i have no contemporaries... i live among no contemporaries... i live among the contempt zombies: some dead here thrown... to suckle at the grinding of flesh: some... peter sinfield wrote... i have no contemporaries... i have this vacant breath: thank god i didn't invest in "family"... less a funeral... more a disappearing act! repeat the tides of spring... repeat the glimmer of ancient winter... remind me... Europe: funnel of the deaf earth... beside our Turkic past... before the Ottoman altar at the grinding: whip... lash... of the pride that once was Constantinople... tide: the currency of time: us nuanced: new... new Brazilian... all mixed up and holy Babel: come the crashing urn: my "utopia" of... my... fading suntan...  kupfernacken... i scribble itching: pretending them to be letters: born from Greenwich... ghostly freelance... such a tidy little place i can ghost... align myself to past: to pass trivial concerns... women marry... men dissolve into a figment of their imagination... the best doggy... the walking abortions that they were already sentenced with... i have no contemporaries... all my compatriots of now are... still in high-school... i have no contemporaries... befitting... all i have ever read was by those already dead: necromancer: reads.... conjure up the devil without fire... with smoke and mirrors he comes... or came... with a cat screaming: cite Bulgakov! i do the *****... rather: i do the ***... he play more the backgammon because... chess is... ******* boring... given the adventure allowed by FFVII... for example... we were teenage boys once... we still are... come to think of it... i don't want to learn of the universe of women and... at least with prostitutes... i have a heart that's the size of a pebble... and a tear the size of a lake... yes... that's plenty.


either the day begins like: pouring some milk into
a glass of water...
or the day ends like: pouring some water
into a glass of milk...

the day, sober... began with:

cussons' imperial leather:
cotton clouds & white cashmere...
a shower fragrance like
no other...
    well... if a shower gel reminds
you of a mythological
sweet / pastry you had
aged circa 4... on a train...
going from Danzig back home...
i guess that's probably right...

but if i'm wrong about that
i'm certainly right about:
a splash of ***... or whiskey...
in a black coffee...
why did i ever bother with cream?!

then defrosting two refrigerators
got in the day...
house chores: cleaning the "stanzas":
the square...
one remorseful hour with
the road on my bicycle...
no thought: just spatial coordination:
unconscious arithmetic...

linger until midnight...
past midnight pretend to sleep for
an hour... then get up and "hunt" for
a glass of milk...

eclipse heritage: mount gay Barbados ***...
a fine fine ***...
finer than any mr. whiskers or ms. amber
has to offer...

why has it not dawned upon the western:
liberal man that...
he's somehow... not... the... universal man?
translated in Afghanistan?
who the hell is going to bemoan
the rise-up of Taliban "two-point-oh"?!
i'm celebrating...
like the partisan h'americans are still trying
to celebrate the Hebrews having their
land back!

i'm happy for the Afghan people!
why wouldn't you be?
well thank you: mr. universal man...
thank you for the railroads...
thank you for your chemistry...
thank you for so much...
but... don't you have an incel "problem":
trying to shove it under a bright orange
carpet of psychiatry...
it's going to be much harder to bribe
these monks...
than it would take to bribe the Jihadis
with 72 virgins...
after all: ever heard of a jihadi that
performed an act of Jihad by killing
his mother, first?

it's like that joke akin to: a priest,
a rabbi and an imam walk into a bar...
an incel, a jihadi and a...
walk into... a nunnery...

mr. universal man... thank god you're
finally leaving Afghanistan...
are the Hebrews the only sacred
cows in your Hindu zodiac?
i believe firmly: leave the people to their
own fate... or demise...
last time i heard... Afghan women
were waterfalls of poetry with their
Landays...

                     mr. universal man has attracted
a multi-cultural palette...
even the Armenian bread like lavash was
some story...
sorry... when was the last time you
heard the ******* backstory of
a croissant?!
only the "noble savages" have stories...
we have turkey-t.v.:
we have no stories... no heritage...
nothing at all concerning
the French fries... we didn't invent
anything: culinary...
never used mint... rosemary... thyme...
we just ******* nuked nuked nuked...

the flat-chested flat-bread paupers
who were beaten by a pancake
and never hunted down: yeast! yeast!
rise! miracle of flour!
rise! like the sun!

cheap-****-sushi...
let them be... let them shove a stick
and a rubber shoe into the mountain
to draw some water to nourish their
goats...

mr. universal man...
why are westerners so concerned with
what might happen to Afghanistan?
probably something less terrible than
what already took place:
i'm of the maxim:
the terrible has already happened...
Viet-Now...

mr. universal man has problems re-abstracting
what is concrete to others...
since... mr. universal man
hasn't lived long enough to have lost
what others are vying for...

he invented all such splendorous games
and amusements befitting a cosmopolitan
echo chamber that he forgot what
a tree or a rock might imply...

he's so blind to churn out an introspection:
a new breed of terrorist he hides
under a blanket of psychiatry...
thinking: this one more time... this time again:
the sun will rise...

these need breeds start with killing
their mother! or end with killing their mother!
jihadis aim for collateral fog...
they're aiming for 72 virgins...
what have you to bribe these "monks"?

eh... there's a romance to be had with
Afghanistan and the Taliban...
it's not unlike
the amphetamine fuelled antics
of the Syrian pseudo-caliphate...
an Afghani is not ****
in the eyes of the Hindu...
he's a less sensitive breed: almost alien...
somewhat teasing the Iranian...
but then again... what do i know?

reminiscence of a time when a troll
of a girl chased me in high-school...
i was cycling up to the top of Bower Hill
when i stopped to change the music...
a woman was jogging against
the tide of traffic i was encompassing...
she too decided to stop "jogging"
to change her soundtrack...
she must have been admiring my Turkish
take on ****** hair... if i had a mirror
i too would be... in between itching
to squeeze the last maggot of phlegm
and acne from my face:
because Beelzebub took a **** on my face!
if he was a she i'd imagine it
would run along the lines of:
she sat with her fully fattened *****
onto my face and told me to slurp!
whizz-kid concerning oysters...
n'est c'est pas?

i feel inclined to dream about joining
the Tally-*** band of brothers...
i'm bored with the music...
last time i heard they were into listening to:
pretending to listen to: listening to:
silence...
next comes a Hegel or a Kant...
attacked by bouts of schizophrenia:

loose term... i much prefer the older
noun... dementia praecox...
premature dementia...
it's less a metaphor...
after all: what is the experience of consciousness:
the science of: drugging up the experiencer?
to dull the experience?
what senses are we inviting when
the schizoid is hardly: half-of-hearing?

ha ha!
of those philosophers' ivory towers that are books:
some followed-through: some unchallenged:
some unread...
like Kjartan on Heidegger in Knausgaard's
vol. 4...
apparently living in London:
well... it's not like you can be ever bored
of London... south of the Thames:
esp. circa the central projects of attracting
postcards... is all the same...
but south of London... isn't it... Kent... Sussex?
that's most certainly not...
the grand underground wheelie of...
Hainault is Greater London...
but Chigwell is Essex... proper...
south London is a different country...
it might as well be Northumbria!