Mar 2019
hmm...
people read you
in the same way as you appear
to them...
i was wished a good weekend,
like:
i walked into his parlour
for a haircut and beard-trim
as if i was about to head
into London for a one-night-stand...
o.k. edward scissor hands...
i just wanted to walk
into a supermarket
to freak out the female cashiers...
and buy a bottle of whiskey
and some pepsi,
and be served by a male
cashier...
and not have to say:
goodnight first,
but be wished goodnight,
with a sir, attached...
writing a novel...
is something akin to a life,
in the modern sense
of the biography of Bukowski,
i will never, ever
want to live out,
for a necessity to keep up
with pandering others...
who would not quicken
a diet using a corset:
did i make it to a nightclub,
"feeling special",
finding myself among
the beautiful people
at some dead end nocturnal
London groupie event
of Bloc Party making
an appearance?
forgot to sniff coke,
snogged a Finnish girl...
once upon a time
a distant past and a space
that occupies my mind:
she started snogging me
even though she made it
a curiosity while i wore
an EisenKreuz t-shirt
with the motto...
and i said: to her argument:
it's just fashion...
'ere goes the play
on the collateral...
and loaning collateral status
to jews...
what ever, war,
was, ever, a war,
from the genesis of
world war two?
for me?
the h'american war in
vietnam is a proxy war...
and, if there any "collateral":
i have the hebrew collateral...
which explains why the state
of israel could stage so many
proxy wars, which became
a patent project...
in the latest project?
the war in iraq...
i know what the feral me looks
like, with an unpekpt beard,
and a hair-cut-overgrown
with only the worth
of hiding under a hood...
avoiding people by daylight,
scuttling like a rat into
the night for the ms. amber perfume...
at 50cl of whiskey:
i guess i'll sleep o.k.,
but we have our ultimate
collateral... the jews even
have a name for collateral...
the holocaust...
all the russians that died:
m'eh... some number...
hence?
subsequent wars working
from the base collateral:
have no collateral...
ergo?
subsequent wars
are proxy...
****... i started to call them
wars: in the dimension
of the oxymoron...
when whatever war
is now proxy, by "definition"...
can only morph
into a:
bellum pre praxis
(war by practice -
well... let's just pray
to god the non-existing
almighty that terrorism
doesn't become a habitual
effort akin
to home-making
and baking cookies!)
different ******* ball-game...
or, baldie's game...
or whatever you want
to call:
where the ****** with
the afro?
50cl of whiskey:
enough to write:
and hope for a k.o.
in the "drinking game"
of trying to fall asleep,
to fit in 6 hours
in a game of being
able to stay awake for
60 hours...
with 2 hour interludes in
the circa 48 hour period...
for the exclusive right
of the collateral status,
holocaust,
the rest are:
tombstone and never
to scoop a single epitaph
of 1 per 10,000
or more...
but that's
also an anaesthetic...
given that,
all wars...
working from the collateral
plateau...
of the collateral
affected...
all subsequent wars
are proxy...
the last war
of a people against
a people against
anything against
the moon-landing
congregation of
the new church
of the new priests...
and of those:
with very, or little,
poetic extension beyond
mere nuance,
namely...
the thesaurus...
the new bible
of the practice of applying
jurispridence...
just juggle
a thesaurus access...
like: words were apples...
and apples...
were not...
pears...
congregation:
fruits that arrive
in autumn on the branch.
- and now, by the only
dictum of law:
pontius pilate,
only by the law
and the washed hands...
by now...
it takes more than just
washing the hands,
it implies washing the tongue
by having someone
to talk for you...
of the minority audacity in England,
of whom i am also,
part of...
i guess:
i can only regurgitate
the English tongue back
to the natives, and write:
what they want to hear,
but, rarely allow themselves
to implement...
with the lost verocity
of implementation...
point being:
would i trust a ****** english
hairdresser with my hair?
perhaps...
but with my beard?
not a chance in hell...
slur...
god...
like i already said:
i already felt more free being
hand-cuffed
in an alley,
being screamed at by a police-officer
for ******* in an alleyway
on Romford's Friday night...
i felt more free...
being hand-cuffed...
and then, when being
asked
to get up from my knees...
in a pseudo-turkish-akimbo
saying: NO...
than attempting this
"should-i-care"
mental gymnastics of
the sensitivity of people...
who never punched themselves
in the face,
or stubbed-out
cigarettes on their clenched
hands on the tips of their knuckles.
coming from a person
who laughs while punching himself
in the face to the point
of giving himself a black eye,
with no gloves,
with no boxing ring,
with no eager audience...
who puts out cigarettes
on the end-tips of
a fist of his knuckles
enjoying the ingestion
of a rarity of pain...
a comment...
on something akin to this...
sometimes the only emotions
are the cheap ones...
the most insect-esque...
which relieves me from
writing grand
Tolstoy literature.
people read you
in the same way as you appear
to them...
i was wished a good weekend,
like:
i walked into his parlour
for a haircut and beard-trim
as if i was about to head
into London for a one-night-stand...
o.k. edward scissor hands...
i just wanted to walk
into a supermarket
to freak out the female cashiers...
and buy a bottle of whiskey
and some pepsi,
and be served by a male
cashier...
and not have to say:
goodnight first,
but be wished goodnight,
with a sir, attached...
writing a novel...
is something akin to a life,
in the modern sense
of the biography of Bukowski,
i will never, ever
want to live out,
for a necessity to keep up
with pandering others...
who would not quicken
a diet using a corset:
did i make it to a nightclub,
"feeling special",
finding myself among
the beautiful people
at some dead end nocturnal
London groupie event
of Bloc Party making
an appearance?
forgot to sniff coke,
snogged a Finnish girl...
once upon a time
a distant past and a space
that occupies my mind:
she started snogging me
even though she made it
a curiosity while i wore
an EisenKreuz t-shirt
with the motto...
and i said: to her argument:
it's just fashion...
'ere goes the play
on the collateral...
and loaning collateral status
to jews...
what ever, war,
was, ever, a war,
from the genesis of
world war two?
for me?
the h'american war in
vietnam is a proxy war...
and, if there any "collateral":
i have the hebrew collateral...
which explains why the state
of israel could stage so many
proxy wars, which became
a patent project...
in the latest project?
the war in iraq...
i know what the feral me looks
like, with an unpekpt beard,
and a hair-cut-overgrown
with only the worth
of hiding under a hood...
avoiding people by daylight,
scuttling like a rat into
the night for the ms. amber perfume...
at 50cl of whiskey:
i guess i'll sleep o.k.,
but we have our ultimate
collateral... the jews even
have a name for collateral...
the holocaust...
all the russians that died:
m'eh... some number...
hence?
subsequent wars working
from the base collateral:
have no collateral...
ergo?
subsequent wars
are proxy...
****... i started to call them
wars: in the dimension
of the oxymoron...
when whatever war
is now proxy, by "definition"...
can only morph
into a:
bellum pre praxis
(war by practice -
well... let's just pray
to god the non-existing
almighty that terrorism
doesn't become a habitual
effort akin
to home-making
and baking cookies!)
different ******* ball-game...
or, baldie's game...
or whatever you want
to call:
where the ****** with
the afro?
50cl of whiskey:
enough to write:
and hope for a k.o.
in the "drinking game"
of trying to fall asleep,
to fit in 6 hours
in a game of being
able to stay awake for
60 hours...
with 2 hour interludes in
the circa 48 hour period...
for the exclusive right
of the collateral status,
holocaust,
the rest are:
tombstone and never
to scoop a single epitaph
of 1 per 10,000
or more...
but that's
also an anaesthetic...
given that,
all wars...
working from the collateral
plateau...
of the collateral
affected...
all subsequent wars
are proxy...
the last war
of a people against
a people against
anything against
the moon-landing
congregation of
the new church
of the new priests...
and of those:
with very, or little,
poetic extension beyond
mere nuance,
namely...
the thesaurus...
the new bible
of the practice of applying
jurispridence...
just juggle
a thesaurus access...
like: words were apples...
and apples...
were not...
pears...
congregation:
fruits that arrive
in autumn on the branch.
- and now, by the only
dictum of law:
pontius pilate,
only by the law
and the washed hands...
by now...
it takes more than just
washing the hands,
it implies washing the tongue
by having someone
to talk for you...
of the minority audacity in England,
of whom i am also,
part of...
i guess:
i can only regurgitate
the English tongue back
to the natives, and write:
what they want to hear,
but, rarely allow themselves
to implement...
with the lost verocity
of implementation...
point being:
would i trust a ****** english
hairdresser with my hair?
perhaps...
but with my beard?
not a chance in hell...
slur...
god...
like i already said:
i already felt more free being
hand-cuffed
in an alley,
being screamed at by a police-officer
for ******* in an alleyway
on Romford's Friday night...
i felt more free...
being hand-cuffed...
and then, when being
asked
to get up from my knees...
in a pseudo-turkish-akimbo
saying: NO...
than attempting this
"should-i-care"
mental gymnastics of
the sensitivity of people...
who never punched themselves
in the face,
or stubbed-out
cigarettes on their clenched
hands on the tips of their knuckles.
coming from a person
who laughs while punching himself
in the face to the point
of giving himself a black eye,
with no gloves,
with no boxing ring,
with no eager audience...
who puts out cigarettes
on the end-tips of
a fist of his knuckles
enjoying the ingestion
of a rarity of pain...
a comment...
on something akin to this...
sometimes the only emotions
are the cheap ones...
the most insect-esque...
which relieves me from
writing grand
Tolstoy literature.
