Mar 2017
good to hear from the finns.
at least poetry has the decency to allow me a mirror
into a heart, rather than all this **** reasoning
that decided: like i ******* care
to hear your narrative.
for 20 odd years i enjoyed my narration
that didn't transcribe itself into
a "poem" or (god forbid)
a youtube video;
people in the west have this profanity
in them, they always cite beginning
something aged eight, or nine...
which precursors to them saying: i'm a genius!
i started wanking aged 7,
because i found a prono mag in the catacombs
of a church that was being built...
that's genius? ever ponder the consideration
that you can become sexually aroused
prior to producing *****? and teaching it
to someone? so where do abortion rules
for pro-life come in, into that game?
and believe me, it was the most beautiful and at
the same time ******-up relationship that lasted
for about two seasons of a year...
i went to st. petersburg and met her parents,
although she called her mother her sister,
and she called her grandmother her mother...
i was given a silver spoon to shove up my ***
as a symbol for the consecration of vows...
to be honest? figuring out god was by far
easier to understand than that woman of teasing
teens... i was 21 she was 19... pushing onto *******
infinity... added to the fact that i thankfully haven't
lived anything past that...
9 going onto 10 years spent in an imaginary
prison of my room and collecting books...
but what's really sad is that i had most of my
knuckles used up in childhood,
i remember chasing *bioły around a "skip"
with rafał kicking the **** out of him,
then bioły's older brother kicking me in the ***,
then my neighbours, twins grzesiek & krzysiek
turning bioły's older brother's car (a fiat 126p)
upside down...
i swear yesterday i heard that the c.i.a. was using
samsung televisions to spy on people
by turning them into audio-related devices...
it's still a bit foggy for me, to be honest,
i'm in the cinema of memory...
it's beautiful, not a lot of people in the theatre,
just me the memory of being a kid
and a dog trying to **** my ankle...
it's weird, the highest quality of my memory
comes from being born elsewhere,
there, where i didn't have to use this tongue...
phoo! foreign *******... look at me now:
a complete mongrel of soul: so much so that i have
to listen to songs in finnish...
what's it like reading yesterday's newspaper?
daffodils! daffodils!
it's scented candles in a spa!
i forget you don't keep ****
but instead flush it down the toilet...
i got to page 8 and read about autism
and something about the lack of the flush button
for the brain (fat) processing protein...
i have this skin condition whereby i process white-blood
cells (protein) so efficiently that i have to store
it the pores of my skin... which probably allows me
to drink a litre of 40% alcohol a day and worry
whether the day is gone and the night arrived...
oh the wonder!
i once heard that solipsism is a mental illness
by some ****... to be frank, isn't it a coping mechanism
when reading the newspaper?
how much of the dasein do you actually
want to keep to live your life?
everything and nothing is happening
north west east south and centre...
prior to page 8 of yesterday's newspaper
i have an american president looking flash
like he just walked out of a prada "bookstore",
(people do read you, rather than judge you,
and it does come from donning tracksuit bottoms
and walking into a supermarket, and then selling
your poetry book to a cashier)...
so yes, existentialism and the "technique" is all
but the summary given by the older technique of metaphor,
since homer came before socrates.
i do remember my first kiss,
i was very young and her surname was kot
and she was the elder sister and she had twin sisters
and her father drank a lot and operated a truck...
why are my most sacred memories reserved to
8 years spent in poland?
i have to abide that 8 is a sacred number
of memory content, after that it just disappears
into grey, mundane;
and how hard did the french think up ∞ working
from 8... so O and 0... the concepts of
rhombus or a game of squash, which is
so much better than tennis;
the best part of this is that someone might
misunderstand me as if i was a toff...
toff? toffee? english middle class? no? never heard
of it? i'm sure.
english kings go to st. andrews,
hostile immigrants go to edinburgh.
my original intention though, for this prompt...
what was it?
it's not even a case of amnesia,
it must have been that autism article and how
the brain (fat, it's wholly fat) degenerates by a protein
invasion... and the journalistic populism of science
in england: this consciousness coordination
of flexing muscle equivalent to the brain being protein
based... or "brain power"...
that ***** is equivalent to a buttock...
it's not going anywhere...
they did shoot andrei chikatilo in the back
of the head, and kept him in a cell for about two
weeks before his body gave up...
back of the head, yep, shot him dead,
like that theory of cockroaches, they can survive
for 2 weeks without their heads before they die
from starvation; and this is ukraine we're talking about;
i do feel sorry for kurt cobain and hemmingway...
kafka's concept made more sense,
attacking the heart, rather than the head...
but obviously not translated into a rhetorical debate;
could this be untrue?
how are we celebrating history
and cunningly hiding death?
i was once interviewed by a psychiatrist,
she gave up on me while i called her field of medicine
a facade, and i mentioned reading kierkegaard,
so she gave up on me... but in this one particular
room i was talking to this woman...
- and some people fear death.
- i like you.
- that's strange, we only just met.
i prefer this encoding of dialouge,
it's rampant in poland, and also in ireland...
you think adding milk to tea is an english thing?
it's called a bavarka, and it was typical
of giving it to pregnant women in siberia...
adding milk to tea isn't an original practice,
it originated in siberia... serving tea with milk...
it's a bavarka.
at least poetry has the decency to allow me a mirror
into a heart, rather than all this **** reasoning
that decided: like i ******* care
to hear your narrative.
for 20 odd years i enjoyed my narration
that didn't transcribe itself into
a "poem" or (god forbid)
a youtube video;
people in the west have this profanity
in them, they always cite beginning
something aged eight, or nine...
which precursors to them saying: i'm a genius!
i started wanking aged 7,
because i found a prono mag in the catacombs
of a church that was being built...
that's genius? ever ponder the consideration
that you can become sexually aroused
prior to producing *****? and teaching it
to someone? so where do abortion rules
for pro-life come in, into that game?
and believe me, it was the most beautiful and at
the same time ******-up relationship that lasted
for about two seasons of a year...
i went to st. petersburg and met her parents,
although she called her mother her sister,
and she called her grandmother her mother...
i was given a silver spoon to shove up my ***
as a symbol for the consecration of vows...
to be honest? figuring out god was by far
easier to understand than that woman of teasing
teens... i was 21 she was 19... pushing onto *******
infinity... added to the fact that i thankfully haven't
lived anything past that...
9 going onto 10 years spent in an imaginary
prison of my room and collecting books...
but what's really sad is that i had most of my
knuckles used up in childhood,
i remember chasing *bioły around a "skip"
with rafał kicking the **** out of him,
then bioły's older brother kicking me in the ***,
then my neighbours, twins grzesiek & krzysiek
turning bioły's older brother's car (a fiat 126p)
upside down...
i swear yesterday i heard that the c.i.a. was using
samsung televisions to spy on people
by turning them into audio-related devices...
it's still a bit foggy for me, to be honest,
i'm in the cinema of memory...
it's beautiful, not a lot of people in the theatre,
just me the memory of being a kid
and a dog trying to **** my ankle...
it's weird, the highest quality of my memory
comes from being born elsewhere,
there, where i didn't have to use this tongue...
phoo! foreign *******... look at me now:
a complete mongrel of soul: so much so that i have
to listen to songs in finnish...
what's it like reading yesterday's newspaper?
daffodils! daffodils!
it's scented candles in a spa!
i forget you don't keep ****
but instead flush it down the toilet...
i got to page 8 and read about autism
and something about the lack of the flush button
for the brain (fat) processing protein...
i have this skin condition whereby i process white-blood
cells (protein) so efficiently that i have to store
it the pores of my skin... which probably allows me
to drink a litre of 40% alcohol a day and worry
whether the day is gone and the night arrived...
oh the wonder!
i once heard that solipsism is a mental illness
by some ****... to be frank, isn't it a coping mechanism
when reading the newspaper?
how much of the dasein do you actually
want to keep to live your life?
everything and nothing is happening
north west east south and centre...
prior to page 8 of yesterday's newspaper
i have an american president looking flash
like he just walked out of a prada "bookstore",
(people do read you, rather than judge you,
and it does come from donning tracksuit bottoms
and walking into a supermarket, and then selling
your poetry book to a cashier)...
so yes, existentialism and the "technique" is all
but the summary given by the older technique of metaphor,
since homer came before socrates.
i do remember my first kiss,
i was very young and her surname was kot
and she was the elder sister and she had twin sisters
and her father drank a lot and operated a truck...
why are my most sacred memories reserved to
8 years spent in poland?
i have to abide that 8 is a sacred number
of memory content, after that it just disappears
into grey, mundane;
and how hard did the french think up ∞ working
from 8... so O and 0... the concepts of
rhombus or a game of squash, which is
so much better than tennis;
the best part of this is that someone might
misunderstand me as if i was a toff...
toff? toffee? english middle class? no? never heard
of it? i'm sure.
english kings go to st. andrews,
hostile immigrants go to edinburgh.
my original intention though, for this prompt...
what was it?
it's not even a case of amnesia,
it must have been that autism article and how
the brain (fat, it's wholly fat) degenerates by a protein
invasion... and the journalistic populism of science
in england: this consciousness coordination
of flexing muscle equivalent to the brain being protein
based... or "brain power"...
that ***** is equivalent to a buttock...
it's not going anywhere...
they did shoot andrei chikatilo in the back
of the head, and kept him in a cell for about two
weeks before his body gave up...
back of the head, yep, shot him dead,
like that theory of cockroaches, they can survive
for 2 weeks without their heads before they die
from starvation; and this is ukraine we're talking about;
i do feel sorry for kurt cobain and hemmingway...
kafka's concept made more sense,
attacking the heart, rather than the head...
but obviously not translated into a rhetorical debate;
could this be untrue?
how are we celebrating history
and cunningly hiding death?
i was once interviewed by a psychiatrist,
she gave up on me while i called her field of medicine
a facade, and i mentioned reading kierkegaard,
so she gave up on me... but in this one particular
room i was talking to this woman...
- and some people fear death.
- i like you.
- that's strange, we only just met.
i prefer this encoding of dialouge,
it's rampant in poland, and also in ireland...
you think adding milk to tea is an english thing?
it's called a bavarka, and it was typical
of giving it to pregnant women in siberia...
adding milk to tea isn't an original practice,
it originated in siberia... serving tea with milk...
it's a bavarka.
