He woke up
next to the empty spot
where Wonder Woman had been.
He puked in the toilet
slammed down a forty-ounce Miller High Life
and started putting the suit on.
boots
the gray and black tights
the gloves
the yellow utility belt
and the cape.
It was leather.
He put the cowl
under his arm and left his apartment.
It was a late start
nearly noon
by the time
the bus got him to
Mann's Chinese Theater.
He saw a lot of his
friends and colleges
as the bus went down to his stop.
It was a regular day
all the characters were
in their usual little groups.
Spider-Man & Captain America
two Mormon boys that had been
excommunicated from the church
they got caught **** *******
each other
now they were stuck in Hollywood
like everyone else.
The X-Men
or H-Men as most people called them
were a group of junkies.
One of them had a cousin at Fox
and they got four replica X-Men costumes.
So that's how they scored
their junk everyday
garnered pretty good tips from the tourists.
Cyclops, Jean-Grey, Storm, and Wolverine.
It was a good grift. **** good idea.
Then you had the impersonators
plastic surgery freaks
obsessed with Michael Jackson
creepy bald men dressed as Dr. Evil
and there was always
a lazy fat guy
that would do Elvis.
Not know any of the songs
and saying the catch phrases all wrong,
"Well, thank you Ma'am....thank you so much."
Those guys never lasted too long.
The cutesy cartoon characters
were almost always
pedophiles or ******* ladies.
The horror people were hands down
the most bat-**** insane of the lot.
They got into the most fights
they terrorized the kids
and they talked a lot of ****.
Would bate guys into fights.
Michael Myers would always start ****
with guys that had beautiful women with them.
It was ****** up.
The LAPD took away Freddy Kruger last month
for beating up a guy
right in front of his kids.
There was talk from the cops
about shutting down their whole thing down.
Making it illegal to dress up in costumes
and get tips.
'Panhandling' as the office had said.
But
Batman hung out with
Superman & Wonder Woman
while doing his thing.
The night before
Wonder Woman and him
had been drinking, smoking, and
they ****** once
before she asked him
what she needed to.
"We got two new guys starting tomorrow."
"What?"
"Yeah. They came up to me on the street today,
wanted to know if they could hang with us."
"Wha? What? Well...do they have costumes?"
"Yeah." She said, exhaling smoke, wrapped in the sheet on the bed.
"These guys got a Green Lantern and a Robin costume. Really good quality,
they showed me pictures. Hey, you finally got a Robin now! Isn't that great?"
"****...I don't know Diana...I was kinda liking our little *******.
"Oh come on, Bruce. It'll be good." She said, wrapping her arms around him
as he sat on the edge of the book, looking out the window.
"We can finally get the big, group tips. Like what the H-Men got going."
"Alright. That's fine."
And the next day
there they were,
Green Lantern & Robin.
Wonderful costumes, like she said
their hair color and overall appearance
spot on.
"Hey there!"
"Hello. Robin. Green Lantern."
Their gloved hands all shook.
They got acquainted and he couldnt help but like them.
Nice guys, musicians, Rockabilly guys, from Venice.
They went out into
the crowd of people
Superman's voice booming over the crowd
telling everyone that they're safe from
evil and wrong doers, blah, blah, blah,
the usual ******* that Superman always said.
Batman yelled to Robin over the enclosing crowd.
They were now fully entrenched by people
fat & sweaty
Batman's panic attack took over.
"COME ON!" He shouted over the rising crowd noise.
The dynamic duo
shoved & pushed
parting the sea of fat tourists
and breaking out onto the sidewalk.
"What's up, Batman?" Robin asked
looking up to him.
The size difference was just like in the comics
Robin was a little guy.
"I just needed to get outta there. Let's go take a lap
down Hollywood Boulevard...see what kinda cash we can grab."
"Okay, Batman."
They walked
up and down
the walk of fame
posing for a few pictures
making some kids day
with wide-eyed excitement
that will be with them forever.
They made forty bucks too.
"Alright, that's good for now. Let's grab a beer, Robin."
It was a small dive
on Hollywood Boulevard
they were two beers in
and Robin was learning a lot
about how Hollywood really was.
Some real talk from Batman to Robin.
"Yup. I moved out here in 1997. I saw that movie 'Swingers' and I thought...
I could do that, that could be my life, I want that."
"And what happened Bats?"
"Well...I came out here, went to film school, did everything I was told, and...
I still got ******." He said, taking a long pull from the bottle.
"Well what happened exactly?"
Robin's green glove, gripping the brown bottle
tilting it back, bubbles rising
"Well...ya see...when I was in film school, the instructors all told us...you either do your internship here in Hollywood or go to New York. Anywhere else and you won't be able to make it. That's what they said."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. So I did my internship here in Hollywood and it was for nothing. The whole two years that I was at Faramount, I was never allowed to even touch any film equipment. Well, just to dust it off and clean it. But they didn't even try to teach me anything there. I just did food runs at lunch, got them their Starbucks in the morning, and took out the trash. Swept the parking lot, cleaned the toilets, I was a ******* janitor at that place. And you know what happened next?"
"Huh?"
"One day they just fired me. Just like that. After two years of being their ***** boy. So now I have $50,000 in student loans that I can't pay back, and a degree that got me nowhere."
"****." Robin said, finishing his beer.
"Yeah. So what do you do?"
"I'm in school for audio engineering."
"Ah...the music business eh?"
"Yeah, Batman."
"Hmm."
Batman grew silent then, just finishing his beer, and staring into the mirrored wall.
He wanted to say,
"I have 117 scripts sitting in a stack next to my t.v. That's eight screenplays a year. Robin, I've been at this for fourteen years and it doesn't get any better. I never stop trying and I keep at it, year after year. But I'm done. Get out while you
still can Robin. This city will eat you, **** you, **** you. If you still have a home, I suggest you go back to it."
Batman sat there, his beer finished, still staring straight ahead.
Robin pulled out a ten dollar bill, smiling, calling for the bartender
with that sparkle in his eye
of youth and hope.
He didn't want to say all that ****
crush that gleam in Robin's eye
like he once had.
Those were the best days
the great days
the glory days
to be young, handsome, poor, and hopeful
that you could make it
that it could happen.
So Batman didn't say another word about it.
Nope.
There were things
Robin would have to learn all on his own.

this swifter's grift -
lifting loosely
fitted accoutrement

lourden fruit
carelessly held
silkened, gimlet lit
shamelessly rivened
to a paler shade
of need.

solitude's
enchanting seed
may confer
a grander banquet’s call
but, this tug of
grandiloquent oblige
and politesse . . .

master and slave consort
black and scarlet
swift of tongue and fingertip
unbound so neatly
and leather blind



tell me muse of the anger flesh on fire
is there really dignity in defeat
that eludes the victor

tell me muse of the truth in nature
ill-graced tail-lamp broken
is destiny all ways ordained in contradiction

tell me muse do hearts all times submit
to the beacon call
shyness long forgotten
narrative so harshly written

as ne'er before
with an insistence
ageless yearnings bellow  
as but glazened shadow


if reason sleeps
there will be no learning
no refuge
only to each
for their crimes
a four-chambered riddle



All Rights Reserved
James R. Morse, NYC  2013.

How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.

Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.

The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.



The conspiracy lies in the abyss,

A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.

There was death and gore,

During the second world war.

Many people died in extreme violence,

Killed before they could call out to loved ones.

Young men were trained to ****,

Often against their morals and will.

So when I see your 1940s weekend -

Your 'war was fun and cosy' pretence,

Your clichéd polyester and fibre glass mockery,

Aiming to re-enact a mostly imagined happy-go-lucky camaraderie -

Forgive me for not joining in,

As I happen to feel it a cardinal sin,

To idealise and romanticise a decade,

Made up of austerity, rationing and air raids.

I've read a little social history,

The 1940s were not idyllic or crime-free,

Just as now, there were heroes and villains,

Among the soldiers and civilians.

Heroism abounded but so did black marketeering,

There were brave sacrifices but also racketeering.

City-wide black-outs were a gift,

To those who would rob and grift.

Your jolly nostalgic tribute is an annual celebration,

Celebrating your own fabrication,

Of a time when the machinations of war and a crazed ideology,

Saw the near extinction of an entire ethnic minority.

I do not wish to be a party pooper,

But don't just step into the fake shoes of a fictional trooper,

Please occasionally remove your rose-tinted glasses,

To remember that beyond your nostalgic narrative of the routines of the masses,

People lived with the daily fear,

Of the likely deaths of people they held dear.

the ladies oh the ladies louder now

celebrate christmas with a almighty roul

you see christmas is the time of the year where we party right

like drinking alcohol and get ******, yeah that is quite great

you see kids see Santa and ask them what would they like

and the ladies buy the men a cordless drill

as well as the men giving a ladies a big diamond ring

yeah we will party with the song

we wish you a jetty christams we wish you a merry christmas

and a happy new year

christmas is the time of year to Party party party

and you get some eggnog and say come on ya ****** smarty

oh dudes we will lift up our glassed and sing

to the christ child the nirvanaly king

you see christmas is the happiest time

for a happy dude like me, to enjoy life too

silent night holy night all is calm all is bright

round yon ****** mother and child

once in royal davids city the party is on for young and old

as santa goes a travelling through the computer

giving presents to everyone there

and then on the first day of christmas my truelove gave to me

a dollar so i buy a homeless man his tea

if that isn’t enough, how about just leave it in his hat

so he could add it up  and buy many more dinners from all the money he raised

away in a manger no crib for a bed

the little lord buddha laid down his sweet head

he would wake up and say, i control the 3 kings of orient are

i bare gifts as i travel afar

i am dreaming of a white christmas, well stop cause in Australia it’s too **** hot

for it’s the summer weather, the bbqs are lit together

as we are a walking around singing a song living in a summer wonderland

on the beach we can build a sandcastle and bury poor old patrick in the sand

and then he will jump and SHUT UP, why don’t you give your family a ****** woman a ****** hand

then we jump in the saddle nice and quick all in there with good saint nick

Feliz Navidad i want to wish a merry Christmas

i wish you a merry christmas form the bottom of my heart, i lost when my friends treat me like a criminal

six white boomers six white boomers racing good old Patrick through the blazing sun

then Patrick sent to santa what about the toys

aren’t you giving these to all the boys and girls

or are you saying that boys are better than girls like a cool kid that you are

a pair of hoppalong boots and pistol that shoots,is a gift for Patrick and Wayne

dolls that will talk and go for a walk a grift from Joanne and Paula

now dudes as i am prepared to party on dude till the break of dawn

red green blue
converge to white
reveal what's true
ever of spite

yellow red blue
diverge from white
expressed in color
received in grey
or the other way

yellow red blue
converge to black
yellow cyan magenta
follow suit

reflection refraction
doppler shift

wave and photon
linger the grift

DISCLAIMER: READ THE WHOLE THING IT IS MUCH MORE GENIUS TOWARDS THE END



Bypass the circumlocutions of elementary rhetoric and the obvious bulges into the ethereal realm of supersolid supercalendar emigrations of the wednongues of vogue emigrating into a new frontier of boundless awakening that blisters the sore solid metaphors of a crumbled bricolage of articulate history becoming a reiterative gabble of entropy that curdles the blood-boiling hatred of those envious of those that capitalize on the true girth rather than the flaccid otiose etymology of differential physics becoming a denatured figment of prideful imagination on a frolic with desuetude in the normalization of the wernaggles of ewnastique that defile the ridicule of even the most astute aspirations of those that despise history rather than reveling in its subtle ironies that swelter in connotation rather than suborn the cadged bridewells of those that are estranged by the Dousk Remix rather than the Voulez-Vouz Danser populism of true urbacity expanded upon a national stage as an anthem not for profligate saturnalia but rather an ode to the odium of the reckless titanism of titanic intellects clashing with the dudgeons of intermittent eye-rolling irreverence double-dealing a stacked deck of pleckigger on an intellectual stagecraft for bandwagon apostasy that leads to solidarity among tentative allegiance. We barnstorm for a grift in the grimace of an alpenglow winter to lead to the salvation of all people united under the banner of neat nexility rather than long-winded elocution reserved only for notched caliber against the nativist diatribe that serves the subservience of the engineer of the white chattel indoctrinated into turnstiles of professed irreverence for demarches of solidarity that is gainsay for gain rather than pittances for pitfall. Rhetoric should be duly curtailed against the overcomplication of hypertrophy and trimmed into the sweet success not of saccharine fads of foofaraw but engineered resistance that galvanizes albatross intellectualism into a revved engine without purpose that mobilizes because of estranged impotence in the revelry of the subtle rather than the cordial tethers of emergent entelechy of the esemplastic orthobiosis that we should all strive for not just as pioneers of the socially engineered harbingers of a remedial society but also for the trendsetters that communicate with the canvass and the celluloid rather than spelunking dormitage of drifted anomaly perceptible to everyone but heralded as prominent by the rigged ambeer of a toxicity of a plumage of city over state and country over planet. We need to provide the verdure of the verdant forest that survives the conflagrations of rage indoctrinated by systematic attempts at stilted ignorance that is engendered more by Leftism than Right-Wing thinkers because in general when observed in organic settings we notice that the Right-Wing escapes the sloganeered jaundice of limited bounds for otherwise boundless thought and provides more seminal pathways that reconcile normative virtues with entrenched inveterate harbingers of economic success. The faulty deadstocks that propel the retinoise of the anomaly among Leftism to disregard the girouettism of a world that is so piebald with dishonesty that it elects a patronage that seethes with passion but aimless in its curiosity for deeper embedded candor because the popular might count themselves among the aristocratic Left but the truly Promethean belong to a centrist tribe that borrows the ingenuity of spurned but never spurious interpretations of a sputtered history that remarks with revelry  rather than disdains with #CancelCulture irreverence that seeks to deracinate all context for insipid utopianism that is a shared prerogative of the delusional Left against their complaints of Sebastomania among right-wing zealots that are equally invalidated by the frogmarch of a dilettante history curbed in storms of a pure tempest rather than a banal reiteration of novelty phrased with participant intonation rather than blathers of whispered arbitrage ennobled by hypocrisy immune to criticism among those that crusade for economic justice without understanding formal flombricks of the true gnomic riddles of alchemy fundamental to global panoramic pleonasms becoming the aleatory vagary of admonished warning that spars against spartanism. Instead of pilfering from the exorbitant defalcation of immunized partisan bromides against the ratcheted warranty upon defective obsolescence we must coalesce around the imperious ****** of divinity bequeathing the living water of a fully-lived life that qualifies its felicity not by junctures but by an overall harmony that conforms to the finicky demands of an overly polarized complexion of dimpled conformity founded on girouettism that earns more traction than the deasil sundial emergence of brimstone rejection for alabaster limelight we must urge others to ditch the conformist utilitarian usucaption of the usufruct of manipulative sports for domineering talents suborned into inclement straits because of unwitting albatross that replicates into a fission of uniformity encapsulated in the half-assed witticisms of attempted belletrist succeeding only in alienating the noxious fumes of alveolate diminutive reduction rather than expansive detritus that scrapes the wreckage of a turmoil to build masterworks out of broken sculptures themselves indemnified from a categorical judgment by the panoramic oversight of proctored civilized ambition. We need to exhort self-education that hinges upon not a listless acquiescence to a second-exit impulsive barnacle to the urchins of brimstone because of an insipid blather of flapdoons of brittle banality because the hackencrude is an outmoded entity to the vast resources of the sizable capital of the growing power of the intelligentsia over the weakened grasp and wrangle of terminus meeting consuetude weakly enough with pleasantry to appease but ultimately a complete witwanton persiflage of sizzled destruction rather than the savory contemplation of the cotqueans of majesty derided but never derailed by terminal revivals because the generativity of the titanic original might not be a popular indoctrination but the liberated thought of the untethered is ultimately more decisive in world affairs than the synergistic hive of bees building an imperious defense against dynasty built only upon provincial hatred of hidebound illiteracy combustible into the brazen bravado of a reckless intrepid effrontery against civilized chains into the ******* of complicit interconnection rather than dissolved dissolutions that solve global problems more fundamentally rather than driving through avenues of wide pressures gilded with expansive growth but ultimately bereaved by the ultimate succor of the youthful exuberance of captive audiences rather than the wily connivance of genius unbounded. God is obviously a benevolent provider of all bounties and despite the conspiracies that predicate heterodoxy the uniform mannequin of a mascot Democracy ultimately becomes a fickle bandwagon allegiance to relationship rather than a true witness to authentic ******* to a subservient relationship to a creative God synergized with energies that should exceed all galloped windlass into demarche and expose rather than rundles of ridicule interminable because of the permanence of kitsch memorial rather than living sculpture that breathes a swiveled light that beckons preened self-accountable responsibility to a dutiful matriotic duty of optimism rather than a contrarian futility of those that despise the unequal suave crackjaw dementia of the temulentia of derangement among crowds that provide fewer bounties and more deprivations calculated to indenture need rather than motivate want. We must motivate want by fueling ambition rather than quelling dissent in defensive posture because that strategy of antinomian discord is a dead-end street against an inveterate enmity that can never be fully deposed but only opposed with nominal futility raging with violence rather than seething with the motivation to reform because reform is an efficacy mobilized. Novelty of wednongue propriety grown through the heirs of drastic impertinence gilded from the siphon of lavadero hypogeiody blasphemous in bletonism that guards a piebald scrivelo because the sought dementia of an overwrought alacrity is a purpose without a terminus but an ambition soaring through scraped ice cream stratosphere that marvels at the minutiae of the civilized anthill that becomes a beehive of industry when the rationale of moral reform becomes insuperable rather than suborned into effete recursive cycles of pittances of pitfalls obsessively pondered but never solved because the fustilugianation of a forever tampered travesty is the esemplastic rejection of a categorical aim that leans of windlasses of elegance that surpass the levy of hatred and achieve sizable filagersion to squirm above the squawk upon populace rather than the consternation of an urbane but cloistered metropolitan arrogance contravened by the historical emergence of happenstance locales fostering the most well-guarded treasures of bohemian pedigree rather than dimpled resolve faffling on ergasia in bromidrosis rather than cavorting with a skeptical indoctrination by default evaded by those that equate an improbable scenario with a definitive solution to acatalepsy quandary because by reckoning with indeterminacy we grow in historical lineaments and solve global detritus by recycling the rattled brevity of promontory preens of plumage into a recursive ostentation defalcating heavily from sturdy macroeconomic proofs of the trendsetter rather than the trend and therefore grapple with profound personalized disdain rather than cordial harmony. Essentially by the logical positivism of proof we remind ourselves that obviously a chattering blather swims in tentative irony as long as it is a penultimate relativity because the lack of capstone ensures that the relevant treads beneath the mountain of rapprochement in benign endeavors to survive and thrive in definitive conclusion rather than intermediary conclusions of amnesia in jaundice. By the gnomic apothegms that guard the fortress of the demassified we have quantulated that the preposition of continuance is in fact a guarantee of the fickle supremacy of the recent and even more preponderantly the supremacy of expectancy of latent junctures that never manifest becoming a dictatorial rule of driven alacrity of wastrels that should fast from conclusive opinion and rather favor the primordial fabric of the inveterate truths rounded by the conversion of alchemy solidified by calculated canon converging with esoteric apartheid against the simultagnosia of the simpleton drivel of primordial myths bowdlerized from history neither lewd nor depraved but moribund because of the conclusive ****** of a peremptory intermediary certainty predicating a more precise foresight. The lackluster luster of numinous foghorn subliminal graft is a nativist confusion of legionnaire mettle swaddled by the cosseted grasp of interminable boundaries that demarcate linear time even when supersolid filigrees of elemental confusion erratically swerve into oblivion that becomes a forestalled happenstance so hapless that the connivance of alveolate synergies necessarily precludes event from becoming indelible because the tentative judgment wallops the tributary incontinence of the warble of axiolative jaundice materialized by crystalline fabrication neutered by soundbyte sclerotic calculus inveterate in summations of conclusion only because of peremptory weights upon geometric certainties rather than logarithmic dampers of attenuation that spar against spartan priggish epithets upon the flamboyant grit of grisly specter of speculative sepulchral venal vanity. The timberlask cineaste irony of the partisan usucaption of sapwood is a pirated timber of startled alarm becoming a useful or useless cacophony of barnstorm for the deadstock of past cadasters of rigmarole in the docimasy of pretense in impartial circumstance in specialized oratory bounded by a hemmed bailiwick of verdure denatured by the flombricks of subtle persuasion that ignores minority fringes of opinion that occupy that majority that cowcatchers brush aside rather with cruel contemptuous unkempt slippery agenda for drivel that spawns ingeminated redoubled explosions in participle bias rather than conglomerate arraignment of arrayed brooked swamps turgid not with the pettier travesty but the charade of a brokered ceremonial calculation against the wrikpond spurious by degeneration into corruptible complicity that thrives in obscurantism but never obscurity when the omnified owns a capitalized swiftboat of never a temulentia but always an optimism in the curvature of lineaments into the self-educated shepherd of the ultimate autarky rather than insubordination in the scrappy schlep of demographic ripples of swift enrichment at great personal flops in the floppy disk of a Democratic enrichment rather than a parched rectiserial hidebound tome. A quirky time stanched by tomes of patricide against family ingratiated by parrots to anthem but lacking the lettered verve of ignoble but parsed parsecs of finite light captivated into prismatic conscience we launch the demerited ploys of foible into the heralded controversy rather than the unheralded mercenary hands behind dogmatic ripostes livid because of the suave prestidigitation of the sublime mastery of the syncopated irony of mismatch attuned to radical rhythm we become bloated slaves to a rich lineage decried widely in attempts of covert coup raxes of a largesse of continual primipara perversions of courted cotqueans of uxorious justice that by defalcating from tributary orthobiosis in specious conjecture esteemed by rattled martexts aspiring for fraternal solidarity with the ****** esteem masquerading as the auctioned flivver that the merchandise of fluminous optimism cannot be an effusive blanch of blarney bolstered by bumptious bromides of brunt blackmail but rather the artform of subterfuge needs the insidious and invidious traction of creepy Thriller subtlety to garner the vapid traction of immobilized discontent foster to malcontent rarely abridged by even the most polite courtesy of diplomacy because of inherently insatiable demand that it skulks in undetected quarters flexing in the shadowy penumbra of transparent crackjaw enigma becoming an obvious blister or a gabble of raw jaundice sweltering into thermolysis by the eventual convergence rather than the improbable divergence of fissile time beckoning its own flashy revolution while denaturing the very presence of delusion as a herald more of the authenticity of animadversion rather than the sclerotic carapace of ragged asphyxiation in the aplomb whisper entombed forever by milquetoast inefficacy in hypersensitivity rather than a flourished malfeasance of a predatory grip upon seizure among catatonic graves of incontinence braving tribulation for crucibles of the most prosodemic surgeries of the furtive froward recalcitrance of deliberation in ignominy that enables that transmogrified skyscraper of Titanic lies to become a sunken vessel of harbored prestige lost on penultimate dice rather than winning pokerish villiany. Essentially the jeer of Morel Under a Disco is a winning brandished authority to chug the capers of inscrutable difference in blandishment imposture to cavort with an elegant plot twist that enthralls abiding decay to revert into a primordial confidence of livelihood to deter the frogmarch of time into the despairing quagmires of a livid balkanization of a simultagnosia of ageotropic monoideism fomented on fervor that leads to the paralysis of privacy and the expedited furor of moribund depraved proclivity so that the offset of morale and rationale can outfit civilization to brave the tempests of cordial divisions cemented by courtesy in order to safeguard against the yeggs of paranoia seeking ultimately the craven caper of disillusioned subconsciously felt retraction of indelible deeds into evaporated constructs that vanish too quickly to spawn the vigor of a cadged and utilitarian expanse of reiterative generativity that sustains the spanned sapience of primordial alacrity to ensure that brevity in outlook becomes longevity in subsistence because without a logical positivism grounded in unshakable tenets of God the demoralization of the vast majority is ensured and entombed in aimless squalor that leads to sheepish temerity compounded by wistful latency in regretful regression rather than a spandex bluster of a bravado of obesity to weather the persnickety wednongues of perdurable badges of instinctual shame slandered into prima facie denatured transmogrified cultures seeking cosmogony out of ordinary bricolage because the eventful triage of the nimble eludes parochial sight while the vastly capable outfox and outpace with such frenetic verve that they fasten against accident and transcend against heterochrony in ridicule that the unseasonable but seminal sauce flavors better the partially indentured optimism of a curated matriotism better than it serves the obviously interminable cycle of listless demiurges of malcontent that fuel conflagration rather than reformation to their own remorseful peril. Thereby, it is obviously concluded that to micromanage a society you must exert the capacity of a selective magnetism obviously predicated on demassified capacities for oaths of gratitude to endear and endure in the humane heart for the majority that sway few but encounter many that they find proper scruple grounded on axiomatic God to sustain not a lifeless priggish inclination but a bounded felicity that is not a carapace of an indigenous and insidious decadence to the extent pursuits of happiness swelter among the marginalized majority bereaved in powerless squalor slave to temptation not to derelict fascination but to provide aim to aimlessness and predicate their worldviews not on Racial Identity Theory which postulates too many counterintuitive pessimisms that are essentially neutered fustilug predicates of a world that requires such drastic seismic reforms in societal dynamics that the earthquake capable of such a realignment would exceed a 10.5 on the Richter scale which is 32x more powerful than the biggest earthquake in recorded history that would be so catastrophic in its implicit implication of the pretense that the consummation of the theory achieves the traction necessary to jostle every crowd into alignment that the collateral damage would endanger the very integrity and vitality of the Republic itself while exerting a tremendous existential dread of radical permutation that enables many travesties that abnegate the prerogatives of a privileged society in search of a facetiously engineered impossible utopia that could only be achieved by a dictatorial authoritarianism working in concert with benumbed sloganeering to engineer pessimism and malcontent rather than nurture the fair-natured optimism of a society that flourishes because it assumes naturally that the universe conspires in the favor of prosperity. If any hint of casuistry is evident in these postulates I wouldn’t be surprised but for rhetorical sanctity it is necessary for a nation bereaved of national icons not to despise the captive imagination of tyrannical transparency but grow from the liberating and partially liberal parable of a life maximized in limber for romantic enthralled growth that heralds with due consideration the paragons of time with reverence rather than soundbyte enslavement of parochial interminable twinges of a newborn and widely shared collective guilt of a decisively antinomian and pessimistic view on the evolution of human societies beyond catchy kitsch verve nexilities of bravado mutilating thirsts for inclusive mandates that are Boa Constrictors prowling with serpentine vitriol to vastly over-represent extreme fringes to dissuade nuclear families in an overt ploy of depopulation because the truer pathway to liberation is one that feeds the hot hand in the casino and bets that the winners will always win by deregulating their ability to bet large sums because of a transcendent supersolid mastery of time that the march and demarche of a boundless prosperity gouged by the fair demands of egalitarianism enables the card counter to achieve such a decisive advantage that his indentured socially coerced eleemosynary inclination to feed the flock endures throughout all epochs because of the necessary and incumbent scruples of God-fearing men to distribute their winnings won by cheating time to conquer time itself.

She came with a timble to my lumish critch
Through borms
and grups
and a large, lectish, dish

‘Don’t bore me with your seminoad you Satin-Sir said she
‘So        cobble twibe! I replied for a gal as vimbly as thee.

‘Crickets are my namesake as they grift and leem with ease
Out in the plimmelday
                         where    
  ahoppybug                  should be.


The Plimmelday with sun       and gaype
A simplement of shine and life
Forever twibe on the high and narrow
A place where burdeves fear to bite


A gate surrounds the plimmelday
But Miss Cricket will be safe
A hareth ***** and Mr. Crick

A goodfar ways away.

why is it always the same
strangled strangers
that end up at this door

wretched wrench turned like crank
they burn all night until day light comes
forgiven for their indiscretions
they sleep within a flood of dopamine

while the writers write
and the preachers preach
let's invite them in and swim within these tattered torn lives
a Mötley Crüe with no given name
yet you know them at a glance
instant instantaneous

they have become we
and we has become us
these thieves thick with tongue
cleverly crafted craftsman of the grift
invite them in and swim within
the wake of fools

you fool

We need to be putting people on planets
before there are Putin people on planets
so we can dictate a culture
free from dictators
deporting the Dutertes from the atmosphere
that burns the arrows of the Bolsonaros
there's no progressive bastion here
so we must look forward in the years
past all of the Kim Jong-uns
even though their bombs might fall soon
so we can find the Roosevelts and Kennedys
to change the scorching hell ahead we see
but those leaders are obstructed
by the not so brainy
followers of Ali Khameini
believing ancient myths and men who grift
there's so much mud to sift there's no way to lift
what keeps us from other planets
through nationalist panic
and conspiracy theories
reaching the selective hearing
of god fearing *******
calling Trump their master
and the oppressed their slaves
we need to reach other planets
but we're still stuck in the cave.

i  detour on the way home
to the light house on the headland
such a grandiose appellation
for a stolid white box  with
a light in it...
more utalitarian than romantic
but still it is nice to see it blink on

but i digress ... i am so ****** tired
beyond the bone, right down to the marrow
god this winter has been so long
and the grief i drag around,
in tattered threads... and sepia tones
leaves me cold....

my heart not in the teaching...
i feel disjointed, displaced .
i have misplaced the knack
to find the joy in youthful creativity
and am running this marathon by rote

i worry that the key won't turn in the lock
and i will be caught within
this cage...
an exhibition in the museum
to has-beens  and never-were's

yet paradoxically...
my performance stellar
sometimes so good
that i fool myself...

god send spring soon....
or i fear am come undone

it has rained for a week
cold and bitter here
give strengnth to  the roots
of my tidily packaged fears

and if i don't see spring soon
they will be spread and torn and ripped
and you will see the inside and
understand the grift

and there the light blinks on
sending out the saving beam
safe secure and strong
and in the shadows
you see the woman
scrabbling at the earth
burying deep in sandy loam
the thoughts birthed from
an  overtired mind
the thoughts that she
must not nurture ...
that needs be left behind
buried deep, stomped  hard
into the ground...

and as she stands in the lee of the light
and looks to the sea ..... she sighs heavily
the turns back into the deepening night
less heavy of heart....able to continue
the fight..... one last look...
then homeward bound....
thanking the lighthouse
and leaving  sacred ground.

Here in Wonderland once more,
Let me hint at whats in store,
We will talk to all our friends,
And tie up some of the loose ends.
If you wondering who is my Alice?
Go see Sarah in the palace.
I am The Hatter; mad for sure,
This rhyming thing is mine and pure.
So lets go back to before,
The Red Queen is no more.

My Alice here by my side,
On Gryphon’s wings we ride.
Going to the hills up high,
There is no better way to fly.
Looking down we see March Hare,
Bouncing around everywhere.
To and fro we watch him go,
Seeing what he has to show.
He stumbles across Mock Turtle,
Then he jumps him like a hurdle.
His toe did slip and hit his skull.
Leaving him; his senses dull.

As we reach the hilly top,
Looking down we saw the drop,
The curving ground,
We saw all around.
Cheshire cat there was waiting,
Mockingbirds his tail was baiting.
Showing his trademark grin,
He danced around Alice’s shin.
On twilight skies he did float,
His latest conquest he did gloat.
Taking candy from a goat,
Showing us his stomach bloat.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee,
Stand before us now, you see.
Still they **** upon their thumb,
Dee’s in the mouth of Tweedledum.
They offer us some milk and tea,
My Alice asked, “Is it free?”
“In wonderland all is a gift,”
I state, “Just like Gryphon and his lift,
For here you see all possessions shift.”
She says, “I just didn’t want to grift.”

At the bottom of the hill we see a spot of rust,
I turn to my Alice and tell her what I must.
“This is just a solemn grave,
The last house of the Knave.
Red Queen did this yes my dear.
Pay me no mind as I shed this tear,
For this little crime,
When it was his time,
I could not speak,
My tongue was in my cheek.
I know it was so bleak,
It cost him his life, right at the peak.”

So here my new friends,
This is where it ends.
This tale was spun,
And it was fun.
Let me know in your script,
If you want more tale flipped.
Give this Hatter characters you enjoyed,
And you will see them here employed.

in the darkness of our feet
lavernum dreams
pale laudanum lips
lavender flowers

world stretched out as gossamer
too tensile, unraveling

there is another language here: you
pale and glowing
volume of phantoms pressed as books
against the history of our backs

now here, now stretched too thin
for wanting, for wanton
for the drain of love, or leaving

unmistakable grift, small as peonies
partitioned as ash, well-wish
silver ripple, or nickel of time

in the water a reflection: un-you
always losing shape amongst shapeless arms

there is an alm:
forgetting

The traditional pattern
of a set to for Nomark is this:
against the backdrop of the giant grift
perpetrated by the grand smug *****
he firmly grasps the wrong end of the stick
which, to be fair, is waved at him enough

A poster child for impotent rage
he’ll berate the checkout staff
about a voucher that’s either expired
or, mired in labyrinthine small print,
doesn’t amount to a free diddly squat

Without the words, the means,
the agency to upbraid the bosses
he huffs home on an overcrowded bus
where not a single other ****** wears a mask

i once walked from Boulevard Pershing,
near the hotel Concorde Lafayette to the west of Paris city centre
300 metres from the metro station Porte Maillot
to... the 3 ducks hostel... 6 Pl. Etienne Pernet...
upon arrival i was welcome by an American
bartender... and when asked how my journey was...
well, i walked...
you walked?!
yeah... i walked... my first time in Paris...
like my first time in Stockholm... solo... in a hostel...
upon landing it really was a city of lights...
the Eiffel tower was my beacon and my hypnotism...
once upon a time i had that pet project
of going to capital cities alone...
Athens... well... i thought: Venice might be better
than Rome...
i sure as hell i visited Berlin... i was going
to hit on Prague before... the last year & some happened...
3 years in Edinburgh: i wish there were more...
London dragged me back in...
but... it's one thing to walk in a capital city...
taking the public transport...
it simply doesn't allow you to sample the entire:
horizon of the city... the nooks & crannies that
otherwise: a bicycle ride allows...
just today i thought... enough of this area of
makeshift London that's being eaten up...
that the county of Essex is willing to give up...
i need to get some urban salt on my face:
you do return from a heavily urbane area
with a residue on your face that looks like
***** salt... but feels like the purest of sands...
from circa Havering-atte-Bower...
a little village on the hill with Bower Wood
Havering County park... oh... i'd say
1 mile from my home...
from there to Canary Wharf via Canning Town...
via Barking...
taking the CS3... i passed... just after leaving
Barking i came across architecture i can only
best describe as...
postmodernism "gothic"...
            gothic architecture looks menacing...
so did all i passed...
but it was gothic tinged with postmodernism...
it was very much cubism meets Lowry...
although there's this very short segment
of the CS3 where you ride past the
recycling centre at Beckton...
all shaded by trees and a roundabout
underpass... the route becomes very narrow
and there are just enough turns to make you
galvanize your speed a little...
it's a brutal landscape... Barking in general
is brutal... it feels very much like:
Babylon with Pyramids... but the sun was shining
today: and you know what happens
when sunshine glees over Glasgow:
it can almost feel like Edinburgh...
sunshine elevates everything... just like Edward Hopper
said: i just want to paint sunlight...
even the grimmest: grimiest of place can
be elevated & it doesn't have to feel all ******...
before arriving at Barking i had to pass through
the multicultural hub of Ilford Lane...
sari shops... halal butchers...
as a white immigrant: since i'm not... English
per se: by the demands of "born & bred"...
& even thought i was the only one of about
3 white, male faces... it somehow didn't bother me...
seems like being a minority has had its perks
all along!
Asians girls looked at you like some curiosity
equivalent to a spice mixture of cumin,
cardamom, coriander... cinnamon...
must be the suntan: the copper-neck appeal
i sometimes acquire in the summer months...
if these people are "supposedly" conquering these
lands... do they think their...
high-spiritedness and vigour will not
wane under the scrutiny of the weather?!
i sampled some of their imam rhetoric...
yes yes... but once all the english girls have been
vehicles for **** & revenge and rooted out...
while the white boy'ohs are not reproducing with them?
where's the revenge going to come from?
that desert is going to dry up...
these people will return to their own
sacred rites of: oculus per oculus...
an eye for an eye... no?
i'm starting to see the bigger picture... the tomorrow:
i'm starting to like living with a minority status...
it's called Darwinism: proper...
not Darwinism upon inception: with all
that eugenic crap: let cousins **** cousins!
this is... how a species adapts...
i can't exactly grow a pair of wings or become
invisible... i make concessions...
i adapt by... well... making compensation
leverages...
if i'm not a white: native of these lands...
i'll fit in such fine: or so i hope...
after all... a monochromatic society makes much
for nausea... esp. when i return to Warsaw...
my grandmother is still living... when she dies...
though... what reason will i have to visit that
old... fable of a land of my birth?
the English in me is already my own...
i own it...
i'm not just going to give it up...
like i won't give up reading philosophy books in
****** since... they make no ****** sense to me in English:
i'll just read them in one language...
and translate myself an interpretation...
that's how it's going to work...
it worked just fine up to now...
why should it stop?
come to think of it... what happens in eastern vs.
western households?
oh you know:
in western households if a man / woman is still living
with their parents... rather than:
living alone... & paying rent to some stranger...
for some hope of reaching some one night stand quota...
then they're LOSERS...
there's a particular spice to this word...
it's best associated with Sichuan Pepper...
that tongue numbing sensation best associated
with: how the French & the English slowly: but surely...
lost the trill of the R...
there's not much to LOSE when the fatalism
of mortality has your ***...
there's only a waiting game while
some people amass more... and have to give it all
up or... leave it to... failed ******* sons
akin to: how the amassing of wealth & prestige of
the Krupp family became
  Arndt von Bohlen und Halbach....
these supposed "losers"... amass nothing...
leaving nothing... all the better for it...
at least not a dead-end lineage... just dead-end
per se...
but... i can clean around the house... take care
of the cats... be a custodian to the affairs
of the "estate": make a variation of tortellini
with a beetroot borsch...
and... chances are... i will not see my parents
enter an old-people's home...
neglected: relegated to merely a dementia
status...
clingy or... how do those eastern
inter-generational households fair...
compared to the west's championing
of individualism when...
  rent goes **** knows' where: Arab moguls?
two fine examples...
one door down a Nigerian couple in their 60s...
their son & daughter still live at home...
two doors down a Sikh couple likewise
living with their son & daughter...
their son recently managed to throw a houseparty
that attracted circa 30 guests...
oddly enough: he wasn't regarded as a: LOSER...
opposite my house: an English household...
the younger daughter will be moving two doors
down parallel to my house with her would-be hubby...
so she will be in: screaming distance from her
mother's home...
if i am to be paying rent?!
to some anonymous ghost face ****...
forget it!
Darwinism doesn't imply: adapt to the hard-earned
orthodoxy of eugenics in tow:
after all... eugenics came prior to Darwinism:
i don't care much for Darwinism...
i didn't care much for the Copernican inversion
of whether it's a heliocentric or a geocentric model...
in terms of perspectives and coordination:
orientation: i need the "flat-earth" model
to get from X to Y... i don't exactly need
a Z... unless i'm... ******* sailing!
but even then... "Z" doesn't require me the allowance
of... "the earth isn't flat"...
sure as **** it does... if i'm going
from X to Y... no?
the anglo-saxon households will fall, last...
when it comes to inter-generational living
"fall-outs"... i don't mind the periodic celibacy
patterns... if i feel the urge to "get some"
after one of my feline companions entices me too much
while grooming her:
i'll ******* to the brothel and get it over & done with...
i don't need a dating app to... waste my time over...
dating apps... i so *******
oblivious to their existence i can ast least attest
that happens in real life...
i'm also out to not crave ambitions for
offspring... funny how that works...
well... so who's going to take care of you?
me... with the proper incisions when the game is up...
i figured out around cruxes on my body where bloodflow
is concentrated...
under my right-arm-pit...
in my neck... all that's required is a hot bath...
and plenty of mr. whiskers und ms. amber...
i mean: for ****'s sake...
reinterpret Darwinism with individualism:
the "premise" stands:
i will not give up my private library collection...
cooking food others enjoy...
ownership of two cats... but still "living" with my
parents for... four empty ******* walls...
and a chance to somehow... merely...
bring back a dating partner for nothing more
than a fling...
it's like that quote i heard about Neopolitan cooking:
minimum effort: maximum satisfaction...
that's all life has to be...
mind you: is it so... ******* unbearable
to not be able to love your parents, esp. when you can?
i'm always put off my white, western women,
they want too much...
they're never of interest to me:
i know what game they're playing...
i never heard of a herd of "individuals"...
sure... rent... but we can **** in the garden...
in the forest... like this one spice-up i picked up
off of a park bench... a Thai Surprise...
we ****** in the garden... so?
Darwinism without a superiority complex
of the people who conjured it up...
can become... refreshingly... revelatory...
you just don't need to line other people's pockets...
i never used darting apps... never felt a dire
greed to do so...
CS3 is fine while cycling towards Canary Wharf...
i like the grift... the grift...
but the CS2 from Ilford towards St. Paul's...
it's great *** Mile End: on your way back...
but little Bangladesh coming in...
it leaves me with a distaste... too much of
Asia... not enough European postmoderist
"gothic" grit.... nothing too much familiar with
industrialisation...
coming back on the Bow overpass
at Stratford... an Asian couple...
let's just leave a tinge of scrutiny on her...
she looked like Cindarella: before donning
on her ****-up make-up and her glass
stiletto...
she pushed the various traffic buttons
and
stood... in the middle of the bicycle route...
thank god i was d0nning my sunglasses..
it's impossible...
i was eyeing her up...
she was eying me up...
her boyfriend was next to her...
eh... the niqab does little...
easier to don a pair of sunglasses:
if the concept of playing poker arrived for the Arabs
"too late":
i'm pretty sure the ninja attire could be made
simultaneous to the niqab...
chicken or the egg...
did the niqab give birth to the ninja
attire, or what it...             ?

but there's a trajectory where household living
resembles little what: investment in
wholesale looks like...
i like to think of Darwinism as a way
to adapt...
to make concessions...
  they're not pretty concessions...
as an ape... supposedly... i can hardly make
peacock remarks... or therefore:
peacocking... years later though...
but by then...
the fear of exploitation will summon
a paranoia in me of diabolical proportions...

i will have to summon: ****! mode.

that being said... CS2 ius great on your way back from
Canary Wharf.... to... the outskirts of...
what is London... what isn't London...
best life in Paris, though...
best life after life's over: Edinburgh: for sure...
in that respect... London's traffic.

well.. i wasn't wrong... England made it to the European
championship final... coming against Italy...
but wait a minute... wait a minute:
in what style!
                            oh yeah... it's just screaming:
Gieves & Hawkes!

how can this English team win against all
that's gusto that's STYLE: that's ******* Gucci...
once upon a time growing up in England
i managed to spot a few pedagogic
pillars...

everything has to be made fair for everyone
partaking...
meritocracy is key...
racists have smaller brains than non-racists...
ha ha... these days i don't know
how to tell apart racists from anti-racists...
which is always fun: ethno-masochism is
going to stick to me like a leech...

what style?
if all that's English is all Locke and not Rousseau...
the team that plays for... scoring goals as flukes...
and later with no imagination...
has a runner dribble the ball into the penalty
rectangle and... win by... not a penalty shootout...
but a penalty in extra-time?

the "home" of football where:
it's not about playing football... it's about winning...
whatever the hell that means...
cheaper wines have more sulphites...
i can taste the smoothness of
my laughing bird cabernet sauvignon...
naked after the kookaburra...
2016 vintage...

this team for all its passing prowess...
the dull football that is better known
as the north sea derby...

you can't win a championship while the entire
throng of support
is... gasping for air with the words:
IT'S NOT FAIR! PENALTY!
PENALTY!

it was almost amusing to watch the entire Danish
team stand firm and clap at the English team
"taking the knee":
i once went to catholic mass... since
i went to a catholic school:
lo and behold... i am yet to be confirmed:
since i read a little bit of the Gnostic texts....
like Źιźek once made the observation:
****** spoke... waited... and engulfed all
that came with the people subsequently clapping...
he wouldn't clap...
Stalin... subsequently: clapped with
the audience he addressed...

it could have be seen that "taking the knee"
was a good-luck charm?
for what... ethno-masochism?
you can't win a football match playing
without a hunger for a goal...
you can't just run into a penalty area
dribbling dribbling: drooling at the legs
playing for a penalty...
without... say... shooting from outside
the box for the Gucci glamour...

when i look at the Union Jack
i think about... Elizabeth I...
i have to...
what weight of the world on this woman's shoulders...
that woman's shoulders...
what genius...
she instigated the union...
she was playing the role of
ol' aunty Lizzy...
so that her cousin's son would become
the future King of England
and have leverage to craft the union...
whether she lost her virginity:
i get to **** prostitutes: i'm not too bothered
about the body...
but like i noticed: reciprocally...
self-hygiene is important...
now wouldn't be apprehensive
having ****** ******* with the freed
women of Fred... sorry... the Vest...
if i might catch a ******...
or gonorrhoea?

at least in the brothel...
i'll put some acacia confusa bark in my mouth...
i'll work at an *******
then pinch off the excess *****...
then i'll shave the whole region...
i'll shower... i'll slobber on some mint-cream:
ah, refreshing... on the barely touched regions...
i'll shower... shampoo... squat...
stand-up... squat again... bench-press my body-mass
with press-ups... cycle up to the brothel...
i'll scrub my hands with some
fenugreek seeds...
a total **** of scents...
she'll make sure by wiping my working part
completely clean before turning
into a liver-eating nymphomaniac ******...
i'll be fine with that...
i'll ask her if i can photograph her
face in the mirror...

perhaps in the olden days: there was this fear
of visiting prostitutes and catching...
syphilis... where is that... at? these days?
you have more chance of catching "something":
from the freely available flesh market
of dating / hook-up apps...
prostitutes are harem born...
cleanliness is: a white linen niqab...
if men of...

oh we know what the Arabs have become...
docile ***-mad perverts:
you give an Arab a sip of wine...
he turns the entirety of the desert
into... something manageable...
you give an Arab too much of what he already
supposedly has: subsequently imports from
the core of the mythological blonde persuasion:
the same of the same old...

how else doesn't it "work"?
madonna's la isla bonita: the mythological blonde...
coupled up with either Tarzan or
King Kong...
blonde Danes are excluded from her fantasies...
good... this bartablondine is looking
for a Turkic ol' raven haired mystery
of the orient: this is where we part...
a woman's fetish for the exotic can be
matched... i'll be looking for my Constantinople
brothel beauty...
i'll be rummaging in Romania alongside
Dracula...
anaemic beauty to begin with...
slugging white and all that's timid toward
the sun... copper-skinned serpent come summer...
i too can reply... Turkic ol' raven haired
tinged with a tease of black-blue...
to hell with these hypocritical-nuns!

i best keep them as the mythological blondes
that they are:
African ****-leeches...
toward adventure! bring the crab-bucket to the fore!
i'm not going to go as far as
as the English skins preference
for the Thai-surprise... nope...

you can't win a football match with the sole
focus of ballerina tiptoeing
via herr stiletto Grealish or:
"dupka": pristine buttocks: RA'HEEM...
SH-terling... running into the box
for a penalty:
the worst way to win a match...
not lasting to the penalty shootout is...
is making a grift..
the proper:  "English" way:
it's not about the football:
it's about the ******* silverware!

if they win: they only achieved being
in the final by: a fluke...
not chance: by fluke...
fluke is: plumbing per se...
not chance not fate
not luck: if fluke is plumbing per se:
then all the other nouns
and noun-stressors exfoliating
within the designation of adjective
are: foam like ****...
there's no style... let alone: honour
winning a football match
by having the crowd pressure you
to pressure the opposing team to
subsequently pressure the referee to
give you a penalty:
play should have been stopped...
there are two footballs on the pitch...
i must be ******* blind!

oh... the English can fathom preaching
to the choir...
come to think of it...
they don't care about the beauty of the game...
they care much more about
the queen's jewels...
it's not even about: how you win
this championship:
it's only about: winning it...

i cling to the elder gods: surprise me with
something more profound than:
oculus per oculus...
seems thirsty enough... thirst is all there is:
and the many tiers of hunger...

you can't win a football match without
scoring goals...
running into the box hands extended:
taking the knee:
screaming: IT'S NOT FAIR! IT'S NOT FAIR!
isn't going to cut it...
for ****'s sake...

i like watching sports without chanting...
watching sport allows me
the only: perhaps the "lost" avenue
of exercising objectivity...
i can measure out what's: fair...
contra... what's blatantly itching me...
England "won" the game against
Denmark... not because they played
better... the English just want
the silverware...
they don't want to entertain the crowd
with football: they want to WIN...
they might be playing footbal:
no... i think they're gambling on a curriculum
of teasing poker...

that wasn't a penalty... it should have been
a shootout... plain and simple...
Italy will make England
want: a deserved: thrashing...
i look at sports: esp. teamed events
and i think about
whatever happened when
the Judgment of Solomon happened...

the English: so centrist so middle of the world
so: sensible: so awe-inspiring...
can't ******* win a football match
without having to pressurise the opposing
team into making a defensive pseudo-
"faux pas"...
             if silverware is all you want...
**** it...
throw as many pearls into the mud
for the pigs to screech while gobbling 'em up!

i've made my peace...
i've just said it...
         England does not deserve to win...
amore! amore!

I’m tired of the clapping, young kids a trapping,
No capping, same problems we attacking back when 2pac was rapping

Talking about illuminati and the super rich,
You Connect the pieces, through a panel stitch
We all slaves, quick to share the conspiracy link.
We all know George Soros, but not Laurence Fink

Black rock, black stone, black power.
But all we can talk about is trumps *******?
Not the people we empower, Bc we get our news from Matt Lauer?

Fake news just means thing you don’t agree with.
The Subjective facts, turn truth IN to myth
To much noise causes perspective to shift
Happens so swift, you think it’s gift
But really you just fell for the grift

Ronald Reagan is the devil. Ya I said it
The one that started the crack epidemic,
AIDS, he didn’t get it, and let millions die in the pandemic

But, all the presidents are crooks.
Even Clinton cooked the books.
We went from a vision for a globalized economy
To drone striking little kids with autonomy

WERE ******!!!!
and it’s hard to see, all the different ways that you’re no longer free. All the different ways, you ain’t got the key, fighting the daily struggle of just to be.

WERE ******!!!
You know what they don’t teach you in schools?
How to do your taxes, WHY!? They think you’re all fools
Meanwhile you pay all the taxes you owe.
And big corporations, well… you know.

But, ROME, we need the corporations, to survive, they give us jobs, while we’re alive. Don’t they pay for most of the taxes in the land? Well, kind of, that’s payroll. And that’s not the plan.
FIRST, they took pension plans, but here’s a 401k
We’ll lower the pension but, Mach what you pay
And PLEASE don’t ask us if the stock markets OK… that’s not my job, but be patient and stay.

SECOND, companies, unlike YOU!
Deduct all their expenses…
This company car, ain’t it expensive…
These company shoes, I like to expense it
Let’s all go to the Bahamas… the tax game commences

So you got 1099’s, well write off your ****.
Don’t let the man, charge you fines
Expense it.

You don’t even need an LLC
Just file a Schedule C
Take the standard mileage deduction you see
Then write off All the **** you be

Credit is a system of trust designed by the white man
You can’t play unless you stick to the plan.
We live in a world where the rules are set
And the rules are designed to make you upset
So you look around, and what do you find?
Someone different, that may have stepped out of line
Now they are the  focus of your loathing
Become the reason of why money, you ain’t holding.
But you took your eyes off the prize. You forgot the game. May I surmise, you’re the one to blame.

WERE ******

The Man of Today is no more.
Greed, prejudice, the game of war,
Have settled this world’s final score.

I, the Man of Tomorrow, will
Entirely of my own will,
Set this sick, blighted world alight.
All must bow before my might.

There are those who see Life as taking,
People who grift, steal, and plunder.
Hardly a World worth remaking.
The only recourse? Destruction.

I once believed it could be saved,
A renewed path that would be paved.
With I, the light to shine the way,
The World would begin its new day.

But despite my pride and heart’s flare,
I found those who could not spare care.
Fools who took kindness for granted,
They who took Me for a good tool.

As my quest went on, I wondered.
‘Can this World be saved?’ I pondered.
Or had it reached its end limit?
Had the clock hit its last minute?
Soon enough, I thought a grave thought.
‘Does THIS World deserve my saving?’
It disturbed me, but Life went on,
And each day, all seemed too far-gone.

Until the day which shaped my mind.
A man of rags, who I once fed,
Pointed his dull knife at my head,
Demanding my money in kind.

From that day on, I decided.
The Man of Tomorrow had
To replace the Man of Today.

I’m surfing on this cosmic wave ~
Yeah boiii just a ****** slave to the game
Can’t get -more- saves less you play
But still I stay fresh
When I’m slaying all the freshmen
And eating their flesh
It’s the best source of refreshment

I’m replenished
With this system
hell to the yes I’m so digestive
**** I’m spitting, need a breath mint
Got that fire I will ingest it
til I regurgitate the excrement
my mic presence is heaven sent
(Don’t question/ no quenching) it
GG Allin ain’t got nothing
on Reidums Donovan

Don’t like my frequencies
Well switch the channel then
I’m murdering these beats
Stacking bodies in the FEMA bins

Stay tuned, watch the news
The crisis has become apocalypse
The consciousness is not nonsense
Wait shush, we cannot talk bout this

My third eye prism beams
simply shining in iridescence
In present tense that means
We just gon cater to this nemesis
While in essence the power
steady reigns all pre(isdents/cedence)
To the loss of innocence in a sense
Extradimensional omniscience

Got us steeped in a schism
which we cannot process yet;
This mental prison got you locked up in
Religion, sports, and politics
A House divided cannot stand
You people cannot understand
It’s all a sham Endgame
it’s equal to the fall of man

It’s not happenstance it’s bad romance
the parasitic old humans
Take every advantage
heavy chance
they can devils advocate  ~ first glance
Waging global management
amongst its residents
With malevolence

And violence unto others
On behest of these
caricatures of governments

You simply must not succumb
to this Big Brother ****
Bound by strings they all just puppets
on that false worship business
Til you’ve ascended to the mothership
You’ll Spin this gold like Rumplestiltskin *****

For this debt we owe but will instead
offer up our children
Cause they soul been sold off to the Vatican
The rapture will not matter then
Bcuz it’s all projected hologram
To unite a global front
Ignited by these hostile reptilians

Illuminati making trillions
****** hosts for these archons
Primo minions;
Unlimited energies not believed in
-To the zenith
by our calcifiying pineal glands
Can’t perceive it

History outlines these diabolical plans
By Albert Pike from the mid 1800’s
Highest level Freemason
But you won’t see this in the curriculum
Trilateral commissions
funded by that Epstein grift, sacrificing kids
And suiciding those who think or speak dissent
To the *** trafficking ring
run by Billiam and Hilly Clinton

Bush for really did 9/11
& In 2012 the world ended
Mandela effect got me feeling impressed with
The lack of woke minds
aligned with the paradigm shift
The macrocosmic mother knows
consumerism is *******
but satanic panic gives us all a chip
For they cannot purchase;
without the mark of the beast
In either the Hand
or their forehead

after a long shift at Fulham (Craven Cottage): well... obviously
it was going to be a longer shift than usual...
we were readying ourselves for a pitch-invasion...
since... if Fulham won... they would become secured
promotion to the Premier League...
i asked to be moved inside: third time...
   all the prior shifts in Bishop's Park were: one big
joke / yawn... nothing to do...
                                    absolutely nothing... nada -
            ei mitään
at least inside the stadium i could do something useful...
first on the turnstiles... then on the seg-line...
then... moved to the front... facing the crowd...
obviously i was picked to move around a bit because
i can sometimes look intimidating if i want...
not that i really want to... but Fulham has a different
atmosphere to West Ham...
mind you... whatever the stereotypes... western Londoners
are slobs... they have no fashion sense...
honest to god... eastern Londoners have so much
more dress sense! esp. the men...
   i won't mention the women either side of the fence...
but... east London men: well... the ones that come
to football matches are... proper ******* lads...
    prim...
                       back to the turnstiles: paired up with
this Muslim kid... for a while he thought i was Muslim
too... like those Muslim propagandists on Edgware Road
trying to make me into a proselyte thought
i was German... backwards and forwards...
so what time do you break fast...
   you still break the fast in the classical way with water
and dates? he looked bemused since
in the turnstiles opposite us... the "ummah" breaks
fast with an entire ******* meal... my guess... Somalis...
he even asked me for a favour:
can i pray in this turnstile shack... you know where
east is?
           i don't mind but... we're opening in like 5 minutes:
and i'm pretty sure your prayer is not as quick
and pointless as our father... which only good children
get up to before going to bed... in Catholic circles...
at least: until they become... well apostates...
so he asked: you're fasting to? it was the beard...
the full beard and moustache... ergo i must be a Muslim...
and not an urban hipster... well: no long hair done up
in a Shiva "jatadhara" - but not dreaded / matted...
oh no... i fast for a non-religious reason...
   i like fasting: it makes you more concentrated...
you learn that by fasting you can train yourself to hunger
something that transcends a hunger for food...
me... when i fast... i hunger for the eyes of women
to look at me... literally: hungry like a wolf...
          i hunger for human interaction: but Fulham is
not a friendly crowd... high-brow... depends...
            - and i truly don't know how Charles Bukowski
wrote about the drudgery of work...
           i must have spent too much time in my ivory tower
in my twenties... raving mad...
to now find myself... happily working... after all:
only a day prior i was doing some hardening...
right now... i count... 9 trees that i planted in my garden...
so far: the first... a plum tree... towers over me...
and each year she doesn't disappoint with her yield...
the others are just infants, but hopefully...
two years down the line... some apricots...
cherries.... morello cherries... apples... pears...
   i might not have walked in Eden... but... eh... so so...
plus the rosemary the thyme and the wild garlic that...
in the summer months... come night time after having
watered it... it smells like... marijuana...
    plus that massive eucalyptus tree at the end of it:
shame... no pandas...
               but i understand like... i don't want to say it...
but... it's sort of like.... ahem: ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
long shift today... pitch-invasion...
   some roughing up at first... then enough people took
up audacity and it was like: just let them past...
yesterday dismantling a vegetable patch...
   shifting about a tonne of soil... shovel: shove shove...
into bags and dumped into another part of the garden...
then... digging three holes for three gorgeous trees...
there... i did my green bit...
    - but not since the health of the youtube algorithm
have i been so frustrated at my once favourite
pastime of foraging for new music like a John Peel...
i once had the best-set up for finding new music i might like...
once you could appreciate youtube...
when... ahem... it was a "manosphere": or rather...
a site primarily used by men...
               before all the cat videos... before all the make-up
tutorials... it was a glorious time to find music!
now? now we're talking about looking at ***** colony
of patches of... i just don't have the words...
but... sometimes... i still get lucky...
   i got lucky today...
        there's nothing like coming back all the way from
Putney Bridge to Romford... hands shaking...
strong pain in the chest: no... it's not a heart attack...
hands shaking... if i were diabetic?
                   i haven't eaten anything all day...
   i managed to hold about 20cl of **** through all the trip...
oh god... the chicken shop is still open...
hot box... 6 spicy chicken wings... chips... five (s)quid...
eat half while waiting for the bus... hands still shaking...
eat the other half on the bus... get off the bus...
go into an alley... ****... go to a patch of grass
and wipe my hands to finish off what the tissue couldn't
accomplish... take out a cigarette and... ah...
surgeon's hands...                 blood sugar levels alright
one more... and in my memory... that one girl
in yoga pants that kept playing with her hair...
pulling her pants up... exposing her massive:
and i mean... hmm... peaches can't be as plum...
giving me the stare... she kept me going until
the shift finished...
             so i got home... and when i come home
tired: i'm *****... so... took the "holy trinity" to the throne
of thrones... took a ****: you're going to automatically
**** while your **** relaxes... and then...
the usual story... at least i'm not making an Only-Fans
account and filming myself for others...
it's there one minute... and then once the deed is
done: creative juices can start flowing...
sit down with a whiskey... or two... or three...
and try to figure out what to do with the sick algorithm...
foraging for more music...
and there is a massive underground movement of folk...
i've known about Hedningarna for some time...
best songs? tappmarschen... vargtimmen... raven...
Suomi... which... is a strange sort of what's classically
associated with Scandinavia... since the Finns are...
well... particular... Inuit... mythological in a sense
of being almost Eskimo...
        was i going to get lucky tonight?
sure as **** i was... the current algorithm is a bit like
a slot machine... you have to be patient with it...
subscribe to at least two good channels...
i can recommend: HARAKIRI DIAT
   and IN DEPTH MUSIC... those two channels have changed
the way i had to improve the use of the site
for my benefit...
we're still staying in Finland...
           but we're moving away from folk music:
going back in time to the 1980s...
with what was happening post-punk in England...
two music genres i abhor... punk... and rap...
i can't stomach them... stiff little fingers.... fair enough...
i'd sooner find myself on the "wrong end" of a stick
for liking Phil Collins like... that Bateman guy...
or U2... but... no... i can't stomach punk or rap...
it's not right for my digestion...
      but? post-punk? gothic rock? deathrock?
   sign me up... it's almost like the extension of The Cure
and Depeche Mode and Joy Division i've always been hungering
for...
   found it today...
the following rubric is the artist and a song(s)
with a translation of the song titles...

musta paraati - romanssi (romance), myrsky nousee (storm rises)
belaboris - kuolleet peilit (dead mirrors)
this one is going to be funny...
silmät - haudattu (burried)...
          but if you take the word apart?
   hau - woof... dattu - date... we start barking
on the 20th of April?!
syyskuu - susi (wolf)
        kuudes tunti - kuuntele ääniä (listen to the sounds)
kuolleet kukat - kasoittain tuhkaa (loads of ash)
hiljaa - kuume (fever)
               päät - rikoksen rytmi (crime rhythm)
liikkuvat lapset - sinut haluan (thee i want)...
                  well... i'm not a Finn...
                                 sinut halua (without the n)...
but... the basic jyst is already there: i want you...
whether that's sinut halua or sinut haluan...

i was lucky today... looking for new music...
i'm not so lucky... too many cat videos...
too many make-up tutorial videos fudging the original
thesaurus algorithm where:
music was just more accessible... but no surprises...
look at what happened to the high-street...
once upon a time men could go to a vinyl shop...
forage... find something interesting...
now? what's left?! shoe shops... clothes shops...
restaurants...
they burnt the secular church of man:
to the ground...
                i'm lucky... in Romford we still have
the last "face" of what's the HMV franchise...
it's not HMV though... there's also this one crazy
record shop in Upminster...
but... that's about it...
        you burned my ******* church to the ground...
replacing it with... **** i don't need...
that's just not cool...
            i mean come on: men are visual creatures?!
ah ha ha... yeah... when it comes to looking at women...
if there were no women involved...
to hell with painters... they're freaks...
paint over something i can blink at?! and give it up to my
memory bank?
visual creatures... men...
hmm... sure... Beethoven was such a ******* visual
creature that his love for music...
well... if it didn't drive him mad...
the gods were good to him: they just drove him deaf!
men are only visual creatures when
women are concerned... we're as ******* abstract
as you can get...
         you burned my church to the ground!
why couldn't a sacred space of men coming together
and sharing tastes and distastes still exist?
no one is going to have a conversation over buying
a ******* pair of shoes... well... who would?
but over a record album... talk talk... talk talk:
tears for fears... of **** this ****... i'm out... bailing...
even my mother mentioned this quack of a fact
joke: women just binge-watch t.v....
         i don't know how i managed to keep up
with the series Billions... probably for Chuck Rhodes...
women just ******* talk t.v. t.v. t.v.:
ask them about music? ask them... except for the popular
current crap? i count a woman interesting
if she has even the remote interest in music...
but... most women don't...
for them... listening to music: looking at inanimate
objects and imagining them vibrating is: alien...
what you could do... is... this little experiment...
tell a man to listen to some music... while looking at a rock...
hell.. a ******* mountain... but a rock is just grand...
but play him some music...
now... do the opposite... tell a woman to watch some
animate object... but... mute her hearing ability...
so... put the volume down low on something on t.v.:
and let the woman watch...
in turn... put some earphones on a man
and tell him: you're Sisyphus... watch the rock...
because: i never truly grapled with the myth...
even if a Camus tried to explain it to me...
mein gott... on my way back home...
******* spaghetti-eaters... H'americans...
apart from the accent... their bravado was just
overflowing... loud: girls more boisterous than
the boys... flesh everywhere... i could spot at least
two ******* about to show more than
the darkened flesh around the *******... the *******...
loud: drinking on public transport:
even though it's illegal: acting as if they own
the ******* place... women this **** have never
come across as... anything but appealing...
let's be honest: if i want to visit a *******:
i'll visit one... put my money on the table:
blah blah Dandy Warhol's an hour later...
but all this libido insomnia that men go through:
this overt-teasing... i'm like a horse with
eye-blinders... trot: the: ****: along...
        plus the accent is... bothersome...
       i pray that i never have to visit America...
i pray that i might, somehow get to see the glimpses
of the Kamchatka Peninsula...
            two girls quit work when i said that i dated
a Russian girl (from Novosybirsk) and that:
in the "current climate": it would be a bad idea to
date a Russian girl... that's before the Ukraine fiasco...
oh well... rumours... tremors... but still all handshakes
at the company's Reichstag...
bearded: heavy looking men... it's such a pretty
joke that all of us look tough but...
if we had to come across someone with a black belt
in judo: we'd be... ha ha... slippery pancakes!
but... but... they burned my church down...
long gone are the days best associated
with Nick Hornby's High Fidelity...
    that novel: made me...
           it's one of the few books where the film adapatation
made me want to read the book...
Stendhal's the Scarlet and the Black
was another... the Three Muskateers...

well... isn't it such a lovely comment anyone
could leave?

but the best itches, are the ones you can't scratch, no? what's that thought you haven't shared with me? - and, may i ask, are you willing to share it now? just as i''m waiting: are you bloodied and willing to... allow the leeches to drain the restraints from you? speak your mind... i feel no need to inhibit my thinking: that's how i respect the concept of free speech, if it follows the Cartesian model... res cogitans becomes res extensa: i sometimes like to revel in revealing what i think... therefore translating it as "speech": even... when entrusted with lettering... it's not speech... is it? freedom of speech is an extension of thought: no? painters can't talk for a worth of chalk or... rather: charcoal on canvas: i.e.: ****... epileptic blinking machines... eh... it's just a little distinction between how Y and I diverge... yet at the same time merge... dye... difference... i'm not even sure how to overcome this fiddly bit of the Anglo-Zunge... but there's no lisp involved...  but you're getting my grift... motive... whatever you want to call it... yeah... phi and theta... which... in English is basically: F = PH = TH... i already found this keyhole using the iota and omicron: key in: twist... hey presto... i.e. I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω i.e. the door opens... this was not borrowed from the Exploits & Opinions of Dr. Faustroll: Pataphysician by Alfred Jarry... please... don't restrain yourself... you think i could?

i only copied it for the equations... well... just this one:
I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω.

moon's sow.

tell fingers to write
in compendious form
perchance grant respite
from inner turmoil storm
from nature gregarious
in mind-jail contrarious
through written commune
in time opportune
elucidate my state
perchance reciprocate
perchance to clear
the fog and the fear
perchance exculpate
the guilt o' mind-state
to elicit response
from brain so ensconced
in darkness of mind
state in which i find
the people all around
as i in state confound
a mental funambulism
of paranoia 'n autism
bemused befuddled
black cotton wool not cuddled
all druthers denied
in polyglot mind
in liaison with the devil
unpalatable to one level
thoughts unmanageable
as soft putty malleable
not by monsters in the air
of zoomorphic form to scare
but by monsters in the flesh
catch mind as in a mesh
construe in mental rift
in milieu o' crooks' grift
yet through timeless antidote
with words' rhyme in note
have cleared mind somewhat
from dregs of coffee-***
so onward mettlesome horse
we'll trot together yet
at vanguard o' life's course
till time to pay our debt
till hope for imprimatur
from my true life Protection
in place of light so pure
till time's resurrection.

בעל יתושים

i've found him! hiding in plain sight! right there on the crucifix! the lord of mosquitos! the greatest troll that our pandemonium has ever known! look at him, in his glorious blood-thirst, it's not enough to merely drink blood, he had to metaphor wine as blood! our greatest asset so far! you can call him Jesus Christ if you want... fellow of the Milton & Co., didn't he call for a blood-lust, didn't he spawn myths of vampires, didn't Elizabeth Bathory bath in ****** blood of peasant girls? weren't the two world wars staged under his stewardship... wisdom?! what about the wisdom bound to / associated with the Milton & Co.: i.e. better to rule in hell than be a servant in heaven? son of god my ***... b'ah al' ya'tuś / ya'tuš (depends how you want to interpret the Hebrew shin: שׁ, שׂ, ס) - but that's only an approximate for the name of Jesus Christ from where i come from, or rather, where i am going, after all... the above name refers to Lord Mosquito, not the Lord of Mosquitos, but we all know that Lord of Mosquitos is implied... the great troll - by the modern definition of the word - that ever existed... come to think of it, what the hell happened to the archangels, Michael, for example? didn't the archangel Michael become a St. Michael... to begin to contemplate... angels being demoted, degraded to the status of saints, standing on equal footing with plumbers, with fishermen... being elevated to the shared status of... sainthood? right... well... if we're going down this route... Lucifer... ought to be known as a transgender queer anti-social... "thing"... Lucifer can become Lucy... Satan can become Samantha... Beelzebub can be known as Beatrice... Behemoth can be known as... Bohemia: i don't know, some people have decided to call their children Peaches... not Peach... but the plural... sure, "something" died on the cross on the mount of Golgotha, for me what died was the entry point for hell to reclaim its reign... to usurp the construct of nature... that the weak might control the strong, how easily this foundation might be willing to crumble... the strong just play along, they just, play along... all, played out on the event horizon of Damocles' Sword hanging from a single horse's hair... violins?! since i see past what Christianity is, not even Nietzsche can entertain me... the Hebrews know all too well what power this little gnat of a whinging philosopher proselyte, "philosopher" - whatever... among the elders it has been agreed upon: no more of this bloodlust... we are done with wanting to purposively strain people down the wrong path... we have become... quiet simply... BORED of these zombies entering our domains that we'd rather recycle via the Hindu deities than give them a fixed point of consciousness that would allow them to stretch it toward eternity... no, sorry, these people need to be recycled: i wish we could allow them entry into the eternal domain, but then they'd just be... sort of... static... sort of... *******... sort of: 'my mind is made up and i acknowledge no higher authority!' sure, sure... i guess zombies would be more entertaining than such people... regurgitating mantras, prayers... they need to be recycled, i personally don't know whether worthwhile people are reincarnated... but recycling is a common theme in this realm... might as well... it's not like anything will get through to these people, we're talking quotas... people need to attend football matches, just like some exceptional individuals need to become football players... Islam? ha... what... that religion born from the son of Abraham's concubine? by lineage, of course... among the monotheistic religions... the ******* brat of the lot... drop them this and... they ought to shut up... eh... good old Nietzsche... once you take up my perspective, there's no going back... literally... who instigated the blood-baths of the past 2000 years, the Reformation, the World Wars... wasn't it... Ba'al Ya'tuś'ēm? you can literally **** around with whatever diacritical markers you want, to drop the apostrophes... let your mind wander... like the wandering mind of a Hebrew... last time i heard this little brat of ours was making new progress in Africa, having solidified his place in South America... even hell requires a hierarchy, but this... "lord" is like a virus that needs to be stamped out... or rather... controlled... or rather: he needs to learn to know when to stop... he's almost like a grown woman... i mean: children - regardless of their *** are not given the same freedoms as some grown women entertain... notably with regards to public officials, staff in venues, hospitals, shops... he's sort of like a "Karen": in spirit... sure... great... if his crucifixion happened in a culture akin to the Aztecs?! YAWN... blame the Hebrews... for what?! the elders back then knew that he was suspect... as to why or how he became incarnated in flesh is beyond me... for me: he was forever a festering wound in our arsenal, in our prospect of bringing forth all that arts that Prometheus began with... alchemy, medicine, engineering, the prospect of man's better future... "hey-zeus" etc. was always going to bring stagnation... since? at least in a time when the strong were strong and the weak were weak: the strong could defend the weak... now? hey presto! i do my ****, you do yours... let's see who the preditors single out.

i've just spent a day filling out the form for a module 3 of an NVQ for crowd management... brain-numbing...
literally brain-numbing...
skull-itching doesn't even cover it...
do most people exist: within this framework
of language: they never find an escape plotline?!
they must do... since so many comply to rigidity and
ridicule...
it's not even boring... it's painfully-obvious...
i've already proven myself in practice before
having to scribble down some "theoretical" details...
oh... but wait... i can't actually use examples by
experience in a theory-based test...
what... a... load... of... *******...
you walk up the gangway with 20+ odd Yorkshire
beefcakes from Leeds?! oi... mate... ******* from
this route... i'll be coming up here every 10 minutes...
into your seat...
not said like that... but... the reply...
ANYTHING FOR YOUR MATE...
even i'm getting a hard-on for my ego...
but where did this come from?
i was supposed to be this solitary creature trapped
in an ivory tower... yet here i am...
bothering myself about crowd control...
readying myself for a second Hillsborough Disaster
or another Manchester Arena bombing...
i'm pumped... i do 100 press-ups before an event...
lift some weights... and prescribe myself
the Ramadan manifesto of fasting before an event...
drink plenty of black coffees though...
smoke like a choo-choo train straight
to Auschwitz... ha ha... what?!
i seriously have to be somewhat drunk to fill out
these NVQ forms... i've already had some practice...
most of the drunks i've encountered were more
than willing to talk to me,
everyone seemed to friendly...
maybe i just have one of those face...
but... but i'm not going to be doing the job
for the worth of two people... esp. with some colt
Somali **** of a boyo!
that's what's ******* me off the most...
at least among the Yorkshire beefcake lads
i can be... associated with them...
why do they comply?
it's not a racist thing, they just feel comfortable
when dealing with someone who looks like
them: in-group preferences...
        when you learn that you're dealing with,
ahem, racial... "minorities" that **** your daughters
and want to enter paradise strapped with
suicide vests... that you live with these sort
of people, who are you going to prefer?
like last time at the London Stadium...
i was surrounded by the away fans... all from Leeds...
friendly *******... i had no trouble...
do i look so imposing?
yet... oh my god... i was paired up with
this Somali ****... kept watching the football
match instead of the crowd...
i'm done... **** me: *******...
i was grinding my teeth in the 9th circle
of Dante's circle of hell... come to think of it...
i must have been biting at Brutus' teeth!
while making an oyster feast from Cain's tongue!
i don't exactly require racial quotas, "quotas" to know
what's coming next...
lazy-***: one more ******* "oops" up in Manchester...
because it shouldn't have happened...
yeah... it shouldn't have... but guess who
you employed: YA ******* KANTS!
sympathisers!       *****... the whole and the rest
of 'em!
grr... grind that: ***** grind than grr...
the fire is not yet ready to be raised...
to a crescendo of an inferno.... it's coming...
it will come... it will be more spectacular than world war I
and world war II put together!

this be the interlude period... this be the period of...
spiders weaving...
there's no mention of the Lord of Mosquitos,
there's no mention of the Lord of Spiders...
but there is... a Lord of Flies... ha...
why weren't these two Lords accounted for:
with my own fall?!
who will ever account for, their presence?!
i, do, very, wearily, wonder... who might?!

i have started to hear whispers...
no, oh, no...  i won't disclose them... until i'm readied
to marry a rich girl with a daddy that owns a yacht....
i rather enjoy my semi-poverty & the company of my cats...

NUMB-SKULLS...
   two Lords are missing from the narrative...
the Lord of Mosquitos... my best estimate is that of Hey-Zeus!
Krist?! you sure? oh... right... blood... wine...
vampire invention... i love how hell loves to troll
humanity... ha ha! o.k. so Lord "Misquote" had his 2000 years of
fun... more people equating wine with blood...
more... ahem... "vampires"?

the lord of spiders... i'm waiting for him:
to show his ******* ugly face! up! please don't tell me he's
busy with his somewhat, already flimsy architecture!
imagine the shock... people didn't think that Jesus Christ
was the Lord of Mosquitos...
ha... well... who wouldn't... well it's not like the past
2000+ years passed as smoothly as extracting ice-cream from
a tubing...

hell is all around, eh... some Cain outliers...
what, can, you do!? eh?
mein gott:                nein: nein gott!
Jesus Christ isn't my lord... he's the lord of mosquitos...
blood... wine... do i need to paint a prettier
picture? in the hierarchy of the scheme of things...
i'm not even the blatant beast of the upper tier...
i'm not: definite article enemy...
i'm not even Lucy... who's the antithesis of Sophia...
i'm the buzz... the buzzing grift in the shadows...

but the Lord of Spiders is missing...
we have already accounted for the joyride of the Lord
of Mosquitos for the past 2000 years...
poor man... i want to pity him...
then again: i want to pity myself for wanting to pity him...
i have a weakness of a heart for about 10 seconds... i allow myself to think for 10 seconds... after 10 seconds... concern for traffic takes over...

oh... you're not going anywhere with me, until you're going down, and i'm going down;
shove your Quran up your ***... like any respectable Northerner might give a **** about some post-Nomadic niqqab-clad ******* worth of ******* ****** ***!

it takes me about 2 hours to drink a bottle of wine
in the form of kalimotxo by myself...
2 hours while i watch a bat fly around
chasing moth tapas...
2 hours from around 9pm through to 11pm...
before i finally relax and open a second
bottle... if i push it through to 2am
and wake up at 9am... well... problem solved...
whatever the "problem" might me...
an irksome memory most probably...
a past girlfriend... Siberian... hardly any
Mongol ethnicity in her...
but still all the more crazy...
apartment in St. Petersburg etc. etc.
the best *** i ever had...
until... the best *** i ever had was
with a Turkish *******...
so... that chapter is sort of done...
hang-up from the age of 21... now that i'm
35...
well... sort of wow... 14 years...
not bad...
                but i can at least find relief in not
being ****-hurt about not getting any...
on a spectrum:
the alpha the beta and... mr omega man...
how i'd love to own a dog...
but taking it to a public place to ****
and then have to bag that **** and dispose
of it... and i've seen them!
those dog-walkers...
even in the advent of facemasks and hand-sanitizers...
did the dog walkers use hand-sanitizers picking
up that hot-dog-of-a-****?
no... sure... it's through plastic:
double-sure Irish revelations concerning
the ******...
put it's one thing sticking your whittle itch'ard
into a mouth of floral batters and
oyster digestive juices...
and picking up a dog's hot loaf...

oh sure... for the love of looking into
a dog's eyes and seeing all
that b.d.s.m. playing out...
                   i suppose dogs are great when
growing up...
but once you age...
you find miracles in little things
like... your cat deciding: no...
i'll take a **** in the neighbour's garden...
am i to... arm it with a c.c.t.v. camera
so i might know... where he... did the deed?

rain of pigeon ****...
if Warsaw is a city known for the happiness
of pigeons and parking-meters...
i guess London already knew about that...

- because all the world is filled with
a grift for defocusing narratives...
because: you can never experience thinking within
the confines of a unifying narrative...
a narrative of focus...
from the many: unto none...
or... from the one: to the few...
that's why i better believe
the astronauts of text, memes...
the advertisers... because... poets are paid
peanut while "journalists" are
being paid: a wage-gap...

on a Saturday... on  Sunday...
taking the knee: it's absurd... since you're not
taking both of them...
like one might at a Catholic mass...
but beside that...
some reverse psychology at work:
"taking the knee"...
   em... didn't Derek Chauvin take the knee?
you're taking the knee?
i'm taking the knee...
here's my knee-cap...
you're taking the knee?
Derek Chauvin took the knee...
apparently he "took the knee"
to the point of... suffocating a man...
hell! let's all take the knee:
let's take too!

how about i lie face down and imitate
crucifixion: how about not ******* off
some ethnic **** - because all
the white english girls are hell-bent of proving
us wigs perfumed: pampered in
baby-powder as being anti-racist:

racial equality? hmm...
i'd love to see it in two instances...
on a 100m sprint event
at the Olympics...
and... also at the Olympics...
at a 100m sprint event in the pool...
i'd love to see a white man win the 100m sprint...
perhaps i'd also love to see a black man
swim... just swim...
for all the racism in h'america:
no wonder: if you band-up together
and call yourself african-american:
but you have no idea what
Zulu warlord sold your for:
clearly a fair-game of exchange of goods:
a TRADE...
it's not like these... David physique European
wimp lords managed to chase and
chain the Goliaths of Africa...
i look at them now...
walking freely in the prospects of Europe
and think to myself: how the ****?!

don't give me that **** that a limp biscuit
cuck armed with some iron pebbles
and some fire ***** shot from a rifle
could overcome...
a zealot barbarian wielding a tomahawk...
if half of the african-americans knew
their heritage:
if you'd identity me as Russian i'd take
offence...
some Arab pushing me Quran
on Edgware Rd thinking i'm German
while having a mulatto indian-anglo-saxon-celtic
girlfriend... i don't mind...
mistake me for a Serb...
hell... mistake me for a Dane...
but don't mistake me for a ******* Russian
or a(n) Ukrainian...
we might all be white...
but i'm pretty sure money dries up pretty soon...
what... Maurice... no... it wasn't Maurice...
Malcolm X... no... i'm pretty sure
it wasn't him...
oh you know... pan-Africanism...
like pan-Slavism was a thing...
Marcus Garvey...

       exodus back to Africa... like hell the Jamaicans
were going to give up Jamaica... ha... ha ha...
slavery in Russia and just nibbling on some
vantage point of the east:
it must feel... satisfying to known that
a foreign entity might have enslaved
"you"... beside the people of shared heritage...
what with whatever serfdom was...
hardly a matter for deciphering
cobbler professionalism...
a man as limb: limb the extension of
some other's peruse of... unforgivable pleasures...

i still make a killer of a mango curry...
thanks for the recipe...
i'll see you in New Delhi... perhaps... never...
i have to: come at "it" full throttle...
it's an agitating prospect seeing
zombie-esque drone partying up slogan
chatterers...
i'd be willing to break my jaw...
and my nose... just to hear them shut up...
i'll sooner **** on a kidney bean
seed and watch Jack imitate Jacob's ladder
than... whatever is left with: that than...

no wonder... the 2nd bottle of wine will be drunk
in under 2 hours... i'll fully lubricated...
relaxed enough to spew...
if only race was as fluid as ethnicity is
absent in the case of Brazil...
or for that matter...
all of south america: with the exception of
Argentina i suppose...
why? hiding ageing Nazis...
it's not like Joseph Mengele ever faced a firing
squad...  or hanging...
well... what he did face was...
having a brain haemorrhage while
taking a dip in a swimming pool...
i guess you might call that: double-drowning...
the gods really invested themselves
in that death...

oh i can imagine the.... breaking of the bones
while still revelling in doing
a puppet show... as the ****** drowned...
he'll be dearly remembered... just for that...
my "tale" is hardly tall...
but... if you haven't been involved:
the currency of duping manhood
with a pharmacological cocktail of...
chemo-soup: to match up to the brain
being all fat and: the proteins are ****** at...
only and only at the proper release point
of invitation: via Alzheimer's...
that's when brain tows... muscle! ugh!
killer proteins that solidify liquid fat
of oil into: curd-esque cheese clusters...
wonderful ingenuity... who might need
a ******* insect parasite...

why not turn to dieting?
women diet a lot...
i don't know: well: i do...
i rather burn off the calories than hide them...
women can diet all they want...
i tried it once...
out of sympathy for the cult she joined...
i lasted for about 12 hours...
it was already too much that
i drank my coffee black without
any sugar...
give me the ******* plough!
let me exhort and exalt the body...
i don't need to diet: to feel this creeping sensation
of a thousand non-existence "things"
nibbling at my fat reserves...

it's bad enough already: than seeing this pan-African
movement and...
it's like me visiting Kenya: visiting the macaques
feeding them sachets of sugar and tea
trying to escape the sun:
feeding the shade on a balcony wasn't enough:
some Muhammad with a crocodile farm
while his daughter: clad in a niqab swimsuit...
sure... "racial equality":
me... porky skinned:
in the full glare of equatorial sun...
i'm hoping for a rash...
come the night and the ivory beauties...
with skin as molten coffee mingling with
chocolate... buttered up...
smoking marijuana... i can only imagine
the brothels of Mombasa...

race is one thing: ethnicity: another...
but then again:
i'm pretty sure the african-americans
in their "congregation" of southern-Baptists
can't tell a hammer from a sickle
from a ******* horseshoe when it comes
to the ancient disparities between...
Nigerians and Kenyans...
just like whites are supposed to...
call me a ******* Russian one more time...
German? eh... the historical relevance of
the Wends... i won't mind...

the Hebrews... oddly enough: they're not a race...
they're an ethnicity...
you can mistake an 'ebrew for a European...
or a Mediterranean olive skinned:
somehow pseud-Greek... somehow pseudo-Roman:
st. Augustine.. Tunisian in disguise?
the race of the Baltic Sea people...
tell them they're all expected to eat
Baltic sushi: or raw-herring in a creamy dill sauce!

the world came knocking at my door...
my peace... mein nacht...
2 hours spent drinking a bottle of wine in comfort
with the wind caressing the tree...
like my hands weaving the nakedness of a *******'s
body... each groove where the flesh and muscle
"weakened": where the bones were left:
exposed... at the knees...
at the elbows... the collar-bone...

someone of a continental persuasion will tell you:
don't guillotine the head
of the beer...
in England you're expected to be cheated
when drinking a pint without a beer's head...
the foam...
i too want the beer's head moustache...
unless you're drinking Guinness...

if all these african-h'americans had a quencch
of "thrist" knowing they were...
said X... or said Y...
money is worth as much as tomorrow allows...
to spend it: rather than invest with...
personally i'd like to know the name
of the warlord that traded our limbs
for the precious stones...
then again: it's not like picking cotton
was anything akin to mining coal...
so... what?

now all this propaganda by the:
i hate them... they're ha-ite...
why why... urban liberal anti-racists...
i hate anti-racists... they have no knowledge
of metaphors... or for descriptive language
to begin with: their knowledge of physiognomy is
half-wit short of Picasso's impressions
of how: Africans see their faces
without the use of mirrors...
how they see themselves in masks...

to hell with your ******* "ally": too!
i'm looking at the most degenerate of my supposed:
degenerate of the specimen...
such... classy... high primed:
individuation: quotients...

- who hurt you? oh babe... who hurt you?!
- baby... i think i hurt myself...
years later i noticed she was still hung-up
on that one morbid swan of the highest kept
expectation: widow Zeus...
at Loch Lomond...
thank god for that Turkish *******:
she finally gave me an inkling into
how to tell apart: limp from limb...
toe from tongue...
i wouldn't want some... pigtailed
imitation schoolgirl dream, either...

give me the proper *****: the armchair...
the respectable: glass of wine that i might sip
and there would be... rivers of it... working their way
into my beard and down my neck... onto my chest...
give me... the thirst never to be quenched!
cheap romance novels for girls...
newly knighted phantoms compensated with:
***-mad dogs readied to be relieved of
being broke by: a leash of
sacrificial mundanity!

ask a girl twice... Thai: not a "surprise": an authentic Thai
bride... so no ****-in-a-lacklustre...
what the colour of my eyes were...
this is still biology class...
in high-school... that's before i shunned a tonne
of weight...
she didn't guess... grey? blue...
oddly enough: they're still grizzly... GREEN...

- as i write this... from a consensus agreement:
the ****-boys can have all their
shifting harem-caurosel all they want:
and eager have...
you have to cycle a while to spot all
the flavours of solipsism:
the empowered women alone in their cars
singing along to songs no one
wants to hear: my heart overflows to drift
into a quasi-sympathy... for a millisecond...
before i'm reminded of something
by a shadow cast by a a tree...

i want to return to a grave that's best
pleasing the colour of my Iris...
the world keeps knocking at my door...
however real or however metaphorical...
i'm not answering...
it's all... pretty much... custard...
thick splodges of it ruining the concern i have
for pin-pointing the knife
at the focal posits
of where to best insert a knife:
since... simply shooting myself
in the head with a shotgun is generally
agreed upon at, as:
a ******* bad idea...

     i wouldn't dare... or even convene myself
to later somehow, bother...
**** the ethno-masochism of english girls...
not that i am in any ways "welcome"...
if they're going through that:
**** a black guy phase...
  thank god i don't earn enough
to keep one "happy"...
thank god for a many a great a number of "things"...
Turkic women: who's hair as black as it is...
raven black teasing blue...
blooming blue teasing at...

i'm heading to a "somewhere" from where
the Mongolian breath arrived at: arrived at to begin
it's.... original migration and: receding culminated with...
i don't need these blonde anglo-saxon wash-ups of
mythology... to hell with Helen!
last time i heard: she only fakes not enjoying what
later: becomes apparent...
i'm not saying she's implicitly gagging for it...
but she she's not...

she's not exactly toying with the ascetics...
she's having *** as an aesthetic...
she's always having more fun:
even in the process...
she's mediating the third-person voyeurism
more than the person she is having ******* with...
it's hardly a person by then... piston works?!
piston works... ergo: piston works!

i can't compete with her already achieved experience...
i could only come around finding...
someone more experienced:
a nymphomaniac *******:
someone who could spell it out to ne
directly: i would be taking the back-seat....
i'd have my arms amputated when
she performed her oyster-*******-trick,,,

coming in at £2 per minute...
oh sure... hear me bemoan all the injustices of
the trade... when... there are some....
on only-fans... not filling to touch!
i squint my eyes...
i squint my eyes even more...
i'm left with ******* a lemon...

                 what?

title: cull
body: parabola's tails.

thank god, she appreciated the flowers,
i even replied her:
beside the past times i bought flowers,
for mother's day and for my grandfather's funeral:
it felt greatly appealing to buy flowers
for someone selfishly... with a wound to the heart
that only can craft...
on my cards... not a career... just a job...
no family beside the one i kept that
"abandoned" me from the ages of 4 through to 8...
creative? i might consider that true...
will this translate into economic success?
doubt it...
      dating prospects? single mothers...
job's already done...
   but she did appreciate the flowers...
       hey... but there's a square of mile of forest
that needs to be chopped...
and i don't feel like wasting too much paper...
will this somehow fall into the hands of
Hades... most probably...
but at least i have focus on something that
doesn't allow me to watch t.v. like a zombie
and simply allow myself my lot...
i'll take risks when cycling...
because: well... even if i were rock-climbing...
that's nothing...
i want to be able to trust people driving
their cars, their trucks...
to be a traffic shepherd on a bicycle...
                    sometimes it works...
only today on a roundabout i forced my way
into a turn... extended my hand
in a fashion of an apology... the car slowed
and allowed me through...
it's not much of a life... but...
it's bearable compared to some lives i witness...
there's nothing but a translation of
matter... an exchange of ****** functions
into... passable activities that... could be...
i'm still thinking about her...
all my intellectual curiosities i once found
so available have taken a back-seat...
i've lost interest in philosophy,
i've lost interest in the Qabbalah...
in the katana and the Hangul...
in diacritical markers...
in the Greek script, in the Cyrillic script...
in Runes and in the Glagolitic script...
but... come to think of it...
she would be an impossible catch even if
we met in our 20s...
i'd be the madman... she's be working in
a finance firm earning enough money
to buy herself her own home...
i'd be rummaging in the forest
at night... howling at the moon...
           taking off my shirt... drinking...
going to the brothel...
n'ah... it wouldn't have ever worked...
                        the impossibly terrifying has already
happened...
in the back of my mind i know that
this will not probably work...
of any man's worst nightmare...
but this little light at the end of the tunnel...
resurrected me...
i started to dream a little, to hope a lot...
what a pretty, pretty face...
living in England since i was 8 years old...
i always wanted to have a British girlfriend...
they always escaped me...
now i have a shot...
it's not perfect... far from it...
but... i can't help but swoon toward the chance...
- woke up this morning with
too much phlegm in my throat and my nose...
by the end of the day my mysterious cold
was gone... i was breathing silently and easily...
love-sick fool! love-sick idiot!
you fell in love you fell into a stereotypical illness
that isn't really an illness come to think of it...
you texted her... that country artist you like...
what's his name?
she replies... Gerry Cinnamon...
well, i'll be listening to him tonight...
i sent her my folk choice of music:
In Extremo - Miss Gordon of Gight...
   maybe this one time i can forget about being alone
throughout my 20s... my 30s weren't so bad...
but my 20s? a complete and utter blur...
some people were busy living...
others were bust going mad...
        sure... if i didn't have my spectacular meltdown
aged 21... by the age of 35 i might be in
a better economic situation...
but then again: would i really want that?
i wouldn't have read as much...
i wouldn't have admired the forest at night...
that she's 39 and i'm 35 and we can still
exchange music tastes like an 18 year old with
a 17 year old... when i used to make mix-tapes
and read Nick Hornby's High Fidelity...
everyone looks so old all of a sudden...
my... life can be so bountiful if you find the right
sort of avenues...
you don't need that much to get by...
there's plenty of enough to get by "without"
plenty... just enough, just enough...
                    i'm satisfied with this little corner
of enough-"not-enough"...
just a woman that loves to sing,
just a woman that feels happy when she's cooking...
that has to run from the kitchen
while she's cooking to giggle and dance in
the garden...
that's... just about right... that's just about
enough of what i need...
just about right if she's merely thinking of me...
that's ******* plenty...
and what a beauty she's to look at...
she's kind to almost everyone she interacts with...
she has a high work ethic...
she's there: on the spot...
and then frees herself from the role...
how she fell, how she picked herself up...
she's all whizz-kid with the D.I.Y.:
i could cook for her...
i could... oh... my little oh... i no longer find it
necessary to find a why... why:
i'm going to send her another link...
the Leveller's Carry Me...

hell... if she's into folk... let's go through the whole
spectrum... we'll do the German songs,
the Dutch, the English...

of course she had to have some Scotch roots...
i even told her...
Edinburgh for me is as if it might be Paris...
idiot-in-love...
well thank god im not in my 70s...
how Prof. Xavier says to Logan...
'there's still time...'
and there's me... flushing mortality down the toilet
with the drunken antics i'm all about...
but i'd rather love so recklessly drunk
than... fall into a sober disbelief
for the sole purpose of up-keeping
longevity... no! nein! niet! nie! non!

               i want to love akin to:
you chance is gone, dearest little dove...
when i had my ills, when i had my greatest
troubles... i pulled ip my kilt...
i danced the infernal cèilidh!
           tartans ahoy!
              burry me in the mountains...
speak my name to the Lochs...
               then. simply. forget me!
i'm going elsewhere, i'm...
                    to loved up to be simply hurt...
i'll be waiting at the turnstiles of
how mind disintegrates from
its possession of matter...
    like the thrills of taking a gasping breath...

never take this away from me...
this love sickening disgrace...
i should have been prettily coupled from my early
20s and into my 30s...
already with the baggage of children...
yet here i am... reliving teenager feelings...
lucky? or unlucky me?

i can't stop look at her face...
the last WhatsApp profile picture she took i had
to screenshot... because...
i didn't want to forget her face
in that moment... i wanted her face
to burn into me...

    if this is love? eh... not so bad...
i could give up a decade of living for feel these few
days in my life...
Gerry Cinnamon's... Canter..
didn't Green Day do the same, more politely...
with Time of Your Life?
lyric-wise? i imagine they did...

what a babe... what a *****-nilly lass...
thank god i went to see all those prostitutes...
the male argument about a body count
i'll never mind...
i just want a girl out of a grift from a per se
perspective...
i want to turn a woman into a girl...
i want her all giddy... all afraid...
i want her to be fresh in her own mind
before she gave up too much that she
gave so much away...
i want her... mine...

          i don't care, i don't mind...
i'm not prizing idiocy on my own worth...
last come: at least served...
by now i don't even mind not having my biological
counterpart of little Frankie or
Franklin...
              missed the "boat": forgot about the "train"...
round about now there's only a story of:
well... me might as well enjoy each other's company...
let's try that...
that's enough goodness to want
to attempt at working at it...

no... all the self-help gurus and psychologists
are... right about... now... turning...
into placebos... i'm not listening...
i have my own demands that need to be
met... i'm terribly in love...
i'm bound to a love that's so delusional
that... it's just about right: to stomach
life's realism..

i've sacrificed giving my infatuation
to prostitutes... i've stopped loving
objectively... i posit this as the highest plus...
i want to fall in love with a narrative of a person...
i sifted through... 4 great examples...
i made my mark... which i gave flowers to,
the chess board is set...
now let us see the moves;

come... little arrogant... come a little naked...
come, coy doe...
               i'll be waiting... i'll wait a little while
longer... i'll wait as long as it is necessary...
come... let me ensnare you...
i don't want to merely have you...
i... want to: overcome you...
it's not enough to want...
i want to touch you once you submit...
like i might be touching a mollusk...
and oyster...
i need to open you up... and pry on your
weakness...
what you once reserved for
abusive males...
now i need a return's policy that
puts me in the driving seat...
              oh... now we're going to dance, proper...
it might take us... weeks... months...
i don't care... there are chances that
other women will come in-between: as it has
already happened...
  
            but i'll wait... i'll be waiting...
i mean... landing a girl with a body of a 39 year old...
in her prime... mentally...
i'm going to become a broth of predator and a leech...
no... i'm not going to stop... shyly...
then vigorously... then shyly again..
then vigorously once more... nibbling at her...

let's see what she makes of me...
silly idiot...
       ooh.... i can just imagine it now...
transcending the casual... "non-confrontational" touch
of the hands... with a bite at the lips...
with a bite at the lips...
   imagining her exposure of the thighs...
the grooves in her ear-lopes...
between her knuckles...
        how petite she already is:
how smaller she will reveal herself to be
under my touch...
a project worth dying for, worth living forth:
for.

There they go
The lives you hold
You've got all sorts over there
With all the shared selfies
Committing a crime
Or the man with the melting hair
They're all on the grift
Living luxuriously
While looking down on you and me
Yet this is the leaders we
Chose to be
This craziness goes deeper than
Envy or greed
It's more primal than just the need to
Compete
When twisted by puppeteers
It's a blind zombie fleet
Balling their fists
And kicking their feet
Moaning and wailing
Realization of failing
Staring them right in the eye
Looking aghast at a madman
And admitting
"I followed that guy."

Fox news and OAN,
Ben Shapiro,
and Tucker Carlson,

fake newsmen
versus fake newsmen
vying for the views
of the uninformed population,
trying to defund
public education,
twisting perspectives
while being
super selective
with the message
they are constructing.

Obstructors of truth
as they misdirect
the electorate
with their misconduct;

Stir up fear and anxiety
about people who are
in the same boat
that we are.

A spendthrift grift,
cursing the gift to uplift
that empathy is
and replacing it with
vile slurs and *******.
All that bile interspersed with
the commercials we’ve seen,
cause it is a money making,
hate cultivating machine.

So frustrating
cause it is easy to see
the ouroboros,
that snake that devours itself
after it has destroyed everything else.

i
Painted face sits shotgun
on a pennyfarthing chakra
ridden blindfold.

A twist of spine
swings him pendular
every beat, a half-finished bongo trill
nudges black berets askew.
Goatee stubble corrals galloping speech
into enclosures.

Break comma stop.

ii
The chorus,
a fat thousand-eyed mollusk gapes:
he juggles
a bomb
an asp
a knife.

Does he
drop the bomb, ****** the knife,
let the poisonous snake bite?

With child's plainspokenness
we play rock scissors paper
with death’s ivory hands waiting.

Bomb shatters knife
knife slices snake
snake eludes bomb.

The marks whelp their joy
clapping, weeping
with the thousand hands and eyes
of Guishan Guanyin.

Azrael's eyes
drowned in narcotics
***** from the shadows.
Pupils dilate, prolapse
in a unison of aqueous humour.

A blur of dervish
swallows the air
spreads like virus.

iii
Outside the amphitheatre
wings grazing crumbling walls
Azrael peddles dice.

"Worn from the teeth of a dead Logos," his voices sing
his nebulae of tongues clicking against teeth
arrayed like tombstones inside his abysses of mouths
breath smelling of hemlock and grift.
His stock sells out.

After a rainy night of craps
we hissed graft
in the whorl of the priest's ear.
He went home to bed
and dreamt of riches
pouring from the wounds
of sweat-shop children.

iv
In the morning
eight bells peal.
Eyelids hummingbird beneath a black sun
choking the sky over Styx.

Flayed by owls
flendo cinere
we bask in charcoal
and spit obols
into the ferryman's blistered hand.

Meta?
just another four,
and there are more fours
where that came from,

Silicon Valley
the great grift,
and we thought it was
but now know it is
a place to divide
the spoils
of this war.

Let me peep in
Stick my nose up
Your crack
See whether it's her his or him
Cause I'm a Patriot
Gotta protect whataboutism and
Tax cuts, glory to he who made this country free,
Worried more about business
what Goes on behind doors
Closed than how children eat or
are clothed

more
Interested in Disney than government
And my constituents becoming commies giving one cent to the poor
When all the big corps need tax breaks, you know as is common sense

Let's impeach someone with no proof hoping it increases the odds or better yet ignore the sins of big oranges
2 billion son-in-law got from the Saudis

Why try to improve lives, not about it, when so much grift and enticement we can foster by kissing the rich ***.
It's easier, Cause we aren't the party of religion....we subvert it.  Use it for profit.

Like the old white confederate. We lose but don't die. Gonna keep on keeping on oppressing until you wake up

When I see your 1940s weekend -

Your 'war was fun and cosy' pretence

Your clichéd polyester and fibre glass mockery, 

Re-enacting an imagined happy-go-lucky camaraderie -

Forgive me for not joining in

As I happen to feel it a cardinal sin

To idealise and romanticise a decade

Made up of austerity, rationing and air raids.

Believe me, I've read a little social history:

The 1940s were not idyllic or crime-free

Just as now, there were heroes and villains

Among the soldiers and the civilians.

Yes, heroism abounded but so did black marketeering

Yes, there were brave sacrifices but there was also racketeering

And those city-wide black-outs were a gift

To those who would rob and grift.

Your jolly nostalgic tribute is an annual celebration

Celebrating your own fabrication

Of a time when the machinations of war and a crazed ideology

Saw the near extinction of entire minorities.

Look, I don't wish to be a party pooper

But don't step into the shoes of a made-up trooper

So, please, remove your rose-tinted glasses

To remember that beyond your nostalgic narrative of the routines of the masses

People lived with the daily fear

Of the likely deaths of people they held dear.