i read two classics on the tube this morning, absolute: classics! she had all the features of.... i'd guess either Italian or Greek... a brunette, fine long brown hair... Van Morrison's sing-along of brown eyes and a physique that would torturously make Venus eat her own tongue with scorn... ****** features that would have never allowed cubism to come into existence! the second? tanned complexion... mocha... like that Ricky Martin song about a girl living a mad life... frenzied hair with that **** thing girls do be keeping some of it not *******... raven haired... somewhere from out east... i like reading classics like that... the former was sitting opposite me, the latter beside me... i like playing this little game of wearing my sunglasses on the tube... am i looking? is he looking? isn't he looking? of course i'm looking! i'm admiring! but at some point i take my sunglasses off... rub my eyes from a pretend sleepiness... wait a while with my eyes closed: then put my sunglasses back on: suggesting that i'm tired of the artificial light: but as soon as i put my sunglasses on... i'm admiring once more... after all, i have several categories of women... i know that some men have this 1 - 10 point system... she's a 5... she's a 8... n'ah... i have a different system...

a "10" is a maszyna (a machine)
an "9" is a suka (a *****)
an "8" is a szprycha (a spoke)
a "7" is a laska (a cane)
from a "6" through to a "1"?
     well... grandmothers, married women,
teenage girls with ****** borderline ******-awakenings,
lonely looking girls... neglected looking girls...
but it's hardly a looks game... it's a certain aesthetic
question about how a woman handles herself
in public... what she's wearing...
i mean... today i also saw a LASKA...
wearing... modest attire... what looked like her
grandmother's dress... floral matters with her knees
hidden... why would i mind? i'm just saying what i saw...
when i finally got back to Romford
and went to Wendy's for a burger...
             that's make differentiates men from women...
she was just sitting there... sure...
she looked like you typical plain-lost-Jane
with glasses but a gorgeous looking body...
doubly beautiful because in her eyes there was this sparkle
of a dog that has been unfairly hit by his owner...
i mean... dogs have beautiful eyes: but so these women
who eat alone in restaurants... me? i was just ******* dog-hungry,
i gobbled the burden of the burger ending on
a high note of licking my fingers...
i'm starting to think that men stomach being alone
with more grace... they look more determined...

left the house at 8am came back after 8pm...
sat down, poured myself a whiskey sharpshooter
(that's more whiskey than mixer)
and opened Ovid's Amores in Latin...
          started reading a few lines...
tu mihi, tu certe, memini, Graecine,
   negabas uno posse aliquem tempore amare duas.
i'm not a superstitious man:
but suddenly the door to my bedroom
was opened by a wind...
am i in company with someone ancient?
i'm not a superstitious man...
today i started believing in luck...
    even with the general train strikes and
***** ups on the London underground...
i don't know how i managed to swing it...
to get from Newbury Park to Putney
Bridge under one and a half hours...
i already sent the manager a text a day before
that i wouldn't make it for 9am sign-in...
i sat down opposite him and helped him out
with the accreditation: this other guy Mark
was stressing him out for ******* up the process...
i just listened in as fellow co-workers were taking
the **** blaming the train-strike on being late:
the manager just said:
look! he came from Essex! and he's here already...
arbeit macht frei: truly...
      even now: most guys would probably come home
from work and sit down with a beer
before the t.v.: me? i'm sitting down with a whiskey
and i'm continuing to work:
sure... i can appreciate this is a mundane verse:
but perhaps it's only a mundane subject matter:
i can always spice it up with how i talk about something:
work...
    i feel: liberated by work... truly, verily, profoundly...
i can't wait for tomorrow's madness
of doing two shifts in two different places:
London Stadium from 9am to 4:30pm
and Wembley from circa 5:30pm through to 11:30pm...
i might be home by... maybe 2am...
then i'll sit down with more whiskey and probably
write until 5am...
then! ah! i finally decided to fix up my Trek
mountain bicycle! finally! i'll be using two bicycles
interchangeably...
one day the road bicycle... the next day
i'll go off the rounds into Havering County Park
and rough-up things...
i'm the worst combination of man:
i'm an alcoholic-workaholic...
                                     i'm both...
                                        although i'm pretty sure
i know what an alcoholic is...
my grandfather was an alcoholic: i guess some genes
were passed...
but alcoholics don't do anything productive
when drinking: they just drink...
and after they have had their drink...
they sleep it off and then drink some more...
they're drinking for being drink: it's not like alcoholics
drink and then sit down to write how
their mind relaxes: there are no signs of gradation
in how much alcohol is ingested...
me? i can drink a litre of whiskey in one go:
but writing keeps me sort of sober...
   sure... i have the odd spell where ms. amber pulls
the rug from under my feet... even i can succumb
with a weakness: but as long as i train myself to drink
and DO "something": i.e. write:
i'm not being drunk: i'm doing drunk... doing drunk
is different to being drunk...

ugh... dry throat... i was coupled with this woman
Danielle... friend-zoned immediately:
she's into the hobby of tattoos... no no...
just not my type: i'm not that ******* thirsty...
i'd rather eat a whole watermelon if i were to be
perfectly honest... plus: i don't feel like lifting all
that baggage: two children living with her parents
in Scotland... she's going solo down in London:
a great conversation mind you...
but when it comes to fail-safes of old age?
there's always euthanasia...
if i become prone to dementia symtpoms:
i told her... i'm dropping a few mushrooms...
to boost my mental faculties...
we talked about... too much **** for me to write
a rubric for...
me doing ******* for the first time at the age of 36...
me telling her it did nothing more me...
medical marijuana... a cure for Parkinson's...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
dystopian movies... Wuthering Heights...
London Grammar... you name it... we talked about
work and we talked about people...
i'm an omnivore when it comes to conversations...
i sometimes wish i could be could be coupled
with a man at work to talk about Heidegger:
i can't be that lucky: no one is that lucky...
one has to be fated: rather than allowed to be that
lucky...

why are these people so into disclosing so much
of their personal info to me?
do i look like a psychiatrist? i thought psychiatrists
thought i was a schizophrenic?
ha ha... funny... a madman advocate of these
supposedly sane creatures...
the 28th... i'm waiting for Michaela to ******* to
Romania so i can dabble in some new girl...
i already have my eyes on one...

i wish i could: have a relationship...
but what is it exactly that i do?
when i work i work and when i don't work i work...
i can write this mediocre verse
but i write it so i court the Libra to balance
with writing as much as i have read...
no... i know how the hierarchy works...
the SIA guys think very little of the stewards...
sure... it might be £5 more per hour,
but? the hours are gruelling... and i'm not into
confrontations with idiotic drunks: esp. idiotic
drunk women who get easily offended...
i'm not making the transition...
to hell with that... if i wanted pushing and shoving
i'd be playing professional rugby by now...
i like violence contained within the framework
of sport... i don't like the idea that certain issues
can't be contained within the framework
of conversation.... politics...

arbeit macht frei... it's not some ugly **** joke
when you think about it...
i hate the idea of sulking in one's own possession
of the guarding of time with one's self...
the: a time for one's self...
i don't have time for that...
i sometimes wish i could have a relationship...
but... i'm not built for that...
the best i can do is have casual ****** encounters
with women who like having ***...
i can't stomach dating: i can't stomach going
to the opera as a pair...
i'm seriously the antithesis of pair bonding...
i hate eating while also talking to someone...
i like to eat alone...
mind you: if i eat with someone it implies
i'm showing someone my highest resource of...
respect...
eating with someone is very much unlike having
*** with someone...

come this writing scribbling session, what else to do?
make myself a sandwich for tomorrow
and make my father and mother the most decent
Pimm's "hour" cocktail...
plenty of mint, plenty of strawberries... plenty
of cucumber... eh... the ratio not exactly
1:3 of Pimm's to lemonade...
sit back... relax...
            Red Hot Chilli Peppers' Scar Tissue...
my god... i loved playing that tune on the guitar:
when i still played the guitar...
now i guess i'm playing an imaginary banjo:
i can't say an imaginary mandolin since i once
worked a night-club to save up to buy a mandolin:
and i did... just in order to play:
Maggie-May outside of Fiona's window
at university... which i did...
sweet quip of: O Romeo! O Romeo!
why are you playing a mandolin outside of my window!
eh... life's just like that...
life's whatever comes: and: whatever goes...

- i can't do relationships: i'm far to busy...
i couldn't possibly enjoy what people get up to...
i live i work: i don't work i don't live...
regardless of my petty ambitions in the framework
of poetry:
but then again: who can have recognised
in the framework of poetry these day?
people with English degree titles as solely being used
for writing poetry?
seems... pretty strange...
that these gatekeepers stress:
only those who invested in an education in "language":
who have arrived at a doctorate in English
can write something qualifying them toward
the esteem of Shakespeare...
but a plumber ought to write jack-****!
really?! we'll see...
you frucking pompous clowns! we'll see!

i'll come in and rip this whole dynamic to shreds...
i don't care for your BA: bachelor in the arts...
what art? ******* on lemon carved in half
is suddenly an art?
a sudden: i pretend to have eaten
a quarter pounder with cheese?!
the world doesn't like *******: me? i don't like
******* either...
i work the hours in order to allow my beard
to grow in length...
i have no time for commitments equivalent
to relationships... *** is fine... talking to each
other while watching the television is beyond me...
i'd sooner love to prefer... scabbing *****...
or descaling the scales of fish to make them
readily available
for the treadmill of being readied for packaging...

i hate... seeing... people that are more readied for
abortions than for work... it's so frustrating...
ergo? i am... i am: if someone asked me to don
a SS-man's suit? black-clad... me?!
i would be more than willing...
                  half of the people i sometimes supervise?
they'd be in the gas chambers...
it' hard to get under my skin... to annoy me...
but? when i do become annoyed?!
it's hard to get me from under my own skin...
i try... i pretend-wrestle with a stanged
evil of collectivism based on ethnic grounds...
i forget the ethnic-grounding...
i just summarise myself akin to ergonomic-grounding...

all these women... those 10s... those 9s... 8s... 7s...
i seem them... who are they dating?
mediocre men... they're not dating highly fussy men...
they're not attractive men...
no! most of these women are dating:
pretty mediocre men...
      i'm supporting the fact that their beauty is
a sabotage... they might be pretty:
but they're ******* boring...
why do all these averages of women are great
to talk to: but hardly great to ****?!
either way... i'm not interested...
yeah; one yawn follows another yawn...
                  follows another: yawn.... that leads
to a terrible choice of laughter.