sample precursor: there are three binding directions of a chemical group (e.g. CH3) to the benzene ring - the ortho-, the meta- and the para-... but i'll ask a different question: what is copernican north what is copernican east a copernican west or a copernican west without a "flat-earth" / how else to read / navigate a 2D map going from point (a) via vector (c) to point (b) along the short-cut of the hypotenuse - which, isn't a short-cut, but the logical conclusion of walking neither the middle path nor the right path, but the logical path? we're no astronauts... we didn't see the proof... we can only entertain the "idea" of a 3D object we live on, but we're still strapped to a "flat earth" in order to navigate... endless stories of how GPS tech. fooled people off the edge of a cliff... "flat earth" is no reverse psychology ploy... i'm no ******* astronaut... i never stood left right or center on the moon to have the foggiest sense of admiration for that awe-balancing moment that leaves so many deluded in it being otherwise: first come first served, last come: what's there's to serve that last man if not merely the drudge-report of a commute? besides... trans- and cis-, why are people borrowing from chemistry and attaching gender to what is exlusive to chemical compounds? look at them... pop chemistry... cis-trans isomerism... fine, let these people have that... my new n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south): orthography, something clearly missing in the anglophone world (no diacritical markers, i and j do not count)... ergo? orthography = east... paranormal = west... since the west is obsessed with either aliens or hush-hush military projects... now... both north and south are meta- coordinates... on the basis, on the basis of what? two words really work well to establish a foundation: from ars poetica? metaphor (borrowed from a change of mind - meta- and -phren - mind, a change of mind, all mental illnesses are changes of the mind, alternatives to alleviate the stranglehold of the commune of the greater picture known as society)... but... there's also metaphysics... which is in the interest of philosophy... how else not to explain the obvious, how else to treat both the reader / audience as the well informed genius(es) but mistreat them as would be grander genius(es) if the socratic endeavour of "pretense ignorance" was not to be established? it's a hard juggle... east is already well established in orthography, west in paranomal... literally: metaphor - a change of mind, literally metaphysics - a change of groundwork physicality of things... a rock remains a rock in either "heaven" or in "hell"... metaphysically there seems to be a direct translation... this is why i'm terrible at crosswords, this whole puzzle structure of either working from a direct definition to the word itself, some random geographical posists, some historical posits, some outdated out-of-vogue words related to specified period idiosyncracy, a tinge of the therausus... my current crossword is an interchange: meta-phor, meta-physics, meta-phot, meta-physics and on and on it goes: even with the isolated prefix of meta-, if i return to the words: as they are... would: denoting a change of thinking (state of mind) or... denoting a change of physics, i'm met with metaphysics, i.e.: a branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles... sounds like a priori physics, yet all i can fathom if i wrestle this word to its casual use: isn't it a posteriori physics?! the what comes after physics? i should think that most people understand metaphysics on an a posteriori basis rather than an a priori basis... hence the question: what happens when we die? last time i checked: death happens last... birth happens first... any question-worthiness (according to heidegger) should begin at: the beginning rather than begin at the end, in the same way that all questions should be sought in a medium of predating the dates of events, rather than with a spirit of hindsight, hindsight belongs to the "what if" of history in that dynamism of expressed time... on the canvas of an infinitely expanding space: we seem to be riddled by a very cul de sac concept / expression of time: our quill - given that ****** didn't learn from napoleon when it came to russia... perhaps finding out what copernicus found out: "we" figured: get me off this ******* celestial carousel where i can't even feel the dizzy immediate of a ferris wheel! again: i'm terrible at crosswords, sudoku? no problem... but words: if not gushing out of me, waiting like a lizard predator for a linear narrative spew? count me out... i don't play with words, i use words... i'm a wordsmith, hence the ethnic origin denote: słowianin: slav - i don't know where these west-saxon punks derived their etymology from: słowo = word... *****-liquor juice teens thought it was: oh fo' sho' smart... still: metaphor, metaphysics... metaphor... metaphysics... disgruntled with the immediate compound readied for pop use... meta-physics... the vector is the prefix... why do philosophers push metaphysics so much, but in turn rely on the crutch of metaphor? to change their mind, if metaphysics is an abstract theory with no basis in reality, then the schizoid / metaphorical mind is an abstract in an abstracted theory of the mind - which has "no" knowledge of reality, or rather: "reality" excludes such a mind from ever absorbing an expression in it... a schizophrenic can't explain the reality of a person who can solve crossword puzzles... just as someone who solves crossword puzzles with a fear of alzheimer's: who treats the fatty tissue that's the brain as a muscle... given that the cells of alzheimer's disease are killer proteins... proteins as the antithesis of white blood-cells that feed of fat tissue... after all: what else could the brain be if not fat and water? slow burner... first the sugars, then the more complex carbohydrates, then the fat: last? the proteins... the process of starvation... you want up? you want down? again: metaphysics / metaphor... ta meta ta phusika... the things after the physics... so what's with the inverted: prior things? hence people associated a life after death... hence how philosophers have to escape into the poetic realm to quickly change their minds on the definition... a change of mind is much easier than a change of what physicality entails... most spew metaphors but keep on course... after all: given the genesis of the metaphor, a metaphor is just a tool, a humble stop-off pause... born from humble poetics: it's only a literary tool, it's not some grand pillar of morality associated metaphysics, which nonetheless dictates: first principles come last and last principles come first... here's my crossword puzzle: metaphor, metaphysics, meta-alpha, meta-beta, metaphor and the meta-alpha, metaphysics and the meta-beta... etc. etc., i will not solve this crossword puzzle, even though it doesn't look like a crossword puzzle... it's a narrative crossword puzzle, i'm just looking for the sort of fixed point people associate with prime words: red, left, blue, right, up, fox, dog... words of readied vocabulary, readied vocabulary dissociated from puzzled vocabulary... i want to established a fixed permanence of the dissociated close proximity grounded in the meta- prefix of the words meta-phor and, meta-physics... i'm starting to find this impossible, given how the words have dissociated themselves from the grounding in the meta- prefix... phor alias phren (mind) and the whole gush of isolated metaphysics of beginnings: meta a priori vs. meta a posteriori - and of course: meta a- apriori... hell if i can't solve crossword puzzles: since i already have a crossword puzzle in my head... what am i to do? try writing pop?! a dog does what his master orders, a jester tells a joke his king would find amusing... i'll just treat this enclave of an audience as a bunch of people subscribed to ulterior forms of voyeurism (dissociated from pain / pleasure gratification, esp. that of a ****** nature).

.you know like in latin you had the interchangeable tongue twisters æ and œ? well... english resurrected one more... au... oh stralia... auntie; ******* hell i've been speaking this since aged ate and i still can't get my tongue into that phonetic plughole... or what's that onomatopoeia for: it really hurts? awe... nah... aw... aw... well no cute kitten about to say aww.

well it began with the usual... i wish i didn’t...
sitting in the autumnal garden
drinking coffee and eating a nicotine croissant,
watching the fog recede into nothing
while the earth showed its naked cleavage
after what seems like centuries of arcane dryness
befitting a story of an egyptian idol...
then the panic set in...
what to cook?! what to cook?!
my mother is away visiting her parents in poland,
who celebrate the feast of all saints with the usual
tackle formidable in poland:
forget the paris fashion week, forget the london fashion week...
forget the next gucci advert...
all the action happens in poland’s annual all saints’ fashion week...
through the cemetery (ahem) cat walks
(more like death on rollerblades donning a tutu
and looking fatter than size 0 models)...
because that’s when the fur coats are worn,
the make-up is heavier and everyone comes
to discuss the materialistic jealousy of a small town...
it is a small town after all...
death knocks with all the nine cat’s lives just to prove
the point...
anyway, so i’m the head chef, and in panic
i search for a recipe... i’ve only got pork on the ready
in the recognisable frozen state...
but i also have shrimps... tiger prawns...
so i look through the usual suspects... thai green curry...
ah ****! no coconut milk!
what’s it going to be? prawn korma curry
(better mild than hot i say, with all this maple syrup
and honey colours about... talk about decay),
active ingredients? chilli powder (1/2 tsp), cinnamon
(1/2 tsp), turmeric (1/2 tsp) and ground almonds (2 tbsp),
there ready... looking suntanned my gorgeous twirls of seabed manure...
enough to spare my father making himself sandwiches (i always
disguised my “dyslexia” by associations... sandy witches...
the t broke the barriers and the floods entered)...
with toasted nannies / au pairs... relatives of some sort...
then onto writing my father’s invoices:
project plaistow hospital and some housing development near
the city airport... beckton we call it... backwards and forwards
stink crowned with drinkers regurgitating on the pave...
now that is a *******... recycling centre or horse manure?
then to tesco... for the nightcap...
oddly enough tesco has become a friend of mine once more,
i divorced the turkish shop, they added 10 pence to the polish beers,
now i’m on the sedative medication of this bottle bavaria beer
and whiskey... 1 quid for the former... 10 quid for the latter -
i’ve sold my soul! never mind...
then to the beacon that’s home... it’s night... it’s spooky...
it’s essex: that non-touristy place in england people with passports
never dare to visit, shambles.
well one thing came out true... none of the above though:
you ever consider the theory of the aeroplane syndrome in writers?
you know, like with rock stars you get the full package,
you get the aeroplane and the retrieved delay of the engine mushroom,
but with poetry (which is competing with music,
philosophers just wait in that queue for the cheese, wink, whine and wrinkle)
you only get the sound... that delayed mushroom...
you see the poet but never hear him...
it’s a typical delusion i’d call parallel or even adjacent to narcissism,
you walk down the street and the closest you come
to someone recognising you is a stranger uttering out: ‘hey richard!’
‘name’s matt mate.’
‘oh... sorry.’
it’s this aeroplane syndrome theory... it’s perfectly acceptable...
you have the image but don’t have the delayed sound...
you have the delayed sound... but you only get a photograph...
you have the english national health service mental health unit crisis...
and then you have people shunning intellectualism
trying to cure people by burning / not reading philosophical books;
the day ends with drinking and reading
an article about keith richard’s antics in the sunday times’ supplement
and the thought: well i gave her a stabbing chance
at feminism... she thought the active ingredient in anti-contraception
pills was placebo... she phoned and gave birth to me...
i said abort... you’re no post-teen mum at university, you won’t be...
******* was great but i’m not that much of a match from a cosmopolitan magazine quiz
(as duly taken on my way from st. pestersburg to moscow to see
metallica play), plus there are no roofing jobs in scotland...
the scots have mountains already... there’s no point building
scratched sky skylines with mountain ranges nearby...
so even though i went to a catholic school...
i did my first redemptive act by reading about gnostic heretics...
and not getting confirmed being the second...
i would have not taken first communion... but playing the xylophone
at the nativity play was too much fun...
plus it is the only salvador dali bit of the story...
after that you have st. sebastian...
plus you see where this is going... the greeks translated
the tetragrammaton into the gospels
of st. matthew, luke, mark and john...
and the romans were duped into the legality of
things... first name, second name, confirmation name...
surname.

I'm feeling kinda hollow,
It's a little hard to swallow.
Still Im in the lead,
So everybody follows.

Hate it all you want though,
There's no time to wallow.  
tell me what you need,
You just found that ****,
Waldo.

I don't even buy blow.
I just ****** snort it,
Gatta cop it from the *****,
That always seem to hoard it.
know they can't afford it.
I Wonder how they scored it.
Then I took four hits,
Got drunk and stole a forklift.
I don't give a horse ****.
I just want some more ****.

Got weird for a
few days,
Brain fried till my
eyes glazed
Smoked a little
more haze,
Screamed **** the pigs ,
Got tazed
strapped on my rollerblades,
And streaked out,
the VMA's

I don't give a ****,
Like a ******* Atheist
don't believe in luck,
Call me the ******* catalyst.

Social Network, droll and at times informative: keeping me in tune with out of tune people. Except, this time you did something different. This time you took a life from my web of friends a trend of late: One loss to cancer, one to a fatal accident, another to pneumonia, and the rest deceased from overdoses. It’s been so many that the track marks are beginning to show across my veiny webs, long black thin trails leading to round puncture wounds where the touch of cold steel kissed your skin, stroked your hair back, and slowly laid you to bed exactly where you sat. This network doesn't show me the nights you cry curled in the corner, it doesn't reveal the moment when the ocean came crashing into the Steel Pier you are, tearing away lumps of mangled frame work from beneath, soaking brine and rattling support beams that you depend on. A smile instead manages to froth along the pages scrolled like white curled lapping shorelines pushing foam further up the sandy coast with each eroding wave.  Now I stand in the wave of your wake; among seagulls flapping their dense thoughts and cretinous like minds and memories each vouching for the validity of their affirmations about the soul whose body is now center stage like a porcelain doll on a shelf to be displayed and examined exposed to all with each and every flaw highlighted so that they can have a chance at reciting her history, origins, funny moments, and fatal mistakes. The difference here is that there is no makers mark; there is no branded tag, no little black book of logs from which we can pull and decipher or recall every waking moment of your life. The reality is that for those of us who lost touch with you all that we know now is only history or what we thought we knew. It’s such *******, I’m not a historian, I really was your friend back then, but because of that I don’t remember ****, just the frame of the picture within, the shell of who you were, of what we did. I can tell you it was fun: the Bacardi filled Gatorade bottles, the sound of your laughter diluted in an intoxicating environment of rollerblades on the rink-floor, contemporary music and house beats reverberating against the circling congregation of equally happy and inebriated teenage youths. But how could I ever describe you today, who you were when you passed. That is not something I can claim as some of these birds squawk. Your social posts were a false facade. Obviously there was something I missed, what was it. Was it so subtle? So much like a light breeze fluttering at the thin frayed thread of a seam that I could have seen but didn't care enough to realize it was there. Were you just a tumbling leaf among a forest of fresh autumn arrivals lost in the vastness, one among millions? It pains me to admit that as much as I would have liked to have been a friend to you during your dark times, I too was in a dark place of my own and in turn was deaf and blind to the billowing smoke signals that tried to underline and emphasize the sorry plights of others. I wish you could have told your story yourself, could have left a memoir of the ****** up thoughts that zipped through behind your eyes while you filtered the layers of **** served in white paper bags that this world seems to dish up like a fast food chain of heartbreak and deep ruts, while every so often rewarding us with a mistakenly placed toy or salad to “make up” for the rest of the empty calories served. I've tried so long to be an optimist, to look at the glass half full, but that glass is shattered on the floor right now, I broke it. My life hasn't been easy, not many people’s lives are and that’s life, I understand that much. If it isn't raining it’s snowing, if it isn't snowing it’s hailing, and if there isn't any precipitation it’s either hot or cold as hell and you have to fight through it to make it to the next day. I’m taking the shoes I wear now off so I can step on that pile of excrement they call a glass half full, half empty. Give me the pain, it hurts and the tears burn as they roll down my cheeks while I stare at this half a cent card with your face on it and some mass produced poem on the back listening to the ******* eulogy mutterings of everyone around me, but I want that. I would take this shuttering pain, this volcano of discharged emotions erupting from the shaking core of my body. I would take it any day over the numbness that is ******. Wasn't your child a life raft? Wasn't he the duck it or **** it of your life? Had you not a fiancé to whom which you could have rested your beaten structure on? Did you not have an array of support, a field of pile driven beams to share the weight in it all? Or was it a mistake? Was it a fault of somebody else that provided you with the birthday batch of ******? When you blew out the candles and smiled behind the thin line of adumbrating smoke that sketched out the soul behind your eyes did you think to yourself, today will be the celebration and cessation of my birthday; a bitter sweet memory for all who know me: on this day she was both born and deceased. Today she began to live and learned of death. I will never have the answers for the many who continue to fade into the credits of their dismal painful lives, but I will never stop trying to understand and I will never learn to forget or let go. This blood in my veins detest the cold steel rush that so many of you have tasted, that so many of you ran to when no one was listening, when no one was looking, when no one could comprehend you anymore and the only languages you spoke were procured from endless nights on the cushioned wooden floor as you drifted off among the silver linen clouds, as you left this body on earth and spoke with angels perched over the smoke stack that overlooked the back-lit-keyboard of lights that was your city, your town, your home while the strand of rubber slowly fell from your arm. We couldn't hear you, and those **** angels seem to weave such a pretty tale sometimes when you forget that you are speaking to your own deceitful mind. I will learn that language, I will look for those signs, I will place a candle on the sill beckoning every friend of mine to come and share with me in person. Let me reach into that white bag and see what is inside, I’ll eat whatever you pull out whether they are empty calories or not, preservative filled fries cold or hot. You are my friends and Social Networks are a lie, just a wall to hide behind, an occasionally droll and informative medium, until you die and then there is nothing left to pretend to say or be.

Where I grew up
We didn't celebrate celebrity
And weren't slaves
to the cattle-drivers of the masses

Where I grew up,
We were just young

And free

We toiled on train-tracks
Inventing troubles requiring
A daring escape.

With our stick-strapped-satchels
We foolishly mocked the local bums

Jealous of their freedom.
Ignorant of their pain.

Imitation is the hallmark of love
And yes, we loved the bums
And we were thorough through it

Where I grew up
The incandescence of the late afternoon
And early morning suns
Drew in a vibrant orange
Cast as paint on pale walls

The apartment... and eventually... the house
Shone brighter for it;
Though it seemed to struggle less in a house
That was considerably more empty

Especially around the holidays.

Where I grew up
We were taught racial and radical equality
Exacted with extreme prejudice
At every pep rally and presumably PTA meeting.

And while neighboring towns held race riots
We were racing our bikes, well...
I do miss my rollerblades

Where I grew up
Every girl was pretty as a movie star
And chased the bad boys
Like in every story I'd ever heard

And those boys won by popularity and power of presence
Girls they never deserved

Where I grew up
In winter we built massive palaces
From the winter's teardrops that huddled together
For warmth after the plow

Where I grew up...

I grew up too soon.
A little more than a little at a time
And it became clear
I had to move.

I dont want simple;
Feed me yourself in silver spoonfuls.
I want simple,

Lie to me,
and tell me
I am not an Animal.

   I am an analyst-dissecting details.

4Am fresh snowfall
I will remain capable!
Make first new footprints,

in a circle...
  Till I reach the middle.

I will remain incapable of
Tying my shoes.

   I am a participant in social warfare.

Looking forward:
Possible encounters &
Spring Rain.
Fantasizing both in measure.  

All I am to you is what you see, and
What you hear,
smell,
  touch,
    taste.

All you are to me so far
Is what I see, and what I hear;
So i am looking very hard,
   And I am listening very closely.

I want logic,
Tasting honey when I ******.
I want harsh confusion,
Complete absence of logic in it's essence.
Kissing a part of you that potties.

Now,
I can remain content in chasing my tail; I sleep balled up on top of the ocean, my clothes and fur strewn;

   Chewing paws in strange positions.

I want contradiction, an
Assurance of the Devil & a
Total disregard for ghosts.

Constructive chaos:
   Dress like ghosts on Acid and
Wear rollerblades.

I want my resumé to read:
>works well with others,
>great fighter, &
>An outstanding Lay.

I want to leave behind dreams,
I want to rent a room in your
dream bed&breakfast;,
Sometimes sharing yours, but always paying rent on time for mine.

Sometimes
swinging an axe against a rough stump,
Craving lemonade and
Spring Rain.

Part of me wants to grow old and
Mad, and sit by rivers; I could smoke ****** from a wizard pipe for my
Sore joints.

( I am alright with the possible outcome of Alone. )

[ I would rip my hair out,
Glue it to my body, & become
A boy in wolf's clothing. ]

I want creative destruction,
Mayhem,
borderline Mind ****.
Learning to pick the banjo half-decently.

   That Deliverance tune.

And walk around ski towns
   Scaring the **** out of some tourists
And other antagonists.

Summer is

bikes and rollerblades
and go-carts and skateboards,
kites and frisbees
and ***** and gloves,

rainbows and suncatchers
and white fluffy clouds,
blue skies and green fields
and sunshine and flowers,

bare feet and sandy toes
and waves on the shore,
tan lines and sunburns
and goofy tourists,

yellow and orange
and summer rain,
butterflies and gardens
and fresh vegetables,

smiles and funny faces
and silly conversations,
smirks and giggles
and big belly laughs,

playing outside until the streetlights come on
and picking flowers for the dinner table,
building sandcastles just to knock them down
and shelling so many peas your finger go numb,
staring at a sky so blue it hurts your eyes
and running barefoot through the cool grass
and laughing so hard you can't even breathe.

Summer is.

I saw you glide around the basketball court today like the floor was made of freshly polished glass.
You didn't falter once.
You slid as easily as ball bearings across an endless marble table.
Circling & spinning & swaying & twirling.
Your dress was polka dot.
It whipped sharply in the wind.
I watched you skate until you rolled away, onto a gravel path.
Although your absence was as silent as the drifting of your blades,
As the sky went dark, I really wished you would have stayed.

(aka Pinky Andrexa)
4/4/10  02.09am


I am walking in a daydream under skies forever grey,
Lying always in the shadow of ambitions all foregone;
I'm going through the motions of another working day,
Feeling permanently static, as the world is moving on.


And you're forever shining like some distant blazing sun,
You're gleaming as I'm dreaming, making all who see you smile;
The wings upon your heels still elevate you as you run,
So many want to be you, or would emulate your style.


From distance I behold you, as a cat beholds a king,
All doors open before you, in successions of success;
Your flame's forever burning, while my own is dwindling,
I could not be further away, or love you any less.


While you, you dice with danger, dancing on the precipice,
Leaving admirers breathless at your daring escapades;
And all your leading ladies ever burn to taste your kiss,
Your destiny speeds to you riding jet-powered rollerblades.


Yet two unlikely paths have crossed and subtle friendship blooms,
And many dreams take flight between the gutter and the stars;
Making the span of distance shrink into adjoining rooms
Opening secret passageways, where chosen dreamers pass.

You wish to learn my face,
to grasp the essence of my chaos.
Do not try to understand how i think,
for i myself can not comprehend.
Like a unicorn on rollerblades,
you can only stand, awe-struck.

The was a girl who had 3 blades
And trusted them with her life
She used them as her shades
Coz she needed them to thrive

She had rollerblades
The only fast thing she could find
She tried running with them from the world
But they were not fast enough

She had a blade to sharpen her pencil
And tried to use it to draw her future
But everytime the drawing was complete
Her tormented past came and erased it

Then she had a blade to sharpen her wrists
Coz all the other blades failed

Thinkin you hot in hip hop playing skip it in the summertime
Thinking when reading the dictionary out loud everytime when you state in dumber “rhymes”
Spittin lethal when you’d get abused by thought
And forget the fruited wisdom cuz you’re too confused with motts
Thinkin you flowin when you ******* in the niagra
With all that power you’d think that you created ******
Forget your lefty made bout, cuz your rhymes be played out
You couldn’t even hip hop right even if your left knee gave out
My women call me Mc claps that I’m “eatin prego”
Cuz you receive applause every enlightenment down when you’re getting thrown at eatin everything from off the floor when you’re gettin thrown at from every freakin tomato
I left mousetraps around your bed to prove that you bomb cheese
The next morning after I stole all the mousetraps offa your mom’s knees
You’re only hip hop when rats are attackin your feet
To have you rappin and dancin when evading death to abackin your feat
Dig out your eyeballs and glued them to my God-blue reeboks too so that you can see walk
Might as well morph in-to a dictionary verbalized so that you would be talk
Get your **** tatted with my rhymes so that you can beat mine
And ******* to a dictionary everytime elementary to see rhymes
Intent in poetry id is the only time when you can see mine
Your poetry is better than smoking potent sleeping powder
Your capacity growth is better than your open reading hour
You couldn’t roll with these punches only when you’re swingin on rollerblades

some places beg to be written about
the lighthouse at what feels to be the edge of the world
has always been one of those places.
the desolate trees stretching up to a gray sky, a birds nest resting, teetering at the top of a bare branch
the clouded water revealing nothing of its depths
the fog so heavy - it doesn't linger, it lives there
forcing quiet introspection
demanding stillness
from those who squint through the gloom

at other times, astonishingly, the landscape transforms
monarch butterflies migrate en masse and flutter on the milkweeds
the sun sets, a tangerine looming over the saltwater marsh
tiny ***** dart into their holes in the sand and slowly poke their way back out when the coast is clear

In my memories of this place
I am always looking down at myself, on my bike,
small,
coasting down the winding road that leads to the tower for miles,
keeping up with the kid on his rollerblades weaving across dotted yellow lines
All-seeing, in the act of storytelling,
As if I'm one of the woodpeckers perched in the pines

mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mm

in a swirl of

cards, spoons, cereals,
books, brooms, thermometers,
laundry, photos, flipflops,
knives, gifts, rollerblades,
dishes, yogurts, candy,
catfood, homework, pajamas,
cartons of milk, tickets,
money, toys, sweaters,
hats, bags, sandwiches,
phones, pants, messages,
icecreams, umbrellas, lunches,
handcrafts, letters, bottles,
breakfasts, shampoos, succus
and tattarrattat

this
little bitty pretty one
is lost

the ground that I
was walking, turning over,
breaking up everything
in my path. Knocking over

the flowers with his
wrath. Pulling on the roots,
the baby green leaf
shoots. His rollerblades

smashing me as a pin-
ball arcade against my walls,
through the screams and
squalls. I gave birth to his

broken earth. As the sun
set the crimson sky wept this
broken ground wet. Thank you
Mr. Miller, the machine-man tiller.

the darkness of the hour
the minute
and the day
now the second
and the universe has come

i have unplugged my 3rd pair
of eyes
from my constipation
and now as my mind
relaxes
i see her and i

don't see her
and i'm not going to advantage
myself a card of James
Joyce
and Finnegans Wake
and the daughter's premature
dementia
perhaps the ill fates
of those who begin to write
and write with meaning
rather than journalistic
mumbo jumbo
let's ***** a statue
of a writer like
Sienkiewicz at the end
of that long straight street
of Kielce

siala baba mak
nie wiedziala jak
chlop powiedziel
a reszte to bylo tak...

missing like
i was missing at Wembley
yesterday
and through most of today

i'm living an organic life
i overheard
the news i wanted to hear
on the radio today...
at 4pm
just as about the serpents
were uncoiling from
the suntans... freckled ginger
nightmares...

only 56 arrested...
plenty of IC3 Black Hitlers
making fun of Asians
in turbans
notably the Sikhs
it's like you
invited one sort in
and another sort appear
and...

i wouldn't be drinking
but let's face it...
the literary genius of Bukowski
as a... as a... ******* postman
and the genius of me
well... perhaps a Miroslav Holub
the benchmark of writing and
science
but then there's too much Greek
referential in it...

MONEY IS LOGIC
i said those words with love in love
and when i tell her
this isn't going to work
life became gravity
and my heart became hardened
she still doesn't believe me
like now
i'm matching her pound for pound
and i'm shrinking to the pride
of a Dwarf living among
Men and Elves
but i'm becoming a cunning fox of a peddle
no stool... a hobbit
a sort of Irishman
of Europe
naive but still persuasively accurate
in my reading of reality:
now becoming abstract
now not so abstract
now becoming abstract
now not so...

      and this life and breadth of losing breath
on speaking come and hount
me
imagine someone: also writing
while doing their "supposed"
wage labor... enslavement
well what is to allow differentiation
between en masse dictatorial of
a tiny minority to another tiny minority
to another one
form Poutin through to Twump
and to no who in Damascus

because looking into those eyes
of CP (close protection)
former Deutsche police officers
those chauffeurs
of the "stars"
where one looked like Roberto Martínez
so i asked: is... is there anyone important
making arguments here
for a discounted entry, i.e. for free?

well i was mapping and mapping
my supposed schizoid hemispheres
onto the schematics
and drawings...
i was allocated the supposedly
deafening of defeat placement
at the Spanish Steps where the infamous
Wembley breach happened back
in 2020...
but that was on a national level
with a national interest in bread
some circus
perhaps football
but who can tell given that most football
fans are not opera fans
and i could indulge drinking heavily
before going to the opera
but going to a football match
i don't understand why or how
a sport is to be enjoyed intoxicated
rather than sober...
drink too much and instead
of 22 wankers with 20 running
and... one shift
i was left mesmerized just watching
the officials
notably the sideline priests

MONEY IS LOGIC
and sometimes i shift from watching a game
to watching the crowd
to watching the grass
to watching the floodlights
to watching the sideline referees
and that's that
and i'm no more happy than discontent
than less happy than discontent
and i ponder Hemmingway's simplification
and then i just allow things
to flow
without haiku interruptions

and i was so gearing up to being on the Dortmund
side for the event
i was so shy in jokingly choking
on spewing out, in a shout

words much ascribed to the fetish of:

ACHTUNG! ACHTUNG!
ARBEIT MACHT FREI!
ARBEIT MACHT FREI!
ABLENKUNG MACHT ZIEGELNAGEL...

ZIEGELNAGEL:
******* doft dorft ooze SCHTOOPI'D!
some "things" need reworking
and revision

i much preferred the Deutsche fan demure
and i'm Catholic
as ******
and the French are Catholic
and the Spanish are Catholic
and so much ethnocentric scribblies
in America from Hin Land
and Cha -
   i mean: what's a ****** to do
if not swerve: entertain...
ride rollerblades round and round
on a roundabout: backwards
listening to Mario and Luigi's cassette
seriously dude, seriously GANDU...
gandu gandu...
no joke

that's me Wallace and Gromit
i call Warren
and Ahmed Ahmed and Uzeer the ****-
-stani
joking about putting wooden knives
in each other's pockets
to have to peer at and through 90K people
congregating to have
run

so there was this Muhammad Muhammad
who felt ill and decided to go home...
i stood there among charging police
horses and barking police dogs
while about 300 people ran across the cement
while i was holding a freebie
worth circa £1000...

steward accreditation and a high viz jackets
and you think i was stopped?
you think i was stopped?
i'm experiencing a hyper reverse engineering
of voyeurism
on my skin
like this skin has become leather...

beside from Hamza and Sikander
i was not exactly given a hot take on staff
and it turns out as
the cordon was put in place and about 30
papa echoes stood in front of
about 40+ stewards and SIAs
i was standing in front of the cordon
ensuring legitimate customers
were ushered in
while the pranksters were being
pranked
because the UEFA tickets were interactive
and required special pen UV or not
just PINK with dotted lines

well to one argument i said:
but i know you're lying
by the face you used to lie...
and the argument counter
said: but this is my face...
to which i replied:
honestly: this is my face too...
a joyful attention to detail
and to think that drinking is a good excuse
but i drink to excuse flourishing
in a heightened environment for
stress hormones to exfoliated
and drip-feed-me
this inexhaustible feeling of furor...

i drink to excuse myself
even today while i settled down
to an afternoon with father
and we talked about Martin
and that bewilderment:
but i drink a liter of whiskey
and what... beer killed him?
ten bottles that's 5 liters of beer killed
him, every day for 2 years
well by that account i ought to be
dead
and i know my head is hurting
not because of a dehydrated brain
i say the brain bleeds
and the brain sweats
but i'm constipated hence the nail
in the head

        so i made us a halloumi (grilled)
entree on a salad
of cucumber, pepper, plum cherries (tomatoes)
salad greens,
radishes... and roasted pecans and hazelnuts
with a dressing
of oyster sauce,
yogurt, chili infused olive oil
blah blah
ouzo - citrus infused soya sauce blah blah
we had a beer and we talked
and i was just wondering:
am i just tired...
no i haven't had anything to drink
but at least he understands
and will know: he's tired...

and i was tired
and blah blah blah...
well if i were to have my last days spent
in the presence of my father
cooking him dinner
having had an adventure
at Wembley
and exchange that
for ****** favors for about a year
with Edie...
conversation-wise
can she even hear me?
i wonder...
even Reyla wonders whether she's heard
i too wonder:
i don't think i am heard
i don't think Edie hears me
i talk to her and it's as if she's the one wanting
to talk talk talk talk chalk
talk talk chalk chalk talk chalk...

MONEY IS LOGIC

that's the words i sent her
when i contemplated going to visit
a brothel
last night
it became painfully stupid once
i was on the N128 on Cranbrook Rd
heading toward Romford
that i was in no mood
for ***
or for that matter paid for ***
and with no fear of a libido:
maybe if i had a ****-ring on me
i would have
but that's my and Edie's discover
but i didn't bring the right sort
of rubber with me
i had already withdrawn
         over £700 and i told her

but if i can't sleep on your lanai
like a dog

but if i can't sleep on your lanai
like a dog?!

           dogs... who cannot sweat
but excessively salivate...
well: so much for the purpose of mascara
of the camel lashes
of your young girls walking about
like miasmas of ghosts of beauty
that once was
that i almost had a dream of women
who would slice rotting onions
in half and then smear their bodies
with to imitate getting a suntan
in winter...

             yes: i am yet to undertake
the task of learning from hallucinogenic au naturale...
from fungi
from LSD papercuts on the brain...           (papper?)
it figured... all that potential, wasted,
on those happy-go-****-me hippies from the 1960s
so much potential squandered
there was no gearing up to something
rightwing
coherent,
when exploring these territories for a flavour
of what only was a timidity of an Huxley...
(payper - paper - papper - patting - pet hates
no bounce bounce in titter - tittering -
no giggle in ****** - just a word, a spelling
accuracy - get away with Saka and inking
someone darker
and we have colts with Spanish fans
returning from the match on the Metropolitan
Line-Z_

                    whoops!               )

and i did walk into my room stark naked
with all the constellations
when Reyla was sleeping in it
a 13 year old girl
and i laid by the bed
like a guard, dog
and i was rudely woken up
and told to move
because somehow nakedness outside
of the hyper-context of ***
is not simply birth
and death and all beside
the supposed thrills of taboo...

well it's not like i was starstruck either
i saw Jamie Redknapp (i didn't know
there was a silent K in that surname)
at Fulham once
but yesterday i saw him twice
or rather the first time i didn't see him
but was merely giving him directions
and what disappointed me
was rules being broken
for a familiarity contest
because a somewhat some-what-may
of having previous affiliations of
"guarding" poo-poo-puppy of a son
that Quadrant that "frenchie"
oh jeez...

          well i too performed a Hajj
to the innermost residing place
of the visage and i too
found Jesus to be misguiding
with that affair of long hair and bearded
that look is so...
so...
so ******* outdated...
it should be made... illegal...

not that i am: drunk, or high...
i'll leave that scrutiny of "policing"
to the federalists on sleep patrol...
because i don't know why...
somehow this separation of church-
-from- -state
while this nagging insistence
on no separation of...
LANGUAGE from STATE...
it's as if we're living in a time
a wasted time
a waiting upon time no time no waiting
to begin with
a time of a LANGUAGE-STATE...

echoes of interpretation from the East
i hear rumors...
a CIVILIZATION-STATE
equivalent of Rome
Russia
China...

so what? now we're all literate
yet illiterate in coding?
not able to use chatGPT
i was having a conversation with a girl
of my dreams
face unveiled yet hair covered
like i abhor hair
like i love flies in champagne in flutes
of glass
like this doesn't really matter anyway
like i want a late Monday
while the cats keep coming
uncircumcised because
you can't circumcise a cat's phallus
but instead castrate them
why not then castrate the Semites
and call them the ****** breed of intellect
just shying from the joke
of circumcision?!

         SARDAUKAR...
and what are not the Mongol chants
in Dune?

SARDAUKAR...
and what are not the Mongol chants
in Dune?

plagiarism, cultural appropriation?
you tell me...
the Mongols came to Poland
the Mongols didn't reach England
the Mongols didn't reach England...

SARDAUKAR
i can sing like a Mongol hunger-strike
protest...
HUMUMGUNGUNGOON
SUMBOONKAKOOMAMOON

SARD­AUKAR...

with all the bowels and stomach
and no eyes and no mind
all bowels and heart
and echo
and no breath.

the 56 sardaukarii.