yesterday can feel like months
or even years away...

              all because you pounce
out of bed,
and begin an argument
about three glasses sitting
     on the sink...

   like it's a hoarder's genesis
to clutter...
     on the odd surmount -
it is a mother,
and i somehow grip to a patience...

but the whole thing is
shambles...
the original idea that allowed me
to get out of bed
like a kangaroo sinks...

insult after insult...
    this that and the other...
from a woman who doesn't see
what 0 hours contract has
done to working
in a supermarket...

   why are these people happy
doing 0 hour contracts?!
i sometimes see this person,
that person,
then some other person...
   doctors are supposed
to sign up to: being on call...
not supermarket
shelf stacker!

            i guess with writing i
know i'm doing something right...
hell... it's not exactly Stephen King...
but it's something...

three unwashed glasses
sitting on a sink, monetarily,
and i'm talking to a woman
feeling that i'm about to be castrated
by a ****...
          
                the ups and downs
of: unaffordable rents and
even more unaffordable housing...
****... social housing for men
about to start off?
single mothers, sure...
men?
either the streets or a tent
shanty town in a forest...
with a chance for eviction...

        yeah, men have it real bad,
but we're the ones who
have to come up with
existentialist solutions,
meanings, purposes,
a woman can oven bake
    the meaning of existence in
9 months...
which is focal around,
but one argument:
continuity...
     i have to sit here,
and think of something outside
the realm of giving
birth and securing
the fluidity of a healthy economy
buying, things,
that women would buy...

i have it easy...
any given day...
the troubles of 9 months
over 90 year of idiotic
bewilderment...
    and the bewilderment doesn't
even last 90 years,
since another bunch
of ******* are on their way...
men have it easy...
yeah... reads like a quote
from the ******* Bible...

and how much of feminism is
borrowed from
horror sci-fi?
the whole... alien thing?
how much?
i'm guessing pretty much all of it...
perhaps there's the postnatal
depression...
but then there must be a
pregnancy psychosis of being...
hijacked...
             yes... hijacked...
but never pampered...
just ego-****** incubating a fetus...

nice one...
      
i could work in a shop,
believe me...
my highest ambition was to work
in a music shop...
but guess what?!
   only food shops, cafes,
mobile phone outlets
and shoe shops are running the market...

so i say to this woman...
like brick walls over paintings?
no?
  how about the sound of silence...
turn the radio off...
the free aspect of any
production of art...
        some things are just:
necessary...

sudoku no. 10,197...
i love it when one of the grids is left
blank...
    you can easily note
which final numbers fit into all 9...
3, 8, 6, 7, 9, 1, 2, 4, 5...
  
like that 20th century dialectical
question that seems to be the only one
that still exists...
the Rolling Stones, or the Beatles...
neither, Aerosmith...
why? because i saw them live
in Hyde Park...

or from the 80s...
    Depeche Mode or the Cure?
i also saw Depeche Mode in Hyde Park...

beside the point...
what was my morning thought?
ah...
   i don't know how i managed
to keep it in my subconsciousness
without it slipping into
the unconscious and forgetfulness...

a funny thought...
i know why i dream so little...
or hardly at all...
   my capacity to dream has
been eroded with my
treating the faculty of memory
like a recurring movie -
this whole memory cinema...
or cinema of the memory...
the fact that i remember
as much as i do,
and yes, selectively,
      none the less the details,
could imply why i do not
have a brain that has evolved
to find meaning in
  dreams, per se -
i.e. dreams for the sake of dreaming...

i hear of the Anglophone high status
of dreaming encounters...
how the Anglophone people
are master architects of dreams...
maybe i'm not evolved to become
an architect of dreams,
but i'm pretty sure that,
the nature of your unconscious
doesn't allow you access
to being, in charge...

                      how can someone be
in charge of dreaming?
     i've heard that somewhere...
which makes more sense to do away
with the faculty of dreaming...
riddled with Freudian easy
access to ******* or counter-*******
symbolism...

i'm even thinking as far as:
dreams are the remains of the consciousness
of a *****...
wacky! well no **** Sherlock!
but i'm guessing that i don't dream
as much as other people,
only because
    my memory faculty has overtaken
my capacity to dream...

memory is a cinema for me,
    and perhaps my exposure to excesses
of memory, have eroded my
physical need to dream...

  sure, i don't consciously chose what
to remember,
  but... i can't entertain the argument
that i unconsciously chose what
i remember...
                  at any given moment of
recollection...
   that's not how educational rubric learning
works before sitting down
an exam.

how can i consciously chose what
to remember... when...
even if i try...
    i am capable of forgetting what,
i "thought" i would remember...
and receive a grade F on
   an essay from history about
the crusades?