hiatus awaiting

welcome are the nights,
with a chance of snow,
and me...
   writing practically nothing;
i guess the common ground
encompassed by a
acted out "laziness"....
    i can admire *******
and it feels
     the same dead weight of
*******' hanging weight...
        i sacrifice my lamb
on the altar of Slayer
and say goodnight....
  i like these nights, redying
myself for an internet hiatus...
    getting a haircut,
trimming my beard...
        it will be a most pleasant
experience,
being internet-free...
i can actually forget about
the dialogues...
                   for a month or so...
the whiskey dries out,
the will abides by hibernation,
the book is read...
time passes via
         a Maori interpretation....
slow, deathly,
unpredictable...
                 such warm wintry
nights when the snow falls,
and the fox scuttles about...
            are paid grievances
for want of dream...
                i write the least
because i belittled the most...
   zeit werden plötzlich halt...
        like i said: i pay my allegienace
to a tongue..
       i align with german
on a fetishist's whim,
not a nationality...
            speaking german comes
across as oral ***...
            scheiße ficken auster!
      i pay my allegiance
to a tongue, not the people -
  der zunge uber die volk...
            i reek of the kind of hate
that these zombie-people dreams of
the living become acrid...
         i am sodium and sulphate!
                              i watch
the shamanic dance and the *******
"ladies" in waiting...
                      i am the tongue
above the people;
    thinking comes later...
    last...
       the only increment of crafting
a nostalgia of carving
and a nostalgia of what's past;
****** the oyster with the serpent,
maggot, worm...
             there's nothing with
leverage of poetics...
              why has the thrill of life
and upkeep "suddenly"
expired from me?
         why has this quasi-
castration taken hold of me?
                   all before the
perfected mechanisation ugly...
                  doesn't matter,
as individualism dies
i am the one to inherit it...
                      die hitzig nächte
aus gefallen schnee...
und die tänzeln fuchs...
                                    zu sehen.
- perhaps a return to
the saxon rooting...
perhaps that,
perhaps anything at all...
what does it matter,
there's the troubling tomorrow
to pitch against...
             the lost beauty of
the sunrise, to the day's insistence
for love lost unto labour;
the abhorring obedience to
said, "love", and slavish schematics;
love is a pardoning word
in keeping things intact,
but not a word worth an ounce
of motivational value.

and due to CSFR (cross-site request forgery)...

      *Turkish Barbers

once more, the notion of the simplest pleasures in life, are the most rewarding; maybe i should be 30 to 40 years older to make such a statement, maybe i ought to be the colt-type bungee jumping and skydiving feeding an adrenaline rush... but then again once you make life slim of extreme pleasure, the real authentic pleasures come through in the most unexpected way, out of the mundane every day, a proud, strutting peacock - let's keep the intricacies of pleasures and experienced bound to a labyrinth of either such extreme experiences, or the heights of philosophical discourse... keep the pauper's share, allow the everyday form of grey separate itself: till you finally see the black & white.

it was about time, someone had to allow this
ruffian, this ***, this barbarian into society...
sure, a suit makes a man,
but since we're living in times of smart casual,
where ties are not required nor
the top button done up -
the next thing that makes a man,
is a well deserved, haircut.
i come to think that a haircut makes more
of a man, than a well attired suit,
call me old fashioned, or new fashioned -
but it comes as a shame to not bother
with a haircut, like i did for almost a year,
considering the angst of the baldies,
with their shining craniums exposed
to moonlight...
like ice converging to act as mirror
in a firming puddle on the pavement...
yes, i am prone to "forget", well, in actual
fact abandon any ****** aesthetics to
imitate a variant of Lent...
i give certain things up and fast in a much
different way... vain?
hardly...
you only notice the difference
when a girl looks your way after a transition,
even with a puffer-fish face from all the drinking...
but it had to be done,
someone really had to get rid of the barbarian,
this: feral *thing...
and who better if not a Turkish Barber?
i have to say... i lost my virginity to a razor today...
Turkish Barbers are the best in the world,
that's not an opinion, that's a fact,
and from what the result is...
women can't cut beards,
they can do a brazilian wax no problem,
but the ***** on the face?
ladies, leave that to the men...
and there's one in particular,
a local,
a very cameo parlour,
two seats, almost like a kiosk -
Ustun's -
4 chase cross road, romford, essex,
RM5 3PR.... cemil ustun,
phone number 07447752357...
i don't know what's better,
receiving oral ***, or getting a proper barber's
treatment...
i'm starting to think the latter,
since it's cheaper...
i've come to a conclusion,
forget inquiring into prostitution -
£110 for an hour of agonising *** acts,
i'd take an hour with cemil for
a £20...
first time i actually had
oil applied to my ****** hair,
and foam and blow-drying it into shape...
before i grew my hair like a, ******* hippy,
i never really had a proper barber experience,
and i've learned something important:
not all "feminine" professions are actually
feminine...
a barber is as important as a soldier...
and that coincides with:
well, if we don't really believe in
moral relativism but absolutism,
and if we don't believe in cultural relativism
but absolutism,
we can at least agree that:
every, single, job, is, important,
that there must be a professional relativism,
or that there is a relativism of labour,
since nature does not like vacuums...
every job is equally important,
in that relativism exists on the basis of
gradation, an "ablaut" of incremental changes
in "value"...
by not money has exited the original
idea that it's the source of
the trans-valuation of values -
point being?
£20 for a haircut and a beard trim,
£110 for some wacky fucky-fucky...
hey, that's five and a half sessions
with cemil...
barbers can out-compete
the necessity of prostitutes...
but you can only, really, come to such conclusion
if you've been to both...
and this has to be the most authentic
experience of pampering that a *******,
with her moral baggage, simply can't give;
but it ought to be noted once more...
the best barbers in the world are Turks...
must be the highlight of the Ottoman empire,
akin to the english coffeehouses,
the barbers of the Ottoman empire
probably had as much significance as
the coffeehouses of england...
and that's how the cookie crumbles.

Schnee bedeckt die Baumspitzen
Wir halten uns warm
mit unseren Blicken, Küssen
und den schlechten Witzen

Schnee bedeckt die Felder
Wir stehen wie angewurzelt
umringt von eisiger Kälte,
den Raben und der Stille der Wälder

Schnee bedeckt die Wege
Wir geben uns Halt, Arm in Arm
hören uns zu, jedes Wort, jeder Satz
jede noch so lange Rede
hält uns warm

Schnee bedeckt fast jeden Ort
In uns schmilzt jegliches Eis
jede erdenkliche Schneefläche
ganz plötzlich, direkt, sofort

In uns herrscht kein kalter und bedrückender Winter
In uns herrscht warmer und unbeschwerter Sommer

Ich ging durch den beschmutzten bevölkerten Korridor mit den Reben, die drinnen und draußen wuchsen, entlang und ich sah in jeder Tür mein Spiegelbild, während ich vorüberging. Ich wohnte genau zum Zimmer – nicht einhundertfünfzig Zentimeter weg; die Entfernung war fast nicht größer, als ich war, und nicht alter. Ich erläuterte meine Angst vor dem Dunkel mit einem Frösteln. Meine Zähne klapperten und klingelnden Münzen, die in meiner Tasche blieben, schrien in meinem Ohr gewohnte Lieder.
Eine Tür öffnete und einen Moment lang hörten wir das Weltall. Wir allesamt waren in dem Korridor. Ein krystallener Stab wie einer, den Leute in der Versuchsansalt oder in der Kneipe benützten, zerbrach. Der Stabinhalt floß in die Hand des Mannes, der sein Zimmer verließ, eine silberne Flüssigkeit. Das Echo des Wortes „Quecksilber“ klang in dem Korridor.
Jedes Zimmer ist gleichbedeutend wie das Letztere, aber es ist auch unterschiedlich. Jedes beinhaltet grenzenlos Fähigkeiten, und unterschiedliche Chemikalien, unterschiedliche Chemie, und unterschiedliche Emotionen.
Ängstlich öffnete ich meine Tür und trat in einen millionsten Anteil von mir selber und ich war ich selber. Symphonien flossen von meinem Kopf weiter, und von den Symphonien kamen fliegende Fische.
Es war nicht wichtig, dass andere Menschen ähnliche Zimmer wie mein Zimmer hatten; es war nur wichtig, dass ihre Zimmer verschieden waren. Ihre Zimmer waren Käfige, genau wie ihre Herzen und auch ihre Hände. Der Mann im Korridor, der hirschartige Augen hatte, blies das flüssige Metall, das seine Hand fasste weg. Die Flüssigkeit wurde Staub und glitt zu mir wie Backpulver oder Schnee im Schneesturm. Ich konnte alles hören und ich musste mich von dem Weiß, das der Staub brachte, trennen. Ich hasste den öden Morgen, den das hervorbrachte.
Ich wollte meine Tür öffnen und wollte den silbernweißen Straub vorzeigen, dass ich auch Sachen in der Luft erschaffen konnte. Ich wollte, aber ich konnte nicht. Ich konnte Sachen in der Luft meines Zimmers erschaffen, aber nicht im Korridor. Man braucht Ressourcen, um etwas zu ändern oder zu formen. Ich besaß Keine.
Die Welt schüchterte die Leute ein, die Verstand hatten.

mein shatten, o mein shatten -
wenn nur du haben aber eins auge,
zu einsehen mich, ihr σίσυφος.

my shadow, o my shadow -
if only you had but one eye,
to observe me, your sisyphus.

and are there no better contrasts to
be observed?

well, there is the title:
to spectate rain, falling in sunlight,
with the two rainbow arches
emerging from thin air...

of the inner 7 fractions,
to the outer 2, if not 3 (red and green
being the most distinct) -

to watch rain, fall in sunlight,
is like watching countless shooting stars...

but there is an even greater swelling
of the heart, as the eyes observe...
snow, falling ever so gently in the night,
and, if abiding near a cemetery,
how much more potent the scene.

i am the vain carrier of my shadow,
if only my shadow could see,
but then again, the shadow is burdened
with memory,
   for the shadow remains
chronologically bound to allow such
intactness of lived to forgotten
of scenes, acts, pains & pleasures.

and thus unto spoiling this "effort":
       sheikh imran nazar hosein -
honest to god, i could listen to the old
man for hours, and never feel
bored, or, to say the least, "triggered"...
there's absolutely nothing annoying
about him, but more importantly:
nothing arrogant, thus subsequently
pompous...

   it's just that he fails to mention
one aspect of western secularisation
process...
       the west has priests,
although, the priesthood has changed
into:
  the modern priest in western societies
is a: psychiatrist.
  these are the new priests,
they too prescribe certain "atonements"...
perhaps not the 20 hail mary's after
confession...
   short & sweet alternative:
     an antidepressant with your coffee,
or some benzodiazepines...
honestly? i'd prefer the wafer and
the sip of wine... but you know,
times are a'changing.

nonetheless, i prefer listening to old men
talk, such as sheikh imran nazar hosein,
because they *can talk,
rather than slobber all over the camera
screen...
  and the way they talk, is akin to, say,
morgan freeman becoming a d.j.
on a classical music radio station
at 9p.m., through to 11p.m. so that
people hear the lullaby...

      yes yes, i know the subject matters of
the sheikh are religious,
but i too share my worth in some form
of religiosity, some form of gesticulation,
as merely as the one already given,
with the rain in the sunlight,
                and the snow in the night,
even with the freshly poured rain in
the night, that looks like quicksilver
every time it glistens,
   or like the frost on the pavement in
the night: that resembles a thousand upon
thousand of paparazzi camera flashes
at a red carpet event -

                                    veni vidi noto;
now for the alternative title (in german) -
      regen in sonnenlicht / schnee in nacht.

p.s. i write german using an english
grammatical structure,
   bare with me, i just like the way
it sounds... even if it has an english grammatical
structure... and if only they began to teach
german in english primary schools,
rather than french, i guess it would have
             caught on with me -
twice the man, and a fraction of a wannabe.

knackered... absolutely knackered... i wish i did yesterday's
shift at the London stadium...
i've built up an implosive furore with the crowd...
i just look at them: hmm... look pretty excited
but at the same time content...

    i can't believe it... since starting this... rather menial
job... i've been referencing it like mad...
i really shouldn't... i remember days when i was
sitting in my ivory tower touching on subjects
like the Katakana... with so much free time on my hands
i'd explore...
       i'd try something akin to Miroslav Holub...
in all earnest? i was never much of a poetry reader...
but if i were to compare Miroslav Holub with another
Czech: a Milan Kundera... well...
Kundera "stole" my youth... Holub cemented
my early adulthood...

          i'm sort of envious that i don't write like him...
you're almost always envious of the people
who don't have much of a readership...
              i could never be envious of Stephen King...
he figured out a method... a structure...
mind you: i never read a single Stephen King book...
not that i'm being pretentious...
i just didn't feel the need to read him...
       the whole horror genre is... limited for me...
horror needs to be visual...
   i can't be scared of text... via my imagination...
it's different, though...
   i once had an ******* reading some Marquis
de Sade... which might tell you a lot...

        i'm writing about work that i think is...
not really work... so what did i do with my day off?
i ****** off on my bicycle for about 4 hours...
yes... i know... 60+ kilometres in 4 hours is not
good enough... but i did stop off to drink a bottle
of cider and buy some Turkish bread for this
greedy dish... 400g of beef can disappear in one
sitting when shared between three people...

      i'm pretty sure surgeons don't write about their work...
but this Czech immunologist somehow did...
maybe that's why he's so under-read...
he was an immunologist foremost...
it's almost as if people don't take his poetry
seriously because of that...
                but either him or Kundera...
the former...

                    i don't even think i'm working:
oh... i'm pretty sure i was working when working as a roofer...
manual labour can do a work of miracles...
at least you don't need to become a gym hamster...
bunny... whatever you want to call it...
all that physical potential... wasted on... treadmills...
if at least those treadmill runners could be
the ones that generate energy... that's stored...
like a watermill...
               you know... generate enough energy
to power the lighting in the gym...
maybe someone should invent a treadmill that
allows these people exercising to do something
useful...

60+km in 4h... it's not good... but then again i did
cycle into central London...
   past the houses of Parliament...
May 1st... so a lot of the ****** protests...
but pretty tame...
            traffic lights... terrible traffic...
i could have probably put in an extra 20km in those
four hours if i cycled out of London...
but i'm a curious creature... plus... i said to myself...
nature... or... "nature":
yes... i want to cycle into central London
to look at some girls... where's the best place
to spot some girls? Brick Lane...
                Oxford Street...
    
   imagine my disbelief... there aren't that many...
that might attract your attention...
i tried... didn't find any... well i did find the opposite
***... but... there was nothing curious about
any of them... they all looked like tourists...
i hate tourists... well... i don't hate tourists...
only today i was speaking to this Danish guy...
who found the English very friendly...
which probably implies that he wasn't talking
to an English man... because: i'm sure as **** am not one...

but i did cycle into central London
to look at some ***...
                eh... it's sometimes worth it...
but all the under-read poets are the ones i am most
jealous of... such style... such grace...
don't even mention... Maya Angelou to me...
please don't... i've been keeping a KLEX...
in my **** for an entire day...

what's a KLEX?! it's a ****... with remnants
of a ****... that... when properly treated... when having
sat down on the throne of thrones...
explodes into an "******" of untangled intestines
that also gives you an *******...
woke up in the morning... had a ****'s play in three
parts... the 4th part... i kept for the entire day...
the KLEX...
              of my god... the glorious agony of walking
home from Romford station... trying to **** in the far
with the ****... meditating on torso muscles...
is this what **** *** feels like? you get the shivers?
the sweats?
    the agony... i've already emptied myself
in the morning... all i have is a **** and some shotgun
**** in me... **** ******* it in...
it's trying to get out! **** ******* it in!
it's trying to get out!
    i get home... haplessly undress... take my socks off...
sit on the toilet...
                                      BOOM!

i just dropped one on Hiroshima...
          because it's unlike the slithering sensation
of a serpent when it feels... really smooth...
when you've eaten the right sort of food and it has
become properly digested and...
i've kept this one hidden for an entire day...
if my **** had a tongue, while walking...
it felt like licking ice... can you imagine?

mein gott... the relief... better than ***...
for a while i was of the mindset... **** it... pull down your
trousers... you have tissues in your pocket...
crouch... on a piece of grass and do your ****...
no no... the agony first... walking just agitated the ****
more... more agony... wait for the release...

- seriously though? why would i even entertain some
some high-brow topics?!
the time's not right... i have cat peacefully sleeping
in my bed... i have a ******* sending me selfies of herself
indicating she misses me...

one thing amazed me today... i've found out about this
already, from my grandmother...
she liked watching me eat...
               fair enough: because i ate as someone who,
in the words of Socrates: ate to live...
rather than live to eat...
                    
after coming back from the Putney Bridge shift...
i only had a bagel with scrambled eggs and some bacon
for breakfast... wolf! fenrir! i sometimes "misplace"
actual hunger for ****** desire... all of a sudden...
no... these are not beer goggles...
they're hunger goggles... every woman is
attractive... in my head i sometimes do a few revisions:
like my grandfather used to say...
no woman is unattractive... some are just neglected...

oh so ******* true...
   no woman is unattractive... some are just neglected...
that's so ******* true...
i get hungry... i get tired... i become ***** as...
don't know.. my face becomes the following:
my mouth becomes the eye of a Cyclops...
while my eyes become two mouths of Orthrus...

but that's what's something amazing when eating
alone in public... you bring your household habits into
the fore... for everyone to see...
you're not eating with your mouth open...
you're not watching anything beside the food...
you wipe your mouth and finger generously...

the look on the chicken shack "restaurant" personnel...
before and after...
what did i order? the classical box...
two pieces of chicken... fries...
can i eat in? sure you can...
i'm not into processed burger fillets... i need...

    ich bedarf knochen mit "mein" huhn!
i need nones with "my" chicken!

lightened faces... once they saw me dissect
that chicken thigh and leg...
KNIRSCHEN... i.e. CRUNCH...
hmm... some bones...
cartilage? no... bone...
       knorpel oder knochen?!
does it even ******* matter?!
   let's eat...
        
              it's when i started biting into the bone
marrow... of the chicken legs...
no... i wasn't wasting any of it...
none of this is waste... hands shaking...
i wish i was drunk...
     i was just hungry... it's as if Eid passed me by
without the proper sort of impromptu
to stop...
                  i might as well licked my finger tips...
but the look on those guys behind the counter
serving this chicken...
yes, me too... i'm glad you washed your hands...
before serving me this dish...

why did my grandmother find it important
to find me in that "80 to 20%" attractive
eating something?
            maybe it's the Socratic methodology...
i eat to live... i don't live to eat...

this isn't work... this is a joke of work...
            work sets you free:
arbeit macht frei: conjured up like sometimes
from an ancient textbook...
since no conjunctions...
since no pronouns...
  sometimes from a: how Latin used to be
spoken.. maybe the ancient Latins did use
pronouns and conjunctions...
but... didn't... when writing?!

                  i only do it to get out out the house...
   you start cleaning the chicken bones from all
the muscle... then you bite into the marrow...
obviously the chicken shop owners will look
at at you with a degree of glee...
look! he didn't waste anytthing!
just the potato chips!
                            
i need sleep...  beste zu schlafen:
                         mal als sie ar...
                            
eis ist nein schnee!
               licht ist nein farbe!
mann ist nein affe!
              
                                 freiheit ist nein: arbeit!

crunching,
or the breaking
                              of bread...
           das, knirschen
      aus schnee
not mere halving,
rather,
            snow as tearing
open the crust...
              the crunching
sound as if a hard bite...
                jaw upon
the earth...
                 and skull
myriad
                  upon the moon;
                to new worlds
we hold beackon,
already given the geography
to craft craters
                     morphed
       into mountain
                      pinnackles;

of father:
     i had to learn to
labour under no sympathy.

Draußen im Schnee
sind sie begraben

die Wünsche
die Hoffnungen
die Freuden
die Leiden

Und warten auf den Frühling

nothing's going to happen tonight... i'm already thinking what i'm going to be eating for breakfast, how much time it's going to take me complete that NVQ English & Mathematics assessments, the first module... for that role as steward at venues... i'd love to rethink writing, this writing, as: something more than what tabloid newspapers & magazines employ people for... no matter... i don't think i have the stomach to even begin to care what people want to digest... let the people be people: it becomes much easier thus, to become yourself... wholly... but i won't be up to much tonight... why, just because, see below:

there's not much to write about this night...
absolutely nothing:
i'm only scribbling because:
it would be a complete waste: to simply,
to merely drink...
i can't just drink, just: drink...
   waste of a good bourbon if i'm not bleeding
any ink...
the highlight? one of my maine *****
decided to investigate the windowsill
i was perching on... with one foot folded
sitting on it...
so he jumped onto the windowsill
and started toying with: truth or dare with
his reflection... i took a few photographs...
because, as someone once said:
spending time around cats is never
a wasted moment...
it possibly can't be...
       freedom from the leash... from taking
the animal for a walk...
but beside this zenith: of a cat peering into
glass: when glass becomes a mirror in
the night, source of light on the inside...
complete darkness outside...
hell... he managed to sit so excited that
i stood up & took a picture of myself with him...
i stroke my beard...
i scratch my head... if there was a glass
of milk available: i'd probably drink it...
i stroke my beard:
god, i miss fidgeting with my chin
& jaw-line...
        i sometimes wish i was 18 again
and had my long hair done-up into
a French braid...
then i wish i wasn't...
   i like being this indecisive...
        stretched over time... yet composed
to a little bit of space...
- such unspectacular writing...
anyone could do it with enough
focus for keeping up with the rigours
of grammar & spelling...
yet for me... merely an interlude...
winter has come and cycling has become
a chore... extra clothing... gloves...
when speeding even if the recorded
temp. is only hovering above one degrees Celsius...
the felt temp. when riding a bicycle:
with the wind "impediment" drops to below 0...
but winter comforts my thought(s)...
the almost eternal night sooths...
all colours on the ground: dimmed...
everything is more: sketched...
rather than painted...
        i always adored winter...
all that's missing is the snow...
why will the snow never come?
warum werden der schnee, nie kommen?
will the snow never come? why?
come night... when: as it falls...
pirouettes of ghostly ballerinas...
that's how i remember it...
standing in the middle of a graveyard
at night... looking up...
as the flakes fell on my face...
i have never... experienced a tender kiss...
not by a mother, not by a girlfriend...

ich vermissen... dies, nur freude:
komme(n) die lange nacht...

    schneeflocke... schneeflocke...
   kuss mich, nur eine: letzte zeit.