Away out where the crows flew backwards
Theres a place called the negativity plain
They say that if one ever goes out there
They'll never in this life be seen again

No roads out there to travel on at all
It was once told of a nightmare time
Where memories were all but dreams
And even breathing was almost a crime

So hot many from hell would go there
For a holiday they say now and then
That not far away was Woop Woop
But nobody remembers ever when

Its told that trees there would'nt grow
Nor a blade of grass one could find
That any that ever went there its told
Never knew night or day being blind

No rocks as they all crumbled into sand
  In  shadowless nightmare time they say
They exited near a place called WoopWoop
Long before the birth of night and day



terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018

Rollin with this one,
ya ya ya ya ya yikes bro.
I gotta go out of here.
Dont think about it,
fires burnin somewhere
I think
I dont know
but
where did that **** go?
Rolling numbers
40 of us
who was that?
I dont even know.
I heard shots fire and saw flashes.
Woop Woop
Dip
Woop Woop
DipDIpDIP
weeeoooopp
bumpcrackbumpbumpsnapslapcrash
I­ was somewhere in the bushes when it ended
panting out hurried fire water breath.

i am only an egg
i am only a rug
i am only a bud
turning into a flower
i really like figs
simplicity is magic
word is bond
NOWORDNOBONDROWON
this is to you, September Eleventh
and you, Reverend Donald Green...

Listen to this Lady
She's talking Jabaca
right now. right in there
is an envelope i made.
i am only an egg
i make mistakes
I miss steak, my mistake
I am not a vegetarian because I love animals
I am a vegetarian
Because I hate plants
Will you please piddle-paddle away? Or at least turn off looking up to my Jhorts?
never go full dumb with Marissa Golden
never ok to be
kicking dogs in the face.
Are you ok?
MMFWCL? woop woop?
we are all so powerful, Ladies!
We are also powerfully ******, Ladybird!
---are you my mother?

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.

The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.

Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.

What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.

I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.

His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.

There's a choice
whether you
want it or not;

a choice to be made

a choice to be thrown away

choices, like ragged,
1861 copper pennies;

Power sits on
the shelves,
collects dust
as it's owner

takes the blame,

tries hard to shake
the body from
shame;

a victim with a story;

an object with a name;

choices are made

let responsibility
be the reigns

and you behind the scenes,

in your own movie

or game;

the owner of
it all.

Poured into the tight pants,
the grey ones with the zipper
that's afraid of heights, and
guess what? They're really
wrinkled or very wrinkled
or **** wrinkled--but they're
the tight grey ones, assumed
the thighs and calves would
handle the ironing.
Ten minutes late,
usually more. The clock
in the car, the red beat-up
'02 Cavalier, is not behind
or ahead an hour, no it's
set to some vague time
because lateness has
replaced time so why
even worry. Blood pressure, etc.
Spray on the cologne kept
in the car. Could look
up ingredients in cologne
to describe the smell
but that would take
away a little something.
So say: it smells really good
or very good or **** good--
and move on.
Walk inside, unbathed and
sun burnt--well not completely
unbathed. Washed the hair
because it's a puffy, erratic
downer otherwise.
It's all about appearance,
the bosslady said when
she made the hire.
Slipped a little.
Big woop.
Cold called the Southside
Veterinary Clinic.
They'll allow a visit.
Pack it all in the bag,
the mouse pads,
the koozies, the actual
thing to be sold:
SHEENY PUPPY, some
really heavy or very heavy
or **** heavy duty
coat treatment for canines.
The first one is on me, is said
as the package is handed over.
The vet wouldn't buy. Not then.
Probably not ever.
Ate an eighty-calorie bag of cookies.
Drank some coffee.
Stopped at the gas station, the
Conoco on 15th and Kelly,
and couldn't decide between
the fun size or the party size.
This is called the spectrum of grief.
Bought a pack of cigarettes.
Smoked three really quick
or very quick or **** quick,
like Mom might show up any
second and then tossed the pack
and the lighter.
Done with those. Forever.
This time. Or that time.
There was $20.89 in the
checking account and
a fresh girlfriend reminding
that today is one month.
Dinner. Dinner and wine.
$20.89.
You can sell only if you believe in the product.
Be really blunt or very blunt or **** blunt.
Stress is an art.
Create FUD (Fear, uncertainty and doubt).
It’s all about the presentation.
She's fresh and funny and so
self-conscious when she eats
spaghetti. Can't get
by with spaghetti
for the one-month.
No. No. No.
Be on fire and inspiring.
If you don’t know the answer, ask a question.
Answer inquiries concisely and loudly.
Humor is ****.
You can always be better. You can never be worse.
Call Mom, donate plasma or take the Xbox back.
Is this one forever?
Does forever mean dinner and wine
are necessary?
Or does forever mean that
the spectacle is frivolous?
In the cabinet at work
someone left blueberry bagels.
There's a microwave and a tub
of margarine that only
recently expired.

You got me power tripping.
Mind switching.
In a phase.
Lost in a maze.
My hearts a haze.
Woop!

You got my heart drowning.
Lips frowning.
Mind pounding.
Woop!

You left me in a world caught.
star struck, I'm in love punk.
I felt like I just hit a slam dunk.
Till I saw you with them, then my heart sunk.

****...
I thought I hit it real good tonight.
Thought what we had was beyond right.
I guess I was wrong, I lost the fight.
I got to walk away this ain't a good sight.  
This is real pain, I can't see the light.

I can't believe this.
Loving you was my greatest habit.
My hearts clenched, goddamit!
I lost my rabbit.

On our backs
the room breaths cold
reflect on our past
we push poison out our lungs
watch the smoke occupy space
buried in my nook
your soft voice fills me with warmth
a strange relationship
works because you are my mirror
reflecting off each other
things never change

Woop As the siren blares/

Scared nervous/
I hear a loud pull over!/

Its the Grammar Police/
awwww snap
They want to see my diploma/

I keep my hand on the pen
Like I don't even notice/

In my window of opportunity
Asking/

Son Do you know why I pulled you over?/
Cause I'm in the office
sir writing these poems?/

I take full responsibility
I don't got no diploma
I just got this GED/

He said that's not good enough
Put down the pen son
Your coming with me/

Now there's Turmoil thru the streets
drama around every corner/

There should be no commas
Period I question marked your honor/

Butchering with clevers
run on sentences for ever/

The alphabet guys set up
Planted evidence missing letters/

Sworn I had it down to a T
The I before E
how does that go?/

Well don't look now
I done broke another law/

How ever this may trouble you
I keep my vowels sometimes Y & W/

Somethings not write I'm reeling feeling uncomfortable/

Is it me?
Well don't you see/
A fused two V's?/

That's my story
I'm sticking to it
my testimony/

Yet we speak it double U/
confused by another rule/

They label me an outlaw
In the middle of the court room/

A mystery/ A victim being pursued/ by the Grammar police/

The jury siding with the prosecution
I may never be released/

Its Invictus/
The defense rest
Now they have an eye-witness/

With an eye on who did this/

There,     their,      they're,      hair,     heir      and..... here/

The Ironies in the rule book/
similar sounding confused look/

If i where to spoke this and not
wrote this you would have not notice/

No no Input
was it done on purpose?/
For a purpose?/

One things for certain/

If l lay dying dead in the street
It's cause you took shots at me

Just remember I wasn't perfect/

But you are the grammar police
Just doing your job I know working/

Rounding life’s corners on my Bigwheel
Smile splashed across my face
Eyes illuminated with glossy tears from shear speed and joy
Not considering the path ahead or the road behind
Simply now, simply sublime
Regaining control after speeding too quickly
A brief lapse in judgment nearly bringing cataclysmic spills
Up on two wheels for a moment
But now firmly planted, gripping the road
Only speed limit is desire
People see my style as I pass
Like I was from Ipanema
And I can hear my theme music blast as I fly by onlookers
Giving me a rhythm to peddle to
Getting funky on these streets
And bystanders become bydancers
Unavoidable, infectious pandemonium
People woop and get down and *****
To fill that former droning, stale silence
I feel like me again
Which is really the only way to feel
Because why should you feel like someone else?

i picked a pickle
from grampy's pickle jar.
I snipple a bushel of beer at the select town bar*
got into a mess with san diego blues.
After the train passed by
gramps cried
when the coppers held a horn and their sirents
went woop woop.

i picked a pickle
from grampy's pickle jar.
I snippled a bushel of beer at the select town bar*
got into a mess with san diego blues.
After the train passed by
gramps cried
when the coppers held a horn and their sirens
went woop woop.

i picked a pickle
from grampy's pickle jar.
I snippled a bushel of beer at the select town bar*
got into a mess with san diego blues.
After the train passed by
gramps cried
when the coppers held a horn and their sirents
went woop woop.

Well well well time to tell Pandora box sparked from hell fire at close range click this phat
trophy for ****** up the madness open up the flyn' rat-tatz! and they thought they can kick it like ol skool Reeboks
This be Monday
Slap that Saterday
It's still payday American Inkstuh
Pens be sizzling like grills muthuh fuckuh
Wait... this ain't no street talk
I be better than a heated ham hawk
Critics help the senile
Hey I propose to you a young poetic juvenile
I threaten what is *******
Woop that with BOOTS TO ***** like The Rock got tired of them candy *****
Fortitude is non if you don't have the move to walk it ***
I chew fiber from your brain
Drain the intellect like the blood from the brother of Cain
School you to respect
Peel truth from your two face tongue one layer at a time
Feed you a plate of broken glass
to swallow that crime
If you know better don't waist time
Because that lie gone sit on your chest in repeat till you die.

(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII)
© Copyright 2014 S.T. Parish
Rebel of Eden

WOOP it is all the same with u isn't it, my aquatic lover? would you please! take a moment to keep the drain in place. what EXACTLY did you think would happen when you told all the fish they were insignificant
now the waterlilies spit bile and the dolphins scream

baby, you wanted FREEDOM

                                                     these tsunamis didnt need your pity

i once helped a bee die... how? the poor thing was lying
on the patio giving his last twitches...
so i overdosed him on honey...
yep... picked him up in my hand,
squeezed a bit of honey and watched him
stick out his: maxilla, labial part,
proboscis and glossa (what a complex inversion
of otherwise calling it a phallus and zunge)...
and **** up the honey...

i don't know whether he was an old bee or he didn't
see the glass and minotaured the empty space
with a concussion...
but i did see all life evaporate when he finally died
from a sugar-overdose... thanks to me...
a little universe in the palm of my hand...
how else to **** a bee that's already dying?
i couldn't just flatten it with my foot...
why? i remember being stung once... all i can remember
is the mud and the lake...

unlike killing mosquitos... which is just fun...
of all things in this world: mosquitos i **** for fun...
i once took a selfie with a fly on my forehead...
don't ask me how i walked from one room
to the other... turned the computer on...
and... the fly in tow... to compliment a perfect
hindu bindi!
sometimes i would catch a fly in a glass and walk
up to cotton candy of some spider's lair and wish
that i might just: feed her something...
that's like winning the lottery...
but mosquitos? i **** for fun... i just wait until i see
that needle of theirs get injected into my skin
when then anaesthetic is being pumped in...
and then the splatter of a hand-guillotine...
when i was younger i watched to boys playing
by a stream... they would catch a frog and cover
her with lipstick... two sadists in the making...
and then they'd light her up...
i once dated a girl who used to sprinkle salt
on snails... but i still eat chicken...
perhaps because i want to retain a "moral superiority"
by also appreciating eating the hearts,
the stomachs... esp. the poached necks...

if an animal is to be killed: might as well make most
of it... i heard that deep-fried pork ears smothered
in breadcrumbs are a rave in new york...
no one this is supposed to make sense for me
keeping up with rigid religious dogma...
there is none in this scenario... there's just this freak
event... of watching a bee die in my hand
from a honey-overdose...
perhaps honey is like an ****** for these little buggers?
beside the point...
i always feel **** when i write something and it amasses...
a spike in readership...
notably: the words come of their own accord;
the ***** are a bonus -
i must have written something to estranged from my usual
diatribe... i must have prostated myself
in defiance to... compliment Iblis or something...
hunchback with wings...
i've heard that myth a long time ago...
concerned with the Eden story in Islam of...
in defiance Iblis didn't bow...

so however many generations later...
some "genius" decided to bow and earned himself
the title: the hunchback angel... formerly a man...
perhaps at my lowest: when something should
not have been written: but anything to escape
and not give into a writer's bloc is more necessary...
at least it must be entertaining for the many...
stick to the script remember:
you're not writing for the money...
nor the chance to collect a memory harem
of one-night stands...
in reference to the use of english - which isn't a first:
nor is it my first daddy and mummy:
t'ah-t'ah and m'ah-m'ah...
last time i heard t'ah-t'ah was a shared primeval
syllable construct also found in south africa...
to denote: father... which is "odd" how
it moved to poland... abscission...
that's the closest i've come to reaching a competence
using this acquired tongue...
what a past have i left...
unlike Czeslaw Miłosz... then again...
he was always a Lithuanian at heart...
i once heard from a girl in a pub that i kissed
and kissed mad drunk with love to hear any sort
of *******... forehead, eyebrows eyelids nose
and teased at the lips: as most drunks do...
we ****** the Lithuanians over...

in what respect? who's fault was it... the three partitions?
and the pseudo-Israel "non-existence" on
the map... this fear of losing grips on a language
are not new... oddly enough i allow myself
to be an anglophile... it's unique in that...
it doesn't have... orthography debates... just bad spelling...
and plenty of metaphysical fish from...
that sort of death yawns and a ship sails
across an entire ocean...
therefore i can't just "integrate"...
it would be bad psycholgoy to think that:
one tongue is better than two...
it would be like an amputee's ghost limp...
or worse... since to cut out the tongue...
first, later second... because it's a minority tongue...
and: what if i don't have anyone to speak
it with? how about i think in it?
what two groups of people were ever able
to sack moscow... the mongols and the poles...
during the polish–muscovite war (1605–1618):
poland - the cindarella of europe...
and she really is... just recently celebrating 100 years
of independence?

while all these other cases have had:
uninterrupted histories?
we ****** over the Lithuanians... how?
we ****** ourselves over to begin with...
a democratic monarchy - the commonwealth -
because it somehow started with...
democratically electing a king by the aristocratic
class - a swede once governed over this...
myth of a land... the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
should be regarded as a myth...
ancient greece would be a myth if no writing
was used in modern blah-blah...

my own... my own... shame that i don't write
in the language... but instead write in english...
i've given it plenty of assurances that it will:
or rather that i will be its most respectful host...
but given i see no need to point at myself...
perhaps the english in me has its own mind?
i sometimes "feel" under strict obligation to just sit
back and let the language express itself...
for some reason there might just be enough...
"unaddressed" points to consider...
should this language not find a suitable host...
perhaps... a subversive host...
that would use the language for: ulterior motives...
i don't have the skin in the game to...
throw tantrums and do nothing about...
psst... the grooming gang scandals...
i've been trying to bed an english girl for...
a better half of two decades...
australian, russian, french...
romanian, bulgarian... thai...
                           idealist me... *** is always ugly...
nice photographs... but any conversation
before or after...
**** anything that moves is the general motto...
steal kisses from prostitutes...
because this is not the time for: the jack of all spades
to tame the hearts of: the "less pure"...
oh sure... i could go back: to whatever "back" is...
perhaps i'm invested in england somehow...
like the r.a.f. squadron no. 303...
who have something to take care of...
outside of the "homeland"... home... i don't even know
where that is...
this doesn't even suggest itself as a...
perilous exile... for there to be some longing...
i can't even boast... become overtly pronounced
in myself: with said origins...
can't exactly sell you pierogi dumblings like
a turk might sell you a kebab or an indian curry...
so... pride... at which point? the current:
march of the black umbrellas... the... dead twin speaking
to the current: party president -
from the wreckage of Smolensk wreckage...
having a russian girlfriend... wouldn't have helped...
i'm sure...
winged-hussars... something special about distant
folk songs... that aren't in german?
oh they have to be in german... only the germans really
know how to sing folk songs...

question: how long did it take to defeat france
in world war II?
six weeks from 10 May 1940,
german forces defeated lllied forces
by mobile operations and conquered france, belgium,
luxembourg and the netherlands (42 days)

question: how long did it take to defeat poland
in world war II
35 days... wow! now i can ******* gloat!
it took the germans and the soviets... 35 days to defeat
poland... ha ha... riding roses against tanks...
that famous / infamous: charge at krojanty...
but it did take both the germans... and the soviets...
35 days...
i guess the gentile folk of western europe...
just 7 days more... to conquer a plethora of
countries... some that didn't have their existence...
put on hiatus... the welcoming **** of france
it seems...

fair enough... i've found something to be proud of...
woop woop!
mein gott! i come from this past...
why am i not passing my genes? och! **** lord miser
that i am!
here's to: not ****** any english girls...
or perhaps: it's the love for the welsh: just being welsh...
and it's somehow imploring the scots:
get some gaelic in you! don't base it on
a glaswegian accent!

yes... i am the host - and english is a "parasite" in me...
personally i think it has a mind of its own...
ever think that a language can never be your own?
esp. if it is acquired?
all that: from an outsider's perspective...
but not from a "racial minority" perspective...
beside the whitey you would have to tell me to:
wear my "brown" on the inside...
any excuse to not but otherwise troll some german...
for the giggles and fuchs...
if only this was written by some Kensington rascal...
but it's not... and it's not by a northumberlandian
either... i tend to forget the bristol wankers
outright... sorry... local prejudices...
you can never somehow escape them!
i.e. essex this, essex that... all the blondes and oranges
and... thick as bunch of doorknobs...
that's why i'd call them the bristolian wankers...
some prejudices just come with the language...
and locality.....
prejudices or merely a tease mark-up...
the usual west vs. east, north vs. south...
and to think... i came here... aged 8...
with no knowledge of the language...
watching cartoon network doesn't count...
and look at me now... entrenched in it...
the host...
                            i quiet like the analogy...
thrown in the deep end and shouted at:
now learn to tread water, you beautiful little
motherucker! swim! swim!
if there's no self-deprecating humor...
then there's no humor at all;
oh look... there's even a latin phrase for it...
i think i'll call this my modus operandi -
my caterogical imperative...
my cogito ergo sum...
         so it's settled:           sui deprecandi;
the biggest joke of all is that...
i can't fit the sterotype of being an eastern european
plumber... which is a shame...
given that east europe is... somewhat near
the the Urals... and...
of course... the czechs have had it easier
having capitulated... and they did because...
bohemia was their old pocket in the holy
roman empire...
piffy details... pitiable attention to details...
who's who in the game of:
what's to be bettered by it being corrected...
i hate this game...
then again: the best i ever said in school
was... a punctuation "oops":
- ****! ****!
- ****, my ***... in that common colliqual of:
what's it called: not really?
unless i'm about to endanger the native speaker
residence of language...
or that i need to be corrected: i'm all ears when it comes
to a typo...
the pride of the monolinguals...
call it pride... call it stubbornness -
but if i didn't retain my own "nativism" i would
have to probably resolve to speaking to my grandparents
in a gesticulating braille hybrid -
with an index finger pointing at air...
spotting carbon dioxide particle..
         guilty as charged... always paranoid about
whether or not i have succumbed to a tautology.

title: liquorice -
body: pretend it's
        just some vinyl.        

            these 502 bad gateway hacks are becoming...
not even bewildering... just idiotic...

it just dawned on me... come mid-afternoon...
i took a shower, put on the washing...
still ******* waiting to hang it up...
hmm... "counter-culture" and what not...
very unlike that glorious past of the 1960s...
i'm thinking: "red pill" and "black pill" and
******... sorry... incels...
    the future: a Saudi Arabia... copper-neck
new Brazil of trans-racialism... blah blah...
    polygamy or... a return to harems...
       but... i'm getting into a groove...
    oh **** me... **** me stiff... also necrophilia
style *******...
         men... are looking for *******...
they're bemoaning: a lack of *******...
  it truly is an Agent Smith argument...
        people... just... have no idea... what... entitles them...
when: they are given... shoved into...
having... absolute freedom! esp. men!
sure... women... do your thing... shackle with...
but we're finally free... take a breather...
you don't need to stash your make-shift imitation
train set in the garage...
     new focus: get drunk more... bask in the sun...
i'm free! weird... there is no social obligation
for me to couple up... and have someone
by my side to fuel the economy...
     this is better than anything Marx ever could
have envisioned! it's like the whole system
is going to self-implode because:
that's when Darwin sparred with Marx...
       as a man... i'm only going to spend money
on what i need... not what i desire... eventually: deride...
because... eh... leave the peacocks to the peacocks...
that saint: who wed himself to poverty:
Francis of Assisi...
                 depicted with a trio of pseudo-witches...
of Macbeth... or the Graeae...
i still don't understand... i'm trying...
     we're gloriously: free!
                 for once we can sort of live like *****:
freely-floating forward toward nothing:
with nothing: to mind!
               i still don't understand men that
bother themselves: bemoan not being pair-bonded!
borrowed from the tales of
the miseries of my grandfather and father...
*** is a great gift-card... but... later on:
i hardly wish i was "there": the preservation of life
can befall the "idiots"... sure... but life encapsulated
by one: for one... rather than the demands of
the many... what a relief!
   sure... life's burden from the perspective of "lack":
less is more... weird... weird... wriggly...
i don't know what to do with so much freedom!
ease up... i just don't know what to do with you:
dearest: freedom...
       woo hoo!
let's spell out some Deutsche!
   ich bin ein: frei-mann! woop woop!
       because... it's so demeaning... for a man...
to have only to focus on the ontology of woman...
ugh... sickly: sweet...
after all: women only spearheaded one "idea":
the Trojan horse of feminism...
hence the necessity to compound:
stoic-feminism... n'ah ah...
cynic-feminism... nope... not going to ******* float...
none of this is going to float:
i feel glad... irresponsibly glad...
almost altruistic / autistic... *******... *******: giggly!
ha ha! i'm laughing at my own jokes...
rolling out of control... having that dementia
moment of: transcending egoism that spells out:
I AM A GOD...
  or just... a very unfunny man...
whichever... i'm glad...
but i don't need to be a husband! i don't need to provide!
i don't need to be a wage-slave!
wow! phew! one relief after another...
and then euthanasia come the bad and terrible
and need for an umbrella...
phew! life... finally makes sense!
no one is going to miss me...
no one is going to grieve me...
i can't complain... i wouldn't want to...
it feels like it has almost been orchestrated...
i'm suspicious... now i want to drink some more
and... and... not bargain... ah... gambit: gamble
with traffic! with: big trucks and buses...
i feel an itch of: thirst that can't be quenched
with water... more: adrenaline...
         ugh... warm whiskey...
slurp-up: slurpy-****... juice up...
       *****-down...
                      ****... why is my forehead still aching?!
oh... right... that night i spent...
fighting with "myself"... or rather...
my shadow... whichever... even i get confused...
i still don't understand why men bemoan not
being subjugated... chased... hand-cuffed...
you're free! yeah... well... freedom does do a lot of
whacky **** to people who are:
5am wake up call primed...
              
me... happy... so happy that i try to make myself
feel sad... punching myself in the head
sort of alleviates the tension: but: not that much...
erratic cycling tactics in heavy traffic...
pretending to get a sun-tan...
that... oh ****... that helps...

      it's like... the Spartan warfare machine never
existed: even though... i'd love some rough and tumble...
even now... women scribbling Neo-****** of:
who is and who isn't to reproduce...
isn't it? Neo-******? out-breeding the lesser caste?
because... all women are the omni-caste...
no... they're not...
some will pop-out a: hyper-inflated head of a sort
of... "egg"... weird **** out from the imagination
of Mary Shelley... crap i'd want to dump... flush
down the toilet with my ****...
sorry... nature is cruel...

but it's a bit like: a square is square...
nature is nature...
you can't dispute it...
RADAR... you can spell that word
backwards and forwards...

     but me... hmm... what man wouldn't find relief
in life if he were bonded to a woman:
strapped... chin-mugged... scraping his
very dignity for some poke at the clam...
i just don't know what to do with my freedom!
like that Joker quote:
i'm like a dog chasing cars...
i wouldn't know what to do if i managed
to catch one!
i'm happy being sad... i'm sad being happy...
i'm like Eve having just eaten
the forbidden fruit... erotically "confused"...
but... not willing to give up that feeling
to the idiot that Adam was...
            ha ha: "transgender"... well... a little bit
of everything...

it's this freedom that's suspect...
well... if we are going toward an Arab style society
of polygamy and harems and...
and i'm a 6ft2 100kg hunchback with
bad teeth and bad eyesight and diabetes...
**** me... well then... Darwinism really works...
works like: Marxism never worked...
single men... driving the economy:
to the ******* ground...
   because... who the **** is going to buy hulahoops?
or dolls? or make-up?

again: i just don't know what to do with
my freedom... do i... simply: live?
wow... so much time... too much time even...
eh... pushing toward 80 isn't even an option...
thank god for the liberal attitudes of
the Benelux concerning death...
                      i'll most certainly look into that...
you can say your life is complete after
drinking milk... or eating an ice cream...
or something ridiculous like that...
   why? so freely disengaged from anyone in existence...
perhaps some drag concerning historical
figures... but...
     weird strategy... an even weirder energy...

not out of some upon-high reason for anti-natalism...
not because i'm an Einstein or a Newton...
i'm not the man who invented the nail or the hammer
or beer...

seeing prostitutes sort of helps with any
potential "anger"... "issues" about not being strapped
to potential: leech...
why is it in my nature to be so predisposed
to entertaining this idea like i should be grateful
rather than resentful for it?

mein gott... the days when women were these
mythological creatures of curiosity and
idealism... i hate writing these words...
           and what did they become?
prostitutes... headaches... or spare parts;

   you just can't prefix feminism-
  before any / every school of thought that man
conjured... because: oh the headache...
everything is replied with: ****!
   i'm alive... but... i'm ******* bailing out;
my lifelong dream from my youth...
honestly... i always wanted to enter a monastery...
i always wanted to become a monk...

nice to know that some choices could
be made for me...
and no... not at the altar of Ba'al Yatoosh...
who? ******* Hey-Zeus! Chrissy of Nazareth!

all the evil urges of the Demiurge:
that... i'm fine with... but not the kneeling
and pretend ******* break my jaw sort of b.c. to a.d. clocking
in to: life like a torment...
i don't exactly feel like living
in a clone army; in a hive mind.

you know, two doors down,
a bunch of youthful sikhs are having
a weener get together party,
sounds like friday at the mosque:
no women allowed;
and they're standing there in
the garden, smoking joints,
laughing & trivialising,
**** on the read: i call them.

and there's me, little ol' me,
solving a sudoku puzzle and drinking
some *** on the side, while listening
to the ultimate template for "m.g.t.o.w.",
and thinking, am i part of this movement,
to be the reversal cartesian dynamic
that hasn't kicked in?

vocals on gorgorath,
and the story behind it...
i see hell as silence,
mainly? no throne of god,
nor hallelujah angels...
i have to make this pig latin...

ego videre infernum qua silentium

  and i do... see hell as silence:

   videre infernum qua silentium...

heaven?

      rephrasing: audio... for pedantic
***** involved.

so i have thus: sikh party two doors
down,
i don't mind them...
    i'm sure as ****, the fan gets involved,
i start to gurgle the brew,
i tilt my head back, with a neck still
intact..
  and gurgle the brew...
        mind you, these neighbours killed
my cat...
               i'm not begging, i'm not asking
for a response, i'm just saying...
  what happened, happened,
    i have the north winds to attest to...
no sikh is going into my house
and say: make us a kuppah...
no, *******, turn your turban cloth into
a napkin, and have
your jimmy-jimmy daal....
you ******* idiot... oh? it didn't translate?
how about i voodoo my cat's remains
in a woogie-boogie promise
of: the haunted house?

     i **** as hell digged up a grave,
you "think" i'm about to joke?
let me fiddle with my nose for a bit...
you know how disrespect for humans
is born? when the "idiot" disrespects
the non-edible, petted forms of animal...

you make grievances with
non-edible pieces of meat
that men are associated with...
you're asking for the name of the seasons,
plus a choir of angels to untie you;
boo-shakalak-kee-sha!
  what did i find?
these turban brigadiers, these
blue indian, these pakis...
they have only one motto:
strength in numbers...
    but when they hear a white boy,
gurgling alcohol out of the window,
as if imitating drowning,
tilting his head back giving the perfect:
macaw signing in the sea...
these olive skinned virgins either play
*****, or call for backup "plans"...

*** yer plantain, but not yer bananas:
sure short, a ******* wake
across the whole of the caribbean...
called the havana autumn:
lost leaves, dry dung,
    monkey 'ave a throw's worth
of a bullet 'andy.

what? you gunn'ah **** on the pineapples
any'who? ******* will,
i'll be right there,
shitstorming your *** whether
there's an irma or her **** jose -
***** i'll witch-broom your ***
right off with a woop, telling my
neighbours: i've done so;

and yes, the internet is not a cul de sac,
you don't get to play
radio 4's the archers here...
sorry, i was wishful thinking for a sitcom
too... turns out...
    the phonebook is exponential in size,
but also too erratic in terms of
fluidity / fluctuation of capitalised on
use.

We're yet to find the Yeti
perhaps he's gone woop woop
and now lives in the Serengeti
with his gorilla troop

Unlike his cousin Bigfoot
where you can see him play
wearing his size thirty boot
in the NBA

i hope this doesnt creep you out
actually
it's creeping me out
i'm not some
nEVERMIND
you're my best friend
so here ya go
some appreciation
to you
i guess?
y e a h.
ffls.
woop.
dont **** me
clouds.
i think you **** your head
the ear pie is r e a l.
.
.
.
.
.
sorry
on the oTHER HAND
you're
a really
good friend
and nobody understand me
like you do
and i always look forward to our conversations
cause you're like the only person
willing to listen
and it
makes me feel special
even though
i'm not
it's
just
thank you
so much
and it's really nice to talk to you so don't like
disappear
cause that happens too much
but this time
i'll hang on until the end
i hope you'll do the same

julia, out
peace signs

Anticipation a seduction of timing
finding that ultra thin line
Tempo and pitch climbing
Intertwining
You're desire for release
Then nothing .........
silence
That weightless feeling
You know anticipating
You slowly close you're eyes
You're body prepares twisted
Contorted
Wierd look on you face
No one stares no one cares
They can feel it comming too
Right there wait for it
Ah
Ahhh
Ahhhh1ah1  2
Wait for it
Then
...........
BOOM ALAKAWOOP WOOP WOOP TICK TICKTICK
BOOM DALLLA DALA ..........
WEEP WEEP ......BOOM
ADALLLA DOM DOM DO DALLLA
BOOM
DOIN THU CHUNKY FUNKY ****** CHIKEN
HEADS ALL SWIVLEN LIKE



sensation euphoric metaphorically

Ok wait
Stop!!!
Call me hypercritical and a grammatically hypocritical
Hypocrite too
.....
You are literally
Using the word rong
Too much
NO -
Lit-TA-RA-lee
And another thing
With books ,magazines,
Libraries ocean beaches castles
Caves riverbeds coal mines
Mountains deserts desserts concerts the internet the oculus
The xbox the wii virtual realities the real reality literally the virtual reality
All these and ssoossooso so much more ......
So so many more alluring beautiful places
You could stick you're nose 🐽
So many places I couldn't care
****........
Noooope !
Ev---a---ry time I start to relax snooop!
I look behind and woop
There you are up to your eyebrows.
One of these dayz bro h
One of these dayz!
Literally
Wow..
LI--TA--R-AAA--LL--Y
Pow
Right to tha.... .
****
Literally ...
....
I mean seriously
No
SE-R-...EE-  OS.........

We couldn’t resist
Taking a dip
When we went to the coast

High tide sea was still and pure
Lapping the sandy beach
Beckoning softly

Cursing we had no swimmers
We looked at each other
And made up our minds in an instant

In we would go
Just to feel the glow
That comes from a swim
In the icy floe.

Jeans and jumpers
Were left stranded on the beach
And bewildered walkers
Watched us shiver

As we waded into the silvery blue
One step, another, another
No chance to change our minds
In we go
Wow, woop, weee, hieee
Its’ cold but oh so…

I swim to warm myself
You float and smile
And we are in the glorious sea
Whilst the walkers watch on in curiosity
And children play with the sand
And then, the treat
Of hot coffee on the beach
To warm us up
It was such a lovely day