it's sloppy, it's messy, but thankfully it's not an Ikea manual to put up a coffee-table... or precisely why we call it copernican... and east is where? how could copernicus ever help as navigate a ship... for all intensive purposes... sometimes the earth just has to be "flat", so it can be managed... ever navigate a car from Romford, Essex (a.), to Ostrowiec Św. (b.), Poland, using a map? an orb for the mere pleasure of imagining it to be so, doesn't exactly get me from a. to b., or what they might tell you in an English Catholic school: imagine the earth... and then imagine yourself moving away from it... ******, i still need to get from point a. to point b., Neil Armstrong isn't going to help me while having a kodak moment on the moon! the earth's flat, for all the right reasons, next time you hear about japanese tourists, driving their car into the sea when listening to some Tom / sat-nav off the coast of australia; then i'll tell you i'm imagining a pear, or a woman's ***.

the genesis comes with *homer's blindness...
then onto peering into darkness,
and extracting the light
within darkness...
  perchance we might mention
the islamic intoxication
of rumi - peering into it
all, liberal, sufi...
        last time i checked i was
so drunk that i could only create
a focus on the television
with only one eye open...
oddly enough i watch more darkness
and listen to more music than
i care to abandon and take to
having a wife...
    somehow music overpowers all
my natural urges to have a wife
to father her children,
to scoop into society for a few breadcrumbs...
how we are fated to so diverge...
thus in the night, in tormet
from a migrane, how many poses the lying
body made, how many groans,
as if in labour...
i can account for the medicine that came
intuitively:
    lying on the bed, with my head off it
upside-down, then arranging
the cushions for i lost the third cushion
as to lie as flat as possible....
so the neck was fully extended...
  and easing the pressure...
   why didn't i just go downstairs and drop
a paracetamol or a naproxen pill?
    i wanted agitation, i wanted to
be, for at least one night, akin to a chinese
sage...
and to be honest, if it wasn't for the turks
(the great translators of islam)
   i wouldn't think twice about it...
   or have read rumi,
  or fiddled in bed at night with a migraine
like i might be creating crucifix theatre /
the vanity project of golgotha...
   and you never really get to write
any poetry at all, when you've spent too much
time watching the sun, right in the eye
until it shows you itself, as the ultra-violet
           pulverising, vibrating entity
that it is...
        which is why i returned to closing
my eyes, and listening to music,
with such zeal as to not bother about women...
  and peering into the void to then see
these mini-shadows emerge from my travel
into Hades... words... as any ancient greek might
have said: a god's fondness and appeal
to a cerberus...
       or: what was once a sphinx...
or as some said: the original sin was plagiarism...
and i say that, because there's the need
for irony to be stated, and subsequent ridicule...
we plagiarised, and we still do...
    i mean, a man's head on a body of a lion...
became the unravelling, the anti-thesis
   of, say, Ra, or Anubis... an animal's head
on a human body... the sphinx... unravelled
the genesis of egyptian history
and led to its decay...
      as was Hades' pet, the three-headed dog
the basis for constructing christianity...
            we are prone to the original "sin"
because our "original" sin was to plagiarise...
             hence the irony... since plagiarising
is, well... unoriginal;
but for a poetry that's contained in the bible,
you have to speak in misnomers...
          as the concept of original sin is...
a misnomer...
            a misplaced name for something too
blatant that it requires some sort of mythical
narrative, just like cooking chicken
      in water / poaching it, to get a soup...
we have our boring dialogues,
   so instead of calling it a chicken poached in water
we add cinnamon, cardamom, cloves,
         bay leaves, chilli, turmeric,
            garam masala... etc., and hey presto!
it's a curry...
      like any self-respecting white boy can say:
they think curry spices are bad?
ever sniffed sourcrout?
   the turks pickle chillies... the slavs pickle cabbage,
i am not entirely sure how the two didn't meet
in a kebab concept... why not?
   pickled cabbage could really compliment
the lamb... we pickle vegetables  that we like
to feed pregnant women to,
or so they ask for: pickles doesn't just mean cucumbers...
chillies and cabbage...
now i'll show you africaan: kebāb...
ya, tosh-posh invitation of what's said to an essex
standard of: kebáb; funny, isn't it?
these distinctions, actually do exist -
    evidently english required a painter to come
and learn it, and then paint onto it.