unknown to me, only prior to turning on classic.fm on the radio come the 6pm news bulletin at the start of my night shift... that demonic red glare in the sky... remnants of the northern lights descending as far south as London... no wonder my head, even a day later... reels with magnetic dissonance I can't exactly justify with any sensible rationale... like a moon madness and the fullness of it and werewolves... is there anything in our bodies that might allow us be inclined to feel magnetism: in the same vein as when old people talk about atmospheric pressure and how that dampens their mood and instigates a lethargy that's also an excusable bout of welcome melancholy: welcome in the sense of (it) being unavoidable?

i was, expecting to sleep until about now: circa 2pm...
that shift didn't help me much:
demoted for a reason: that i hushes in silenced
an ego-whisper: don't get so ****-hurt about it:
there's surely a reason...
upon returning home: a crimson cloud
in the dark sky... pumpkin spiced latte with the
ginger, Joan... Joe... ginger is a ginger is
a ****** is a ginger...
i really don't understand or want to:
these flirtations of trying to match me up
to a tailor for a Mr Bonzo... Baker St. is my favorite
underground station... so she puts her hand
between mine while mine is in my pocket...
and i guess that's how unavailable women
pet men to submit to some wishy-washy variation
of what could be a wholesome adventure in
Islam...
            but never mind... oh but i do mind...
it's like a cross between Garry Glitter's rock & roll
and Talking Heads' ****** killer...
but that sputnik of a crimson hue so huge although
it wasn't a cloud: gave me bad nightmares
the kind where you don't dream anything
but instead succumb to that summary of waking
up early in order to listen to some wham!
jeez...
last night i disclosed i was Millwall fan...
the supposed epicentre of trouble at cordon 3: DC...
where all the ******* were supposed to reign
grumpty humpty dumpty:
turns out all the children congregated and was
asked: what team do you support:
i bet it's West Ham i bet it's Tottenham...
gorgeous George the homeless was there...
and then i mimed Mill         Wall...
the kid heard me: but i had to make it painfully
obvious with the sound matched to the movement
of my lips... Mill... Wall...
a bit... in spite of my father who was... is...
a forver an ardent hammers fans...
i think it's the Scottish Connection...
Millwall is associated: by colours of their jerseys:
St. Andrews' piquat: navy: somewhat teasing
at Florentina's purple... but nonetheless
Scotch navy: which is teasing purple...
plum... plump blue...
well if Prince William can support Aston Villa
and from what i heard:
the reason West Ham have their claret and blue
is because it's a plagiarism of the Aston Villa kit...
can't have plagiarism in my vein...
so... well can't really support Arsenal or Tottenham
although: that cockerel is mighty teasing
but i'm not ***...
so the Scottish Connection: the team associated
with the dockers on the southbank...
i'm finding the London on the south of the Thames
a riddle... a welcome riddle...
surrounding the area around Elephant & Castle
a mighty affair of architecture that's most appealing
come 6am... and 7pm...
i love that part of London:
that open air asylum vibe...
i'm the most insane sane person around those parts
when my night shifts start... and finish:
but they never finish...
to support a football team simply because of
the locality... i think that's 1960s worth of
****** liberation atop the singling out word of:
groovy...    yeah baby... yeah...
watching footage from 1960s swinging London
is a bit surreal like watching
videos of the liberation of the concentration
camps of central and eastern Europe...
watching these hispters of London and then watching
the Auschwitz walking skeleton chimes...
strangely... in synch...
              because we don't have a cataclasm to
pacify ourselves with a panacea...
             the butterfly and tornado narrative...
clearly our insomnia fried brains are not even equipped
to clarify a tragedy with the antithesis of
Egyptian prowess hedonism...
maybe that's the parody of the 20th century
that i'm only sobering up to realise: while drinking...
some rabbi was sussing me out while
giving directions to an unknown tongue of a couple
trying to get to Buckingham Palace:
or rather: st. James' park:
          rabbi rabbi... what's my story?
demoted: but whoever said that the person in authority
has a voice... i wasn't wearing the high viz bib
associated with my "status"
yet people still gravitated toward me regardless
of whether i was wearing zebra stripes
dalmation polka dots or a lion's mame...
                    that just show you authority...
when there is a stature unconcerning about what
visual games are played...
the Asians just started jumping at me all giggly and funny
and like i was their friend...
tonight: more Polish cinema and some
driving test theory...
        but last night...
that allure of that crimson cloud hanging over
my eyes not letting me get to sleep
then waking up early...
     it's almost as if i insurrected hell and told it to rise...
high above and into the heavens
and punctuate the stream-of-consciousness
of heaven... it was... rather... magical...
i'll make up my plans for sleeping longer:
as intended: i'll manage... as long as i don't get
a custard-headache and a lip-trim-vibration
of being constipated...
                 Gary Glitter and rock... rock 'n' roll rock...
rock 'n' roll rock...
no amount of Guns 'n' Roses and Clapton
when coupled with the imagery of...
coulrophobia... William Wallace and the Woad Brigadiers...
because this is England and the English
are only Anglo-Saxons and there's
the Reesh, the Vealsh and the Sceetch to mind...
the Irish the Welsh and the Scots...
             look alive son, comes the Anglo-Slav.