i, believe, once had the sole
ambitions of either becoming
a bus driver:
never learned to drive a car,
but ride a horse?
sign me up...
   squeeze the flank
with the right heel,
tug the bit (that piece
of equipment,
in between the proper
tooth alligned missing chew;
with the bit...
horses are always make
a placebo to imitate chewing)
left...
              heels pressing on
the right side of the horse's canvas
of torso...
the hands gravitating toward
the left with the head...
the horse moves left....
  i can ride a horse...
god help me should i ever
drive a car...
what thrill is there behind
speeding in a car
or on a motorbike,
dislocated soul missing
the prancing horse?
i guess driving a car,
is about as pointless
as attaching a leash
to a cat, thinking it's a horse,
or a string to a butterfly,
thinking it's a ******* kite!
all i ever wanted was
to occupy a music shop...
you know what
system of a down did
that all the punk bands of the mainstream
missed?
   reducing the attention span
of the listener
to under 3 minutes;
genius.
      my ambition to become a bus-driver
came with,
bus route no. 5...
                   and that's where it
ended...
since i vaguely remember
every taxi journey i ever took...
not like bus no. 86 from romford
to stratford, dropping me off
to school...
    very important people in
"our" midst...
          tall *******,
dwarf mothertfuckers,
rabbits, hybrids,
      schizoid outliers...
just your usual tabloid press...
you really have to be a *******
****, to ******* a paraoid schizophrenic...
akin to?
   imagine:
left in limbo,
of being forever: suspect...
on a minority report
      potentiality list of:
             dormant tragedy...

"voices", what "voices"?
         permanent suspect...
   that substance called the ease
of thought, with which
one has the ease to think?
it sometimes
               can become akin to...
less a bullet,
        and more shrapnel...
who the **** is appeasing who...
first they tell me
   they kept the prisons,
then they told me
they got rid of the asylums...
         and...
the orthodox chronic madmen
are readily running free,
ensuring mild psychiastric conditions
are being exfoliated out
of proportion?
  now, go back,
and tell the mild symptom
sufferers that there's a hierarchy
of madness...
   psychotic pharaoh sits on the top...

but i acknowledge, in the least,
that there's a gradation
of the experience of thought,
the placebo solipsist: normal...
   am i a tailor,
or am i a ******* butcher?
take your pick within the confines
of tabloid press lack of
verbiosity, eloquence,
or the general standard of etiquette,
confined to a standard aesthetic...

     did they **** the prize
bull ed gein... or did they keep him
alive for the better part of 20 years,
extracting cultural inspiration
from him? nay, 40 years later
by my best estimate!

to have to pander to the "natural"
sequence of events...
abnormalities of youth...
so there are no outliers...
or the outliers need to be shamed...
tabloid bullied...
until... another takes to
extreme measures...
but the retards can ******* in
public, because mommy & daddy
decided to have an "accident"
child in their mid-years,
only to increase their income
with the ****** chequers...

         pass me the blunt knife,
i feel like scratching my face...
it's just... just so plain ******* itchy!

so i'd say: wanna play with
the big boys?
the medium of thought...
and the medium...
where there's both
the disinhibited will,
and the shrapnel of will...
what no one would dare
call remnants of identity,
rather: remnants of the "ego"...

      i'm already strapped
to a tabloid assortment of tabloid spew,
the perfect suspect...
   seemingly:
only english schizoids are
tender, loving, creatures!
   the rest of us...
are...
  forever, suspect.
      no crime was committed...
unless...
******* in an alley on a friday
night, when all the brits get wasted
in essex is worth being handcuffed
and scream at by some boppy...

                                 well...
knife crime...
m'eh...
          do i have a face
of a person, that does,
                     or should, give, a ****?

see... madness is in no way
related to i.q.,
   stupid people go mad,
smart people go mad,
what matters is,
how you tap into the madness,
and what's left
to relieve you from
ever having to perform
a disinhibited act of
spontaneity, akin to homocide...

sane people perform more
grevious acts than madmen...
given that they perform them
with: premeditation...
with no: outside-inner
3rd party influence of, "voices"
to excuse themselves with...

   no, i will not be prevented from
being fascinated by
schizophrenics...
      fat chance of that happening...
i'd love to spend
a summer at the broadmoor hospital;
for once,
i might have a chance to
meet some interesting people...

conscience:
be careful what you wish for...

what? that and reading
sh'ight akin to the tabloid daily mail...
and no the sunday times?

why wouldn't i be fascinated
by schizophrenics?
when i'm entrenched bilingual?
i thought we were exchanging
ideas in the same currency
of metaphors?

       what's the difference
between being ridiculed...
                      and being patronißed?
- the entire basis for man
exacting law,
   was founded upon
extracting vectors of judgment,
                     via a thesaurus...
synonyms to some,
antonyms to others...
                 pedantic quests for
                          others...
             depends what you might
need a blunt knife for,
depends what you might need
a sharp knife for...
   and there's a difference...
     last time i heard...
a jihadi john wasn't using a sharp
knife to behead someone,
never mind using an axe...
he needed a blunt knife...
something akin to:
spreading butter on a warm
                                   slice of toast...

one might suspect...
what cancer?
   ever looked at a tree riddled
                      with mistletoe?
"voices"...
what an obscure term...
to deem ego-shrapnel
        a foreign entity of sorts...
in the multiple-form
of the varying symptom...

        again: even if you manage
to control this symptom...
forget it...
you're forever suspect,
    riddled by a minority report...
of the 0.1%
of the population...
the rest?
  too busy to walk into
a nightmare,
let alone dream out a counter-,
an inhibition,
a waiting game...
with enough time...
to watch the day-to-day
          modern suburban gothica.
          
i only had two dream jobs...
either a bus-driver...
or...
     someone working in
a music shop...
   like: good ******* luck...
if either of these will ever
come into fruition;
more like:
supermarket
shelf-stacker...
   but not... a tabloid-press
columnist...
                                    phew!