pin points
joined like Siamese
dots, exclusion
of the hyphen for
the use of pause.

it's one of those early nights having an introspective
moment... trying to give dimensions to my oeuvre:
all those heartbreaks of spaghetti fingers typing
and then trying to ctrl + c / ctrl + p / ctrl + a
but missing the keys... hey presto! a magic act:
a poem lost not even saved by automaated drafts...

yes... i do feel like i need to buy Red Hot Chilli Pepper's
Unlimited Love on vinyl...
it's funny how artists, even in the mainstream disappear...
i have no account of the existence
of the band from... circa 2007... until 2022 when
they toured and i was working the London Stadium:
poet of the coliseum...
John Frusciante came back: i never thought he went
anywhere... but even major artists disappear...

unlike those days being a greedy and eager youth
trying to impress girls with an array of influences
finding out: no return to jazz no return to classical music
to figure out finding my own voice (i wish,
there was a rhyme, vice... ice...) - parrot?
    imitating echo? if parrots could imitate echoes...

it's a gruelling evening...
   there's absolutely nothing to write about...
i'mm rereading some of Al Purdy and Walt Whitman
and i feel: feelz... detachment from any stated,
historical achievements...
          wars lost wars won or whatever
that might be between the flesh and the fingernails
when the fingernails grow too long...
an interlude from working shifts... dealing with people
is a ******: a flat tire...
   37 is no age to start thinking about a road
already undertaken:
children? no?! marriage? now?!
     flipping pancakes and idealising love furthest from
love's truth...
   murky waters and swamp-things...
      deceits, subtractions and additions of lies...
headaches, toothaches...

            shares happiness of coupling and shared
demises...
but from what i've learned:
there is no happiness greater than a one arrived
at by oneself: that spontaneity of laughing
for no reason or laughing at oneself
having thought a certain thought...
and no sweeter misery that no one can share
with you... a nostalgic grey morose murmur of...
some self- prefix fixation of this automated
monkey-bot turned 180 degree standing upright...

the last days of autumn... rotten leaves
in the park that are as "dangerous" as ice...
and a winter that only takes a sneak-peek
at where it once was: magnificently as an AGE of ice
parallels of trunks and trombones and
imagining hairy elephants...
   just imagining.... not really paying attention
to the fact that: yes... how long would it take
for an elephant to grow fur and would it have migrated
with man... all furry in sunny Africa...
kind of inverting the point of the elephant in Siberia
with man shedding fur for... bare-goose-bump skin...

this plughole, this constipation of history through
the lens of Darwinism is... like...
standing above a grave of a dearly loved one
yawning, or chewing gum...
               something like an Icarus-Phoenix
burning in the mind that dead yet dead not forgotten...
fickle creature memory and what
i don't want to remember:
with what i do remember -
   like that repetitive loop of memory-erosion
beginning with the philosophy of pedagogy...
raise hopes and teach pointless arts...
but dear, dear... don't teach them how to combat
the drudgery of work and menial toils...
i'm pretty sure that most physical labours
that require a technicality of an array of skills
will never be menial...
it's the shelf-stacking jobs that could be
made easier... in theory... with an entertaining mind...
a wandering here one minute gone the next...
a disappearing ego...  reappearing ego...
a bucket and pulled from a bucket a top hat...
and from a top hat? pulling out an old person's
chattering dentures instead of a white bunny...

a beautiful life focusing on little things,
finding spontaneous wisdom anecdotes and not defending
such roles as guru or saviour or leader...
like... going to bed before 12am and
like today... nonchalantly in concord with:
i'd like to have a lesbian girlfriend...
while sneaking away to the brothel...
but even no, given the wintry months:
having a relief from spring's and insect' libido....
sure... jerking off but not really thinking about
it, which is aided by sitting on the throne
of throne and giving birth to a meteor of
plucked brown-stuff and almost rising ot *******
heights of that one gateway not being
violated by ******* passions....

tired of experimenting of breaking society's
boundaries and leftover taboos...
just ****** tired... as if wanting something
wholesome like a slice of rye bread
or porridge in the morning...
    perfectly boring perfectly sighed over...
and a world that's only as big as my eyes can see...
sure... a mountain in the distance...
or a sky-scraper... this grand plateau of London...
no car, no need... just a bicycle and a pair
of legs... a lost commitment from having
a grandmother... made all the more easier
by the fact that: i will die without an image
of my father's mother...
               making it easier for me to digest
the ongoing process of being estranged from
my mother's mother...
               i have the perfect excuse these days:
i'm working... obviously not the work
of aligning with plastic surgeons of bus drivers...
work the liberator and excuse from...
i used to love seeing my mother's parents...
i'd visit them for stretches of months...
sit with the old people and soak up:
fermenting and almost sad that my youth was
wasted on old age... but the books i read
and the training i received from "missing out"
made me a rigid-stone...
from the youthful energy of disappointment
to the slowly growing old dynamic of
oriental thinking...
even now if i will ever put a foot in Poland
i will only be doing so
on a whim of: i need to purchase cheap duty-free
cigarettes... i'll fly over and spend
a day in Cracow... try to look local...
******* back to the airport, buy three cartons...
spend £30 there and back and spend a total
of £90 on 600 cigarettes...
which will still come cheaper than if i bought
cigarettes here legally, stupid...
or under the counter from some Romanians...

i was supposed to go to the gym with Francesca
today... honestly... i was busy... busy being
busy about not being busy...
spent the night chatting to a friend from Hawaii...
she texted me that she was going on a date...
that's what i mean:
i'd like a lesbian girlfriend... someone i could go
ice-skating with... talk macho ******* with...
go to an art-gallery...
but: keeping up with Platonic traditions...
if in need of **** find it elsewhere...
with the likes of Mona...
who, apparently disgraced, was shunned by fellow
prostitutes for becoming pregnant with
a customer... that's the thing...
i hope it wasn't me... but chances are...
cross-eyed at the zenith of her ******...
lips touches lips and all the wonderful stuff that's
like sunlight having descended and
enveloped a field of wheat in August...

i don't mind... carefree mitigation of rumours
and the frenzies of atomic vibrations...
invisible yet existent parodies of impasses
of: how Hannibal solved the issue of the Alps...
how Lawrence created the endless number of clocks
from the sands of Arabia...
how the sea was a puddle for the first to not thirst...
such evenings when language is loose...
gooey... mindless bragging and jargon...
something person spotted from time to time...

with my mother's brother, my uncle:
i once adored him... i used to go to concerts with him...
that one afternoon he cleaned and worked on
his Porsche... we listened to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
Californication... an interlude of going
to the chicken shop and getting some chips
and hot wings...
his personal life of sleeping with prostitutes...
multiple girlfriends... i admired that i wanted
that for myself rather than the odd... mutant...
rigour of my father's monogamy...
i tried it once: twice...

i'm so thankful for the women in my life,
i won't event pretend to not give them their names:
Isabella, she dumped me...
Promis... she dumped me...
Ilona... she too dumped me...
dumped Humpty-Dumpty...
which gives me the focus of Pontius Pilate...
each time i wash my hands i wash imaginary
hands of Pontius Pilate...
   it's so much easier than to fall in the category
of the sort of man that has the luxury of clinging women
he then dumps...
much easier to be dumped...
it reveals avenues of... perhaps Mona, that *******,
really did have the best *** in her life
and wanted my genes to be preserved...
no one knows expect for her
and the insinuations other prostitutes in the brothel
have dropped...
but i won't be revisiting that place for some time...
my libido is stale-bread and...
eh... a ******* for an hour telling someone:
slow down... slow down...
                      just a little tenderness...
i don't need to be circumcised twice!

             unlike the ***** where you can ferociously
gorge on the uncircumcised bits...
or when interacting with piston against the backdrop
of the floral patterns: we're talking an act
with possible teeth involved...
my love made all the more easier:
so easier to move on... being the one being dumped...

western dogma: wisdom as an over-complication
with eastern dogma: wisdom as an over-simplification...
traps and mazes of the latter...
dogs chasing their own tails...
perhaps? reimagining the once legal
aesthetic of improving the Dobbermann dog breed
by snipping the nails and clipping the ears
so they might be pointy?

back to "dearest" uncle... he's back living in Poland
with his mother nearing her 85th year...
apparently going back... friends with investment
potentials... 3 weeks there and all he's doing
is sitting in the living room in his boxer shorts...
watching t.v., trying to play the role of manager
of a non-existent company...
having sold his one greatest asset of a paid-off
mortgage of a house...
his dream: retiring in his mid-50s like the norm
in Greece... a man still in his prime
having lost it...
                         hardly me cooking and improving
the life of grandparents by painting shelves...
changing the linoleum flooring in the kitchen...
changing a light-bulb...
it's like that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
the decadent police officer being dragged back
into his childhood bedroom...
this Hell of the Western World's Mentality...
living with your parents like it's a wheelchair hindering...
what?! and paying 12 months upfront
to rent a box in London is somehow better
than the allowances of homelessness?!
hardly... **** me... hardly!

sure... when he was living in England
and had the advantage of bilingualism...
how his "friends" dragged him into a ****-show:
circus without the clowns storming
a FIAT 126P by the 20 load of cramming...
now my horror-suspicion can be shared....
but at least i had escapism within the confines
of books... and no, seriously no ambitions
to stand on a stage and dance...
poetry and mediating mediocre saved me...
i allowed myself: i was allowed
sieving through observing people:
pedestrian talk: no talk...
            
     loads of money: he did save up a load of money:
compared to the usual dynamic he's
hardly a millionaire...
but compared to me... i count my riches
by the time i spent reading a book...
reading Heidegger's Being & Time...
hell... i paid... no... i didn't... my grandfather
paid 20? let's be realistic... he paid 30zł for each book...
in a subscription "race":
one book per 30zł... 20 books in total...
anyway... i was a vagabond in Heidegger's head
for 30zł that spanned for almost 3 years...
a difficult book...

                          i'd spend less time in Sartre's antithesis
of Time: id est esse nihil                                    -ness
does it really matter? the number on the receiving
end... is the calculated progress of judgement
of what constitutes "progress"...
Welsh is always a second clue concerning Britain...
given: you will hardly hear or learn
how the Scots "forgot" their origin in tongue
so smoothly lost that it would require a James
to bend the knee and crack his knees
like walnuts to arrive at these isles unity... ****-wit...
it's a pointless sort of defeat...
but adamant Welshmen and their prosthetic hard-on
for myths of: origins of the dragon folk...
hardly passable: most impressionable...

right now, though! i figured out something!
i don't want to write something original!
i don't!
you: "you": you... you know what i want
to achieve?! i want too write something
that... that can't be plagiarised!
which is a take on originality as
anti-originality-original

suppose these "poems" leave indentations in the fabric
of time (solely, they already have,
in the room i'm currently sitting in,
listening to R.E.M.'s automatic for the people
for the Nth time, nothing has changed)...
wow... my ego-tripping pays off...
but what tripping with no ego? just a silence
of the mind? the only reason why i'm writing
it because i can't return to my prior to psychosis
state of the thought-narrative bliss of
semi-solipsism semi-object-thinking...
one LEGO project after another...

i'm sitting here hunched before QWERTY looking
at the screen not looking at the keyboard
because: mastering QWERTY is oh so much different
to ice-skating...
life this self-suggesting, doubly-affirming:
believe me you be...
          are... conjugating the perfected grammar-math...
perhaps the wrongly assembled: you're be...
makes no more sense than
a chicken clucking trying to imitate
the screech of a diving hawk...

a lion growling a cat meowing...
             green met yellow and how blue was spawned...
if the blues was all blue
then i guess jazz was: having the purples...
classical music was the savvy pinpoint
between silver - gold - platinum...
but i still preferred folk songs...
the sort of songs without genius and more
the spontaneity of drunkards...

we heave an unbearable load of nostalgia:
nostalgia being a fakery of memory
and memory being no better than imagining
a present and future... with the downfall:
a memory reimagining the present and past...
if thinking is stability: if!
posit if within the confines of "if"!
then imagination is pyrotechnics...
the same can be said of memory...
fickle creatures... self-appropriating
self-gratifying no-self-involved students of
a circus...

i conjure up a memory: i'm re-imagining
what ought to be re-remembered...
no can do... i think of something outside
the prism-prison of geometry of a square:
that becomes the Disney Mouse...
wow!
     imagination and memory conflate
and thought: knows all the best distractions...
existence per se and for no knowledge
of the usual vectors of demand: how, when, who, why,
north? how...
east? when...
south? who...
west? why...
                         this is my globe of words making sense:
by sense i imply: words i own: i can manifest
within the confines of constructing a loss-of-self-self...

some spineless messages from Vietnam like
i'm speaking, writing, English, ergo i'm American...
it might only take a few Pakistanis selling Qurans
to conflates ****** with a German...
doesn't matter to me...
does it? did it? will it? ha ha...
     well... a ****** in England not pretending...
tangy-****-****... drool of accent of America...
talking to someone from Vietnam trying to start
up a brothel with girls to "sell"... shady corners of the world...
a bit like not trying to be Russian and talking to
someone from Afghanistan...

bored citadels with barricaded Cinderellas
***** me a snake and wishing ****** dress: white...
promises... me and you and me not getting any
STDs?!
                vampires,  in literature... at the height
of the AIDS epidemic... epidemic: in through to out...
pandemic: out through to in...
     d'uh... you ******* brain-frozen buzzing itches
of intellect not worth salvaging...
i'm tired! i'm tired of mediocre and the excuses leftover
by western psychologists...
i wasn't handed the kind poker hand...
i had to struggle... i struggled...
considered mad i waited until the world
caught up to me supposed "madness":
the world turned out madder than my originally prescribed
madness...
who's celebrating now? no one...
i'm curious about the demands of the gods...
i'm in pivot: contemplating both the crucified
and the one to be impaled on a spike...
my god... could celebrating torture be so misunderstood?!
crucifying someone is half the torture...
but impaling someone... celebrating
an anti-homosexuality... mein gott!
that's the focus: in situ of gravity, glue,
moon, money, sun, honey... being crucified is rather tame
compared to being impaled with your hands
being tied behind your back!
tame... this... thingy-magic... torture emblem of
excuses... solipsistic nostalgia some mediocre people
had it well... **** them... trample them...
horses need to learn to own hoofs!
no point of learning without some crushing
of skulls-soulless;

bemoan what fact? i might... somehow... endear myself
and enrich my existence with / by listening
to these harrowing calming-pill narratives of:
and who isn't who without anything being lost?!
oh! the hierarchy of victim-culture:
blaming X for Y and Y for Z...
fat ***** best fatten herself up by grief growing like
mould: slow...
  
of course i'm readying myself for the death-hanging...
the death-looming... the death-apparent...
tick-tock... tick-tock...
it would be impossible to thoroughly move with
a life, a concern for it, "it":
having a blasé affair with: exactly, with what that's not "that"?
pin point a needle in a haystack...
see a camel a mile away from passing
through a needle's eye...

old teachings are like ancient ruins...
people are not willing... the ontological reality
outside of the realm of Darwinism is unavailable...
there is no Darwinism to explain why
there were furless elephants in Africa:
and still are...
while there were furry elephants of Siberia
and Northern Europe....
eh?! explains X x what?!
            the English tongue is poison with its
dramatic Darwinism make-over speed up: ****
history: does anyone care to remember yesterday?!
if poetry is such a ******* **** in the realm
of arts... what's journalism?
historically speaking: it's...  A *******
CONSTIPATION!

you "people" are constipated meta-profession
ortho-beings... paraphrasing: eh?! who?!
no lost of libido... if at least half of us turned
to the path of patchwork of Cain...
we might... get something done...