i recall someone once mentioning: the trouble with writing
these days is... that we're writing about reading...
perhaps... i'm assured that everyone is literate:
affirmative of numbers and basic arithmetic...

but people still leave graffiti scribbles on walls...
paper too expensive?
  but some people are still dyslexic...
                 oddly enough there's no concept of dyslexia
in ****** spreschen...
          there are: orthographic mistakes...
for example...
morze vs. może...
            maybe vs. sea...

                   bigger problems with U and Ó...
O itself is not the problem...
         i.e. / e.g. za późno   (too late)
why ó and not u?
                    it's the same sound...
    this is what orthography looks like...
                           Charles Dickens had a misinformed
insight into what he called "orthography":

orthography invokes a need for diacritical markers...
something to elevate the Latin script...
and English? simply didn't and i'm still waiting...
i could be dead by the time any diacritical
marks arrive...
  
   you can't really call it an orthographic mistake
if you write realy and not really...
                       given... i RELY on what's REALLY
available...

so why "too late"?
                                  from the word: PO... i.e. after...
po czymś - after something...

and then i come across a band that was popular like
7 years ago...
   Łąki Łan: o.k. - i don't know how i came across
the band Lao Che...
               but how did i miss Łąki Łan?

sure... it's not the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
but then again it's not Disco Polo...
          unlike the Hebrew diaspora... "we" Polacks
hate each other, distrust each other...
or at least that's what my parents taught me...
we integrate alright...
   and how easily we collapse when moving
en masse...
                     since the: leave the EU vote in England...
whatever large contingent was apparent
with "ethnic" supermarkets disappeared...

most of my "brethren" ****** off back to the homeland...

every, single, year... when my grandfather was
alive and i spent the summer there...
regrets?! yeah... i wish i went to at least
one Woodstock festival...
   Czaplinek...                  whatever it's called now...
yes... but would i have Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment
under my belt?
  
  i know i like to sleep around with random
women and esp. those inclined to prostitution
but i also like to read... a little bit... just a little bit...
and Boleslaw Prus: the Doll...

Bertrand Russell's the history of western philosophy,
Kant's critique of pure wisdom,
Heidegger's being and time...
Kierkegaard's either / or...
i'm yet to finish vol. 5 & 6 of Knausgaard's
magnum opus... etc. etc.

   i've only recently rediscovered my
extroversion... within the constraining environment
of work... with strangers...
i'm sort of levelling the field of formality...
i just remember working with my father
in a toxic and the best amazing way
while roofing... we argued a lot...
we still argue a lot...

   **** me: it's humid... i think i haven't showered
in two days... i'm starting to stink...
i probably wouldn't if i had fur rather than:
what became of ape that man is now
and what was once boar that's now pig...
boar?
would that be the ** or the XY genes...
well... what the **** did we breed boars with?!
boars are still alive...
but the "thing" we bred them with evidently isn't
since we have pigs...

we used to be so adventurous: biologically...
really twisted Frankenstein(s)...
let's face it... the number of dog breeds we created?
wow! and we're still keeping some
with sadistic paranoia that the French bull-dog
will not suffocate while sneezing...
but what have we replaced that with?
inter-racialism...
    i still think a white **** looks better
on a black *** than the reverse...

                  it's a bigger sight of canvas...
and in Kenya... sure... when the moon was right...
and she came hovering over to me
with a joint... plump... not fat... just: plump...
not that we did anything:
we were eye-*******... throughout...
i guess i must have gauged her eyes out with my eyes...
i clearly read the tension...
                    eye-*******...

well... beside the ol' raven Turkic hair... that drives me mad...
probably as mad as ginger hair...
ol' raven Turkic... ginger Celtic...
    auburn-ginger Celtic...
                or just highlighting ginger and freckles...
there's this girl at work...
i was thinking during one shift:
what if you just showed me your hair in a different
style...
i thought it...
****... i don't believe in telekinesis or telepathy...
but...
        hey presto... next shift i was supervising
and handing out i.d. cards sitting next to her
at the table... i must have touched her hand unknowingly
with my pinky finger...

but she did change her hair... it was let loose...
it was no longer in that tired half bun...
i don't even know the name for that stlye of hair...
with men... it's... the top's there...
but the sides are shaved... crew-cut? under-cut?
but with girls... they strap the scalp of their hair
and leave it dangling... em em... ****...

right... UNDERCUT but NOT undercut...
ginger ******* fetish...
                                        i have a ginger fetish...
i'm not ashamed of it...
                            like i'm not ashamed of visiting
brothels like i'm not ashamed of liking Romanian
and Turkish girls...
esp. since living in England and...
           no luck... so? ******* elsewhere...
well... if the English girls are all about Pakistani
grooming gangs...
it's harsh...              

- well, i never belonged with my brethren anyway...
i'm just too used with multi-culturalism...
after all... what ethnicity is not England?
the whole world is here...
i'm more acute of myself in the presence of:
i could be the next Lawrence of Arabia...
fitting in talking casually with Somali would
be pirates...

and no: i don't drink for "fun": i drink to disinhibit myself,
but at the same time i adore being sober and
stressed at work... ugh... the formality of language...
that NVQ 2 course broke me...
i had to abandon the use of language i'm
most used to... i had to return to a policy of language
akin to 2 + 2 = 4...
it was torture...

even now: i know: i'm all over the place...
but that's because i want to be "here"...
                     or "there"...

like someone mentioned: the problem with writing
these days is that we're writing about reading...
when i was younger i could get trapped in
a linear narrative flow of fiction...
i would spend the most glorious month of my life
reading something akin to Bolesław Prus' the Doll...
or Bertrand Russels' the history of western
philosophy...

             going with grandma to the market place...
picking up fresh fruit and vegetables...
in Poland there's the breakfast...
the major meal of the day: the dinner
is the lunch... once upon a time there was no
9 to 5 shifts... there were 3 shifts...
the most popular shift was one orientated at
waking up at 5am...
working till 1pm... coming home for dinner...
and then? supper... probably sandwiches...
hard-boiled eggs on bread... plenty of vegetables...
blah blah...

i'm sort of experiencing a comeback of the Soviet
tradition...
i'm not getting paid weekly...
i'm getting paid monthly...
**** on me... i'm only going to get paid
for my last shifts in June two months down the line...
which means? i can't see Khedarah
for two weeks more...

thankfully i'm entertaining myself in this
boring: boorish: humidity that's not supposed
to be allowed into Europe...
when i was younger i could focus on one book
at one time...
but then again... i couldn't read two novels
at the same time...

i'm currently "schizophrenic" splitting my
attention between Ovid and Zhuanghi...

- no... i know why i don't like my fellow "countrymen"...
i remember this one incident...
i must have been 7... or... "thereabouts"...
two boys approached me...
one of them asked me to open my mouth...
naive: i complied... i opened it...
then immediately closed it...
in the time "between"? he spat in my face...

i have a love-hate relationship with Poland...
i'd sooner speak German
and learn to live in Russia than feel any affiliation
with this buffer-zone land of crushed
ambitions...
                       hey presto! i'm living in London
and... i don't feel like there's anywhere more
important than here...
            i have a beard that i stroke like i might
play a cello... i have a hair chest and a hair stomach...

i work in order to get money in order
to **** prostitutes in order for the prostitutes to feed
the money i give them to churn our a functioning
economy: i'm not envious of males in roles
of superficial power... i'm a loser and i'm a winner...

i've seen the troubles of my mind extend into
real: tangible troubles in the world...
i'm moving in a synchronised way...
                   i'm: perhaps delusional... but at the same time:
BASED...

i can walk into a forest and come out
with a branch that's shaped like a Cossack's sword...
a SHASHKA...
             i fall in love like a sky-dive...
i love like a barking dog...
i i rarely get the sort of love i'd like to be returned...
i rely on the cameos with strangers...
usually young boys...
who fist pump me...
    or women who: akin to me... like stroking my beard...

i'm pretty sure i have a secret stash of leprechauns
in my pockets to imply:
this is for good luck... rainbow not needed...

but it's good to know...
i never pay for lies...
if at least two prostitutes tell you: you're...
good-mad...
                       you're good-mad...
well then...
                              i'm the best kind of crazy...
and like i once told a girl at work:
what Bukowski said...

some people never go mad...
     what horrible lives they must lead.