i really had to get on m'ah... ******* bicycle
to know my way around London...
working out a pseudo-touristy vein of
"sigh-seeing" armed with only
a pair of legs and a tube map...
no... not really...
from the nearing outskirts of greater
London - teasing the M25 by something
like 7 miles...
and cycling in past the A406
through little Bengali-land of what used
to be a somewhat of a 'ebrew stronghold
of Ilford... Gants Hill... Barkingside...
what happens before a "white flight"?
the tribe flees...
i do remember Ilford when it entertained
some Kosovo-Albanians...
they'd huddle in coffee shops and
dream-up the fate of their nation...
what's that cycling route SC2... S2C?
from all the way that's Romford...
through to Stratford...
and into the sq. mile territory...
then across the river...
over some bridge... toward Clapham...
teasing Brixton...
you know... i greatly admire the concept
of res vanus when i'm bi-cycling...
i also greatly adore the fickle nature
of two wheels... teasing 30mph downhill...
balancing on a bicycle...
well... it's not exactly a juggling act... is it?
but i very much adore O: i very much adore
the freedom from thought:
by-cycling allows this much...
i never liked the need for
the cartesian: res cogitans...
            so much "thinking": the bluntness
of all this fudge-packaging narrative...
as a res cogitans construct you must
be "thinking": narrating... no?
blunted senses...
people walking into your cycling lane
at the bus stop... you exclaiming:
******' 'ell... since the bicycle isn't a worry:
the worry comes from you causing harm (etc.)
so much vanguard emptiness
to heave, sow, experience... like being
injected with a gust of wind disguised
as a wet, ****...
to-ast!
  a minor route today...
via Barking... some Irish immigrant who
started working as a bouncer in
a nightclub... who i remember being
unable to jump over a south park
fence left dangling on a " stirrup"
of his wedgy...
how he didn't lose his ****
virginity to a park fence pike:
i will never know...
well, i will... i was there...
and who other than peter richardson
helped me lift ol' chubby from his
"debate", ever, so... swiftly...

kieran o'mahoney...
we were lined up for a lesson in
practical works...
we ended up boxing...
i massaged his kidneys
and there was a thrill to be alive...

suppose these places could become
these: whittle buddha-kingdoms of sort...
suppose i didn't wake up in the middle
of the night: completely upside-down...
in my bed... after watching too many...
too many... wandering stars...
like the moth that i am:

via Ilford through to Barking...
well... i heard horror stories about Barking...
how it became "infested"...
i feel uncomfortable when in Warsaw:
among my "kindred"...
among the same ol' ****** wandering: bligth
i don't feel comfortable among fellow Polacks...
trust me in giving no favours to
Germans or Russians either...
apparently Barking is this *******...
Dagenham?! probably...

i'd sooner sift through... sink. drown...
through a sham'b'oh of a tonne of curry
than pretend to care to have to elevate
the spectacle of an English roast...
it's not like the French weren't already quizzical
about the the doubly-butchered beef
of the English...
in the time of Dickens the poor were fed
oysters...
sooner me in a tonne of curry
than lining to a bow of: fake... fake!
fake! integration!

i'll retain my tongue: mother: for my concern
for an intact soul...
it's not like a Volatire could be given this
dilemma and the status of Fwench...
no?
the Hindu and his ******* Sanskrit...
feeble creatures on the outskirts of
where Rome breathed...
only unique via accenting certain letters
while English: lingua al fresco...
is... well... devoid of such umlauts
and carons and...

short story be told with much less
editorial focus...
well... d'uh...
if not now... then when?
Barking was this supposed shitshow
of other people's lives...
Canning Town extension...
having cycled through the through...
well i agree...
there is a chance to spot a mythological
blonde specimen walking freely
in the vicinity of some major obstacle
of sky...
it's like... the niqab does extend
into keeping this canaries
in the coalmine of not being seen:
except when paraded in **** flicks...
beside the point...

that stretch of land from Barking toward
Becontree...
well.. anywhere is a nowhere without a sun
glistening the rough edges...
of trimmings of... detail...
but when the sun shines...
and it does shine...
even... Dagenham... even Barking...
for ****'s sake...
appears appealing through all that filth of
excessing into concrete, labours...

Huns invented the stirrup...
i won't bother chasing the correct answer:
who the **** invented the peddles?
can you ride a bicycle without employing
that detail of: pedals?
then why the **** did people ride horses...
without.. stirrups?!
i imagine riding bulls...
revise those paintings of battles
that employed horses...
replace them with bull-charges...

anywhere can be a ******* when the sun
isn't shining...
honest to god and no god:
but the cliff edges of the Faroe Isles
look best when: the sun isn't poking
it pretty face through the clot of cloud...
but places like Dagenham... Barking?
shine a little light on this: creak in concern for
thrill...
on the crackling like pork on a pike
sort of concrete adventurism...

strip the big back toward
a belt and shoe...
some other purpose of
a roundabout....
no, i too... "see" no... "other"....

it's not peoples' pleasures
and there's a marble arch...
it's that there's an arching
of supposed marble...
there's the truant tourist: touristy...

               i fake to go fully blog.