In the middle of summer,
at the end of a long day,
the kruk chased a white mouse up a tree.
The mouse chose the tallest tree in the grove,
but the kruk had flown far greater heights.
Finally,
upon reaching the highest limb,
the kruk devoured the mouse
and rested
after its large meal.
As it sat,
the kruk,
for the first time,
noticed the rays of the sun,
and followed them with its eyes
to their origin.
The sun,
nestled in its hazy, pillowy throne,
shone with less enthusiasm as the day wore on,
and now,
it only gave the earth red and orange lights,
as if the Indian paints covered every inch of the ground.
The kruk marveled at the way the sun could decide what the people did and did not see.
The sun held so much power,
and so much generosity,
for it gave life to the plants
and joy to the animals
when it did not receive any in return.
The kruk took so much pleasure in the light
that it returned to the high branch every morning and every evening to greet the sun,
and although it did not speak,
the sun seemed to shine brighter
when the kruk sang for it.
The visits became longer,
even as the seasons changed
and the days became shorter.
The kruk basked in the warmth that the sun provided,
and lamented when it sank below the horizon
to be replaced with the deep blue illumination of the moon and her many children.
Though the moon was beautiful,
she did not hold the same beauty for the kruk that the sun did.
The kruk soon realized that it was in love with the sun.
Of all the birds in the trees, the kruk was the smartest,
and knew that this love was a difficult one,
but determined that it would join its lover regardless.
After filling up its belly with seeds and cool river water,
and resting well through the night,
the kruk took flight at the break of dawn.
Its love propelled it upwards,
and even as the air thinned,
and its wings weakened,
it flew on.
The sun grew more stunning the closer the kruk flew,
And its glossy black feathers,
Shimmering blue and purple,
Began to singe with the heat.
The creatures on the ground below protested when the kruk began to caw in pain,
But nothing could be done for the bird.
Finally, in a black, frantic streak,
The kruk descended,
Falling through the leaves like a stone in a pond.
It was days before the kruk returned to the high perch on the tree to greet the sun.
The sun continued to shine,
Rising in the morning,
And returning to the earth at night.
No rays were spared in mourning for the disappearance of the dear kruk.
When the kruk once again fluttered upon the well-worn bough,
The animals whispered,
“The sun is too far,
The sun is too hot,
And the kruk is much too weak.”
On the high branch, the kruk hung its head at their words,
And sorrowfully shuffled further down the branch
Into the shade of the tree,
Away from the bright, hot reminder
Of the sun’s unattainable touch.
At dawn the next morning, the kruk raised a matte black beak to the sky and let out a miserable caw.
There would be no union between the two,
Nothing to warm the kruk through the night.
The kruk extended its wings in surrender to despair, and took flight,
Driving its body into the sky until the air became unbreathable
And the clouds offered no protection.
The kruk ignored the burn rippling beneath its feathers and cried out to the sun,
A wild, grief-stricken call to be accepted by its deadly embrace,
And below,
The animals could see for a brief moment,
A shadow falling over the sun.
The animals gasped and looked away,
But for a few moments,
The sun’s shine was replaced with a melancholic glow.
A dark hole of blackness was cast,
Only a small ring of light twinkling around the edges of the sudden shroud,
And the wildlife shuddered in the unexpected coolness.
After its last cry,
The kruk never returned.
The animals do not speak of that day,
But once every century,
The earth remembers,
Covered in a darkness so complete,
That one can only think of a lost, forlorn disciple,
Flying into an unknown fire
And imploring it to love.

aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give ****, gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, ****, suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk

and the myth goes along the lines - had i but the eyes to spot
a silver spoon - there chimed a magpie in the the night,
a cackle compared with the rhapsodic
crow call to wake up Barbarossa...
                    the cackle and the literary laugh...
there she was, with the Kraken -
                        she was there bewildered
to sing a song, sroka among the magpie calls
to tell tales of silenced lightning
                        without thunder.....
                shamanic in the extreme:
what a strange nationalism being born
with extracts of a former colonialism in Ukraine -
lost, forgotten, and a brief testament to Israel -
do i feel any pride? perhaps i should...
                  i better myself in the word spoken:
sroka is above magpie -
       the serenity of the sharpened consonants,
the flight to become werewolf legend -
                               sroka, or magpie -
as a language there are some offences -
                           which cannot translate, but merely
tarnish...
                                     s and r
           are two consonants that out-perform stress /
authenticity when m and g are used...
                the tongue is more important than the breath,
counter the metaphysical greek breath that's known
as psyche: i.e.                    γλωßα -
                                         to treat the tongue akin
to the mind, and soul as the authenticity of the verb
thought: when all organs automate, akin
to the kidneys dialysis.
           yes, sroka / magpie...
                                crow / kruk             / crux
                      or the shadow of Golgotha...
                                     toward us: the darkened hour...
                           to gloss over - to speak a phrase in demand -
                 sire *** qua non byzantine sprechen.

For Randall Kruk

Although no stranger to yourself,
you were your own undiscovered country,
always pressing on some border of awareness,
always asking more of who you were.

You were the one who asked of life,
who spoke for spirits and for memory,
who wished us at that last meeting over coffee
to have the time of our lives in Madison.

You demonstrated time and time again
the plain necessity of kindness, of honesty.
That would be your legacy, my friend, your gift -
and in the giving, you became that gift.

After all the words spoken in memoriam,
the Guinness and the soul-soothing jazz,
there came a shifting bow of color in the sky -
rain pouring from a blue cloud at evening.

import: the northern tongue bespoke of the didgeridoo with the larynx as akin. północ ze mną... reszta gnije! a ja w twym oku jak dziób kruka wydłubie prawde raz - kraka - raz jeszcze na pokaz chociaż raz! bo ze mnie nie kura... jeno kruk! czemu? bo ty swym tłumaczeniem grzechu równasz gniew naprzeciw: w okolicy reprodukcji z tłumaczeniem orgnanizacji społeczenstwa jako wedle znaku (=) ktory też jest równaniem jako krzyż... a wiec jest naprawde wiarygodne to aby kontynuować wybaczanie niby grzechów i tak naprawde praw w rubryce niespełnionych pierw zamiarów?*

why then peer into the past without imagination,
and try to peer within the present with memory,
surely the present will not conjure any memory
had the opaque past any imagination,
i’d swear the burnish bush be nothing more
than what could be imagined,
not excess of skin on my phallus
as the shaft known as the female circumcised bit...
but i guess truth sidewinds while lies have the fortune
of walking a straight path into nowhere...
if there is imagination in the past i find it hard
to conceive phonetic images, i.e. letters being allowed in there,
and if future forsee such circumstance
i find it hard to let the future project images
as recognisable without a - z being recognisable first...
in order that they might be used... in order
that they might be used for ignorance’s sake if only that...
man remembers skeletons easier in terms of usage
rather than fully embodied canves of a van gogh
to say **** all... as most men do,
dating their mistresses for the first time in art galleries;
the fault of the past is that in terms of imagination it
cannot be re-imagined... but the future can be twice
remembered... given holocaust deniers...
simple... it can be simply denied because
what imagination would have conjured
reality conjured too much iron acidity of what went on;
please be intelligent when you read this,
i don’t have many readers and it’s already insulting
to ask my readers for intelligence; sorry.

even though english is without strict orthographic
obligations of diacritical markers...
that ol' charlie Dickens would cite
a spelling mistake as an orthographic mistake...
best example of orthography:
król kruk - king crow...
the consonants are irrelevant...
just like: whine is not wine...
         or what is to who -
                w(h)at "vs." (w)**: pinch at hues...
that there isn't an asset in the
omni- prefix litany of a monotheistic deity...
omnimemiens - all-remembering...
so: orthography that's still aligned to
metaphysics...
but a new budding term: para-social...
that somehow everything must happen
with and in the confines of: 3rd persons' promise...

all the while towing my libido insomnia:
who needs to be sterilised
with a promise of a stigma of some
mental handicap...
i am peevish about spelling words...
i feel terrible angst if i tease dyslexic freedoms...
what am i? a three-****** camel?

but i get it... churn my genocide *****
*******: opening of the gates for
the tides to merely murmur...
perhaps i'd wait...
and start writing: memoirs...
come old age...
sometimes that worked...
like stale bread works when
it can be soaked up in lard and fried...

it was forever impossible for me to not
not experience the temptation with
monk... ever since i visited Taizé...
i could not escape the allure of what was
on offer...
the remaining temptations of the world
began to itch with a malaise of blasé...
but unlike an orthodox blasé most associated with
firm-rooting... pedestrian same-old-same-old...
it was a blasé (no **** Sherlock...
you could expand that bl-A-sé with a macron...
it would only cost you two omicrons...
or an omega... or a macron above the Alfonce...
Alphonce... abrupt: tease of "alpha")...

good enough hill to pretend the last
breaths of Nero...
a relief from... a fate worse than a slave's...
i.e. a slave implies:
also... another mouth to feed...
sure... someone will cook your food...
someone will clean your house...
tend to your most tender "grievances"...
unless in gladiator pose...
would slaving be deemed so...
irrevocable if... you were to perform...
tasks... that... didn't exactly dehumanise you...
but elevated you to have:
a constancy of a job...
         the security of being needed...

oddly enough i am thinking of taboos...
what is it like, to be truly... needed...
beside what's currently available...
of being: free... but... expendable...
citizen but... relegated should these grand
humanitarian concerns of liberals
shine through for a boat load of "refugees"...

oddly enough... as a slave owner owning
20 slaves... you had a duty to feed those twenty
mouths...
there was talk of people, slaves... being:
assets, possessions...
a much higher status that's what's on offer now...
who are you? an employee...
what's an employee?
something, perhaps a tier above
a cog in a machine... if that...
you know... i've come to admire the ancient roman
concept of slavery...
esp. the sort of slavery experienced by women...
chambermaids... etc.

sure... you're a slave that has been ordained
into constructing an aqueduct...
my brain is exhausted from these petty
scribbles ever since
the monstrosity of commonplace literacy
was made paramount...
i have no original ideas...
i keep this "art" up for my own
"sanctity"... i think of payment like i think
of:

pennies from heaven...
or rather... the fall of the rebellious angels...
one day it might happen... it did?
well then... let's dig up some...
£0.000001 fractions and see where we end up...
there seemed to be some: ortho-social obligations:
once upon a time...
i hear the term: para-social...
which is a sickening, wicked variety of ghost slavery...
it doesn't chain the body...
but i guess... so little worth was placed
on the mind of man that:
so many started to champion their freedom to speak!
without first championing their freedom to think!

****'s sake...
as a slave i would be... an asset... i would be...
property... i would understand the topic of hierarchy...
i could live in the shadows of the *******
kitchen, be chained to it...
without having these bogus allusions
to the illusion of a freedom that would never
come: from me, for me...

as man arranged himself to the best of his ability...
the problem came from higher esteems of
ingratitude for: vivo per se...
foul apples stinking up the ground and grit...
most poignant among the H'arabs with their
harems and polygamy...
walking abortions aside...
cruel little beasts...
not the Arabs per se...
but in general...

this my mechanical arms...
while... 70,000 Africans are waiting in Libya
to be transported to Europe to be
living exemplars of walking ****** for...
because a Gloria Steinem type doesn't care
if her lollipop is choc of chalky vain-villa...
let's be honest...
an African woman that can attract
a whitey copperneck when tanned, lobster...
is a rarity...

even i find the African, MALE... face... attractive...
it can also attest to some tenderness...
yes... "black" men are attractive...
that's my problem with ol' skin-dipping
**** fetish moon's no mercury tinge
drip drip... because all 8" of piston moi is not
up to: **** ***. & I'nah...
if SHE can get away with being attracted
to the Afro-cancockcancock carousel...

why can't i be attracted to black girls?
even Flaubert mentioned in Madame Bovary:
'you'd need to be an artist... to **** a black girl'...
sorry... give me Indian... give me eskimo!
i just find the black physiognomy workable
enough to stand before all that
Picaasso cubism!
why is the masculine black even attractive to me...
while the feminine... isn't?
that's a genuine ******* question...
i'd love to get on that bandwagon
that the white girls are using to settle their:
white people are not racist
so we'll **** as much black-ding-along-doodles
we see fit!

fit for fur? lampshades... armchairs?

it's almost probably not fair...
this inter-racial playground of dips and bops...
would it be oh so necessary to ingest
a blue-pill to ****: that perfected rounded
peach of an *** with pristine
ivory?
but the male African face is so much
more appealing than:
that tarantula: bloated...

it would most certainly cut my efforts of expression
in half could i bypass the already ingrained...
summons for what i'd deem
fuckably: unfathomably, unmoved...
a "concern" for libido insomnia...
neon-tallying and all that happens
"in-between"...

when language is more than graffiti...
how it can exfoliate....
unlike my white brides...
i don't have that ******* option of...
yes... the male African face is appealing...
but the the feminine faces?
******* Gorgons... sea monsters...
Scylla-bred...
for a harem of a cuckoldry...

if the last hard-on i might feel be one
of shame: **** the hard-on...
i don't need to experience that sort of
bollocking to begin with:
i just said your men (African)
are handsome...
what more do you want when it's
a priori: ingrained in me...
to find your women... to be honest:
repulsive?
i don't want to **** them...
if i do: it's a blue moon...
always with the ******* outliers...
and it's not like i haven't tried...
but trying only gives you so much
traction... ****'s sake...

let the party girls do what party girls do best...
i'm not a patriarch:
i have no grief for their freedom being met
with their judgement of what's
to be "best" expressed...

an aristocrat would know what's best:
he would protect his or her...
possession...
funny how herr schlägermann would keep a Boris...
or an Alfred in company...
such were the ties:
people mattered... tied to a hierarchy...
what sort of hierarchy is there:
in a democracy?

no one can summon the pyramid-Δ (delta)...
but somehow... these days...
everyone who's anyone can summon
the pyramid-∇ (nabla) dynamic...
oh look! no Palestinian flag...
just the flag of king David...

- i'm guessing the prophet Muhammad
admired... king Solomon more...
than... he might have admired King David...
he "wrote"... "recited" surahs like
king David's psalms...
yet the focus came... toward converts...
and promises...
what was prophet Muhammad's harem
in comparison to king Solomon's?
a mention of *******...
a ******* solo- project... a fake... an arabian joke!

who are the... Hafiz?
who is Stendhal's Julien Sorel?
Muhammad cared more about imitating
king Solomon than about imitating
king David... it's ******* plain dandy simple as a pimple
on a face of faked smiles... you savvy?

now, of course i'm waiting to be crushed
by the tsunami of man
and the congregation(s) of time imitating water...

if everyone is so... ******* "apparently" free...
there was no more lasting,
binding, contract, beside the slave-owner
and the slave...
permanent employment statures!
what are we doing, right now?
no one is obliged to: oblige anyone to work:
for them...
freedom my ***... more like scavenging
at best...
the odd word... not primordial labour of
hierarchical certainty...
everyone's free! citizen envy!
the *******'re talking about?
it would take a niche of ownership and...
ha ha... clairvoyance to peer into this:
hot heap of **** to see past it...

doubly exploited... ****-wits...
people were: OWNED...
but (by) the term OWNED they were not
"exploited": they were used
to their maximum: ability...
they were tended to...
they were cared for...
a slave had a function... a purpose...
what purpose does freedom allow...
beside the sort of expressions of freedom
only allowed by feral creatures?
am i, a feral creature?

once upon a time freedom implied:
to engage with an unknown world...
the slave was a domesticated creature...
feminine... esque...
have you had the patience to eat food
cooked by women, lately?
just asking... who was the inn-keeper?
she was the harem proprietor for a while...
a madam...
but sure as **** she wasn't the ******* inn-keeper!
was she?

i will find the male african face agreeable
enough for the ***** projects of Helga to take a stab at...
but i really find intra-racial breeding most
agreeable...
i will not **** an african female just because "you"
think it necessary
or that Flaubert might think it as being: "artistic"...

my "one upon a time":
but the males are more attractive...
frau weißschwanorgieanfällig....
oh don'z you'z wozzy you...
the 'ebrews covered themselves, covered...
succumbing the 'ebrew diaspora for the concept
of "nation"... settled dust...

now that the "plague" is in passing...
nothing's new... nothing's old...
in the land of Palestine and Ishreal...
i fed a "passing": then again...
who's to import who?
you might have kept me greasing...
you might have kept me greased...
what sort of an alpha male are you:
now... currently... bowing like every beta sycophant?

you 'ebrews and you 'alestines...
you should 'ave a football match once a month...
to settle your heated blood... scraps of wording:
salad... no?
no... no...        o.k. tease a tonsure with a kippah...
i'll still tell you: the prophet Muhammad ought to
have admired King David more... since... the quran
is to me sung... than he admired Solomon for: for?!
Khadijah turning in her grave...

there have been, there where...
there will be: "myths" from the north...
it's not just some interracial *****... we're told...
oh what we have been told?!
what have we been told?

thank **** my ego collapses...
i own a cat and i like to drink more than
i like to ****...

that's a nutshell statement "all of a sudden"...
i love children as much as
children are required to be adored...
beside my own: that i don't have any?
it's not like i'm limp-****... "freckled"
with absences... of... existential:  purposes...

yeah... yet here we're at.

.i love how a bangladeshi smurf invented the term: camel jockey to allocate the term to arabs and egyptians... mind you... the first amry to defeat the mongol ****? mamluks, like the janissaries in the ottoman empire: most probably european slaves... copper on copper-titillating-chocolate / burnt cinnamon / star anise / bark of aged oak racism is funny to watch, sometimes... esp. when growing up... those bangladeshi smurfs (sorry, they are a little bit, tiny, i watched a couple today, walking past my house in their bangladeshi cricket team t-shirts... what? stating the obvious... 5ft4? but i also liked the egyptian's / arabs retort to: camel jockey... ha ha... bush-monkey! ha ha.

ugh... the dreaded draft, i'm running out of these, thank god...

what is it about, about the fact that my act
of writing does not translate into
a conversation...
   HAVE PEOPLE TRULY FORGOTTEN
THE CONCEPT OF CANVAS?!
**** me... i guess they have!
   once upon a time,
cindarella (post stamp,
and her collectors), snow white
   (postcard) and the frog prince
of writing voodoo to boot...
               now? insomniac messaging
services... the I.M.S.,
              direct, directed at what?
drool followed up by dooooooooooo'h...
****, easier teaching a gerbil to speak
shing qi cantonese: owe'h
          'ong kong...
                    when does an intrusion
onto a blank canvas become a flash mob
without keeping to a discretion
of d.m.?
                   face to face won't do
to these people... scuttling rats also hailed
black death: woe'zzin' me...
                scheisse! schnell! schnell!
capt'n just floated off on a magic
rug,
       we have to draw lots on
flying off on: that ****** bit of material
we scrub out boots on when being
entertained...
   should i take them off?
well... was i offered slippers?!
  no... so why would you...
                    is this Giza, or Oxford?
   all i have is a blank canvas...
                and people really want to attack
the ronin flag?
                       flag what?
                              defeat?
                     ­      *** sober me...
but hey hey... pop song videos are:
KOSHER...
                 see you back in Russia...
     getting the VISA...
                                  or the kebab
restaurant fire-bombed by the bomb...
        good luck and the oil...
plenty of trees in arabia...
         what ******* sell ******* will sell...
   am i to judge?
              no... not really...
i'm thinking about being
a Chernobyl post-scriptum in
the belly... how people managed to see
both autumn and spring in the same park,
rainbow nation, your guess,
   half the trees were decaying,
half in full bloom,
         unless you want me to attest
that as a lie: i hope you dream of my
great-maternal grandmother...
    maybe she will explain it better...
            but this saturated talk of ***
just turns me on thinking about
the upper-hand of the female
mantis, translated into man: divorce laws...
or as the common talk speaks...
       no...
      i heard why this:
you're stupid, this is stupid he's / she's stupid
zeitgeist is all about...
         and those rooted always seem to have
the most obvious solutions to
"complex" urban problems...
      hell...
     to some people this might as well be
tabloid toilet paper worth today
but dead gutter rodent black pearl
ship in the gutter the next day...
        poetry, really has to learn
so much from the journalistic attitude...
i still don't understand
why philosophers are relevant,
parasites of philosophy,
when poets are in a dire need
to compare themselves to poetry,
or rather to make a craft from
poetry-tabloids...
             whatever the classical school
teaches you, whatever contest
there was between poetry
and philosophy, whatever
the ancient philosophers claimed of
poets as being easy targets...
  ooh ooh, OLA!
          you just managed to see
a poet nibbling on journalism...
           whatever the year it was,
yesterday might as well have been
2000 b.c.,
         today might have been
           100 a.d.,
   tomorrow?
                ****... the 22nd century
of whatever year whatever date
or whatever designated climate of interests...
__________

so you run into a cul de sac like
a scuttling rat...
but... you buy your whiskey
at the local convenience store...

           back in the day...
when growing your hair long was merely
a symbol of: i listen to metal music,
*******...
           the time when that was the "thing"...
hell, Butlins... of all places...
i cross-dressed...
      a broad lent me her chanel
chic black mini-skirt little no.,
              and i did...
                        i didn't even have to shave
my legs for the gags...
       ***** or no *****...
             i had the flare and audacity
to pull off the stunt...
     now? long hair? a little bit of make-up
and you're: "trans"...
                     how about meta-******?
i mean there are three directions in
chemistry, in terms of attachment allocation,
closely associated with the beneze ring...
in the name of ortho-, and of the para-,
and of the meta-... oh... right...
**** and of trans-....
           clubbing in essex...
   i wouldn't leave the house
               without some eyeliner...
sometimes, then again,
most of the time...
            jews and russians:
      ripped jeans, eyeliner,
          ready for the edinburgh
club scene... being called ****** before
we even left the house...
    very, very encouraging people...
who probably never heard
of the cure...
                
so you're buying your **** at the conveninece
store... and there's this plump girl
checking you out...
    plump... sure...
every appreciate fine art?
   plump girls were all the rave in
the 17th century, and 18th...
              what's that other word?
ah... corpulent! so many nice terms to
use in synonymity with how
a black man might see a porky:
more cushion for some pushin'...
             d'uh...
                      
but there are some nights, like this one,
where... there's an electricity in the air...
it's warm, but it's also cool,
paradox... the wind is stirring...
  you can listen to the wind play a weird
sort of flute while brushing the trees,
nay... combing the trees...
rustling, just pristine agitation is fixating
a sharpness of the air...
someone of a transcendent evaluation
has sat on a throne...

                    akin to last "night" / dawn,
the internet is switched off...
but you still have a sharpnel narrative in
your head...
                    what to do? what to do?!
ah! ****, no paper...
    i never had a tattoo done on my body...
but i figured... might as well intrude
with some ink on my hand...

   again, if these trans-kids didn't bother
grammar? i wouldn't be playing the
"identity politics" game...
  me, of all people, immigrant 1st generation,
adopting a history not akin to my own...

mind you: you really need a steady / cool head,
drinking on an empty stomach -
and if what cabaret voltaire ever achieved...
with tristan tzara and later william burroughs
of cut-up technique fame:
          i too... who can really appreciate
calustrophobic and all the more predictable
narratives of YA novels?

                   a tarantula might as well have
bitten me, and now, i reflect the sepsis of
disorientating venom, the surge of chaos,
without any gratification of staging
    an uproar of grandeur! just, the basic reality.

- because, even citing the mamluks,
or the janissaries, like a belief in god...
                 to cite certain historical events...
is, and will be, deemed, juvenile...
ambitious... middle-aged man with a *******
train-set model...
or a lego project...
        it's all the same... the "out-dated"
cliff-face hanger...
                             it's either atheism
and the respectable citation of history...
   or it's god, and citing the existence of
mamluks and their victory over the mongols...
what is the respectable citation of history?
the aspect of history without any heroism,
the safety of a history that's purely
bureucratic...
      a "history" a person of the modern times
could possibly engage in / with...

   when the quill became mightier than
the sword, but also subsequently became
a spray-can for the outlet of deploying
graffiti... or scratching with a stone on
a stone face, reminders of the first forms of
writing: designated tattoos etched by stone
on stone...
                              krähekratzer
                     ­         ᚴᚱᚨᚺᛖᚴᚱᚨᛏᛉᛖᚱ
                                ⰍⰓ...
   (some words just sound better
in foreign languages...
violin: skrzypce)
                         ⰍⰓⰖⰍⰀ ⰄⰓⰀⰒⰀⰐⰉⰅ
               ⠅⠗⠁⠓⠑⠅⠗⠁⠞⠵⠑⠗

i'll go a step further... time to fiddle
around with some braille...
  although i do concede...
      if you were blind...
          you must have really tender finger-tips...
no point having played guitar...
play guitar? blind lemon jefferson style?
forget about a chance to read braille...
you need pampered fingertips,
able to tell the difference between
        oyster flesh and a woman ******...

krucze drapanie
hmm... devangari:
Ђ / Ⰼ - dj' -
                   त - how similar...
is that?! what the hell is wikipedia proposing,
with regards to, origins "unknown"...
indo-european?
the mongols just showed up from...
"nowhere"?
       Ђ | त                    eh?!
t'ah... elsewhere dj'...
                         otherwise idjota...
idiot...
                          elsewhere
                  id'ȷota...
              yo yo... no "j"ehovah's witnesses...
sure, no **** sherlock,
   i counter the anglophone origin story
rooting me back in h'africa...
             i take my origins in the land
of the 10 spices... india...
  land of the bangladeshi smurfs...
cinnamon, cardamom,
cumin, coriander,
                  i'll give you ten...
don't worry...
                     chilli...
              anise...
                           turmeric...
                           little mini-people scuttling
along like norse god mythologies
akin to the dwarfs...
   more cullinary skills...
less of the metallurgy...
   wizards at the end of stirring spoons!
fenugreek!
                 how many is that? 8...
i don't want to cite black cardamon
(since it's such a potent spice)...
                      mint! **** yeah, 9...
   hell... the cocktail... garam masala!
10!
            well... if the 'ebrews have their
10 commandments,
and i have my *******,
and am still able to *******
while dilating my **** donning
a *******...
   and i place my origin story in india...
rather than africa... then we're settled...
the bagladeshi smurfs can call
arabs and egyptians camel jockeys...

    i haven't finished though...
just like that one night in st. petersburg
with a ***** that, really needed to be ******
over a period of 7 hours...

    will i use more rudimentary language,
deviating from "slanderous" words?
will i?!
               so it's either "tourettes",
dyslexia, or a writer's contipation?
because, by now, "block":
truly implies... the already mentioned.

i never came from africa...
   india is my posit of origin...
and never mind the celebration
of the roman instrument of torture...
the crucifix... i found a better crux
of "all" beginning and of all "end"...
some "random" german...
            dasein:
i'm tired of bashing the germans...
bashed enough, bashed just enough...
bashed: enough!

   when citing credible historical events,
akin to a belief in god,
akin to premature depression and
dementia...
       all... huddling under the same
torch lit roof...
                  it, just, ****** me, off...
oh sure, sure,
most likely...
before some of us bypass the age old
editorial "compromises",
and write what the hell we want!
before that? heavy cencorship...
       just so... the "overlords"
can muster a "plan B"...
                     sure, all is certain!
but who is to address the "real" problems?
ol' Lizzie is going to be fine...
i'll still drink ms. amber...
realizing... ****... am i drinking mz. amber...
or is this watered down
dog's soap ****?!
                  you never know...
i might as well be drinking
prince *****'s shower water!
this whiskey is starting to taste of soap water...
i'm having it, i'm chewing on about
12 12"****** per day just to keep
the Venetians gagged...

   prop me up... ***** starter...
******* mongrels ******* smurfs!
blah blah blah!

             i already see "too many"
english idiosyncracies in the english language
to begin with!
   why would the transgender activists ever attack
grammar?

the current gilette fiasco?
just grow a beard, men, just grow a beard,
problem, solved.

                 want the vox-office senario?
eh? eh?

                 the gender discriminatory
               ontology of nouns...
              what? cite rocky balboa
contra ivan drago.... you... beta male...
*****?!
                     you attacked nouns,
by, enforcing the stature of pronouns...

i like to call it: the pronoun deragement
syndrome...

                     gott! mit uns!
                             Gustavus Adolphus...

how many, "differences",
are to be found, and bound,
to the english tongue?

                    θere (d'er / F),
          although (al'V'ough),
                          θey (V'ey)
                   ex-xenon
   (eks - zee / zer / z'enon),
and what is a chemuical compound...
                to θink...
is to not mind φilosoφy....
                                        
           ­               gender pronoun neuter?!
seriously?
             i thought that nouns were
gender discriminatory?!
  Paris! male!
  kundel! mongrel, male!
*****! female!
                  sroka! (magpie) female!
kruk! male!
                  dzik! male!
                       gawron! male!
              there are so man discriminating nouns...
in each and every language...
pronouns?
   low hanging fruits!
                              a-the-ism...
           do their own natives know...
the native spreschen?!
       the article rules?
the english nouns are not composed
via genders!
         who's to who in terms of "revising"
the retarted "revision"?!
sorry... but certain words just sound
better in a foreign tongue...

            sroka sounds much better
when "coinciding" with: magpie;
beside the point...
here's my hand,
on https://www.minds.com/mateuszkonrad.

an era where: orange man bad...
and there's a sieve
of all possible commentary....
that it tows:
a congested scrap on the heap:
of... bias for bacon...
it's hardly a: awakening...

metaphors metaphors is all
this is, really:
      perhaps a tease a troll-    -ing
a fishing:
a "spiritual awakening"
of transcendent subjectivity:

otherwise i hear: verbiage!
custard brains toad tongue word
salad -
and it's all fine since:
this is hardly a conversation
or a linear narrative..

peacocking with an anemic /
anorexic strut on a catwalk -
but literally!
it's this persistent admiration
for a people in love
with their acronyms
and their politics -
                hardly ever politics
outside of
'am-myrrh-y-c'ah...
            a  yodeling yanky  -
not that it's some joke -
              vox unum, populus unum
(elsewhere) -

a plethora as much as a democracy
a living envy of
spaghetti bureaucracy dead-paper-weight
mountains and mountains of it!

it's hardly an english scone dried
up - elitism, classical liberalism,
  some other: -ism
                           a rigidity of
monarch: but one ought to suppose:
not a bunch of senile republicans
knitty-picking a char a cherry
a chinese whisper...

                 in alphabetical
order contra rhyme:
i know there's a technical name for it...
alliteration:
                  yes:
just the sort of bone and marrow
for this palette -
not the sweetness or rhyme
or rather: a saltiness -
          not the bitterness of a maxim
or the sourness of 10 years
and 1 blue moon later...
a drunk chinese poet
                   constipates out
a haiku meditation...

          a promenade into grey:
repeating a single word in my mind
in 7 languages
looking at an etymological tree:

- - - crow - - - krähe - - - kruk - - -
corvus - - - frân - - - κόραξ - - - karga

and then 7 languages back:

- - - taç - - - στέμμα - - - goron - - -
corona - - - korona - - - krone - - - crown

and this last: eighth:
         taҗ - һәм - каргалар

seems a day can pass and i can
meditate so very little -
rather than live toward some
categorical imperative -

             this contemplation
of a silence of a mind -
   or rather - the tongue's buttered
up fluster come a deafening
                       "crescendo"...
a waterfall at noon -
                         because that doesn't
make it anything more
or therefore less -
                            
                  perhaps enough to
reach a palette popper: umami -
         but at best: an abandoned poo'em...
which i don't suppose this is...