I am so sick of having to go to mass to please my family who will not accept me otherwise.

I am so sick of having to walk down the street covering myself because men can't de-sexualise normal human body parts.

I am so sick of the arguments of sexism, racism and overall discrimination.

-if someone accepts you, great.
-if they don't, grow a thicker skin and rise above.

I am so sick of being afraid of things like trying new food and roller coasters that make me feel as though I'm missing out.

I am so sick of being so extremely misanthropic that when someone says they can relate to my sadness I get angry that another human believes they can empathise with me.

I am so sick of being told what to do with my life.

I am so sick of not knowing what to do with my life.

I am so sick of acting like I know what to do with my life.

I am so sick of my life.

I am so sick of myself.

I am so sick of looking at my features and scrutinising them.

I am so sick of being alive.

I am so sick.

I've Put So Much Into This,
I'm Not Going To Give Up Now.
Your Happy To **** Me,
To Show Me Your Deepest Passion.
But You Wont Let Me In,
What's Your Problem,
Your Afraid Of Being Used,
But Happy To Use Me.
I Knew From The Second That I Set Eye's On You You Were Trouble,
But Being Arrogant I Went On,
Now I Am Sitting Here,
Wondering What Happened.
Why Am I The One With These Feeling's?
What Did I Do Wrong?
You Were My Blue Eyed, Blond Hair Girl,
Most People Would Call You The Perfect Trophy.
I Now Know You To Be The Perfect *****.
Building Me Up Like That Every Time,
So You Could Just Walk Away And Watch Me Tumble Down.
But I Still Can't Give You Up,
You Are My Worst Habit,
That Hook That Got Me Good,
I Need My Fix,
But You Deny It.
Why Do This,
Is It A Game To You?
Because I Feel Like A Used Nintendo 64,
Just Sitting In The Corner Covered In Dust,
Just Waiting For Your New Play Station To Quit On You.
Is That What I Am To You?
Just A Fall Back?
Am I That Thing You Don't Really Want But Just Keep In Case?
Or Do You Want More From Me?
I Don't Know,
This Is Starting To **** Me Now,
These Question's Hurt More Than The Scrutinising Look We Have Shared On More Than One Occasion.
I Want More,
I Need More,
I Need You.
I'm Not Ready To Be Your Little Bit On The Side Or Back Up Any More,
I Deserve More,
No One Deserves This.
Please Be Humane,
Put Me Out Of My Misery!

Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.

Can you see me cry?
Can you see the demons
reflected in my eyes?
Can you see the scars
inscribed on my skin?
Can you see through my mask,
so feeble, so terribly thin?
Can you see it peeling off,
can you see me rotting?

Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.

Are you afraid?
Are you scared of the
big bad scarred monster
on your doorstep?

My scars relinquishing in
sunlight,
the devils inside me
caught in a ****** war,
the pain that's decaying
my organs, my soul,
my body crumbling
like pastries to dust,
my tormented existence,
my struggle through life.
Gnawed at by self-hatred,
praised by self-harm,
thriving in blades,
awash with blood...

Can you see this?
Can you hear them?

Can you hear the voices
roaring in my head,
screaming, yelling,
howling
sweet little
"disgusting"s
"failure"s
"****"s
"good-for-nothing"s
"nobo­dy-needs-you"s
"ugly"s
"fat"s
"stupid"s
"pathetic"s
"you're better off dead"
?

Can you hear
the cry of my veins?
Can you hear my blood
begging for release?
Can you hear
my gut-wrenching
cries for help?
Can you hear my screams?

Can you see the figures
scrutinising me
deep inside my head?
Can you see the pain
bleeding down my
arms
and things?
Can you see me
ripping myself slowly
thread by ******* thread?

Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.

Can you recognise me?
Can you see yourself?

Don't stay, my sweet little girl,
don't stay,
run away,
my sweet little girl,
greetings from your
future self
on the path to decay.

they rarely get it spot on,
the side effects of anti-psychotics makes you
**** your bed after going against
the prescription allowances of being sober,
and with regards to a cognitive illness: suddenly
thinking is an illness walking sensibly down
the street with a beer -
the whole inherited aspect of it? like it runs in the family?
well... my great-grandmother almost thought
she was losing it - but she was on the front line of
world war ii, giving my grandmother opiates
to hush her so the werhmacht wouldn’t find them in hiding,
she was from a large family, as was usual at the time,
and most of them didn’t make it -
but then my grandfather’s orientation in this realm
of “illness” probably started when he still remembers
asking two blackshirt ss-men for some sweets and getting them,
then becoming a communist and seeing communism “fail”
thanks to john paul ii.
my take on “thinking is an illness, all thinking is an illness
in the hands of psychiatrists?”
dating a tsarina, being poisoned to near death
by a best fwend - and probably dropping a baby into her lap -
now the question is... how well informed i am
given the condition: everyone’s permitted a personal life,
a private life, a life a third party knows nothing about -
patchwork jigsaw and crosswords all in one go -
which suits the fact that drinking as the time passes
makes all my director’s cut scenarios of the same corner of my life
seem more entertaining - well i could add that
the best chemistry experiment i ever did was at school:
two clear liquids, clearly not mixing like fruit juice concentrate and water,
so they’re sitting there, one on top of the other,
and then... magic! using forceps you pull at the event horizon,
and what you pull out are strands of polyester (polyethylene terephthalate).
so i’m not buying into this psychiatry school of thought
that attempts to cure the colonial white man of repressed anger
and lost self-esteem voyaging to kingston and shanghai
pulverising guilt with oxfam adverts just to employ charity workers
and not sending money to the needy,
but being interrogated by about 10 different sick doctors
you learn their thinking: almost all want you to talk
about your childhood, because there is an inherent need to use
the psychiatric scalpel (i.e. the id) to cut with and find your
ego, attired in diapers, talking about your parents (the superego),
but oddly enough not the supra-ego (i.e. your grandparents) -
considering the fact that the major part of my development is
due to joseph “stalin” and helen, and my great grandmother mary...
but enough about that... i relish on saying this word:
******-synthesis, because such is the primitive nature of psychoanalysis
originating in the upper tiers of the marxist pyramid:
they're synthesising is to be as soulless as
their analysis allows drilling as far in as the faculty of dreaming.
but i guess we all become “complicated” human beings
after european industry becomes exported to china,
drop the hammer and the steel, learn to write learn to
read, become sensibly sympathetic and curiously
sensitive and bam: you're a qualified patient!
and added to the fact that the existential parting with god
only precipitated a complication of the individual man, purposively:
god became infinitely simple (i.e. seized to exist)
and thus man entered the glorious existential domain
of scrutinising and itemising every misery, every pleasure,
every thought, every feeling,
then adding to the sheer outburst of the populations,
he soon too realised - well i don’t really exist either, unless i’m
constantly striving for some sort of recognition other than my own,
hence the solipsistic debasement in existentialism? or
the antidote: solipsistic dignity in the realm of post-existentialism?
i know the answer - how? i’m already using it and the two
questions are meaningless to me - as i already testified inventing
a god: solipsus - purposively; the liberated / pardoned sisyphus
from the toils of the stone, by the wise zeus.

Our hands entwined, expressing feelings no words can describe.
Fingertips reading every emotion with exact precision.
A new language fully mastered, due to necessity.

Sun, exaggerating our expressions for others to witness.
Penetrating the wall of friendship we are hidden behind.
Eyes asking the questions their mouths don't dare to utter.

Not in daylight public, that's against the unwritten rules.
Glares are probing, scolding, scrutinising and disgusted.
We are exposed to this criticism daily, without argument.

It is pointless, for they cannot hear our words.
Worthless is explanation, their small minds are made.
Creatures we are, unholy a different species entirely.

They preach mercy, forgiveness, and understanding.
Yet they do not practise it.
Unworthy of acceptance, is it that much to ask?

Eyes devouring each sentence
Savouring every word
Tasting thoughts, feelings
So carelessly served
Before such judging critiques
Scrutinising and harsh.

I got my hair cut
Again
Yesterday
In a small salon the filthy streets of Philadelphia's Chinatown;
The golden eagle
Appropriately named as I always feel wings lift me when I leave
Though the streets are grey and black with dirt and grime,
The salon is clean, chic, and welcoming
First one young lady with limited English swept me up to be dropped into the care of a second who washed my hair and luxuriously massaged my scalp with exquisitely long nails
Then I was led over to a swivel chair to ponder my reflection and bat my legs as a little child, waiting on Kelly for my grown up haircut
At last Kelly was free, and she too whisked me over to her mirror
In her most exceptional care she cut and thinned and cut and razored and thinned and cut some more
Her fingers flew, running through my hair and seeming to drop pieces of hair by magic
At last she styled and stepped back nervously asking if I liked it
Quickly scrutinising it, running my fingertips over the much-shortened hair, I looked up
And grinned
I love it
The bangs barely long enough to brush my eyebrows
The back as short as a boys, bristling when I rub it the wrong way
The front long and soft enough for tousling but short enough to stay out of my way
If I envelope my head in my hands I can easily trace the contours of my scalp
As though a couple silk scarves were draped over a barren skull
I was told I look like Emma Watson or Audrey Hepburn or a boy
But I love this
They're both stunning women
And I don't mind shocking a few old ladies with the surprise that this "strong young man" is I'm fact a girl

Let's talk about silence
Because I think my words are failing me
For the first time I'm out of phrases
My tongue is tied, its happening very rapidly
I think I might be judging you
For the same mistakes that I've shared with you
But I'm putting you under the spotlight
Scrutinising more than you're giving to me
And all in silence
Hush, don't speak, I'm out of talks to talk
Let's just walk the walk
And stand apart;
One feet
Because it doesn't make sense
Two feet,
I think I'll step a bit farther more
Ten feet
I want to be untied and set free
Forty feet, fifty, a hundred, thousands
Infinity
Don't want my heart to skip a beat, anymore
It does though
Because I think I've leapt a bit too far-a-way
Thousands- a hundred- fifty- forty feet
I think I'm retreating back a bit
Two feet
I'm sinking into the ground
A final leap
One feet
I knew I couldn't do without you for long
You hug me// you couldn't either
My tongue is tied, it's happening very rapidly
//entangled in yours
For the first time I'm out if phrases
//you're gazing at me
Because I think my words are failing me
//yours are creeping onto my existence
Let's talk about silence.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls with craters for collarbones,
arms so gamine and slender
that they mirror the bend
of a flowers stalk.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who can wake up and go
without spending an hour
scrutinising themselves in the mirror,
so naturally beautiful
that they exude summer.

I want to be of those girls.
The girls who like to dress like the magazines,
that are entirely sugar and spice
and everything nice,
always painted
with a rom com ready smile.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who always know
exactly what to say,
when to laugh
and when to shut their mouths.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls described as ****
and cute
and girlfriend material,
instead of
'one of the guys'.

I want to be one of those girls.
Not whatever I am
who laughs too loud
and eats too much
and drinks too much
and doesn't care
what Kim K wore to the gym last week.

I want to be one of those girls.
I want -

I just want to be me.

articles like this really **** me off...
my father is a subscriber to The Times...
personally? i think that Monday ought to be treated
at a media / journalistic sabbath...
nothing ever happens on a Sunday:
what's there to write about on a Monday:
for a Monday... all the newspaper editions
are always the slimmest on a Monday...
it's like... take a hike, won't you?
the best day to read a newspaper, most definitely
a Sunday... it comes with all the cultural reviews
some recipes... a culmination of a week
or even a month... the news review and
the editorial comment sections are best on
a Sunday... why not print anything on a Monday?!
- and it's always on a Sunday that
i find all the juicy bits... the one day in the week
but the current month... bad timing...
either i watch the FA cup / the six nations
or i read a newspaper / the newspaper magazine
while drinking two bottles of 8.2% cider....
well, sure... with beer when you raise the game
to Carlsberg's Special ******* Brew that
comes in at 9%: it's an ugly affair... you start
squirming asking yourself: are you *******
a lemon?! but "alas"... it's cider... so it's almost like
drinking ****-poor diluted wine...
but it makes some agonising articles:
mostly written by women... a tad bit... more...
bearable...
         mainstream media is out of touch...
someone has already said it, someone is already
saying it: someone else will say it later on...
oh i'm big on the female-centric pieces of
the newspaper: forget all that objective journalism,
cold, hard, male: give me the facts and... *******...
no no... as a reader i'm also a weaver...
i like to spin a counter narrative in my head...
The Sunday Times STYLE magazine...
   Dolly Alderton speaks to a rising star in
pop music... a Self Esteem - formerly known
as Rebecca Lucy Taylor... oh, right...
so like Prince... or Michael Jackson:
the guy formerly known to be black? cool cool...
you can check her out...
music sort of akin to spoken word poetry:
whatever the hell that means... no, not Kate Tempest
style... again: spoken word poetry?
oh, right, i'm more into composition than
performance so this is: written word poetry...
fair enough...
   i'll sooner be found dead than performing my word
in the current climate... 'said a poopy word!
cancel him!' no thank you,
i still have a head ******* on this neck
on these shoulders... i'll wait for the jazz to calm
the **** down... i'll probably be an irrelevant
relic by then, hopefully mummified like
Lenin... you never know...
hmm... Rotherham-born... 35...
and what are the chances that...
you know... Rotherham... Pakistani grooming-gangs...
only yesterday my company employed
20+ Pakistani zombies that probably sprouted
out of cousin-on-cousin *******...
dull... zoned-out... glassy eyed *****...
what are the chances?
they looked... well... less sinister more murky...
slimy...no... not slim i.e. slimmy... slime-e...
slimey... i know, it should be written slimey
and not slimy... which sort of implies slimmy: slimming...
no no... so of how you'd write: smiley...
slimey... makes sense...
i'll just verbatim the headline...
(she really looks like a Marilyn Monroe doppelganger,
voluptuous, vivacious, all the required va va voom
of a woman)
   MEN ARE REALLY SCARED OF ME...
last time i checked... there's this ****** proverb
that states... fear has large eyes...
guess what... only yesterday i saw those large eyes
of fear when the four of us were outnumbered
by about 30+ screaming chanting taunting drunk
teenagers / football hooligans at a match...
i must have been squinting or something...
in this profession (of stewarding) i hear a lot of macho
bravado about smacking some...
very much aligned to the narrative borrowed
from the film: Rise of the Foot Soldier...
Essex gangland... blah blah br'uh...
                                       o.k. we get it: you have an erecticle
dysfunction, need to compensate by going
to the gym to increase your muscle mass...
modern films... hell...
they used to be great... up to the point where
they made it adamant that they were also
advertisement flicks... zooming in on products...
worn by characters in a no-plot scenario...
usually watches, electronic products...
food brands, restaurants...
it's like capitalism selling itself to capitalism...
what a hyper-inflated word...
which word? capitalism... i mean... i was born
in a former Soviet satellite state...
n'ah... it wasn't so bad... "my" people sort
of went along with the Russian influence:
when the art of metallurgy was still in "fashion"
in Eastern Europe, but it's not like we took
the Bolsheviks that much seriously than "we" did
the Nazis... after all: funny fact:
it took **** Germany AND Soviet Russian
to conquer Poland than it took **** Germany
to conquer France... Napoleon must have been
turning in his grave...
    i don't think men are scared of women...
personally i like to think of them as timid little
creatures that... OVER-ESTIMATE
their worth, confidence,
                              looks, worth...
                availability... as a man that knows how
to cook, as a man that does all the house chores...
and all the man *******...
oh, right, today... one of my cats did a ****-poor
job at taking a ****...
she managed to plough out two blobs from the "cuvette"
and leave them sitting pretty on
the matt beside the "cuvette"...  
   yes yes, i know, it's a misnomer... read some Wittgenstein...
i'm thinking in ****** while writing in
English... the word is originally French...
blah blah... i lied to little Freddy / Reinhart about
the origins of the word haemorrhage -
one of the words for his school spelling exams...
i said: oh... that's Latin... i'm kicking myself
over the etymological falsity i passed down on to him...
yes: it's Greek...
from HAIMA - blood (noun) &
                         RHEGNUNAI - burst (verb)...
so then i lifted her up and sniffer her...
oh jeez! Louise! **** this ****... i'm not having some
stinking cat walking about my house...
meow meow... ******* horror movie meow...
well you should have taken a **** better!
scratching, a proper bite at the hand!
into the shower with you! washed her from all the
stink... petulant little **** of a cat that she
was she managed to come across as penitent
when i shampooed her and the water was running
down her spine... ha ha...
so much for a maine ****... more like a rat now...
wrapped her up in a blanket put her
on my lap and watched about 20 minutes
of Liverpool's struggle with Birmingham City in
the FA cup...
                  then ****** off on my bicycle for some
whiskey and turkey stakes for the cats to eat...
wait... didn't i once feed Quorus a fish eye,
while filleting a trout? oh yeah... i did...
that was fun to watch... i sometimes catch mosquitos
by the legs and feed them too...
- do men can possibly fear women?
plainly, on the outright? i very much doubt it,
like Bane said in that opening scene from
Christopher Nolan's Batman movie:
this is no time for fear, doctor... that comes later...
how women have churned out a complete
lack of perception misguiding initial attraction
for fear... it's like they have no clue about how
men behave... when they're attracted
to women... "unconscious" curiosity is not
a fear... a woman is still somewhat abstract...
hell: to me she's forever an abstract...
i don't have the practicality of a man that might
gamble, take the plunge...
impregnate one...             last time i heard
it was considered a bad idea for a man to be
present at child-birth... women should take care
of women's "issues"...
ooh... i'm scared of a woman
but not a ******* tiger? logic paradox...
i'm scared of a puddle but not the raging sea!
how did women conjure up this
invulnerability? too many boy bands in the 90s...
too many male feminists?!
- and then the Sarah Everard ******...
men are scared of women... BOMBAST egoism...
no, not scared... just a case of men
scrutinising: is this going to be worthy?
tying the knot... getting up at 5am, coming back
home at 8am and getting nothing
5 pieces of sushi to eat... the house in a turmoil,
the kids growing up feral...
is it... worth merely the looks?!
the looks, right now? i mean... she's going to
be a ******* granny in about 20 years
if she's already a single mum aged 39...
is it going to be worth it?
or... if she's in her 20s... what's her boredom
spectrum, does she need to be on a ferris-wheel
all the ******* time or can she take an hour
of reading beside a fireplace and the deafening silence...
can she handle Mistress Death?
has she been to a funeral? has one of her grandparents
died?!
right...                    yeah.... scared of a woman
because of her good looks...
                scared akin to: what are the chances
she's going to go on a cosmopolitan safari
of **** given the current influx of black walking
****** of migrants on dingy boats...
what are the chances of her becoming a liability
rather than a partner?!

- - - - - - interlude - - - - - - -

****, where was i? oh man, i really love listening
to garbage... no, not literally...
the band... stupid girl, i'm only happy when it rains,
#1 crush, dog new tricks...
i never thought i'd find a recipe for
pasta and smoked salmon... lucky me...
so ******* simple... onion, sour cream,
some tomato(s), two tablespoons of capers,
lemon juice... pepper... chilly flakes...
preferably the Korean ones that also act like
turmeric - i.e. they colour the food...
smoked salmon added at the last minute...
some slices reserved for garnish to make
the dish look more appealing... and obviously
dill... to be honest: a lot of dill...
what did i watch? Beijing Winter Olympics...
why are they so racist?! joke... seriously
that's a joke... why are, why oh, oh my god why
are the winter olympics so racist?!
no winters in Africa?! maybe?!
no ******* snow... what are they going to
do... surfing on the dunes of Sahara?!
ha ha... it's untouchable! i love it!
but what i don't love... why didn't all the countries
simply, outright, boycott Ch-ch-ch-I-n'ah?!
why indulge them as if nothing *******
happened for the past 2 years...
i mean... the Soviets were boycotted back
in the day when people had... ***** for brains
and brains for *****... but these days?
even the **** are ******* labradors lapping up
any attention going their way... ******* silly *****...

plus, the Olympics per se...
there was always equality when it came to sports...
not popular sports like rugby,
football or boxing, i give you that...
sports for rich men and silly little ***** to drool
over status...
but real sports... unattractive sports,
unpopular sports...
we're not going to have a pay gap debate
when it comes to professional tennis...
women only have to play a maximum of 3 sets...
men? 5 sets... how long did that Australia Open
final take, to get finished? close to 6 hours?
right...
     what wage gap?
well, at least in the Olympics a man has
to run a marathon... a woman runs what? half of it?
no no... ***** is running the ******* marathon...
hundred metres? she's running the hundred metres...
obviously she's going to be slower...
that's not my problem... but even saying that...
i enjoy female tennis more than the men's...
i don't know... they moan more?!
or perhaps my generation, the millennials
produced 2 of the 3 greatest players in: whenever...
so... maybe it just a got a bit ******* boring...

oh, but i'll be boycotting the current Olympic
games in Beijing... it's not progressive enough,
there are not enough... what's that ******* acronym...
B.C.I.W. - black, coloured, indigenous, women...
i don't know what the state of the current
alphabet soup of acronyms from H'america is at...
****! **** ****! pump snow to Africa!
get some ice! let's get a bobsleigh team going!
******* Wankees and their currency
of current rotten ideas!

ha ha: it's already served to me on a silver platter...
all i have to do is drink a little and stew and spew...

sure, it's only going to be a soft boycott,
i just watch those games,
pointless... thanks for the pandemic,
no thank you, otherwise...
i sort of feel sorry for the athletes being so compliant
with the narrative...

oi! Ummah! where's you suicide squad from
Saudi Arabia's elite breaking into
the concentration camps where
the Uyghurs are being sentenced to unspeakable
horrors? oh sure... attack the West while
seeking proselytes, but don't care about
your existing Muslim community...
i see a third breaking apart of Islam...
i don't know why i see it... but this will not be
along the lines of the Sunni and Shiah...
this might actually involve the Turks...
i see the Turks as a third, separate,
branch of Islam: even if they're not already that,
where are your little ****-pants blow-themselves-up
rather than fight, fighting for your Ummah
in Ch-ch-ch-I-n'ah?!
                                   oh right, nowhere to be found...
too busy kiddy-fiddling English girls
in Rotherham!
      ******* degenerates!
i'm fuming at the teeth: and they have the *******
audacity to lecture me about, principle?
racists too... they think very little of the Chinese...
as Muslims... the "master religion"
the "master race"... ******* camel-jockeys...
the whole entire rest of them!

- the temperature in the house dropped to 17 degrees...
ooh, a bit chilly... wrote my father's invoice,
took out the garbage, ****... forgot to take out
the dwindling yellow tulips, will do, next week...
received an email that i passed my NVQ for role
as steward... well great... pressed play on
the thermostat... waited as i did all of that...
oh my my... it's getting hot... ran up to my bedroom
to turn it off... it read... 18 degrees...
wow! wow! imagine what one degrees Celsius makes...
i never thought... well: i never thought that
could be possible...

- - - - - - - - end of interlude - - - - - - - - - - -

i must have finished writing about the previous
article, since, i took time for an interlude of...
what was already stated...
                           this second article... i have to begin
with a rubric, oh yeah, it's sourced:
   ONS, UN, relate.org...

rubric, i.e. a list and it's as follows (leaving the approximation
words aside):
1. 1 in 7 people in the UK living alone by 2039
1. 61% of single women say they are single-happy
  compared with 49% of men
            (men, if they lie, are good at it,
   good enough to become serial killers;
    but women? they are compulsive,
which does't necessarily translate as them being
                       good at it; they're usually not -
they're spastic-fantastic sort of clumsy, at it)
3. 1 in 6 of British people believe in the concept
   of "the one"...
4. 10% of Brits enjoy the **** to the ****
with the chicken; 13% in the wake of the fine fine
MADE IN CHINA whatever-it-was don't
feel ready for intimacy...

               oh sure... the hypochondriacs have
finally been found... i was wondering why they /
where they disappeared to... but now they're in plain
sight... with their secular makeshift niqqabs...
i like this transparency... it's good for an apparent
"schizophrenic" to start to feel more comfortable
in his skin... then again: thank you China...
i can now clearly see the neurotics and the hypochondriacs...
the little people on the spectrum of the asylum...
no... the micro-aggression crowd...
no... not the raving lunatics...
the cult of the moon crowd...
the ones speaking to their shadows... taking
selfies of their shadows... haunting graveyard type
of crowd... thank you... i can see the mice...

5. 25% think they are out of bedroom practice, antics...
well, d'uh... 8% are more open to same-*** relationships...

  yeah, i was thinking that... maybe it would be easier
dating a man... but he'd have to be Greek...
and be learned in... classical thought from ancient
times when pederasts where accepted
like modern Pakistan freely welcomes paedophiles
as long as they do it to English girls... that sort of, "thing"...

i abhor the western concept of dating...
i might have been on a date once...
yeah... i was on a date once...
we went to an art gallery,
to the cinema, to a restaurant...
then we started dating, we were in high school...

after that? i was already ******* her
when she asked me to take her to a sea-food restaurant
for clams, oysters and mussels...

dating... oh, right... that one speed-dating event
that made me look like an ***...
dating... is that like... the Chelsea flower show?
you know... where you go to see flowers
but can't pluck any for a bouquette
to take home? it must be like that...
i wouldn't know... ****** off to the brothel
early... found a stone in the shape of a heart
on the pavement once...
called it my own... never looked back...

   just to make sure... i treat oath words very much
akin to superlatives - i know they're not superlatives,
but in the sense of keeping a modern
narrative... they're pretty much akin to being
treated as such, as, i dare say,
punctuation marks without actually being punctuation
markers... they allow for a flow of ideas,
for a flow of a narrative...

cuntish ******* filth if you ask me:
but i do wash my teeth on a regular basis
and i do eat healthily...

6. 1 in 10 Brits is burned-out by dating...
   & dating apps...
                                       don't know... never used
any... i'm still archaic in that i still have
a Facebook account...

7. 71% of men feel a pressure to be in relationships
compared to 58% of women...

as the list goes on... am i, supposed to feel, surprised?!

8. a 16% increase in those living alone...
9. 1 in 6 between the ages of 45 & 64 live alone
10. 48% of "singletons" (women) feel a pressure
to find a partner based off of their social
relationships... men work, together...
******* socialising... ******* with the banter...
the chit-chat... what are we doing,
where are we doing it, how long will it take?
base... women do all that private revelry *******...

11. women are more likely so say that a relationship
is unsatisfactory...  
              well... yeah... look sharp, Sherlock!
Watson's coming! ******* plonkers for plumbers!

12. there are three other facts, but they are
citing **** without numbers...
so... i'm not going to bother... based on feels...   yawn...
it's much easier to just recite lyrics from
the Garbage song: Stupid Girl...
you pretend you're high,
you're pretend you're bored,
pretend you're everything,
just to be adored...
and what you need, is what you get...
don't believe in fear...
don't believe in faith,
don't believe in anything,
that, you can't break...
stupid girl... stupid girl..
all you've had you've wasted...

oh, my god, is it my job to warn them off?!
HE will ask: and how ws your life...
i've lived with cats enough time to know:
and HE will ask... never mind: it be be a SHE...
and IT will ask... and ask... are you
awake... as if... implying: do you think you're dead?!

the rest of the article...
the pinnacles of female freedom...
i'm not going to cite them they're disgusting....
she goes through *******
cosmic concepts and premonitions that
are less grounded in the sands of Arabia
by a horses' hoof than a camel "toe"...

these wankers want to come up north and
dictate the ******* rules...
dictate this... change my ******* mind!
******* plop of a soppy **** that you..
quasi-***** seem to be...
kiddy-fiddlers... you soppy losers...
cousin-*******... camel-jockeys...
weak... quasi-men...
men... sort of...

          i'm not going to go through her article...
she's a sorry *** loser
by the standards expected of men...
no sorry... kind ***...
men band together....
  all as one... or none: to begin with!
and you women, think,  "think"...
you can somehow infiltrate our ranks...
what? you gonna bake me a bannana loaf
worth of loaf..
with all the pecan / walnut "trimmings"...
girl... you're having a ******* laugh...

i'm not reading through this *******...
you want me to bite someone's neck?
no one has yet seen how feral i can could become...
at the job...  i could just roll my eyes back
declaring nothing but sclera...
again: why are women even involved
in this sort of *******?!
why?! are?! you? *******!! here!! ypu,
******* useless, *****?!

i'm here to pick up a fight...
but here you are, pretending to be
a ******* grandma... and that's your excuse...
*****, i hope you get your head sorted,
get punched.... silly ******* cucnt...
oh right... my excuse among the football
hooligans... i'm i woman!
don't touch me! i'n your sister, your mother...
this **** is going to boil...
you tell me that ****, one, more,
******* time... i'm going to 'ed in yurr
******* grandm'ah...!
i know these *****... women are playing
a tight game...

esp. when you... ***** yourselves......
Rotherham didn't ******* help...
you ******* cheap **** ******...
i keep tight, silent, because...
i've been to brothels... but this ****...
i'm not even English... this... sort of hurts...
it, can't be, allowed, an outlet,
via... football, matches...
no, mate, no!

   your sister has been suckered into *******
this... sickle- cell anemia sort of *****
from Pakistan...
oh don't worry about theit race...
they don't have a skin tone...
their skin tone... if any:
cant's miss 'em... slimey *****...
olive oil slimey...
in-bred looking *****... *****-eyeds...
sorry... some people just look
******* clueless! period!
like they're out of "the game"...
they're gone... they're meat for the machinery!
the end! sorry... stop sopping:
no one's special!
weird like... Frankenstein looking
at the monster he created... seriously?!
i, made... that? oh, **** me...
better **** it... but wait...
oh... a chance he might transcendent me...
no... not with these kiddy-fidddling Pakistanis...
chances are... the ******* 4 seasons on
the continent of Antacrtica!

He didn't force me, I walked into that house willingly. Eager steps to escape the row of cars, the buzz of people.

I kissed him. Sweet cannabis stained tongue. I took his mouth into mine and held it, like a breath underwater.

I chose my own drinks, paid for them myself. Counted coins and pinned my hopes on you and your fake ID.

I remember it well. No force. No bait. The chatter of strangers in a cramped kitchen as I tried to sleep.

I left the door unlocked. Would anyone? Footsteps on soft carpet, quietly caught me, unawares.

Hands and tongues carve scars into my body. The kind that don't turn silver and fade. A permanent reminder of Hell.

Something changed within me that night. A new found fear. Sudden terror at an innocent touch. The people, too loud. The sun, too bright.

Scrutinising me. Judging me. Burning me down to the bone.

Being right
Is of little consolation
If your being in hospital;
And no consolation at all
If your Being ceases to be!
---------
I'm a predator
Searching out for a mate:
Scrutinising all prey that crosses my path.
I'll eat **** and take what comes,
Or starve if need be - self-satiated -
While I patiently await
That dainty, succulent morsel;
That indelibly edible delicacy
Which my heart so desires.
---------
Airheads to the left of me;
Airheads to the right of me;
Airheads in front of me;
Cackled and blundered!
Their's was not to reason why;
Their's was but to buy or die.
And I...
I just shook my head and wondered...

Sat in the sanctuary of prickly peace.
Pit of sweet slumber.
Scrutinising the rain as it paints ornate pictures on my window.
It's calling out.
Glass glimmering.
Pane quivering to the beat of the raindrops that pound.
Beating the window, before greeting the ground.
Bouncing and dancing as whirling ballerinas.
Facetted diamonds.
They're dripping from fronds.
Hanging from ferns.
The rain's falling fast in sparkling wet gemstones.
Having a blast.
Twisted on wind.
Winding and crashing.
Hear them calling clamorously,
Hail us all warm dry cab.
For soon they shall be melting.
(C) LIVVI

The beautiful, green scaly skin of the devious snake
Was always prepared to rear its ugly head,
A grimacing, smirk plastered on its face
As it glided, lusting after its prey.

Eyes locked,
Scrutinising every movement,
It crawled out of its pit,
Attacking with its sharp, venomous teeth.

It ripped, shredded, and devoured
All with a menacing grin on its face,
The poison was seeping,
Taking over the body, slowly, painfully
As the snake just watched bashful and happily.

And all they could do was watch in agony, wishing that she would escape the constrictions of the cobra buried deep within her.

You took what was rightfully mine
forcing words into my mouth
pulling at these limbs like I was a puppet
turning me into something not human
making me believe I was utterly worthless

I became the problem as the blame fell on me
all our misfortunes and failures were my fault
I was the monster hiding under children’s beds
howling into the dead of night

You restricted my growth
forcing me to kneel at your feet
there I begged for your forgiveness time and time again
filled with guilt and shame
watching the broken mess we had become
wondering where it all went wrong
how we wandered so far off this path
getting lost in the bitterness and anger
our hearts turned cold
veins filled with each-others poison

Fighting fire with fire
striking a match and standing by as everything we had burnt
this thing that we created was not the product of love
but of hate and resentment

We turned green eyed in this feeding frenzy
hungering for one another’s flesh
viciously tearing down these walls
infiltrating each-others vulnerable minds

You had my slowly beating heart in your hand
but instead of nurturing it
you blackmailed me
forcing this mind to become tethered to your own

Whenever I looked over my shoulder
I saw you
those cold eyes scrutinising every single action
and interaction
filtering the words that came out of my mouth

I could feel your nails digging into my flesh
as you forced yourself on me
your warm breath still lingers here
I have tried running
but these chains prevent me from ever getting far
a truth I cannot escape and
a past that refuses
to let me go

The scars you left behind are a permanent reminder
of all that transpired here
the sins we committed hand in hand
ensuring each-others demise

You broke me and I am still trying
to pick up the pieces
rummaging through the rubble
trying to find something beautiful again
a piece of this canvas left blank

Your shadow will always
linger at the corners of my mind
but I have found a new strength within
a resilience emerging from the broken
and heaven forbid
you try
and
take that from me

This story
is
still
meant
to
be
told

I awoke unhinged, just as the curtain in the back room,
The pale blue reminded me of what the sky could be,
When it didn’t look like gloom.
Single fabric rippled against a windowpane,
Mocking me in my solitude,
Ridicule for my foul mood.
Their twin horrified,
Scrutinising during a manic moment,
Keeping themselves securely tied.
I’m sure they look down on me as well as their sister,
The pair of us once neatly laced, now dishevelled-
Result of a nasty hormone blister.
But their sister and I
Bathe in different consequences,
My being suffers from the inevitable expenses.
I sink, I don’t float.
I seethe, I don’t sway.
I’m real, I’m forced to feel.
The curtain has no eye that aches,
No grease ridden hair, or skin that flakes.
The curtain can easily be pushed back in place,
Unfortunately, with me, that fails to be the case.

What if there wasn’t a word for everything? And no matter how hard you scraped against the insides of your brain, all you are left with is a handful of bloodied pink flesh. Some feelings are better off left as they are; hidden away from prying eyes. To expose them is to reveal the root of the word. It is to stand naked in front of a crowd as your imperfections and perceived blemishes are slowly and deliberately picked to pieces by scrutinising eyes.

As the darkness sets
And the mist rises
My eyes shift to the image of you

My soul creeps to find peace
How should I tell it
that its peering
In a bloodied place

I detach my eyes
From your distorted image
Fragments of you
fading elsewhere

Stop scrutinising
Nothing can be found
Nothing but the nothingness itself


The day feels heavy today
My shoulders and knees weak
Maybe closing my eyelids would be of aid

I feel alone
Again

Why am I not enough to help myself?
Cant I be enough?
Oh why do I rely on you?

With a mind dense with fog
Thoughts carelessly thrown around
I know not what to do

Im a standby in my own brain

Did you hear my screams?
Did you see my eyes welled with tears and my lips turned into fake smile?
Did you know my scars and the battle behind it?
Did you face the humiliations like I faced?
Then why judge me with a single chapter without knowing my whole story
Quit judging me and I dont need your suggestions or your scrutinising stares

-Your take on casual *** and **** is interesting. My take on casual *** is that it's self-gratifying more so than gratifying the other person. As you stated, the thirty party versus the party selling water. The closest I've come to casual *** is when I once gave a former student (a man by this time) a ******* (don't judge me). Poor guy never got over it, though. It was never repeated to his utter devastation. His begging made it pathetic and, hence, no longer flattering since he's ten yeas my junior (Again, don't judge me). I agree that **** should be watched in silence. I barely do that, either. I'd rather be having *** than watching it.

- whether it's self-gratifying is debatable... you can always find the "alternative"... the less-ushered in "conundrums" of sexuality to be made appealing... i know that's only verbiage... but there can't be anything alien for us to... given the totality of all that's human... you keep repeating this mantra about not being judged... are you dabbling in more fiction than reality? i can understand you wanting to compete with me when it comes to making casual *** as graphic as possible: teasing me with fetishes of the teacher-student conundrums... you made it implicit that i shouldn't judge you: i won't... because... something... "something" doesn't fit the narrative... i don't know what: i like to think of you as suspect... although i have no clear reasons to do so... i'm not going to have a hard-on through the mere scribble of script with what you ciphered... you want me on a leash: no? we are... playing a game of your choosing... or has literally soured our brains to the point of being so uninhibited as to ****** honesty and trust onto strangers? i'll give you the benefit of the doubt... you want me to... imagine you as a *******... it's a complete and utter: hilarity... how certain topics exist in: best expressed with images, bodies and sign language: but god-forbid the deecration of them being turned into verbiage... Braille... the new Christian H'American way of dealing with a European heritage... no? i'm not judging i'm just...  Bronzino... cupid venus folly & time... i did a "counter" masterpiece on that one... given the fact that i was equipped with the antithesis of not being prescribed the m.g.m. of circumcision... i'm not judging... but we're playing poker at this point... i don't watch **** because: i rather be having ***... i'm watching it because: i don't really have two kids... or a story of having underage students... i give ******* to! come on... it's not like i have scented candles... a reclining armchair waiting... for me to... delight others in the vain hope of reclaiming the *******... i like that little scribble of yours... sorry: i was snoozing when you didn't awake my... non-existent fetishes... then again: am i pursuing a line of thought that might: demean your authenticity as having made such feats in... oh wait... you said you didn't have casual ***? you know... when i was younger... hide & seek... made a load of sense... these days? truth & lie... the old proverb stands... lies have short... ****** legs to stand on... you're coming across as sort of... creased... i'm still not judging... you're barking up the wrong tree attempting to even attempt to get me aroused... i'm not from north ******* H'America where going to a disco strip-bar is some barometer of what happens between two naked bodies expedite consent! this persistent north american... puritanism! how the Mayans were invoked: i will never ever want to bother to know... i'm not judging you... i'm just thinking: i mentioned that i don't mind seeing you as your Avatar... although you sent me a picture of yourself... so... you're trying to reconvene my impression of you... i don't need north american ***** fetishes... i''m glad by simply reimagining milking a cow... i too would rather be having *** than watching it: but i'm not exactly watching it... the English girls of Rotherham prefer Pakistani "tenderness"... of... what's that word... ah! GROOMING... mea culpa up to what, point?! i'm not judging... but you have enough inconsistencies in your narrativ that... well... there was once a dalmation... there was once a polka dot print on a girl's skirt... there was once a "thing" known as a Swiss cheese... how's that?!

"you" really have no more reason to "invade":
perhaps assimilate...
buzz-word: ethno-masochism of the west...
and there it hangs... on the cross...
"you" really have no more reason to "invade":
migrate... whatever you want to call it...
i have nothing to defend...
do i think that the Christianity project
is nothing more than
a Greco-Judaic conspiracy theory to undermine
the Roman rule...
looks like the Latin alphabet will not be conquered
by the Semites or: the Greeks...
the Greeks sought out a Molotov-Ribbentrop pact
with the Slavic tribes
by sending St. Cyril to decipher some
Croat Church graffiti of the Glagolitic script...
so the Hebrews became abandoned...
and Christianity became a creature unto its own:
a chimera... a hydra...
a Protestant reinvigoration... for a while...
but i have nothing to defend:
i don't understand the concept of
Judeo-Christian ethics...
i understand: you slap me... i slap you back...
you punch me: i punch you back...
it is so ingrained in me that entertaining
something counter to the argument:
to pacify: to enlarge the citizenry corpus
is... abhorring to me: inherent nature
of seeking like for like...
it's not that i simply despise Christianity...
it's that i'm sick of it leeching on
vitality for what's left of life...
unless the promise of a 2nd coming is
a tickling aside imitation of a sling-shot...
but i doubt that: doubt...
oh doubt... the plethora of emotions bundled up
with something to combat gambling
addictions...
i have nothing left to be conquered...
saying that: when i watch these genius
video marshals i think to myself:
abhorring being ridiculed when i was
younger was one thing...
being prompted... being spoon-fed
subject matters that...
don't necessarily need me to be invited...
between res cogitans
& res vanus... it's hard to keep up with
one's "solipsistic" narrative...
hence the perils of being sponge-esque:
empty...
propagandist are a bit like advertisers:
to hell with journalists...
propagandists want you to think about
what they're saying...
that's just plain dandy: unnerving...
if you meditate: honestly...
a priori as res vanus
rarther than a priori res cogitans:
you see it... you hear it...
i don't want to think about what other people
speak of... hence the luxury of writing:
it's hardly intrusive... it can't be intrusive...
it must be... digested... there has to be
an invested effort: that's subsequently shared
by both the writer of the script:
and the reader of the script...
it's not... the engaged voice leaning into
the ear of the passive listener...
            is it?
            i'm glad to have discovered this sieve...
i'm not going to juggle a bunch of maxims
to begin: or end with...
i don't like to be prompted with what
i'm to think...
but i'm suddenly getting the idea that:
some people want me to think about things
that are either unimportant...
impossible to change or:
well the OR of... the tides of time...
the collective fate... if there's  collective
unconscious then there's the collective fate...
i can't go against it...
or i might: stick my head up from the current
like some Horace...
because even he didn't bother
with tightly-knit pockets of rhyme pingpong
when he wrote...
         he wrote what he wrote:
as i'll write what i write...

nice metaphors: turning water into wine...
feeding a throng with two loaves of bread
and... what's the fraction 5 to 2 worth of oily fish?
perhaps the magic still works
in South America and Africa...
i'm not even going to defend the European
secular alternative...

i'm thinking on the lines...
if Beelzebub be the lord of the flies...
there must have been a Semitic god for...
title: lord of the mosquitos...
who changed water into wine
and wine into blood and blood into wine
and wine into water?
magic tongue choked on itself
when the ******* Giza cat purred?!
like i said:
i have nothing to defend...
the women of these lands are on their
****-lashing out mantra of anti-racism /
ethno-masochism...
good luck anticipating me throwing more
into the roulette with
a replacement rate of 2.1+ to keep
a future gene culprit with an ** 21st...
up to speed on the joyride...

it's good to be out of the whole game...
by choice...
             i have nothing to defend therefore:
hell! we're building a post-racial
Europe... a vision of Brazil!
oh i'm all for it: a nation of mulattos...
Turkic-German mulattos...
   Anglo-Saxon-Afro-Saxon-Caribbean
mulattos...
everyone a middle-easterner!
it's going to be great...
the towers are here: here's to rekindling
the metaphors of the tower of Babel
and the flood:
i simply can't abhor what is:
in-evi-table... inevitable...
i have my hands either tied behind my back
while i walk casually imitating the folded
wings of a crow pecking at dust...
or there's something of a Pontius Pilate in me...

i believe the old gods: i'll bypass the Siamese
plagiarism of Greek into Roman...
after all... what become of Troy...
Zeus turned into Jupiter...
Hades became Neptune... and later the planets...
i believe in the phonetic stressors of
the Hebrew deity:
                                      vowel-catcher: ah... oh...
i believe in the vowel-multiplier:
the origin of laughter: ha ha ha...

         i believe in the imploded Y
that became Δ (st. peter's cross implosion)...
    why: it's not exactly nonsense if it doesn't
have to be rhyming: therefore suggesting
that via rhyme it might be more easily memory-erosive...
i don't require a... Julien Sorel
or a hafiz...
                    i despise all that rhymes:
bad rhyme: the seas' invasion / nibble at land...
the echoes of ping-pong...
knock-knock... who's there?
a Seljuk Turk... from the 11th century...
knock-knock... who's there?
an Ottoman Turk... from the 17th century...
knock-knock... who's there?
a timid Serb about to consecrate
himself upon the altar of
the genocide of Muslims in Europe
the remains of the Ottoman Empire...
as the concept of Yugoslavia dissolved...
funny that... when the Soviet Empire dissolved...
it was done so peacefully...
what were the chances that the Soviet Union
might have dissolved down the Yugoslavia route?
high... low? no chance in hell?

scrutinising a concern of identity theft that
began in the 19th century: and still persists...
i don't take it lightly: an identity was proposed
by some HANS...
the Silesian Hanys...
not the old Prussian Kashubian:
that so many people decided to congregate:
i'll buy the economic benefits...
but there's also the paraphernalia of secrets:
in the tides of man:
time... great emblem of this hearth...
alias of earth...
fluctuations of space between
here and... Pompeii...

   can't exactly entertain the people while
staging chess-matches on imitation
4D boards of pyramids...
how we reinvented the coliseum
and rewarded the wait with the English joke
of the guillotine...
for a people that can boast Empire building...
if only the Spanish Armada succeeded...
for a people who haven't been invaded
for so long by their kindred neighbours:
to now be... overflowing with so much... "love"...
for an abstract of a "fellow" man...
the citizen of the world is always
welcome in England...
he wasn't... back in 1997... i remember
being deported from England...
i remember being deported from England...
goods can transcend nationhood...
it's economics: good, proper... honest labour
is somehow frowned upon...
brain-drain is acceptable...

no... i have a head of a macaque monkey:
sized so...
the words can't simply be stitched into
my numb-skull so easily as to leave
me lob-sided heavily nodding with agreement...
i'll be on the nod: from
the amount of wine i'll be drinking...

his cherished prizes...
the architecture can topple...
"his": everyone seems to be playing
a grammatical game these days:
why can't his not be a dis-possessive
articulation of a multiplied ownership:
paradox...
his?? whom?
             shadows of ghosts...
i like that...

- what i don't like is thinking that: men hunt
for ***: the mammoths are extinct...
what isn't readily available:
is not worth the hunt...
                i would be expected to find ****?
if **** don't come round most
agreeably submissive...
i'll go find something else to... ahem... "hunt"...
**** this stereotypical bogus load of
*******!

By Rachel Goddard

The reels are rolling,
once upon a time there was high,
now money is depleting before my very eyes.
I increase the odds,
believing it’s my turn to win,
instead all I feel is shame,
beckoning me to do it all over again.

All I wanted was to get out of debt,
instead my losses were creating more regrets.

Today my secret was laid bare for all to see,
I feel naked, ashamed,
frightened of the outcome,
third parties scrutinising my mistakes,
the stigma to much,
I can no longer take.

It feels like giving birth to a demon,
this ***** debt I have incurred,
the pressure of keeping my head above water,
swallowing and choking ,
I cannot be heard.

When your debts are high and your mood is low don’t go there,
your cries won’t be heard.

Trust me you will get ****** in by a small win,
please don’t ever go there,
remember,
the house always wins!

When the process starts you think you're going insane
Messing with your mind playing with your brain
Constant questions and answers
to and fro back again
You realise you have to accept or it's like swimming against the current
living while holding your breath
Those who don't understand meet you with a scrutinising closed hand
See you as unwell
Think they are trying to help
Though you have to remember you questioned yourself
So try to rise above
Be true to self
For you have to see
what's ment
To be seen
No one else

when I yell at you to leave
I am desperately hoping that
you’ll hear the shaking cries of “stay”
hidden beneath my scream

when I pick you up on
every
little
thing

please know that I am only
scrutinising myself over every
mistake
I’ve
ever
made

when I ignore you for days
please know that it is because
I am too busy speaking to the
anxiety that calls myself
her friend

know that I don’t hate you
that I only hate myself