i've met a thief once, straight of prison,
who began to reshape his life,
as a dub-step d.j. when the genre first
arrived... i never understood it at the time,
but then i found the mellow grounds
of distance, and i managed a befitting
conjunction of: and it matters to rephrase
drum & bass as a genre, within dub step confines.*

so much of history is coherent -
so much well versed -
even without the literacy of
the gatekeepers of power -
when once power meant literacy,
as when once the hand could
mould a man into finding it -
all in all: when war became a
game...
               what a sadness to be able
encompass this world
with the world preceding it...
this world's over indulgence
its rapport for gluttony in the north
western lands,
    and its pompous greed out
of africa...
              fertile ukraine -
      the seething host for the tapeworm
posits of a populace -
once upon a time man made
milk, that turned sour,
  and became a sort of yogurt -
and was scooped with fresh baby
potatoes and dill...
     i remember the seasons in poland,
i remember the seasons in poland
because, once upon a time
the people had seasonal diets...
not this ******-down dilution of
a berry, this persistence to impress diners
with wintry strawberries from
the spaniards, or the dates of the levant...
seasonal diets were once in place
in poland...
           we ate the fruits in the summer,
and we ate the vegetables in
the autumn,
                 we ate without a vision
of a, ******* treadmill worth no man,
but a, ******* hamster!
- and when i ask a conclusive english couple
aiding their ailing dog,
whether they know of seasonal diets,
they startle me: bewildered.
    global warming begins with
an omni-inclusive diet -
there's nothing to await,
as there is nothing to miss,
as there is nothing to binge on -
          the only binge is that of food per se,
but never the surreal binge on
strawberries when in season...
or mushrooms in autumn...
      why is history so coherent,
while the present a vague attempt at
itemising a "vogue" -
with yesterday or today or through
to tomorrow, the current affairs of our days
seem so incoherent,
so, pointless -
     only with a hindsight can they
reveal something...
but they never do,
in that history states no real hindsight
worthy of attire...
           the "hindsight" of the ever-impeding
present is bound to a future, alone,
      the past is a gloating parthenon
of both celebration, and of unimaginable
anguish, nonetheless -
how gluttonous we have become
     by stockpiling historical events,
whether celebrated or simply archived -
history is a tapeworm,
    the past requires a host of the present day,
and the present day requires
a knowledge of the parasite that history
has become, or as it always was,
             i give you the sole, impeding
memory:
an ability to ascribe arithmetic -
  and an ability to assert grammar.
                yet beyond?
                   this cinematic daydreaming
theatre of unfulfilled "ambitions" -
this cinematic daydreaming
              theatre of the unfulfilled former
glories, reduced to paperweight in the modern
world, a paper or a pen,
       where once a sword might find
an abode in a firm hand?
there's nothing worse than pretending
to be the already pathetic rue of history
with coordinates lost...
these warrior like ambitions are like me
acquiring the patent for english discretion,
or sense of politeness -
my *** is stinging from the insulated
rage at the queue in a supermarket -
it's spitting cayenne pepper and chilli powder,
but i still manage to pull off the english
doubled-faced sorry, or: don't worry...
                   the english, after all, invented
theatre - the double edged sword of a smiling
face, the courteous smile,
but the sinister: pull your testicles in
a monkey wrench, and make you sing
ave ******* maria to a handel composition,
you, drum roll dumb, ****!
         oh ya ya, why don't the ******* ****
just close off oxford street and plant a *******
mosque in the middle!
****, close of reagent's st. while you're at it,
after all, reagent's st. has that nice cinematic
curve... but **** me,
you could have at least made cut ins into
the grand high st. layout of no traffic:
only pedestrians welcome.
                        you just created a pointless
array of cul de sacs... in the middle of london!!!!
**** it, whatever, the whiskey is good,
my mood is good,
  the post-summer / early autumnal blues are
other, finally i stopped caring about light...
because? early november:
  the thrill of a chilly night has arrived;
god, the cold is so important to blank out
the receding hairline of the sun -
but it only happens in early november /
late october -
    these are the days when you can finally
say goodbye to summer...
  the perky days of over 12 hours of sunlight,
the incredible sunrises and sets,
but only when the cold arrives,
   and starts pinching your face
like an annoying auntie when you were:
the cute 5 (year old).
                       and the rather necessary
post scriptum:
     i write verse, i don't write theory -
i spew strained content and then relax by
a necessary rant -
saying that:
some people have actually seen the pyramids
of giza, the taj mahal, the great wall of china,
they have, the mayan pyramids -
                       erected more as the gallows
for criminals than sites of superstitious
sacrifice for the sun -
                     but i have laboured enough
through writing, to find my own wonders,
equivalent to the ones stated, in my cognitive
escapades...
i have managed to endear a subjective
analogy bound to greek myth -
for my ego is a minotaur -
              guardian and seeker in thought -
that is his womb, the same exact labyrinth.
- and what have i most annoying about having
acquired the english language?
that everything has to be turned into a joke,
that nothing, ever, can be deemed profound,
that we all just shrug it off...
     only the english sense of humour is as
numbing in affection as a bite from a feral dog...
beneath the humour:
          seriousness becomes taboo...
and you can almost sense the silent struggle,
the silent agony of the english,
   the man-up-desperation...
                       with such a fine array
of topics that are "necessarily" funny comes
the consequence of taboo -
the taboo being: no man has ever suffered
or will ever suffer, the taboo being:
not ever man will shrug at his demise,
or his downfall, or his tragedy.
            english humour has created
  a mono-polar enterprise in being unable
to craft a reaction to tragedy,
a tragedy it might provide,
  but never an adequate reactions -
all it can provide, in a reactionary language is:
apathy mingling with confusion -
a befitting epitaph -
           a comedy that relies too fondly on wit,
and not on the shallows of what makes
man laugh...
      all these insider jokes -
             these arrogant insider jokes ******
who unwittingly began their own
exclusivity of a "joke" just landed the scorcher
sucker-punch:
hey, bro, i'm laughing because
laughing is a contagion -
i have no ******* clue whether the joke
you said it funny, or whether i'm laughing
next to this numb-wit to simply not appear
stupid.
  - come one - ego minotaur -
          cogitans labyrinth -
                    i've just suggested a perfectly
reasonable gesture of analogy -
and yes, i do not think it comical to excuse
  this analogy as a low-fat cheese of metaphor
to soften the blow of comparison...
otherwise? i can understand depression
  nearing the end of his life, like my grandfather
over 70...
what is bewildering is the current revelation
of premature depression in children...
what have these children accomplished?!
   nothing!
         it's unnatural to be prematurely depressed...
this definition ought to coexist
in the current psychiatric vocab alongside
premature dementia...
          as of yet, i'm still to find out
why the national health service of england
would treat bilingualism as schizophrenia -
   maybe i should find out: and sue them.