre of *** waiting for me...

   inverse stress on being
              detached from a "there": da-ßein:

   with regard to the world and its being
   constituting beings (heidegger's style
of expression, i know, can be a muddle)...

all i wanted was an antonym:
   rather than the world and its there,
   i wanted the world and its nowhere,
or rather, a pure form of being: a here,
      being detached from beings,
   the infinite dance of "solipsism",
    mono-direct articulation /
   plural-direct articulation (a march) /
mono-indirect articulation (a thought) /
plural-indirect articulation (a commute home)...

in terms of dictionary ref. to oppose da (there):

ist da - is here
                hier - here
komm her! - come here!
           hier & da - here & there
                  auf der stelle - here & now

stelle:
       schnellen - quickly
   schwellen (ich bin) - i am swelling
schelle - bell
   bruchstelle - break

                            da-ßien = hiersien

i.e. stressor on being,
             which morphs into a reconstruction
of the original equation:

     i.e. "da"-ßien = hier-"sien" ≠ nichtsein...

    and the point being?
    the simple f(x) translation into philosophical
jargon... f(p.s.) ad infinitum...
                      this had to run into a cul de sac
at some point, given all the technicalities
and stylistic disparities between existentialists,
if any remained to live into the 21st century...
but the buggers ****** off
              let's just say the new wave
of concerning italics remains the still
unexplored territory of missing diacritical marks
in the english language...
    as much can be said about writing
            chair    as can be said about
   writing                  krzesło...
           (yes, a consonant grapheme, err-zed)...
funny, in grapheme terms...
   that the german grapheme ß
  never became a replacement of -sch-
     in english -sh- in slavic -sz-,
             seems to be more t'ss... wet snare...
          another example?
    (choo-choo) train / pociąg -
  and yes, that's not implying choo-choo,
   since it's obvious, the verb ćwiczyć:
to train.

Whoa.

See that yin?
Jist sittin there?
Ye ken how she’s sittin like that, don’t ye?
Well, whit’s she sittin oan?
Aye, her erse.
She’s only sittin like that
So ye ken she’s got an erse.
Gaggin fir it.

An whoa, check that yin!
Wearin claes!
Filthy cow!
Whit dae ye mean, “Whit dae ah mean”?
Claes!
Ye canny wear claes
If ye huvny got a boady, can ye?
That’s right –
Just screamin it, so she is –
“Check oot ma boady!”

Aye, ah wull an aw!
Don’t mind if ah dae!

Aw, mate – that yin!
That yin ower there!
Bendin her airm!
See her?
Bendin her airm like a mucky ****!
That’s so ye ken
She’s got elbows!
Phwoar, I ken your type hen –
you wi yir elbows an a’thin!
Desperate fur it, aren’t ye?

An man!  This yin,
walkin towards us!
Breathin in an oot!
Whit a slapper!
Breathin in an oot!
Aye, ye need a pair o lungs tae dae that,
I bet, eh, hen?
A pair o fine, functioning lungs!
Aye, you use them, doll –
dinny you be shy!
Ah’m no!

Aw pal, haud me back!
This yin!
This yin eatin a meat pie!
Shameless wee ****!
Aw yeah, baby,
I ken whit that means!
Mean’s ye’ve got yirsel
a **** wee digestive tract in there, no?
Ye dinny hae tae spell it oot tae me, love!
Probably got a pair o kidneys
tucked away in there too,
ye ***** wee *****!

Aw the same, ur they no?
Aw ae thum.
Gantin oan it.

i've said this once before, and i'll say it again: i don't buy into dreams, i find them a bit ******, b-movie versions of reality, but sometimes, just sometimes, just before i tap the snooze honey and talk myself into: wake up early, wake up early, wake up early, tomorrow it's going to be california sunny (which it now is), i get a dream, and not some *******-riddling dream, a dream where i am lying next to a staircase and reciting poetry - there was a yesterday? - and i can clearly remember one line from the poem:

  the best verse i ever composed,
  was the verse i spoke -
     and never bothered to write down -
the poetry that belongs solely to ανέμοί -
the deity of the winds,
and of souls -
     of those who reside a tier above
hades, in his ***** - anemoi -
   and yes, diacritical entry points
for the english reside with i and j -
as is worth noting:
   there's a buddhist maxim of concern
with respect to the modern greeks
(let me keep you up to date) -
that famed mirror of *beryl -
   stop polishing the ****** mirror,
you will not see much clearer,
stop polishing that ****** mirror,
wash your face instead, slap it even,
punch it till you bruise your knuckles -
by polishing that mirror too much,
you'll end up as the madman
xerxes of persia, demanding the sea
an allegiance and sub. obedience by
whipping it! we're not talking culinary
inventions of whipping cream,
or heating milk for a cappuccino froth!
if the english are going to be this *******
lazy with their abstinence of applying
diacritical indicators to ease the pain
of dyslexics with pseudo-chinese
  clarifying syllables - why should you?
you? the greeks, why spoil the beauty
of the already ready alpha-beta -
    you're perfecting something that's already
perfect -
        look at the trojan eve - look toward
the roman adam -
stark ****** naked; the greeks seem
to be donning five pairs of socks,
two pairs of trousers, six shirts, seven
pairs of underwear, gloves, and a burqa
to top it all off!
**** it, let's do what the english have
done: return to nature, embracing naturalism,
nudism, whatever the hell you want
to call this nightmare.

as any book review inquires -
  a book there is, how language began,
by a fella who learned some amazonian
language, a daniel everett -
who claims counter-claims vs. chomsky
and pinker -
  who says - citation, please!
he maintains that mental disorders do
not support the notion of a language *****,
for (he argues) there are no language-specific
disorders...
  
          yup... apart from dyslexia,
i guess that means: you can't count from 0
to 100, or give me a 3 x 4 answer,
nothing language specific about that.

ah blimmin' heck, i can't believe that i turn
into this jeckyll ******* when i had two
sharpshooters -
    well... **** happens.

then comes a video including douglas murray,
sometimes you need a pompous english
*** to speak a little -
   jaw-dropping moments of perfected
sophistry -
         which the english are only capable
of, which they invoked by inventing
the american / australian accents -
covert mechanisms -
   don't invite diacritical distinctions
(which, by the way, pivot on the chinese
having not letters, but syllables -
hence the mongols in crimea,
   hence the mongols tickling cracow,
as the myth of the trumpeter goes
in the hejnał mariacki - heynow -
   st. mary's trumpet call) -
shim shiminy shiminy shim shoom
         ask for favours of off a broom...
   tipsy turvy -
        and what do you call a sikh on a construction
site? sinjit you 'av a brick on yir turban;
never feels right, him with a turban,
me with a hardhat, i'm guessing he's
praying that if a brick falls,
     it will bounce right off the cushion.

there was something else...
ah! the other type of intellectual, the quirky one,
i.e. david graeter talking about
money, and how adam smith was wrong
in speculation, and how you don't
find the most primitive societies engaging
in 1 x cow = 40 x chicken...
    i still don't understand why there is
haggling in marrakech bazaars -
    or how 1 x cow ≠ 40 x chicken
  but 40 x chicken + a wife for my son...
intellectual pomp vs. intellectual quirk -
can't decide -
         and money is a fascinating concept,
nietzsche was nearing the prospect,
but the much anticipated "transvaluation
of all values": well... to be honest?
   that's just a one word book: money...
but here comes the biblical fiasco -
          oculus namque oculus -
  auge für ein auge -
        simply, eye for an eye -
which bewilders me, given usury -
     interest rates, the supposed "pricelessness"
of certain artworks...
        it's way past jurisprudence -
    that meaning has morphed into
a banality, nay, an abomination of economic
ethics...
          the phrase no longer applies so much
to a jurisprudence regard of affairs -
   the term has become more and more
economical.

*** yir ******* skids outta
m'ah 'uckin feece!

god i love that place,
glasgow is like birmingham
of the north...
  a rotten scow to nowhere,
unless it be a place that
spoke: deep-fried mars bar
for breakfast -
you scurvy worth of
the tangled sailor! ****!

gods took to the twallop,
and i takes me to the
rool ups!
       got a bargain with a shrimp
you belfast *****?
           my **** you 'av!
next time they sing: sweet dover,
i'll have you marrying the *****
cult of: shard!
   ye storm ah heed!
**** me an' timber twice:
V fooking eye of ye, hire-crane!
******* twice,
   three times removed
the drunk... huh?!
   it's all plus minus with me by
now...
         ha ha!
had a cousin, didn't say why,
cursed & numbed the cuss words
like a nun ought to know why...
  so i says me:
     lingua the leash - earn the ir -
softspot for the tucker-jacks
and the irish lepers: shauns they
called them...
         he he...
look at me:
  all smug and waiting
for brussel sprouts out the paan tree...
what's with these wallaby terms?
    panchree? panna quinoa, panna cotta?
******* as clingy as those pepsoowongs,
or wangs or pepsoos.

as the english queers say
   F F Θ, but then pull out a churchill -
and vey v girman vey such & such...
they and way become indistinguishable -
churchie and the welsh abbey become
one and the same with either V
as "peace", or the V and the welsh
longbowmen *******...

       v'eh point... wayward: too soon...
   vuck!  
  wook?
       wookie?
      va va voom!
           woonder-brum, brimming,
bra bra bra... ha ha ha...
    dried it all off with the giggles...
then it became apparent:
the man settled for the dozen,
whether it was a dozen of ostriches,
hyenas,
   bunches of lychee,
       leaks,
               bulgarian strippers -
or worse...
   a dozen of english rhetoricians,
notably gay;
                     ****... what a gamble.

no, really, learn it from me,
this can't can't get any better...
youtube videos by
orangelo...
   please please, i'm not being
mean: just ******-well pedantic...
wait... what's that word?

lee-zioor?
     say it again, lay-sure?
leisure?!
leisure studies?
              lesion studies?
the **** am i reading, russian, or hebrew?
i'm scratching my head
like the first monkey that thought
up a sling-shot Y...
and i'm still scratching my head:
sumthin'... sumthin': to crack
open this coconut... hmm?
head to toe, sensai bow head-bang
the ****** open?!
scratch scratch... maybe tomorrow.

you really could cast this orangelo
kid into the quicksilver role for
the x-men movies...
      humming along to sweets in dreams:
homie!? what? d'ough....
                       ******* nut-case.
me? i'm always in a party mode:
   i'm the ******* protagonist in
a b-movie, whatch'ah expect?
                    whatcha?
                        d-fu­cking-caprice?
good luck sergeant;
   do you take two or too spoonfuls with
         your coffee, or half and some cream?

i still don't know what this american
is talking about...
   some people who moved fresh off the boats
biding by the gates of dover
find the scots hard to understand...
me? the irish... i can't stomach their
clover turned spinach turn of phrase...
scots? oh i get them...
   i just think of them as: she'k'shee...
shean! get yir *** out of the *******
elevator! not 'avin these hush overtones
when i'm not even in a turkish diner
ordering a shish kebab...
   ha!
     dinner....          dye-ner...
               and all you get is a missing N....
dim went the lightbulb:                d'uh!
high as a ******* kite,
  and all i have to compensate is a mouse
on a dog-leash...
   that high bit... yeah... drunk...
   ******* my rockers... who who minds?

this is not exactly going to lullaby me...
i don't know whether this
american is saying:
leisure (lay-zschechshzshch....
huh?)
   oh you know, the english tend to complain
about slavic words having
too many consonants segregating
the vowels...
  a stick has two-ends...
   the slavs complain about the post-germanic
amalgam of english saying:
  anything that sounds the same -
but otherwise is written differently:
   buggers are naked!
    how do you actually begin to
write a distinction between
dinner        &                     diner
   (dim-ner vs. dye-ner?!),
or   (the less bewildering scenario of)
   leisure                   &        lesion -
              shoo-ba(h)               shoobaba(h)...

a double u that is actually a double o...
   well... so much for vv...
                                if ever a language
be stranded at belshazzar's feast...
                                            it would be english!
****-naked adam gaius pretending
to own the world because he's treating
insomnia with a linguistic span of:
from australia! to alaska! via greenwich
                                                    mea­n-time!

Far and awa fae the light making shadows.
Sight to behold in the afternoon snow.
Gallant destruction in wall tumbled ivy.
Tight as the hack of the hobbling crow.

Parson and gardener, nipped on their fingers.
Wrapping up, fenced, for the winter to come.
Cauld is the cloak on the journey to pasture.
Tilling the field and the prayer book hum.

Frost blaws to thaw as the sun yawns, persistent.
Batter the drum as the hail thumps in time.
Speed through the wind as it gnaws faces, twisted.
Slush churns to wet as the welcome bells chime.

Winter yir song, as it puffs into whisper.
Herald the twilight for new days to speak.
Underfoot crack as your hold starts to weaken.
Buttercup sun tips her hat to the bleak.

don't worry, you're not a communist party member,
but hell, what a world of difference it turned
out to be for my grandfather, retired prior to hitting 60,
or thereabouts - seems it would have been quiet
o.k. to have been born in 1939, and having the memory
of herr bittebonbon, an ss man giving me sweets,
so sweet that my hands would stick together;
just saying...

now i don't really understand which communist
"party" you adhere to, twitter, facebook,
tumblr, whatever,
   we are the generation of *users - the "pioneers" -
we were the ones stuck to the screen writing
in chat rooms when m.s.n. was still breathing,
just prior to microsoft having to invoke hunts
for pedophiles -
                  just before they closed -
and just before acronyms were pop -
    and less complicated -
      just before english started to mutate,
deform, started to look uglier by the day,
like some drunken irish boxer getting too many
knuckle kisses -
            i've forgotten how to feel...
stupendous? arty farty? what's the word...
   pomp-riddled, popish?
                ****, the world escapes me -
but for people who don't know what chat rooms
were... right at the turn of the century...
   i feel for you...
          then comes the other thought -
always, always, better an unpredictable tornado
of whirling thrills, than that mundane
straight train-track load of thought:
sober, unchanging, and if not in some relativistic
muddle, then clearly in the north-north parallel
magnetic repelling mind-set...
              yawn.
      i didn't say: don't use it -
          as i am always reminded:
alcohol was created by people, for people -
yep, and i feel like a god downing a litre of whiskey
per night...
        mind you, that's better than glorifying
the other way... if a hermit does harm to himself:
he is only doing harm to himself,
   so... you can shove that a.a. ******* 12 steps
up yir **** and trot along...
             i have but one step,
visit your grandparents in your native land
and ensure you: keep up appearances -
  i was always the grand liar when sober,
then go back to england and stare at the trenches,
and the existential blackmail of:
more babies! more babies! more white babies!
besides the point, a woman can write the most
blissful romantic poem, and it has the same fate
as a newspaper, same day it was printed,
it falls into a gutter, or becomes desperado
toilet paper; i never knew why ****-eroticism
was so perfect in this medium:
  honestly? gay guys never seem to shut up
or have a narrow set of interests...
   oops...
        nonetheless it still feels like social media
is communism lite,
                  the corporate media is ballistic -
to no real surprise... don't you just love the term
dittohead? i have to look up the german
(sorry, i have a fetish for the language) -
ah!      ebensokopf, ebensokopfs...
         and then news from the construction site...
those ******* english hogs...
   lazy-*** "professionals" -
                 do nothing all day, expecting that:
oh, just a few slavs, they can do the work for us...
if i were you, i'd get the bangladeshi or
the irish on board... then again, you might like
to consider an arab or a sub-saharan workforce -
  ******* hogs, and bulldogs,
really gets under my collar,
  when people dissolve a respect for honest
and high tier labour... is it me, or has capitalism
completely lost the notion of respecting labour?
at least communism respected labour, work,
    whether it be a plumbing issue,
an electric issue...
           and not some poncy "vintage" antique
dealer's ******* of a mahogany table...
            what is the western world build on these
days these? their native workforce
     who have two left hands -
yep, pointing outwards - unfathomable that
western people fell for the perils of
       software "technicians" on social media -
     they are geared on the software of reality,
which looks kind'ah ******, from what i've seen -
while eastern europe has fun with the hardware
side of things;
   oh, by the way, if you're attempting to buy
a flat in london? don't bother,
  the english have terrible skills on industrial scale
projects...
   i've seen the pictures...
     perhaps elsewhere in england,
   but in london, you'll be lucky to spot a dozen
of english trades people -
managers, sure, obviously...
   but the rest?
           tumbleweed moment;
  at least we know what the irish are famous for
other than river-dancing... laying concrete...
and the scots? roofing; and the poles? ah you know,
roofing & a bunch of other trades -
zdrowie na budowie, zdrowie na budowie,
zdrowie.... na     bu.... do... wie;
and another point, why are people of my
generation afraid of having parents?
    the cohabitants?
             let's turn that one around:
you shall not be embarrassed to have parents...
under whatever circumstance you find
yourself in...
    because it got be thinking:
   we reached that stage of single mothers
         and their ***** donor / i.v.f. *******?
i'm waiting for those ****-offs to hit 20 years!

the cruelty is
that you love:
the beast
that's me.

by numb and crumb
and cartilage:
and your yet:
unborn:
clarification of stupor:

that summon:
most, daft.

penitence:
the beast has...
a chance: allowance:
to reply:
thus: i: he: who?
replies:

            yir; who asks?