only in England would bilingualism be treated as a schizophrenia... half ******* burr-nor-cu-lars... seeing: my-biopic as my-oh... ******* England! dyslexic shorts... snuggling worm instead of a serpent weaving itself between your ribs: i'll get that Adam's rib before Eve is to be born... then you won't tell the difference of whether my tongue is worm or serpent. yeah yeah, political correct: you rest assured: they will treat those Nigerian mothers who tow the shopping trollies from the supermarket a mile down the street and dump it next to a bus-stop just so well... it's too painful to watch this continent become a dumping ground this traffic of people not going nowhere... at least some hope for Poland, Serbia and Russia... i have no **** guilt i have no post-colonial limp **** energy... i'd rather live like Gauguin... among the Blitzkireged Polynesians... i want to study the history of Taiwan... i don't want to live among these people who **** themselves whenever someone is "offended"... i want to drink *** and beat the drum with the savagaes of the Incas, Aztecs and Mayans...

out of compulsion come all the necessary
tools for the ego to equip itself
to force thought to its (ego's) frail now:
and present hope
to dictate against the world:
to not think what someone else thought
because where would there be "fun" in that?
- and a day can begin perfectly:
even with the alcohol shakes:
but i beg to differ...
i just spent last night talking to my future
wife
and how i lost appetite for *******
when she sent me her saucy nudes
and when it comes to racial purity
i feel inclined to break the rules like
a Spanish conquistador and oh ooh oh
all that Latino mocca coffee plump... plum and peach
and...
       well that's not how the day began:
i was making myself some coffee...
in my sleep she realised and retailiated against
my milk intake: apparently i was
lactose intolerant... fair enough
i do feel purged...
but the day begins with cooking the most ideal
hard-boiled eggs...
six... six to count...
the egg whites are fully done...
there's a clear membrane of rigid stiff...
there's no inbetween of somewhat runny
***** protein...
and then you enter the abode of the Yoke of the Vatican
of arguments for abortions...
running milk of gold... of fat and pig snouts
sniffing up pearls to later choke on
a mere breath...
how to cook a perfect hard boiled egg:
well... you don't want the yoke to turn out
as an imitation of feta cheese sort
of crumb like
like you aren't circumcicised and don't
have proper anti-circumcision hygiene bound
to you
so the ***** is left under the collar like
white grit... nasty business...
and then you mature and find ***
to be the best fun
because if you do *** right
you don't really care for being a football hooligan
or you don't care to be a grand chess master
or you don't think about playing paintball
pseudo ******...
you just want as much ***
as the proper priests of this world the Hebrews
and i don't understand how Jesus
didn't understand this
and why the world goes full circle
even Islam doesn't understand the sanctity of man
and woman
i just think of hide and seek
and all the toys of the joys of play with how
*** works and how woman compliments man
and that's how i find the stage
with no actors just the technicians of
the curtain raise: the curtain fall...
but cooking the pristine chicken abortions
so the whites are defined: properly rigid:
like gelatine...
                 and the yoke is slightly runny
so it still retains its sweetness...
and isn't a crumb flake-off of imitation feta cheese...
i'm no culinary expert but
then i just think of *** and gravity
and i just want to be bored and not bored
with my antonym and make little indentations
into reality that deviates from
being an old **** and i will never be the one
to sit silently content and solve
a crossword puzzle:
i am a crossword puzzle: bilingual:
as the authorities suggested: a bilingual quadratic
as schizoid too... so...
       boo boo!         see any ghosts lately?!
******* England: i'm ******* off to America:
like that Tom Waits song...
i'm going out West: where they might appreciate me!
and no... not the album version...
the live version from glitter and doom...
******* little psychopathic England
and politico coarce my Niqab for
going into a bank:
and being instructed:
can't don a hoodie... but it's o.k. for religious
reasons to don a NINJA JABJAB NIQAB...
******* you **** *******
i'm gonna pick up my toys and go into
a sandpit where i can **** my pants and not feel
neglected by my inhibitions.

p.s. because it's not like i haven't tried to make
ammends and **** an English girl
but since i can't compete with an inter-racial fetish
and the promises of free drugs and
being doused in gasoline my Pakistani **** gangs...
what is a boy tow-dough?
all that's required is for a happy pomp-pomp
officer of clown pleasing
to knock on my door and give me
a Kafkaesque analogy
about who's in what's what: authority.