i don't suppose every psychologists might think
that having a strong father figure in your
life implies that you'll subsequently end up:
just dandy...

or how there's this stereotypical fathom of man
on the dating market as:
the hunter... chasing women...
hell... if i had the money Oscar Schindler had...
i too would probably end up
being a womanizer...

my father is a diligent man...
an honest worker... i worked with him one fine
summer in between year one and year
two of studying for a chemistry
degree on the roof of what would become
the Scottish Widows HQ...
i remember parading my colt muscles
in the blistering sun against
the backdrop of felt rolls...
tar slobbered onto concrete and gravel...
insulation take-a-break & min-K...

but i've seen what disappointments he
had to face...
a two-faced cousin that undermined his
entire self-employed: employing
others structure... teaching them...
in a flash of a whim: all gone...
the golden-goose that lay eggs
and was subsequently brushed aside...
perhaps merely a language barrier...

the most good of men...
diligent... ethical by hard-work...
to suppose you: the son...
are somehow to turn out all fine and dandy:
the next cog in the machinery of grinding you
down: grinding you until there's no: halt!
suppose i was the by-product of
single-motherhood...
i had myself a tiger-mom:
i had instilled in me the sort of ambitions
to repay my mother:
like a Raheem Sterling might...

my father is...
i couldn't be my father...
then again instead of going to university:
a waste of time... he went to a technical
college and learned the practicality of
metallurgy... but then the town i was born in:
almost famous for its metallurgy (
most of the Stade de France came from
my little ******* of a town)
imploded... Soviet-satellite bits & bobs
were sold off to the lowest bidder...
a city nearing 100,000 became reduced to:
tumbleweed: return to village-esque:
a city of the living awaiting death:
a city of pensioners...
and the odd: last remaining... new-money...
start-ups...
not even that... a city of priests
and grannies "repentant"...

between True Grit (2010) and True Grit (1969):
well... for the role of
Rooster Cogburn.... if i had a father worse
than the father i have:
you can't really come across as a prodigy
in a field your father already mastered...
you want to become your own man...
poetry... hardly a field to compete with earning
money and the general idea of trade:
poetry wouldn't provide for a company
of a woman or a child...
not since Horace... not ever...
Bukowski made it... the rest of us seem to be
deluded: even he probably knew...
but i most certainly could be my father:
there's no trade in chemistry:
there's only a cubicle...
and... even on an oil-rig off the coast
of Scotland... you need someone to cover
your back... you don't need a chemistry
degree...
for most work... it's not that you've learned:
age old fable: who you know...
and who you know implies:
something being past down, directly...
not by theory...

no... i am honestly without the sort of ambition
that my father possessed...
to receive a letter from No. 10 by
the administration of a David Cameron (ex PM)
celebrating his clarity of paying taxes...
look at me... i don't even earn enough
money to legally pay taxes!
there's no heritage in my name...
i've had two surnames already...
the surnames have become pointless
since in my native tongue it was a joke:
do dupy - into an ***...
and in my acquired tongue my new surname
is also a joke... am i highly responsive?

i have a terrible surname: no wonder i decided
to use up the Catholic mess
of baptism and having a second name...
which would do be justice...
it's not like i was born into a line of
the Merovingian(s)...
so... eh... all these excuses these days...
to imagine the concept of family...
cousins... aunts... seems rather odd...
only today my mother received a phone-call
where she was informed by her mother
that her godfather died...
and she only found out 3 days after the funeral...
my mother's godfather had
5 brothers... my grandfather: p.b.u.h.
was one of them...
another brother of his only found out
a day after the funeral...
COVID is an excuse... not leaving enough
necrologues around a small city...
mobile phones...

               if brother dies and no brother is informed...
family... ha! what's that?
the old days of cousins... aunts...
the fabled Cockney matriarch with
her grand funeral procession: called 'er NUNS
or PETS or some other Scouser loved-up-rubbed-ruby...

did i forget to mention that my father
wasn't part of my life from the ages
of 4 through to 8?
when i met him after this absence:
that's what happened when the Soviet
regime and its subsequent satellite states
disintegrated into the wild west of new-capitalism...
i hugged a stranger...
for all i know: i buried my alcoholic
grandfather who didn't scold me for
piercing his bicycle wheel in order
that he wouldn't have to go to work...
the one who took me into the fields and
watched as i climbed trees
while Bella! the Alsatian barked with concern
as she couldn't imitate monkey!

the great western brain-&-labour-drain...
it happened... it was real...
pressure in the early 1990s...
by 2004 it came around more on the lines of:
*****-nilly...
i've been waiting for the psychiatric
diagnosis to ring true after... oh... 10 years...
i'm being more introspective and reflective
while the rest of the undiagnosed people
are running: rampant: hyped-up pseudo-news...

hell; i don't write: oh woe: my tale is the worst
to be behold: the people with the most
terrible... ahem... tragic stories should never
write about them: other people are bound
to encapsulate it better: hell: they might even
write a ******* opera!
no... i'm writing this because i see a fork
in the road... no one but me will divulge
as much as i can...

i'll pretend my father is already dead...
why? it's a Friday night and i'm packing for
some "adventure" most associated with
a Friday night in the "west":
friends... drinking... random *******...
all that mash-up of cosmopolitanism...
instead? i'm cooked-up sitting in the attic
playing chess with clutter...
moving box X from position Y to position B...
moving "necessary" clutter Z from position
A to a giraffe height of S...
i tell my mother: this is futile work...
there's a tragedy waiting for someone...
(namely me) who will have to sieve through
all this "necessary" crap and leave it for the
skip to decide...

oh i'm waiting for the day... i'm almost gagging
for it... like the day i say: **** it...
go into a forest... eat a lilac mushroom...
drink a bottle of bourbon and do a quick
1-2-3... the artery just behind my collar bone...
the artery in my right arm-pit...
and... don't *******'s me about
like it's some church-bell uvula:
there is no... there is no... ******* "heart rate"
in the wrist... you must aim higher up...
arteries can't be weaved into
the mesh of the carpal bones... *******...
putting the theatre curtain alight
telling me: oh oh! there's a pulse in that delta
of carpal bones... like **** there is...
ugh... ugly medicine practice...
i've already been fed enough chemistry
that has turned my brain into a cheerio-chemo-soup...
because... "some" imbalance...
imbalance this...

DAB... radio... at circa 88MHz i've been listening
to static of some "central groove" station...
it's mostly static... i thought i was listening
to BBC radio 3... switched from DAB to FM
and manually found BBC radio 3 at 91.35MHz...
of course it's still 20th century rigid...
rug-gy... there's static but at least i'm hearing
the talk...
that's what also gave me a downer...
it's not only my parents... i too...
but i wouldn't wouldn't just shift boxes
in the attic to make up time...
time as the space occupied by boxes...
i wouldn't be able to love a woman
like my mother like my father has...
no... first come, first served...
my mother is impossible:
but when she is what she is...
i haven't met a woman: to date...
that might want to showcase her
impossibly me...
most women still pretend they are
mythological creatures: unable to fathom
constipation....
all geared up for the alpha male plunder...
three letters:
alpha... beta... omega...

       i'm last: i'll write in order to complete
the rest of the spectrum...
write too much: or write too little:
of the former:
write enough to create an exclusive club
for those still preserving the constitution
of: hide & seek...
this is a game of hide & seek...
it can't be anything less...

i can't compete with my father...
what happens to a child when he is 4 through
to 8...
but his father isn't there:
his mother isn't there either... from the age
of 6 through to 8...
lightyears...
i had a Dobberman for a brother...
and an Alsatian for a sister...
now i have two Maine **** cats since...
well... it's not like i'm tender with them...
i like to scare them... they like to be scared...
yet at least one of them ends up
falling asleep in my bed...

i keep typing until midnight and
he's more than welcome...
as are all the moths...
would you believe it?
storage of clothing... winter coats...
to preserve them...
from an attack of moth larvae?
laurel leaves...

i hear a voice: 'mateusz... płoną góry!'
matthew: the mountains are burning!
yes... i've heard the end of the world is near:
no nearer to the world: nor the end...
either way: no nearer to the world or: to the end...

my wordsmith ambitions can be matched with
a father as... plumber...
but they can never be matched with
said ambitions: translated into payment!
into the trans-valuation of "all" values...
i can be this poo'et i am:
but it will never scratch the rewards:
of... the poorest job of plumbing...
of constipation blues...

suddenly Norman Davies is a bad historian
for calling US... yes... "us" the bad pronoun
collective Pollack the industrial *******?
we didn't pick cotton...
we weren't the choicest of athletes...
i digress... we're still not..
envy... the blacks will be despised for
their athleticism... the Jewry for their intellect...
come: to the bleaching crux...
third generation having ****** enough
whitey sandpaper... don't worry...
the mulatto "stigmata" will seize to exist...
unless... perpetuated... in placed like: Bra-Zyl...

but the aqua-people will respond...
so much for the kippah...
and the excess of muscles around the pelvis
when running from lion...
no chance of "racial equality"
come: finding a swimming mate... no?

yes... this must be a healthy ambition to counter
a concept of "father": this disillusioned son
i've had to become:
finding people talk about Rumi
while i'm stuck on glancing at the theatre of
******* Rambo
with him
come the resurrected
91.35MHz (in the range 90.2 - 92.6MHz)...
normal people have these candlelight supper
conversations all of a sudden...
some excuse to escape their needlework
paper on paper: forest without trees
analogy SHAMBOS...

if i were not writing words: scribbling them
without agony: teach me to use the hammer
and put pressure on the nail!
all that's currently deemed "work":
seems nothing short of merely:
loitering...
the space-occupying an otherwise
welcome absence...

i can't be my father... i can't be my grandfather...
although my father having celebrated
being gladly tee-total...
my (maternal) grandfather's love for
slobbering of liquor:
translates...
come to think of it...
beside the onslaught of pornographic insomnia:
would i rather drink myself
to death: subsequently write...
or ******* and only write with
a hand spare?
is there a former... or a latter
when giving a reply?

i just see red...
whoever was king david's father...
i'm pretty sure king david gave birth
to king solomon...
king solomon wasn't much interest in music:
therefore psalms...
he much preferred "wisdom" and...
the music of the choir of women
giving up their onomatopoeias of vowels
of the ******...
will anyone entice me to remind everyone
else of the son... the next king of Israel...
that came... after... Solomon... "the wise"...
David was wise...

he wrote the Psalms... he had some
interest in music... he even wrote
some lyrics...
Hallelujah... a one word... bonanza quest...
what undermines the wisdom
of king Solomon: the envy of the paupers:
anyone could be so wise...
if they had a summer harem choice...
a spring harem choice...
a harem within a harem...
a quickie and there also being some...
favourite...
Solomon no ******* Buddha...

can the peers of mine: question my hammer's worth
against the futures of... nails...
would i be able to justify their...
"presence"....
not here: not now...
i abolish all concern for...
casual al fresco cafe culture:

each to his own underground... each to his own:
rat infested hive...
here's one to ease away from:
why so many pornographic actresses
seems to die so young and from cancer?
what is cancer: deciphered as
botanical?
a fungus... mistletoe...

      i will never own up or therefore be:
my father's worth...
for what's... ghost society: woo or woe...
i'll end up sniffing some "pearls" of
moths while i'm clamouring
over disintegrating metaphors of plunder...

this is a relapse into listening to BBC Radio 3....
god: i better be found drunk
defending this pish-poor sort of
a... *******! ******* bunker!
no... my father is the agreeable sober-artefact
of... work hard... pays off...
i'm of the lineage:
think: "smart" ought to pay off...
i never gambled...
hence the "ought"...

in the attic i found a 16-BIT
sonic the hedgehog SEGA cartrige....
MADE IN JAPAN... circa 1993...
last time i heard...
some pristine exemplar fetched a sum
of over $1 million...
for a mario nitendo...
64...

how much for a russian empire
banknote... with the face of Nicholas II
on it?i am almost glad to have been
born dead... thinking about
it is almost a penny's worth of:
the sweet bits in between.