just discovered a really funny girl,
            itsdivya -
                 and in all honesty...
instagram poetry was looming,
  somewhere, in the back of the mind,
but unlike a haiku
by some Chinese ****-'ed...
   or that Li Bai "dross" (there is ever
a problem of drinking alone?
    i thought you could only really
drink when alone? drinking with others,
i tried it, but after the initial
jovial backwards and forwards,
laughter... "micro-agressions"...
                   that deep seeded sense
of regret at having started drinking
to begin with... drinking alone...
                is there really any other way
to drink?
     but beside that...
        a poem about "coloured women" / people...
and, mind you: this is only after
a cider having chopped 8 onions
    and having not found the crocodile tears...
and perhaps two ms. ambers nibbling
ginger...
               (mind you, drunks always
have affectionate nicknames for their...
ahem... what would a ****** addict
call ******? H... smack...
      leech... i don't know...
  i once tested positive for *****
    in a ****-test when i was
being monitored for relapse into
smoking dope, skunk, marijuana...
but that's prior to me having
eaten somepoppy-seed cake,
                 makowiec, so, go figure)...
yadda-yadda-yadda...
      "people of colour"...
what the **** am i then?
           bedsheets?
            porcelain?
     a ***- geisha with full make-up?!
   a ******* african albino sacrifice
    of tanzania?
     you should see me after a few ms. ambers...
well... there's either a piglet hue on me...
or when i start laughing,
    eh... pale crimson...
          and that's not red as in a: "red indian"...
certainly not as blue as a Hindu indian...
and when i get a chance to **** up
some vitamin D in summer...
     i look like someone from Bangkok,
a copper dragon emerges...
                  bū'bū'*******...
                  ­              i'm done...
                         i come from very stubborn people...
i'm not going to capitulate...
                   because, yeah:
                  even ol' whitey overe 'ere had
the "easy ride" throughout history...
             you can bash a native englishman...
sure... m'ah colonial past...
                       colonial past?
                             in the ukraine?
                              under the prussians,
the russians or the austro-hungarians?
                         then under the nazis,
   then under the russians again?
            that, "colonial past"?
                just because i speak this language...
doesn't mean i have to listen
    to what the englishman has to endure.
                
so now, i guess: the draft...

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distillery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzia,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's album
grinning cat -
                       which, if coupled
with London's outer-suburbia can
be a real motivational piece
of music to pretend to be lost
and have the persistent "ambition"
to keep on walk...
      until finally walking into
a forest, or climbing over a park
fence to drink a beer on a bench
admiring the skyline,
              on, say, mashiter's hill.