poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.

Fat arses are so squeezable, big bums I rather like
So amplify your cellulite, and step up to my mic
Pins may shake and quiver, if I can score a strike
A Fat **** has more stability, to park my mountain bike

You may prefer a slender girl, with a bottom that is sleek
And fatter girls are not for you, or not what you would seek
Some little arses can be cute, but I want that extra cheek
I need some chunky piece of ****, to reach my ****** peak

I don't want a boney lass, who wears a leather mini
A larger girl I'd rather have, than a woman that is skinny
Imagine a great big ****, bulging out from a tight pinny
Bear arses are acceptable, just look at that Pooh Winnie

Size twenty dress would be fine, but better times by four
With Something to grab hold of, that would thrill me even more
Bigger bums and fatter thighs, that take up the whole floor
Squelching fat I would enjoy, I don't want a thin girl cure

Thin sticks maybe preferable, those girls shaped like a rake
Stupid ****** I don't want, or **** that could be fake
Fat ladies have more bounce, and they will never brake
I don't mind some extra skin, that's sweating like Swan Lake

Larger woman are more fun, they have a wetter gape
There's more to love per square inch, WOW what a body shape
Smother me with all you've got, a complete body ****
I wouldn't be like Steve McQueen, and try The Great Escape

I'm interested in BIG thrills, but I don't want silk or lace
It's certainly a worthwhile trip, if it's shoved in the right place
Delving into the unknown, well I'm not sure that's the case
You know exactly what you'll get, with fat arses in your face

A nice thin *** is okay, but sometimes they're quite drab
Even if your figure's slim, I'd want more **** to grab
I'd rather have a bit more fat, which includes dimples and flab
If your offering your fat ****, call me a mini cab

Excursions during twilight hours, to avoid the daylight sun
I prefer to be in stealth, I'll be on the midnight run
It doesn't matter how large you are, even if you weight a ton
Fat arses I will always grab, now wouldn't that be fun

There's nothing wrong with pertness, so this I will announce
But doesn't a nice fat ****, have extra pounds per ounce
With more to grab and more to squeeze, and definitely more bounce
Big cats scratching for more meat, will always make me pounce

If you are not good looking, and you look like a pig
I'll forgo your outward looks, as long as you are big
Bare your *** in front of me, and give me the gig
You can reach your Top Gear, with a helmet like the Stig

With a *** like the Grand Canyon, I wouldn't want to pass
Mammoth mountains of pure fun, as i lay in the grass
A women laid across the world, with a big fat ****
I'd try extreme obesity, if it's open wide and sparse

So take advantage of me, and let your **** end loose
I'm a man who likes em big, without being too obtuse
Use your fat for basting, and I'll give your **** a goose
We could do well with a good game, according to old Bruce

You may like slimmer ladies, but come on now you gents
A bums a *** after all, so stop sitting in the fence
If you would try a fatter ****, you wouldn't be so tense
Don't be a ******* plonker, you know that it makes sense

Thinner lovers may change their mind, and not think fat is vile
It's just a different point of view, depends on your own style
For that deeper piece of crack, I'd go that extra mile
I don't think a fatter ****, is bottom of the pile

Maybe you don't share my views, but there's something I can teach
A plumper *** would be great, that is within your reach
Succulent cheeks that you can grasp, your hands could have one each
Even James gave it a go, because he had a Giant peach

The perspective of a chunky ****, an amazing smile and crack
That's the exciting view you'll get, when your stood round the back
Its great to feel you way around, when everything's pitch black
You'll find it an experience, if you are right on track

A nice *** I wouldn't mind, so come on where's your *****
Bigger cheeks I can't resist, theres no need to get me drunk
I wonder if the girl next door, has some lovely feeling chunk
Enticement is my spice of life, cos I'm not a ******* monk

To like a larger lady, well It's not classed as a sin
Shallow men may only like, a girl that's really thin
Just because our clientele, are not shaped like a pin
Fatter girls have twice to give, it's like loving the same twin

Some fellows might think I'm blind, and need a pair of glasses
You can leave the lights on, cos I don't think fat is classless
Flash your **** at the back door, and you won't get any passes
Tables and sofa's can be used, to display your great fat arses

Being called a ****** is something I don’t mind
In fact it's really okay and it's rather kind
I don't think it is offensive or even a sick joke
What’s a man supposed to do without a **** to poke
Okay he could stick his **** between two bits of Spam
But he really needs a hot moist **** to be a real man
If her *****'s on the blob he could settle for an ****
The ******* of both these holes simply is pure class

There are guys who prefer a **** and like a manly ***
A tighter hole maybe prefered to make those fellows ***
To **** a bloke if you're straight is an equivalent to a slum
Or even a taboo ****** act like ******* your own mum.

Manly ***** and dangly parts are really not for me
I don't bend to hairy **** it's not where I would be
Girly ***** and smoother bums is what I want to see
I'd rather **** my own **** than **** a guys jacksy

Pulling a huge Horses Plonker only fools like Rodney Trotter
Or Blind Wizards with broken glasses like Harry ******* Potter
Don't **** on your **** to hard you may just *** a cropper
Especially if you ***** up in a helmet belonging to a copper.

I would never bash the bishop what would the churches say
To find me with a spunky hat and that their faiths turned gay
We don't want ***** clergymen who **** on the silver tray
Vicars ******* choir boys keep those cassock fanciers at bay

I would'nt choke the chicken because I don't think I could
But the staff at Kentucky Fried Chicken they probably would.
They would lick your ***** up because its finger licking good.
And use their special wipe up towel to clean up your manhood.
With its lemon fragrance you will have good smelling wood.
Around your shaft and helmet and beneath your ******* hood.

Would I ever yank my plank like the pirates of the seas
The extention of my log when I'm on my ******* knees
My hand around my fishing rod and giving it a squeeze
Using a hand action to squeeze out my cream cheese
*** is flowing down my shaft like honey from the bees
I'll keep pumping on my rod and creaming in the breeze

Have you ever seen those fellows praying down at the synagogue ?
From their own expressions they've been flogging their own log
Take a look at their robes the bottom stained with their eggnog
Either that or they have been ******* some old scruffy dog
I don't think that they bothered their heads are in a fog
With all that ******* worship they would **** a big fat hog

So I'm slowly warming to it but maybe when I'm ******
And I can't get no ***** and its the last thing on my list
I may take myself in hand my **** clutched in my fist
Then I may consider having a swift one of the wrist
If you end up watching then please excuse the mist
I'll carry on with the hope that my **** gets kissed

Because Wanking is an activity that in all honesty all men do
Something that comes to hand when you can't get a good *****
When your **** gets harder and we think of god knows who
We grab our piece of man meat and imagine that *** stew

I'll  have to keep on wanking I can never get enough
Off all that lovely ***** because finding it is tough
Nothing is more satisfying than diving in the ****
Legs open wide will always be something I will stuff
Instead of wanking I would rather stick it up your chuff
But I'll probably end up looking  a bit scraggy and ruff

So I will keep on going until my **** is old and worn
With all that ******* wanking whenever I get the horn
Popping my sweet cornels just like children of the corn
Watching ****'s and ******* or granny ******* ****

every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
i stand on the central Warsaw train-station,
and there's this girl checking her
mobile interet, phone,
and she looks pretty...
and... i really don't want to **** her like
the guys **** her in ***** movies...
maybe that''s shy i'm considered
"effeminate"....
maybe...
                  i just didn't **** enough women...
or maybe...
i speak the tongue of the crusaders...
but we sent the artillery...
the beautiful women to the Arab
******...
            and kept the nation safe...
Islam, akin to the comparison
of the Bubonic Plague...
Islam... virus of the mind...
    i'll contest thi...
i'll ******* die for this...
i've been feeling weird for the past
few days....
Tom Petty died....
  so... why would anyone give
a **** if Wayne Static
does the coffer?
   so... i'm supposed to care?!
*******!
Jeff hanneman died...
but do you see me,
making a case for a ******* parade?!
no?
good... that's how i like it...
******* south London
plonker!
every single time...
i fall in love with a girl
at the central train-station in Warsaw...
the love dies a sudden death...
when i get to the....
Western train station of Warsaw...

  the Ukrainians et al...
the Mongols...
             love's up,
dead, long gone...
                         i'm basically living
the enterprise in re-experiencing
a slow death...
    feral lands...
  these Polacks are like...
please don't land in Warsaw....
i know...
Krakow has Auschwitz as a tourist
destination...
but... but...
you will not see the generic
schematic of globalization...

every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
and then i think of "it"...
****, marriage..
               no thanks,
you have it covered...
                                           on your way;

i might not be on the winning side,
but sure as ****,
i'm also not on the losing side either...
and t think...
that i could even concise my
life within the confines of
imitating my father...

   i could have...
                   but then... life...
isn't exactly a chance on bet within the confines
of a roulette.

Many houses have been cleaned on ***** window routes
Terraced rows and bungelows and other glass recruits
Customers of differant types some casual, some suits
Pleasent ones and lovely ones, some of them fun hoots

One window shined, revealed behind someones bathroom door
An awful sight giving us a fright, more than we bargained for
We went to clean it was abscene, that horrible thing we saw
Showing his snake was it a mistake, or was he just a *****

Every time we went to clean situations would get worse
We didn't want to catch a glimps, of his ****** immerse
A naked burden it bacame, why was he so perverse
***** windows should remain to conceal that bathroom curse

The anxiousness we both felt, how low he always sank
Unwanted sightings of body flesh and yanking on his plank
Disgusting ways of a deprived mind, so very dark and dank
***** windows are one thing, but not when you ******* ****

We did not want to ascend, with each ladder run to climb
knowing what awaited us we didn't want to see his slime
That bathroom window was regular, he did it every time
His kind of antics should be re-classed as a life of grime

We're not interested in plonker pulling a real discusting stunt
Nakedness we don't want to see, or a nasty shiveled front
Your ***** windows are to much so we will both be blunt
Keep your wanking to yourself and ******* your ***** ****

We don't care how many times, or how much you try
There is no necessitation to see your small **** eye
Confess your sins and tell your wife and don't you effing lie
That you've been bathroom wanking and flashing your cream pie

We told him we're not cleaning, when he dosent wear a stitch
And because he had to ******* **** and treat us like his *****
We're not your pleasure ******, when you've got that certain itch
Your ***** windows we wont clean when your mind is in a ditch

It's time us girls said goodbye you've made us ******* cross
Window cleaners we may be but your not our wanking boss
So now we're gone and you know why, my friend it's adios
And all because you had to flash and have a bathroom toss

Rio can have its lava lamp spectacular,
i have my Van der Graaf Generator,
studying lightning and brainwaves
(the **** you can find on suburban streets -
as they say: the best things are for free);
trees and roots upside-and-out akin to branches
stretching for the paparazzi tropism -
wannabe junkies through and through the U.V.
glittering additions.

Damocles and global warming;
it's hanging, a birth of the guillotine -
America is armed, give it a sneeze
and the public will be ready for an insurrection,
we basically marched back to the 1960s
without a Martin Luther or a Malcolm X...
people are testifying a need for leadership,
the C.I.A. and F.B.I. are on the prowl
to subdue it... if this was the ice age
i'd eat you, ******... i got bored
of chicken, let's see what you taste like;
the revision of Damocles' sword hanging over
all of us... believe me, the Arabs are fine,
they can stand this kind of heat,
they'll fry us all on a Ferrari sports-car revs
from that carbon monoxide **** ****** at
for brain damage and a ***** **** under a niqab;
me? i'm as politically correct as politicians
are on a Wednesday in Parliament during the P.M.'s
questions: ridiculous, ridiculing, ergo double
agitated... take your defence of apathy elsewhere,
into your safe-circle and dance me the ******* tango
while shadow boxing. i'm as politically correct
as the prime minister and as much as the shadow;
pulpit plonker of Peckham that was needed as a
plumbing pecker of assured speech getting the job done.

this is the revised version of b.m.i.,
i vouch like a scout that my personal library
weighs more than my body,
******, i'd eat you, no questions asked;
i'd eat you, the corpus christi curse right back at you,
Moses was a former army general,
he exploded outside of society,
Christ the Redeemer was catching carrier pigeons
by clapping inside society, the effects
came later, Grecian,
only an enriched literary civilisation could have
made profane remarks about the Jews...
what with Plato et al., the four gospels
really did miscarry the treasures of the tetragrammmaton,
that's the only Jesus bit i don't like,
well, it's pretty much all of the Jesus bit -
attacking religious figures like Elijah and the Baal priests,
he attacked but the religious cults under the Romans
flourished... then came the northern invaders of Rome
not really bothered by what the Greek wrote...
**** is this?! the **** is this?! you forget they lost
the runes and said: well Latin is the *******
for encoding hush and sepia, let's keep it,
start afresh, keep the coliseum rotting.
so much for human rights: chop the head off
and long live Charles I... keep him rotting in a cell
and you're inventing zoology, hardly human...
most men would rather the chop-off than the chaining...
vegetables in 2 cubic metres, hardly human...
**** it, most are like: end it, quick! don't make me
a loiter with my crimes... but of course the sadists won
and things collected dust...
the story was: don't read books, write something
original... Gaza strip would make the perfect novel
archetype -but subsequently loose your human empathy
allowance - somehow finding it in Oxford, half-******
and half-the-time missing the plot, to no one's bother.

yes, b.m.i. (book mind index), all that god is dead got me
thinking while we're obsessing about diets and
eating vegetarians... **** me, ain't i the cannibal tonight?
Rio... it's all Rio's fault... the ******* lava lamp and my
prize for going to buy the spirit of St. Paul's cathedral **** -
my own, van der Graaf generator -
along with the band, all classic **** given prog rock
introspection done by the one famous magazine Mojo -
no, not mojito - jackal, joke, jumper, jazzy,
south american ha or the Mexican Xavier's achoo cha ha cha
(i admit, Michael Jackson's version of: pope checks whether a choir
boy is castrated to sing the high-notes).

well, the plan is to drink yourself to death -
**** this place and **** it twice over if i am the spaghetti
with a chance of meatball genius to save it -
i'm not a coward, i'm just practical... the dinosaurs never
had so many paradoxes running through them
when Michelangelo did the meteor sequence,
after the Welsh and the Chinese intuitively drew dragons.

this is is the perfect time to be loners and childless -
it's a time when death and god is clearly explained,
but an en masse suicide pact is harder, unless you express
human pride and human vanity as the sourcing secret -
i did a mini course on sustainability beneath my
prime: chemistry at Edinburgh... can i say it was like
g.c.s.e. history? any idiot could do it.

or as was the case with political correctness with the recent
attacks in London - the English uber way of saying it
politely, they're campaigning for a loss of stigmata in
this branch of medicine that, for some strange ******* reason,
everyone gets involved and is suddenly a ******* expert -
i don't know how many ordinary civilians
claim to have degrees in psychology... too many by my count.
all those campaigns to relieve the stigmas on mental health
in order to "keep the public united" after such attacks
simply back-fired - like everyone depressed or anxious
would simply slit some stranger's throat, because
of a "history" - no amount of eloquent cover-ups will discourage
people from seeing what they see, media freedom allows
for per se manipulation - shadow-people tricks -
the other form of spying.
if it wasn't a terrorist plot why mention the Somali heritage?
could just have said he was Norwegian...
so whatever campaigns there were to ease the stigma
surrounding mental health issues just backfired -
only to keep the ethnic divisions intact in the agglomerate
of social cohesion - to be honest, mental health isn't
even a medical concern... it's a political tool for
exploiting harsh scenarios - and this
medical schism is pretty much akin to
the Sunni v. Shia division in Islam - or the 1054
great schism; i have absolutely no idea why or how
it happened, or when... but this isn't a religious topic,
it's a medical schism, and i'm assuming the anglophone
world is primarily prone to it... as an outside i have
my unique perspective... this isn't religion... it's medicine
for crying out-loud!

are these psychologists and quasi and alter counterparts
prescribing medication like penny-sweets?!
because they ******* are! humanists that have no right
to prescribe medication, but merely talk...
oh wait... didn't i hear some cultural critic write that
words are nothing? so we communicating in ******* Braille then?
words are the primary data imprints we all need,
i'm not writing in a language to make it my own -
but there this massive schism in medicine at the moment,
somehow not reading philosophy in western society
never got to grips with Cartesian materialisation
of i think into i am - i can answer for that -
mental illnesses are subtler than a leg infested with
gangrene - but they're still physical ailments -
obviously not as rainbow as a gangrene, but there can't
be a schism, because too many amateurs and sadists will
exploit the schism... there's also the necessary claim
for thinking and being to reach the ergo equilibrium -
by unnecessarily treating a thinking pattern
that does not really deviate into stabbing someone
will only encourage all this proto Narcissistic crap...
and you'd think that polytheism died under the 21 grams
worth of certainty that the soul exists with monotheism...
that's the strength of Greek polytheism
(and Indian polytheism, i.e. it didn't adopt a monotheism),
meaning that it's philosophical background ensured
that the revision of Hebraic in its hands gained so much
popularity as Christianity - but Narcissus is a telescope
to introspect - i blame Narcissus for the medical schism
we're now experiencing - mental health and the imaginary
fifth limb.

this schism is the result of subduing religion -
at first it was a wise move, i admit that i wouldn't
want to be on the Inquisition rack -
but when violence was perpetrated on us
we held a stealth belief that it would end -
but after we internalised this violence
there seems to be no end; another schism
was bound to pop up somewhere, i'd never think
it would be in the medical category:
due to the failures of reading philosophy,
bypassing Kant, phenomenology and the existentialists
to simply write a profit-banking book:
philosophy for dummies (+ ****** et al.).

i'll just say what it is, quiet frankly a beautiful
elaboration - for maxims are shake-shocks -
i'd call all proverbs or maxims Blitzkrieg annals -
well, something of that sort, once said:
a flash of genius, but then years of squabbling,
before someone emerges with what the maxim
requires: an elaboration - one of plain, simple
understanding - but of course, after the elaboration,
someone must second the elaborated understanding,
and put the genie back into the lamp,
and oddly enough, write a poem - the twist is,
the secondant must too elaborate on the elaboration,
as way to deviate and start a new subject matter.
this has been the case with what i picked up
a few minutes ago, Kierkegaard's Christian discourses,
the care of lowliness: do not worry about what
you will wear - the pagans seek all these things.
i for one know this to be very true -
once in a while i travel into London for opera and
ballet - i put on my standard outfit for the
occasion - so i basically do not look like a ***:
brown trousers, navy jacket, navy shoes,
light purple shirt - a typical grey area in a crowd -
and already upon stepping into the crowd,
that vast sea, i feel like i just temped into an
ant-mound, a colony of itchiness - in fact i used
to wear clothes in variation - no... well, let's just
say i'd get airs of contempt walking down
the golden-plated streets of civilisation -
where enough chewing gum patches create a horde
of concrete dalmatians -
but that's beside the point, that passage is ingenious
in its simplicity, Kierkegaard is a rarity in
philosophy, he writes like a novelist, there's an
actual narration in his works - he can almost
remind me of Rousseau (rue sow, said) -
i don't the concrete ideas (both are completely different)
i just me stylistically - Kierkegaard as such
is uncomplicated to have a firm footing in systematisation -
like i once said: systematisation is not
so much dishonesty, as a military approach to
language: a strict (limited) competence of language
(vocabulary) - and the incessant Holtwitzer* /
Howitzer style of bombarding a key concept, revising it,
coming at it from a different angle - but refining
certain concepts, instilled with what i already mentioned:
a strict competence of language / systematisation:
limiting the vocabulary; Kierkegaard epitomises the
Heraclitus river - it flows and flows - never minding
the whirlpool of the anti-claustrophobic fathers:
who's works are just that: all of them comfortable fitting
into a suitcase. ah crap, digression over,
mind you, it's not easy finding google whacks - it takes
a decent imagination to misspell a word to get the billions
reduced to 1: apparently there's a website dedicated to
them... well, that's a 2nd in my diary.
anyway (hopefully for the last time) - the comparison
of the bird and the lowly man, the two are unlike each other,
one has it easy, the other has a beginning in which
he sets out to be a lowly man, or to not be of such
disposition... the bird already is, what it is, so
the bird has it easy - the man faces a hardship of
the optical illusion, kindly provided by Vogue et al.:
he composites this with the bird's ontology as
pure animate - singing for its own delight,
the bird's death by impatience should it ponder itself
as being a bird, rather than as being-in-itself -
so there's the bird, pure animate presiding over its
ontology and not allowing hesitation or anything...
where am i getting at?
                                       the javelin throw,
the discuss throw, the baseball throw, gymnastics -
and Noah's ark: and the philosophical concepts
went up to the ark, two by two of their respective pairing:
existence & essence, subjectivity & objectivity,
good & evil... and of course animate & inanimate (objects),
for this is crucial for me... there's no thought
attached to the above stated activities, there is man's
respective animal-like representation - intuition and
gamblers luck remain in the head,
no boxer in a boxing ring can actually be said to be thinking,
too many chemical reactions are taking place,
and these athletes are not exactly chemically minded to
talk about the next more... that's the animate side
of man's ontology - the bird on the wheat shaft singing -
pure and simple... which brings me to consider
the following object that i have in my hand (head,
but never mind, i took it out and it's in my hand now) -
the inanimate nature of man... the buildings around us,
the garden fences... thought was derived from
us having the shadow duality with being animate,
we have instilled in us an inanimate nature,
from which thought is derived from - along with all
that comes with it: telescopes, hammers, autism,
solipsism (self-conscious autism), syringes, l.s.d.;
i set out to find out how we conceived thinking in
the first place - apart from the cliche duality contained
within: good v. evil or beyond that... well, beyond
that there's this... i could find no reason to imply that
man has only one nature in this pair going up to
Noah's ark... this stretches into the common misunderstanding
in the western world in the realm of medicine,
or as i like to call it: the Cartesian dark ages...
whereby a mental health issue is treated on the basis
that we are only animate beings, which, to my understanding
translates as: you have a puppet inside yer 'ed
and one of your strings snapped, mate... that's
what i don't understand... why is it that western medicine
conceived this idea that our nature is only animate,
and that we have to have a respective dynamic in
our mind to comply with the body's animate nature?
this is where the inanimate nature of our inner
life comes in, where thinking is derived from -
otherwise there would be no ****** good reason to
sit under a ***(h)i tree like a plonker for days,
would there? hey! probe all those words in the Asian
languages - dhal! probe! buddha! probe! probe them
all, wake up the h in each and every single word,
then start probing the y and the w in European languages!
boom! out pops a variation of n.e.w.s. of
Jewish mysticism.

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

Earlier time's my younger days when I was about sixteen
Awareness of the fairer *** when I was sexually keen
**** time's that I did crave why were the girls so mean
When it came to getting ****** my **** was never seen
I thought about their naked ***** whether fat or lean
Activities in **** arts who cares where thier **** had been

If you get your ******* off making sure your **** is bare
Bending over the bed with your cheeks up in the air
Or knelt upon the sofa with my fingers through your hair
I will stuff my hotdog up inside your Derryair

Too many benders coming out and lots of ugly lags
Never enough willing girls and I could never find no slags
There wasn't any nice girls just ******* ***** bags
All I could attract we're bendy boys and horrible *** hags

Getting blow jobs really ****** my **** was never blown
Lots of *****'s I would poke but none of them were shown
I didn't get no ***** and my seeds were never sown
Just left pulling on my plonker and wanking on my own

I could have had a ******* from all of those Gay boys
Or offered ******* ******* from dried up hobbledy hoys
But I didn't want a crap **** or play with those boys toys
So I never got to **** to much or make that **** noise

Now I am mid forties and I want the same thing now
I still want to stick my **** in some nice meow.
There's only skanky sourpuss or some old stupid cow
I am still in the same boat I have nothing to plough

I still want some nice ***** I'm still in that same phase
Lots of naked ladies ****** in lots of different ways
I'll have to keep on searching until to my dying days
The line is drawn at hobbledy hoys and most definitely gays

She just typed me a message
"Sleep now!"
So I will
She knows I am worried about tomorrow
should I go to Church or keep some distance
and I know she will say a wee prayer that I am ok
maybe mention it to her old man
"That plonker is worrying himself sick again!"
So to bed I go with a backbone injection
and I know that if I suffer from rejection
it is not the right Chuch for me
the Girls say,
God or Gods, they are in our hearts
not in dvds and collection baskets
We'll see what tomorrow brings..

after two visits, once seeing Werther another time seeing Don Quixote, i realised that poetry is the perfect tool for the claustrophobic surroundings... Kant is too much custard and like all philosophy books, always reminds us of being anti-social and park benches... movement and philosophy don't mix, all they did is posture with two essentials so far removed from each other (time & space), that it's almost impossible to imagine the two colliding to create movement, which is why reading a philosophy on the tube is so ****** daunting - next time it's Ezra's kind optometry (as any other poetry) to make the journey quicker - from Hainault St. to Holborn and then Covent Garden? about an hour or so... via the murk of East London... into the glittering heights of the good life, where everything essential is turned into non-essential bling and peacock boast; a girl could walk past with a Gucci dress and i wouldn't even know or care... but she would.

i should have mentioned a third book on that
shortlist - but it's not really a book,
but a method - if it was in Greek
(and i am playing ping pong with the New
Testament using the prophetic methods
kept hidden by rabbis) it would
resemble something aesthetic, not noun related,
meaning it would probably look something
like σ                        ς      
                                ­        θ                 φ -
that's in ref. to the two haystacks in the tetragrammaton -
although these two variations do not
have the same meaningful connotations as yHwH,
because both sigmas and theta and phi are referring
to an aesthetic, not an actual name - but you
get the picture - two completely different
approaches as to why man decided to grant two variant
encodings the same pronunciations -
only aesthetic reasons, after all, art can be art
and be pretty pretty and all theoretically relevant
once the job is done, but writing is not exactly
a job for a calculator, we don't write for functions,
in essence we write for beauty, in essence that's
what writing always required, variations
of what some would call kinship to third person
or first narratives, 2 dimensional expressions
and 2 dimensional expression, i.e. theta and phi,
but only in Greek, that being *the point of it all -
Fe is in Mendeleev's speech denoting February -
yes, behind the iron curtain... god, you just have
to make it painfully obvious sometimes.
that said... Kant is really bad when commuting,
i've had two visits to the Royal Opera house recently
and i took Kant with me, the critique will be read
fully, i promise, i can spin 40 pages at a sitting
in a chair, but on the tube? can Marquis de Sade please
take the podium... it's horrid... this time i'll be
taking Ezra to see the Bolshoi le corsaire -
which will add to the spectator sport of one -
if you ever go, to that brick ****-house (last time it stank
of raw trout, but still the wankers sat at their restaurant
tables trying to invert the paparazzi epilepsy
of ogling them like tourists in a zoo of materialism -
i'm half of that would-be quarter-knitted-plonker -
it's mostly polyester and 1% Afghani cat-****-smear) -
or those looking "cultured" with champagne flutes,
of coffees, look all excited... Hazlitt, this one's on you...
and all you do it walk around with a book...
you're wearing cheap clothes that nonetheless
look presentable, and then you start shooting ducks...
thump... another one... puck... another one...
i'm sure you'll begin to notice that hate is a perfect
cure for egoism... your posture changes, your body is
there among the sardines but you turn into a shadow -
you end up watching lonely girls on their would be dates...
and it just hits you like a pharaoh's acid from a tomb...
you're strapped on hallucinogenics of some sort from
the mere topography of the surroundings...
but then the lights dim, the music comes on,
the sadistic dance begins... and you forget taking Kant with
you... and just enjoy the show.

should i be more mistaken  and more impressed by
a readership, or by the general
population of the world? can everything, literally,
that i touch turn graphite into diamond?
      we, who have magpie
value, are really under-dressed
for the peacock parade...
but wouldn't you
love to kiss that pretty sheen
where the sun don't skine...
i can't be east end, i''m
essex bound... farmer out of his
comfort zone...
next tier come the cow ****...
and if that ain't a bear-knuckle
fight, i don't know what is
drinking home-made wine, with
all that fog and murk, and
everything i wish i could never bring
myself grievances over...
   like a tightening of the ansus,
of losing virginity via the age of 16...
i don't know, you start to
fake the more you age, but since
i'm not reallt ageing, i'm bound to be
one of those: sinister dogs
thrown into the kennel of the streets,
all because i said:
hush your pretty mouth,
we're boundless in knowing who might
kiss it again...
  i mean: dumb as ****, but then again
i kept neithe friend, nor onspirator
akin to Guy Fawkes...
   then you had two children you wanted
to boast about, and i had 20 bottles of wine
i wanted to boast about...
the two never seemed to congregate....
and i was left barren, and said:
and deserts need to exist,
and you said something about
rainforests, and how you needed more squashed
wood for paper for the office -
     toilet cubicles, because the koala
paper was running out...
and ******* a **** out
with grit and sand-paper was no way
to go about wiping your ***....
even if the eastern europeans...
just about the time you deemed my ethinicity
vermin... just about then i turned
all königratte on you...
and said a quiet allegiance against the "free" world...
so said about "free" people, i say: about as free as
your need to maintain a routine...
  and counter wind-farms with
hamster-treadmills...
                            oh man, if you
didn't mention my ethnicity as being bound of
rats... if you only forgot about my baptismal excuse
relevant to the schwarz pest -
    that's so uncool man...
  that's like a Jewish joke when only
Jewish mothers laugh... it's like a joke about
being circumcised... and then having to really
give it your all for a ****... because with your
******* missing... she had all the gags with
her *******, who she nick-named Dorace...
and that like... ****... a keeping a plant
that belongs in the Amazonian rainforest
inside a potting urn... for no better word for it.
but hell, me being an ethnicity bound to rats?
what does that make you clean shaven,
axe-weilding, metro-****** super-gnat?
no, i can see big ben tic toc tic toc...
     i just can't see you making up the cavnas...
talk about reclaiming your capital...
        that sure seems like all the war movies
are obsolete these days, meaing
it's all about a coach trip from Debry to London Victoria...
meaning in the real world...
meaning getting any education at all
was a bit pointless...
   arm wrestling in the cantine would have made
more sense than being taught darwinism...
   darwinism can, somehow, undermine
your natural bully strength...
    and there i was duped into thinking:
survival of the fittest... call it what you like
in theory, in reality it's called:
mind the ******* pedestrian!
   the granny, the pregnant woman...
oh sure, get rid of god, i'll also yawn...
but why give so much prayer / thought toward
a system that can't incorporate you as ruler,
when every parasite is bound to scheme a return
to the privilege of a tapeworm?
don't get it... tell me how that sort of politics works
while i see hurricane katrina in replay...
            mingle the omni rhetoric with
a mathematical rubric, and then couple that to
egocentrism... you basically get the western civilisation...
so much for protest... and so much for everything else...
i lost count trying to keep up with the perfected
chinese... the truest nature adherents...
                the easiest way to control god
is to argue he doesn't exist... well, **** yeah! get a tattoo!
a bit different when you have to argue
against parasites... to later equate them with
the emergence of new technology and the excess of
libido and the unemployed...
                i have absolutely nothing profound
to say... but why obliterate the reason to
find an escapism in a god, when all we're given
to replace theology is: sky, believe in better...
or disney, i.e. dream in technicolour...
                the main point though?
it's war when you equate my ethnicity with vermin...
not enough **** in your system to know better?
wait wait... this is post-colonialism, right?
    mater rus turb...
turbanus sikh vanus... either way ya plonker...
we can add that you eat the same breakfast
7 times a week, and on the 6th day i ate the *****
of having ate breakfast on day 5... and hence
the seagull was born.
    what a caged ******, it almost seems like
the englishman was born to remain abroad,
or better still, along with the tabloid
avenue of recounting his stay in Ibiza...
where he was all hail mary for no one to see!

Wired to the detonator
red and green to brown
let's make this dull place
light up
and push the plunger down.

The (mis)-management are arses
a prerequisite for the job
the main man is a plonker
a fifteen carat ****.

But we have to do what we have to do
to see us through the day,
but I might just push the plunger down
and blow this lot away.

Words.

Two lines Ralph Fiennes
and don't be thinking coke
all I'm really asking is
would you like a smoke.

Down at the Old Vic
oooh,
theatres are so sick,

which is modern for
theatres are great and
you want to wonder
why I'm in
such a state.


Things are moving at a pace that I no longer keep
I'd rather stay in bed with you and
I'm not thinking sleep, but
'needs must when the devil drives'
I have to leave quite soon
so it's either push the plunger down
or howl out at the moon.

An agony of a war
Within the family,
Twelve, we were
born, the first not
I am and, the first
just I am

A bigamy,
sometimes is
raw deal and,
outrageous is always
planting, on the
farm yard of a family
tree and it's branches,
there is hatred between
brethren of the same
parental map, the
youngish feel to
count out the unyoung
for no reason but, to
take the rag coiled
the head of the
Kingdom, where all
they lives and dwell,
I am more than pliable
and I am in the plight
mode like I plight to
someone throth having
no wealth, my heart feet
plod and trudge, they
Positioned my life as
plonker through all
the ploy and manoeuvre
seeded, downgraded own
talent and light of my pen
work, I will not be pride
on myself but, so many
did with the negation
of my family,
Everyone's hatred on
some like me, so why?

Because, I am bestowed
not with laziness but a
gift to learn and understand
easily, and I Wasn't gifted with
more wealth like mansa moussa

We got a new apprentice
Willem is his name
We nicknamed him Rodney
Cos he,s a plonker just the same
He,s a canny kid really
But bites like a shark
So we wind him up all the time
Just for a lark
He climbs the ladder like a girl
Takes a week to get to the top
Never gets us what we ask for
When we send him to the shop
He,s trying to pack in smoking
It really is a joke
When he ***** on his vipe
And vanishes in a cloud of smoke
We let him paint at bahtias
The bit round the door
he painted next doors wall
And got more on the floor
It splashed on his face
His hands were white
He,s really no Picasso
In fact he,s *****
But I really like him
He reminds me of me
I was like that too
When I was THREE!!!!!!

.poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
ringo star h'ahmed...
george ali...
paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
right on the plonker...
i'm not finished!
i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
(one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

gehirnablassen...
brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

)  notes to preserve completing
what remained: pending...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos / chaos...
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
graphemes: sz phi theta
compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
german 19th century fascination
with islam...
θought and φilosophy...
greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...                                         (

1. well, let's begin...
        it has taken me two days to complete
my utterances... i've just spent 40 or so minutes
listening to the last of the youtube
stronghold (dangerfield -
               from hash to ******) -
i can relate on the literature,
i can't relate in taking steps of replica...
i started smoking marijuana
aged 21... i think you should start later...
drinking while being a teenager, fine...
i hanged around with some irish in my teens,
we used to have sleepovers at youth clubs
play pool, buy ***** mags and drink
white lightning: bumb cider...
but given that i was sold chemically
enchanced (negatively, i might add) marijuana
that turned me psychotic...
ah... psychiatric terms, used by the mainstream
like some casual metaphors...
     recently i was at a health scrutiny hour...
yes: my psychosis was made stable in
a schizophrenia: which is a new word to describe
bilingualism... oh the english natives!
what competent people...
  no, it didn't become bipolar: psychotic depression...
lucky me... lucky in that:
           bukowski: isolation is the gift...
the rest are a test of your endurance...
no **** sherlock!

  i just look at all the particular instances
when english (the language) breaks rules...
    heidegger merely pointed out
that there's a difference between chaos
and χαoς: well cheap and cha-cha-cha...
but when it comes to the ferryman?
some would say: χαρoν...
otherwise? do the raj bidding of inserting
a surd H... nibble at the tetragrammaton...
   and call the ferryman κ - αρoν
                                            (h)...
this isn't the only example: cheap, chisel...
        chemistry... it's not chem-ístree...
      it's kem-ístree!

2. poor *******, the english,
   they can't discuss orthoraphy...
hardly, to begin with:
what with i (ι) and j (ȷ) -
you have already cut the diacritical heads
of come the CAPITALS: I & J...
what a simple hydra to vanquish...

2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
graphemes: sz phi theta
compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)

                     i like this one...
   letters, syllables, graphemes,
sodium: Na...
  the key and the door analogy of the keyhole...
feminism: it wants to coagulate...
to group existentialism with
scholastism...
sorry honey... play your footie:
*******!
                    key being inserted:
φought enters θilosoφy....
yes, the graphemes are elevated,
beyond the stature of consonants...
didn't you ask?
oh, you should have asked...
- socrates: can yoy give a rational account
                    of syllables, but not of letters?
- theaetetus: it seems possible.
-socrates: quiet; i think so too. at any rate,
surely you'll have an answer about the first
syllable of 'socrates', if someone asked
'tell me, theaetetus, what is SO'?
- theaetetus: yes, my reply would
be that it is S and O.
- socrates: so there's your account of a syllable,
isn't it?
    - theaetetus: yes.
- socrates: all right then, tell me alao of your account
of S is.

sorry... after this point, for B to be a surd?
bottomless pit... let's ask what is a letter,
what is a syllable... and what is a grapheme...
the greeks bargained on dialectical markers...
which they dind't need, since the latins needed them...
what is a syllable is also: what is a grapheme,
and how to account for "strange" vowels?

the greek thought, they thought,
"thinking" that only the greek language
was correlated to universal thinking...
and that universal thinking was only associated
with greeks speaking... pish-poor choice
if you mind...

         syllables... individual letters...
weren't consonants synonymous to syllables?
esp. with added diacritical markers?
play-tongue-think-tank with the greeks...
sooner or later they fizzle out as
redundant...
         couldn't keep Constantinople...
will not regret or revive the bounties of
reclaiming Istambul...

i once claimed to tolerate islam...
tolerating islam is one thing...
    respecting islam: quiet another...
i can attempt myself at
respecting a cloning device...
which any religion is: a cloning device...
i can tolerate it...
which, doesn't imply i respect it;
i wouldn't eat a meal with a muslim...
and sharing a meal?
is my fullest acknowledgement of
respect, i tolerate islam,
i, tolerate it,
   thank **** i don't respect it.
respect it like some 19th century german
philosopher... hegel or nietzsche....

what is a syllable "compensated" by
a grapheme, esp. with a hidden consonant,
akin to the caron "s"...
      i.e. šeep: look at that...
the first time orthography was introduced
into the englishsprechen...
   hid the H: šeep... sheep...

well we already know where the greek
letter went to: modifying scientific
constants... after all π = 3.14....
    Σ = summation...
            last time i checked...
letter, whether consonant or vowel
orientated,
took up more meaning beyond
translating the optic of encoded
sound into expressed sound...
    they became surds...
          tools to think with,
only secondary sound symbols...
you no longer translated the representation
of the sound,
there was an idea behind the letter...
disguised as a "letter"...
chemistry minded the syllables:
Na: sodium, salt...
   and that was that...
              
  fai(s) çe q'(u)é voudrā(s) -
written, but otherwise a surd...
fwench has the most examples...

3. music choice...
brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
     mind you, i will gladly whistle about
three songs while walking...
this is the part where i become an arrogant
*******... teaching yourself does
that to a man, there's no pride in being
lectured, ordered to regurgitate...
for all that pomp & circumstance
that makes pride & prejudice shy...
    she should have always been
first choice on the fiver banknote...
jane austen my ***...
            mary shelley was the dog's *******,
through and through...
the three songs i sometimes whistle
while walking, taking a whiskey for a walk
(good thing i don't own a dog)...

a. beethoven's symphony IX
     allegro assai vivace - alla marcia...
b. la marseillaise...
   c. british grenadiers - fife & drum...
shhh...
    (for all the worth of shakespeare's
poetry... robert burn's:
aud lang syne...
        hell... i can't write sing-along poetry...
poetical commentary...
which still beats poetry worthy of
thee theatre...
shakespeare, no shakespeare...
aud lang syne:
   old long gone song, refurbished)...

5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

       isn't it obvious? england is a metal
asymlum when you wish to see it as such...
somehow and "suddenly" all the social
pressures disappear when nagging either
a polonaise society or a h'american society...
i'll be critical of applied english,
as a language...
but when it comes to living?
               second to none... when i was younger,
and growing up in poland
the english were know as gaylords...
or the bellybuttons of the world...
now, having grown up among the irish
in the outer east-end of Loondon?
want to talk to a 6ft1 115kg "******" about
his lack of obsession with marital status?
his complete disinterest in dating?
what's a dating app?!
                 the same kind of "******"
obsessed with templar chants?
dabbling in helvegen?

  dating... what a weird concept...
whenever i get a chance, i'll sit with a thai
surprise (bisexual, female)...
manage to take her home, play her some
jazz... **** her in the garden...
                            walk her home...
"date"... when it comes to prostituites...
when it comes to prostitutes...
    britney spears  - criminal,
     rihanna - shut up & drive,
   lady gaga - telephone
                       holly valance - kiss kiss
delta goodrem - innocent eyes.....
gay boy got gay rights...
what a boring time to be alive in...
just when homosexuality was no longer tabooo,
norman stephen "typo" *******...
boring homosexuality...
  antithesis artistic homos...
gays are boring me with their antics,
i'd also love latex love triangles...
but...
  i'm not joining in,
since i haven't been made welcome...
         welcome this:
the rightful pucker of a knuckle count's worth
of a sucker!

    i've experienced only: 3, loves at first sight...
kot... i rememher her surname,
she was the first to kiss me,
aged, roughly 7...
    priya.... my ex-girlfriend's
younger sister...
                          isabella of grenoble...
who took my virginity...
oh, ****...
        there was freckles galore daniella...
at st. augustine's... rabbit to her...
there was... milena...
there was samatha...
                there was jadwiga...
                       there was janina...
i fell in love too many times...
there was ilona of novosibirsk...
   gregoria who licked my face
like a cow...
                 the ukranian *******,
the bulgarian prostitutes who i stole
kisses from,
the serbian strippers...
   packaged boy,
  postcard ****-acto...
                 the australian fling...
half hindu half scouser...
towering beauty with the looks
akin to tweety bird lips (as my irish friend
noted)...

women... ah ha ha...
           i guess 3 months is long enough
for me to be with them...
    last time i checked, she was on her period,
and i was gagging...
last time i checked: ******* a *******
her period alleviates the period pains...
she didn't let me,
instead? i received a week
bound to reading Bulgakov...

           condoms are great when used
to **** a ******* her period...
that's how i started to hate relationships...
*** monopoly..
   and readings from cosmopolitan magazine
about the out-dated
idiosyncracy of relationship statuses...

4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
german 19th century fascination
with islam...
θought and φilosophy...
greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...

     i can tolerate islam,
but, i can't respect it....
    how could i respect it?
           i met a greek in warsaw....
he sounded like a goth,
     how the spanish tongue sounded
much akin to the greek zunge...     

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on an ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

          mind you: i always seemed to "mis-pronounce"
words in english... first came puma:
i was laughed at on a primary school bus
heading from st. augustine's (half-way between
gants hill and barkingside) to the barkingside
swimming pool: where i learned to swim
by myself, very much akin to me learning
the english language, by myself,
dropped into the deep end,
i was a complete mute...
my parents were also learning the zunge...
so they couldn't exactly teach me,
i had to learn it myself...
      so it wasn't puma: with that hollowed
out U...
      i.e. pú-mah... it was: pew-mah...
or piu-mah...
           weird...
                   then i found other examples...
i was once more corrected
when it came to the celts...
                       it wasn't cedilla "riddled":
çelts, but Kelts...
    funny that... the football team from glasgow
is dubbed çeltic, not celtic: isn't it?
i loved being corrected about my
pronounciation... get corrected enough times,
and then... light: you get to sprechen such
things as:
   what sort of orthography aesthetic discussion
can i have with an englishman,
when his sole diacritical markers
hover over an ιo: iota: i / ι...
   and that dotless antithesis of java - ȷ -
like in dante's canto XXVIII:
                               Bertrand de Born,
two completely pointless orthographical -
as i would rather call them:
indulgences rather than errors,
otherwise not necessary...
             excess spelling... and particular,
hidden, pronounciation variables...
that's as much of an orthographic debate
you will ever get from an englishman,
given their lack applied diacritical markers...
hey... if the english speaking peoples
love their "reality" chequers...
   their metaphysics...
           i have something as pertinent, ready,
orthography is far more interesting
to me than the grandeour of metaphysics...
so now we have to figure out
the third sister... given the already associated
benzene ring directions of associating
compound groups:
   ortho-,
                      meta-,
                            ­           para-...
  can't just leave it to paranorman / -"normal"...
para- needs to be associated with something
else if we're going to venture
with orthography and metaphysics
and further...

    another decent example?
       gnomes...           gnostics...
why is the g treated as a surd at the beginning
of the word, hence? 'nomes hence 'nostics...
but all the more apparent in a word like
diagnostics?
                               i guess i've found my
new playground: the english vocabulary.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.

Pete told me he killed someone
When he was a policeman
He was only 23
Him and PC Brooks got called to
number 1, consista court
Arthur was an 84
Year old naked grandad
Arms and legs were red raw
As he lay in the bath
Quietly groaning
His daughter was sobbing
And Pete remembers it all

Brooks and Pete they reassure
Tell him he's a right plonker
And Pete takes the shower head
Tests it first and showers him
With cold water on his legs
Skin peels in his hands
And Pete feels something
That won't ever go away.

It's ok, Pete.

Pete's proud of his daughter
Shows me her on his phone
She competes in gymnastics
On a balance beam doing back flips;
He's met Elton John
Was given a tour of his home,
He earns enough to get by
But wants to start a landscaping business.

it's raining, i outstretch my hand in an akimbo pose on a windowsill, capture some rain on the hand, and then, lick it off.

i always seem to word the world in better guise,
when i can encourage a minute or two,
faking being blind,
closed eyes, deaf or rather
  deafened by headphones,
       cackling, trying to make a hyrbid
of fox and hyena in me attempting
a shy laugh...
          i forget when my admiration
for ****** hair began...
probably after i neared November,
and own, started to agitate the wind,
i.e.it started to be brushed by it,
like a long-haired tangle....
          the oddity of experiencing
your ****** hair made real by the wind...
there are
the falcon sheds his wings
to dive for his prey...
                   as any angel might
to caste a magic of embodiment...
the falcon imitates
an arrow, slicing, thriving,
cutting through, reestablishing a
genesis... a let's begrudge an unnecessary
             beginning...
prior to wishing being a father,
prior to asking for a son,
prior to attaining a woman,
i am conscript of metaphor,
              i abhor the literalism
of an egyptian prince, comedy of
the overtly literal *******...
            what i hate deserves hating...
mort poetica is, not, an, answer!
             there was no talking serpent
to begin with,
  there was only your labouring poetry...
ever heard  of *nuance of joke?
   if making life difficult was your answer,
you pillock, numb-whit,
   fine! fine fine!
                        plonkers r us...
tragic!
                   our safe-haven of
class A hillbilly window-cleaners!
     Delboy is my new Goebbel Hoffhessen
trap of a treat...
you quasi cockney squat!
laugh all you want,
i wanna the bending of the 'nee -
                   surds g, anmd the k,
and then the pucker asks:
                w'ah wit dame cockney
                               n' the lost feather....
you playing me potters'?
                             'ucking bride to be
wishy-washy lost oasis mods...
         jerkers off in the trans fannies...
farking bunnies...
calls them the southern bunnies,
quips us better sorter than
the gimmick muzzies of herr mah mah med;
******* dollop of a plonker.
you get bistro nostalgic on me
i'll get holiday happy to be honest,
over hanover,
i know a german loving a gormnan
when i see 'un.
                  last time i told this tale
i was tying a string to a paper tail,
an aeroplane in the the form of
origami...
                    i'll **** one off,
if you ask me nicely, you
******* ire, shh shh,
gingerbread man's worth of a
******* celt pleading for both
ginger & luck...
flip a coin...
  call it a shamrock;
then demand less than the lesser
of all possibles lessened:
the perfectly poured pint
of Guinness... ye' *******
scab of waiting intervention...
   you f'acking kanyan scabbed
sun-stroked-mastering-
of a paint-brush...
       in aiming for a crumb
dedicated to a loaf.
         it's almost funny watching
commentators of today
being so dismissive of poetry
in biblical writing,
   their literal interpretation
of biblical verse is
beyond funny...
                 it's just plain sad,
before they make fun of
the language of an ancient egyptian
prince, i suggest they read
some words of
  ambiguity / poetry...
             who is not to write
imagery, in order to not gauge out
the eyes of readers?!

best opening track? slipknot's (sic).

bear with me, i'm reaching the peak
of tipsy and the english
humour (sarcasm) is coming out
in full bloom & swing...
well you know... it had to happen
one way or the other...
point being: i never understood
nor will i understand the concept
of... *boredom...
        the ****** thing just flew right
over my head, scalping me
while it did its predatory swoop...
nope, still don't get it (what if now
only scrathing my skull
evem though it's not itchy) -
      now, if you told me:
whatch'ah up to? nothing.
        i can understand that crystal clear,
boredom though? i have no
idea how to approach that
"disclaimer" with regards to someone's
"procrastination": people who are
"bored" usually procrastinate,
don't they? and my guess is that they're
probably of an extrovert disposition,
right?
    boredom i can never fathom,
every time i'm "bored", my memory
plays the trick of asking me to the cinema
and i see my life flashing before my eyes
without ever falling off a bridge
with only a second to spare being
allowed the sigma-of-consciousness...
     *******, nothing beats home-made
wine 3 years old...
   ****'s feeling groooooo V,
   ha ha, hmm, hmm, ha ha! the giggles....
plonker doing a dunker -
well... that rhymes, doesn't it?
nope... boredom? can't conceive the precious
space of my mind worth entertaining
this dynamic...
     now...
   i can understand what doing
nothing is like... ****** hard...
     itchy ***, itchy scalp, itchy arm-pits,
itchy whatever...
    but then again, when you acknowledge
you're doing nothing, and aren't bored...
you can be super-busy watching ants;
or? notably sparrows...
                                   a.d.h.d. per se.

i don't remember how i went to sleep last night,
i remember going home, catching the 103 bus
from North St. at around... maybe 11pm...
i remember opening my drawer
of my writing desk...
sniffing the marijuana and thinking whether
i should smoke it...

but i don't remember where i put my trousers:
or for that matter how i hanged them...
i don't remember how i took off my shirt
and how i took of my socks or my underwear:
where i put my shoes...
i don't remember... there's this black hole
concerning all these minor details:
all i know is that when i woke up this morning:
nothing was missing...

mind you: two days ago i tried to go to bed
early... i had to wake up at 4am yesterday
for a 7am shift start at Charing Cross Station...
ol' Lizzie was being moved from Buckingham
Palace to a hall in Westminster...
lucky for that i was supervising 8 stewards:
well... 4 stewards and 4 SIA licensed badge
owners...
they gave me the role of supervisor
based on my performance prior: nothing to do
with any qualifications: no NVQ level 3 required
of me whenever i'm needed to fill these shoes...

Charing Cross Station was our castle...
i was on the forefront of the whole affair...
at one point i had several police officers under
my obligation to direct the traffic of people:
we only had one guy jump the gates...
one... and we're talking Wednesday...
not the actual state funeral that's going to take
place on Monday...
30 crowned heads of state: **** me: imagine
how many will come from the republics...

it's not your everyday occasion: i know it "feels" stupid:
but there's a reason why Charing Cross St.
was managed in the way it was...
the crowd couldn't enter Villiers' St. just by
Charing Cross St. on a whim:
all the "window-lickers" could: obviously:
they were hindered... by their lost accessibility
practices of the two peddles of feet...
directing them to Adam Street just off Nero Cafe...
yes... round round... just an extra mile...

oi! mate! stop being so rude! you're the supervisor!
does that make me a *******, saint, mate?!
this is ******* stupid!
just walk round: loose 4 grams of your fat!
******* plebs, turnips! beetroots!
i wouldn't say donkeys... but i can insult
a vegetable, comparing the intellect of those:
self-serving habitual ***** of solipsism!
the queen is dead yet you're still acting like spoilt
brats!
mourning my ***!

at least we now know that one of the supposed
horsemen of the Apocalypse isn't actually a horseman...
death rides on a donkey...
or if it's not riding on a donkey it's walking its horse:
death either rides a donkey or is walking beside
its horse...
all these people: a fountain of youth will drown them:
while the tide of mortality will swallow them...

there is always a reason for something being
arranged when it comes to controlling crowds...
i don't need qualifications to know that:
the best way to keep morale is to approach
supervision with a hands off approach...
i had two fellow female supervisors working with me...
on the spreadsheets given:
let me tell you: there wasn't enough speadsheet
space for them to write comments...
and they wrote: ******* Charlotte Brontë snippets
of comments: oh this guy took 10 minutes more
on his break... blah blah this... blah blah that...
*****-"bosses"...
but did they keep morale? did they upkeep
respect?

of course they didn't traction respect:
they were too busy being busy bodies:
they warped the hierarchy...
me? when i was filling out the spreadsheet
for those "under" me?
they wrote paragraphs... me?
i just wrote: good, good, excellent,
   good, good, o.k., o.k., excellent...
i later started talking to the two guys who
i submitted as "o.k."... scribble the o.k. out
and put them down as good...
why? they "enlightened" me concerning
the difference between how the Portuguese speak
and how the Brazilians speak...
even though one was Bangladeshi / Sri Lankan...

the Brazilians sing... they elongate their speech...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
breaks? whenever you feel like it...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
i wasn't standing behind them as some sort
of authority... just because i had a different
coloured bib to them...
i was manning the ******* barrier along with them...
as a man should do...
but obviously women have this hierarchical
fixation whereby they think: comes centralised:
from the top to the bottom...
no... aha ha ha! authority comes from
the bottom up!
you make everyone feel equal: not everyone is:
but if you can make everyone equal...
you showcase what you're supposed to do: by actually
doing it... rather than simply telling them
what to do... guess what?! they'll do it!

why? because you're also doing it!
people remind me of when i used to ride horses...
relaxing the reins and gently strutting...
straining the reins when galloping...
hell... if i managed to get a few Greater Manchester
police officers under my umbrella of
"authority" just because i had the word
"supervisor" on my bib and it was
a different colour: i don't take the role i'm elevated
to all that seriously:
it's a bit of a *****... i have to be "there" early...

but leave women in the role of supervisor?
you'll get disorder in the ranks...
they take it too seriously: it's not the army...
one guy had his umbrella confiscated...
i comforted him: you won't be needing it today...
yes, you will get it back at the end of the shift...

i remember the first time a woman said to her child:
mind the man, girl... was it my height, my beard,
or my age that prompted: MAN?
i was also gob-struck-mute when one of the stewards
addresses me as: SIR...
the first time he uttered the word in my direction:
sir... X(blah blah)... huh?! i'm a sir now?!

the second time he rephrased himself...
Sir... so what do i call you? Sir or...
mate mate... just call me Matthew... and your umbrella
is just fine and dandy...

from experience: it's usually a female supervisor:
a role that should never be given...
it's basically a cull-call...
some variation of the abortion right of who
ought to be employed-living
or dead-unemployed... women are *******
savage when given the wrong sort of authority!
March of the Little Hitlers...
what was my summary of the people working under
me? good good, excellent, good good, o.k. o.k.:
which i later scribbled out into good
when we were talking about the Portuguese language...
i hate women in a hierarchy:
they're power-trapped: strapped to a level
of competence they exact too much authority over
people that need to be reeled into a comfort zone
of respecting you detailing to them:
you have no basis for authority:

aren't you supposed to learn from the best?
who just died?! didn't she... confront this metaphysical
conundrum with a master plan of expertise?!
of course she ******* did!
women aren't leaders...
Joan of Arc... an exception...
Boudica... an exception... hardly Helen of Troy...
i can't... maybe i'm wearing a ****** on
my head... or maybe some aeroplane "plastic"
of aluminium... sorry... sorry girl...
i'm... quick to forget.. what was the plan?
me? being cucked?! in favour of your pencil-neck
am ambitions?!

**** me: you send one more of these security staff back
home because they're: "not up to your standards":
you'll have a crew of about : 2!
women are: "supposedly" expected to work with
children... to be honest? i wouldn't leave
a woman alone with a child of mine even
if someone paid me!
i don't know where these FREAKS come from!
they already branded themselves with tattoos...
nearer to a HOG than a BABE...
they're not communists... not Slavic communists...
not economic minded people:
they are ideologue  numb-skulls and half-wit
sort of retaining ******* remnants of a remaining
masculinity... basically the SOYO BOYO BUILD UP...

i still have to write... why: i don't remember how i sent to sleep
last night...

women can't control men...
  they're too: CONTROL FREAKS...
men don't respect women in power...
women respect men in charge of men...
and who is respected: as a "man of power":
a man who is akin to his fellow man...
man for the like of man...
women... don't understand this!
while women are selfish: men are selfless....

i don't remember how i went to sleep last night,

it's the best suffocating *** i ever had....
***** bit me! ***** BIT me
she sq: nibbled on me!

i don't remember ever being nibbled on!
i could slap a girl's ***...
but? being bitten!?!

    sq? she: sq? what the hell does that mean?
well... i guess the whole Kama Sutra is coming to
a realisation... she likes her *** getting slapped
during *******... and thighs...
she slaps me back...
      i gently bite her chin... she bites back:
with such ferocity that i think i'm ******* either
a vampire or a leech...

mind you: i did manage to pet a cat on my
cider walkabout before entering the brothel...
sitting on a brick wall... the ****** purred
and as i extended my hand: maybe it was
the smell of tobacco or whatever it was...
he hissed and started biting me...
then we played a game of "paws":
i tried to tease it while he struck me...
hmm... now it makes sense...

it's all geographically sound: like the butterfly
at X and a tornado at Y...
chaos theory... nothing makes sense yet
at the same time: everything makes sense:
if you're aware enough...

just like my idea concerning...
if there's an equation akin to:
   E = MC²

                 if there's the speed of light squared:
then there must be an equation with
the speed of light, CUBED, i.e. C³...
                    if we're not talking energy...
if we're not talking mass...
we must be talking about an equation with
the speed of light cubed and... gravity...
i still don't understand why the speed of light
has to be squared... but it has to be...
but surely there has to be some sense of the speed
of light cubed: contained as it is within
the form of the sun...
there has to be some cubic stability to its speed:
something akin to it being contained by
way of it being uncontained...
the principle of synonym-antonym follows suit:

red is also crimson is also a hue very much pink...

hmm: come to think of it... i like being bitten...
i don't think i've ever seen a pornographic flick
where either actor bit another...
obviously i tried to avoid all the Western: STALE
kinks of hierarchical brutalism...
come to think of it? no... i don't think i have:
have? i haven't seen a pornographic flick
where people bite each other during *******:
like dogs during play...
it wasn't biting: biting... it was a sexed-up
antithesis of eating...

as some say: man is a political animal,
or man is a social creature...
                   me? i'm just the next fathomable outlier
that's sexed up and getting it and wanting
even more...

because you can't just have one love interest...
since at that point: what some deem as love:
others start deeming it sport...
no wonder i have such a narrow scope
of interests... all have to come back to: women...

**** me... she's pushing it... but she's pushing
it in the right sort of direction:
i don't remember the last time i had
unprotected *** with a woman:
esp. a *******...
she changed her number... she gave me her new number...
the first picture she sent me was showcasing
her ***... pretending to wear heels...
i.e. on her tip-toes...
wearing this glorious lingerie: red...
her skin tone doesn't match up well with red...
i was thinking: pale green... pale blue...

when i'm with her i think: oh **** these western,
Anglican prunes of women!
they're there for thirsty Muslim women to
****: i don't do timid: i don't do shy
(forced tautology)...
i need experience... i need sorrow...
play that timid game long enough
you'll probably be sitting opposite me on the tube
starting to pretend to be a drummer:
with a fidgety tapping of the leg...
like this one beauty: and i mean: she was a beauty...
features unlike most Spanish girl...
she looked gorgeous without make-up...
but she was showcasing her locked screen of
her phone: with make-up... i knew it right
there and then: but i was half asleep coming
back from a shift: i was in a *******-mood
not in a romantic mood...

she had that classical beauty about her...
enlarged eyelids... but enlarged eyelids
and the perfect proportion of them being enlarged
between the distance between her eyes and
eyebrows was pleasing to my eyes...
tangled hair... and that Sumerian tangle
of side-burns: pushing her into a category of
a woman from the Raj: the highest caste...
mar-ve-lous... it's a new sport for me...

watching out for nervous women: lip-reading...
some men turn to trainspotting...
me? i turned to... ******-spotting:
i'm oh so curious to see at what point
a woman's sexuality wakes up...
when she realises that she has potency and legality
to attract the opposite ***...
mind you: i did start ******* prematurely:
aged 8... i was even so bold as to teach
one proselyte circumcised **** to *******
with me... in the bath... while my mother was
ironing a shirt...

squeamish? me? no no...
it's still only 11:30 in the morning
and i've already put on the washing...
done the stewarding chores of the household
(mum has arthritis...
i'm a stauch propagator of Japanese
*** culture... if not a brothel? then?
a love hotel... simple)

Khadra, Khedra... Khedija robbed me that one
night...
this one's birthday... that one's birthday...
this one's name day... that one's name day...
keeping up with a harem is not exactly "fun":
well, it is...
if you can keep a hard-on...
during ******* and in between biting me
she inquired: why haven't you ******* yet...
being self-conscious (from time to time)
i tried to figure out the "plumbing":
oh... you know why?
i pulled out... went over to the sink...
turned on the water... waited for the hard-on
to disappear: one "artery" is clogging another
"artery": a man breathes through the same
hole he eats from...

a man propagates from the same hole he ******
from... i turned on the water... waited
for the hard-on to *******...
water, water: everywhere: but not a drop
to drink...
ah... i squeezed out the bothersome ****
that dissuaded me from climaxing from
a "lost uncle" of a "long lost muscle" of tease...
but that's the thing about the right
sort of woman...
you do turn into a Duracel Bunny...
it's switch ON / switch OFF...

i remember times when i was completely undermined
by women: thinking i had an ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION...
apparently not... the wrong sort of women
give me erectile dysfunction: i'm not willing to correct
that "problem" with any chemical cocktail of
"improvement": ******: at least they're not shy:
they know what they're doing...
at least they know that emotional investments comes:
post-scriptum, not: pre-scriptum...

how do i know? i paid her for half an hour...
she notices i have more money in my wallet...
she sieves through the extra £60 on me...
takes out a £20... half an hour turns into an hour:
or so it feels... feels is better than what's actually
apparent... she tells me her birthday is on Saturday:

buy me a present! o.k.: what the ****?!
ring?! no no... that's *******... book?! i gave her
a copy of my poems... what then? what then?!
Matthew? didn't she send you a copy of her standing
with her *** showcased and her legs...
her arms seemingly tied her raven hair across
her back?                Matthew?      genius!
lingerie! i'll buy her something **** to then
**** her in!

right... Matthew? what?!
did you notice that when you last saw her...
her bra was too big for her *****?
yes, i did...
do i buy her a lingerie in secret or do i ask
for her measurements... gamble...
**** it: i'll ask for her measurements...

- what is your lingerie size, bra? too big?
i want to go shopping for you
tell me, so i know.
- M
    36B 85
      You tek M better...

i don't remember the last time i went shopping
for lingerie... she's not 36B... no chance in hell...
she has petite *******...
my hand is half full when i grasp them...
she stands... while i kiss her forehead...
eye-sight in line with my *******...
but that's what's so glorious...
she's Turkish... and i'm...
if it wasn't for the Northern Crusades:
the Polacks defending the last remnant of paganism
of Lithuania against the Pig-Crux...
i would be nothing without a history
i have the luxury to explore...

Casimir the Great invited the Hebrews...
who was that Schtad-Mein-Feuer
in command of Auschwitz played by X
who uttered the same words?
maybe it was an exalted plan to excuse the Hebrews
from Europe... surely the "invitation"
of Muslims into Europe will be painful at first...
but perhaps it will: less so...
hell: i'm already in favour of ******* Muslim
women...
even unto Khedra i uttered my favorite saying:
bound to Rumi:

la illaha il allah...

   as anyone living on Malta what the noun
for god is... all will utter the noun: allah...
all? ah! what a sigh of relief!

monotheism is one massive cesspool of globalism
to begin and end with...
it's a massive joke on the people:
the prophecy of the resurgent tower of Babel...
the language is already in place: English...
but the good news is...
at least we'll have a second "chance":
it's not really a chance... it's a waiting game...
i'm telling you: the cull is going to be massive...
it's already in our unconscious: collective:
which is why you see it in the popular culture:
**** always floats to the top...

globalism one way or the other...
after all: dinosaur juice is not as infinite as the sun...
there's philosophy and there's pessimism...
philosophy doesn't look too far ahead
to be unrealistic... stupendously slow
on revising itself: there's no pin-point of "departure"
in philosophy: there's only the "game"
of the build-up... philosophy is preparation...
it's akin to cooking in that:
cooking is everything that is...
the technicalities...
while philosophy is: how much ingredients
are needed, what is the process of preparing a meal?

if anyone should accuse me of being pompous?
i'll start writing about ******* ******!
****'s sake!
even my mother, once upon a time,
called me an: intelligent, BEAST...
and i am just that!
i know what i am!
           when i was ******* Khedra she uttered
innumerable blasphemies...
i was little **** at one point... then slow at another...
she wanted to cuddle: complained that
i showered myself with cold water...
she called me mad... she couldn't stop looking
into my eyes... and i into hers...
brown for green: sold!
   biting: my god... i'm starting to love the biting...
tongue licking lips...
still those eyes: and the way she uttered:
*******... yeah: you are, ******* me...
or is that the other way round?!

at least we, i hope "we" didn't take it personally...
then again... she did send me a picture
of her and her daughter...
she's asking me for a present:
i chose lingerie... because i want to **** her
when she looks all the more sexed up (****)
but then she sends me pictures of her and her daughter:
so what? you want me to foster this Frankenstein?
gladly!
              why? oh you know why...
just read Marquis de Sade's magnum opus of a novella
that's ******...
i'm not that stupid to know what urges
motivate my virility and lust for life...
it's always the forbidden "things" that give man
the purpose for life: and that purpose is bound
to those forbidden "things" and the ability to restrain
their realisation!

it's the restraint on realising taboos:
taboos that come into fruition are... rotten...
but? restrained taboos? that rot the mind,
or rather: exfoliate the mind into bloom?
my god! the temple of the gods!
the eyes of Oedipus! right there! on the altar!
everything entertained by the mind
is sacred: even if extended on the privy
within the confines of script...
sacred upon the moment it is made
sacrilege and exacted against the mind's
entertainment: whereby the cognitive restrains
are bypassed: and said taboo is exacted...

we all want healthy ***...
impersonal ***... *** that money best allows...
transactional ***... clarity ***...
but this is one ******* level up:
she's asking for gifts... she's getting emotionally attached...
i'm starting to think about finding a new brothel...
all those pictures she's sending me
of her and her daughter: yes... man missing...
she's even showing me pictures of a house
she's doing up in Turkey...
she needs £180,000 and then she'll be happy...

i do have a certain banknote... well... several...
that could be worth just as much: if not more...
Tsar Nicholas II is a familiar face in a painting, no?
but on a banknote?!
by now ****** or no ****** doesn't bother me...
a ******* with a beautiful girl like her's?
it would be much more easier to foster a girl
of a single mum than it would to foster
a boy with a single mum:

oh! no ******* way! single mum with an only child
boy?! THAT'S ******* DEMISE!
that's not happening! that's Oedipus!
that's patricide! that's infanticide!
i'd want to **** the mother as much as i'd want
to **** her pup!
a single mum with a daughter i could handle:
it works just fine... Ancient Rome gave us lessons
about the abnormality of fostering *******:
fostering sons never works out "just fine"...

- it's like with this one record i recently found:
HASLINGER - FUTURE PRIMITIVE
a rare glimpse into 1990's culture...
from 1994...
rarely do you get anyone bold enough
to say: **** is ****... all those muddled waters
of fiction... and crisp-crass methodoligcal
poetic: hiding behind ******* RHYMES
and structures...
never anything worth talking over: or for that
matter: talking into...

there are about five fingers on each of my hand:
no, there actually are... ****...
WONG FACTION, i.e. wrong fraction...
too much TAOISM in me...
first i'll cycle to recycle the empty
whiskey bottles... then i'll cycle to
peep at some vinyls: will i find the "one"
i want? probably not... then i'll walk into Anne
Summers and pretend to be all shy
all paedophilic choosing out the bra
and *******: suspenders...
does the nylon come free?

   i'll play a game... i like: gay-mmmm's...
god:
i don't care for those insufferable wastes
of men thirsting at the fountain of ****!
i'm having my fill, i don't care
whether my writing is elevated from
the sewers into the mainstream:
my writing is merely an accompaniment
to the life i'm living...
and i love my life more than i could
ever love my writing...
after all:

res cogitans "vs." res extensa...
i write by extension:
not by thinking...
i never think about what i'm about to write:
writing is as extension of me
elaborating twiddling with my fingers:
i really have itchy finger-tips...
i sometimes express that by rubbing them
on coarse items akin to bricks:
before moving them to the oyster flesh
of a woman's body... tenderising them...

yeah: and i know what EUTHENASIA
is... when i get too old: and less useful...
i do know where the "fire exit" is... plonker...
you know where assisted suicide is?
or are you too ******* frightful?!
death is my ****** ******!

mind you: who the **** dubbed the likes
of X X X X and me?
hellraisers?! we were simply workaholic-alcoholics...
we liked to drink, we HAD to work...
******* women was a bountiful: BONUS...
the eager ones... we left the "virgins"
to the beta males...
i get the itch whenever i think about
all those celestial nuns in their stupendous
salvaging of virginity:
each one and every one waiting to be greeting
a "****** birth" of a "god": b'ah b'ah bad:
it's probably more true that Hey-Zeus was
Jesus-ibn-Snow / *******!

i lost my "faith"... a long time ago...
from the explosion of the Atom Bomb
and the unearthing of the Nag Hammadi Library
and the accounts of the Hebrew historian:
Josephus ibn Mattheus...
the FALSE PROPHET FROM EGYPT...
north America can falsify a lie...
i don't care... i'm more interested
in upkeeping the decency of Russia...
and what remains of Europe.

                     nope... i'm lost on the concept
of conversion... Islam seems more politically viable
to make choice: on... than... this: pseudo-polytheistic
sputnik of a plethora of doubt:
faith: i' will sooner **** on the cross than be bound to:
what?! pray before the image of torture!
you're no god! you're simply a sadist!

this god didn't deserve a death!
this god didn't deserve a, life!
******* Moloch Spawn!

title: humming
body: beside Kafka; one of those 502 bad gateway hacks...

i'm not going to write about how i'm being an *******,
forget that,
i had two weeks of living alone to figure out:
yeah, very doable, i can do this alone...
only once or twice did i find myself talking to
myself... i said something in English then
answered back in ******... wow... two very different
people... they must have met up Berlin: of all places...
but i was glad... didn't get into a boxing match
scruff with my shadow... so no black eye...
thank god my left is returning to normal:
when that psychotic ***** of a cat bit me while i was
trying to wash her for having taken a lazy ****...
wow... i can count four... knuckles...
sure... the cigarette burns on the middle and index
are still healing... but as someone who enjoys pain:
i'm not bothered...
mein gott... we were expecting havoc at the Oxford
vs. Bolton Wanderers match...
only a week prior the fans of the latter team threw
a man from his wheelchair...
maybe it's just me... maybe i look the part...
i'm not some scruffy anemic Asian kid that a good
gust of wind could blow over...
perhaps i belong to a cult of: put out cigarette butts
on your knuckles... make them wonder...
but i'm not even a south-paw...
but like Louis XIV once remarked:
the trick is in the optics... never mind that:
i always admired his brother more...
                                     philippe I, duke of orléans....
him an frederick II, hohenstaufen -
well... there is also philip II augustus,
from the Captetian family...
               but no... i'm not going to be made
to feel like an *******...
Jeminah: Jemma... i thought it was Gemma...
she slandered me...
i already know she fits the stereotype of
an ava max song: oh she's sweet but a ******...
at night she's singing where's: m'ah m'ah m'ah m'ah my mind...
i should have gone to the brothel...
take off some steam...
          girls can hot yoga all they want...
i need a proper good **** to get things off my chest...
i tried psychiatrists,
priests?! i guess i'm a poet...
but prostitutes were always my go-to therapy
sessions... i need to "talk" by touch...
well... i didn't... i also forgot about *******...
i'm so into this little ginger ***** that:
don't get me started... too many *******
obstacles to begin with... the prospect of raising
a boy with her... i'd be keener on raising a girl...
but...well... even Henry VIII didn't get what he
really wanted... so, go figure...
plus... if i landed that lottery ticket of being
recognised as the father... he's 11 now... so that's what?
7 years of coughing up child support?
in the meantime i already sent her a text...
so... you threw that banana loaf in the bin, yet?
knock knock... i left you a bouquet of flowers
at your doorstep, in the middle of the night come the 14th...
and that card and all that sigh and onomatopoeia
and how i hate roses but pink roses can pass...
esp. if they're a pale rose... but sure...
no... it's not purple... it's fuchsia pink... blah blah...
go figure... no reply...
i'm not going to reply her... no chance...
i think she's playing the game of: ooh... when i see
him, next time, in person... i'm going to lay it into
him! he's going to regret it...
yeah... the girls on the stewarding team were having
a spastic mr. fantastic fall-out...
i told her... it's my fault... i just waited...
but when your boy's friendship with the other girl's
boy that's on the team came to the fore:
i stepped in... by telling you:
you slandered me... then blamed it on the other girl...
i even used a confused emoji in the message...
i never use those modern hieroglyphs...
ugh... i must have recoiled with that sort
of drunken spasm of: w.t.f.?!
i even texted her: listen, my grandfather was an alcoholic,
as much as i loved him,
we'd go cycling, fishing, mushroom foraging,
but every time i visited my grandparents
during the summer holidays when still school
he'd disappoint me by having a week-long
drinking ****, black out... **** the bed...
and i know that women that live with alcoholics
build up with "sixth sense" of smelling
alcohol on a man... you've lived two violent
alcoholics, they beat you and your boy...
but the alcohol you smelt on my might have been
my cologne...
stunned... i'm guessing she still hasn't motivated
herself to leave a reply...
what day's it today? Tuesday... ergo tomorrow
is a Wednesday... the day she spends talking to her
female councillor... so she's going to bring me up...
she better talk to her about... meeting me for the first time...
being engaged in a healthy professional team-work
interaction... but... at the same time...
slandering me... while i gave her a bottle of homemade
wine... a banana loaf for her son...
and a bouquet of flowers on Valentine's day...
there's only so much a man can do...
the rest is up to the girl...
            if she want to be around abusive alcoholics
than... drinkers that'd prefer to fight themselves,
who cycle to end up getting thrown off their bicycle
from: there's no adequate onomatopoeia for a sigh...
AH doesn't cut it... it's that's obviousness of the remark...
and HMM is too inquisitive...
i mean: how do write an word that's merely
a sound that's a signifier of: exasperation?
of defeat?
     write it for me... i know i can't...
so back to the "party" song list:
bruce springsteen - human touch
rihanna - cheers
lionel richie - dancing on the ceiling
kool & the gaand - celebration
pink - get this party started
roy orbison - you got it
ghost - call me little sunshine...

   i'm not the ******* in this story... i should be the *******
in this story... very much so...
but since i played the girls against each other...
like i already said... 10 years of drought from
female attention... then... all of a suddden...
i'm getting chest constipation from feelings...
i'm getting constipated and bound
to that metaphorical-misnomerism of
claustrophobia: of the chest, too...
my head is aching: it feels like it's shrinking...
10 years of no attention... if not more...
and then: wham! bam! thank you ma'am...
10 of them show up... with kids...
and they're like: hey you...
                                               what?
the avenues of possible romance have dried up?
now you're all here... and you're each playing
the Brutus role, back-stabbing each other?
but at the same time... with such: obviousness...
you must have forgotten how it was done back
in your high-school days...
you're getting lazy... no: you've gotten lazy...
if a guy can play you off each other
by simply waiting? i told them... lies have short
legs... the truth will come out to the fore:
of its own volition... just wait...
lies breed contradictions...
they're not some ******* array of Zeno's Paradoxes...
there are only contradictions that leave
loop holes in the narrative...
they reveal contestations... irregularities...
x + y ≠ z... even though... it most certainly ought to...
yeah... less English soap opera akin
to Eastenders and more... Jane Austen's Emma...
a trivial load of *******...
but i know i'm going to get the back-slap from
all of this: because as a man i'm sort of expecting
the worst from a #metoo / #metoyou aftermath...
if they're not all clamouring to get into my good books...
i don't know...
i stopped trying to understand women a long
time ago... i love them too much...
but... if ****'s going down this route...
    i'm going to have to think about doubling down...
get some extra armour...
love them a little bit more...
sort of... apply more metaphors of violence...
dismember them... bit, by bit, by... bit...
**** it... we're game...
i'm already half and half away from a drowning
man crazed with saving himself by gripping
to a razor... cutting my hands in the process of saving
myself... gone with the wind...
no... this ***** is going to learn a lesson:
the hard way... by someone insisting that she can
be loved... she will not get away so easily...
i'll give this doe some time to digest some of her
*******...
               maybe she'll do her backwards and forwards
with her councillor and the councillor will be like:
oh, you, stupid girl...

by the way, that's now how algebra works...
but if she's outright willing to self-sabotage...
i know a little a bit about that...
but not so outright, like that...
and just imagine, we used to be men
that would glorify women in song and in verse...
what has become so terrifyingly real
in our quest to rid ourselves from being
influenced by women... that... we no longer
seek, or therefore need,
to be influenced by them?

shocking... i'd want to be a Chris Rea singing
about Josephine...
or an Eric Clapton singing about Layla...
oh man... i wish i could have been those guys...
but how can i be?
my best options are: either prostitutes
or single mothers...
there's no in between!

idiot, serves you right for falling in love
out of touch, out of time, out of what would be deemed
respectable! ******* ****... idiot...
you better slap yourself awake or i swear to god,
i'll find a 4th, a 5th arm to do that for you!
******* plonker... blunt knife...
headless nail... ugrh!
as much as i'd want to sign about women...
i, simply, can't! they're already mothers!
now i have to play the ancient Roman game of
the good, willing, dog with a tail between its legs
goody-two-shoes...

no... the Rolling Stones and the rest of them
can *******... right off the map of time...
right off!
i don't need their influence...
they had their fun... they can take that ****
to the grave... come to think of it:
i would have never liked to have the easy life...
but come on, outright...
give me the pain... don't play this
carrot & the stick game with me...
i'd rather the pain than this game...
like she can... am i going to be writing
generously about single mums?!
i can, sort of, try... i can write a verse about
having smelly socks too...
but you know... it's not going to exactly stick...

shtick...
      nothing around right now expect how black
guys banging white party girls
with sharpnel of language: in the affirmative...
yeah... hmm.. uh-hmm... blah blah...
at the same time...
white boys looking at black girls
"thinking": no, sorry...
i'm not attracted to that...
you better spike my drink with
some ****** before i bed that *****...
sorry... i'm not going to sleep with her....
she'd sooner be Mongolian than i'd sleep with her...
once more... the Pontius Pilate side
of the story...
   i'm... washing... my hands... clean...
of any affairs... that might arise... come from this;

but sure... have your little interracial escapades...
i don't mind seeing more pseudo-Arab tanned
people... the whole interracial antic is sort of
diluted out of existence come the 2nd generation...
you do you...
but i don't want to feel forced into purposively
having to love a black girl: because being
anti-racist is: just about right...
can i just be: non-racist?! do i need to have to side
with the white leftist quasi-liberal anti-racists?!

no... well thank god for that...
i'm not getting sold life for propagandist reasons...
i'm not about to raise a mixed-race child...
sorry... the mammoths had their chance
to **** with the African / the Indian elephant(s)...
but they missed their chance...
no! how did the dachshund come about...
someone broke a few bones
in the frame of the dobermann?

enough, of the gammon... i'm an albino pinky
chimpanzee... sorted...
  enough of this racial pandering...
  deaf! hello? sorry... what?! falling on deaf ears!
it's just so ****** terrible that i don't think
any man will be available to write a love song
using a girl's name in the near future;

Jeminah... yeah... that ***** that slandered me,
then figured out that she was into me...
well... wow! a bit late for that... don't you think, babe?
no matter... now the sadomasochist has
come out... i'm going to ******* drive
you into the ground;
with past experiences from the brothel...
i'll harrow you... given your previous boyfriends,
drunks... battered you...
i'll make having a heart a living hell!

ever the death, lazily demanding,
  consecrating one's thought
on the altar predating life itself,
     clothed in shrouds, thick cloths
and shadows,
            came bugging life
       with an impeding delivery
            upon the shattered altar of
such boorish nuances of:
     a killing of time,
       and the american "fascination"
with the anti-thesis of claustrophobia...
up, up their *****,
            they cascade into heaving
a "person" as well as a "safe" space...
             not even a Peckham plonker
would mind a grip of the collar
             whenever enticed to a private
conversation in a public sphere...
        but here we are...
                 how shielded we've become
by irrational fears,
           that the only rational fear there is
to ponder, namely the mortal
   grief lost to a waiting line,
                   is, and has to be, hidden
beneath a layer of irrational fears,
           for the one rationale:
    with life, comes death,
                  to contemplate the immediacy
of the awaiting of,
              is somehow trans-phobic,
         because a fear of spiders or fear
of tight spaces can be better excused
       than the sole mortal wound...
                     american's and their inverted
claustrophobia...
                   touch too soon, touch no less,
far beyond making ****** contact,
let alone speaking with hands to boot...
             an old man can corner you
and you will feel not inhibition of sharing
a space that contains within itself
a boa manifestation of ****** interaction...
h'americans are apparently not rude,
unless, of course, they have occupied
a large urban environment and *******
rude remarks:
               ever the most prying nation
becoming the most defensive with lies
about its openness -
        back in st. petersburg you can
hitch-hike in an urban environment
paying a stranger a few rubels to move you
in the same direction he's heading via,
your finish line...
               because the most profound
understanding of melancholy, in musical terms,
is reserved to the northern men,
attired in the sun,
               because only they can cherish
this depth of sadness,
that sparks a sudden chance at: a joy
of being melancholic...
                   no profound truths ever came
from happily invested abodes of
a people...
                  happiness can return to
a lunatic's guise in spontaneous laughter,
such said impromptu,
       can never balance an inquisitive
sadness,
           a sadness that has a phoenix spark,
waiting right until the very end,        
  to reveal itself in a haunting presence,
a disembodiment of form,
   when the shadow suddenly escapes
the prejudices ascribed to the body
in the eyes of the other...
                     i imagine the myth
that is already the illogical study of
preserving temporal events...
               myths are only rhythms of
space...
              inherited,
          rather than imitated to preserve
the yester-year as also true,
  to the year to pass...
                of the anti-narcissus
   who fell in love with his shadow...
              well... if, félix guattari
                              and gilles deleuze  
could write their thesis on the anti-oedipus,
i too can contend with
the french pretentions...
             no grander movement
in self-introspection than a fascination
with a shadow,
                    that being:
the unbearable stare into
           the reflection in a water, as also in glass...
what a haunting reflection,
      so diluted in the still water,
    in the later invested in glass...
              i can only see the love-affair
with ghosts, half-formed studies of
       a reflection, unclear as to why
narcissus was poseidon's son,
                  rather than a son of hades:
from what became clearer
                in unearthed metals...
                 and to just think,
that glass is derived from handling sand...
            the paradise of the lake,
the life of the river,
                 the chaos of the sea,
where the paradise of a lake
is a discussion of man and the gods,
   where the life of the river
is a discussion of man and man,
where the chaos of the sea
         is the discussion between
   gods and their fathers, the titans.

russia never fails at being: unsurprising -
stagnant mother of
the little caucasian dittos -
        otherwise a pristine day...
a breakfast of a coffee... an apple...
and a cigarette...
minutes later... digging up glass
and mirrors from the earth -
       the earthworms and the scuttling
spiders - the woodlice
   and
those sluggish irritations
of glob-like loafs of galileo's bread -
it's almost impossible not
to laugh when picking up
a snail by the shell... timid little
lubricant slob... teasing it to
prop out its eyes...
   fungus-esque vacuum of cul de sac
black prodding (the eyes! the eyes!):
god... that salival gobshite of
a slush munch oozing
like a ******... but slugs?!
ugh... a discomfort like no other...
yes: those spiders dancing a cossack...
'opak...
with each handling of a shovel
the displacement of these little
pandemonium rugrats...
gloriously wriggling centipedes;
      but the fence is not yet complete...
i have to dig circa 6 inches
into the harrow and plough to...
set up a underlay border...
so the weeds: these consistently demanding
   overlords of will -
can be clogged up against:
a makeshift ha-kotel...
    as i also watched the ants:
how many i buried alive in the cement...
satellite eyes in my skull -
          sushi from earthworms...
like pruned shoots of greenery -
i am sure the clone replica
body tomb will... well:
sometimes one might draw blood from
an earthworm cut in half...
breakfast for champions:
a coffee an apple and a cigarette...
oh yes... the cement - fine fine
grey powder...
and building sand...
      a 3:1 ratio of sand to cement powder...
it just desires air like pollen...
you end up snorting a burst
balloon's worth...
   that was me... a concrete flinging
monkey... i seem to have...
forgotten the ****...
   in response
                 a mini replica of the ha-kotel
or hadrian's wall...
come the evening;
a ******* moth sanctuary that's also
my bedroom...
     which is nice...
i.e. moths...
            unlike indoor plants...
concrete flinging monkey...
       architect chomp chizzy...
             a story akin to: come evening...
a local dairy farm is being
closed in vermont...
         there's talk of... the usual...
it's not that capitalism this...
capitalism that... socialism blah blah...
kafka and bureaucracy...
a forest... a paper stampede:
but tourism...
   i, concrete flinging monkey...
come across a view with a nuisance...
no... not wind-farms...
cows... lots and lots of cows...
i also own a maine **** that...
   meows at the moon...
   well... imitate barking... howling...
fair enough... ah'woooooo!
perfect... but... it's just impossible...
to... say:                woof...
saying <woof> these days is like
some czech saying the word <i> -
                     pronouns are not stand-alone
necessary conjunction shrapnel: and...
i'll bark: without... i'll hark...
i'll imitate... god forbid the idyll of
a "woof"...
       back to the cows...
well... what better cure...
crying: moooooooooooooo'n
at them...
                if not a canvas for
a zebra... then most fuckety-**** assured
a dalmatian running chaos
and concrete evidence for a ziggy
and a zag...
                         because: as you do...
it would be plain idiot
to have to print black paper
to later write in corrector ink on them...

a day as any other:
my own... and that i was alone
for most of it...
creepy-crawlies being resettled
and... those crows...
like they might turn a branch
into a rattling toy...
     it wasn't a hark with wasn't an
outright croak...
blistering black heavens with
a glistening white cross of their
skeleton having fun...

it's enough to have written so very
little... seemingly freelance
livid on a hot horseshoe with not
impeding stress for gallop...
but this is not a grave...
there is no tombstone...
and... there's no epitaph...

           funny... i have ventured
into many graveyards... out of fun:
out of a mortal assurance...
but beside it: to own a grave is a status
symbol... like a second mortgage...
cremate the rest of us: said plonk
and pluck...
              there's a name...
there's a born on and a died on...
     there's an engraving by those
who dearly miss: a loving father etc.
but there's hardly...
an epitaph...

i am yet to find myself... in awe...
walking in a cemetery....
finding a gravestone with an epitaph
detailing a: progressive thesis
for a blatantly borrowed Golgotha!

- that moscow is a memory of a in concreto
of a slab -
perfectly contorted and
only a midnight at a train station
waiting for a ****-plug
heading back to st. petersburg...
is another time... another life...
the same spatial coordinates...

little venice whittle Constantine-ville...
some other-wordly ham-steer-toward-the-dam...
flooding! mr. orange:
the spanish are craving polenta...
and all that's perfectly...
inaccessible for the serenity of
a plonker and a plumber...

              hidden niches of
english phoneticism arguments:
in that they lack any variation
of orthography -
   what even the germans had to mind.

i am... quite well... sustained...
by the concept...
and that... hive-project...
of boredom... old age...
and mediocracy...
                 and... some would
dare call it... "catching a shade"...
when in fact:
toning their lobster milk
protein a tinge bit of...
copper-crown...
             savvy? no? boat...
ain't a rocking "sound"
enough? you... *******...
plaistow... plonker?!
looking for copper-nails...
are we? to voodoo the ancient
oaks... prized! dead dead dead!
butcher them with both...
that "thing that died"
and... the wood that was carved
and upon which,
that "thing" died...
              i have lived
long and far enough to know...
that some spaniard...
did cross my path...
   oh long after...
     the louisiana purchase...
long after the alaska purchase...
and it's still... san diego...
this nation was supposed to talk
two languages...
******* ****** anglo-saxons novices...
it would have been a gem...
a first... a bilingual nation...
who left the slingshots ashore...
but... n'ah... no can do...
karen mcpee... and helmut 'ock...
said otherwise...
rigid ******* german and cousin
german...
no matter the number of viking incursions
of the *****-bank addition...
claustrophobic ****-wits there-after!
i'm... sorry... an old european...
heritage comes from either...
***, mongol, goth or... thereabouts...
i keep forgetting...
the new pseudo-saxon...
is...
  the loitering... it was deutsche once...
once upon a time bavarian /
pomeranian...
not so much now...
given... grandchild wilhelm...
     perfect! choice of banshee and
surname!
       that caste of the best served:
****** looking:
blame it on prince andrew!

   because... half of the modern "commando"
h'america... was... me'me'he'co'co?
well ****: tow two turds along and call me:
samuel the sunny!
            
          the aztecs farted...
hybrid of the beijing pyraminds
and that new-go zone of
the giza and gaza...

           looted with whatever...
dogs let off from their leashes...
forgery of who's to squander
who's to come about
a "leftover" and rich "either too"...
  
  limbo, leftover...
          loco...
                 the nagging peoples
of the most approval worth
of their most: readilt agreeable...

this little figment of imagination...
the lustre and foretold
loss and gain...
this: to glorify owning horses...

to have to.. glorify owning dogs..
the englishman
the island and the garden...
and... "courtesy" of the tailor...

               the ancient continent
"compensates" its worth with
what comes invariably "new"...

i am no son with what is
allowed the worth of a father...
my tonne and cleave...
i pray my litany of skid...
moldova my neither ukraine
nor my romania...
i am no son...
              i: as always the lesser:
purge for purity and mother
less... for the woman i am...
the baron of death the best of fruit...

or thus... the elder... birch...
and gravity with pine...
to master the quickening...
irk... of the spider... fathom...
i mould a surname...
with oak... and a name with a...
breath,...
to thus twin with it! a tree!
i summon: a hubris of all
named growth!
        with summon of the willow:
i come long haired and gemini
eyed...
with summon of the willow:
once more!
i come one eyed and...
lessened in serving that lot...
of looted time...
            
           i have to... arrive at...
contemplating... being-complete:
complteness...
even though...
i am half... and the other half
of "me" is... ᛗᚢᚾᛁᚾᚾ:
         Łukaш:                 Luke...

i linger... for...
my mother...
to treat me...
unlike her mother...
that treated her brother...
that she might...
treat me... with vision...
beside... the passed:
the passing of "cure"...

niet! nie! no!
this! is! how... all! is!
this is how you pluck
crows a croak from their feathers...
and theor feathers from their croak!
this is... how you...
ensure to lenghten baron...
over the worth of a parody
of a crown!
thus: this... and all... that!