and i will go to her,
either monday, or tuesday,
and ask her:

doctor...
what is the lesser
of the two evils...

drinking less,
or rather, not drinking
at all,
    and only being
able to find roughly
2 hours of sleep
in 50 hours?

or drinking...
ending up waking up
imbued with
a body odour best
ascribed
to a whiskey brewery,
and being awake
for about 14 hours
of the 60 or so available
hours?

     do any of these
hallucinations come
from sleep deprivation,
while all these
        omamy of a
      desperate tongue...
translated into
    a language of despair...

in the newspapers...
the opinion is:
    prison cells are not
schizophrenic hotels...
funny...
   i must be the oddest
variant of a "schizophrenic"...

i was mistook
   a police van for a taxi cab...
lying near to death
from alcohol poisoning
at a bus stop...
a passer-by called
the police,
we exchanged courtesy
with the police-officer...
he was pleasant enough
to put me into
a police van cage....
and he drove me home...

i must be an oddity...
   my reaction to psychotic
anger is like a turtle...

mixed opinion about
my experiences
with the police...
one cadet cuffed me
while i was on my knees
and shouted at me
for ******* in an alleyway
on drunk friday
in romford...
while i just refused
to get up...

          hand-cuffed
one minute,
   hand-cuffs missing
the next...

   it's either i was a good
liar, or wasn't a liar
at all...
  like: what sort of idiot
would lie about
being schizoid?
   for a meagre social
"allowance"
   of 120 quid a week?
**** me...
7 years later and i'm
stretching it...
stretched it as far
to travel to Athens,
through the Balkans,
Poland, Amsterdam
  and back to London...

hence my dissonance
when it comes
to the "question" of,
   "reality"...
             like i ever tried
talking "reality"
  on a scale of inquest by
the physics department
of Edinburgh university...

and then the radio
spews out:
  bruce hornsby -
i start thinking about
the neurotic cage
of the lyrics of
   2pac and the "stealth tax"
of... ******...
        we just borrowed...
and then my reply:
so when
is my chance
to play the tennis back?

   it was never
a harsh: plagiarism...
but in all honesty?
  i felt more free being
hand-cuffed
on my knees telling
a colt police cadet
that: as much as he
was going to scream
at me:
i would not stand up,
he'd have to pick me...
getting kicked
in the *****
at one of those martial
arts classes
for not shouting
HA my making
a martial law chop-suey
walk...
was easier...
   than all these mental
cages...
   fake *******
of saying: 'the "n" word'...
no...
   i'm pretty sure
those people
   are saying: 'the n- word',
   see...
i don't see the "air" quotes...
i see there's a hyphen
in that...
   so...
   it's a prefix statement...
of the already apparent
thought: screaming
for some retribution
of a past,
  which has not currency
for me in the present,
other than...
     bruce hornsby
                              ft. 2pac...
so where's my tennis
moment?

        coolio ft. pachelbel...
being thrown under
the multicultural bus...
    like:
   i might even want to relate...
but being born
into a very monochromatic
society...
  monogomous-in-ethno-centrism...
but...­
   police officer
care for no *****?
   in london,
given the knife crime
epidemic:
   it's more ***** care
for no *****?

    - but i'm cool with that...
white boy uncomfortable
    posit...
         can only ever become
a mental health patient...
who has never been
section, doesn't know what
a mental asylum looks
like...
   know how psychiatrists
employ false regression...
know the chemcial
cocktail...
             insinuations
of: "abused as a child"
   talked about in third person:
talked aloud...

i should have just left
this night with
gyöngyhajú lány...
but then this song came on,
this piano...
  and i thought
about my childhood
friend samuel...
  how i walk across
st. valentine's park
from my house to his,
and from his house to school...
and we'd spend about 3 hours
per day walking
and talking...
  we'd pretend to be
skateboarders...
   and all round
   basic ****-ups...

and seriously: some of the language
is just bait...
   such a base piano
originality...
    being taxed with
      so many words akin
           to 2pac's... sample;
just when when words
are polarizing,
and they're not philip glass,
or krzysztof penderecki,
   seemingly the:
      last chance script.

p.s. samuel,
who introduced me to
old jamaican cream soda...
and...
     how to not
    don a mohican haircut...
and...
           what is ever
come from within
   the circus of memory.