i hate it when a ~haiku is forced upon me, but such
is the case, and it's not a case of dittoing out
a mechanical aspect of that body that's
known as vocabulary:
thus, suddenly, as if a ****, or
a reflex the tongue commanded
the entire body -
left-wing obstructions gave way to
right-wing rebelliousness -
    the left said the tongue was no dagger,
the right said: merely a dagger -
the gyroid: or the muscles we never thought
existed! lanky tendons, etc.
    never the microscopic proof reductionism
and never the telescopic proof           ",
always somewhere in the middle:
and that's about right.
               i wrote a poem, it sounded about right
and then i get the wanked-over shoulder
calling it life-support dandruff
because of the many sprouts possible -
as ever: some come and give a voice unto
the people, and some come and give an ought
unto the people.
               a choice that's mutually inclusive
of thought and choice as a battleground
for the mechanisation of language into
sulphur gas and bayonets
and a thousand wildcards charging and screaming
lost toward the bewilderment of
   forgotten sexting.
      what a mighty affair:
the only country delving the prospect of
an atom bomb being dropped again doesn't believe
in munition economics and doesn't see
that the paranoia can be stopped when the capitalist
sober-heads enter and say: but where's the profit?
there's not profit in an atom bomb:
it ends too soon,
     you never got a Hollywood chapter yoyo
      concerning Hiroshima or Nagasaki...
you got one about Pearl Harbor...
a competent act of war... but not like our
civilians really matter: we civilians got the treatment
of being active members of the army,
while the army personnel were given civilian
Pilate status, the army was given civilian status
and the Japanese civilians were given army status...
oh forget the noodle swindler -
that handwritten hoola-hoop spinster of
carbohydrates is long gone...
          or the greatest paranoia against all other
nations comes from a nation that actually used the weapon!
       i could write a haiku version of what i lost,
but i'll still have to write something about you-tube
vloggers and how they are the newest version
of the objective propaganda machine that's in
the Islamic camp of merchants...
       prophet-merchant? give me a break:
if his word doesn't sell, then who's does?
my endorsement? less of a cosmetic light-touch surgeon
attitude, my endorsement is that of
Morphy Richards' Soup Maker...
cooking pumpkin soup...
  pumpkin... well: it's hardly an easy peel when it
comes to cooking butternut squash...
it's a disaster! a hell to endure! no wonder it's the veg
that frighten offs the ghouls and the ghost
you can't peel it, you have to Apache skin it
like getting a colonial wig: scalping your way into
the high court, albeit minus the greyish curls -
******* is a king of culinary demises
that were sought out expeditions -
you have to knife your way beneath the snail-like
shell and then there's that cobweb of mush
with intrinsic fake seeds / flies lodged in
the orange cobweb - for all that effort
i appreciate it more as a lampshade than a food
source... but then the advertised starving Africans
as anti-colonial compensation for "our"
grandfather's recollection of monochromatic cultures,
before globalisation took off.. hmm.
the soup? pumpkin, potato, onion, garlic,
nutmeg, paprika, chicken stock,
salt and pepper to taste...
tomorrow? a pumpkin risotto...
hey! seasonal abundance, Spanish strawberries
in late winter are too watery anyway...
   people forgot that certain things taste better
in season, that's namely fruits and vegetables...
   go outside your fancy, outside your whim,
you'll finally have to say: my eyes eat
at the very credibility of such things being
there without the season... but my tongue does not
taste the thing that requires a pentagonal sense
honing in toward an agreed to democracy:
it ain't there... as ever autumnal fruits make their
way toward the culinary redcarpet -
                   apples, pears....
     but the real ice brokers remain tangled in
the gnostics of dairy *****: you only see the *****
when the milk turns sour...
              and the two segregate
their cauliflower bergs and that pristine seethrough
        matrix -
then it's like watching the 1054 schism:
          aquasal herring
                               and aquadulci tench -
as painful as listening to my father speak english:
it's just ****** painful,
i write english and speak it like an Anglo
   and he speaks it like an Arab:
with me it's: left right left right left right
and his is an ancient form of actual Latin
              right left right left right left -
of the tongues that appropriated the Latin lingua
optics that weren't conquered it's the same as it was
for Seneca of Virgil, e.g. red beast / proof of all
scientific generic category principle: **** sapiens
                  upright man / bestia rufus -
and that's still orange beast - then aliq for yellow:
then liquid and runny khaki - a monetary equivalent
of money.
          but of the tongues
                      which is why i kept my mother tongue,
i can't imagine what would have been the case
had i not kept it intact... i'd be whitey boy bleached
into an anaemic Arian with those rubbery red
             lost for words rabbit crazy irises that
albinos sport when on the sociopathic treadmill:
that's a daily commute for most people.
i should have anticipated something better coming
out of a forced bad gateway message when
i tried to published and didn't save the outcry...
but it was never a reality when defined by a few
people... it always necessarily the many,
the market square, the hustle and bustle,
     then again few took to ****** to say love...
understandable: if something is called private
it's not called reality, because so many people
have so much **** to say in public that they
treat private life as a tabernacle -
reverse that and suddenly you find people
who possess a "voice for the multitude",
but not (not oddly enough) a thought -
ah the caring scream when not bound to
the horror genre of politics: it's too late!
               end here: a prior to rather than, a
desirably said to appease and conform:
by now we're all cited as having only said
an onomatopoeia of what words should sound like -
we're found hacking a door to shreds with
an axe, rather than merely curling our hands
so the knuckles can be used to knock on the door.
still, i made pumpkin soup today,
tomorrow i'll make a pumpkin risotto -
and the pumpkin is, rightfully, the halloween king
of all vegetables: i am not surprised it's the perfect
lampshade people leave outdoors -
hell of a thing to peel, a butternut squash
would have been simpler to make...
but for the first time in my life:
  i actually appreciate the colour orange...
as said: cooker orange is beyond that fluorescent
acidity of a citrus fruit:
  cooked orange is actually grand...
raw citrus orange?                and a handful
of creepy crawlies.
    funny how the spectrum necessarily made me
endorse a soup maker, rather than the next
big thing in the realm of toothpaste and mascara.

There were times in my life
Where I was satisfied with the world
Now it’s different
Because all it seems to give me is hurt

A void in my chest,
Filled with nothing but emptiness
The same sensation I feel when I’m asleep
Or when I try to rest

It’s hard feeling positive when this life’s against you
It seems all it wants to do is grind you up, best you
Bless you,
You’re probably far better off
Got the dreams and inspiration that keeps you going and you can’t stop

So don’t
Don’t ever lose your faith
Because when you do you start to question
Your position in the human race

What am I good for,
Am I just for entertainment?
If that’s so, then why the
Element of overwhelming sadness?

I’m not scared, in fact,
Far from it
But it’s just sometimes I struggle
To cope with this ****

I deal with it alone
Gunslinging my way through
Drawing pistols, shots firing
Not enough bullets and I’m *******

I tried pistol-whipping my problems
But I couldn’t
If you’re down on your defenses then
You probably shouldn’t

Call for backup and extra munition
Do it quick and do it soon
Because I left it far too late
And sometimes I feel like I’m doomed

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence

Talking helps to solve things
It helps to make me feel pure
It makes me feel good then
Doesn’t last long, it’s no cure

I do try to make it work,
But negativity puts in twice the effort
I was never positive to begin with
So I get twice the hurt

Sadness I can deal with
Because I can make it fade
All I need is a good song
On a cloudy, rainy day

I sing along to sad tunes
And let myself cry it all out
Afterwards I feel a bit better
And my eyes are in drought

So I go outside and smack my bag
The punching bag I have
I like to picture hated faces
When I’m feeling mad

I frame them for my anger
Because they made me go deeply through
And I hate being mad, I’d rather be sad
Is it the same for you?

I called out for help, took half a year to get
But better late than never whenever I feel really upset
I just write a little rhyme, a crazy song a bit like this
It helps at times when I look back and strongly reminisce

Other times it makes it worse, some things you should forget
And when I look back on them I drown in my regret
Some things I should’ve said, others maybe not
But at least I’m not like my other friends who blaze it away with ***

****, where’d that come from?
A well deep down that holds all the **** in this world that I know is wrong?
Sometimes I think that maybe I’m floating at the top
But my psychologist doesn’t agree, whenever I say that she makes me stop

It’s only a voice called Nightmare, my persistent inner critic
Who criticizes my every move, likes to make me feel like ****
He feeds off it, an inner demon set to self-destruct
Telling me everything I do is wrong, that it’s not just the world that’s ******

And I listen, but why should I?
When he asks me to Google tying nooses so I can just ******* die
And it’s only because, sometimes I feel I want to
But don’t listen to these voices, don’t want this to happen to you

I wanna write a goodbye letter sometime, just to have it there
Because if there’s something that makes me scared it’s seeing a loved one’s tear
So if I’m not there, perhaps it’ll make me feel better
I get told I can’t die, but never say never

Humanity has mortality and a lack of morality
Perhaps we all crazy too, a little lack of sanity
But just know, no matter what happens it’s reality
And you should always see the best in whatever is happening

I know I can’t, or at least I can’t yet
Those things I mentioned before, that drown me in regret?
That’s a part of my world, a part of my experience
**** it, what I’m saying is this **** is our existence

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence

I hate my Dad sometimes, he makes me really ******
He has PTSD, takes it out on me and gets away with it
I mean, my step mum moved out, she saw it happen clearly
Did anybody stop and take time to perhaps think of me?

No? Just another waste of time?
A bad investment, a depression that took form and left its basement?
**** it all, I never helped anyone
That’s Nightmare for you, I listen to him when I write songs

He gives me inspiration in a way I guess I feed off him
But it can be difficult sometimes, to let him loose because he slips
Up and takes me down, ironically it’s why I’m writing now
To show you all that if you hear him, don’t listen to the sound

Of a desperate voice in desperate times, let him just die
Don’t even try to talk to him, give up let him cry
Don’t feel bad afterwards, it isn’t ******
It’s survival of the fittest  and he’ll eventually wanna hurt her

You got a special someone don’t you? He wants their soul
He will play any card to get a chance to devour them whole
So don’t stop, keep your dreams
And let those pesky Nightmares slip by unseen

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence


It may make you stop at times, and question your existence
But if this should happen to you, move along, be strong in your persistence

*Where I can't

From Amiens upon the Somme
Across the land into the Salient
Our brave men toed the ebbing line

Through wire and mines
Through mud and blood
Through many men and horses shred
Under sun and moon
Through wet and flake
Little rest they won as they fought
The testing yards and inching miles

The scent of death clear in their heads
Their nostrils burning from hell resent
Cauterised wounds some munition singed a deathly end for some
Their eyes by night a blazing fired earth of blues Oranges yellows Reds

Their ears ringing whistles and drums
A sense of booming dread as all around the melee continued
Death by death, Man by man, Son by son
Precious sons many in numbers they did succumb
To the battle cry of walk not run

Blood curdling in their gas filled lungs
Fungi in their rotting boots
Sweat and tears in itchy suits
Muscles aching tendons taught
Nerves for some as they were next
To mount and face the hidden land
Where fate would deal its dreaded blow
On to meet the dreadful wall of death

Choice was none, no turning back
They stood as force though force would guide, those of fear and wisdom's stand,
Over, or rest where shot by those by order for descent


© Robert Kingston 17.10.14

The mad professor of slapping the lesser
the bad aggressor, facts to beat the guesser
no more oppressor, killed by the successor
the glad possessor, words against suppressor

waiting for the dormant informant to storm it
debating when to swarm and transform it
it's hard to form a new form and perform it
you never conform it's cold and you warm it

the mad magician of having rhymers wishin
the new edition, hell bent on transmission
so much ambition, with no need for permission
the new munition, made for demolition

Welcome back. the tent is raised.
our town is razed,
our eyes go unfazed
Unable to escape a dream come true
Unable to expect to be left with so few.
A calculated loss, given attrition
given munition, and a lack of nutrition.
It wasn't war that we asked for, we just wanted peace.
It wasn't you that we die for, the dignity belongs to ourselves.
When you play that melody on your piano,
In your private home,
Remember me.

There were times in my life
Where I was satisfied with the world
Now it’s different
Because all it seems to give me is hurt

A void in my chest,
Filled with nothing but emptiness
The same sensation I feel when I’m asleep
Or when I try to rest

It’s hard feeling positive when this life’s against you
It seems all it wants to do is grind you up, best you, bless you,
You’re probably far better off
Got the dreams and inspiration that keep you going and you can’t stop

So don’t
Don’t ever lose your faith
Because when you do you start to question
Your position in the human race

What am I good for,
Am I just for entertainment?
If that’s so, then why the
Element of overwhelming sadness?

I’m not scared, in fact,
Far from it
But it’s just sometimes I struggle
To cope with this ****

I deal with it alone
Gunslinging my way through
Drawing pistols, shots firing
Not enough bullets and I’m *******

I tried pistol-whipping my problems
But I couldn’t
If you’re down on your defenses then
You probably shouldn’t

Call for backup and extra munition
Do it quick and do it soon
Because I left it far too late
And sometimes I feel like I’m doomed

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence

Talking helps to solve things
It helps to make me feel pure
It makes me feel good then
Doesn’t last long, it’s no cure

I do try to make it work,
But negativity puts in twice the effort
I was never positive to begin with
So I get twice the hurt

Sadness I can deal with
Because I can make it fade
All I need is a good song
On a cloudy, rainy day

I sing along to sad tunes
And let myself cry it all out
Afterwards I feel a bit better
And my eyes are in drought

So I go outside and smack my bag
The punching bag I have
I like to picture hated faces
When I’m feeling mad

I frame them for my anger
Because they made me go deeply through
And I hate being mad, I’d rather be sad
Is it the same for you?

I called out for help, took half a year to get
But better late than never whenever I feel really upset
I just write a little rhyme, a crazy song a bit like this
It helps at times when I look back and strongly reminisce

Other times it makes it worse, some things you should forget
And when I look back on them I drown in my regret
Some things I should’ve said, others maybe not
But at least I’m not like my other friends who blaze it away with ***

****, where’d that come from?
A well deep down that holds all the **** in this world that I know is wrong?
Sometimes I think that maybe I’m floating at the top
But my psychologist doesn’t agree, whenever I say that she makes me stop

It’s only a voice called Nightmare, my persistent inner critic
Who criticizes my every move, likes to make me feel like ****
He feeds off it, an inner demon set to self-destruct
Telling me everything I do is wrong, that it’s not just the world that’s ******

And I listen, but why should I?
When he asks me to Google tying nooses so I can just ******* die
And it’s only because, sometimes I feel I want to
But don’t listen to these voices, don’t want this to happen to you

I wanna write a goodbye letter sometime, just to have it there
Because if there’s something that makes me scared it’s seeing a loved one’s tear
So if I’m not there, perhaps it’ll make me feel better
I get told I can’t die, but never say never

Humanity has mortality and a lack of morality
Perhaps we all crazy too, insufficient in sanity
But just know, no matter what happens to us all it’s still reality
And you should always see the best in whatever is happening

I know I can’t, or at least I can’t yet
Those things I mentioned before, that drown me in regret?
That’s a part of my world, a part of my experience
**** it, what I’m saying is this **** is our existence

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence

I hate my Dad sometimes, he makes me really ******
He has PTSD, takes it out on me and gets away with it
I mean, my step mum moved out, she saw it happen clearly
Did anybody stop and take time to perhaps think of me?

No? Just another waste of time?
A bad investment, a depression that took form and left its basement?
**** it all, I never helped anyone
That’s Nightmare for you, I listen to him when I write songs

He gives me inspiration in a way I guess I feed off him
But it can be difficult sometimes, to let him loose because he slips
Up and takes me down, ironically it’s why I’m writing now
To show you all that if you hear him, don’t listen to the sound

Of a desperate voice in desperate times, let him just die
Don’t even try to talk to him, give up let him cry
Don’t feel bad afterwards, it isn’t ******
It’s survival of the fittest and he’ll eventually wanna hurt her

You got a special someone don’t you? He wants their soul
He will play any card to get a chance to devour them whole
So don’t stop, keep your dreams
And let those pesky Nightmares slip by unseen

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence

It may make you stop at times, and question your existence
But if this should happen to you, move along, be strong in your persistence

Where I can't

squirt (title): pompoms scream (body) - to bypass the 502 Error Gateway...

second shift at Craven Cottage, the Fulham stadium...
well **** me...
i was in luck! Tony, this ex-military supervisor
asked me straight up: you want to do pitch-side?
do i?! the first shift i did was walking around
the park outside the venue, meeting & greeting incoming
fans... but to be allocated a more responsible role?!
you cannot believe how refreshing work has become:
you cannot believe how refreshing tiredness from
work has also become...
i don't know how it happened, but...
ARBEIT MACHT FREI is... ringing high and loud...
perhaps that slogan over a concentration camp
was always a bad joke...
i can't imagine that the Germans thought all the Hebrews
were lazy, not diligent workers...
even my grandfather remembers Hebrews in Poland
selling matchsticks and getting rich,
after all, what was that pre-war saying the Hebrews
had when putting down Polacks?
ah... wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets, our tenements...
maybe the Germans thought that a lot of Hebrews were
studying in the Yeshiva? nothing practical for society,
or that all Hebrews were somehow rabbis...
whatever it was... well a slogan above the entrance
to a concentration camp: where in a concentration
camp you'd perform a parody of work,
e.g. move one sack of rocks from one end of the camp
to another, to later move it back...
it's not like concentration camps were... munition factories...
a German bad joke...
but if, like me, you spent your 20s and early 30s
working in patches... the odd week on a construction site
doing some roofing, the odd month...
but mostly concentrating on writing...
and now this, steward at a football match...
some rigour re-imbued, some strategy,
some responsibility... i can't press the matter further...
sure, i'm not a football player, i'm not a film actor,
i'm not even the head safety officer in the ground...
i only put on some identifying clothes...
an accreditation badge and a uniform...
what did i get? people asking me questions as to where
to go, if they were sat in the correct seat...
for a man to feel useless, to be without authority:
that's horrible, writing poo'ems would never give me
that...
a compliment from a supervisor when i pointed
out that a woman was drinking wine in view
of a football pitch: which is illegal...
'nicely spotted'... after he approached her and asked
her to finish her wine from view of the pitch...
at the end of the match three boys came up to me
and asked me whether they could
pinch a piece of the pitch...
i let them... how their faces illuminated the place:
it was so dear to them: i couldn't just not let them
(mind you, they only pinched a piece of the astro-turf
lining the actual grass pitch, they didn't hear
that they were pinching fake grass...
let me leave them happy, after all...
i was providing a service)...

prior to leaving for Putney Bridge from Newbury Park
(first getting two buses there,
oh, i'd say a good decent 2 hour trip,
i've started to fall in love with commuting)...
one quick hot dog, with a Turkish toppish
of squeezed onions, parsley,
white wine vinegar, salt, sugar, gochugaru chilli flakes
& some sumac - well... squeezing the onions
releases their juices, making them less bitter:
actually sweet...
i only came back to Romford on the 86 bus
having arrived by train from Stratford
to Goodmayes - it's still zone 4...
all buses are zones one to four... Romford being
in zone six (if using a train or the tube)...
a two piece chicken meal with fries & a coca cola
zero... gulped down at approx. 12:20...
then... the most glorious cigarette to add smokiness
to the digestion...

starting work, proper, in your mid-30s...
while your 20s were spent unravelling a psychotic breakdown,
borderline schizophrenia:
that wouldn't fly, my supposed "schizophrenia"
dissolved when the element of bilingualism came in...
why should i only "hear voices" in English...
when i didn't hear them in ******?
the illness made no sense...
it didn't tap into my bilingualism...
why?! i read up a lot on this topic,
from Julian Jaynes, Jung, Richard Bentall,
R. D. Laing... no mention of schizophrenia coming up
against bilingualism...
misdiagnosis?!
i was never going to be merely a ******* victim...

now i see the bigger picture, music always helps...
the overseer - glass + unbreakable soundtrack,
James Howard's theme...
sure, the bonus of being pitch-side was also being
able to watch the match...
making new friends... well... colleagues...
i talked with Danny about our interests...
his was crypto-currency mine was music & cycling...
he used to cycle: until he hit a tree...
blah blah... time flies when you're talking...

oh such a little role of heroism on my part...
just minding people...
all this life truly requires is these little roles of heroism,
of responsibility...

i was at university, dated... i worked as a sub-contracting
roofer on construction sites...
i'm sorry to say this...
no relationship with a woman comes close...
to the amount of satisfaction received from
having a role that's more than a mere job you get paid for...
being responsible for the safety of others is...
probably somewhere in the hierarchy of where
the status of teacher is placed...
yet not with the current affairs of pedagogy:
of indoctrinating younglings into ideology:
whatever it's called these days...
intersectional *******, anti-racism, critical race theory...
teach them ******* English: the language,
teach them geography, chemistry, history,
don't turn them into spineless zombies
where they resort to a "rebellion" of succumbing
to football fanaticism...

me & Danny concluded: he "supports" Arsenal,
i "support" West Ham... but, "support": not really...
i just love the sport itself... i wouldn't be found a mile away
from the nearest crowd of avid club chanters...

my god, how refreshing to be in a position of authority,
even if it involves being at the bottom
of the hierarchy, being merely a pawn...
i can pull it off though... a welcoming yet intimidating look...
6ft2, 98kg... two jackets clad...
arms folded in front of me, arms folded at my back...
calm, collected... smiling... observant...
perhaps relationships with women were great...
they filled that void i was fed by literature prior
to my engagement with the opposite ***...
did i leave these relationships disillusioned?
of course!

   would i ever return to them? my heart is a stone...
mein herz ist ein kleinstein...
it has stopped bothering me, it bothers me less & less...
i'm not built for love, for romance,
that's why i don't want to write about it,
or even think about it...
i imagine that should a scenario present itself...
i'd be loved: but i wouldn't be able to love...
i'd merely... insinuate... i'd be on the receiving end
whilst doing the utmost minimal to
reciprocate... i'd be a cold-hearted *******...
oh... the mushy-colt aged 21 is long gone...
thank god...
could i love again? intimacy i can get with
a ******* in a brothel and not think twice
that a girl outside the profession of prostitution might
not give me an *******: again: is there something
wrong with me? why can a ******* give me
an ******* while some random girl picked up
in a bar, can't?!

i prefer talking to strangers than i ever preffered
talking to established friends...
it's not high-school anymore... there's no more
high-school banter... come to think of it...
the formality and the clear lines one cannot trespass
when conversing with strangers / colleagues...
come to think of it:
i'd tend to tell strangers more than the people
i was friends with... taboos enter the dynamics of friendships...
you can't tell of your innermost woes to friends,
after all... with friends you're supposed
to have a good time! no?

**** that... with strangers, with my shadow...
i burned down the bridges of my friendships a long time ago...
now i walk in the realm of Hades...
and i'm all the happier for it...
there were four major attachments in my life...
i lost one in the past year: my grandfather...
under circumstances that are, to be frank... rather horrid...
and... now that over a year has passed...
i feel... no... not relieved... i feel: RE-LEASED...
from some sort of heartbreak *******...

it's coming up to a quarter to 3am...
i have a shift this Sunday at the Wembley Stadiun
for the women's FA final,
my supervisor told me as i left Craven Cottage
that there was a good chance i'd get a chance to work
indoors... **** yes...
plenty of children to burn my eyes out:
not mine, not mine, thank god for that...
i don't need to be a father to them...
what a release from some bogus obligation that
in life you have to procreate...
hell... others can do that for me... i can just stand watch
and observe how...
this be the verse, Philip Larkin...
little chance of failure, or disappointment...
the Pontius Pilate approach...

it's a quarter to 3am and i just finished my shift,
my feet are somewhat sore, somewhat chilly,
who would have thought
that standing in one place, or two places
could be so exhausting: i'd rather walk a length of
a marathon than stand on duty...
the air outside looks like... a glass of water
with someone having splashed a dollop of milk into it...
it's so... murky, so... ambivalent...
so literally foggy...

no, not me... i was once the great romantic...
after being injected with the three musceteers,
with Stendhal's the scarlet & black...
i'm the one now saying:
work is better than an intimate relationship with
a woman... moi?! pour putain de l'intention
(is that, for ****'s sake?)
i'm trying to word with with spite...
i'my trying, i'm trying... no... no good...
on the way back some girls eyeing me up...
i try to think of the guys not being eyed up...
invisible creatures...
i hope i'm not much to look at either...
but can a woman do more for me than work?
i don't think so...
i'm such a fan of this hierarchic dynamic,
a work ethic, professionalism...
i don't think i could give myself up, on a whim...
my life can leave traces of fulfillment i generate myself:
this writing... well... it's obviously not Tolstoy...
just a product of these times...
i'll settle for that...
i'll also settle for being merely any overseer in a football
stadium than a rock-star, or actor:
never mind being a heart-surgeon...

but me, the once great romantic...
reduced to a function that mere guarantees him
a pawn status... the microcosm of overseeing
a football match: it is merely a microcosm...
in the grand scheme of things:
a newly found focus... returning with gladness to:
i am small... i'm a unit...
i am insignificant... writing creatively can rob you
of this perspective... infuse you with a sickly
megalomania...
it's best to return, to reality, to people...
away from the high-brow insecurities of an ivory
tower... it's so... refreshing...
after all, no Hamlet here, no Auld Lang Syne...

no... and all the better for it...
maybe it was a bad joke that the Germans posted on
the entrance of concentration camps:
it was... if concentration camps became
munition factories... but sieving sand:
in order to sieve more sand... to perform
Sisyphus tasks... while also exterminating the potential
workers? why not think of it as essentially failing:
when the essentiality of existence was lost?

but... translated, outside of the context
of a concentration camp? arbeit macht freit?
work set's you free... i can forget about my shortcomings...
my shortcomings are replaced with responsibilities...
i can forget about elaborating this tongue to my idiosyncrasy
and focus on formal communication...
i can live parallel lives...
i can have two lives...

as i have a prowess to wield of two tongues...
i can also... wield two lives....
and i don't even need to have a wife, to have children...
i can pass off being some loner since,
i hold a relationship with myself that grounds me
differently to others: others who are exposed
to their solitude, those who do not write,
who do not add form to their being,
who refuse to experience themselves with depth...
who switch off after their swift rather than switch on...

oh, these people are apparent... chamaleon me...
i turn into a right extrovert when a situation imposes itself
on me... yet writing is not a clear aspect of extroversion...
writing is an introvert's project...
yet how these two (aspects) are consolidated has
become... rather: a revelation to me...
i never put it into practice, mind you...
now that i have...

should all the final connections of significance die
and i'll be left alone...
just give me a "lesser" creature to bother me...
perhaps a dog... but more likely a cat...
i like the cats' take on placebo solipsism...

père corbeau...

   me, disavowing the chance of romance with a woman
over a desire to fulfill the role of steward,
sure, while i do my idiot writing on the side...
"idiot": it's never going to reach Fifty Shades of Grey
traction... then again:
i don't think i'll ever write something that exhausts me,
disappoints me... i'll just write what's made available...
what i want... come whoever may wish to come...
and a nice filter to boot... this will never be spoken
in either audio or a video format...
why bother unwanted attention,
made all the more accessible via audio or video?

what's it called? camaraderie? a select number of people
don't want something being spoilt,
by the intrusion of a greater number of people?
a loss of familiarity?
it's life... a phase of transition...
we're only taking a few people with us...
within the framework of memory, of a shared experience...
it's very much unlike a football match...
a football match consists of 11 players...
either side of the opposing teams...
the staff involved with the teams...
the stewards at the venue... blah blah blah...
very much unlike writing...

walk the moon - shut up & dance with me....
that sort of colt is not coming back....
even all those regretfully looking girls coming out of
clubs in Romford, stumbling, obviously not being
able to handle their drink...
oh, that guy is not coming back...
once upon a time taking a ******* a date to
the Tate Modern for an Edward Hopper exhibition,
then to the cinema to see a movie, Troy,
then some sushi... sending her off on the train
with my then friend messaging me
she said she felt butterflies in her stomach...
said "friend" later, years later, sending her a phallus-"selfie"...
ah.. RE-AH-LI-TY everyone's worse nightmare...
any psychotic's bread-and-butter...
so engrossed in it it would be impossible
to simply vacate it, leave it...
come the marriage with death... only then...

servus! neugefundenmann!
oh... hallo mich!

I'm chomping on heavenly bodies and
the planets loitering their orbit
hoping to absorb any life that may be dormant
A last ditch attempt at terraforming my decent
Tho I think my receipt will read like a sun blistered sticker
slipping through the breeze
Forgive my apprehensiveness
We're all here for the cheese
no need to pretend like that aint the decree

Mold me into munition for that elusive nimbus
so I can choke on 21st century carbon emissions
It's an exhibition on long lost mannerisms
we've kept hidden from mainstream modernism
It's what kick-starts our canines in the dark
That tickle down your throat that bites like bark
A ******* dart cuddled by a vampire's heart

When nuclear becomes fusion and our computers
stop computing we will reclaim what it means to be human
Magic is not just an illusion it's a mouthful of music
you chew and keep chewing til your eyes visualize solutions
You don't need to be a mathematician to grasp the equation
just be you and keep moving in a disorderly fashion

Chains are chains regardless of their length
I prefer mine akin to an anchor so I can conquer
the depths of this bottomless bunker
The drain leads towards terrain that looks more like rain
and that's where you can find the best air to breath

We must try harder
Even we will arrive late
Don't tell me give up
I am not losing faith
I will make you proud
Just watch and wait
I don't listen to the crowd
They don't block my sight

Are you done or I can continue
This is just a motivation to trace the road
The future is ours me and you
Tomorrow is coming and I started to workload
There is always a problem but it is not the issue
Make in your head that the goods will flowed
All the knowledge i share with you
To you to remember that is gonna blowed
We must be ready to get what's brand new
And don't lose the path and the battery load

Don't get me wrong it is not a fiction
We need break out of this mind prison
Ask for GOD to light our vision
And get us out of this dark illusion
The road is far pick up your munition
It is a volition and a conviction
We will succeed with our parents benediction
And the encourage of the friends without hesitation
So stay in the right road and claim your future position
Never say it's too late or it is a malediction
You can melt down the wall with nobody permission
And cross the mountain, it's just my opinion
Arrived or not it is your prediction

Sometime you, you become the problem
Searching for the glory and the famous stardom
Don't flinch, don't blink, don't search for the freedom
You are free but not in the garden of eden
Let go and embrace the moment
Tomorrow is definitely coming
Stay steady stay strong and fight even
All is gonna be alright if you believe in

Steady, strong, what you talking about
Garden, heaven, are you crazy or nuts
Famous and glory you will find out
Don’t tell me it is me the problem and you shuts
It is not you or me the decider for us both
Let me dream about my future and my goals
And see myself beyond as a survivor in Noah’s boat

One strike from the air should be considered one airstrike
yet here in America we conflate air raids with airstrikes.

We say one plane dropping one bomb is an airstrike
but five planes dropping twenty bombs is also an airstrike
obfuscating the definition of the term
to lessen its rhetorical effect
and the statistics of our shady war efforts.

In terms of airstrikes we should count every explosive munition
because on the ground people are dealing with individual impacts
but our imperial aerial view makes it look like just one big explosion.

I am A Child
No Matter how Much I am Kind ,
They  Immersed Dejection In My Mind
My  Wanted Mother , That Sport I couldn t Find ,
HElp Me , Get closer To Me With An Aid,
Chop Chop ,Surger :  At The Drop of The Hat  CHop His  Head ,
Roger !
At The End
They d  store My Ashes within A  Shed
I am From Syria ,
I see Debris Everywhere In This Area ,
Exchanged Shapes as A Flechette
Military Bases  are everywhere Sat Up
How Can I Drive myself away from this Arena ?
Do Not Ask Me AsK China !
Maybe that statement is Lame ,
But Everything is True
It s not A Game
you just Don t Have A Clue ,
What Will you Do With The Fame
If Donald Trump Is Your Name ?
What A shame
Someone Who is Barking out rather  than ironing out
Mental Disorder ,  You are Out ,
Your Strategies Will Never work out
Because :

I M Syrian ,
You Are American ,
I am An Angel ,
You Are A  Villain ,
I am A Dark Horse ,
Who Got A Charley Horse ,
Who One day ,
Himself he Will reinforce ,
So we would Play Together Counter Strike Source !

Miserable Chlidhood ,
That cheered up my Manhood
Like I m Living the Tale of Robin Hood
Grasping A Machibe Gun ,
Fighting For The Country
Helping The Army
Everything Has Become A Fun ,
Reload !
How Does it sound ...
When kins are Laid  Down on The Ground ?
How Does it Sound
When Others  survive for Another Life 's Round ?
Shoot , Bullets , Munition , Rifle ...
Fire , Demolish,  ,pistol ,  Deagle ...
Nightmarish War ,
Landmines , planted C Four
It s A GraveGarden
Locked portals
I can t Unfasten
the Liberty Key has been Stolen ?
Then Journalism starts spinning A Yarn
That we are living like Horses ,
In A Secure Barn ,
Who is The Reporter :?
None !

But :

I M Syrian ,
You Are American ,
I am An Angel ,
You Are A  Villain ,
I am A Dark Horse ,
Who Got A Charley Horse ,
Who One day ,
Himself he Will reinforce ,
So we would Play Together Counter Strike Source !