Older than a bat
I saw you in the stars
Following your heart
All the way back home
From all the bars you visited
You compare congratulations
To incongruent vacations
You sedate the understated
In anesthetic vacations
Vagitus vulgaris
Common among ****-sapiens
In silent reverie
We are speaking
To all the Goddesses at once
In silent memories
We are treasuring
Each of these precious moments
With gratitude and space
We faced our elemental being
Who never needs to chase
Or hustle to receive Her grace
Om Namah Shivaya
Om Shivaya Namaha
We are fundamental particles
Held together by invisible strings
These scalar waves of pressure
Are infinitely stronger and subtler
Than a thousand waterfalls
Gravity is our mother
And we no longer struggle
To stand up or down
We pack it in and out
As hymns of love
Grow in our frames
We straighten our spines
For it often takes more
Than ten thousand years
And millions upon millions
Of men, women and children
And perhaps a few billion
Unnecessary deaths
Or a trillion unsuccessful attempts
To complete the naming
Of all the many beings
Inhabiting the earth and stars
Which collectively comprise
The universe's heart
She sings, long live the king
For life is a marvelous thing
Still we are all a little off course
In developing mental health strategies
That actually do
What they're supposed to
For each and every single species
Is only half as radiant
And usually twice as complacent
As any shade-giving or fruit-bearing tree
These sediments are indeed sentimental
And all these fallen feathers
Speak only to living beings
Who fly on tiny wings of freedom
Your kind blue eyes
Blink twice as fast as mine
And disguise all your pretenses
Fingers often keep time
And finders keep rubies
Losers weep emeralds in glorious grieving
But can anybody tell me who the f@#!
Are all these pseudo-teachers
That sell you their minds so cheaply
If buying time is a waste of money
Then meretricious attorneys
Bleed you of your dignity
Currently it is only in dying
That we see no need to speak
While our currency is evolving
We are solely imitations
Of our inimical engines of digestion
As sedentary wives
Remain tied to triumphant spines
Shining like a pestilence
Atrophying like elephants at a circus
Their bodies and minds imprisoned
And bound by imaginary stakes in the dirt
Young prisoners in solitary confinement
Are hiding mental gems
And emotional diamonds
In lonely shipping containers
For you to polish and find
Like two lovers intertwined
I can guide myself despite your lies
I resolve to see
All corrupt lawyers go blind
While many more are voluntarily buried
Beneath their own illegal fantasies/histories
And bureaucratic guidelines
While in the depth of night
She yields to no-one
And only kind words
Can heal these enemies

They came expected,
But oh so unexpected,
Dusk stalking blue skies and sun,
A small patch; barely infected,
Just a few weeks and they’ll be gone,
Just a few weeks and they’ll be gone,

The naivety of my youth allowed me to forgive them,
But time has passed,
They have been feeding,
Infesting,
Like mould in a damp corner,
I ‘must be handling them wrong’,
A new product promised to do wonders,
To my ears an angel’s song,
Just a few weeks and they’ll be gone,

And yet a few turned to a family,
Beneath the diet, the exercise, the routines, the gallons of water, the research,
I could hear Lucifer laughing,
Like that one person at my school,
That was a year ago,
And yet they and Lucifer still laugh at me,
Through murky panes and pictures,
Just a few weeks and they’ll be gone,

Every day they disappear more,
I tell myself I’ve won,
Yet old pictures show me it’s an illusion,
Surely they’ll end for summer’s fun,
Just a few weeks and they’ll be gone,

I now greet my friend the mirror,
Between everything I do,
He tells me it’s getting clearer,
His story’s must be true,
Just a few weeks and they’ll be gone,

I am a fool to my own deceit,
For the naked eye of me the whole world,
Can see these demons,
These scarlet brandings,
And every glimpse I catch in my friend the mirror,
In the reflections of a stranger’s wondering eye,
The voice in my head says ‘why me’
That’s all that it’s come to,
There is no more light in this night that has consumed me,
So all that is left,
Is echoes,
‘Why me’

But they won’t be here for long,
Just a few weeks and they’ll be gone.

where does heather grow?
in the north
blossoming; under late summer skies.
it is the fire
as told in old norse
like it was spoken from the gods,
in mere whispers,
too afraid of the spark.

Columbine upon my desk,
a dusty pinkish
unstable shade of purple -
aquilegia vulgaris -
thought to be thankless,
even a sign of ingratitude
this Orphelian flower.
Mine has ten doves in a circle,
though tradition claims it seven:
Holy Mary’s footsteps,
Isaiah’s Gifts of the Spirit.
For me it must remain those final bell-like
chords of Messiaen’s La Columbe,
described in his mother’s verse as
'Cloches d’angoisse et larmes d’adieu’.

Within his paw
smeared bloodied red
by a deliberately mocking thorn
sat a
blanched ripple-y
guarachera strip of cloth
confined narrowly
between the love and the life lines.

TWO ROADS!

what remained of her
remained of the underthings
beneath

fluffing rows of silk
the heavy skirt had been raised
above the ankles
the creases no longer hidden in shadow,
one leg hoisted over the back,
the reigns held expertly.

Hey Beauty!
As it happens, the card numbered Eight is
Strength (also Lust)

She had surely fled
She has surely flown
through the trees and away
Not on foot at-all
while the three saw her pass.
great speed.
The two sisters
with that prince vulgaris looking on
curiously
Three daemon goblins watching from a distance
a disturbance
a smallish crashing
and afterwards
a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed
within the leaves that shudder
and give up the delicacy, slyly
into stubby fingers

Lovely
Dark
Deep
The Woods are Laughing!
Did you notice any scent?
Did it linger between
the thumb and the ring?
the remnant of her flowers,
Petals flouncing, swirling
in odorous potentiality.
a scrap, yes
a deep seated souvenir
Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think?

we want her.
there are things that we want to do with her.

dangerous, they lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly
searching for the ambergris or the sticky  jasmine
sweet,
settling instead to gaze upon
the still clutched
still a little springy
sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness
and ***** and yet
No memories

3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built
with a clean sheet for the curtain,
paper cut-outs
and some sticks.
it’s called acting.
the wine and the wafer.
hidden in the trees’ darkening
‘the mattress’ lays where
the leaves will crumple

meanwhile, he’s petulant:
- why, if you’d just get off of that high horse!
- how long are you going to resist?
- are you STILL angry?
- why won’t you just let me stick it in you?

she telegraphs her response, cough:
‘you do know that in this
particular scenario
(fingers pointing downward and across
as if to suggest
that the scenario
had a specific location)
You are the wolf, right?
The wolf...

I, the girl,
am in the forest with my basket and
I have got a
cute little
blood red
crushed velvet
swing coat
With matching hood and a single task
And YOU
(with those other two *******) have decided
to bore ME with this ****?
Daresay slow ME down?
Of course I will get rid of YOU.
Wait, who am I talking to?

Let me also add that
there never has been any
high-stepping on my part,
nor ankle twirling,
no mandate to impress a stale balcony,
no sign of gaslit
illuminated
pink bows
that lay down flat
perfectly upon the straps
that snap
perfectly at the thigh,
NOT to be slid off a buttock (mine)
NOR crumpled into a dubious ball, ripped and torn
and yet I know that
that determined creature,
a hairy monster
more faithful than Argos,
is prepared
to wait a lazy eight
at grannie’s cozy house
in a sickly corner
over-eager and overwrought with
pandered fantasies
and explosions of once sort or another, irrelevant to me.

What I WILL admit to is
that the touch of those grubby fingers
transubstantiated at my waist
invisible
approach
as usual from behind
impatient and
impractical,
always too quick to make himself a beast
to rid himself of being a man

knowing how way
leads onto way
but I doubt if I should ever come back’

Youth desires trysts
hot blood,
and new pursuers-
She desires more ease than work
not to seek but be sought after;
And I possess Her like the rest,
somehow I’ve had two lovers-
Yet both are not who I would have picked for myself,
both male and wildly immature...

I get myself into tight spots because of this desire,
and then wish just as quick to run from the admirer,
I want, all at once,
to be wanted and to be alone,
For Logic tells me
“you need none”
but my body wants Youth’s hot fun...

34/3 Pleasure [III] (II ,,,,,,,,)
Learn more; Therefore, MD-ICC
and Spanish, Click on 200 MIV C,
Time, Compatibility. MDCLXXXIII
Circuli CD, et Atater Ksi (III) c |||
XXXIV friend! (Third ABC)
12163168 XVI MMMCCC III (C),
which also; He succeeded
with his Warm eyes; Greece, Italy
(Shiba) X, A 2008 (60) 12, C, which are involved:
University of North Carolina, and was the most
famous jumper. This island is in the village. Other
obligations of re-use. The University of California
is located in North America, the most popular
one in a small island village, but only a few spores
are on the level. Prestonian Colorado, maintaining
a five-year commitment to the University
of North Carolina. On the island of Lazarus,
which is on the road. I am the oldest ruler,
and in the future I will use my obligations.
The American University in the North
is the largest city of Colorado and is famous
for its famous island. And then, when I salmon
and I believe that the concept of quality,
that Paro Einstein on the nature of the man are still high.
University of Colorado,
North Carolina and the most popular nooks.
This island is in the village.
And the commitments will be the first to come
to the next post I use. Very popular for training
and sports games in North America.
Place the top of the small island.
Five losses and commitments end time.
The most famous organization of North Carolina
and Colorado University.
Place the top of the small island.
As he promised again.
Ut and Musiciens University North Maxime
by car EST Colorado vulgaris former oppida,
insulate, Gaudium 34/3 [III] (II ,,,,,,,,,,,
Learn more;                                      Therefore, MD-ICC and Spanish,
Click on 200 MIV C                                             , Time,  Compatibility.
MDCLXXXIII Circuli CD, et Atater Ksi (III) c
XXXIV friend! (Third ABC) 12163168
XVI MMMCCC III (C), which also
He succeeded                                              (Warm eyes)
Greece, Italy (Shiba) X,
2011 (60) 12, C, the highest in the world.
Colorado, the University of North Carolina will become the most popular dancer. Located in the highest island of the village. She re-uses the drops that he promised to manage. Colorado University's most popular dance will be from North America. It is located in the highest island of the village. In Colorado she will be the most beloved dancer, University of North Carolina, for a five-year commitment to recycle. Liza located in the highest island of the village. Her salmon promised to reuse the five rules. The North American University, the world's largest city in Colorado, the island's village and more popular, will come to dance. His salmon reusing the terms the blonde promised in the spring; always high with sapphire, Einstein and Kale. Colorado University, North Carolina, will become the most popular dancer. Located in the highest island of the village. She has promised to reuse the drops. The Colorado University's most popular dance will come to North America. It is located in the highest island of the village. She grabs the five deadlines he promised to recycle. North Carolina University will be the most popular Colorado dancers. It is located in the highest island of the village. She promised to recycle herself. North American University goes to dance, the most popular in Colorado, the island's village, which is the highest in the world. She has a blonde promise to recycle the discipline of drops, only with a head high with sapphire Einstein's Kale always comes up in the spring. The University of Colorado, North Carolina, will become the most popular dancer. Located in the highest island of the village. She has promised to reuse the drops. The Colorado University's most popular dance will come to North America. It is located in the highest island of the village. She grabs the five deadlines he promised to recycle. The North Carolina University will be the most popular Colorado dancer. It is located in the highest island of the village. She promised to recycle her. North American | University goes to dance, the most popular in Colorado, the island's village, which is the highest in the world. She has a blonde promise to recycle the discipline of droplets, only at high a altitude with sapphire Einstein's neck always in the spring. ||

mugwort mama
mama momma
come home
come home mama

sing mama
mama sing
mugwort mama
mugwort sings

oh mugwort dancing
she  dances darling
oh dance, dance,
dance us home

laughing papa, papa laughing
oh papa, papa
papa
is laughing us home

loving love
mama loving
mugwort mama
mugwort is loving us home


<3

i'm not what you might call a holocaust denier,
it happened, the end. what i am saying
is found on a song, slayer's angel of death
from the album reign in blood...
the modern media speak of the migrant crisis,
you see it on the news, leaving the Libyan
coast, in inflatable boats, a dead child on Greece's
coast... you can just sense the desperation,
but also the daring, and the ***-starved
European women who took less a chance
for *** holidays in Ivory Coast, or whereever
it is they do their ***** business...
i don't know how they did it, the Germans,
but they did, they were rearing cattle
into those gas chambers, it's not even funny,
i'm not laughing, i'm just astouded by
the comparison, this blind belief in a god
to bail them out, and then watching
the desperate *****-like daring of the modern-day
migrants from africa into europe...
ah, the funny bit... Brussels, chocolate,
magnets... choc from Africa, choc-talk from
Belgium... am i surprised?
   as said, according to the dodo project.

i too thought that when the band *reef
released their greatest hits album,
with a new song, give me your love,
that they could rekindle their long gone career...
i thought it was their mangum opus,
just over 3 minutes long, still... what a song...
it could do much better on the radio frequencies
than their standard place your hands,
give me your love is like a virus,
it's a contagious anthem to what could have
been, but never was,
i'm sure that, if the radio people appreciated it
as much as i did (when i still played the guitar,
but later smashed it for reason that are worth
noting my ex-girlfriend and how her dad
initially made it hardly dead, but slightly disabled,
let's just say he gave her an extra sound hole;
****** hollowed her out! completely!)...
   and yes, i want writing to be as fickle,
as painting an "abstract", so i'll adopt blitzkrieg
to writing, strobe lighting, quick change of pace,
the whole disco shabang...
       what, can't i imitate women by writing as
finicky as is humanely possible?
    let's do that... i have all day...
well... i can officially say it's the 20th of February
and winter has ended...
   it's getting warmer, yuck, and i'm getting more
daylight than i like to have had...
  speak to the scandinavians about winter
and misery, or the "blues", they'll tell you that
in winter, they couldn't be happier, or should i say:
cosy... cuddling pillows and lighting scented candles
in their wooden shacks...
for care of all that *******, that's true.
      i was thinking Alaska, or Siberia, somewhere
really really remote, so i can be like
that cat i own looking at my *******
so that i look away when it's taking a **** in the garden...
oh sorry, i'll just return to my cigarette and beer
breakfast... take your time...
         what an annoying little twit she can be...
and with "can be", is...
      just after philosophy attacked poetry,
suddenly someone said, enough! that's when poetry
attacked the medium of journalism...
   someone has to bully someone in the end,
   or as i like to call it: symbiosis vulgaris...
it usually takes the monday edition of a newspaper,
and then re-reading the magzines from the sunday
edition... how those ponces critique books,
but i like critics, they actually read books,
which makes less time to think about books and bricks
and vacuums... critic: mmm hastings...
book? reporting war, by rrrr mosely... (trill that,
trill that *****)...
    it's basically about Patton bitchslapping an exhausted
soldier... and how Montgomery and 1944 and
Arnhem, and how he should have been sacked for that...
but primarily about how journalists lied...
    some shot down fighter jets,
some even did a Hemingway and added a bit
of spice, a chilli romance or something of that sort...
i add more spices to my curry when i make one,
e.g. cardamom... try thinking i'm a ****-asian
and not blame me for ultimate war and commerce...
oh wait... Caucasian... the caucus...
or let's call her: Matka Caucasus...
modernity, see, you have to start looking for myths,
myth-making is the only worthy rebellion
  to be made when everything is speeding past you
at 100 miles per hour... and it's still only Monday...
by Friday we can say: conquered the moon
and killed of Brother Grimm...
      and yes, in ancient times,
i'd give 30 years of pure, pure, pure life for this
advanced modern ******* of shrivelling away
at 100... give me 30 years of pure, raw, oyster-slurping
life and i'm your man...
   give me a life, that's actually a library and
the next time i sit before a television, i'll turn into
a little ****** and start utilising a gun and shooting
a mountain... a bit like Xerxes
          and his army told to whip the seas
into submission... akin to any madman,
the comedy just never seems to end...
                   it just goes on and on and then, at some point
we reach the pinnacle, the everyday grey,
common people... and then it becomes truly sad,
the realisation that we're all apparently prisoners
entombed by cosmic forces... i'd like people to try
to laugh then...
     but we are living in times of relative peace, aren't we?
it's not like we decided to enforce an "article 50"
(more like article 22, catch)
and are sending men to war,
                only when the mechanisms of war have become
so advanced that the wars we currently see
are puny... they don't capture the imagination,
what with the nation being so abstract it's
only basis is for football supporters and nothing else...
not the type of man i could have been in 1939...
   even when my grandfather and father lived
in a nation that prescribed no university after
leaving school, but 3 years in the army...
   where my jealosy stems from...
   3 years comprehensive in the army...
     it's that lesson of teaching man: routine...
my routine went when i went to university,
even though i did have 9 am lectures, and it was chemistry
and in my third year i was doing over 30 hours
in lab and lecture hall...
          but when i look at my father's and my grandfather's
life, i'm just thinking about an england,
where army conscription was dogma...
                ****'s sake, ted berrigan did it!
and he was a poet!
               me? more or less a *****... a tier higher above
a gimp... but i'll just call myself chewing gum
and mule it over...
                  try not having a joke at the existential
lottery known as life...
                          but it's like: who to fight?
    we done fighting, we're faking fighting? we're
not really fighting, are we?
      so, about this book, and how journalists and with
due care for establishing that there were censors
in the interim years 1939 - 45...
             and how wars are waged as much with
guns and knives as with truths and lies...
      well... if at war... tell a load of lies...
if at peace?
                 you have to tell the most mundane truths
unimaginable... truths can't be imagined,
e.g. i wrote this quasi-constipated, that's quasi for:
i kept it in and made an effort, and had some *****...
of peace and for peace to endure:
you have to be blunt... you can't *******,
well, i call bullshiting a diarrhea of narrative,
in the meantime i'm also capturing the sunset,
i started this, whenever i did and now i'm desperate
for a lightbulb...
      but really, for truth and for peace,
for both these children to have a father,
          they need to hear the uttermost banal:
a banana is yellow, white is the refractor of light,
black is the insulator of light... goths and emos
wear black cloths but have an aristocratic complex
meaning they have a vitmanin d deficiency
and i could milk them with my pinky.

A ****** chicken somewhere on a mountain top
of Kauai,
               pecked at cashew nuts held in a hand,
then pecked at the arithmetic of the fingers,
pretending to play a game of:

    from the scenes of the wind that shakes
the barley, the gray man
                                                or that one episode
in the game of thrones: dark wings, dark words

those fingernail torture scenes...

or at least the fusion of a fake memory in part
(true in part relating to the cashews being fed)
and the the torture of listening

to khruangbin & leon bridges' - texas sun:
which is torture,
    just like listening to odetari's - i love you ***
is torture,

   a maasoo'Ki-Zee'ism    (wing wing)

just like this is torture, but so is scribbling
qualification prose for an NVQ in spectator safety;
custard blotches of semi-thinking

       like it is torture to read Olson's maximus poems
or Deleuze's and Guattari's anti-oedipus

- when torture is an uncomfortable pleasure,
even a difficult pleasure to understand,
when there's a sense - of colour

in translation

of light and when intellect is a phantom, isn't

- i'm almost teasing myself with the idea of
asking chatGPT to write me a fusion
of Celan, Cummings and Olson -
    that would be torture,
   so how would it look like?

it looks like this

/ in the expanse of night's quiet drift,
words emerge, like stars in blackness,
charles olson's breath in the cosmic rift,
e. e. *******'s verses, a gentle caress

and as the moon weeps, in solemn tone,
paul celan's echoes, a haunting cry,
together they dance, entwined, alone,
a fusion iof souls, in the poet's sky /

b'jeez'who's'who'who'ah'woo!    (ring ring)

salvation! (would) never hit the panic
button on the march of AI:
clearly a parody of intelligence -
an encyclopaedia on steroids! nothing more!

   cardinal soul in the pope's bog of god,
it was precisely sunny for an hour
before the mood of the sky changed into:
a ****** expression of a frigidity
   and nuisance, a teenage girl's
                       "resting ***** face":

if only some justice before the monstrous
composition: stretching my fingers and enforcing
my grasp of hands positioned for
a cascade of words, without looking at
the keyboard

         a heartless ******* i am not:
                one of those stercus accidit moments
alternatively called: in vivo res mortuus
                                in a living thing a dead thing -
an egg that becomes a scrambled ego
                  harsh criticism of the exoskeleton
where heart and brain are all one and the same mush

just like now, torture, a pleasant torture

   harpoopoo'on'pon'pomp'bluegluetruths'in'u'u'w

                  (last remaining exit, via phone-one-t'ism)

it truly is a rare find...
          no... not louis zukofsky's -A-...
juggling adorations for Bach's
polyphony...

       i need to sketch this...

i have two demands...
    a young man should only read
philosophy when he was
started to tease his 21st birthday...

by accident: and no accident...
Hume of all people...
            but i was young and i made
a faux pas:
i started to collect music... compact disks...
too early on...
i should have listened to the radio...
it's not like i will
return to... taproot...
i might return to: dry **** logic...
i will not return to korn
or slipknot...

although... when mojo was still
in print... and there was that prog rock
special... and i... bought up...
the top 50 prog rock albums...
some yes records...
gentle giant...
                        pink floyd doesn't count...
king crimson...
doesn't count either...

in all honesty:
   the only albums i bought that...
are not a "mistake" of...
youth...

             probably the oeuvre by tool...
but then... that's writing musing:
something one might enjoy in
the background... writting... doodling...
some music prevents you from
simply listening to it...

i can't remember the last time
i wanted to rhyme my words...
    i somehow had to... think rhyming
to be... something to be abhorred...

if sarcasm is the lowest form of wit...
then... rhyming is the lowest
form of escapism:
how one might pride oneself
claiming a rhyme...
                      
           i can't remember the last time
i took a tool album on a bus ride...
or read a book to it...
   i desired... metaphorical laying of bricks...
to be absolved by the music:
cushioning the background...

    a bit like... Proust lining his study
with cork...
  there was always a music to fall asleep to...
when i discovered...
christopher young's hellraiser soundtrack...
hammock's ketonic...
dead can dance - into the labyrinth...
            
    when i first heard ola gjeilo's northern
lights choral pieces...

combichrist - today we are all demons...
godspeed! you black emperor...
die krupps - machnists of joy
:wumpscut - bunkertor sieben...

                   an ex-girlfriend elevated
me from rammstein toward in extremo...
i elevated myself toward...
   garmarna...
wardruna... hedningarna...
    żywiołak...
                      danheim...
                                                heilung...

i also found some lao che...
                      notably the gusła album...

demdike stare - tryptych - £30 for a c.d.,
not a vinyl... and i did buy it...
   vomito nergo - fall of an empire...
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles... etc.

             wooden schjips - west...
            distance - repercussions...
   dead skeletons - dead magick...
       the besnard lakes - until in excess...
   uncle acid & the deadbeats - blood lust...
naam...
    the soft moon...
              allah-las...
    the chromatics...
         pablopabo & ludziki...
           black ox orkestar - nisht azoy...

last time i heard... music under the radar...
vex'd...                     burial - untrue...
          which probably translates best
in the north east of london...
from that... doom of the southern estates...

   rotting christ... a greek "dark metal" band...
kata ton daimiona...
    susumu yakota - grinning cat...
       beat bizarre - somersault industries...
younger brother - weird on a monday night...
bohren & der club of gore - mightnight radio...

   i listed all these examples for no
particular reason...
  apart from: i did buy physical copies
of these records...
   i don't trust the radio in...
either playing any of this material...
there's already that whole...
affair of    HARAKIRI DIAT -
  primitive knot - puritan...
                 ******* of brutalism...
                    years of denial - body map...
filmmaker...
          i'd love to own a physical copy...

it could be just so plane jane & basic
to know what you were looking for...
honestly: it doesn't work like that...
that "thing" you were "looking" for?
it has actually been looking for you...
  you are only sieving...

    irritated by a stressed rubber-band
song on replay... sick-poppy-uber-glue-pop
song like mabel's: don't call me up...
or... britney spear's criminal...

                  ****** ***** music taster...
or... refreshing a desire for iggy "z" pop(s)...
but sometimes an album just happens...

always big into the dandy warhols...
every time... she said...
you listen to... good morning...
think of me and how you ****** me...
ex-girlfriends...
and a brief mythology of smurfs... to boot!

one album stood out...
from all those listed...
     i was never a big fan... prior to...

                  aufheben...
                 by none other than...
the brian jonestown massacre...

           that's one album... and the other?
heavy moon's... fünfzehn (15)...
      it's not a case of itchy-thumbs...
but the drill srgt. of rhythm stole my index
and thumb on this one...

    music: it's hardly what i think of it...
it's what feeling it dictates me to write...
no... i could never be a needle-drop...
internet's busiest musical nerd...
i can't fathom music like a nerd...
a drunk? oh yeah... as a...
a music that i enjoy drinking to...
rather than writing...
   that's a breath of fresh air...
   like ******* for virginity...
  that same quote: yes... making war for peace...

then... on a second listening...
neue echos der erinnerung... what a blast...
too busy... fidgeting with my
constipated variation of solipsism...
echo-sputnik...
years down the line...
someone less... disinhibited...
took to warping time and gizmos
with a pen and a litany of typos...

     a rare moment... false praises...
in the moment though: the angels were singing...
then... memories...
too many memories of...
     tangerine dream... and... kraftwerk...
sensible... german music...
no... i was completely wrong...

i guess i was my usual self...
perched on a windowsill
sitting on my folded foot...
and i caught a "neighbour" looking
at me from afar...
   trying to escape the straitjacket
of glued-eyes to t.v. mantras...
and i decided: fun to catch a rhythm...
and **** clicked...
there was a lunar eclipse...
the sun-worshippers suffered a great deal...

i did buy the van **** parks album...
songs cycled... oh yeah!
big fan! i used it... to pass the time...
when... decorating the civil room...
                     pokój (room and peace)...
   ciwilny... i.e.: the living room...
        well... when i was painting the ****
"think outside the box"...
to watch the box... with my dear dear
muvva...
                   because...
you'd only listen to van **** parks...
when... painting a living room
with your mother... moving furniture...
that sort of: project of escapism...

     medieval music and orthodox byzantine chants...
medieval music and...
frank zappa... not the music... though...
the interviews...
             walther von der vogelweide...
                  chevalier, mult estes guariz...
       vox vulgaris - la suite meurtriere...
                    
some people should know...
their language is not... yet... supposed...
peer...

the concept of
the diminutive...
    mały-malutki-maciupki...
the diminutive as a form of endearing...
a size...
wielki-wielgochi...
                      diminutive:
concerning the same word...
a standard prefix... a suffix variation
of gradation...
because! yes! english is awash with
said: plenty!
                    the assured: sire
of the shat upon: shire... by queer
buckingham!
                
                  for any love...
this most loved... this debased...
and a loot of a frown....
          the furrowed brows...
to own a bed to fit two sleeping
in it... ******* in it...
yet more... is to presribed from
an "effort" of sleeping on the hardening...
beside it...
like a greed riddled *****
of a bed-fellow caving to... scrutiny...

furrow-of-brow-down-bidden...
because of a leisured frown...
this and what... to escape with a love...
made ideal...
less of a love and less of
the gymnast who might parade
with ******* statures
of: the well bent...
that of the AK-47... and WD-40...
well oiled... scripture...

                  the music enjoyed...
the music orb: tow: revised...
              
  fidgeting... fetching... fidgeting...
fetching... calls for nuance...
loop holes.... writing under the
policy of spoken truths...
BBC radio 4... depeche mode...
punk-esque and...
              and writing under
the... lost under-belly...
who who's of the cringe fest...
  litany... mollusks r us...
   and... the crab-fetish...
   gamer-no-gamer:
biggest hard-on...
                like... the insensitive...
parody of *******...

                              kippah looters...
******* statues...
old school cringe and toblerone lego...

maurice! oh maurice!
please entertain the advent of
whittle steward!
              
  yes... best to pretend to grieve.

last time i heard, the germans had two
trills to the R -
the frontal, and the "backstory"...

the back trill became french -
the harking - akin to R becoming H...
like some gluttonous laugh..

the front trill became english -
the numbing - akin to R becoming
a heimlich maneuver (akain the baron
parrot with its heimlick) -
that deviated from the rolling
tumbleweed, from the rattlesnake...
from the drumroll...

evolution can really find shortenings
to its endeavour -
it doesn't have to begin with
monkey through to man,
it can begin with letters -
the best example? R...

   there is no trill in english
and there is no trill in french -
one was bitten by a tarantula,
that other pretended to hark,
or chained smoked and tried to
be rid of excess tobacco phlegm
on the tubes...

but only in german was the trill
explained:
   the rattlesnake frontal trill,
and the hydra rear trill -
and the rear trill manages to explain
the french harking...
         while the frontal trill
explains the tongue-tied numbing...

  these are not transcendental moments:
these are transgressional artefacts -
akin to mutations -
         and evolution does have a
rarer spectrum of interest to itemise -
    it does not necessarily have a genesis
and an exodus...
          firmly placed to compete
with biblical affairs...

look, mythology has a branching to a root
of a logic... mythology is worth as much
of etymological respect, of theological craft...
mythology awaits a saying:
mythology spans too many years beyond
critical history, beyond history per se,
mythology is when poetry transcends,
mythology is the logical conclusion
of the only manner of expression:
via ars poetica -
                  
                   mythology is a type of history
that cannot be written with a critical eye,
a critical conclusion - a conclusive
"existentialism" - the assured "i am" -
yet here we are: primarily through the medium
of "i think", even if jealous or missing
the "i am" of achilles...
                  but achilles, with that being
said: didn't leave an "i think" paradigm...

mythology is the upper tier of history,
after all...
     all of history has to become sacrificed
upon the altar of poetry, and upon this
altar, turn from history, into myth...
      and both are logical conclusions -
it's only that the latter remains "afraid"
of the critical essay of nearing contemporary
"compliments" of attention...

there's a reason why myths are logical,
but as many people dislike poetry as they
are bound to dislike poetry:
yet most of these people never manage to
finish artefact of prose, finish the efforts
of chicken scratches, of lumberjacks,
of amazon shredders -
    people who might as well write on toilet paper.

give it a 100, nay, a 1000 years:
and i'll be the most evil person in the world -
the one who closed the short-lived hoarding
of the closure of the 20th century...
       just a premonition...
   a sickly, i know, but also an innocent kind...
it's called:
    cogitans qua helium *** ego qua vesica
(thinking as being helium
               with the ego as being a balloon) -
oh dear one, float float, float away!
to the never descending geometry of
                           starry constellations.

darwinism still seeks a history that doesn't
necessarily compete with physics'
chronology -
  the english speaking worlds simply can't
keep both, and not congregate upon some
sort of dualistic finally -
   instead of this schizophrenic dichotomy...
where are all the chemists?!
      in the ***** of faust, like the jews
are, in the ***** of abraham...
         and the kiddies keep chanting:
we made pacts with the devil -
tell your god, the queries are worth a dustbin
defunct de facto: limusaurus per se
    (mud lizard) - id est: inextricabilis;
     "sub" / post sequentia: *** ergo finis similis;

and i do wish to speak the resurrected latin,
unlike when the english teachers from
the beginning of the 20th century still
manage to trill the R rather than numb it...
namely? lingua plebei... lingua vulgaris...
and for me? that's how latin will be known
from thereof... and **** **** ****
you will make oaths from words,
and **** **** ******* will not excuse
yourself, surrounded by ***** excesses,
and **** **** ******* will not
guise yourself in linguistic niqabs of
censorship,
    and **** **** ******* will not play
hide and seek with U in a word like
f&ck -
        you will not become morons who
are nothing more than pedantic queer hoppers -
you will not become those people
who joke while swearing: pardon my french...
  you already brush your teeth...
you will not be the ones that agree
to watching violence, ****** violation,
disinfected by news and paparazzi epilepsy,
but are somehow told that:
reading the words **** **** ****
is more offensive than all the listed, above.
NO!

an occulted mass kicking at light gone
a moment ago, as if in a sooty stomach,
maleficent enough to deliver the unborn.
cries that vent down a lengthening
hallway--abandoned to what forces open
an original wakefulness.
the way knowing you becomes a cryptic
comorbidity, a walk of shame every morning--
a slathered nausea, too smooth for sickness.
tons of traumatized flesh recanting vulnerability,
(mostly yours) long after a bed became a
one-sided argument.
seasons regard you with braindead gossip: 'is that
her again, she still exists--she always thinks
something's off, it's the landfill of personal stuff she
compulsively goes through. '
a nonstop pause for Jane, her yoyoing edge--a highly
inconspicuous center of attention, captured in photos
superficially waving off the fuss.
a hyperalert shutdown, Cinderella's carriage to pumpkin
developing acne vulgaris, sloppily tripping with eyes
caked on her.
angsty & unrestorable disconnects--daring selectees to
root out a fantastic despiser.
tender years designating the world as an apologist.
a chronic sense of entitlement winks out, already 
elsewhere--as if nothing ever happens.
then happens all at once, a fluorescently lit bathroom
unsparing an in-your-face ugliness.