hey! i don't mind the dodo! i don't have some neuroticism encompassing vitriol to continue: but sure as ****, you do. what happens when the white ladies die off? **** a monkey?! i accept my fate, like you accept your being bound to heavenly graces of continuum inexhausted with death being a lost concept of compensation... it only takes 2 generations to revise the piglet race... so... where's the competing element of nervosity? really? really?! existential blackmail?! is this how low it has to be grounded in? look at me, do i look like i actually give, a ****?! maybe you do, but this existential blackmail in the anglophone world of puritanical darwinism is not for more... i already find it hard raising jerking off in this world, let alone a pair of tadpoles... honest to god, it's already hard raising a pristine jerking off, let alone a pair of children.

i'm still trying to figure out this existential anglophone
blackmail... it's been bothering me for
ages... i simply can't fathom it...
i really can't stop seeing it as an existential blackmail...
that i somehow need to reproduce...
   that i'm somehow needed, my genes are speaking
to the darwinistic affection
of keeping "form"... can i just say that i don't
get it?! can i just cite that
darwinism has a negative impetus strategy for
invoking existentialism?
    can i just say that darwinism belongs on
the isles, and existentialism
belongs on the continent, and that the two never
are allowed to mingle?
no? so why do i feel blackmailed
into "needing" to reproduce?
besides the point, i never intended,
i was one of the one child state policy of china,
we were always the weirdos -
but the english have half a wits' worth
of understanding of existentialism,
they kept **** *******
darwinism, sorry, but they did...
an ex-girlfriend's father once asked
me: what are the famous poles?
i forgot to reply...
copernicus, marie curie,
          chopin?
   no, doesn't ring a bell in your
paddy sodden brain? **** me,
i'm always late when it comes to
insulting someone, it usually takes me
years upon years to reply an insult...
which makes everything a really bad joke.
but i hate how english existentialism
took off,
   just as bad as my late reaction to
an insult's worth of joke...
     existentialism & darwinism do not exactly
mingle...
        come on, you have to be kidding me...
when it comes to english existentialism
(covert darwinism): i am being blackmailed...
i am literally being blackmailed into
some form of apartheid...
some sort of quasi: apartheid...
no, i'm not equipping myself
with misnomer tactics -
         i'm being blackmailed to: "continue"
my "species"...
  last time i checked,
i couldn't give two ***** of concern
for *queen sheeba's prophecy
of the world being populated by
the copper skinned peoples...
i.e. cuprum populus...
                 somehow darwinism,
existentialism and populism and the general
of competition, have created a toxic affair
of: a complete lack of competing energisation;
sure! the jews will win their "prize"
of recanting their jewel prize of ten diadem
rules...
     among the choccies and the copper skins;
don't you think the jews look a bit
odd, a bit out of place, given that they're
so white, in the middle east?
         oh right, no i remember:
stating the obvious huh? is now considered
a hate speech;
so the fact that the jews returned to the middle
east: kinda bleached, is not, "a bit" weird?
can i have those magic mushrooms now?

Sometimes,
I imagine I'm some
mourning starlet
who sings Lana Del Rey
at the club
every Saturday night.

A honeyed halo of stage light
tangles itself about
the curled labyrinth
of my hair,
sparkles gold against
my tearing irises.

My mouth parts
and the war cries begin.

In the moments that
the melody offers
my voice repose,
I pound shots to the beat
of the drummer's ramblings.

The crowd applauds
my tipsiness,
their hoots of praise
shaking at the depths
of my eardrums
like an intoxicated tambourine.

My neuroticism
fascinates these people,
I think.

Not in an
exploitive,
let's-glamourize-depression
kind of way,
but in an
it is a truth universally acknowledged
kind of way--in a
"*******, cuz I've been there too"
kind of way.

See,
within my little,
concocted fantasy
of stage light
and music
and *****,
the people don't judge me
the way they do
on the outside.

Here,
I am not
melodramatic or
overly sensitive or
disposable.

Here,
my war cries sound
a little less
like death and
a little more
like poetry.

Here,
they love me
in spite of the sadness.

Here,
we share a song--
here,
they sing with me.

She kicked me out of bed first thing in the morning
I didn’t even have time to make us breakfast
Not that she was hungry
She seemed satiated enough
So I left
and later met a friend for lunch

He was kicked out of bed first thing in the morning
He didn’t even have time to make his new lover breakfast
Not that he would have eaten
He seemed satiated enough
So my friend left
And he met me for lunch

Our attempts at fuckery find us
Not too far from one another
It is the distance of a coffee table in a diner
After we make our way to the wayside again

We both have water
And it washes our pallets clean
Of the liquor
And the cigarettes
And her mouth
And his mouth

Still lingering a little bit bitter
So we sip some more

These are sheets we leave behind so stained
That you hope the passion will stay
Until there are so many it doesn’t matter anymore
These one night stands will never feel any less *****

The spots of sweat and memory
That still won’t wash out
So many
They look like constellations
As the sheets hang to dry

I imagine they trace out your body
Not just your body
Any body

So generic now
It makes The Shroud of Turin
Look the aftermath of Babylon’s midnight bustle

These are the ways that love leaves you
Hanging you wet to dry
Stained and *****
And equally alone again

Forgive me for the way my mind wanders
I am still with you
I just didn’t want to *** yet

These are the ways my body leaves me
And then you
The morning after I accidentally told you I love you
Even though we just met

I have found and lost love
Enough times to secure my spot in hell by now
I mean
My fear of death his hell enough
To love you as much as I can

Forgive my neuroticism
As I leave again
Finding myself where my fuckery leaves me

At lunch
With a friend
Who is equally awkward
As we make way to the wayside again

They said our 20s were supposed to be easy
They never said that i would have to
Count backwards from one hundred to
Curb a breakdown
They said sedation will calm you
Down
But no one ever considered
That my neuroticism is what gave
Me my power to write

No one prepared me for the nights
I dont remember
For the car accidents that happened
But never really happened
The accidents that only existed as scars
On my car
That my splintered mirrors
Only showed a fraction of my illness

I was never supposed to be the person
To leave the party early
Because there was an anomaly in the wallpaper
I was unable to ignore

No one prepares you for the enemies
You make of yourself
Or the holes in your memory
Where your dignity leaks out

I never knew I could tell the time
By counting my tears on my tile floor
And that  springs of my
Bed would twang the sad anthem id never sing

Because i was bloated with
The probability that
My anxiety was
Scrawled on my skin
That my anguish was apparent
And my life floated in a glass
Half empty
And ever-transparent

I believed
No one would want to be with
Someone with so much baggage
I had to check in in order to get on a plane

Ive spent my 20s on the verge of
Implosion
I was never meant to
Crave sterility
And the absence of emotion

What if my mispoken words
Were perfectly aligned
With the trajectory of my life
And that I was meant to
Teach people
Through this story
That even the
“Wrong words come
Out right”

I want to write
About suns and moons
Stars
Being strong
Of rising above it all

But

It always comes back
To you
And you
And sometimes you

Rage and grief
Confusion
Neuroticism
Jealousy

So

I'll start there

so yeah,*
i threw up thrice yesterday
let my fingers tip the trigger
& stroke my neuroticism
i just wanted to cheat:
synchronize my gut & brain
remove the abandon that
i fear with my entire being
lest it spread like a virus

yes, i’m ashamed of
that violent emptying,
of the maniac Itch that
takes ahold of me when
i feel i have no control
over the territory between
hope & disappointment
& these dramatic emotions
that render me so **** happy

but now,
i’ve begun to realize
that i can’t erase the past
& perhaps, it’s better to just
swallow my pride & place
my worth outside of what power
i may or may not yield, for
perfection is poison & i have
no right to demand it of you
nor myself

& no, i am not fragile,
although i may  tremble...
i am strong now,
in part, having carried
all these heavy things
i've fed myself on for years
forgive you, forgive myself
& finally purge for once & all
of these habitual burdens

**for i am full without them.

Astonishingly crass and
Brave in all situations
Comfortable in all quandaries
Daring beyond belief
Elegant and poised
Furious and feisty, fueled by anger
Grand individuality with a
Heart of ice and hate
Irreverent and haughty
Jester of pride, sarcasm, and sass
King of bluntness
Lively, rambunctious spirit
Mastermind of
Neuroticism, never in
Oblivion because
Pressure cannot persuade me
Quick to speak out against the wrong for the
Right reasons but truly
Selfish motives
Tainting the
Ubiquitous notion that every altruistic attitude springs from
Very bubbly and confident people
Wandering through life with the Greek concept
Xenia exhibited on the sleeve
Yelling boisterous excitements that could a game
Zoning in on all the end goals

These are the misperceptions
That create me

My Aunt Sue would strip violently in the back yard especially during a thunderstorm.
She said the flowers were watching her so they could learn how to live. I just remember scribbling madly into my sketchbook the weird contours of her; the pale ***** that was her skin coming into close proximity with the mud in the field. Each page was cluttered with the switch of her wrist, the scream of her torso lolling in drip-drip weather. This obsession led my lips to bleed and I couldn’t stop biting. The blood that streamed down the side of my mouth tasted like lead pipes.  Just like the ones in our house that creaked every time the wind whistled. Like a man who sold his manners at the gas station for a pack of those cheap cigarettes, one on top of the other so the roof of his mouth became the chimney that soothed him on cold nights. Rain droplets becoming shower sprit in a damp basement-like locker room where men stepped out of steam like in dreams. Feet sloshing on wet tiles and all I could think of were reptiles swimming through swamps, tails slapping the humidity for that sweet scent of coastal ****.
Laughter penetrates through hot breath.
“My favorite dreams are the ones where I wake up in a sweat. The ones where the sheets are as wet as the hand that I use to achieve success.”
The eyes all around go up in full swing and there’s handshakes tossed about.
There’s a secret here that’s reserved only for the ears that happen to hear it and it’s doused with pride.
This circle of jerks, this atmosphere of a citrus kiss laid upon only for masculinity.
This shrine for men that I’ve been so accepted into, so inclined a seat I’ve been given without even a glimpse makes one feel like being inside the small intestine or living inside the bladder.
I am disheveled nervousness as I think of women in a house full of men.
The condensation blurs the mirrors all around and another one finally speaks again.
“One of my biggest sins is not realizing that I only went to church to see the preacher’s wife. They sold peaches out by the highway but all I remember was the gooey goodness I imagined she tasted like.”
The torrent of wild shrieks that undulated out of the Adams’ apples of this congregation would have made Adam himself proud. An avalanche would surely follow as I stared up at the blinding lights of
this sweltering hell that was more a mother’s breast than a place where muscles flourished.
As the halls began to empty the door revealed yet another sunny day. My corneas unable to handle the brightness that was denied to me sitting there in the deluge of delusion I was reminded once again where I was. We walked to the parking lot all in line like a dam not yet ready to break.
There were women everywhere now and my cheeks flushed reminding me again of Aunt Sue slapping me in the face for recording her indiscretions inside a yellow notebook wedged underneath my bed.
Shame was not there with me that day though and neither was it today.
Until someone in our group bellowed “those legs could make a bad man good” to the lady walking on the sidewalk.
Except her response was not one I would have imagined or fantasized about. There was no girly giggle or ****** thankfulness. Only unapologetic annoyance and a slit of fear stuck between her teeth.
Everyone immediately felt the humiliation that came unannounced, felt the ferocious attack of a gratitude that was expected and yet not received. I can only imagine the hot steel of this man’s clock grinding bone to bone and the excruciating betrayal of all he was promised.
His brows furrowing together into his face that I thought they would get ****** into his brain was replaced by a stoic neuroticism I only witnessed in films and yet here it was just a couple of feet from my face. This remorse I had seen before disguised as indistinguishable fastidiousness.
“*******, lady. I bet the only way someone would ******* is if you were *****.” He pitched, like a frenzied cow in a pasture of green and as he proceeded to follow her we followed him. His disciples in
a war not even declared. I began to feel the trickle of what was to be a tropical storm. The rain here making the sound of our boots more echoed while the woman up ahead began to walk faster but not fast enough for the fist of a bruised ego; his hands making contact with beautiful features that did not deserve an audience of sadists. The sound of skin against skin in water is the most painful of all.
Like a shark feasting on bait infiltrating the waters with the sound of music. The atrocity was not in the crime but in the art of not being able to look away as something is turned into nothing more than mysterious meat.
I skip the deli aisle in the grocery store every time but
boys
will
be
boys.

.i still can't get over the genius of W. H. Caruthers, the man who found polyesters, esters were usually used to make the prime composite of perfumes, when their application took off in the realm of clothing? ****... that's when their actual property exfoliated...

early Winter, in England...
ugh...
   wet... you know the harrowing
aspect of when the cold
mingles with wetness?
ugly... i can't say it better...
it's like... stroking an Irish
wolfhound, which just came back
from a run, all muddy,
cold, wet and... somehow sulky...
jeez!
            give me a teddy-bear,
real quick...
  i can appreciate the continental
cold...
   it's dry... there's frost...
sometimes the snow, an insulator,
and when it's really cold,
and there's frost,
whatever remains of
the water, turns into a glittering
expose of a metaphor for
a red carpet... tilt your head
to the left, tilt your head
to the right...
oh look! the paparazzi are taking
pictures!
the frost... my god...
it just glitters!
only when the winters
are dry, but they rarely are,
in England...
i hate England during the winter...
the rain just ****** me off...
i can do a dry minus 10...
but a minus 1 with the rain?
you have to be kidding me...
****'s sake!
    cold & wet don't work...
cold & dry?
  after a while you build up
an immunity,
there are invisible ***** in the air,
pinching your face as you walk
to the local supermarket
for the groceries...
i have to admit...
this is the first time i'm actually
anticipating leaving England...
****! i need a holiday!
the current state-of-affairs
is bugging me...
i want to turn this *******
time-bomb off...
even  the alt. media has succumbed
to the legacy media
sensationalism...
just give me over a month...
a grandfather with dementia,
a grandmother with neuroticism
humming some unknown song
in between staying silent
while drinking coffee and solving
crossword puzzles,
and then... a ******* thistle flute
jamming her imaginary
didgeridoo...
   wait till she hears my
mouthpiece...
**** it... throw me into
the monolith...
i'm tired of these tirades
of language anchoring in England...
there were three partitions
of Poland... how many,
are there of England...
too many to draw a geometric...
i can't watch this...
i need a break...
within the confines of a logic...
why would you go to somewhere
where it's warmer than where
you left from?
i'm going to a place that's
colder from where i came...
so?

well... the genius of polyester
clothing...
   i anticipating to cut my internet use
to a minimum this time...
i have the massive task
of reading potop by Sienkiewicz...
winter... it's either chess
or it's reading...
the second chapter of the trilogy...
the Swedish deluge of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...

oh... now i remember why i wanted
to block that fella...
he started to sound, a bit too much
like my "friend"...
you know... that Anglophone
overlord...
who could have said:
you're not properly integrated
if you still speak your language
of birth... ******... THEN LEARN
FRENCH! OR SPANISH!
your pick... i hate people that
begin to sound like the friends
i had in high-school...
i hated all of them...
now i hate them even more...
like i'm responsible for him...
having a ******* apartment
provided by his father...
the fact that his mother and father
filed a divorce,
that he has a ******* younger
sister he might have to take
care of...
               my fault?!
what am i, god? i fake the rules
of the existential roulette?!

no, i need a break from speaking
this tongue,
what i will need is some Polish
radio,
some Polish t.v., and forgetting
this language, momentarily,
when i return, in situ,
while reading a book in Polish...
about the Swedish deluge,
when the democratic monarchism
model failed, when a king
of the Vasa stock was enthroned
on the "rule of thumb"...

generation prior, to mine?
***** off to Costa Rica...
to the beach...
i? i ******* to a place much colder
than, this here England...
winters in England would
have been just fine...
but i need a release from
this... island claustrophobia...
i need the continent about
2 times a years...
ha... funny...
the two times i tend to ****...
are... with the Bulgar women
in the Goodmayes brothel...

once after Christmas,
and once after Easter...
which makes me practically
the ugly twin of Jesus...

but you know what i learned
about home-grown terrorists,
that i learned about immigration
in Australia...
the concept of... heritage...
watching Australia's Master-Chef
i've learned how
Australians acknowledge the concept
of... heritage...
in England? you know why England
has home-grown terrorists?
the concept of heritage
is... completely... missing!

who are you, without a past,
but only a future, and a present?
i know i'm a psychological
mongrel...
but do you know...
you're a mongrel, through and through...
no... you're worse...
what they have done to you,
with enforced assimilation
by your parents...
you know what i said to my parents
when they suggested
that we only speak English
in private, at home?
******* - well...
it was more a subtle: NIET!

- and how do you respect a foreign
culture?
by respecting your own...
you can't have one, without the other,
otherwise the mimic subversion
of yourself will not work...
please, tier the cake...
there's more depth to a migrant
than merely talking the *******
tongue of the natives...

yes, i will speak English among the English...
that much is requested of me...
but... to... do... what prior migrants
did... and ****-up, ****-***,
****-**** of the natives?
how about the natives learn a second
language?
and not come out as the tourists
that can, truly be, sedated by foreign
cultures of H'america,
or Australia...
       being the... "tropic fruit"...
the... "exotica of diacritics"...
while, forgetting...
you go anywhere else...
guess what?
     what?
                   what?!
                           intimidation;
yeah yeah, some anglophiles in those
places...
   but guess what, tourist...
i speak yours, i don't expect you to speak
mine;  
  the moment you "ask" me to
translate speaking yours into
thinking "yours"... guess what...
i, have, mine!

- i still can't get over the genius of how
polyester clothing interacts with
the cold... i feel the cold... but i don't feel cold...
ingenious!
W. H. Caruthers... Michael Faraday...
my "new" two favorite people.

i've done a full circle on my music listening habits, i've started listening to music i could play guitar to, oh man, that drop-D on almost all of the songs of System of a Down is mesmerising to listen to, esp. Aerials... it's right up there with smoke on the water and iron man... i even have a pretty decent voice when it comes to singing when no one is listening, it's surprisingly idiosyncratic, sort of rhaspic... ooh! ooh! i'm onto another google-whack... rhaspic alone generates only 10 results... rhaspic glue? 2 results... hmm... not to overcomplicate matters... let's just add a D... rhaspic glued... bingo! 1 search result: study number theories... great... i misspelled that first word, i was looking for something to the singing style of the dear, late, still lasting Chris Cornell... the message from Google reads:

It looks like there aren't many great matches for your search

nope... it's not that... i'm a google-whacker... it's a mild version of hacking... i like to find the needle's eye for a camel like me to walk through... because i do... and if i'm going to procrastinate it will be either google-whacking or solving a sudoku... ah... so no surd H in the word i was thinking of, i.e. raspic? ****, i didn't even realise there is a technical term for raspic: dysphonia... hell... it's not even raspic: it's raspy... oh... esp. with a "handover" from drinking to sobering up and a "hangover" from cigarette smoking... me singing is like me *******... best done so only the heavenly dead might want to see...

I.

strange occurrence at work, so i was given these nine stewards
who are a tight-knit bunch on the south stand of
the London stadium...
well... i say i was given nine, but Danni is a terrible
supervisor, everyone says...
who has ever worked with her...
she might have the qualifications to be a supervisor
but... i don't: and whenever asked i do the role...
because the greatest lesson my grandfather ever taught
me was how to deal with people,
i learned how to deal with unengaged problematic
youths by myself...
good training if you're going to go in the teaching
profession... i can see it now...
a fox in a hen shack...
obviously i'd love to have a wolf as my totem...
but you can be choosey... no wolves on the British isles...
plenty of foxes... fox it is...
and i can be a sly ******* if i really want
to be: i'll pretend to be naive... stupid...
ooh... ooh! "what's happening"?!
i know what's happening... i'm just figuring out
if the people playing games will figure out that i'm
also playing a game: their game and my own game...
i like pretending to be an idiot...
but when a chance comes and i can launch an
assault... i can be a merciless Rommel... Erwin...
i just play a waiting-game game...
it's fun... it's very much akin to a game of patience
when it comes to making wine...
or cooking a pristine curry...
like with Frankie, the girl i work with from time to time...
of all the colleagues she's the first one
i made personal references to...
she's also the first colleague i met up with outside
of work in casual clothing... i pointed it out:
a bit weird, not seeing you in a shirt / tie or a black
t-shirt...
it took me back... to the old days of...
"smooth-handshakes": i have £25 in my hand
she has a sachet of hash in her's... we shake hands in
public and the transaction is over...
she texted me last night: so... how's the "gear",
the dealer Adam wants to know...
i replied: well, i don't know... i haven't smoked it yet...
i'm all for delayed gratification...
i must have mentioned this already:
when i was younger i used to smoke marijuana to a level
of stoner, a stereotypical long-haired blonde "surfer boy"
type that an Australian girl would and did go out
with... i stooped to the level of binging on reggae music
and stoner rock and progressive rock blah blah...
an 1/8 (ounce) would last me a weekend...
then psychosis hit and i haven't smoked it for over 10 years...
a ******* invisible choir in a church
and a great wind that dispersed it... sad, sad story
(ha ha... back in 2007 it might have been
if nothing spectacular happened since...
but a lot has happened)...
but like i revealed to her: i need a smoking session
to be ritualistic...
i won't be delving into the mind that's high on hash
with the use of these two hands and a keyboard
and imaginary paper...
funny... when it comes to typing i'm very much
ambidextrous... you have to be... using a keyboard
to type... although... i once encountered
a general practitioner, old geezer... who used only one
hand to type, well... "typed"... he chicken-pecked with
his index finger the keys on the keyboard...
sure... some people go as far as use two index fingers
on both hands... me? i need to use all my fingers...
some i use more frequently otherwise i don't...
the pinky and the thumbs are especially favourite when
it comes to spacing and line-breakers and all the SHIFT
additions to a text... i think... i think i use the ring fingers
the least, mostly index, middle, thumb and pinky...
yes, the occasional ring finger: ah!
right hand ring finger is mostly used when deleting text,
and sometimes using the enter button
to give ground for a new line...

no, no one likes working with Danni, she's a terrible
supervisor, as most women when given
charge over young men,
instead of working with then, trying to gain them
she dismisses them and sends them packing: home,
not getting paid for a shift...
rifts of resentment... there are some aspects of
life that women don't understand:
their enlarged hearts are dismissive of certain
nuances... you can work with boys that
are not engaged with this simplest of works
concerning crowd safety, but you need to engage with them,
you can't just dismiss them!
i play into her thinking process that i'm
somehow her friend... she has already bought
the line and sinker... i'll keep her there...

i had to, for ****'s sake, take care of my staff
and her staff too, why?
who did she choose as a breaker,
Darwinism beckons, nature yawns...
a diabetic sick-girl who suffers from spells of standing-still
vertigo... i had to ask this sick girl to change her
function and stand in one place...
Danni? oh... she placed her in the worst possible
position... in a place where all the fans are rowdy
and constantly standing...
some people "think" they're thinking...
they're not...
i don't think they are being purposively
******* ******* but it just looks like this:
all-inclusiveness is not working out
as many have thought it might...
what are we talking about?
single men... tiger-mums in the East
and mantis-wives in the West...

how will a boss ***** relate to an unruly bunch
of teenage boys?
she won't! me? upon signing in i fist bump
or shake their hands... i recognise them...
men crave being recognisable, familiar,
constant... women? just attention-*******...
anonymously... or in passing...
men like to adapt to being recognised:
being familiar... women don't understand that
through their own self-objectification...
men are more prone to the: other's-subjectification...
a woman is self-objectifying
while a man is the subject-of-the-other...

i've watched enough people, i should know...
at a usual game i've built up this rapport with a few fans...
all the men are shouting out from the crowd:
hey! 5 bottle man!
a point of reference i should know about...
when this guy asked me for five bottles of water
from within the crowd...
he's referential point being: the subject-of-the-other...
women? ha!
they're like the solipsists of their youthful advantages
of looks... they are self-objectifying...
they are never a subject-of-the-other in their perception
of reality... they are not even an object-of-the-other
in their own mind's cravings...
could i ask a woman to dress up or put up make up
without her wanting to a priori the demands
or her own conjuring?!

but this one shift amazed me...
i had this breaker tell me...
'i'm not really sexist... but would you mind if i gave all
the female stewards breaks first,
before giving the males a break...'
i played it out... sure thing mate... you do that...
after all... the "new" gynocentric is the "old"
egalitarian movement, no?
let's see how this plays out...

              the old model worked according to: left to right...
or right to left... oh... not a spectacular specimen...
started talking me with all seriousness of
casualness... i hate my hair...
but you wear a baseball cap, mate, no wonder your
hair is matted... heard of Agar oil?
it's so much better than wax or hair gel...
but of course i didn't say it...
all the Asians with beards use it on their beards...
they carry bottles of Agar oil in their pockets to oil
up their ****** *****... i would too...
hadn't i oiled up before every shift...

sure thing mate... you do you "i'm not a sexist"
experiment by breaking the women before the men...

i'm just trying to figure out what i could possibly write
if i were in the vicinity of children that belong
to other people, how i could mould them with
the PROPER sort of ROT of explorative
tactics... hmm...

i'm getting a hard-on just thinking about it...
just the past two days i've been punishing myself
with a pleasure-delay tactic,
tomorrow i'm going to scoop the buds...
******* without *******...
my god... my hands are big...
no wonder i built up a beard-envy
and sort of forgot about a ***** envy...
the last ******* was sort of inhibited with her
pleasures... sort of uncomfortable...
half-way in and already the signs of discomfort...
big hands... mega business of jazz clapping...
well... that's life...

the KOMBUCHA mushroom people!
   shoe-g'ah!
rewrite everything in English phonetically!
come here, pwetty! give us a kiss!
smooches: yummy yummy!

but this guy "thought" he figured it out...
giving out all the breaks to the women
first, before the males...
i gave him the "substance" of "sport"...
work out? like **** it did...
one elder steward rebelled...
d'uh...
i'm taking into liking the Somali girls...
a Somali girl actually sent him back
to do things hierarchically...
from left, to right...
i'm a man... but i'm not a sexist...
seriously, mate, you're not a male...

it took a Muslim girl to teach you otherwise...
all smiling, smiles in slime...
i implored her: you know it wasn't my idea...
you know that he was just trying to get
his ***** wet in your ****:
not as literally...
she agreed with the most beautiful smile...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm starting to get turned off by white girls...
i'm finding the ones in niqabs and of a certain
ethnic "persuasion! rather attractive:
like one manager in the company
said the basics: black don't crack...

i'm looking at these girls and thinking:
butter melting by the power of the moon's rays...
how pretty they look...
i terribly want to **** them...
i'll terribly **** them!
these clues into nuns that Muslim women are
for a Don Giovanni...
these pretty petite Somali noses...
i bite i bite i bite i want to bite them
like cherries!

no wonder then...
i masturbated for two days prior to engaging with
the prostitutes...
i checked the proportions and non-proportions...
i'm done dealing with the ***-affairs of
stereotypical men...
i'll be ******* anything that moves...
married? not my problem!
seriously, not, my, problem!

mosh-pit carnal maggot fun!
well... if one generation sold us the patriarchal restrictions
being lifted, and what? we're to return to
a patriarchal system of "authority"...
you, what?!
i'm not going to live a life my elders lived with
full freedom that i'm somehow supposed to
inhibit, deny myself...

oh... i'm going to have the same as them: please!
no please?
then i'll **** the status quo!
simple!

the night crawls into a fruition of being limited
with being imbed....
two spiders for the worth of my hands....
i will die the most exotic pain
imaginable....
i iwlll surprise the "lost crowd".....
i will surprise the brothel...
30 minutes with one...
then as i am about to leave:
30 minutes with another...
and another... and another...
and another...

              one of those Lucy Letby trials...
only men are monsters...
my hernia and my Chernobyll
tattoo: the one she almost choked me
with... i survived...
i shouldn't have survived...
woman! agony to come!

i scratch my beard... i think: time is...
precious...
but women are very little inclined
into this dynamic.....
the world can burn!

death's trough: and pigs eat ****....
   best, kept reminder!

       well what a shift i truly wasn't expecting yout atypical
chocaletiers to come up with a game
of: broken chair frisby...
that yellow burning man pyro-technics was also
spectacular... but not even my mum would be
so concerned about my well-being as
this supervisor was today... what a terrible sloppy
mommy... i don't need to be protected
by your inability to protect me: i'll judge for myself...
******* busdy body...
i want in on the action...
    
i just couldn't wait for the shift to end...
i promised Frankie a review of the hash she sold me...
i told her:
i need to be tired from a shift,
i need some whiskey... i need an imaginary
octopus slobbering on my cranoum,
i need ***...

funny... the freely i have *** the more i'm detached
from it...
once upon a time i was all about pleasing
women... after they stopped pleasing me
i figured out: a **** it modus operandi...
time to be taken care of...
i think i'm so emotionally detached while having
*** that i'm borderline psychopathic...

not that i have any vanity project coming across
implying i might be hurt by
this condescending word...
no, rather the opposite: i very much enjoy it...

just today i stole another kiss from a *******...
she was so unwilling telling me:
you moustache is fiddly and it's tickling me...
but we kissed nonetheless...
she wasn't into ******* vaginally...
i felt growing limp at some point...
mental blockage...
it happens...
never again will i spend two days prior
jerking off without *******...
i know the "even horizon" of jerking off
and the moment when the head of the phallus
is being pierced via the ******* being
expanded: for men... anti-circumcision...
it's like being a ****** again and again: and again: and again...

she blew me, then massaged me with her long
fingernails...
oh... once she reached my cranium,
neck and shoulders... it felt better than the *******...
i was going limp... why? mental constipation...
it happens with men...
i was actually thinking about the furnace
of nothingness after *** after smoking some Afghan
hash... having grated into a cigarette on
a Rodin's take of ******* NUTMEG!

i ****, i love *******,
but i'm surrounded by people who don't like *******...
a terrible bewilderment...
to be alive is to love to ****...
who am i surrounded by? people who have attired themselves
in: progeny...
  people with children...
careless and carefree mothers of agony...

II.

i have to admit, it took me about 4 hours to wake up:
wake up proper...
each time i opened my eyes i felt myself
needing to turn to my side and fall back into nothingness
of that currency of switch-off brain
(let the body recuperate) -
a comforting numbness with a side dish of tickling
and fuzziness...
i woke up absolutely not interested in thinking...
for once... i wanted to absorb last night: fully...
frankly, i didn't want to let last night go...

O grand father time and the river that's your bride...
what a gloomy day... my perfect sort of day,
i'm so very fond of the weather of England,
more so the weather of Scotland,
island weather: my kind of weather,
gloomy, autumnal, the sweetness of botanical decay
and all the flourish of chlorophyll retreating from
the once bulging leaves of green...

wow... so that's what it feels like?
like that photograph by Richard Lam with the couple
who were knocked down by the riot police
during the Vancouver hockey riots
(Stanley Cup playoffs)...
well, last night it wasn't exactly like that...

west ham vs. Anderlecht... what a shift...
flares were thrown either side, chairs were ripped out
and used as frisbees... coins were thrown...
and i was on the edge of the tension...
me? never in a million years could have thought
the Belgians to be so triggered...
in comparison the Danish and German fans were tame...
phew...

afterwards like i said:
a magical combination of work fatigue,
an 8.2% cider and two or three sips of whiskey...
three cigarettes,
brothel... ***...
well... she didn't feel like having ***...
she felt like performing oral *** and looking
at herself in the mirror...
that's the first time i've seen it...
alternating from looking in the mirror at herself
and looking into your eyes
and then closing her eyes... a rare combination...
it's usually eyes looking at you
or eyes closed... rarely out of her own accord
looking at herself in the mirror...

and then? laying on my stomach the better part
of the evening: a massage... shoulders...
back... long nails digging into my flesh and...
roughing up my hair...
then? persuasions to steal a kiss...
yes! stole one... she was put off slightly by the tickling
of my beard...
but my god... those nails digging into my shoulders
neck and head...

another one i will give a book of poetry to...
raven hair work of a blue night in Venice...
then onto home and some more whiskey
and... that Afghan hash...
   two pinches of it being heated up... so... not much...

i just smoked a cigarette and opened my cigarette ash
tray (a jar that formerly housed pickles)
and peered in... what?! i only smoked half of the Afghan
hash joint?! seriously?!
i'm a light-weight... that 15 year break from smoking
anything has seriously did me some good....
me? last night? i was travelling across the entire
universe... i was hallucinating a darkness that was
a thinking-darkness that was heartbeat-darkness
a musical-darkness... i was travelling with the sort
of energy that could connect the dots between
gravity and antimatter...
     i was on the edge of a black hole and my heart was
dancing...
upon waking you have to listen to something
like Bruce Springsteen's Human Touch...

a touch of a woman... i'll agree with any critic:
i am a paranoid psychopath during ***...
i don't like being lied to during ***...
i have enough pornographic doubts to understand
that i don't want to be ******* an actress...
she might be a *******: but to hell with *******
actresses... even in their own words
they are asexual... prostitutes on the other hand
are closer to nymphomaniacs than actresses...

what, after the ****** revolution of the 1960s
future generations would tame the whole Pandora down?!
i don't think so... the Vietnam war had the best
soundtrack (period)... am i going to slow down?
no! but this Western Model that a man has to have a *******
horse cart and cottage to have *** is beneath me...
no! no! i looked into the Japanese model of
the Love Hotels and figured...
well... that's not getting any traction over here...
and since i'm only willing to follow the Laws of the Dogs
i.e. a dog only ***** if a ***** is willing to give...

and if prostitutes are the only ones willing while
the remaining women are interested in pair bonding
*******... i tried that... dates... clams and oysters
and spaghetti dates... cinema dates...
russian roulette of condoms and contraceptive pills...
i tried but i figured...
not even the whole dating app hook-up culture...
that **** passed me by, i was being busy in my 20s
unravelling a schizophrenia misdiagnosis
and reading up on philosophy...

                         imagine that... unlike Syd Barrett...
i descended into madness and... looks like many years
later i have emerged a pillar of nerves...
i'm calm during crowd riots,
i'm calm in the middle of one guy trying to choke
another guy to death while calming both of them...
and i can sit very calmly across 5 women that
i ******... oh sure... and i don't need that much
alcohol to have a brave heart... just a little...
and i won't flinch... i'll look all five of them in the eyes
and take my time before choosing one
of them for yet another night...
  
Western narratives morphing words like
******* into *** worker... "*** traffic" blah blah...
spoken by women about women
who actually enjoy having ***...
a female intellectual is hardly interested in ***:
true or false statement?
sooner rather than later i realised that i'm
more than just a political or a social animal...
i'm a ****** animal...

i like the idea of: an abstraction of people...
a sort of pedestrian abstraction... a quickie encounter...
a snippet of an entire other world that appears
and disappears as one might assume for it to be the case
in the macrocosm reality of time and all the people
in the world and the past and future to come...
but this... in a microcosm sort of imitating-the-host-of-god
so of way...

maybe because it's because of that Van Morrison song
Brown Eyed Girl... maybe, just maybe...
a well worn leather peeping through those eyes,
a body i could pretend to sit on
and snooze, or something like that...
it's just so much easier when women drop all their guards
and something casual can be achieved
without all that neuroticism of relationships...

i wish i learned this lesson when i was younger:
you can never love one woman,
well... you can love your mother,
you can tease your mother in a way that she feels
more like a friend than some authority figure...
and even if there's Lucy Letby when you were
born, attempting to **** you by somehow choking
you in a way that enlarged your heart
on top of the hernia and oh: if mother was in agony
giving birth to you you gave a second birth unto
yourself with equal agony:
no wonder that i turned to prostitutes for what
i really needed...
the medication of touch...

i'm not going to hide my intentions or for that matter
boast with "performance cues"...
sometimes it's long, sometimes it's short...
sometimes this, sometimes that...
but i'm sometimes a very impatient man
and i don't like being impatient...
even now: it would be pointless to merely focus my
attention on one woman...
a projected investment with Khadra that i ended
with buying her lingerie and not over-stepping
her demands to push further with 18-carat
earrings and necklace: let's be realistic...

of all the things i gave her, my bleeding heart of
poems blah blah...

point being, i just have Samuel Little and Jack the Ripper
on my mind when engaging with ***
with prostitutes... esp. when kissing them...
how could they?
**** me... not enough girls out there to ready yourself
for work in a nightclub and save up enough
dough to buy a mandolin and play it outside one
those girl's windows...

in a way i'm a loser that won...
a very limited number of pastimes occupying my mind...
reading, writing, listening to music,
cycling, walking, ***...
i replaced watching movies with the cinema of
my memory... surely if i were a bad man i wouldn't
want to remember anything from the past...
hell... if there's no afterlife i'll just relive my life
in reverse... i jump into the vehicle of memory
and unravel all that i have forgotten...
because i don't believe eternity could be spent
so idly as presented by either heaven or a hell stasis
of a realm...
i could fill out eternity given the dynamic of what
i remember and what i have forgotten
(not by choice, but by the naturally fickle selection
of memory, eroded by the pedagogy rubrics
of arithmetic and spelling, to begin with)...

Neuroticism at an all-time high
Stuck here dreaming about days gone by
I wallow and wonder what if I’m all wrong?
Seeing you is like hearing my favourite song
I once spoke to you through the universe
Sang my heart out, screaming every verse
Not that I can sing, but I hoped you’d hear
My soul aching to finally have you here
It took so much grieving and heartbreak
Cutting you off was my biggest mistake
I’m tired of running, trying to hide
I cannot deny what I feel inside
I could be all wrong, but it feels so right
For weeks I’ve been staying up all night
I’m drowning in regret, for leaving you
At this point, I’m not sure what to do
Careful words, trying to be cautious
Breaking hearts just makes me nauseous
I’ve never loved the way I do
Whenever I am with you

Chewed through lip
Copper taste and other shoe’s drop waits
Nervous habits of caffeine neuroticism.

You could drive across the whole thing,
In four days.
Two, if you tried hard enough

I was in the back passenger side
When I kicked the seat in
And bruised my shins
The neon lights reflecting the soullessness in my eyes
And I reflected on the past days
And I thought,

I've had many a lover,
I've loved painting, loved sculpting, loved singing, but the most,
I loved, writing.
One night, I pushed her away
Not because, I didn't love her, I loved her
But,
My emotions vanished quicker than the speed at which we started.

Recently, I had started a new medication.
And my anxiety had halted.
But along with anxiety had gone my emotions,
They got off a couple stops too early.

Yes, my anxiety was gone,
But, at what cost?
I hadn't realized that I'd rather feel pain,
Then nothing at all.

My friends said, hey, let's drive across America in four days,
And I didn't bother to ask why,
Because I knew their response immediately
Because we can

And I wished that I could've mustered up the courage to say
"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should,"
But that would mean I am a huge hypocrite
Because, just because I could take medicine to stop my neuroticism from malfunctioning
Doesn't mean I should
Because I was more depressed than before
I felt the pills run down my throat
As frequently as my mom talks to God
Day after day,
And night after night,

And as I see the greenish hue of the neon tint the white pill bottles,
Citalopram,
Risperdal,
Chlorpromazine,
Xanax,

I see a commonality on all of the bottles,
MADE IN AMERICA

But I dropped the bottles because I knew
They were not made with love or care

They may have had the intention to help
But wow, they sure were not helping me
And I might be crazy, to say
That my mind and my heart
My mind, my father
My heart, my mother
Are in an abusive relationship
And I am merely caught in the middle
And I question comes to my mind,
"Hey guys, are we there yet?"

My fear, my fear
like a broken link

Read my body wide open like a book
Read everything I've been through
The body speaks volumes
Like it we or not
Because...was I tainted from the start?
Did I divert myself in some point of the path?
Here I am
thinking too much
Maybe I should go back
to where everything came from

Maybe I should go back
To nine years old
libido still unpoisoned so
still not cracking
still pure
and ***** like love

13 years old
Shaking on a bed under the promise of love
Shaking on my fears, but still alive
and even too heavy with life
The wounds open, scars wide
It frees energy and pain

Then got lost
in me
Got foreign to me
Now I'm back
whatever it is
But there's a memorial sleep
in my limbs

Feeling like the ugliest thing
The most broken one
All I am comes undone
I woke up fearful, but happy because of you
Of all the love I receive
And never expected to
My brain repeats sentences
Neuroticism lies ahead
My fear reduces me
to nothing

Kiss me baby
Nurse me in you

The poison saves
if you know how to handle it

Simple fights,
Sleepless nights.
I can make her hate me,
I got that in my sights.
So,
What is right?

I'm here, on a plane,
Miles away-
Ready to cry because
I can't be better.

I disappoint
And disjoint
As a way to
Disrupt, destroy, destruct
Our happiness.

This is the suicide
Of a good time.
My emotionality
And neuroticism
Is the cyanide.
Swallow down the pill;
Drink, drink, drink-
Don't spill.

Pull apart me,
Limb from limb
Because the pain I hold
In my heart each day
Is worse than what any
Torturer could have in store.

My emotions haunt me,
Scare me,
Caress me,
Love me,
**** me over,
And **** me.

I am the one who kicks
Myself when I'm down.
I have an internal battle,
A war
Of the mind,
Heart,
Soul-
Psychology.

I am a bit imbalanced.
I make people hate me.
I hold this in everyday,
This simple fact-
Something that can make me blow up.

I am the nuke
And this time, I explode
Like a kamikaze,
I take myself.

Sadness overwhelming.

a decapitated frog, swarmed by flies... ba'el overcome by beelzebub... rotting in the summer heat, in my garden.

to capture images with words
is, by no fair share
of complaint, an easy task:

the hang-man speaks backwards
through his stomach's
grumbling from hunger -

while the man who's tongue has
been cut off,
turns to epileptic
      sign-language in a frantic
motion to decipher
100 morse code signals
in a minute: an epileptic on
                               ecstasy...

if words have lost their powering
in being sacrifices to meaning,
then only toward the image
then must return...

oh how seldom the wit of words
is felt, like a drum-beat
of those ushered by aristophanes....
   but of those words said,
how many could allow us
to break bread?

                 and also cite:
toast! to the living! and the dead!
      
   i was once ridiculed for being
brain-dead...
   but i never had a chance to see
the actual book of accusations...
which is, rather a bothercome shame.

     such a shame, thus,
that as an art, poetry has to be kept
alive as a farce of those gravity prone
within a profession counter,
   or those stray dogs starving in
the streets,
                within a millionth year
counter-part...
               a commune,
   yet now, man over man for
a vain claim to a meteor's name...
             billionth sparkle
to no important star,
           distancing and constantly
moving without due residence akin
to our claim for summer and sun-tan lotion,
autumn and the umbrella,
      spring and the garden...
winter...      and the hefty breath of ease.

are we not upon the whim
attempting to deform the skeleton,
and with supposed words,
return to the images, past the technique
conjuring spells of imagery,
to the units of "magic",
  known to us, past, prior,
                                 as hieroglyphics?

ridden sorts of deformed flesh...
    in skeletal form bound...
   is there not a revival of ancient
egypt with :) or a :(       ?
                 why then the necessary
pressure, the neuroticism of a god
to keep a pure basis for conversation?
what with auschwitz...
   why now?
          such a minute fact,
  that we have revolved back to
a quasi form of ancient egyptian
in the digital age...
   is man, really not writing a
  hieroglyphics version no. 2?
is he not?!
                                             is he not?!
to revert back to the image...
encompassing sound...
    to decompose the progress in allowing
man the x-ray technique to study
bones...
        is man not becoming
the second ignorant pyramid builder?
      as i said before, and i'll say it
again... the pyramids of the aztecs
acted as guillotines...
they were sites of capital punishment...
   they were not burial chambers...
       why is there no story akin
to south america detached from africa
as there is no *historia similis
concerning the pyramids of aztecs
                        with those of egyptians?

i am too
prone to neuroticism
indecision
and using others
for gratification
at this point
i curb them
if i can

She had the finest **** I told her

When you're alone at 2am, isolated and riddled with neuroticism and neurodivergent tendencies
a little company is satisfying .
I had no real intention of sleeping with her but I liked the idea of being wanted so I let my mind wander
and hers too