Claustrophilia.
Sun and vista, shade and microcosm.
Raised as a pup on a field in view of the silty wilderness
between towers of eerie still-life
took the dream of being pulled there from some child civilization,
just out of earshot, for granted.
On the breach, still making out the patterns of nature in human skin.

.oh man, a spoiled mood, so rare, but so invigorating at the same, it's like you get so mad that you're only waiting for the cooling period, the cooling period is always so... armchair analogous... some people turn to a gym sauna, but nothing compares to letting off steam from, the tabernacle, i.e. your heart.

woke up at 10am, checked the time,
dived in for a snooze...
3 hours later, i thought i just lay there,
a strange sleep consumed me,
as if: half awake, half knocked out
by a Mike Tyson punch...

took the broken drill to the workshop,
walked in... immediate
claustrophilia emerged...
the scents of metal, oil
and cardboard...

    are men more prone to claustrophilia
and women more prone
to claustrophobia?

such a gentile lad behind the counter,
his father working beside me on
some other mechanical tool...
he said some wise words about
hands, and tools,
and what not...
can't exactly remember what he said,
but:

hands & tools were in it,
so... given that: hands are tools...
he wasn't far off from the truth...

such a gentile lad...
he even managed to catch up with me
in the off-lice
while i was wondering what beer
to buy (on this fine fine October
afternoon)
to get my details...
     gripped his shoulder gently
and said my thank you...

but last night was something else...
i rarely become mad while drunk,
but when i do:
pandemonium in my head...
the ego become a Minotaur
and subsequently the labyrinth expands...

phobias and philias -
fears and loves...

  while i was walking up to the workshop
with my broken drill,
i passed a Muslim family...

now... if i saw a pretty large spider crawling
unsuspected and with catching
it with a ****...
i'd have a reflex reaction,
an irrationally funny reflex reaction...
SO WHAT THE **** IS
ISLAMO"PHOBIA"?
apparently some people like to abuse
words...
   i passed the Muslim family casually...
what? they're just people,
the father was teaching his children
how to cross the road safely,
and his wife was watching
him with that motherhood glee
of contentment with regards
to how their father was engaging
her offspring...
  
   islamophobia?! what?!
come again... because i've just explained
what arachnophobia is...
a phobia is associated with
the reflexes... or rather... a reflex...
an irrational, funny (later) reflex...
      when i see a Muslim i don't react
to him / her like i would react
to a ******* spider of abnormal size
(abnormal... because it's not
a tarantula)...

but today i woke and felt i had to
concede to an apology,
yes, casual "racist" that i am,
i forgot to prefix the word ****,
i.e. ****-,
       because, just sometimes...
i can't be bothered to add the suffix
-stani...
                  simple...

   but there is a but...
my father was in a slight traffic collision...
and... i had to listen to him
ramble on and on about the details
as i filled out the police report...

when two cars collide...
you exchange insurance details...
so the insurance companies can
meddle in the matter...

but this ****- woman had some sort
of bodyguard who intimidated my father,
telling him: it was illegal to exchange
insurance details...
yes yes... accents: i call them diacritical
distinction coordinates...

              the point being:
what is she? some ******* Hindu deity,
a holy cow?!
        so she couldn't have had her sight
impaired by the Ninja outfit?!
a liberal journalist in a center right
newspaper (i think that the times
is center right, or, at least,
i like to think so)

                     wrote an article about
donning the niqab for one day...
and she herself claimed that her vision
was impaired... when, walking...
there...
           i'd ban niqabs for the purpose
of safe driving...
     no! there's no ******* compromise!

****...
        i just want to drink a beer,
and watch a cherry tree change color in
this glorious season...
         why does everything have to boil
down to the nitty-gritty,
the fiddly, the perpetuating nuance of
what is, and what isn't -
   that isn't always black & white?

- but i do remember why my parents emigrated
to England... well...
if they weren't ****** over by
some ****** lawyer... England was just
a step-over... over to Argentina and
hopefully to H'america...
    seems my mother had a fascination
with her grandfather...
a polyglot, who emigrated there...
   married some woman,
abandoned his son (my grandfather)
due to his brother's smear campaign
to inherit some land, yada yada yada...
but the Iron Curtain was lifted....
   major recession...
my hometown's steel industry collapsed,
plus the Communist Party connections
of my grandfather:
who joined the Party?
               for opportunistic reasons...
and to fulfill functions like sitting court
on a jury...
                        my hometown saw the demise
of the fall...
                    around 20,000 jobs lost,
if not more...
          
and yes, i know what illegal immigration
looks like,
   but i also know what legal immigration
looks like...
   i've seen the ping-pong...
i just hate it...
                    when some Somali with 10
kids gets a council house in west London...
and he's probably "illegal" too...
or, whatever Commonwealth ****-hole
he comes entitled with the status:
the former colonized.

but at the end of the day...
i just want to drink my beer man.

Words gone unsaid, hanging in the air like overripe fruit waiting to fall; a sickly sweet guillotine made of things past their prime, cutting through the awkward silence. Pen and sword are equally sharp, being two sides of one coin. Crying disguised as fatigue tears melt into the crowd of rain and sweat; blend in don't smile don't laugh. clouds hide skyfuls of hurt I hide my face in my hands I hide my smile, tuck it away to be used later. happiness preserved for special occasions sadness used only in private. changing faces like changing clothes has become second nature, but I cannot hide from my emotions .

a child with a heart as red and raw and open as a wounded hand, goes the story, but this is not a story and this is a wound that won't heal. I stem the flow of ******, red hot emotion and hope for the best. It's claustrophilia, not agoraphobia; look under the table and you will see my private pains, my jealousy pressed between the pages of this book, emotion folded up small and placed in a niche no one can reach. I was meant for moonlight, the low road, "a heartbeat in a volley of heartbeats", so to speak. I used to think solace and solitude meant the same thing and they do. To me.

when listening to
a Byzantine chant (Δεύτε λαοί)...
as much insight as
i had of the hebrew tetragrammaton
to meditate on
in phonetic encryptions
in other languages:
sly semitic *******: hiding
their vowels...

humor...
there's a west "contra" east
disparity...

yes...
                  the west's notion
of humor, staged,
is that of the comic...
or rather:
  the monologue...

comedy by western standards
is to be compromised
by a monologue...

comedy by eastern standards?
is to be compromised
by a "dialogue":
script...

comedy as monologue
contra...
comedy as... cabaret...

***: opera contra
operetta...

                novel contra
novella...

          some people can only
ingest so much
comedy of the audible
thought...
a monologue...
which is what is the compromise
of all of the notions
of the western take on comedy...

never has thinking become
so closely associated:
synonymous with
claustrophilia...

         but western comedy
is monologue...
or its current form...
and rarely a comedy worth
of being: diffused...
for a dialogue...
for a cabaret...

perhaps the medium
is missing an alternative suggestion...
perhaps the hidden
airy-narrator...
the thespian cult of the movies
is hiding the theatre...

but the cult of
the monologue comedy of
the stand-up,
this solipsistic-orientation
that has not
summoned the selbst to a da
with a sein...

         maybe the English sense
of humor has become
a tedium...
               one monologue too far,
notably vocated...
  maybe the English sense
of humor is missing
dialogue...
a cabaret...
so that at least two people
can laugh at the same
cause of amusement?

cabaret is a continental
"concept" for the expression
of humor...
i almost forgot how alientating
the standard, english,
medium for the expression
of humor is...
           cabaret is alien...
yet the solitary figure
on stage, the stand-up...
is the formal: normal...

     expressing humor via
the monologue is so alien to
the world beside the utility
of the english tongue...
perhaps an investigation
into: humor expressed via
a dialogue...
  no... not this ****** doubled
re-emphasis via
the conjunctions
of interjection to hush
yet add to the canned laughter...

to be honest?
i find it hard to laugh
at humor supported by
the fakery of canned laughter...
it's not that i am too lazy
to laugh:
but canned laughter is...
hiding the fact that:
something... isn't exactly
funny...

    i once saw a Pole attempt
to import monologue humor
to an audience best
associated to understanding
cabaret / dialogue humor...
bad idea...
that's it...

                but having to incline
the audience to remember
the use of:
nuance / metaphor...
like telling a person sitting
on a chair:
   a hammer & nails were used
too...

obvious this will not translate...
stand-up monologue humor
will be the standard for
expressing humor in the English
tongue,
and the form of humor
            in dialogue (cabaret) will
be only a musical...
there will never be: in addition -
the emphasis of the punchline
of the joke,
to be forwarded by one-dimensional
pseudo-actors of
the staged...
   since english humor has morphed
toward the emphasis of
monologue...
  catching the ears of:
who are in agreement with,
said statement...

     yet: the stage...
       english humor as a monologue...
thinking has become
so claustrophobic that it requires:
both audience, and stage...
no wonder...
  even the english themselves
find this and its subsequent
extension of: "what is humor"
bewildering...

  "too much" nuance,
or rather... plenty of nuance -
yet prescribed with:
precursor notices of -
legal tact...

            to me the english language
has forgotten a vital
verb,       cogito...
personally? i can't begin
to fathom why people would
be inclined to "think"
that their orientation around
this faculty could
ever breed a space,
or a fear to be associated with it...

but yes...
  the english best understand humor
as monologue...
they are so alien to humor
being expressed via dialogue:
on the stage of a cabaret...

              i simply forget to be awed
by this curiosity,
i remind myself to retort
to this observation
with a nodding approval of:
as you were, yes, as you were...

horror movie sountracks
i can listen to, no problem...
canned laughter samples?
i'm ******* petrified
of them...
              not, petrified, but, rather:
i was never supposed
to laugh... was i?

Everything there is
is incarceration of our minds
mighty gallows of subject
definition, category, division
lines, groups, states, religion
statutes, reasons, enclosures
an abbreviation — GOD.

All pressed, condensed
tucked inside
pushed behind, down under
in a creation encapsulated
in a sheath of time
in a container of space
in a syllable of silence

Myriads divided
by multiples, multiplied
by multitudes, simultaneously
all while I'm being
comfortably ensconced
somewhere in the warmth
of a single point.

co hytre pod skurą jest iglą
         (what's avaricious under the skin is a needle)
na wieków, amen - co gdyby lwem
(forever more, amen - what's apparently a lion)
czy niedźwiedźem, czy też wilkiem
(or bear, or even a wolf)
da tchu! Vlach! ti i ten pierdolony lis!
(will give breath! Vlad! you and that ******* fox!)
eine fuchs! ich! ja stokroć i nocy nadam
(a fox! i! i the fern who will give unto the night)
imion bez konstelacji Achilles'a,
(names without constellations' of Achilles)
pozorom wbrew: na haczyku brwi
(under no pretensions: on the fishing hook of the eyebrows)
na tle pod imion: dobre sumienie
(on the canvas of under-names: a sound conscience)
wramah chszestu.
(in the boundaries of a christening.)
  a co ładne niech paraduje ze
(and what is beautiful, let it parade)
rzołneczykami!           bo to tfu!
(with it's little soldiers! because it's disgusting!)
bo to harfa i hu i true i Polska podbudjed
(because it's a harp and a ha... lost in translation)
is Rosyja i Я: anglo tomme, niet Яck m'eh?
  no kurva: Mongoła trombone!
mi non sprechen Deutsche,
nor operatic, nien moon-sweep tsar -
lovely, lovely juggles the Peckham
in all of us jubbly: day for the awaiting Trotter -
         or the spin frame Jenny my dearest:
spin! spin my spinning dūbblé / double-blah-blah-eh!
plocker / plonker two sons within graft of a blue
Peter sketch for the youngsters whining: or how's that
****** housed and i'm the one that should be
saying: the 'un that neva'h woz?
bites the Barnickle, that 'un does.
               says as much about cubicle cockers
in née said: Varlance: such that it almost sounded like
Versailles, and it too almost sounded likened to
umbrella when saying Paris or parasol.
       or on par: cubicle cockney poetry:
appellation and ***** hairs: stairs -
       needy and scythed: the frightened bunch...
          why then Versailles and squire?
and not: that ol' chip frier -
     fry err, Brighton on marble: succinct slating -
that walk of shame toward the ****.
     they always made the best foster parents,
that **** bumping, **** dumping crowd pleasing
hush for a Lincoln into linguo as Oslo in
libido -
          trucker tongue tie - gears in reverse -
randomised language replenishing that chaos of
became focus of larynx not cubed
but eyes three-dimensional: or cubism.
             and you sort of wish you knew how to
knot rather than not not not -
                your way into a Wahabi Lebanese
sentiment for truancy -
   which you never, really had a chance to get a
hard-on over.
                       this is how art sorta doesn't feel
that much difficult, more of a diarrhoea rather than
a constipation: less a skiing holiday in the Swiss
alps and more weekends spent on the Southend pier.
    well, we all wish to fish in the spaghetti lake
of verbiage: some of us get to,
and what we end up doing is hoping for
a second as cobblers in China, or beef farmers in
Argentina,    or cigar-rollers from Havana -
b'aah.... blah.... b'aah: i say jolted,
i say unsure, i say nervous b'aah - sheep's surrender!
why? it would sort out and destroy our
claustrophilia: as ever a cranium and an elevator...
         and the congregation,
                    and the dry throat.

. entertainers of
the lost abstract...

i don't know:
personally?

i just like,
the way it sounds..

akin to something
with chaos
inclined:

        and i was
the devil that danced
to the song
of the misfortune
of:
              seeing
the glitter in the moon,

and the moon
and i
were stunned:
why, why o why
am i left intact?

i've been given life
but no peace
to fathom it with...

ever consider
harrowing
a harvest's worth
of a season
by sowing
nothing but
salt...
   on the budding
eager grain?

the irrelevance
of a dylan...
compared
to a cohen:
via a...
                     cover...

to have lived is
to have died a thousand's
worth of the unrhythmic
beat...
in symphony
to the equation
summarized in
the rubric of
the word: heart...

heave my solitary
Atlas: one more day
worth with you
and worth of you
and all that becomes:
the lost "missing"
grey area of -

you can almost
finalize yourself at
the prospect of
a grey-square
    in the vein of
  Beckett not being:
either of those
  compound
                      skives...

i have a mind
and a heart like a lottery:
yet for all
that deserves this
and any other
comparison:
to tenderness
and no veal
                to a beef...

you do know,
that
they do not advertize
work in a slaughterhouse
in the job center?
you do know that?
i could certainly
pet a cat,
as i'd be able to
"pet" a cow before a:
chow mein;
enough to fiddle with
yer finite gobs in
what becomes a:

  you'll tire of
the anonymous tirade...

i once thought of
Saturday:
had nothing to do with
something akin
to sitting it out
on a claustrophilia
in a living room...

the day's baggage
and a non-to-send
bask for a postcard's worth
to appeal to the green
of: somehow...
             anise...

                   mediocre
mellow me...
                       punching-bag
ergonomics:

      to heave this weight
as the weight that
        lost the purpose
of being: orientating...

              i...

                   forget
whatever remains
of what's to come via
the collapse
of the affirmative
in a scuttling
  variation of:

             chasing
the shadow that gave
the chase a genesis,
a cul de sac exodus...
and the shadow:

mighty avant-garde
clues for:
a lost breath...

man as assured:
the pebble
           and humanity
as the:
   prior to all
minor stakes in
reviving
the gloat from dino.

the little history of man:
in the omnipresent
hyena's eye
          for the ever
resonant:
           calculated
demise of the narrator...

for the
   / a world to see:
is no world:
    in prospect to be
          - even midning
a completion
   with the composure
of a suffix...

rigid boy,
     educated for nothing
more than a brand
of shackles,
    and of envy...

and...

                a testimony
of what becomes:
best - assured -
           could ever time
lodge into itself:
                   an amnesia
and become
                   a person?

hues in blue:
    bound by:
thesaurus...
                azure...
  and... a Sunday's tip of:
what isn't
the collective mind
for the invigorating
mess of soul..
              
            a serious literary
endeavor...
   hues in blue:
brush strokes like
accents and...

            it's hardly an
algebra, or some mathematical
abstract...

                 f(Σ) = ι

consciousness: via the function
of the sum: man,
              sum: of man...
     "off" man...
                      
                          f(Σ) = ι...

which is a contradiction...
     sensationalist journalism
would agree:
the function of the sum of man
    = the isolated man: iota...
but it doesn't...

shackled buckling of
a man versed in
science:
having no profound
scratch at the humanities...

sooner come death
sooner i will arrive
at a clarification of:
not having to orientate
myself
with a "self"-worth
of introspect
in an en masse
      with no retrospect.