sensitivity: or the bearing of (a) soul...
i am almost tempted - no, i was:
almost tempted to omit the indefinite article
in that sentence,
it almost "almost" sounds better...
hence a "rephrasing":

    sensitivity: or the bearing of soul...

because it's not unlike the soul is something
either definite or indefinite that requires
some grammatical forensic articulation

say, unlike the Freudian trinity ego egg and ****
that schematic monstrosity of
19th century (late 19th century)
bourgeoise neurotic-sensibilities
fetishised by people with enough
luxury: time, money to evaluate ciphers
in dreams...

no no, oh no... none of that...

i've come to a parallel vision,
by now there have been two focal women in my life:

my life is a tragic echo-chamber realism,
it's like i'm utterly attached to reality
albeit - not however - consummating olden
wordings... hmm... a hmm for every hunchback
ghost-limb scratch...

zahnschleifenliebe:
apostrophes the raised commas...

i've come to a parallel vision,
the women per se but more to the point:
how these women sheltered me from media ingestion,
so much so that i can positively make

Russia and Kauai (Hawaii) synonyms in terms
of how little exposure i had to
the brainwashing fabric / fabrication of
they grey man of reaction - the mob facet, pivot...

a month in Russia (with the language barrier)
and a month on Kauai...
because there's no IN relating to Hawaii...
in Russia implies: a land-locked geography,
you can never be IN Hawaii,
you are always somehow ON Hawaii...
a ship or something, most certainly an island:
and spin-spin-go-go going nowhere...
no one says (i think, therefore probably n00b)
i'm in... no wait...

doesn't matter...
leading articles in the Saturday Times
november 18 2023... the editorial section...
what's not to like?
i.e. defenders of the apostrophe are right
to admire this versatile linguistic device...

elses' sloppy...

         residents of Twyford, Hampshire,
dispossessed by the council's adoption
(i was almost fine with the spelling adoptation,
until i realised... porridge partridge
creases in white shirts, ****)

         St. Mary's Terrace a St. Marys Terrace...
apostrophe as indicator of 's: possessive article
since... the plural article is simple s
and the possessive plural article is s'

      and no S'S... schultzschnoofstafforshire!
brr... coldness of memory reaching as far back
as the finest army uniforms ever on show:
that Hugo Boss brigade: because what good
is the Holy Scripture without the Holy Evil
of the Nazis... admiration...
can't compare: since it's so easily revised and
thrown at opposition by the left... oids...
lefty politics is better than religion in terms
of it being a neo-******...
it's what gets my heart in a flutter
   whenever i feel apathetic...
   can't beat a mythological case for pure evil...

ah... me off on a tangent...
two months in my life i was sheltered from being
influenced by media... all done by women
with the Edenic rapture of ***...
once at 21 with a 19 year old
and once at 37 with a 55 year old...
as a ****** i covered the whole Cold War
dynamic, ****** for both sides
and ****** both sides
and thus still strapped to the Mniema...
Niemy - dumbfounded Germanic
sieve...          third cousin from Saxon
through Dutch to English... wasps...

            so it's almost ridiculous how i made
English a language of choice of how to express
while those sorry sods write about
identity politics and immigration mentality...
i'm just bothered that i can't be exactly
Essex accented because my standard cosmopolitan
London 'ing-leash is just so...
    
oh i got drunk last night... i had to...
never in all the shifts i worked at Wembley
did i manage to get home so quickly...
waited 0.5sec for the Metropolitan line at
Wembley park station,
then waited 2min at Finchley road for the jubilee
line... 4 stops to Bond street
and "waited" / utilised the time to walk
the entire platform for the Elizabeth line...
then 3min waiting for the 499 bus
so i had time to buy myself a bottle of cider
get off the bus and drink it at a bus stop...
pre-drinking... marvelous pouring rain...
like... shattering of a mirror...
a shattering of a mirror into a nth term
eye mandala of Jung... or Tool...

shift finished early by 10:30pm
and i was happily in my garden drinking at 11:50pm
the harder liquor...

but on the train...
hmm... wooden ring deterrent...
so could have thought, but no...
she spotted me coming in at Tottenham Court Rd
stood in the aisle... played with her hair...
fiddled with it at first then pretended to
put it in a bun...
admired herself in the glass...
well... i wasn't having much fun listening
to Wardruna's Fehu or Helvegen...
so by the time she sat down across me
and phoned a friend i had already muted the music
and started listening...

bad date... no... a funny date...
oh jeez the complications... a shorter guy...
same matted hair...
easy conversation and no... over dinner...
no drinking...
but all this flirting...
standing on my feet for 12 hours straight
started to massage my legs...
what the hell does she do?
exposes her knees...
                                     subtle clues and cues...
this whole bonanza of a woman playing
with her hair...
in close proximity...
i know the psychological mantra spewed
into making our behaviours predictably constipated
like we've lost our own mystery...
like philosophy reached a cul de sac
when psychology became mainstream...
i don't want to hear it...
i still want to be mesmerised by...
an ontological perfume... a trace of being:
not a full-blown existential schematic
of / for automatons / zombies...

rule of thumb regurgitation (of) reincarnations,
perhaps it was the age-power dynamic
of i'm older she's younger
i have signs of grey implying wizened
where my beard begins and no sideburns "exist"
and yes: she didn't have a chance to show-off her
dress... and yes... i did notice she had
furry eyebrows or at least she fashioned
them like so...
        by now i'm rekindling the strange commute
because i played along
with the subtleties of flirt
   implying that i was covertly replying to her
almost subliminal messaging tactic...
hell: come to think it... this wasn't subliminal!

next thing i'll hear another doppelganger comparison
that i've stolen the shadow of Brad Pitt
or Chris Hemsworth... pity i have a ******
looking surname like ****** or Stalin...
but i will not be called Matt when i stress to be called
by my name proper...
someone at work once said:
only my mother gets to call me Matthew...
well in my case i'm Mateo... so... debunking Italian
in the Dąbrowski March...

oh yeah... there are only one or two maybe three
decent national anthems...
the French the Polish and the Russians
have the most appealing national anthems...
just like there's a genius to Abba
but hardly any in the Beatles... period...

so much for music:

gladius Rōmae imperī sum,
ubi’st nostrum imperium?
nē plōrā, mater Rōma,
dēnuō flōrēbis

Βελισάριος Βελισάριος - Oₕ        Aₕ
                                                  ₑₔₑₙ'ₛ

                            Eden's Siamese chim'pan'zees...

U turn into (∇) the nebula of Nabla:

(ego): Σ of being....

      Σsum =  fractus + fractus
1/2 + 2/1
ergo              Σsum = -1/2 always...

the half that's constantly missing you...
the power of *** and the dangers of ***...
i should have learned it at the brothel...
but it was all oh so casual like treating meat
in cuts before ensuring that the *******
were saved for the main course on a different
day and the rest of the chicken was used
to make a clear chicken soup
with carrots, leeks, parsley roots, celery,
celeriac...
this emotional investment is...
   a liberation and a project of self-awareness:

how will i try to sound less synthetic less
robotic?

i'm not even trying to be cryptic but my heart
is complicating what i want to say
and i don't want to say what it feels
with my cognitive wants,
notably utilising noun or verb crutches...

which is why i want to conjure "lesser" historical
figures... not that Philip Augustus of France
is a "lesser" figure... not when coupled
to the dynamic of Henry II, John and Richard I...
while Charlemagne stands alone...

by now this piece of writing has become music...
there is no investment in plot...
language can become just that... music or painting...
there's no conveying of direction,
there's no wisdom, wisdom as direction...
to hell with Levant wisdom...
i'll be the last man of the north
to listen to the "wisdom" of the desert...
i will dearly cut off this influence from my psyche...
gladly crucified the ****** and so be done with it:

to the point where, professionally:
we tried to stamp out racism with anti-racism:
i can't be an anti-racist...
i find racists a rather funny breed of people...
racism expressed unintentionally is
so rewarding... because it follows from
the basic principle of colour as meaning:
traffic... red is stop, amber is be ready
and green is flow... even though blue is more associated
with flow... then again... most rivers look green...
well... beside the Thames sun and concrete starved...

not since Ginsberg's poem i heard the word
***** hair coming from... well...
some sort of Arab, given his name was Fawad...
so some ****** version of piglet-pink
not marred by the cold of the north of Europe...
oh hell... we're in this together somehow...
no impeding Mongolian horde yet still
the best horror story i ever heard came
from my father:

i had a childhood friend once...
he committed suicide...
why? he was seeing this girl...
then the girl started to **** my father's friend's father...
epic horror story...
which is sort of me... right now...
i can conjure up this insecurity in
my current relationship...
she could easily take to my father
and usher out my mother into the street...
i like this fetish-fear...
it's a phobia-philia...
    anti-Oedipal and more: Kronos affirming...
just like i like the idea of the ancient Roman
practice of fostering children...
because i have no gene-incentive to speak of
because genes are fractions while
ideas are whole numbers... fetishist par excellence:

fluid French thinking, if thinking is French or was...
oh but it sort of it... since pragmatism is English
and thinking for thinking's sake is
not really pragmatic it therefore must be French
and if anything is to be resolved it has to be resolved
on Greenwich Mean Time terms... blah blah...

for now, just that... an exercise in writing.

on the edge of etch: letters appear but disappear
without sound -
       tumultus origins of English, as a tongue,
later a people: a letter to the people -
outsourcing the orthodox passing of meaning
without hieroglyphs -
as the Polynesians did for almost six thousand
years when they set off without horses:
or rather with the horses of waves and the winds
across the great plateau of the Pacific ocean...

zahn schleifen liebe: tooth grinding love

       'ōlelo:                 word (language)

palapala:                       letter

          kani:                   sound

face:            maka

            ki'i:                         image

huikau: hybrid:         hiatus of haikus...

on the edge of an etch - apostrophes aplenty and
like reimagining Hawaiian as English
with two consonants: but'ter
            plo'tter - no, not plot'ter

per time: manawa: rather manava -
and Minerva: time spent executing an Olson typography
oh how apostrophes '
      fell to the earth of the linear winding of meaning
in sentences and became punctuation marks
of words in paragraphs rather than poetic cascades
of line: anew...

       J          'ot         down on the edge:
              Ed-ward googled his own name,
some Edward, ed-gear: but that's the eDGe
   i.e. by sound dictation: shion... dicta-shion
   Ej
                        jacket ej

     as with etch:             the visible T yet not really
uttered, sort of bypassed, and heart drowning in
clearly: English is prone to dyslexic fancies
because clearly some letters submerge...

   four tao's of the thai tau:

         the ouroborus no longer eating itself...

                                    T
                                 T † T
                                    T

or perhaps to ask Andrew and the Edinburgh Greeks:

                                 T. T
                                   X
                                T.   T

i can say much more about Edinburgh than Dublin,
safe to say: concerning these two cities
of the former a bad case of trainspotting
and low tides of culture -
   while Dublin, markedly not on the maps
of meaning of the one map that is the Union Jack(et)
since... the Irish did not fare well
with flags associated to cross-bearing marches
across the desert...

               that is i on the guillotine that's ι -
i hardly think it was a common courtesy of the romans
to go all out spectacular for an added head
recliner upon reaching Golgotha:

     how † was actually a T - because that year
it was even cold in Jerusalem so extra firewood was
needed...
and once the deed was done you think that
they didn't use the crosses for fuel in the garrison?
i can just imagine the incense of blood soaked wood
enraging the nostrils of the centurions...

truly, as i were there: in ghost...
      
   ah... only yesterday i picked up a revised hunger
for *******:
hence the zahnschleifenliebe...
   because i have already buckled on loving her
by grinding my front teeth to the point
of chipping one of them...

teeth like butter-softness
   niho niho: no plural? how about
tooth is niho and teeth are nihi?
   so much for a people talking but not writing...
can you imagine: is the nouns became bankrupt
i.e. if someone forgot the name
of a name, so that the word mea - thing was conjured?

what's a waapa?          a boat? not a wa'apa?

oh 'a'ohe mea -              yesthing for nothing
that's ae'              a'ole        no yes no no yes yes no
oh nothing, nothing...

        'olu'olu 'a'ohe mea: sweet nothing -
for a something: kekahi mea...

tribunal of pirates and vagabond burping barbarians:
yes, no word for wig...
kāpiki - cabbage - kapusta in ****** -
who helped conjure up an anti-etymology
for the Hawaiians?      'ōlelo as distinct from
kanaka - a language but not the people...

   kai kanaka - sea people...

'ōmato               (potato)
                  'ūala         (tomato)        

potato toe: manamana wāwae 'ūala
although it is not an assurance to conjure a translation
in that order: and not toe potato...
which would imply: french fries, no?
chips...

            mahina: that is moon and machinery
maszyna - to imply the tides were settled in the minds
and the moon was the machine behind
the phenomenon?
i clearly must be looking at something akin
to cross pollination, etymologically speaking...

you take a word from greek and fuse it with
latin then sprinkle some german or dutch
onto it and you arrive at English...
   not always... greek for orthodoxy still intact
with words like etymology, lexicon and:
well obviously little differences from the original
but most still intact...

talofa! foliga fiafia!
that would be me, being dragged out of darkness
of bad dreams falling out of bed talking
to someone in my sleep...
don't ask me how or for that matter why:

                          is                                      is

two ises ensure that there isn't an isn't...
             or at least that's how it might feel for
a Japanese samu samu rai rai
    visiting these islands...
comparatively an Englishman in Lithuania...
or Latvia...
                      moderately compared cultural differences...
    how will
i ever return to those islands and that Lā

                 to the place where a syllable has meaning
or rather a noun status...
ther-                  thermometer...
one moment less: per tier of integer           mother's
ether...

                             Fern...   ꟻ labours with Theta at
taught thought fabulously... by speaking first...
then listening, then observing, finally scribbling
sound-encoding to reach meaning (:expansive)

because i had to watch ******* yesterday
  because pleasing myself using pictures of you is
like trying to scratch an itch that soon becomes
something either artistic or philosophical...
artistically philosophical: an aesthetic...
that's the meaning of aesthetics:  
                  
i perceive AIS -          eyes
    thes-pain                   thespian
                                              the theta i see...
a letter that became a cheese that became...
surely from the Medieval ages onwards
   it was well established that gold was not really worth
what it was supposedly worth...
since the end of the wooden wheel...
    rubber... rubber and salt... to preserve the meats
to give us culinary ambitions...
                        rubber, salt, morphine, love

and money: to get out of each other's way...
i like money as a concept and as a practicality...
to get out of each other's way...
     and yet to somehow make this life bearable...
money: as means of getting out of each other's way...

ah but still, love... that challenging aspect of life,
for a wish to not write about it,
yet still, unbearably writing about it,
covertly, like so.

i've come to realise my mortality,
prime example(s) aged 37:

i've built up an aversion to music
like an Afghan Muslim,
aversion, distaste, aversion:
m'eh... distaste...

unlike those sorry sobs of the Adhan
sung with the rising sun
over Damascus...

although... i still enjoy something akin
to music,
there is so much more in what's to be said
of music in the mouth of O
in a lover's ***** and all that
stuff that shouldn't be uttered publically:
i've stopped getting off on this dimension
of expression...

if i could i would put a room of "niqab"
on her and hide in it with her,
not that: i can claim to perpatretrate
to anything beyond any scope of "significance":
worded like a verbose cul de sac...
cliche no cliche...
i simply don't have a standard
biological impetus to gratify gene-carrying
worries of males...

i have no problem with her being 18 years older
than me and, Edith, the "dear" public:
a concern for... well by 55 years old
your daughter, by the clock's standard...
blah blah... so shoot the sheriff in the foot
and later call it a juggling enterprise
without clowns...

  some spectacle of the unfore-seeing eye,
my eye, no i, not i, anti-i...
but then making this public makes me all
funny and quizzical...
like i'm her ex past her ex present her
ex future like i'm some cheap-oh
pornographer at best... at best i'm not

the suspect pedohpile on grandma's agenda
of scrutiny... classical beast of comfort,
the wolf in sheeps' clothing...
i will, though, eat an english breakfast
for dinner... and go to sleep at 8pm...
will iron my shirt...
and yes...

   i'm bothered about this liquid retention schematic
of putting on 4kg, massive, 4kg...
being depressed like: it's compression depressed
but my cheeks are bloated retards
puffing up don't know where to go sort
of pigeon fight...

like rewatching ******... and all the gizmos
that film had to offer about being overtly
street smart...
i just need a clean house... a HÜß...
I'm not going to tow-for-tow return to my
former ways...

it's not enough to hear about the antithesis
Dumas in the achievements of Wisława Szymborska
or... Annie Ernaux...
  that's... Er-now... or Ernau-
  since the X is not really said but seen...

which brings me back to... ***...
*******...
coupling...
            well... surprise surprise...
clean house, fickle cats...
no music in no background...
21st Sweden first...
    blah blah glue gum ****...
if ever someone might remind someone else
that gold is the tickle for fancier stuff...
i try, to, "reimagine", the tumultus fate
of Ezekiel's vision...

that inflatable doughnut of Machiavellian
precision... to adjust to move and to adjust
to struck-pinned...

best mantra i could ever bestow upon anyone, though,
as no moralist, being exposed to ******* aged
7 or 8... of no fault of my own,
but jeez... once you couple...
you couple for sure...
like Odysseus to the idea of a Trojan Horse...
like James Joyce to 24h...
a day in a day in a daze...
like...

      i send her hisses and kisses and it's one minute
before she wakes up to the routine that
Kauai shouldn't have ever given me
like i'm still submerged on the footnotes
that become the head-notes of:
a life away from England, in October,
living off of the Tropic of Cancer...

so... an aversion to music and... an aversion
to *******...
reimagining all the vitality of life brimming in me
with a quest for authoritative measuring
distance from no distance...
even in the former expanse of youtube
narratives... films, adverts...
i'm sort of lost to the idea of...
eating that ******* breakfast for dinner and
polishing my shoes and ironing my shirt
and calling her from a train when she's in bed
and it'a my 7am and her 10pm and... savvy:
pirates ahoy...

ahoy, ahoy, poor schmuck...

well, does it really matter that i go to bed
at 8pm rather than 10pm and regardless,
wake up at 6am to go to work?
i'll still be waking up without her,
her, which might gesticulate at all my
biological-scrutinies of sensibility that
i over-stretched my marking territory...
all the better!

unforeseeable *** without consequence
(why did i think X could replace a Q
in the word: consequence?)
because biological reality is a brimful of...
none of the above, or, below,
right now it's 6am in Honolulu
and the storms ganged up on England's shore
and there's no Gandalf...

and we are all, dreary, romantic,
Scandinavian types... typos...
because that's how we operatre,
by bias-focus of deception...
cheap words like "political"
are overtly exuberant...

  Nietzsche said this one thing as if a promise...
life would be, difficult, without music...
life... oh life...
    all the more.. WITHOUT MUSIC...
when ******* comes with all the awe
of the opposite ***...
there's the reality of... the opposite ***...

because i want:
more than the cashier and being the cashier's line
extended...
will i eat? i'll eat:
watching some bad...
acting has become
a bad-existential-pornogrtaphy...

you had your sway dearest sucker,
now is my luminary absolvence
of your role, and title,
like Ezra Pound might have minded....
to ***** with you...
you, inglorious cauliflower of master-pieces!

riddle the brains with no extract of a promising
guilt, then ****... then Vietnamese
those ****** out of a noodle bowl
and then you get a 1 + 1 = 2 answer....
because no rice = no fweedom...

it's 5pm where i'm at but that doesn't
matter to be delivered... does it?

for once in my life i felt and feel relieved
from abstaining
from one act of...
        ugh... the stomach grumbles...
the time, setting and grievances have been, met.

the cold, like cod,
the Arctic
unlike Antarctica;
the idea
of step-
  -fathering...
    welcome,
               graciously.
because there's a must
to a mustard...
no mayo.

Edie, i failed miserably... thinking that ms amber and mr hector whiskers would get something profound out of me... no returns policy here... on writing like i used to (that is)

waking up to a choking sensation of hanging over
the gloom of societal ergonomics:

    even the historiological miasma
in the cinematic chain of the story of the Israelites
in Egypt:

   i worked in the construction industry
and i can vouch that: there was no clear, generational
misery attached to building towers:

i can't imagine the same attachment of grief
correlating to pyramids, although this is well
documented in movies...

zdrowie na budowie: health in a construction site...
no immediate misery from the strands
of sayings: more misery in the gym on a treadmill
than laying brick on brick...
a monstrous adventure of standing still
and erecting a noon shadow
upon time (of the desert)
          only to wait until the Eiffel tower to topple
such heights...

just like Big Ben (named after Benjamin Disraeli
i presume) was renamed the Elizabeth tower,
not Pugin's tower (the old ***** dragged everyone
into her gloriously inglorious age
of dismantling an empire)
the Eiffel tower should be renamed:
Napoleon's Giraffe!

the pale shade on the face of Oppenheimer's guilt,
rereading gregory corso like it's nothing...

at least the bomb H and bomb N (hiroshima, nagasaki)
dropped on a people with fathers mothers
children and the elders...

what pale comparison is the fear of the bomb
when, as they said about the Holocaust,
the terrible has already happened...

drop another! drop another!
what does it mean to the atomised recluse
and the crab bucket,

what is the Manhattan project Oppenheimer
et al
when simultaneously there was also
Goodwin Pincus!

the bomb the pill the bomb the pill the bomb the pill
the clown the mime the clown the mime
the wolf the wolf in sheeps' wool the wolf
the carcass - the mountains of carcasses:
a hubballoo of crustaceans on a beach

this bittersweet hangover of history and
the present day

the fear of touch instigated from grandmother
to a granddaughter when
a non-biological male has carousel fun ***
with the mother -
dearest of touches, through simply wearing
a gifted t-shirt

37 and childless is also like saying:
jeez... i'm surprised "we" shot ourselves in the foot
and there are no surprises that we're limping
with dyslexic pastors in new advent churches
prior to highly literate priests
with dyslexic pastors where once stood
proud literate priests
gatekeeping what, i ask? being persuaded
doubly dutch-blind?

reimagining a church where the pastors know
the 2nd literacy of coding in html,
>give /i
                  >>?/;?        $ banner
                                               like a melting igloo...
later... no rudeness implied by the native english
native european - i wonder what nickname they
have for us... if aboriginal and indian were
nicknames for the indigenous peoples of a people
in a land before and after no exodus...

Joropes - maybe i'll think of a nickname for
us ******* Yobropes who did some touristy stuff
in the 16th through to the 19th century
like the Silk Road was not an asiatic "thing"
like the white self-loathing is not something
born out of the pill rather than the bomb...

i need to salvage this energy of a hangover -
like i might care to not care or
to not care about caring...

a month spent on Kauai in what i dreamed of
ages ago with my mother's pedicurist
whenever she would come over with her toddler
and i would babysit for an hour or two...
but this was a month's worth of fatherhood
simulation with a 12 soon to be a 13 year old...

the joy i had from baking a cake with her mother
(my hot tub lover)
and all the tantrums and all the confusion
and all the arguments a teenager might have
with a mother and grandmother
and i was the one who somehow managed
to get the teen to sleep in her own bedroom
and not in her mother's bed...
i would too craving touch...
    
                     my ego should be my anchor
my thoughts: shoulders to lean on, no!
my thinking or unthinking should be a ship
the id the sea
and who said that creating the superego
would be a better cage to god
in the secular trinity

to write truths in science is one thing
but to write uncomfortable truths on matters
of being human
is another
theological crevices and humanistic escapades
to doodle over and dive into

a game in a swimming pool
playing dive and seek underwater
with a 13 year old girl,
this the least, no biological attachment,
no "self investment" in perpetuity, continuity,
no eyes of my own
no ears of my own
no nose of my own

but...

          the way i speak, my mannerisms,
my behaviour trans-translatable,
everywhere i go this trans- prefix...
trans-racial, trans-gender... trannies
and mommies and somewhat-daddies...
metaphysics should become meta-reality...
there is a meta-reality, given so many people
chose exodus from... reality...
in the trans-dimension...
creating a rift in reality
to create a meta-reality...
a metamorphosis of demonic smiles-allure...
Dante's Elysium or at least the telekinetic
spasm of thoughts-uplifting yet
words like blunder.... bubble blunder
with a pop... carousel...

daft grey... humpty dumpty on a fence
with a white sun and a black sky,
basically the night...
and come day... fake yellow fading white
if peered into, not at, the sun
is a vibration of ultra-violet dynamic
in my eye... a pulsating eye
compared to the stone-eye of moon...
a monstrous soul eating and illuminating
fascination...

we are heaving a woman a heaven in pregnancy,
Napoleon! Napoleon!
calls out Homer, anewed,
a time when tyrants didn't have telecommunication
and from bottom to top to bottom
like Napoleon, rising up,
rather than like ******: levelling:
from bottom to top to bottom to middle...
grey monsters grey hollow cause
hallow cause, holocaust,

building the pyramids like a dream-memory
compared to the concentration camp
conscious-reality... a pinch-thought...
because only Yids... Hebs... affected?
the nth, only people in existence...
you'd think Poland would be
the 2nd America... German genius spirited
on to the lazy *** Hebs?

ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha

probably...

new to making movies, hell is with me: i laughed
postmen brawling outside my window
how manic and evil
a laugh is without concept of body
in an empty hoѦ
   ** ** Halloween and Satan's Clause...
from the decrepit Mediterranean (my dyslexia too,
some words are an arithmetic impasse)

not to say the Ummah is 100 % sure..
0 topple 0 and how A gave birth to B
or E...
   how 0 came last
but was born first with the wheel,
the moon... no... the sun....
0 was the last number written down
wheel to 0
wheel to 0       Texan minus...
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
where is the zero?

        billions of souls resisting the waves of
death, but relentless..
death like was and earth like life
crumbing morphic, yet sea de-morphic,
neutrality of a loaf of a deity in
the dynamic of space, vacuum...
time... immemory-demented-dyslexia
and self-closure discovered in old age
proof in protein, cannibalistic protein:
self-deletion... for a people
of mediocre morals and lived experiences...

people who invested in short term rewards
supposed extrovert opportunists...
Edie: me to you... depth of a craving
soul, FBI, CGSIE... those sounds of individual
letters comfort me, CGSIE...
I O         I O

       ю

    ya U
      Y Δ

branches of a tree, the tongue of a serpent,
twins on a Siamese road,
apart yet together bound-       +      -less
like nothing with a cushion
a bubble and a tongue twist
and a marrow afternoon of grey and
England is this bearable...
ugly colour disruptor until
summer and cricket in rugby in football
base bull...        ****...
oh my gloom in the chaos
of a sea of id with a thinking rattled by thought
and not thinking
and ego an anchor in shrapnel
like vikings and the crows they brought
with their ships because crows
used to be petted like dogs and cats

borrowing from myths...
a cat and dog fight
islam the cat heb-dogs...
not my world... not a world on Kauai...
volcano riffs in drum          kit
ODETARI SUX
                       depeche mode groove... growl, even...

barricades of secular pop, clown bars,
prosecco gluttons
and journalistic amputees of the guillotine...
humanism at the highest...
newspapers like what is a rock
to barricade the tides... of passing...
happening... DASEIN...
newspapers became worse than bibles...
violation of animalistic privacy...
auto-suggestive insomnia

best lost in the mundane labour and the spontaneity
of thinking about thinking
pixy... thinking about thought... pin-point... exit...
exit... samuel beckett...
******* Irish literati.....

         funny... i want to be a father more than
i want to be a lover...
but i also want to be a lover...
fatherhood and the crucifix...
but i'm also a son... and that's ample
detail to remain a lover...
i... the birthday massacre - under your spell...
her freezing up in McDonald's more
aware to interacting with a computer
than an actual person...

it's cold... very cold...
the sun dies in winter... a seasaw...
the concrete of underground stations of Warsaw...
the house is a mess by my mother's
constraining standards...
i watched the Whale on my flights
from LAX to LHR...
i loved los angeles... at the airport...
funny... though... on the way to see you...
Seattle was... ha ha... indigenous...
i saw the wolves of the Twilight Saga...

i liked Seattle Airport... so welcoming...
day dream day out fly by...
Los Angeles was... Los Angeles...
i want to touch you like i touched you...
forgot to wander by myself, since now there's also you,
and your daughter and my sexuality
paradigm... paradox... a fatherhood-sexuality...
that's relieved released from the ****** TABOO!
which was once very French...
there's no incestual taboo in me!
thank 14 year old finding out about the Marquis...
sure... well... to be frank...
*******-accusation is a novelty....

what if i were to add that your mother is fuackble to?   O
forgot: too...            ?

zombie glutton... necrophilia to boot?
but there's no ******...
the fear of me waiting and somehow
outliving the present you and mother
and what? getting it on with Reyla?
what if i was simply conjuring a father-sexuality?
born of *** and not creation
or imagination: christ was imagined...
he wasn't ever born...
lived, experienced... sensed...
muhammad thought he would end
Chinese whispers... story-telling fallacies...
dream-fusions...
which is why i don't dream with images...
i can't allow any cinema in...
why i talk in my sleep...

jeez... Edie... i talk in my sleep!

not my life but the collective unconscious
flashed before my eyes
history
i'm not dead yet
but this is what it feels like having a daughter
feels like... a son would be easy,
that's what i meant by:
if you had a son... i wouldn't be talking to you...
i see my mother in your daughter
i apologised to the plumber
he's not coming today,
don't earn money at Caesar's
earn peanuts under God's roof with family,


i have cats,i don't have children,
but we both share having elders,
elf you
knew...
                       ᛖᛚᚠ:

elf... Miranda, Myrian, mirage,
     malicious, malevolent, sea born
not mountain or quake born
primo madonna... artifact of Samoan Siamese
          Conquistador
replenished "conqueror"

       better toys, better boys....
like you said... about not being attracted to island boys
and like me treating all girls on the island
like Filipino *****...

started eating chocolate, once bitter,
like onion and coriander,
then sweet.... like the potatoe vine that's a tomato....
knives and fingernails in the same
frying pan
added to the spices toasted... cumin seeds....
fennel... finicky inglorious she... thir-      + -teen

mother dearest, what are your concerns?
the clouds becoming foggiest?

i loved her belly funnily filled...
that steak sandwich with her yummy mummy
finger licking... ******..
i know she's asexual... but i've had *** with you...
that's a Chimpanzee crazy...
i tried to have *** in the Pacific...
pacific... pacifier
i forgot you don't have seas...
you have an ocean...

Edie... smooches....
i want to feel like this, open,
as if you're in public, on a train with me
for Agatha Christie to listen in on....
i forgot about writing...
i know i am, still....
but right now, i'm trying to recreate your smile
snapped for detail...
then made dynamic in agitated circumstances:

of circas... the measurement of life...
of approximations,
6ft2 vs 6ft3
             6ft2 vs 6ft3

perfect example... relativity...
   1h 1sex
    = half and approx
         a crc: circa... which is a new unit... of...
non-measurement... i'm painting... *******
not Beckett but the butler... holmes....
no Sherlock... Dionysus of watercolour...
the frustrations of lacklustre...
all **** and all that khaki diarrhoea
mustard acid spread
additionally meat-sour spread of
not-aging beef... cowering death chicken typos...
          
it was fleeting, yet i want the stones
and gravity to return...

              i love you Edie, Reyla, Lydia...
        i'm sort of... calling out McFardy
             and you snooze 3pm.......
          McReady... target autistic snub
of a health prof
     my McSure theatre of hips
and wild tight ***....

i haven't "weaponised" my drinking to turn it
into writing, proper, for some time,

there's this riddle in Latin,
because i won't be looking for the words
in Hebrew, so i'll unravel
the saying in Latin,

working from ehyeh asher ehyeh,
i am that i am: toward...
i am who is...

        but god is the Holocaust
is... ego sum quod (that) /
         ut (as) - ego sum

  not who he is...
   transgender bereavement...
   since trans-racialist affairs happened prior,
Cat Stevens had a Greek Cyprus father
and a Swedish mother...

Napoleon Napoleon: best new soundtrack
for a movie...

****... i'll really need a classical
education... ego sum qui es...
i've been sleeping
i can't weaponise alcohol like i used to
to write...

maybe i've also lived a little and can't catch
the surf of loner writer bollocking,
i have all the house to myself but
it's like: i don't want to push the nuke button,
the red red red red...

there's a dancing fly on my table in
a timid stake of the last remaining light,
i almost think that i've given half of myself
up... better evening than for most
spent in Plato's cave without Homer's
spine...

since Homer's courage for adventure is
almost as crippling to inherit as
Moses' Genesis... crippling for the modern man,
modern, current man, seemingly claustrophobic,
who knows, maybe i'll unwind
and use this amber droplets to unwind,

i'll cite some common reference point,
by now i know there is no "collateral"....
i can drink and smoke some marijuana
and have 20 walls with roof included
to bounce my ego about like it's a match of
squash... i'm used to the darkness - des rocs...

i haven't missed the beauty spots...
today i failed at living a day...
i waited for cat food delivery...
i waited for a plumber...
but i was armed for cycling in the night...
as sun disappears come these days
gone come 4pm...
   i cycled like a serpent constipated by
puff and wind and wizards of feathers
to the proximity of Canary Wharf...
via the bus route 5 towards Canning Town
then back through the muck
towards Barking: demographic check...
stinks of India around here...
but at least it doesn't smell of pickled cabbage
best associated with Germans and Polacks...

mitigating 0-return flow of information...
i can't weaponise words with alcohol,
i thought i could... reading a snippet of:
I, Maximus, of Gloucester, Olson,
my new favourite poet...
but the world is shook-up Stevens and
no... clearly, i don't won't to find myself
happy, somewhat interested in how:

the world with it's buckle i will remain
with my scythe... for the burdens of
harvest are still to yield...

i knew my "unprofessional" scribbles would
suffer should i meet a ms mrs "right"...
and now Hawaii is like a Treasure Island
Black Dot Pirate tattoo, forewarning...

it's still funny to me...
the Hebrews do this magic trick of not speaking
the name of their deity...
while the Muslims hail it appropriate
within the confines of: from what i heard, last?
decapitating the heads of unborn foetuses...
propaganda or... am i going to be the last
surviving horror movie fanatic
fantasist that: membrane of: surely until it
reaches me... but until then:
nothing has happened!              bogus...

kick and scream into the brilliance of the light
of ignorance... as long as someone knows...
as long as someone has experienced
the dark bulging interior of shaking-up
human relations...

call it a grandson of pickles...
Reyla loves pickles...
it bothers me it doesn't bother me...
it bothers the supposed bothered me...
like i might be a pastor's son
with juicy snippets of bad ***...
i started my idea come 9pm... it's almost 10pm...
and i'm almost finished my escapade...
so are the cats...
no angry ***** dishes to boot...

i was born to scale the heights of
salvaging hours of upkeep as a bus driver...
that's all i ever wanted to be...
but it's hard... to do the whole...
Leibniz-librarian anti-Newton push of genius
dynamic... but i like this war...
Newton and the push of intellect-spectacular
into the public domain... contrastic
the reclusive Leibniz...

last time i heard about the current
Nobel prize winner... she was writing something
of what Knausgaard's ambitions would
never achieve...
like prize Homer or the Quran or the Bible
now... in the climate of selling to
the literate-doubly-illiterate...
leprechauns and goats...
      similis of the chin and stroking the beard
for good luck...

       luck           vs.           fate.....

by definition luck is choice...
and fate is will...

i wouldn't say, ignore the world, def(l)ect it,
there's no Cicero in me and any mind
worth of rhetoric...

if we had free will... we wouldn't be calling
out circumstances of hierarchies in
the mind of the mad animal that's man
and not the cat....
we're not free without the cages
we found ourselves, to be trapped in...

i was rereading Nietzsche today at 9am
today...
aphorisms are sometimes better than poems...
now i'll get blind drunk and dunk a blind
pit stop to strap smoking a doodie
to help me count sleep: shleep...

it still bothers me...
why did he say: i am that i am...
instead of saying: i am who is                   (?)
i'm tired of Scandinavian influences of literature...
and i'm tired of translatable new-Englishnessness
of this Molotov-multicultural
load, of, *******, *******!

come 11pm i'll be jacked up ready for sleep
come me, rewatching season 1 of BILLIONS...
only because a poet scrutinises an actor
and an actor is not: a poet, a *******,
a priest, a politician... yet still...
between serious dictatorial weight-gain lifters
of the Chinese and Russian civilization-state
authority and western:

oops-e oops-ah... ******* about?
     under the dictation of a veil
of thespian-journalism?! you, *******... kidding me?

PROFANITY AS THE JUNCTION
OF ALL TRUTHS...
to strut with words as oaths
O **** me... i have the entire house to myself,
Edie, there's no mother no daughter
and there's... sand, time, to begrudge you...
you above a tilting hind, broken leg...

the tired ******* are asking: for this matter
to be either stalled or, resolved...
because the Apocalypse is being stalled...
and by double the definition,
smoked, halted...

           but there's this irrational very rational
love of, love of everything that comes
matching up purple with pink...

     who the **** speaks of the Chinese these days?
the ******* Taiwanese?
the Hong Kongish shrapnel brigadiers?!

news news... north east west south...
oh, i heard it's new hot **** getting streamed....
i'll make sure this writing evaporates when
i smoke a soak of a doodie
when i do...

no Olson-Project in Ezra Pound's sight...
i'm in love, i think i'm in love...
who needs to be,
i love regardless, that i'm stupid...

i love cycling at night...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
    she swallows...
      a litany, some are words best
constricted to be contained to sentences...

i'll smoke one and entertain
kaleidoscopes...
green and with a frenzy of luminescent
purple teasing blue...
so many serious people:

adjectives of burning surprises
key, word, BOMB BOMB BOMB...
life almost perfect, sober,
on Kauai... so remotely... "it".

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)