after hearing angels sing, in
a church, where i begged for death,
attiring myself in the service cloth
of the side altar, with
an mp3 player to test my sanity,
then rampaging silent in satanic guise
in the church and later outside
in the wider world of London,
it seems only monkish chants soothe me,
de paccem domine -
c k q x s -                      
                             i wish i was a fervent
psychotic telling people to live the village life -
i don't wish people to believe me,
i want them to live their everyday lives,
i am saying to advertise further:
in need of butchers, in need of doctors -
but why should half of me feel ashamed at
at an experience i had no control over?
if he said: i need a general to Moses,
what would not suggest him saying:
i need a philosopher to me?
comparatively only warring monkish chants
soothe the ear that once entertained
an angelic choir - but there you are
again with your filthy slander -
it will only get you thus far as necessary -
i too wanted to labour to own the sweat of my
own brow -
                  i never thought being denied it
was up-kept with thoughts of vermin and
ethnic classification: i test the notion
against the fact that possessing a university
education bore no gifts to benefit society -
it really didn't,
                         i was university educated
to only stack shelves in a supermarket,
if i was that eager for money i'd have never
put any effort into getting university education
in the first place... this is England...
don't come here, this is an absolute ****-hole;
you're better off in North Korea, or China;
oh, but wait, their xenophobia with a population
of a billion... n'ah, **** it, starve in Wisconsin.
i'm not trying to convince anyone,
because my experience will not provide
a pig's trough of smirk-snout interests akin to:
the left hand washes the right hand of my
collaborators - i'm just saying what happened,
and that misdiagnosis is like a surgical mistake
of leaving an apron in the digestive cleft of organs,
people these days don't seem to understand:
the sizzling of blood on the brain is painful,
i'm not hearing voices you ***-holes who
romanticise madness to get a novel and a mortgage out
of it... has anyone told you how ******* you
are? not all experiences are intended to
usurp a status quo - most are, surprisingly
famed for being dubbed qua status, or, as being stated:
the rich are rich and the poor are poor...
the hard working continue their work,
and the artist is content with breadcrumbs rather than
a loaf of bread. i can't change what i experienced,
i just don't the politics of a personal
experience being impersonal and therefore "democratic",
which in turn might eventually depersonalise me;
anything of metaphysical note, when applied to
a democratic expression is despotism, a collective form
of what used to be: a king and a prophet...
thus, democratically, with a farcical monarchy:
a philanthropist's idea and the non-taxpayer.