anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
later...
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs
noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
coordinate...
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?

.so... just because he's copper skinned, and doesn't speak the English language with a continental accent but some brash, canopy of urban slang, he's the superior authority of the dialectical drag of opinion? oh! really?! so we're talking to diacritical aesthetic snobs?! wow! i thought i was bad at that, which i am... but i'm first generation, and i know the courtesy of remaining the voice tracking, a minority... that somehow has enough oil in the cogs of cognition, to leave these isles... i'll stay... blend in... only the more obnoxious english people are bothered by my "accent"... like that one comic in Edinburgh said... you might wonder about my accent... it's educated... my one flaw... i live in Essex but don't fit the Essex boy stereotype... some i'm primarily foreign... not educated.

that's nice, no really...
  back in 1997
   i was an illegal immigrant -
deported from England
with my parents...
aged...
  1986... aged... 11...
about to start
secondary school...
Canon Palmer,
7 kings...
i remember the whole encounter,
happened on Sunday -
the Home Office officers came
plain clothes... knocked
on the door...
my father started running...
jumped a few garden fences...
was caught...
my grandfather was visiting,
kept blaming himself
for the incident....
the day before?
   we were out doing the usual
family stuff -
won a massive red dog doll
for my mother rolling
***** into holes with
camels racing across the
canvas...
   what was that place...
can't remember...
   but sure as hell i remember
the ride...
   started off circular horizontal,
ended up circular vertical...
    but turns out i remember
that Sunday better...
         one of the home office officers
walked into my bedroom with
me sobbing...
   and only said:
you have a nice computer...
i gave him the death stare...
   well... second time round
my parents figured out all the legal
issues of applying for citizenry -
  and managed to get it...
did i sing the national anthem
at the integration ceremony?
like **** it did...
           i speak an english
that transcends national anthem *******,
plus i'm waiting for Charlie...
   who probably going to
become George VIII or something...
    but i know the backbone of
illegal migration,
i was one, aged 11...
seeing my parents get arrested
i started a fist-fight with a wall
that i knew i was going to lose...
      point being...
  whenever some, ******* Somali migrant...
some African migrant in his teens
gets away with illegal migration?
look...
i know what illegal migration
looks like...
   don't tell me no person is illegal
because you're copper-skinned
and bronze when tanned...
and that's your sole excuse!
        ****** me off...
****... didn't you hear that
Bukowski already said?
  the poor are not good unto their fellows
and the rich are likewise...
so why expect economic migrants
to not think less of refugees?
economic migrants at least do
not smuggle in tears and homeland
literary worth regrets...
no-nonsense migration...
  competent roofers -
   competent plumbers...
   but i... kinda love how the middle class
english "lass" will prefer Afro-****
over an unblocked toilet...
            and their children,
Bahamas beauties, all of them...
pretty mongrels outliving pedigrees...
  there is a concept of illegal
immigration,
i was an illegal immigrant...
    but, hey... a white among whites
means i don't have the copper skin
argument to call it: "racism"...
   can people actually file for
a de- citizenship?
               there are still parts of Europe,
that do not have a post-colonial
  present...
  where the Somali, Nigerian argument...
will not, work...
it, will, not, work...
             it's days like these where
i'm like: whatever the U.S.S.R. was,
and what it became...
   i'm about to snuggle up to the current
shadow...
          no... illegal immigration
exists...
             unless you're *******
color blind...
                   hell...
at least i spent 1998 being home schooled -
and watching the World Cup with
my great-grandmother...
   and discovering Metallica...
but no... when some ******* sub-Saharan
tells me about the citizenry of
the world...
          look... head over to Kiev...
  see how happy the Ukrainians will be...
head over to the Warsaw...
   where the signs are in both Polish
and Ukrainian...
                please! please! i implore you!
try assuming that everyone
over those parts is bilingual speaking
English...
i'm waiting to see the Islamic takeover...
on the local and primordial level
of a "peasantry" -
                      but like shaggy said -
wazzin' me...
    i didn't castrate the English...
      to me their testicles are still dangling...
or at least i like to think they are...
    but as an economic migrant...
i abhor what others somehow find
emotional cupcakes of sugary ooze for
in terms of sympathy...
             guess the first line of chess -
collateral - pawns -
       is necessary beside the bishop -
   like what the Palestinians do with their
civilians, according to the Israeli
army...
                     so why bother making
psychedelics legal...
  when you trip on moral relativism?!

I saw three men on the roof today
and there was another,
with a big beard and a bigger smile,
that oversaw a jerry-rigged machine
making terrible noises
hooked to a white pick-up
that fumed with dark smoke
and smelled of awfulness

they each seemed willing to do what
they must, and happy to do it in fact

three men on a roof
one on the ground
working on this gray
and dreary day

the future seemed simple then

Oh, to be a tortoise
and never need a house.
No realtors, no mortgage,
never a call for
roofers, plumbers...
or ever to build a shelf!

oh, what glorious things the canadians and americans think of the british, in their set narrative when a tragedy plagues these isles; mainly stressing the british concept of tolerance. well... perhaps the morbid politeness toward muslims, that the hindus didn't get, back in the 1960s? hmm... or the bourgeois media class... with their affectionate portrayal eastern european builders... well... **** me, are all my brethren builders? we all seem to be builders all of a sudden, like that's something to demean people of skill. you know how degenerate english builders are? how unskillful they are, in the roofing trade? my father can show me roofers with 20 years worth of "experience", and the photographs are worth a good long pause, and lament... they were changing the tiles on my roof, and one night, with heavy rain pouring down, water was seeping through my ceiling... scots were known to be the best roofers in the 1990s... replaced by poles.

anyway, talk of graphemes...
   polish has, in all honesty,
         four potentials to become graphemes,
i don't know how, but they could become
unique script elements...
         alas
          sz       cz        rz            dz
are in their own category, distinct from
  the category of grapheme...
                        it's almost a shame,
               the four being *digraphs...
   oh... and you know that there's a trigraph
in the english language?
             you know it, i'm sure...
                                                     y = why,
but no one will tell you that that is a trigraph,
even the dictionary won't tell you it's a trigraph,
it'll tell you why is either an adverb and exclamation
or a noun... but never that it's also a trigraph
         of what is also a monograph, represented by
y... and perhaps, just perhaps,
               this is just one of those mysteries
worth excavating from the tombs of the tetragrammaton,
and set against a rosetta stone of the modern
era...                in what becomes of
    the hebrew serif י...
                                     perhaps, well, only possible
in english the trigraph         why...
          encompassed in the monograph that's y;
and that's only one h short to complete the equation.

winter ist kommen.

you know what nickname i have among those
that know me well enough? oddly enough it's *Dracula -
my body-clock changed into a nocturnal
creature, while those around me
basked in the sun, i revelled in the moon -
some would claim this to be mere cliche,
and i'd agree with them -
burying a President on the Mount of Kings
in Krakow was a step short and 12 inches
below Napoleon's hope for the Duchy of Warsaw -
perfected xenophobia, once the economic ants
enter the Irish are ****-out-dry and starved in
a potato famine on Titanic with Big BIG dreams of
U.S.A., they only came back to England as the I.R.A.
they really fear the economic migrants -
a Chinese invasion less spectacular than than
the Mongolian invasion and everyone is still
calmly brewing tea... the 5 o'clock shadow, or simply:
brew keeps company of whisperers.
i don't know why the ******* nickname,
at university i was nicknamed banana because
one time, at band camp, i wore a Velvet Underground
t-shirt, and another time, at band camp
i was either goldilocks because of my long hair
or the french braid donned - also known as the hippy for
eating Sharon fruit and pomegranates -
i'm not Morrissey adventurous with **** SCHOOL
rather than Johnny **** THE POLICE -
i kinda liked it - seeing teachers get dissected by
younger generations - why all this negativity surrounding school
fuelling pop music? you played Final Fantasy VII,
exchanged Pokemon cards? no? then what's your *******
problem?
that isn't the point, the point is:
why are Maine **** cats not recognised as the sop buddies
of lore? i swear you to the grave as keeping this fact intact,
Maine ***** are like Bloodhounds - no
matter how many treats you give them, they play sentinels
of the moon with you all they want is company,
they ******* meow meow at your door -
you end up putting on Handel, cushioning them in your
arms on the windowsill listening to, what i would say to
be: if i had children, i'd speak to them in german:
fuchsgesang - wide-eyed diabolical pupils with
a tear from my eye drooping into their crystals -
Maine ***** are the feline equivalent of the bloodhound
canines - they get depressed easily - no matter how many
treat your give them, they still want to be nurtured,
wrapped in diapers of your arms - Ginger Russ weighs in
at 9 kilograms... try keeping him on your arms before
the northern hyenas start cackling simultaneously with
Handel playing in the background.
Maine **** (canine equivalent) = Bloodhound (feline equivalent).
keep him sniffing fresh air and in good company...
the ****** goes to sleep like Speedy Gonzales...
once upon a time... thump... the cat's asleep.
if i'd ever have children i'd wish to speak german to them
for the first time... no other tongue would be given access...
the second Elizabethan Era has ended promptly -
as was its due course - now the degeneracy appears
where art once blossomed...
we're waiting for the Autumn of the second Elizabethan Era...
with winter, new sprouts anticipated... Charles?
oh Charles? please! be the usher impromptu:
beheaded, never built Versailles, killed his wife...
hey! you heard it from a rat, this was written in a sewer,
**** knows what happens in Kensington Palace...
journalism? probably, since around here
all that happens is an obituary.... if you're lucky! ha ha!
otherwise someone else including you toward
an epitaph engraved, most notably: 1974 World Cup -
West-Germany Wins - auf wiedersehen - pronounced:
auf veedersen pet - Liverpool roofers in Munich - yet
everyone knows that all roofers came from Scootlaund.
when philosophy becomes systematic (i.e. wheel rolling
thanks to a limited vocabulary) it does become a thing-in-itself,
that cheats by discussing a thing-in-itself within
its systematisation akin to a thing-in-itself, basically
it cannot find chiral-divergence, or a schizophrenic
to put in a ~mild metaphor - when philosophers systematise
they treat no daily oddities - they encapsulate everyday oddities
with: ground control to Major Tom... ground control to
Major Tom... priority via imagery: forget the bow-tie events
and the fully prim suit buttoned tight - being systematic in
philosophy is not about being dishonest,
it's more about being counter-observant - all the little details
are missing; which is, to be honest, permitted -
if you base your inquiry on all things omni- related,
forget that a Jew would ony write mn and hide the o and i...
too numerous the qualities, but only one accepted tetragrammaton
(square of letters - i.e. not fact, not tool, not hide... but yhwh)...
systematic expression in philosophy, means, outside of it,
missing the daily details that provide the necessary
conjuring of rainbows from water hoses when
watering the flowers in a garden - write systematically
and you **** the particular flavours of the day,
ensuring the sky doesn't all on your head tomorrow
by saying: a priori: the sun too, today, tomorrow, everyday.
reading Kant after watching a ballet made me rethink
my coercion of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche is just too reactionary -
if Kierkegaard took up theatre, i might as well take up
ballet - or any other musically intoxicating form to stage
my coup.

well... i know how you love to be made expectant with psychological premature ******* of ideas, other than banking, banana tweaking ****** the bendy part? i was asking the ****... is that Croatian **** in Korean? elevator blues, diarrhoea... welcome a suburb of Saul and we'll have Bangkok for jokes... did she just squint her eyes at me? hard to tell... squinting in Asia is like killing Jews in German occupied Poland, December in Krakow, is that snow or Auschwitz ash? see how poor the joke is, even with English black humour? Monty Python seems more like Benny Hill right now - i too love kids, preferred their limbs on toothpicks with Kentucky glace dip sauce... but you said: cheap Romanian, so i said: alright ******, you go back to the construction site, we'll send the Irish concrete layers home, we'll send the polish plumbers and the roofers home, we'll send the german installers of glass home...  how many office worker in this country would like to work in the outdoors? **** me, given facebook, instagram and twitter, gucci and the new **** of the fashion industry, revisionist capitalism and solo brands... um... about...  none;
they won't exit Europe, they're not as evolved as the Swiss or the Norwegians, sure they have the 0, 0 coordinates of Darwin, a starting point, but that doesn't mean they're Swiss or Norwegian -
well sorry, but that's how it stands, i'll be happy to send
the Romanians and the Bulgarians and the Poles home... can we dismantle the Shard while we're at it? it's not supposed
to be here... i don't blame the Russians feeding a father-role for
Putin, the anonymity of western democracy just gets to me,
i get ****** over by anonymous poker players, gamers, prior to computers we had a different sort of gamers, call them retards,
call them nerds, they're one and the same; they think they read
novels having recited maxims of the plot to perfect Italian choir of
an operatic - it really doesn't matter, i'll just bunch-up together
a few ******* to build me a castle like in the old days,
and it'll just be a sweet sixteen William IV in the Encyclopaedic enclosure of former economic dynamics of who boxed,
who rapped, who played basketball, who sprinted against Adolf,
while the natives lost the plot in zoological enclosures
and the hybrids invented souls to counter such
enclosing.

roofers in the rain
spared from sun
chimney swifts, gliding

Riot because it's expected riot because they want to arrest you riot because you are angry and full of righteous anger riot because f* the police and f the government f the a** in the white house riot because you don't know what else to do riot because they left you no choice riot because they'll shoot you with a gun riot because you can't defend yourself right because they fear you will riot for the dead babies riot for the crying mothers riot for incarcerated dad's riot for ****** parents riot for grandparents raising babies riot for the Foster system riot for abusive families riot for church goers riot for God for the saints and martyrs riot for the devil  riot for income inequality riot for mcmansions tenement housing section 8 and for interest only predatory loans riot for Wall Street stock fuckery riot for corporate radio where you feel what they want you to feel for the tail wags the dog riot for censorship for shitz and **** and f* and ***** and art and
truth and unpopular opinion riot for truth and the lies told to hide it riot because it feels good right because it hurts riot because that's what society requires of you riot by the seat of your pants Riot because no smoking no drinking no chaining up dogs riot because dogs chain you up by their wallets riot because cancer ate your insides and religion ate your soul riot because your brain belongs to science and 38 other corporations and legal entities riot because they stole your land and burnt down your family riot because they stole your voice tainted your poems your songs and water and water down your truth riot because the carpet bombed your town city neighborhood reservation farm ranch plantation in bomb shelters riot for pacification dancing shows and discotheques riot why not? F them riot because you ain't caught anything all day except maybe ***** riot for free titjobs and overpriced b* riot for unemployment riot for well-connected fraternity brothers
and elite ******* riot for fake morality and pregnant stepdaughters riot for empty nesters and growing too old riot for peacekeeping military envoys and well-armed diplomatic missions riot for philosophical differences over which college football team wears the right color uniforms for racist mascots for trails of tears of many a harassed and violated person riot for tears and fears in general and sanity of society riot for ***** streets and clean suburbs riot for privileges you never had....

and riot for those that did riot for broken glass and free TVs because they've been held in captivity for too long riot for the oppressed under-represented the ghosts riot for the conspicuous riot for the helpless riot for The helpful riot for those without love in their life because how can you live without love? Riot for the hate and the bigots they need some love upside their heads riot for peace because the cops and soldiers and guards and troopers won't stop on your account jackboot goose-stepping to the tune of some other a* riot for children locked away in cages treated like stray dogs and not given dignity riot for SWAT raids on working people riot for students shuffle around like cards riot for slavery riot for greed riot for substandard manufacturing and quickly thrown up housing riot for Hovels and vacationing rats and financial advisers with your money riot for the last gasps of fresh air and pure clean water riot for fresh food and grease pits riot for those people stroking out with arrhythmias and cats and bypasses and dying by insurance Representatives riot for the toe tags and the death certificates riots for the school's not teaching truth riot for profiteering from necessary services riot the Dead the suicides The Killers shooters riot for Injustice for public ****** riot for probation cost and fees and the cycle of poverty...

riot for love for life for death in multiple baptisms that just don't take because it's all guilt and superstition riot for the sweat on the browse the stains on the t-shirts riot for the calluses on the hand and the holes worn into the jeans riot for the roofers in summer and the ditch-diggers and winter riot for the clergy with the best of intentions riot for judges and cops bought off by other people's money riot with a pitchfork and a torch and a cause riot with a fire in your belly and a Love in your heart riot for wars of aggression and preemption and murdering children with bombs we manufactured and we sold and profited from and took that blood money and put up walls between us and those in society different from us because we bought into the fear strategies riot for fear riot for the ashes and the pine boxes and the crocodile tears and the false sentiments the thoughts and prayers riot for Dharma and karma and car alarms and superficial meanderings and musings riot for Riot's sake riot for dead babies riot because we all did it and you feel guilt right because they don't riot because of love love riot peace riot righteous riot

i thought that Sunday would be the day that i'd save money and indulge in my insomnia, not drinking, but i have a triage appointment with my G.P. today between 12 and 5 p.m., so i'll not be synthesising sleep (quantum peek-ah-boo with ß in American with a zed - i.e. zed leppelin), never mind. you pick up obscurity as you go along with it; whatever becomes personal you depersonalise by abstracts, standard procedure when writing a chemistry experiment: abstract prior to explanation, in science abstracts are not exactly abstracts in humanism, they're merely prologues, or shorthand intros.

my writing addiction is worse than my alcohol addiction,
a hell-raiser in heaven...
****, i can end up penniless and broke on the street,
its my parents i'm worried about -
i do have a Muslim enemy - i buried it for 7 years
faking schizophrenia so i could be untouchable -
i can give you the name, i can give you a little biography,
i'm worth two coin flips a **** by my estimate,
i didn't fake insanity so i would get £120 a week on
debility payouts, now that would be mad...
i have to plan from time to time when i have to stop
drinking and synthesising sleep rather than going mad,
i was brought back to ensure my father didn't fall into
depression when one of my cousins undermined his
team of roofers stealing them, the "cousin"?
husband of my grand-uncle's daughter, technically my aunt,
undermined my father's self-employment strategy
employing Poles and Romanians - my father? taught
by Scots... old Jack the Guinness pouch puncher -
diesel running at 4 a.m., breakfast at 5 a.m.,
work is life... work is life... **** me! it's 2016
and the death of Prof. Dumbledore died today,
the movie was completed in 2009 - so obviously no spoiler
alert, 7 years the secret was hidden from my ear...
i only learned of it today... as i also learned...
premature depression in the youth of England -
second Marx and Engels are waiting... spring clean angelic
suggestions of how England invented unshakeable
utopia... WRONG! what do you think Marx and Engels
were doing? what do you think the problems are in England
right now? right now?! mental health.
the pride and prestige of English society is getting to me...
their under-reading of philosophy books -
what sort of damage can a thought experiment have on someone?!
none! getting all ******* pompous and Clancy will
not solve the matter - they don't like wording, or subsequent
excesses - they're importing nurses from India
and are mesmerised by the Japanese curse of karaoke -
England, the 51st ******* state - akin to the Penguin
cover of K. ****'s *man in the high castle,
you ain't pure just 'cos' you think you are!
i have a worse addiction than drinking... writing enlarges
the monster in me... you obstruct my hands from the
keyboard i turn into a monster, given brain damage
you can reason why i tend to need an ****** space of
recording something down - i need it more than alcohol,
without alcohol i just get bored, i don't live in
sparkly Paris for one, the nights around here are deafening...
one example? my father obstructed me recording a thought
(got i miss the expected ease of cognitive narration
i knew prior, and i loath the personality that resides in me
at present... i could have been such a good father)...
i get blocked on the stairs before i want to write the
waterfall, he grabs my index finger and dislodges it...
the rest is pure comedy... the paramedics come,
i compliment the male paramedic on his looks
(why am i so misogynistic by now? i used to idealise
women! n'ah, no point mulling this problem,
the answer is too obvious)... i go to the hospital...
i wait for an hour, pose for pictures with my dislocated
finger, have a laugh and a chat, walk up to a black
girl with some medical problem (the dislocated finger,
what a brilliant comedy gimmick) and introduce her to
Us3 on my knees - time to straighten my finger -
the doctor asks me how it happened -
i lie: i was in such a shock i don't remember,
i pursue the lie to effectiveness - i notice his name,
i was in a pub with a Hungarian barmaid and i asked
her the problem i was having, some psychiatrist with
the surname Szasz, an english speaker couldn't make
the z into a h to say... shash - so i tested this failure
on the barmaid on the doctor, Hungarian test 1.
said his name... asked... Hungarian? yes, he replied.
bingo! lie sealed, Malachi's prophecy came true.
later he obliged to send me the x-rays of my dislocated
finger to my email account... charm charm charm.
i'm a poo'h bear when drunk, strike a conversation
with me like this one Lithuanian girl did and i'll kiss
you from forehead to your chin and neck, kissing your
eyes shut... but get between me and the blank page?
not a good idea. i'm ******* scatter brained -
rarely i get the opportunity to relive the cognitive narration
fluidity i once had that inhibited me from writing anything,
and i mean anything apart from homework and exams.
also... the **'s debut album is a rarity... it's one of those
albums you can listen to without headphones -
listening to it on headphones is rather pointless -
it's perfectly pitched for a bedroom auditorium;
and not much music makes sense without headphones
these days; but i also wonder why not everyone is
addicted to music, and more to conversation via the epitome
of Radio 4's chatty chatty broken bloke.
Sunday newspaper book reviews as usual... no book of
poetry... oh hell, let's bring out the howitzers -
pop culture ignores poetry, poetry explodes in a culture,
many people are disaffected, congested into sardine phobias,
struck that some people remember the countryside life
and milking cows, small town life... the internet is in its
genesis, the middle-classes semi-proficient in the technology
are damning it with promises of a feasible exodus to
the promised land of the sitting-room couch and television,
no one is noticing the digital miners who are digging
for the perfect pixel - a polydiadem fly-eye;
but here i am, facing ridicule at the teachings of Jesus Christ,
hating him is sorta a fake, but it's more a fake at
either Christianity, or the unrelenting fictionalisation of
the man thanks to the Greeks, bemusement at the Star
of Bethlehem, the historian Josephus, and the fact that
that the Nag Hammadi library was found in Egypt and not
Israel... i'd be dumb to ignore the archaeological proofs
culminating with the crucifix and the atom bomb and the
pathology of predicting ends of worlds... Oppenheimer
was just as good, quoting the Sanskrit death bit -
i guess living in Egypt gave the little man of Nazareth
pharaonic ambitions of worship - easier and more convincing
on a crucifix than on a throne with sensible Greek
digestion of the world and fascination to boot -
hence the fascination to the last with architecture and
'my father's house will be a house of prayer',
seen the state of the Anglican Church? and see how mundane
the prayer service has become after 2000 years?
everywhere, now, countless religions are sprouting like
spring ginger using psychedelics and what not...
well, that was the case in the 20th century... the 21st century's
answer is this dark age reinterpretation of Cartesian
philosophy... not so airy-*******-fairy about philosophy
books, are we? philosophers prescribe no drugs, merely
thoughts... what you would probably have not thought out...
harmless pharmacology if you're into claustrophobic
suicide pacts with yourself... the 21st century has proved
another breeding ground in England, this time not economic...
and if not economic, therefore existential...
i'm just another Engels looking for his Marx... or another
Marx looking for his Engels. ah, the cascade ends.

marketing work stalls imagination,
the benefits of the internet are
that you can bypass all that marketing
and become fudge stuck cancerous
in a spider-web of your own choosing
debated as either giving or
marketing... but given this is a century
later, marketing stalls work...
i'd hate to be an allen ginsberg with
only one poem associated with my
creative output... how it's "necessary"
to congregate and carve out
a one-hit-wonder...
if plumbers and roofers and electricians
were treated like that...
we'd have one drainage pipe,
one roof, one light-bulb used by
a population the size of new york...
oh yeah, that would really work!
one toilet for a bully like napoleon
and about 10,000 soldiers ******* their pants;
indeed the modern concept of sharing
original work is like the old concept
of marketing... although in this new concept
no one earns anything of value
that can be readily exchanged -
time isn't readily exchanged, space is
inevitably exchanged, but time isn't -
an hour of psychoanalysis at £100, e.g.,
a free poem, no poet at a party drunk with recitation...
win win!
what's that game... a ping pong table
with cups filled with alcohol lined up like
bowling-alley pins, throwing ping-pong *****
into the opponent's bowling-pin arrangements...
jägermeister o'clock... chug chug chug!
well done; go puke in the toilet...
i'm going to walk home and have a sing-along alone.

Living in NEW YORK CITY and going to tar beach
For most NEW YORKERS this was a treat.
Taking your beach chairs, towels, and blankets
And a radio to the roof.
Some would come up with shirts and pants
As the roofers began to dance.
Listening to ALLEN FREED, COUSIN BRUCIE, and **** CLARK
And seeing the treetops in the park.
We did not need to go to concerts downtown
All you had to do was look around.
We would lie on the blankets taking in the sun
Or dancing to the music and having lots of fun.
We would gather as groups and start to harmonize
With every roof joining in – it is easy to visualize.
A crescendo of voices floating in the air
With people looking out their windows
And their voices they would share.
A water hose connected to an apartment below
Where we could cool off and water balloons to throw.
You could take your suburbs, your farms and little towns
But nothing to compare to the NEW YORK CITY sounds.

it's just a welcome distraction...
that's all it is... modern art
is an act of: being distracted...
i do agree that it's in the bin
when compared to the renaissance
aesthetic...
       but then translate that appreciation
of the beautiful... and you
get an immediate counter:
*******...
               **** shaming and the rest of it...
evidently my contemporaries can't
appreciate beauty...
      we need welcome distractions...
it's called: re-evaluation!
                         i know it's just a canvas
with a black square painted onto it...
but i've been having restless nights
while roofers are refurbishing my roof
and i've been waking too early for
my pleasure... i blamed it on spring
at first, and then i was like: huh?!
oh right... there's some dip-**** banging
a nail into wood on my roof...
     like today... there's a lot of mess on
the mini roof outside my window...
and then there's this block of "artificially"
glued-together clippings of wood...
and i'm looking at it with my sunglasses on
and thinking... hirsch... hirsche...
                gonna bake me a' apple pie...
  (' = h) -
                          so there they are, doing the roof
and i notice all the mess outside my window...
and i spot this thing glaring back at me...
    it's a piece of wood that's been made
into a blank from all the offcuts...
                    but the patterns on it are like
a kaleidoscope... it really is what modern art is
truly about: a welcome distraction (****,
it really stinks of the building site... i'm
not going to keep... out the window it goes
from where it came) -
                (the current background) -
but it's a welcome distraction...
              it has to be, that's why modern art
isn't "****" - but it's an antidote to adversiting
that has become so "artistically" infectious -
modern art isn't ****, per se, it's so simple
because the "art" of making an advert is
           so ****** psychopathically complex!
variations of a forest.
    this be one: the digital complex
regarding where paper came from... the ******* trees!
now they're saying: paper doesn't grow on
trees... sure... but it's imbued in the bark.

p.s.
    i tried to forget her, she introduced me to
in extremo...
                 i had to find antidotes...
akin to: corvus corax, garmarna... etc.

a book just fell off my shelf after i read some female poetry online... coincidentality... the safety net of superstition; or at least a prompt... an unloved woman can reach tartarus... given souls only reach hades' lava lamp of flux; believe me, this **** stays... women take too many inspirations from the natural world... which means men take to creating a metaphysical world they can escape to... she acts the mantis... i act the talking *****.

thankfully i trained my cats so they rudely
wake me up,
  the last dream i had about running
on this pythagorean hypotenuse *****
trying to catch sheep that were chased
by demonic figures decapitating them...
i sleep better these days,
    i think that's a reason for owning cats,
you mature with them,
         but i'd suggest owning dogs
in your childhood, children love dogs,
cats don't love children... but then that's a flimsy
argument to even have a dialectic about...
   people love to have opinions,
and i agree, they should, so that they can subsequently
have emotions; by now socrates is
a surgeon of emotions, have them? not have them?
but then you read some poetry by a woman
who's shrouded in the guise of an online
anthill... and a subsequently a book flies
off your bookshelf onto the floor...
oddly enough a book bought by your first love...
yesterday, to-day and forever,
by *edward henry bickersteth d. d.
           figure that acronym out you modern
pundits! or should i add: late bishop of exeter...
do i believe in ghosts? no, but
a subjectivity counts if i'm not writing about facts
and this need to constantly make things
object-object related... nothing in real life
deems object-object relations to be the real concern
for talking, or what's the current theme via
political-correctness... that's why we have
antique dealers, or why we have
                      a picasso at sotheby's rather than
tate modern... the object-subject relation,
worth, or the appreciation of,
               some even go as far as mad and write
zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance
         rambling on about quality,
or **** ex uno unto uno - and yes i used
that english conjunction because i'm not about to
ponce off the latin italic phraseology
for "rhetorical" purposes...
              since it only means man from one unto
one thing considered... say, that's self-explanatory
given men have passions... what we end up as,
carpenters, roofers, weathermen... poets?
          man out of one unto one...
                   it gets a bit fuzzy prior monkey
and how we came about... but thankfully we
have homosexuals allowed as to peer into the pre-darwin
reality of being a self-****** organism...
          at least we can understand being pre-monkey
something or other, because that's exactly were:
something or other...
                     since we reach a point between
monkey and the big bang where:
   language simply seizes to exist and the thing in question
that exactly express it... it's lost... ****!
  now comes the white rabbit pulled from a top hat.
that's why i don't exactly understand darwinism,
frankly monkeys are perfectly adaptable and
there's no need for them to adapt further...
   they're still here, aren't they?
         well... i'm just wondering when i'm going
to stumble and sound too insensible, or when the logic
of constructing words will fail me and i'll slop into
some kinda of dementia...
                
canvas: the most sinister psychiatric experiments
on men in england...
                      now i'm really laughing...
it's almost like i'm going via the route of
  kuru and dancing the hākā before the altar
of kālī (or as i say: that's better than attempting
a blow-job pose before the crucifix)...
                cultural ap prop what?!
                i don't want to have anything to do with
this "thing" that western society symbolises...
  i just see one massive asylum: lunar rex -
yes, where the moon reigns, or at least the most
necessary resource: oil, middle east;
                  ******* mad max fork in the road.

and the greatest thing about "poetry"?
you forget what you wanted to originally write,
best motivation for keeping a hard-on of narrative,
in audio sprechen though?
    don't know, i have to talk to this waiter,
doctor, politician and so many other people
before we can commune on having a personal life
a bit like trying to squeeze past
jim morrison to get to the other person...
   almost impossible, unless having been at
the parisian shrine of bolo bolo bolo...
          knock on door... get over it.

i know that i picked up a book on kabbalah by
aryeh kamplan prior and cited gematria -
and the book that fell off the bookshelf was probably
next to it and it was gently dislodged...
but that doesn't claim scientific details with what
i was thinking at the time... if i really wanted
to ensure i was scientifically accurate with my
cognitive narration, and call it gravity,
i'd be the one standing on the bridge contemplating
to jump off it...

            plus i mentioned gematria...
also called the assyrian / babylonian / greek bollocking...
which evidently doesn't mention the roman,
or what's otherwise the genius of I V X L C D M -
              but even that wasn't genius when it was
conquered... or what's the 7 heads in the book
of revelation / the cardinal sins...
         myth contra myth... that ends with no myth:
but the blatantly obvious staring right back at you...
which truly exposes the end of res cogitans
and the reign of res vanus... because
   the truth was so obvious that you can't even begin
to complicate it by giving a thought for it,
but like the devil said: idle hands? i have spares!

but i'm thankful that these two pair of cats talked
to my unconscious mind (whatever that means) -
   once i got out of bed and opened the door
to the garden i realised: ooooooooooh...
                 desperate to do your toilet business?
then it became self-evident what
the inability to dream can conjure in the waking
world... a pair of cats need to go to the toilet...
      seems my head isn't that far lodged into my ****
since i have absolutely no capacity to have a dream
other than two desperate cats needing the garden
to relief themselves... that's americanism, isn't it?
i'd probably add ease... or oompf on its own...
       probably why i never took to *** ****
having too much pleasure from easing a **** out -
or why latin names were kept: reasoning man / **** sapiens...
     given the proximity of the stated italics.

The roofers are done with their day
So off they went on their way
But they left somethings behind
And wouldn't you know I'd find
When in the open box I took a look
And my hands they sure shook
I picked it up and put it down twice
**** my favorite vice
But I made a promise, so the Boxcutter had to stay
It was better that way
But I wrung my hands
The thoughts in my head where all crammed
As I paced back and forth
Like a tethered race horse
But your only as good as your word
Over all the other voices in my head was heard
My grandfather was a wise man
So like always on those words I'll stand
Done with my work day
I just walked away
I didn't make that awful slip
But my hands on the wheel had a tight grip
I wanted to do 80 but i could only do 65
Another promise that today would survive

so these cowboy roofers are currently
refurbishing my roof with new tiles...
it started raining like a ******* this
night... and they evidently ******
something up... so much for the
"protestant work ethic"...
     last time i checked the catholics were
more dutiful...
          i had rainwater coming from the ceiling...
towels! ****! bring me towels!
             so that worked... for about 10 minutes
before the towels were soaked in rainwater...
   i went into the kitchen and sat akimbo
   and like elijah cognitively "prayed": please...
let it stop raining!
            it didn't stop, so i had to take to
auxiliary measures...
      first it was a large *** stuffed with
                                   kitchen paper, so that it might
fall padded by the paper into the ***...
            expecting the rain to fall way into
the day i took a sieve and stuffed it with kitchen
paper...
             then i took a glass "jug" that might
entertain flowers and placed it into the sieve
that was resting on the cooking ***...
                 then i thought: give it an hour, give it
an hour...
                  sessioned myself to jerking off...
       so much for prayer... the rain stopped...
                 went into my bedroom to look at the damage...
towels gone, soaking wet hanged on
the washing line...
                  it was only a droplet "waterfall"...
i should have listened to it, to get the "heartbeat"
rate of the droplets of water falling into glass...
            that thing that happened today? London-town?
i didn't hear about it until the 9pm news...
           for some reason i felt this giant
kraken-like demand for gravity pulling me into
my bed for the entire day...
               "protestant" work "ethic"...
  ******* made a hole in my roof, my room is streaming
water into my warm privacy and i'm supposed
to argue: the "protestant work ethic"... the ****?
           england imported former communist state
workers... because the ******* in their
homeland just turned lazy, cranked up some
caribbean vibes and jiggled themselves into
a ******* wheelchair, all of them pretending:
   i'm as smart as stephen hawking! d'uh!
and so ***** the seagull the d'uh impression for retards.
      there's no other way for it!
that's what billy oh'really said about: the name of allah...
that's tautology! you just said two names
  and forgot about the entity!
                          if it ain't there... then i'm going to say:
we really didn't excavate dinosaur bones
    and store them in the museum...
                 tautology! you de-categorised two words
that belong in the same category! nouns! names!
         the nerd in me, ah...
                    ******* impressive contraption by the way...
a ***... kitchen el dorado of paper (one sheet! ****!)
  a sieve and then this glass "shard" you'd put
flowers into... by the way... this existential "       " =
i'm really too ****** to look for accurate nouns...
     so let's make it a bit ambiguity and
keep the pace of expression; that's all... nothing else...
         so what was happening in london today?
  apparently i sat akimbo in the kitchen and hoped
it would stop raining...
               a great flatness... i chased two cats away
from the kitchen door handle... the hulk maine ****
can easily open it with its paw...
           tensed up... chased him away to sleep...
   i swear i could now say that i was bound to be weeping
last night...
             don't really know... alcohol consumption
shortens the memory...
              yesterday? today? tomorrow? yesterday; really?
but there's one plus regarding today...
        tesco is having a clear-out...
   it's doing mt. gay est. 1703 *** at under
15 quid... barbados... ***... and there's even a story:
        a legal deed dated 20th february 1703...
   the existence of *** still house...
                        sugar cane estate on Barbados...
          the world's oldest *** producer...
            now it's called the richard bramson (branson?
            brownson bromson brewmason? brr! said
    the sparrow in the fountain, 'avin a winter scrub)
company, formerly known as ******, now
simply known as eclipse.
   it's like i wasn't supposed to write anything today,
what with calamity jane scenarios leading up
to me, actually writing something.
                      really, a sight to disbelieve, that giant
***, that sieve and the tissues inside both, and
that flower glass container sitting in the sieve and
the rain...
              isn't it so though?
               listening to mainstream media...
        they're not reporting what's happening,
they're just sketching... and i mean sketching,
they want to keep the monetary momentum...
               first it's 4 dead (including the terrorist)...
then it's 5 dead (including the policeman)...
          by the time historians get in on the action
it will be: 100 years later and 40 dead...
                                    mainstream media is like that...
no one cares about indie music these days,
it's all about indie media... indie news...
             which evidently ends up with really ******
music being produced...
                             i was listening in on it and i was thinking:
24/7 society... what's the news?
                        just 4... then... just 5...
                              100 years later: the actual number
was about a hundred...
                       knife + knife + car = chaos!
                                    imagine if that was:
       knife + hammer + car.
                               that's mainstream media for you...
you're teased and have to experience
   a delay button type of coverage...
             they hush the whole scenario...
         first they say it was only 4, then they do
a little bit of arithmetic and add it up to 5...
           but in actual fact it's much more than that...
  and they're so bewildered these days that they're
nearing the status of dinosaurs...
                                       it's the 21st century... hello?!

The roofers are banging up above
making it stressful for the poets
We tremble with all the kerfuffle

As the roofers trail through the muddy garden
we wonder when they will be finished
As of now it is indefinite

sure, we're caring for the demographics,
a black hospital nurse
                           manages to own a mercedes benz...
huh?
          how did that happen?
                  a bunch of nigerians
   "business men" manage
to buy out all the new flats in a new building...
white priv.    white priv. they say...
             nigg'ah gonna shoot!
they still call us communists... never mind,
       i have no rhetoric for hyperboles...
  one muslim dies at a mosque... everyone goes
nuts! a muslim woman walks up to
           a politician and says: i'm afraid to
raise my children in this country!
   one word answer: manchester.
                       i knew and i try to forgive myself
into forging alliance with the zeitgeist narrative...
whether social or mainstream media...
   but sometimes, it's almost like ulysses
     not tied to the mast of the ship, mad, being
dragged to the depths by the song of sirens...
     and this is what media has become...
the song of sirens: as if you, really really,
     but not really, need to provide an opinion...
to the oars men!
                           past these crevices
                            of schizophrenic insinuations.
ah... but the title...
                  this is not an anti-feminist poem...
sure... allow men to join the army,
   make a fetish of demographic representation
being adequate, in the army...
          i've worked on a construction site?
          you know how many women are on
a construction site? perhaps in the kitchen...
      i've seen only one brick-layer, a butch woman...
she could butcher a cow with her bare hands...
there will always be more women in the army
than in the construction site...
       imagine, these days, being a industrial-sized
roofer, tarring a roof, in a heat-wave of
                    over 30 degrees... at the boiler?
over 50 degrees...
            women are more rare in the construction
industry, than in the, ******* army.
          oh please, come along... join the construction
industry army... lift 40kg of felt,
   and 45kg of mineral felt, and carpet
  the roofs of tall buildings...
                   in the 90s, roofers could still wear
shorts... now, they're boiling eggs in
    long jeans... and the radios were banned
    in the industry...
          sure, it's safe as hell, for it is hell,
     but glum and boring as an office job,
  that needs sit-coms and jokes...
                                   like i once said:
    i completed the scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's...
  more women in the army, than in the construction
industry...
     this is not an anti-fe poem...
                    oh please, come along!
       in a place where there's so much concrete,
fresh roofing tar smells just as infatuating
as freshly cut grass where there's so much earth.
more women will join the ceremonial
procession of a weak army,
than join a strong industrial army of a strong
work-force...
      odd... i've never managed to spot
feminism making an insurgence into roofing...
            *****, shut the **** up!
you go and cover 100 sqm of a flat roof in a day
in over 30 degree heat...
     you do that... then you can moan
your little bourgeoisie swan song;
which is odd... since writing this so called
     "poetry",                   i feel castrated,
although internalised... my ***** are bulging,
and tickling my perception of things...
     i watered the garden, and cooked a bbq...
           oh well...
     ever wonder why construction workers are
anti-gym-culture of office workers?
    ******* krawaciaże, office hamsters...
    paper pile (a), vs. paper pile (b)...
                   more women in the army,
                 than in the construction industry;
less yoga, less yoga, less yoga,
                    oh don't join the army!
                            get into construction!
   then tell me that prostitution needs a tear;
you lift a 40kg roll of felt,
                              or a 30kg doughnut of
hot-melt, and drop it into a furnace of
                                                       a boiler.

.                    how about...
  we try...
and dangling
   a piñata on the end
of the stick, rather than
a carrot...
oh, i know it's not
exactly original...
but i'm pretty sure
the kids will like
the inversion:
where once was
the carrot,
   but now is the donkey...
oh don't worry
about the english girls
in york-shire...
last time i heard,
the pakistanis had
that covered...
what?
do i really look like
someone
who managed
to **** your m'ah-m'ah
with a harmonica?
the quest for sanity,
usually begins,
and ends,
with asking a question,
even it's:
mostly unreasonable.
HA HA!
apocalypse jockey
no. 1,
              'make sure you
tell nos. 2, 3 and 4 to take part!'
aye?!
  we go ourselves a fifth...
i'm not sure though,
the head "got in the way"...
he's either a camel jockey...
or a donkey riding
riddle;
        you take,
your chance bending
over a roulette,
chance is evens...
        no one is in favour...
unless...
   there's you,
and no reason
for the laughter,
which originates in
antisocial circumvent
  to creep up against
the socio-"apology";
       weirdos out!
weirdos in!
           what's suddenly
deemed "reverse"
about this sort of mentality?
ah...
the fathomable social security
of appearing: socially confined...
well...
             the worst life
decision i ever made was
enlisting in the university,
2nd best decision i could
have made? joined the army.
1st best decision i could
have made? joined a circus!
i just keep thinking of
the "trad." women in
this, ahem, "movement"...
and how important
home schooling is to these
women...
so... no public schooling,
and no experience of bullying?
just the extension
of the ed gein paraphrase...
just feeding on / off
the oedipus complexity
of...
              mothers being
overtly attached to their children,
esp. boys?
right...
        yeah...
that will certainly help...
     home schooling
is such an ****** infested
"riddle"...
          well, sure,
public education is not
the "answer"...
                but what these "trad."
youtube mummies to be
are advocating?
  
                do what i didn't
do...
             forget the university,
even if it's associated with
studying chemistry...
join the army... **** this *******;

or at least profile yourself
for a career in the construction
industry...
     as little of a #metoo
           worth of a movement
in that industry as...
   you'd get lumberjacks
playing the ******* piano...
    you safe bets are either the army
of...
what beats the army...
the construction industry...
              women engineers...
yes... women roofers...
bricklayers?
     then imagine me wearing
spandex and dancing
the ******* riverdance attempting
to pretend: balet.

502 bad gateway bypass:
chuckle baron,

mishaps at 0.5 degrees
of a circle.

picked up an unfinished cigarette from a jar i have
placed on my windowsill
instead of an ashtray and smoked it...
ooh: those ***** little pleasures...
    so ash on the filter... and in general:
***** cigarette finish...
                 sipping my whiskey...
   found a new band i can't stop listening to...
SJÖBLOM: which is a surname by several
Swedish people... the album? demons...
i always found that the Swedes have an incredible
pop sensibility...
a bit like Abba... a bit like Roxette...
it's infectious music...
   i don't care whether someone calls its "emo":
it's not... there are not screeching vocals of teenage
angst... it's melodic...
it's a bit like discovering Alt-J or the XXs...
or Porcupine Tree...
           then again: it's like trying to find the antithesis
of the major bands of the 1980s...
i needed to get something from that decade
beside only listening to the Cure or Depeche Mode
or Duran Duran... since that's what my uncle was
raised on...
turns out the 1980s were probably the best
decade for music: nothing mainstream matters
when you discover post-punk, dark-wave...
and no: not that pretentious indie music from England
from the 2000s...
   even Brit-Pop is bearable compared to that
strange movement...
   i was a child when Brit-Pop was a major force
to contend with American Grunge and Metal...
      to be honest: anything from the 1980s that wasn't
mainstream is... better than anything mainstream
that came out in the 60s or 70s....
   dad rock...
                well: progressive rock was never mainstream:
King Crimson will still have a special place
in my heart: i don't think there's a better album
than: in the court of the crimson king...
    it's my youth...
        well... Roxette's Joyride... that album is pristine...

tomorrow's F.A. cup final between Liverpool and
Chelsea ought to be fun... i'm already gearing up...
how long to stay up and doodle?
what time to wake up...
    eat something prior leaving?
shine my shoes... doubly iron my trousers...
iron a shirt...
     i already asked to be placed inside rather than
outside... near the VIP section... near the Royal box...
hell... i might even brush against the future
King of England...

i sit back and remember my grandfather:
how long has it been?
   2 years since he passed?
      he was a peoples' person... he could make
people work for him...
   i'm sort of growing into this role too...
even though: we're not talking: proper work...
in a metallurgical plant...
heavy duty stuff... Die Krupps - im schatten der ringe...
i still don't think this is work...
trying to make people not drink in view of the pitch...
trying to make people not drag their mobile-shishas
in stadiums... searching bags...
general security *******...
    i guess i don't think it's much work:
but it would have been... if something like
the Manchester Arena terrorist attack took place...
maybe i'll be made a supervisor again...
last time at Wembley i was frantic...
   a Tyson Fury boxing match... trying to tend to about
20+ people under my supervision...
this one guy... mental health issues...
broke down crying... poor mother:
i'd get slapped about for saying the stuff he said
to her: and she bought him the tickets...
the amount of time it took to calm him down:
panic attacks...

while he was running backwards and forwards...
insulting my stewards...
i had to step in... thankfully this black guy helped
me... a steward under me...
it's like in those 1970s movies about mental asylums...
all the orderly seemed to be black...
i didn't want a response team involved...
i hoped the two of us would reason with him...
and we did... he stayed...
he didn't know London: had no money
and as i sat down with his mother
she told me he was being a little brat...
a 25+ year old man needed my support...
cried in front of me... while i tried to tend to him...
touch... touch... hand on his shoulder...
   etc.: no need for the details...
i just said to him: you paid to see this event!
it's not fair that i'm getting paid to "sort of" see this
event too! look! bright lights! stay!

i still bewilder myself... this isn't work:
i don't treat it as work... i've already got used to
the infrequency of toilet breaks...
sometimes i come home constipated like a turtle
that only ate sandpaper...
   and it takes me about a day later to recover...
i don't even mind standing like a ceremonial soldier
at Buckingham Palace:
i swear... 4 hours on a bicycle is less exhausting
than standing still...
what's sometimes on the news?
ceremonial soldiers dropping from exhaustion:
because they're imitating statues...
which is more exhausting than... movement...

this is a "joke" of a job compared to roofing...
whenever i tell someone i used to be a roofer
they're like: what's that?!
Romford is the capital of roofers...
oh you know, tar work, hot-melt, waterproofing
roofs? on an industrial scale...
that summer of 2004 was probably the most
glorious summer... working, sweating on
a housing project in Beckton...
   shame that in the same year: i was on site
when we heard the news about the bombings in London
my ex-girlfriend was going to catch that
bus that exploded...

i think she missed it because she was running late
or some ****...

i miss those days: because tending to people is
hardly work if you are both an introvert
and an extrovert... although: i don't really know anymore...
i've recently come across this acronym I.N.F.J.
acronym: i watched some videos...
mein gott: what ego-stroking...
sometimes: no, all the time... it's a vanity project...
this sort of categorisation of people
is laziness... psychology is lazy compared
to philosophy...

   ooh! really?! are you that special?!
the term advocate? in the ****** language?
it translates as: lawyer...
   but it's true... i've seen people with these S.I.A.
badges that are trigger happy on violence...
i'm always certain any issue can be resolved by conversation
alone, by building a positive rapour
by standing your ground...

psychology is boo-ring to me... it's predictable:
it makes people predictable: cagey... caged...
superficial... psychology used to mean something...
it used to be theoretical: almost philosophical...
now... since it's pop culture...
it's useless... you better look into the underbelly
of psychology: psychiatry... after all...
psychiatrists are psychologists *** pharmacologists...
that's the ugly side...

or see a priest, or see a *******... or read some
philosophy...
         i might have been hurt...
but it was a sort of a pain mollusks feel when:
that ex girlfriend of mine that was almost blown up
in 2004... she once told me that as a child
she would pour salt on snails...
    
         yeah... and when i was much younger
i came across these two boys that caught frogs...
smear them with lipstick and then set them alight...
go figure...
  
to lessen suffering... i always thought that was best...
perhaps that's why i don't think i will ever
have to put up posters of: LOST CAT...
on trees in my vicinity... how can you,
for ****'s sake, "lose" a cat?! you don't ever "lose" a cat!
the cat has had enough!

just a little bit of tenderness... understanding...
i'm thinking: if this isn't work: crowd control...
i should maybe start looking into work related
to metal health... it would be sort of funny:
a guy, diagnosed with a psychotic disorder
starts working in a mental hospital...
    that would be kind of funny...

on a scale of 1 to 10... how mad are you?
10: mad enough to read Kant and Heidegger in the 21st
century... i think that's mad enough...

what a ******... only two days ago
people were complaining about traffic surrounding
Romford... what happened?
a 22 starling... a boy... not yet a man...
jumped off a four storey car park...
and a pretty pancake he must have made...
between 8:52am and 9:02am he was.... GONe...
gone...

when i was having a hard time during my "breakdown"
i tried to imitate Odin... by hanging myself
from a tree...
the noose was there... i was sitting on the branch...
i dropped... ******... the branch broke...
some of us are not so lucky...
even my godmother mentioned this story once...
drunks and madmen... we have all the luck in this world...
we're talking... 7 storeys... high...
in one of those Communist style living blocks
of concrete...
the guy fell... like a... ******* sack of potatoes...
landed in a bush... about an inch from
a metal ****...
got up and simply said: o kurva!
                           oh ****...
and walked on: for another dabble with some
***** mistress...
                                
i sometimes wish this was fiction...
but drunk people fall like sacks of potatoes...
there's no defense mechanism...
they don't try to pretend to fly flapping
their hands in the air...
i remember when i tilted back and fell down
the stairs... did a Lucifer's dive...
of being born: head first...

i don't remember any bruises: any plum tattoos
on my body... that other time...
when the summer was really... really hot:
unbearable in England... 2016?
i'd wake up gasping for air... run but naked
into the garden and lie on the grass in the shade...
but this other time i escaped my bedroom
and decided to snooze in the hallway...
i rolled from side to side... dropped about 2 metres
down onto the stairs...
like a ******* sack of potatoes...

falling to your death: it must feel like that "analogy"
in Salman Rushdie's the Satanic Verse...
one of the characters drops to earth: laconically...
is that the right word? while the other...
is hardly in a freefall...

this 22 year old darling was lucky: he died...
i would have thought it would take a much higher height
to drop dead like that...
at least he didn't survive the fall and have become
bound to a wheelchair and being fed milkshakes
of protein through a tube...
let's be absolutely frank about this fact...

but that's the luck of drunks and madmen...
i was about to start work on the Olympic Village
prior to the 2012 events...
i panicked when my father said:
you'll be drug-tested: he always ******* lies...
they do test... but not to the point of paranoia...
i was about to start the next day...
what did i do? i ****** off to Athens...
the next morning...

i've never been to Athens! i remember catching a bus
from the airport to some random hostel
in view of the Acropolis... on the mountain side:
illuminated... it truly reminded me of Edinburgh...
although... there's not much on Arthur's Seat...
by comparison... first night?

in Athens?! drinking absinthe... putting a hand over
my eyes... left? right? then spontaneously giggling,
laughing... pointing forward...
from what i later heard: it was the ******* district
of Athens... the philosophical quarter of Athens...
plenty of "bums": did i meet a Diogenes of Sinope?
nope... second day i met a few guys who i thought
were Syrians... i got into a car with them...
we drove far ******* far from where i was staying...
to a *******...

at one point: what's the policy in a *******? no touching...
i had two broads on either side of my shoulder...
mingling my lips with their collar bones...
elbows... that parts of the body men can biceps and triceps...
*******... running out of money fast...

escorted by one of the gorillas (bouncers)
to withdraw some more cash: account empty...
******* my pants... literally... i ****** myself...
over excitement or whatever...
sneaking out onto the streets of Athens:
a city i've never visited... we must have been driving
for about half an hour...
yet my drunken GPS woke up...
how i made it back to the hostel:
i will never want to know...

amnesia...

i return to this memory because i remember the coach
trip from Greece... via Macedonia...
Serbia... via Hungary... via Slovakia...
the snow of Serbia: just outside of Belgrade...
looking like a ghost when i encountered my grandparents...

it's a burning in my mind:
i was so cautious whenever i visited Paris...
when i went to Stockholm... i was always so sober...
but in Athens?! random strangers?!
*******?! **** it...

i remember this girl talking to me dropping a green
peg onto the table: insinuating:
i'd like a private audience with you...
i even remember what song was popular in Greece
back then: Rihanna's: only girl in the world...
it was playing on the bus from the airport...

but "we" freefall like a sack of potatoes...
there's no hands flapping...
that boy was lucky: thank god he didn't end up
in a wheelchair... being fed protein milkshakes
through a tube...
lucky *******...
   i sometimes wish the branch i was sitting on didn't
break and i managed to hand myself to
the eternal night of the gods...

but like drunken GPS: how it gets turned on...
don't ask me:
i must have migrating bird genes...
how do storks migrate back to central Europe?
storks... most associate with ****** mythology...
i must have a pea-sized-brain or something...
since... first time in Athens...
and... driven to a ******* minutes from
the city centre where the Parliament is...
**** my pants... and still manage to walk back
and get a good night's sleep!

it's a bit like when i first came to England aged 8...
what knowledge of the English language did i have?
maybe one... or two words... having seen them
written down...

you want to know the slang term for klawisz?
i.e. klaveesch? a button... a key...
on a keyboard... or a piano...
in Poland it usually refers to someone who's
a prison guard...
everyone: or rather, everyone ought to know
about the failure of the Stamford Prison Experiment...

i'm not a klawisz: in this "work" i'm "supposedly"
doing... i'm the mediator...
i never ask for assistance: those... sadistic little
busy bodies i could twist a wrist off if i wanted to...
talk... talk talk talk...
violence comes last: first comes metallurgy...
first comes roofing...
first comes: the art of judo...
first comes compromise...
brute strength comes last...
  but all these ******* i'm working with are:
technically: "rapists"...
i don't agree with their techniques...
talk... talk... we're civilised people... or: i hope...
i believe anything can arrive at a compromise...

i'm already working with people who have
complaints... made complaints...
like that one time against Liverpool fans
when they played the semi-final at Wembley against
Manchester City...
i had a woman from Liverpool walk up to me and kiss
me... she wanted to feel what ***** on a man's face
felt like... and when they were walking out
en masse... ugh... childish *******...
one started tapping me on my shoulder to my right:
i looked left... "no one"...
then some other started tapping me on my shoulder
to my left: i looked right: "no one" there...

i love that we can return to being children!
that's the whole point!
i know i' return to being a child by being
easily irritated!
but at the same time... this easily irritated me
understands that: it's archetypical!
i'm not serious about: whatever the hell this is...
but people can be... dealt with:
without employing: even the least amount of force...
with my own eyes i can attest that:
convo... mere convo...
if by staging this macho you create a subversive
allure of authority...
guess what... i'd rather **** than showcase a taste
of strength...
        
no no... none of this: you think you have authority therefore:
i have no authority to ****...
but i'd rather **** than showcase
a sputnik's worth of authority...
because this showcasing: this grandstanding is:
a load of *******...
it concerns people who never had
to wrestle with themselves to cycle for 4 hours...
who had to break themselves...

that's all it is...
it's just in plain ******* sight!
why didn't i get laid when i dropped round her house,
twice... when i defended her integrity on one of our
trips back:
on the way toward the shift the guys were
making ****** jokes...
i told her: i'm coming back with you: don't worry...
what did the boys talk about? ******* cereal brands...
she didn't have to posit her elbow on my knee
and relax... she didn't have to do anything:
drink my wine... laugh...
giggle... smile... sing in front of me...
she didn't have to invite me into her home...
she didn't have to make me want to drop her
Valentine's flowers in the middle of the night...

she really didn't require me to make her
feel the requirements of feeling protected...
apparently any football hooligan is immune
to the argument: imagine if i were you mother...
a different story if i just stand there and... wink...
oi oi... ups to two toe nothings, eh eh?! wink-wink...
wanna giggle?!
i know a proper rattle that even giggles me
about...
    i like to... put out cigarette buts on my knuckles...
you... want to try?!
it truly is a: transcendental experience
of "emotion"... well... more like feeling...
well.. more like...
              can i break your knee into cartilage?!

but she was so perfect! ginger 'n' all!
ah man... a ginger girl... just 4 years older than me...
a ******* bombshell!
she already mentioned that this guy wasted
20 years of his life to approach her with enough:
******* or... ego or... ****** or... unicorns...
and i was like: **** it: bungee!

   eh... no wonder... what a glorious shrimp: ginger: imp...
there's another one on the horizon...
but this one is less cougar and more: mousey...
but ginger and freckles is like...
cumin and coriander... powder... curry base!

well i get what i can get... alttürkischrabehaar:
old turkish raven hair...
i was born with a fetish for blonde haired girls...
sorry... the story twists...
gingers... Celtic gingers... time's up... the night's
most welcome.

August tans on the strong armed roofers
the black concrete dudes
even in this day seem to  
tan
now with the sun hotter
than ever
constructing hovels and trying to pay bills
we may not  
seem poetic but we were
we helped build this country
piece by piece
and I salute me I salute the people who sweated out the sun in
blue jeans and overalls
carried your shingles up to the roof
two squares at the time real men
not those naughty little
pencil pushers
that lift weights after a nine to five day
in a suit
or accountants in a cubicle that get
carpal tunnel syndromes and act like they
are dying
come work for a day with real men
those of us who sweat in the sun glisten
we make women ***

well i don't know,
it could be either -oom or
                         ūm
or the umlaut arithmetic
or a pinch of the acute -
   call it, what you like,
lexicon, infinity -
nonetheless,
            i will die not having
said the plethora
    of the peacock that is,
language...
   a sober actor,
   is a dead actor,
   which brings me to my conclusion,
i know why that handyman
left his suitcase in my bed'rue'mm,
            as one handyman
to another handyman said:
i have my drills, you have your books,
we can not expect to congratulate
each other on being both
handymen, and, kleptomaniacs;
mind you, i prefer drinking
with window cleaners,
      scaffolding folk,
roofers than these ghastly:
closet intellectuals...
             seems like we're only to
find these closet people,
  since homosexuality became
so mainstream,
and if a "thing" becomes mainstream
there's no taboo...
no taboo? no fun (in tickling
a fancy of).
ergo? back to the *******... sorry...
drawing board.

i can verily appreciate my initial frustration
barely a day ago,
       or at least a day a nibble of today's
contentment at:
    (a) drinking beer on a very sour,
wet atypically english afternoon -
      reigned over by who else if not
earl grey... and...
   (b) autumnal cuisine, planning dinner,
roasted vegetables,
       parsnip, peppers, courgettes,
onions, potatoes, carrots, mushrooms,
glazed in oil balsamic vinegar and some honey...
hell, when they said: 5 a day -
a nurse told me: it's good that
   1. you don't run on pavement and instead
allow 5 miles become deserving of
your tread - longshanks -
and 2. the 5 a day implies veg, not fruit...
younger? sure, fruits, but as i got older
it was the timidity of vegetables -
their sweetness, but also lack of
acidity -
             no **** sherlock -
          a combination of fruit acidity and
sugar is probably just as bad as chocolate...
  hence my championing of winter...
sure, in the spring it might be warmer outside,
but during autumn it's much warmer
inside...
              due to the food...
          but i can only see with lucidy
my initial frustration, as to why only a day
or so ago (with a nibble of today) came
the realisation... frustration at a lack of
the usual writing impetus...
      i had to (on purpose) force myself to
solve two súdokū puzzles -
  having failed both of them...
     but it was never about solving these puzzles...
what was actually happening was nothing
short of a transition period...
    unlike your typical bestseller page turners,
i was stuck with a book for at least... god...
       almost half a year?
                that's the problem when you give
too much thought to a book,
  well, a "problem" -
                              but deep-reading does that
to you, in that you have to burn off
any memory of what you spent investing
all that time in...
  and how better than by puzzling number games?
it's the mere focus on numbers,
an overly strained focus on them,
an exhaustion due to focusing on them
that can only allow you to detach your from
the book you've just finished,
        and the next book you picked up...
   after all, the books can't be more parallel -
notably since one predates the others
  (1670 - 1931) - with the latter citing no
influence of the former...
       let's face it, having just finished a nationalist
socialist philosopher's musings...
  and then picking up benedict spinoza's work?
that's almost like having read stephen king,
and then picking up hans christian andersen...
obviously it had to take drastic measures,
sheer mental exhaustion having concentrated
on numbers, and then a sleepless night
watching movies to bury one book
  in my library, to subsequently take a new one
out... unlike binge reading on twilight trilogy
(e.g.).
                  besides, i managed to re-watch
good will hunting...
                                     and it struck me:
     there's that scene were a father busting his
*** on a construction site for his son's education...
hmm...
                 and how good education this
and good education that...
                          zdrowie na budowie -
health in construction -
         couldn't agree more -
          plus an art form / trade being perfected
to absolute efficiency -
                 if only i was born a bit later,
at the time when tuition fees went up to
   9 grand per annum for a degree at university,
if only! even when they started hovering
above 3 grand i dropped out from doing
a second degree...
                      busting his *** my **** -
   my university cost my father one week's
worth of wages, back when it was just over a grand...
but that's the reality,
     trades pay good, esp. industrial scale roofing,
a hard graft, but i have to say: fun to do -
it puts going to the gym out of the equation,
for sure...
              and roofers? i know that i'll never
manage to visit the maldives... 'e did...
         mexico and kenya and jamaica and...
      i've got a degree in chemistry and the best
offer of work outside of university was:
   stacking shelves in a supermarket.
                     plus, i've taught myself more
than i was taught in these institutions...
                     and i really recommend this:
stop your formal education in language at
the age of 16... after 16? teach yourself...
                         i took the foundation in history
from 16 through to 20...
              a canvas of essay writing...
   butch-ed-up writing history essays...
    i wouldn't trust anyone to teach me this
language after 16...
                          that said,
we really were sold a lie about the mantra
of education education education...
       frightfully, if not merely thankfully
the lie was cheap, cheap cheap cheap,
  thankfully it was cheap at the time -
otherwise the majority of us would have
probably left school at 16 and learned a trade...
point being...
     in poland it's clear cut...
         because you have polytechnics -
  and i'll tell you how they look like:
    schools for boys, hardly any girls...
                  let's say: no girls...
        and then there are the schools with
*****-whipping material guys who study
  the arts, languages, literature etc. etc. -
       if only england had established firm roots
in polytechnics - almost all men would have
defaulted - and so much rests on how things
are worded -
                      they call it apprenticeships...
  as if you have to be a victorian slave labour
of a child...
                       forced into work straight at 16?
how about a few more years in a polytechnic?
so you can at least learn more theories and ideas,
create a technical base, before you enter
an apprenticeship at, say, 18 or 19?
                     is the ******* house burning down
that you have to be forced into a technical trade
at 16?
              no! it's not fair on the guys who have
aren't given the luxury of those 2 to 3 years
of joking in the playground, playing footie &
all that...
                    if a polytechnic network of schools,
we'd know that at least a plumber would
come out the other end,
   rather than upon leaving university -
a chemist becomes a supermarket cashier...
why? it's a choking joke that these university
lecturers are doctor in their field and what they
really want to do is to focus on their research...
  understandably...
  which is why all university lectures should
be conducted by post-graduates...
   seems simple enough...
   post-graduate students and professors -
  those old geezers who are almost retired and
have the same capacity for wisdom as
  a grandfather has to a grandson,
  which a father will never have to his son.

that was good to hear that you had company in the garden yesterday, that he visited.

all was good for me and to say the book stayed in the bag all day.

it was refreshing to be with those on the same wavelength – a relief from the other world.

the garden was beautiful, they have such a talent with planting .

today the roofers return and I go to the ******* dump early.

Ridiculed with opposites..
Positive..
I talk with walk tall confidence
But meekly speak
Of god given talent.
That might amass. To
Accolades accomplishments
Its just room for coffins
Under clothe to be
Cleaned and walk
With losses from my past
That seem to be lost on me...
And haunting me
Like impossible im calm
But I just got my period...
Wait the point is.. impossible
From your colossal disbelief
Like separate. Apostrophe
Inevitable
got it all....
Like model aspirations
Intimidation..  *** i speak
Non judgemental gospel bro....
Like topical relief
For depression.
Anxiety.. bipolar.. **** clozeral...
The boss is waiting in
His office...
I got a shot. With far im possible...
And no way
**** it logan
Says make it probable...
Facing difficulties...
Like riddles to Batmans job at home...
The riddlers ******* got to go
And under neath the ledge.
I'm sure heath.
Has got a spot to watch it all....
Screaming. William
Like black eyed peas...
In the freezer bag...
*** I got to swell....
With beating demons till it freezes over
Believe me all I want from hell...
Switch the flow

Taught me well.. with hard ambition
In it...
Built for ***.. genius. Reaching
Optical incremental prisons
Dysmorphias a numbers game...
And we got it all in switching
But liberation
Is a greater joy. Than all this dimension different vision...
Like a tape you read
Your project with
But yoir vision says.
Two inches and 11 keep
Swapping
Stop this ****....
So you walk into lunch with coffee...
And people switch the fuckinf spots to
Sit in...
*** your coveralls are different...
Laughing
*** your wishing to be a proper certified electrician...
But your just not the idea
Or proper vision
*** your body is the opposite
Of electrician....
**** **** in the parking lot...
All you hearing as you exit
Your not a tradesmen
Dude keep wishing....
Shoulda kept your birth genetics....
Or stick with roofers
**** ill do that ***** you *******
If i woulda kept my ****..
You jerks would still
Look at me different....