the idylie of two beloved
who are not discriminated
neither by each other
not by others
because of their gender
isnt it utopy?
Ask by some gay paars,
whether they ever forget
how they anounnced about their love
to their  orthodox parents...
what a hidden pain..
which always will remain
ask by the woman in suburb
how many *******
devastated her heart
before she met this handsome practical guy
who she may not really love
but cherish just the appereance of love
in form of elementar peace at home
without daily scandal
How oft we play satisfied when
in reality cats in the soul scratch
sometime there is no sight
how to difference lovely clotherness
from the chain of compomise
which people care
with clothed eyes.
happy love relation is rare
but luckely they are, they do exist.
but what about this phenomen like friendship?
Almost everybody would say
she/he have good friends
the paradox consist only in a fact
that modern life in the west
never  put this
kinship on exam
since people are financelly independent
other else too, when they clients of the dole
and live from welfare
they are secured
there is no situation happens
that friend must to sell their car, or
put a ring from a finger
to salvate their friend from some calamity..
those friendship mostly base on
pleasant time spent together
out of any mutual bonds...
but friendship to its limit
is yet more dangerous
than a love to its limit.
Therefore such claim hardly exist
„friends“ mostly knows very well
where the limit of their mutual aid
this awareness is tragic,
especially utopic is true friendship
between male and female
to certain point it works
but when someone of both
step on thin ice
for example of unanswered love
to somebody else
here patience of friend ends
who want support dream of
friend
who is desperated lover
when reality shows here is dead end
but true friend would help by any „utopical“ situation
she/he will find any remedy and make magic thing happen.
And friendship between artists
isnt it where should be especial tight bond?
„I love you when you show“
it is what observation say of such very bonds..
today artists think they were gods themself
they curate the life of mortal in their work
and give no **** when their good deed
will not being mirrored in the art
the time of unique like Simone Weil expired
and when such altrusit with a keen sense for human justice
somewhere still live
they will die young like she did
or will be driven insane.
And we will never know about their dream
their fight, their resistance
because they were not writer or philosopher
like Simone Weil ocasionally was.
you will say this piece is written by
sheer frustrated one.
You exactly didnt guess.
Yes of cause I am frustrated one
but i find satisfaction balance
not to dream about true friendship
because such adjectiv is too relative
anyway what is true friendship to my graspe
Is possible meet only in myths
but though to thousandth time dare in:

imagine friendship
imagine mutual creation
imagine peace

Rain drops scatter my imaginations around the blades of the windmill,
They slowly churn away the wind as they sway away under their flawless motion,
The drops trickle down the blades as a magical potion,
These small prisms spread themselves throughout the greens as a free will.

Blends under the shadow of the trees,
Those finest dried leaves those are free,
Crushed under the finest whispers of laughter,
They find themselves deep beneath the graves of thee dead.

Undone by his deeds, found a way to freedom,
Broke those chains to move him away from the boredom,
Wandered to new horizons in search for new sensations
He had a motive to fulfill his life's frustrations

Sleep deprived, rumbling, rustling walking alone in the streets,
Was a man, with no desire, desire for success,
Under the ever moving sky was his never moving head down,
Just to find those crushed leaves bringing them back to the ground.

Anonymously carried himself through the hustle of the towns
Realized beneath the shade of the happiness there were many convincing frowns
Simplified his emotions to meet the needs of the protest,
Walking down those materialistic streets was just like a test

Surreal yet it may seem, deemed as crazy by the rest,
His demeanor was as hard as a rock,
For the miles forged under his feet he had to bear many shocks
Closure, without the joy or pain, he painted his road to his identity

The final destiny, the final moment, magical
Yet it may seem, was his final frontier, yet so simple
Utopia, his elixir of life, which he kept searching for,
Happiness and sorrow kept burdening him all the way along,
Yet he found a way to move on and on and on.......

we labor under an oppressive thumb
not realizing the very leaders
we exalt will use that power to
hold us down

we've armed them with
the greatest of weapons
blind conformity
empty apathy
unquestioning obedience
what we believe in is a puppet

as our so-called democracy devolves
we increase in callousness
masses designed with a singular purpose
to extinguish original thought

accept or die
embrace or be ostracized
belabor the point
that your purpose is to labor forever
another slave along the chain
another cog in the machine
bent-kneed
stooped before some
corporate conglomerate
a faceless superpower
pulling the strings behind the scenes

politicians bought and paid for
shouldering the burdens of the
Fortune 500 companies
who helped them purchase their office
beholden to back alley deals
and smoke and mirror gimmicks

artists traded rebellion for comfort
now they ply their craft for profit
to appease the brainwashed masses a
morally—and financially—bankrupt populace

they catalogue our every thought
metadata ensnared in the dragnet
mass surveillance a tool to bend the whims
of the people to their rulers

we **** black kids in Ferguson
as they walk down the middle of the street
shoot 'em down as the snack on skittles
and sip Arizona ice teas
they forbid us to feed the homeless
lock us in a jail cell if we dare to disobey
city ordinances designed to keep the
City Beautiful looking beautiful
but i see beyond the thin facade

expose war crimes
thanks for your service
Chelsea Manning
that'll be 35 years in federal penitentiary
hack a surveillance network spying on
activists and protesters
can't have that
that'll be 10 years at State
Jeremy Hammond
blow the whistle on the panopticon
thanks Edward Snowden
but we've grown to adore our own shackles

fear
24/7/365
fear this fear that
fear god fear death
fear Muslims fear blacks
just don't fear the rich white straight
males in their 4k suits and crooked smiles
pay the white-collar Wall St. Bankers no mind
the 1% who've left us all behind
as they lurk in the shadows
ruining everything

a fearful electorate will bow to the
whims of its masked dictatorship
and march without thought to the beat
of the war drums

**** them
**** all of them
ISIS Pakistan Iran Syria
all the Muslim savages in countries
whose names we can't even pronounce
render weapons to tyrannic despots
so we can pretend we
don't have blood on our own hands
torture extrajudicial assassination
extraordinary rendition drones bombing
civilians in record numbers
all cards we've stowed up our sleeves
in a war that is designed to never end
fight terrorism with terrorism
revenge not justice
but if our army is abusing children
then who the **** are the bad guys

confront the ambivalence that
roars like machine gun fire
violence is never the answer
and i refuse to stand by and watch
as we wreak havoc upon this earth

our leaders are liars
our gods are frauds
we're going to have to save ourselves

the answer does not rest above
a utopic afterlife in the clouds is a farce
we've been led like sheep to the slaughter
obedience and reverence have crippled us
if we want heaven
we'll have to raise hell

stand in solidarity with our brothers and sisters
in direct action cooperatives
nonviolent civil disobedience
insurrection against the State
anarchy is the answer

beat your swords to plowshares
and seek peace

The world's idea of perfection
Is unattainable
Which is why people are never satisfied
But
Isn't that what those of power want
People to never be satisfied
With themselves
So they try to mold themselves
Into something that no one can be

They attempt to be
"Perfect"
Grow muscles
Inject implants
Manipulate their flesh
Until it's just right

Yet
They will never achieve something
That's perfect
They will never be satisfied
Even though they strive to be
Because it's all
Unrealistic
Unattainable

an empty room
I fill it
With my thoughts.
I get to thinking
About everything.

I stand among many
Receiving awards
Reciting speeches
I must win one every day
And the speeches change,
Like the wind.

There's never
any faces,
Not even
my own
Ain't that strange?

Just the
Splintered visions
Breaking through
With spears
Of emotion.

I guess that
The image
Isn't even important:
It's the feeling,
The sensations,
The prayers,
The mantras,
And endless dreams.

It's an idealistic bubble.
Which I could  
Live in forever,
But I'd never get anything done.

I get to looking
At my watch.
Only thirty minutes
has passed,
How can that
be possible?

I've already travelled
to the serene corners
of my desires.
I've dipped my
toes in lustful wants.
I've soared to
pinnacles of success,
In thirty minutes.

Then the perpetual
Smog of stagnant
English gloom
Returns to me
In my Utopic chamber,
Bursting my bubble.

I hone back
to the moment,
and then I
put my pen
Down to paper.

simultaneously i am
my own deity and enemy
at once a cancer and its cure
the sheep and the wolf
a king and a fool
subservient to none
yet obligated to all
a series of contradictions
and oxymorons played out
to define complexity in simplicity
purposelessness in post-modern artistry

a cornerstone on dry land but
sinking down in life's quicksand i
am defined in tandem with my
community but i also stand apart
independently spouting a philosophy
of non-violent civil disobedience
predicated on the heart informing and
the mind responding in kind
and my rebellion may or
may not be limited to
peaceful protest and direct action
it might also include
burning flags and bombing buildings
symbols of oligarchy come crashing down

i see utopic potential in the dystopian
narratives on Barnes & Noble's bookshelves
carry the fires of Prometheus to shake the
apathy of false hopes and leave desiccated
idolatry in the shallow graves that serve
as mouths spewing hatred and homophobia

i am an anarchist with Messianic tendencies
the infamous Nazarene
died defying Rome's empire and
i'll decry American chauvinism on my death-bed
born and bred in the home of
two happily-married conservative Christians
emerged a nonbeliever
i'll resist until the end

earning my master's in literary cultural
and textual studies and i've been told that
i'm prone to sophisticated soliloquies and
that i have a robust vocabulary yet
people always ask me why
my favorite word is ****
and i suppose it has something to do with
its versatility vibrancy and vivacious vicissitudes

i am in love with a girl with
forest-fire hair follicles that burn
almost as bright as the compassion she
nurtures in her chest a rebel girl
in a patriarchal world wielding middle-
fingers as easily as warm hugs
i adore that she is polyamorous
even if i have eyes for only her

i lead a democratic classroom
by modeling leaderlessness
a professor and a student
fellow learners use
my first name 'cause
we're one and the same
i'd be ashamed if i adopted
the illusion of authority and
tried in vain to tame the virtue of
liberty latent in every one of my students

i am my own damnation
an island unto myself
beset with the black plague of  
self-doubt drowning in the ocean of
delusion bereft of self-determination
betrayed the man in the mirror
i am my own adversary and accuser
judge jury and executioner
i signed my own death warrant

and i am my own redemption
i am the savior nailed to the cross  
nothing and no one
can stand in my path
i am the arbiter of free-will
the harbinger of hope and i
will vanquish the lies that
choke my throat like nooses of rope
and tie myself a lasso to pull down
the moon and sun and travel
aimlessly throughout the galaxy
as i did once
from star-dust i was
born and to dust i shall
inexorably return

simultaneously i am
my own deity and enemy
at once a cancer and its cure
the sheep and the wolf
a king and a fool
subservient to none
yet obligated to all
a series of contradictions
and oxymorons played out
to define complexity in simplicity
purposelessness in post-modern artistry

Nightmare number nine.


I dream of Utopic world,
A world without sins and crime,
Without a shout or cry,
No ghosts haunting the nights,
Will that world sustain?
A world with no pain..
A world so perfect,
That you wouldn’t enter in it again.
.


Ironic, I laud sadness,
I call a beautiful dream a nightmare..
Weird sounding thoughts, weird creepy madness!
But a day needs a night, a night needs a day,
To get more closer, one needs to be away..
So, how will it sustain?
A world with no pain…
The world without paradoxes, a world without mistakes,
A world so perfect, that it gets too close to be a fake.

How a good is good? If there is no conflicting bad?
How can one be happy? Without once being sad?
So, when everything is perfect ,
When everything is fine,
I know that I have entered in my nightmare number nine.

Does life even have a purpose
Or has society given it meaning
I don't remember being born with a checklist
But society saw my gift and wrote my destiny

I try to elude it, but it always finds me
Is free-will a myth and is success the only deity
Don’t get me wrong I’m not complaining
I’m not the recalcitrant teen who rebels to revel
I’m the one who’s lost at the intersection of fate and destiny

God decides your fate they told me
They told me there’s a god inside me
And the fate I’ve chosen is poles apart my destiny
I am coerced into craving this utopic life idealised by society
Who should I pick, who knows better?
Society that evolved over eternity or a teen just past puberty

In these moments I turn to love to help me
I think of my parents and do as they tell me
Love demands selflessness and that will drive me
My purpose on this earth is to help everyone besides me

filled up with enmity coiling up inside
The chest billows up
Thy want to heave it out
Then destined to tranquility

The claws scratch the flesh
Death gnaws on the remnants of longevity
Unless visions have a chest
To burst out into effervescence

Spontaneous sigh is kicked out of your breath
The clavicles sharpen, the eyes ogle ahead
The nothingness dilates
The flicker has no entrance for itself to adumbrate

For utopia has its own gore
To marvel over inside,
The plasters of bliss
Have guffawed over the gullible dusk

The gloom has left with a whisper
A muttering not to be heard
The relief has sewed on flesh
With the clouds coming out of thy outburst

The relief rebirths the serenity
Has been meandered, halted
For thou shed leaves
Making agony to clouds of no return

Utopic defiance,
the idiosyncratic anectodes
Stains of externalized innundation
For the literal existance of hope.

Many are stupefied by utopic love.
Each aside they unwisely shove
The one made for them with divine care;
But one lover is astute, the other ensnared.
But, to devise a plan to speak
Of the fervor in their hearts (not meek)
Would mean to usher all aside
One’s vulnerability, fear, and pride.
First time around, most subtly,
Interest expressed, transcendently,
And shatters a transparent door,
While these two strangers are strangers no more. 


Then:
The slightest step towards her heart is taken;
She quickly retracts, he quickly mistaken.

She thinks:
“I’ve grown tired of being jaded.
My loud wits and dreams have faded,
Far along the river waves,
Saddened by these trees and shades!
But there he stands, perfect and well.
I...here...scared like hell,
For I have never felt like this,
Not even with a woman’s kiss.”

He thinks:
“What, exactly, have I done
That she retreats, a fate undone?
There! In her eyes, the heart’s edifice,
Conjures true love’s precipice,
But screams of the real demise
Of past lovers: spears and lies.”

In truth, her wits may sometimes offend,
But with him she would most commend
His charming smile, his virility,
While he embraces her wholeheartedly.
Thus, their imaginations painted beyond
A sea of perfection, like a song,
And marked a journey of these two
Just for a moment, as most strangers do.
But the stars have placed attraction laws
For these two lovers and their flaws
To come together, but not greet,
For the devil binds them in defeat.

So, a moment’s come, a moment’s passed
For these two soulmates, amour-cast;
The love she sought, the love he spoke
Has come and gone. That’s all they wrote.

Where is the truth in this world?
Does it knock on the door,
When it feels ready to enter
Or does it sneak into the heart
When it is ready to reveal?

Truth, so utopic
As it is to reach the farthest stars.
It overcomes the multiple bars
Seems as yet too metaphoric

Behind the garden of truth
You stand and watch the flowers bloom
But cannot open the floodlit door
Though the heart is seeking for the key
While truth remains still in the mystic breez.

Phone call notification;
monotone robot
delivering its message:

your book is now available to pick up;
report to the library at once,
lest your order be returned,
come alone, but bring your phone,
never fear, I’ll meet you there,
as along as the machines inside
continue to ride,
so will we.

A chance of escape
via a rare break
in a wall trapping us all
in our own separate rooms,
offering opportunity
away from private tombs,
and to each other,
to which there is no better.

Once given word of flight
I rush through mountains
just in time to arrive at your side
through the front doors
of our utopic pharmacy
in which we’re prescribed
spiritual medication
to relieve distress caused by
perpetual determination,
the pavilion where we practice
mental meditation,
forever joined
by reciprocal warmth
and whispered kisses.

Frantic fingers traveling
at the pace of haste as we taste
all that we can in the given span
we’re allowed for the moment:

the present escape formula
we’ve used and abused
will only last temporarily,
but it is enough to keep blood
flowing through our veins,
just the cathartic saunter
required to remain sane.

I am scared of miscommunication
taking away the elation
of utopic conversation.

I'm not afraid of emancipation,
not on my toes for equality.
I'm horrified by overcompensation.

Our youth hardwires us into some basic
identity, from then on we may choose.

Thou ***** a minute of adversity,
stumping on the rival with two eyes;
As if an innundation overwhelms the ground
As thou hush the gore splattered
Arid as the utopic vision of the crowds
Everyone has accepted death
Noone bears the sound of the knell:
Thou shall still be petrified by the dark!
Shall miss a moment of ironic cleft:
Where thou tackle on mundanity and self bereft
Condolences to whomever has passed:
Away from a madness that clenches a crowd of no tomorrow, without a promise of longevity,
For they have given in to a visionary of death.

Chika the angel in the distant clouds.
Treads slowly along the utopic path.
With eternity's splendour in your grip,
you were awoken by melodious sounds,
played by celestials who guided your trip.
You fled divinity's eternal wrath,
to dwell in realms of laughter infinite.
Those on earth have said a final goodnight,
desiring someday to share in this bliss,
when we like you will earn the Saviour's kiss.

she can never wear ****** white, she can never wear
that moral pregnancy - and i don't see why this
hasn't been established as a fetish
awaiting the nearest mongol...
            i don't know why it exists
in the first place...
     i skipped through R. Brautigan
and left him drinking and desperate,
ig  desperate when i see a bottle
of whiskey's shrinking girth
in the bottle... don't get me wrong,
i adore the poetry, but autobiographies
always led me to skim-read some
examples... i own a need for such
excuses because i feel i'll be one of them.
it's not a case of sadness being written down...
the sad part is writing an autobiography
as your life takes shape...
                     the sad part is
   an autobiography that's written parallel
to a "life", you wear a necktie and a
pair of moccasins and a silk robe...
                     fo' da' sho' -
    and never the shove or shovel to be the first
in line... because that matters: let the idiots
through, i don't mind lighthearted
entertainment before i board the bus...
             when you apply diacritical indicators
you get to worry about orthography...
when you don't apply them?
   you get quickstep spelling...
                   you get incorporating the digital
Amazon rainforest shrunk to a toothpick
or an A4 sized paper, later rolled into a cigar
by Castro.
                           but you know what really bothers me?
listening to bob marley and reading pashtun
poetry... it's Afghan and an antidote to Rumi...
no (so-called) "feminists" cite pashtun...
              don't get prickly proud on me having
     the ability to cite obscure cultural ref. points...
bob's bob, the end.
    what? damian or stephen or ziggy too?
                        well, the more the merrier.
                 but these so-called feminists are never overheard
citing pashtun women...
            women not citing women... tragic...
      i guess the two can't relate...
if you forgot what an Afghani woman looks like...
kinda like a Pakistani woman, before
the Mongol fiddled about with a ******* violin...
       pretty? sure... maybe John Smith Sargent Mj.
knew about
        it, when he ****** W into Afghanistan,
   protective of the truth about the "burning bush's"
original message aimed at Abraham:
circumcise him!
           Abraham... you what? **** him?
burning bush: circumcise him!
        well, **** me, what a desirable revision!
now we'll forever crave the need for ******* cushions!
  who said kangaroo pouch isn't soft enough?
      kangaroo in a boxing ring: bucktooth combo
punched out... and everyone huh?!.
               but feminists never cite these women...
i'm a quasi-exile, or at least my parents are,
i didn't exactly wish to live on these isles...
but then again jean-paul zee deux ******
everything before i even got the cameo role in
the film: history of the world.
               that's basically me ******* down
an alley named after him, every time i rekindle
originating in that ol' stockpile of garbage...
   but at least the e.u. will improve the roads...
               we might finally get an artery's worth
of autobahn concrete connecting Cracow
and Katowice... you never know... might be a case
of walking on water...
               but to be honest i don't mind
that she can't wear ****** white...
i don't mind she had 20 ****** partners before
she decided to milk me... it's the lying...
lying becomes much worse than the act itself...
     i'd prefer to know she was a ***** *****...
what i don't like is this faking of childhood,
this innocence-sprechen antics....
     it's like reacting to a flu - you get all
dizzy and juggernaut-sinking obnoxious...
    because the story goes: the truth liberates
you from being an enforced thespian...
                 no one wants to be an actor
forcefully... no one...
                         esp. if they're not getting paid
for pretence...
      the truth is at least a mobilising enforcement,
you know you've been given a faulty
refrigerator, but that means you're utilising
an awareness of possessing a faulty refrigerator...
     being lied to... you get utopic inhibitions
  thinking it's not half-of-the-story,
when it actually is.
             that's what's inherent in *** with prostitutes...
        no inhibitions... we're square,
proofread countless times, no secrets, just two naked bodies.
it's when people take to enforcing wearing
Gucci on their psyche... that **** is worse
than donning a strap-on in a lycra gimp-suit.
           but such is the force of the pashtun landlays...
you react to them like so...
            i choreograph them above the haiku,
even though they're twinned,
like some village in Lichenstein (liochestein,
a googlewhack) - Liechtenstein -
twinned to a village in scotland -
               obviously the there's no innuendo
because both originated in deemed obscurity...
       they did much injustice to Kafka given the small
print, and overdid the justice done with
    printing oversized Bukowski...
but then there's a Sunday newspaper to look forward to,
which will evidently make the Monday print
a bit... slim.
                     never mind... a great phrase from
the landays is little horror, or being a woman in her
20s being betrothed to a man-child aged prior to
kicking things off with puberty...
  and dear ol' me, why don't feminists even take a second
to look at the women talking in Afghanistan?
    sure, the veil puts them off immediately...
       women talk with their genitals and men talk ******...
as was always the case...
    i am, currently talking as if i were an ******...
and Alice over here has no tongue,
                except the one that replicates oyster salivation...
as some might crudely put it.
         and then there's Mallarmé.... ugh...
                     pisshead compatriot Poe... and Baudelaire...
honestly... we have just begun writing
       the most pristine of poker sessions...
i tell you and fake how literate i am, or illiterate,
or with an adequate or with an inadequate diet of literature,
and you poker me, and vice versa,
       because by the time a Tuesday newspaper comes along,
we'll both be brooding with angst, wishing we
could only possibly be bored.

I've had a series of dreams where things went differently then they did in real life.

Where nobody left.
And nobody was hurt.

One dream in particular keeps coming back, the one where nothing really makes sense, but it makes me feel better sometimes.

I remember running, and she was beside me.

But I immediately knew it was a dream because she was taller than me.

She's never been taller than me. And here I am...

Running beside a 5 foot 8 version of my once best friend.

What?!

This dream is so weird.. and yet it feels so normal.
She's never had to look down to see me.
Heck, she's never had a reason to look up to me either.
For height eye contact or otherwise.

And somehow this dream follows me, her, and her significant other into a building.

I'm in a hallway saying that I'm on my way to a specific room.
She says she'll follow me there.

For some reason, because this is a dream, I go to a completely different room, a shop actually.

Woodshop. Like the one I went to at school.

I don't even know what I'm doing there, I'm not sanding or doing any work, they are. I don't know what they're doing, I'm watching this alternate version of a person just...

Exist.

And suddenly she cuts her hand on a saw blade. Much like I have in shop class.

I don't panic, I grab paper towel, and start wrapping her hand.
She's gonna be fine.

She's gonna be fine..

There's no dialogue, nobody says anything, I'm just taking care of someone I care about.

This dream is just playing out.



I wake up...

I feel content and somewhat happy for a second.

But then I remember I was dreaming.

I was dreaming...

And that's okay.

But I return to a reality where none of that happened.
And I suddenly feel the utopic dream leave me.

I can't even remember most of the dream, and this is all I have.

This isn't the first time I've woken up from a better dream life to find that I'm here.

But I do need to realize that I'm here.

Despite everything.

Do you ever think at night,
what life would be without a fight,
all unicorns and shooting stars,
everybody driving Rolls Royce cars.

No boiling tears or searing pain,
never have a muscle strain,
no helmets or concussions,
everything an easy discussion.

Utopic dreams fill the screens,
everybody eating Bobby Flay cuisine,
just a path of ease and boredom,
so just let me forewarn you,
real life is not all champagne,
the truth is no pain no gain.

The struggles make us who we are,
without them, there is just no bar,
no goals to reach nothing to strive for,
no rivals or opponents to outscore.

This would breed union mentality,
I don’t need that in my reality,
I like drivers and winners,
the ones that want that chicken dinner.

Or maybe even something better,
looking to be the fast pace-setter,
be the one to summit the mountain top,
never ever looking to stop.

Work ethics are dead,
all our feet turned to lead,
we reward mediocrity,
this is simply an atrocity,

Utopic dreams fill the screens,
everybody eating Bobby Flay cuisine,
just a path of ease and boredom,
so just let me forewarn you,
real life is not all champagne,
the truth is no pain no gain.

Oft times I wonder what I should do with myself.
I look off in all four directions at any given time
And there is no direction.

I find myself wandering--in a period of wandering.
What does a man say to himself during such times?
It’ll be okay, things will work themselves out in the end?

There would seem to be little solace in this axiom.
Life is strange.
Like the sickening loop-de-loops on our best roller-coasters.

I type this out on a digital tablet with virtual keyboard
In utter perplexity.
An old soul in fast times…

Tense times,
Shallow times.

My neighbors amidst this age haven’t the patience to see how
Events birthed from hollow promises and hasty decision will work
Themselves out.

Promises from leadership whose god is the U.S. dollar.

We get a logjam of hurried consumerist theoretical practices,
Ruthlessly implemented as some kind of workable
Reality among a conditioned populace.

In the end, the only beneficiary to this manufactured bliss
Is the savvy and rich manure shoveler--that neighbor
Among us who throughout each and every day shovels

The materialistic dung into our throats and fully expects
His fellow neighbors to swallow this **** in expectancy
Of the utopic times to come.

And so the tail teases.

You had fallen asleep. I guess so. Your breathing is smooth, if I could touch your breath, if I could touch the nightfall outside, the sensation would be the same. I no longer throw a fit for not receiving attention. I used to, but you had said, "Don't tell me that humans should treat each other equally. That's Utopic." At that time I told you to cease talking to me for two days. However the same afternoon you texted me your thoughts after reading 1Q84 (you emphasize you finished it in a week, twice the speed of me), and I accidentally forgave you. I still loathe those words, yet I grudgingly let it influence me.

"Am I kidding? I hate you," I say, pushing you off my bed and onto the ground. You sleep like a corpse. The bugs outside cease colliding into the window after the lights are off, remaining the bumptiously round moon. I imagine myself as Aomame, stepping into an alternate universe with two moons. I squint my eyes, maybe I'll see two that way. The orbed moon becomes clearer. I might be too near-sighted.

"You're too stupid. You have to space out to see two moons." Your voice comes from the ground. I pretend not to hear you but I try anyway. I really do see two moons.

come to "think" of it... it's not what i write about... it's how "best" i might punctuate... puncture the blinking death... my life is so most lived that it's impossible to detour into topics of holidays or... well... death's a teasing adventure ploy... isn't it? but it's hardly suspect of... blinking. it's still my most incorruptible variation of: "bride"... that death herself: is... from womb toward womb... i see no cradle... i see no grave... what was her name? the name i was in love with? KIN-GA... yeah... that one... nice to know: Darwinism is counter-intuitive to the man who conjured it... the Nimrods reproduce en-masse... the Newton(s) come by ridicule... divine intervention... chance... unlikely for Darwinism to side with those who procreate to do so... for a chance at breeding geniuses... cogs... machinery: simple pleasures demand simple rules... i loved once... now i love no more. not like i used to... i'm exhausted to have the same sort of love i had: anew. i almost want to be fed that lie of meandering utopic love... prior to the needs of biological stressors...*******... prior to "responsibility"... authority of the brick-wall... the amassing greyness of a brick-wall.

i'm not keen on giving out money...
then again: i'm also less willing to give spare
change... coins...
i'm not keen on giving out money
to... "beggars"? the "homeless"...
stray cats, lost dogs...

it would be much easier with dogs though...
although i'm no Diogenes...
companionship with stray dogs...
we might huddle together and have us
a "think"... or a bark-woof-bark...
a woof-wow! something to agitate
the cosmopolitan ladies...
giving money to... those big issue "outlets"...
however many times i walked into
the supermarket for my usual "dose"
of feeling fine: just fine...
when i could "cower" back into
my cobweb and drizzle some words
onto a blank canvas blinking at me:
although - i were the blinker
the canvas remaining static...

so i would walk past her with an air
of... no not superiority... that's beside
the point... with an air:
jeez... the weight of the world...
upon my shoulder... i truly have my problems
too... and i would never look at her...
(the) masquerade of the past year...
call it what you like...
the niqab of secularism...
advent of conspiracy... or just plain sailing
reality of: we're not talking communism...
otherwise: i just don't want to hassle
with a confrontation concerning:
why aren't you wearing a surgical-prop
in an otherwise non-sterile environment...

blah blah... 2nd jab in is when i'll make
my "point" about... whatever's left...
but she's not a ******* slot machine...
i put coins in a slot machine...
but it's not like i could give her...
companionship...
once or twice or whenever i felt like it:
i'd scoop up interactions with
these "lost souls"...
there was this one memorable talk i had
with... oh i see him still... almost 10 years later...
he moved from occupying the vicinity of
Romford train station...
having dragged his *** about 5 miles toward
the A406, and now occupies a spot
around an Irish pub formerly known
as O'Grady's...
he said these words like...
i don't know: it was enlightening akin
to a maxim... 'my mother told me to never lie'...
make sense of that however much you like...
the brain-dozer broke down
whatever...

      here: the penitent man...
i hate giving money away for no reason...
today i had a reason...
came to 25 quid...
5 quid cashback...
what else... throw money at someone...
is like throwing them a fish
instead of a fishing-rod...
god... that old chestnut line of argumentation...
today i felt... benevolent...
the end...

  as i was walking in (thank you soulless,
sunglasses)... i noticed this smile...
oh she's still in her 20s...
i'm guessing Roma... there's something eerie
about the allure of a gypsy woman...
i'm guessing because it hasn't been
fiddled with the Indian caste prejudice...
looks like Genghis... did Genghis ever make
it to Delhi... one might bemoan the sacking
of Baghdad like the Christians torching
the library of Alexandria...
but thoughtless automatons of
the Holocaust... that's what's really happening,
isn't it?
oh don't get me wrong...
i'm sorry too for the poor matchstick maker
who was industrially butchered...
not enough bullets for the gas...
i'm not... joking...
but the torching of the library of Alexandria?!
you know what was... seized by the Nazis...
gold-teeth... shoes... briefcases...
no mention of personal memoirs...
thought didn't die within the confines
of the Holocaust...
well... at the book burning it died...
but when the library of Alexandria was
torched... writing materials weren't
exactly... ha ha...          ah ha ha...
which prompted me to think about...
the whole idea of how the new testament
arose... beside, later, selling it to the northern
barbarians... pacifying them...
well... up to 1410 there was still
a paganism in Europe... Lithuania...
hardly east concerning what constitutes
the end of Europe with the Ural mountains...
by then... Islam was already circa 800 years old...
so...
no... i wondered... people always cite that
the new testament was written in Greek...
right... and the 'ebrews didn't have a problem
with the Roman occupation?
oh... they did... josephus ben matthias wrote
a book about it...
so here's me thinking...
in the age of Aesop... Spartacus... too many years
apart?
Greek pride... and the nature of
the 'ebrew as: SPEZZIAL...

well... what do you get?
oh... i'm pretty sure there was a greco-hebrew pact
worthwhile in spreading the new testament
as propaganda...
it's almost as if... the Greeks disliked the Romans
for plagiarising their polytheism...
Jupiter is... Zeus...
Pluto is... Hades... etc.

      i think it was just a massive Greco-'ebrew
conspiracy to undermine Roman authority...
after all... every time i would kneel in
a catholic mass...
i'd imagine the monstrosity of
******* off a crucified man...
          it's so... demeaning: hyper-sexualised...
kudos to the Islamic
  "gesticulating with the body in a religious context"
then again: what's wrong with
dancing... or what's wrong with
thinking about... pushing a cul-de-sac
vector into the garbage heap of "god":
or blah-lah?

but on my knees armed with
a metaphor for cannibalism?
the ****'s not wrong with that?!

i have built a fetish for the deutsche-zunge
and gypsy girls...
and as i was walking into the supermarket
for my usual dosage
and all things concerning Atlas...
in the corner of my eye i saw
this labouring extension of
post-scriptum prosthetics...
it seemed so genuine...
i was pretending to rummage through
the isles thinking about what not to buy:
rather what was available...
stringy cheese... canned horseshit...
trolley traffic of demanding buyers...
v.i.p. / solipsist types, typos...
you name them... glaciers' worth of people...
could sink a Titanic on a ******* whim...

walking out she shifted her position
while eating crisps...
you can almost tell when giving someone
a banknote rather than a coin...
she's not a ******* slot machine...
you can almost tense a sense of a handshake...
a fiver's a fiver...
i wasn't going to stretch it beyond
the words i uttered to her:

'that's for your beautiful smile...'
i probably was envious of her skin...
her complexion...
mine? mine is... like Beelzebub just took
a massive maggot-dump on it...
remnants of teenage hormones...
that's what i heard... apparently...
acne is what happens to too many
dead white-blood cells...
acne is dead white-blood cells...
what's Alzheimer's? killer proteins...
given the brain is mostly fat...
counter-intuitive...
given the common expression surrounding
the Great Cranium Pickle: flex the mental
muscles...
misnomer "propaganda": no... just plain
misnomer-ism...
to ease the fluidity of common parlance...

sooner rather than later the heavens
opened and rain came... baptismally...
i felt utterly refreshed...
how often doesn't it feel authentic to pay
for a compliment?
i'm personally used to ******* prostitutes
to believe myself: as giving pleasure...
perhaps that's this archaic male...
"innuendo"... of what ***'s about...
i heard it mentioned...
she would either say: not all men...
blah blah... yu haven't changed... blah blah...

i'd brag about a ******* Lamborghini:
if i had one... although i'd sooner brag about
owning a horse: if i had one...
i have a bicycle... which implies:
it isn't a wheelchair...
so i can experience the most out of a dual-carriageway
at speeds of, circa... 30mph...
without lycra or 'elment...

she just had this beautiful smile and i
felt inclined to give her
something for the many times i "ignored" her...
grifting or paying a "slum-rent":
who is, these days, to give out money
in banknotes on a whim?
this was a whim...

by mid-afternoon having cycled toward
Stratford i turned back before reaching
Bow... sniffing out a precipitation
% while watching the gloomy clouds...
i might have checked the weather forewarning...
but when speed's invoked...
and i'm merely peddling...
i conjure up the compound...
in deutsche:
          STURMÜBERBRINGER
how doesn't that sound majestic...
forthcoming... para-socially mythological...
no Canadian could 'elp me with that...
however pop. and psychiatric "he"
might be a worth of his own spew...

she just had these cheekbones of every
hyena's laugh an envy...
5 quid for a smile...
or 120 quie for a ****-off?
eyes that forever tease
and a tongue that's forever undermining
the whole freedom, ha ha...
"freedom" of thought...
there's not much of "it" these days...
IXNAY ON TNE HOMBRE...

tease the quill... dust the feathers:
start looking for a broomstick...
much later: persists discouraging oneself for
a worth of it... doesn't one bother...
the royalty... oh... right...
not yet forthcoming spaghetti-quizzing...
just all the... *******... pandering...

the african slaves.... picked... cotton...
so... ahem... they we're not... coalminers?
oh ugh oh **** me i'm about to choke!
those rebellious cotton-pickers...
i see ***** Goliaths 9ft tall...
and i'm worried about... my use of:
"language"?
******* before i **** someone off...
to hell with black history moonth...

            thank god i'm not a father, either...
the stress of what otherwise relaxes my "complaints":
did the gorilla ever "think" twice about *******
a macaque?
i'm just asking: the elephant ****
a giraffe?
karma sutra suite:
    the phallus of a horse inside
a ****** of a rabbit...
just watching these inter-racial themes...
you'd imagine an x-ray might be... allowed
culmination posits... then again...
why am i not dating an English "bride"?
the... Rotherham... petty tease leftovers?

i love to recycle... it's hardly important for me to...
"ergo" this... diabolical heap...
of... ugh... ugly **** gin & tonic...
i hate gin, though...
this enforced ownership of whatever freedom
is gravitated towards...
like i'm the "father"...

she's a gypsy smile...
i'm a solid 5 quid handshake...
that's the end of the story...
there's not even so much as a 'the end'
to mind... i'm still here... the soft-core continues:
beside any leftover concern for
cinema.