when you're hungry,
you only end up thinking about food;

sure... you can glug down
the whiskey,
but the whiskey soon
becomes akin to milk...

  and the problems of
other people, made real,
in some quasi-take
on reality,
of voices, that once were
voices, that now become
echoes...

blood sugar level...
low...
               i write with
a fainting to curate my
body into the next half an hour...

the cat is still asleep on
the bed...
         i remain hunched
on a chair...
     you know how annoying
it is,
to watch these youtube
videos,
with a squint:
one eye closed,
the other peering
        into a void of gob?

i keep and tract
myself to a concession of a nod...
yes, i agree...
   i just can't fathom
fighting
   the fight of the english,
when, i am,
myself, not english...

   a land a lore and all
for the glorious succumb
of the exodus...

             in my mind,
at least...

                   i'm not english...
i never was, i never will be...
but seeing these people
bombarded with the journalist
jargon that cannot replace
itself from
the humble beginning
as depicted by
all the president's men...

             sure... i'm the pauper...
and you, you're the skyve?
given a pension aged
49... old...
                      so...
      so!                  was­ is't arbeit?!

all art is but
a scrutiny of any and all
recreational activity to bypass
made, more accommodating,
via...
  the consolation prize of
being....   funded...

       me? i failed...
but nice to see to having failed
on a canvas of
8 billion people...
          
                     such a lurking
inhibition of comfort,
to be made an association with...
the 10pm newsreel
           of an ambitious speaker /
reader of the news.

i imagine the 30 minutes
involved between
choosing
to either turn the t.v. ON
or the t.v. OFF...

after a while...
i lose the ability to choose.

right...
so there's no loße...
           to have made a choice...
to choose...
     but to have chosen...
a choice...
      ******* riddling loss
                  of an omicron...
sure, sure...
   mr. ******* john wayne...
so there's no loss:
there would be none
if there was no
   centimetre measure
of a difference between
loße and loose!

loose: not to loße...
  loss...
           *******
     spaghetti myopia
of the spelling...
       lot...
            past-participle...

me: equivalent to
gene hackman
in enemy of the state...
i get to enjoy being
panicky-picky
with my words...
when i'm writing while fasting...
and there's
a ******* cat sleeping in my
bed, just prior to my wanting
to drink myself
into a lullaby of a metaphorical
boxing-match K.O....
alright?

      the more i fast,
the more of a quran spews out
of me for
any worth of pedantry...
     it's like an itch...
in the gut...
  juggling a vacuum
of something waiting
to be reiterated back
into a function of sorts...

you want to die,
but then you are told to live...
you want to live,
but then you unexpectedly die...
******* took a ****
good care of the "proverb"
of: life's a *****, and then you die...

what sort of proverb is that?!
that's only an excuse for,
rather than of a proverb...
******* Shakespearean
sentimentalists...
      grapheme tackle of
the spelling of the siamese vowels?

me, gene hackman grumpy...
listening to some ed sheeran...
****'s sake!
        the lot
of very little sugar,
writing while ingesting
the Switzerland of
the body's worth of fat...
          ******* annoying.