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taki smutek mnie dosiega:
ze czasem tylko wiem:
co to jest... tylko istniec;
a to: nawet nie: myslec!

                   written like the Hebrew niqqud...
hiding the diacritical markers.
sitting through a lightning storm:
i "think" i blinked twice...
come lightning: come thunder...
the deities' empty stomachs:
hungry for a sacrifice... something
requires to be eaten...

Slayer's i want to be your god...

i do... feel like a demigod...
not even *** matches up to the sensation
of chilling out during a lightning-thunder
storm...

i don't even need drugs: just delusions...
but by now: perhaps these are not delusions...
just imaginary drugs...
false beliefs? isn't that what Plato
asked Hercules of?

that conversation must have taken place:
somewhere between Mars and Jupiter...

Jeffrey Dahmer met his caricature:
i.e. Napoleon Dynamite...
and tried to laugh: but was met with
impotence of the mantis / oyster cult
of the ******...

i'll admit it though... curious... eerie looking...
bewildered... women:
oh... i didn't see you in the club...
because i was taking my Maine **** ginger
prize to the vet...
all the other cats arrived in cages...
mine? dearest Quarus...
on my lap...

    exasperating himself with heavy breathing...
do cats even have the capacity of dogs
to sweat by drooling?!
apparently they have...
if you over-excite them with:
undiscovered geography...

so i was sitting there... in the waiting room:
shh shh... hush hush darling...
curb our excitement...
like a Don Corleone...
best movie ever... star wars...
lord of the rings can hide in the shades
of the doppelgangers...
eh... mmm... just the hand movement:
the laconic: whatever...

so there he is... sitting in my lap...
hush hush... shh shh... stroking his forehead...
his nose...
under-stroking his... "chin"?!
and he's sitting pretty...
at only 8.4kg... he's still the biggest cat
in the practice...
aw... what a pretty tiger...
great! so now i have a ***** in my hands
and he's getting more attention than i will
ever get... great!

too bad he didn't freak out and didn't
start scratching the women...
either side of me...
   one with a poodle on a leash...
another with a timid rabbit...

personally? i rather take that poodle for a walk...
and feed that rabbit raw carrots and cabbage...
but there i am...
sitting pretty... my cat's not in a cage:
it could pounce any time soon...
i'm
   Don Corleone...
     i'm Azog the white orc with his
pet: that warg matriarch...
hey... i live in "fantasy" land... i stopped watching
television...
who else owned cats?!
Dr. No?             Dr. Evil?
      
i am: but then i correct myself:
there's no "i think" materialisation to counter-contend
my insinuations...
ergo? i am a multitude of "delusions"...
i also "think" that by simply "existing"
is a delusion...
it must be: it would be more authentic if i had
a repeated dream...
if my dreams were heavily: prone
to visual fabrications...

            i don't think i'd even bother to make myself:
question...
but since all my dreams i see in black:
perhaps the chance audio:
    i step back and "think":
   not all is right...
                        
  from the greatest horrors of the 20th century:
came... the greatest... creative: trailblazers...
but now?
    that's why the 20th century is so, unique!
what's that spider-man quote?
with great power... comes great responsibilities...
no horror: no imagination...
hello: Damoscl sword... just... dangling...

i'm a mediocre whoever in a time: whatever...
i "think" i'm special only because...
i live in very... mediocre times...
i know it's a delusion...
  but it's not a false belief...
            i still do belong to the 20th century...
i find myself at an age that allows me to be:
rather than become:
un-relatable to the youth...
  the world has moved on...
           everything moves on... yet returns
come noon or midnight... whatever...

i see it as the exceptional counter of art:
without exceptional suffering there will never be
an exceptional creativity...
unless i'm running solo...
     and i'm the only exhibit of creativity
and there: truly is... genuine suffering in this
world: without all the worldly constraints
akin to tapeworms...and earthquakes...

and the limitless music of...
the sound of men's necks breaking at the noose
from hanging themselves...

müdeseelen hören es erste!
tired-souls hear it first...

           und was reihe von auswahl!
and what an array of choice!

               me and my German fetish...
please! dearest god or stone:
array me with... a: dreamless night!            

gott oder stein!
     gott oder berg!
    stein an stein an stein an stein...
ich fast vergessen die meere!

                                versöhnlichsprache:
the English have nothing to do with it...
i just want to distance myself from the Russians...
because? they're being *******...

der erste... das letzte:
   der durst!
             und hunger!
das pinke: aber nicht flamingo!
    kapieren?!
                 kapieren?! n'ah: nicht kapieren!
"kapieren" ist: tod erste:
erste / durst / erste / durst...
              teuflischluftspiegelungen
von verloren liebe;

  for once: i will not translate!
                                      aus! *****! end!
das ist es!                                das ende!
i used to buy cans of pepsi cola in order to retain the most
fizz... i've cut back on the cans:
instead buying bottles of the "max" stuff...
because: whiskey: how else?
i'm not a puritanical drinker of ms. amber...
mr. whiskers...

                      but the problem with the bottled stuff...
once opened: it goes stale the next day:
because i never mix it "correctly"...
   but what i found?
                          sunlight... leave an already
opened bottle of pepsi cola in the sun...
and... lucky me: England: it's sunny! wow!
leave it (obvious the cap is ******* on,
but it has already been opened ergo ergo)

leave it in the sun... boom! the gas is back...
it's fizzy again: it's actually more fizzy than upon first
opening it...
so... what's the relationship with carbon dioxide
and sunlight?
carbonated water and sunlight?
does sunshine agitate the carbon in the water
making... oh... right... it must imply...
it has a lower boiling point than water itself...
i mean: you couldn't exactly boil a cup of tea
using sunlight...

but you could... make more fizz out of a going
stale carbonated water by exposing it to sunlight!
yep... just checked it...
it is lower... not that much lower...
but we're talking... sunlight and a plastic bottle:
plastic easily overheats...
and in terms of boiling: there's a lid...
so... no wonder... and we're talking:
sitting on a roof... sunrise? circa 5am...
all the way through to about 1pm...
  
    enough time... the tides will eat away the coastlines...

- yesterday's weigh-in... 101.6kg...
today's weigh in? ha ha...   98.5kg...
3.1kg loss in a single day...
    who even bothers with dieting?
what's the point?
   maybe i just figured it out... just about...
whatever dieting gurus tell you:
if you don't torture yourself physically through
acute exercise... nothing's going to work...
better be the rabbit than the turtle...

for far is it from where i live to Tate Britain,
roughly? 20miles... to get there... and back...
40+miles...
              plus the stress of traffic... which is always
good... stress is a great calorie burner...
plus testosterone... plus adrenaline generation...
it's not like a safe environment in a gym
pumping... pumping! weights...
or running the hamster wheel of the treadmill...
plus the wind obstructing you...
  mind you: maybe drinking that half a litre
of whiskey prior also helps...
perhaps ingesting alcohol: whiskey... before setting
off on a mega exercise routine...
because the calories: as my "dearest" gwand-m'ah used
to say from alcohol are empty calories...
by drinking half a litre of whiskey you're not eating
a fattening burger...

alcohol calories are not... protein calories...
they're not carbohydrate calories... they're not fat
calories... they're alcohol calories...

and on your bicycle... am i just fuelling up?!
i don't mean ingesting alcohol and doing weights...
i'm talking about ingesting alcohol and
punishing myself via the cardiovascular method...

personally i can't imagine myself becoming a father:
decreasing the amount of testosterone running
through my veins:
   i'm the "wrong" sort of gambler...
i measure my gambling ability on how well i can
maneaouvre... ****... too many! vowels!
man-oeuvre... manoeuvre... now i'll remember...
that's what the English speaking folk say about
my native tongue: you're ******* vowelled-up mate!

right: MAN and OEUVRE... like...
the total of someone's productivity: posthumously...
i'm more of a gambler like that:
will i squeeze in? will i get past?
either give me a horse and the Siberian steppes...
or give me a bicycle and London's roads...

oh wow... i'm actually thinking like a free man!
sure sure: i can care for people on "pretend":
little cameos here and there... and it's genuine...
but... to replicate myself: to have to "nurture" genes?
why does Jamie Redknapp (K surd!)
  look like the older brother of Frank Lampard Jr.?

i know the answer...
    because Harry Redknapp married a woman
that was the twin sister of Frank Lampard Sr. bride...

i'm sort of giggling now... but walking to the shop
for some early morning cider...
there's this great Danish film about a group
of guys who are constantly ingesting alcohol...
in acute amounts... no... not binge drinking going
out on the tiles sort of drinking:
irresponsible drinking is out of the question:
know your limits...
if you can't cycle to Tate Britain from 20 miles
away while having drank half a litre of whiskey:
don't do it...

DRUK... another round... funny that...
       druk means print in my native spreschen...
pisany druk: written print...

i look at old men as no wiser than the wisest...
it's a bit like looking at babies:
either men or women...
i want death before i reach this unnatural
old age... this retrospective cinema...
it's almost like seeing menopause:
this slack in testosterone curbing...
it's like looking at able albeit decrepit bodies
lost in a memory of former agility...

heimat! heimat!
all of the German war songs are worth singing!
heil! heil! wenig scheisse...
that's what my Russian girlfriend used to call me:
kakashka... little ****...

do i write from the perspective of regret
or from the perspective of memory:
i don't know...
what would you do... having travelled to Russia...
upon first entry into her abode:
getting a slap in the face...
i tried punching myself harder from time to time...
but that slap was waspish...
she thought i wasn't monogamous with her:
even though she kept her ex in her vicinity...

alle huren! alle huren!
   alle verdienen mein liebe!
ich kann nicht diktieren zensur von
solch(e) pracht!

   ich kann nicht! ich kann nicht!

maybe that's why i'm not bothered by nudes
in the art gallery...
       i abhor Lucian Freud...
                     i find his gaze repulsive...
it's what i'd call: cloggy...
beauty in the eye of the beholder blah blah...
there's that strict format of identifiable form
readily expressed:
which is mostly in the ****...

no wonder i like ******* in front of a mirror:
and that's mine...
und das ist mein!
                  mein allein!

        i suppose, therefore: i don't need to paint...
i can only skim a membrane of what could be
considered a painting... writing the membrane
of an art-work...

               Nietzsche showed the nail...
Heidegger provided the hammer...
   better an early death and eternity than all those
materialistic sensibilities of progress...
better the promises than simply prolonging
a fate worse than death:
ein los schlimmer als tod...

i want to die viral... with all the vitality that life
allows!
i don't want to die as a toothless wolf!
ich do nicht wollen zu sterben als ein zahnloswolf!
this is torture... old age apparent...
no wonder men have lost their libido!
if what's waiting for them:
no man want's to live the sort of life
that grieves him with old age!

it's unnatural!
             it's great for clones, cupids and other
quasi- makeshifts of creature...
it's not so great for men...
old age of men and the lost testosterone...
is a bit like the menopause for women...
but it's not spoken of...
   Western gynocentric antics...
                               i like the Eastern traditions...
man comes to the fore... woman come after...

i'm already in a dodo mindset...
i truly don't mind...
    the middle-ground has already been salvaged...
humanity will not perish...
genius is always born once in a while...
not that i am:
irgendetwas du möchte denken...

heimat! tanz! heimat! tanz!
   die fluss von menschen...
        die fluss von alles dinge...

               das ist alles.
i lied... i must have the dates mixed up...
the last exhibition i saw wasn't From Russia
at the Royal Academy of Arts...

it was either Edward Munch at Tate Modern
or the Pre-Raphaelites at Tate Britain...

but i found it impossible to not cycle into London
today... i finished some whiskey at about
1pm... got on my bicycle... stuffed about 10 empty
bottles from various liquids:
*****, whiskey... cider into my rucksack:
dropped them at the recycling bins by the supermarket:
because i'm green and all:
i just have a fetish for recycling...

   my god... this writing is terrible: i haven't drunk
enough... sober writing is dishonest writing:
unless you're old... then sober is probably honest:
age does the trick... but when you're a little bit younger:
nothing like a little bit of ***** to make
you speak the truth...

obviously i was going to do exactly what i wrote...
and some Plato (taking off a mask)
was almost a thought experiment:
was i going to write fiction? or was i going to write
poetry? was i going to cycle from Romford
to Tate Britain and watch the Walter Sickert
exhibition?

             i got there... smoked a cigarette...
sweating like a pig being chased...
how i love to punish myself on the bicycle...
i'm like a remora when it comes to traffic...
the shark? oh... a bus...
                 a truck... a heavy-duty truck with a skip...
i'm the remora sort of using it as momentum
generator...
because i never cycle in the blind spot...
a wise remora is the cyclist that keeps to the outside
of the shark...
since i've started cycling around London i haven't
heard of any cyclist deaths...
   well no: i'm not saying it's because of me...
but i'm not exactly invisible...
like today i spotted someone imitating the way
i give direction...
  *******-pencil pusher type stretch out their hand
wide like they're about to do a horizontal
seigl heil!

    me? i laconically lift my hand and indicate
with my wrist / hand a blinking motion of a car's
indicator: up and down... up and down...
i'm turning... but usually it's me: the remora
and the big *** shark of a bus or a truck helping me
cycle past... Sunday drivers... it's Tuesday!
stay awake! focused! you're not walking!

i love getting bicycle rage... oh rarely with pedestrians...
what i do with pedestrians is that i cycle
really close to them when they have
crossed their allowance of road...
they usually jump back: startled...

    because in an urban environment:
i punish myself... unconscious spatial coordination...
i love that there are so many objects moving around
me... big objects... small objects...

i hate cars... not that i've ever driven one...
i tried... once... eh... this exoskeleton doesn't suit me...
it's different in a bus... because hey...
Cliff Richard and ****...
                   walking... the bicycle... or a horse...
either one...
hell: even "god" can't beat the bicycle with his
donkey or a horse...

it took me less time to get from Romford to Tate
Britain than if i had to use public transport...
plus: what do you get to see on the tube
beside quasi-autistic faces with the taboo
of no-eye-contact...
**** that... i'm going to punish myself: 101kg...
not good enough... i can feel my spine...
plus i just might find some fury to swear
in my native language... because English is just
too soft...

i have to write the following sentence in Deutsche
(obviously i'll translate it)
ein radfahrer ist ein verkehrschäfer -
a cyclist is a traffic-shepherd...
countless times i've seen this at work...
we're not sacred cows...
i know my place in the "gutter" of either
the double yellow or the single red
or the double red or the single yellow...
but i know my place... i can orientate myself
around pedestrians blah blah etc.
only someone solipsistic enough will get themselves
killed when using the roads:
pristine inventions!
  even the English flow of traffic is logic-proof...
entertain the roundabout...
it works like a clock... how does "time" move
on the clock... at some point prior to 12am or
12pm... from left... to right...
that's how the hands move...
the rest of the world is wrong: wong! wong!
they drive on the wrong-wong side of the street...
traffic flows up on the right side...
but down on the left-side of the road:
no! traffic should flow up the road on the left...
and traffic should flow down: on the right!

- i was supposed to get a birthday present...
opera? eh... ballet? i'm getting bored of sitting
and having to applaud...
      i'm just bored of hearing applause...
i've heard enough over the past few months
at football matches... translating that to opera
or ballet is... i don't even have a word for it...
there might be a word: but i'm not too bothered about
finding the 1cm in 100m: designated pin-point.

i'm suspicious that women are looking for artists (men)
once they reach old age... decrepit "fools":
senile buggers... life experience and all...
where's the fun in that?
   the youthful artist: or rather: entertainer in his youth...
but no, oh no... the artist needs to be old...
to hell with that... when's my next shift?!
Saturday... Sunday...
tomorrow's Wednesday... vet appointment...
maybe tomorrow... maybe Thursday...
i'll need to punish myself some more
and drink plenty of white wine... then off to Khedra...
to hell with painting nudes...
**** the nudes: literally...

who was that English poet that came home crying
after seeing Liszt play: jealous...
about how many women swooned over his performance?
Matthew Arnold?! yeah... it was him...
hell...
  poets and musicians don't mix...
                  achtung zu d'eh-tile... detail...
verdrehen auf gestalt: verschmieren auf farbe...

poets and painters?! ooh... that's another topic altogether...
i walk into an art gallery: i'm home...
i'm happy that i didn't opt for the opera tickets...
i had this arts review from the 8th of May...
i knew i was going to see this exhibition...

not since Edward Hopper...
   then again: i haven't heard anything about Francis Bacon
being showcased... i'd give a toe of mine
to see him being showcased...
who else could compete:
i've only recently become acquainted with Walter
Sickert...
disappointed? no... not that i can think of...
should i have swapped the exhibition ticket
for a concert ticket?
no... not that i think it would have been necessary...

it's a completely different experience...
i'm my own best and worst DJ in private...
i've been in mosh-pits at Slipknot concerts...
i've been to the best Tool concert: to the best concert
i've ever been to in Glasgow...
wrapped my arms around with German girl:
protected her from being squashed...
shared water... have her water...
came back with snogging...
   snogging a random girl at a Tool concert...
well: that's life...
   but i do remember seeing her standing all alone...
lonesome as the crowd was dispersing...
trying to look for me... i walked past her...
oh right: the man is supposed to instigate the chance-lance:
charge...
   regrets that i didn't?
i was going back to Edinburgh talking to this
teacher / pub Celtic band... what did he play?
flute? banjo? i do remember telling him:
the quintessential pop song? Material Girl... by Madonna...

eh... friendly conversation...
but if i were to approach that German girl...
and say: let's go back to your and ****...
and i'll leave you the next morning and never talk to you?
i think the snogging in the crowd...
sharing water...
  it was one of those splendid moments that
ought to have been only a moment...
    i can't imagine the alternative from that...

why?
only today... while i was smoking a cigarette i noticed
these flock of "seagulls": about three elderly matriarchs
and two birds readied for the slaughter...
as i walked into the gallery they kept hovering around
me... is he interested? isn't he interested...
to be fair: i was there for the art... not for some hook-up:
so libido stirring...
that's the "problem" when you're already paid
the devil for one of his concubines...
devotee women of "god" / "culture" stop interesting you...
not that i'm shy: i'm calculative...
but once you've paid for a *******:
so what, WILL i be paying for?
dinner and a maybe-****?!
  
   let's just skip dinner and get into the *******...
people are already making that horrendous
faux pas of profiling themselves...
so at a dinner date: i know what she likes,
i know what she dislikes... what the **** is there
to talk about? **** it: call the butcher in: let's cut up
some meat!

for a minute i took my gaze away from
the paintings: hook-up culture not working?
dating-apps the bane of your existence?
too bad... i never used them...
thank **** for that...
i don't know how or why i was ****** into
this social media frenzy...
validation? oh no no... bypassing the sloth
of the editorial process:
the: first appeal to the selective elect:
who then... make appeals to the rest of the public:
public first... the editors like ancient Greek
sophists can shove it up their *****!

wait wait: yeah: wait and i'll be dead!
to hell with it... this is open season!

is this one of those regret moments or memorable
moments? i think it's a memorable moment...
why would i regret some "hunt":
some classically inspired heterosexual finicky game
off a rom-com inspired:
reality is something that moulds us...
temporal creatures trying to figure out a way
around a "claustrophobia" of genetic inheritance...

to hell with that too! genetics-blah-blah...
if we were not such "god-fearing" people:
secular as they come... but also phobic prone
regarding the full extent of science...
we'd be doing gene revisions like the Chinese
are doing... hey... all the toys are in the sandbox...
why not play with them?
to avert the chance of having your limbs
aputated because of diabetes?!
Western civilization has become: Ssssss-LOW...

it's almost somewhat ******* but at the same time:
i don't even know...
backward moral superiority
over... something it originally instigated...
or broke rules for the existence of...

i can't imagine myself waking up one day and...
having regrets: instead of memories...
i won't allow it!

funny that... i'm still to write about the actual Walter
Sickert exhibition...
i think i'm about to write about it now...
"i think": well: that's always been synonymous with
"i doubt": the plethora of emotions that comes
with think that verges on doubt... it's almost akin
to being in love...
           i am: regardless...

oh my god... i only spent about 40 minutes in
the exhibition: do you need more?
i spend £120 for an hour with a *******...
so what's £20 for 40 minutes spent with a dead
artist? peanut... whenever i go to an exhibition
i have a tendency to: not want to: overstay my welcome...

the ******* lighting was all wrong!
who curated this!
who curated this! the lighting is all wrong!
i was actually bound to looking
at a painting... ballerina in me:
shuffling... left... right... forwards... backwards...
the heavily oiled: layered paintings can't
have this sort of lighting...

it's like my argument for subtitled movies...
why... why why why! why!
are the subtitles running at the bottom
of the scrreen?
don't people know how difficult it is to read down
and then look up?!
what horrible "thing" could possible happen
if you ran the subtitles on the top of the screen?!
you know how much easier it is to read at the top
and focus on something down below!
it's as simple as: why no culture on this earth
wrote like: it might be an imitation of a tree growing?!
from down toward up?!
even the logicians of Mandarin wrote:
up to down...
they didn't write down to up...
****'s sake!

couldn't you try... moving those lights...
"downstairs": to illuminate the paintings from down-below
rather than from the top?
who the hell walks into an art exhibition and in
his cognitive "seance" think:
oh this looks pretty... no... this is not still-life...
the lighting is all wrong...

i seriously had to look at some paintings from
the side...
some had mirror protections on them...
so there was clearly some distorting reflection...
me or some object...
this lighting is ****! who curated this?!

i wasted £20 of a worth of a birthday present, on this?!
****** lighting!
   couldn't you have lighting coming from
the side... or from the floor?
why from the ceiling: all the ****** time!
no imagination: nada... zilch!

it would have been better not buying
a ticket and instead buying the book for £40
than £35 with the ticket...

first room i entered: always the best stuff:
the portrait of an artist as a young men...
self-portraits...
i had a smile on my face...
i was mesmerized by:

- self-portrait (circa 1896)
- self-portrait, the painter in his studio 1907
- self-portrait: the bust of tom sayers 1913

i don't care what anyone says...
the last reference? it looks better in real life than
it does in print... those hollowed out eyes...
was the skull to ever have
the capacity for eyes?!
worm by the eye... worm by the mouth...
by the ear... nose..
you need to see it: in this! ****** Tate Britain lighting!
who curated this?!
this is the first time i thirsted for excellence!
came short... not the artist: the curator...

first room: beginnings... self-portraits...
ha ha... "Lazarus": slurping oat-meals...
the servant of Abraham: another good one...

one of my ultimate favourites becomes
this Mona Lisa... tiny little thing...
Venice: the little lagoon...
circa. 1884...

architectural interests... crap... crap... crap...
well: good... but... thank god some of the stuff
is still there... but i don't need to paint
what i can blink at... against...

then the nudes...
oh the nudes...
   each artist and his ******* nudes...
Picasso had at least some imagination
to contort the **** beyond recognition:
to try to get a proper hard-on...
Freudian hammers and sickles...
or as i like to call them:
swastikas and scythes...

what?! aren't we to not inherit the horrors
and make jokes of them?!
terrible lighting... absolutely terrible...

the sea paintings drew my attention...
where: the: ****: is: Dieppe?!
la saisons des bains...
               seascape circa 1887...
    
ah! there she sits pretty!
   Cicely Hey 1923...
      you just want to **** her nostrils off!

Off to the pub 1911: Freddy ******* Kruger!
ah... that's why...
that's why... an artist... **** it: painter...
might compromise with a poet
for something... someone...
images are yet to be born from the images
that are to come...

that makes no sense...
images are yet to be born from the already
born words...
yeah... that makes sense...

i wasn't exactly moved by the nudes...
i had a poker mask on...
i've seen enough: plenty...
the the architectural stuff bored me...
i know boredom: unlike any other boredom:
the habitual need to continue
the mechanisation of replicas...
but the subject matter isn't there...
a sort of a writer's block...
you persist... writing about the most banal things...
painting the most banal things:
in order to keep up with
your own: well established technique...
but it's unimportant crap...

can't be fascinated by **** paintings...
Narcissus ate all my nudes....
i **** before the altar of mirrors...
i know when a mirror eats the contorted expression
of a prostitutes face....
i'm no jack the ripper...
      
surprise me with: horror ****...
not *******...
  surprise me with...
    people imitating... from the last movie i saw?
that wasn't imitation...
that was *******: readily available...
******... handcuffs... lubricants...
cucumbers... shame-tactics...
at least with men pain came with war...
women at nut-job crazy:
***-warfare...
   shaming tactics... no wonder i get
a limp **** with a woman that isn't
a *******...

   no wonder i go to art exhibitions:
perhaps... just perhaps the fairer ***...
but most certainly the uglier *** should
the inverted become extroverted
and: likewise... the antonym... compound...

the days of Jack the Ripper are gone...
i still don't know how someone like Samuel Little...
did what he did?
no *******: casually...
a proper ******* with a *******...
come on... at least they're giving it up for an asking
price! there's no *******: nuance!
there's no dating involved!
  these days, can you imagine?
going on a date... you match profiles...
what's there's to talk about?
she already mentioned all her interests...
all her dislikes... her likes...
what's left?
you order steak...
    chips blah blah...
does your steak taste like beef?
do your chips taste like: potatoes?!

then again: we're supposed to be switching diet
to synthetic "meat": bean born alternatives...
whatever... that's why i figured out:
focus on art... don't bother with gene replication...

and as i cycled home like a demon...
now i'm sitting down...
listening to "pleb" culture...
fat boy slim's: right here, right now...

i don't want to wake up one day and have
regrets.... instead of memories...

this exhibitions was a revelation... Plato's
false beliefs? not in bad faith...
those three old women and those two young girls...
psychologists?!
oh sure sure... they were really gearing up to
talk to me... i was more than willing to
destroy my inner-boundaries...
for some love with narrative:
than *** without it...

    clearly i'm out of touch!
   what appeals to the masses can never appeal
to the individual... why didn't i choose
a ticket to see an opera? i read about this exhibition
come May 8th... gusto... Waldemar Januszczak...
he has good taste....
i wanted to fizz out... to zone-out...
at the FA cup final i was hearing a crowd...
but also church bells... i was fizzing with sound
in my ears...

painter! painter! get me a painter!
i need to relax!
that's what it felt like... cheap *** pseudo-*******
potentials... three matriarchal psychologist
types... two lambs for a slaughter...
you want to catch me, now?
should have tried to catch me
ten years ago:
then you could have pharmacologically
strapped me in!
        now?! fwee-byrd!

               angry at the traffic...
the world has moved on! get with it!
i was told to get "with it" once, or twice...
times change: things: move...

none of these women will ever be regrets...
the women i paid for are never regrets...
they're women i paid for...
i'm reluctant for enforce a switch of the power
dynamic from man to woman...
woman offers ***... man pays for ***...
women doesn't offer ***:
man... becomes: self-sufficient....

it's almost like that brainstorm moment...
which arrives... in a football stadium...
before the crowd arrives and gets all hot & bothered...
listening to: fat-boy slims' song: right here:
right now...

there's a greater silence:
allocated to an art exhibition...
   oh: but i can find it..
i have found it...
most of the people: simple are...
there's no to be or not be
concerning them...
they're like mountains... like trees...
they simply are... replicas...
****** cues...
        
   to hell with thinking that i might be
high-brow... some people are just ******!
if that's an insult for someone being
******: while someone intelligent
is getting bashed... to hell with the ******
fetishist!

no! you ****-beard-funkies don't
get away with it that easy: who... these days...
allows a 14 year old daughter to become
pregnant?!

when life was: ah... ha... ah...
                           when you wanted to paint life...
rather than discard it as a photograph...
once upon a time... a time: that never was.
there's something magical about days like today,
esp. if it's sunny: gloriously sunny and it's
gloriously sunny in England, or - rather -
just outside the realm of London and Westminster:
somewhere in Essex - in a gloriously sunny
England -

                    waking up at 8am sharp: saying good
morning to someone who probably understands
you - who gets annoyed when you drink too much
from time to time: but nonetheless someone who
cooks dinners, the house chores, makes lunches
for her husband and if necessary: the decorating
and heavy duty work in the garden: ground work:
digging up stubborn roots planting new trees
tending to trees in general: ensuring there are no
strange parasites stalling the trees from producing
fruit... the pneumatic drill: concrete: leftover shrapnel
for the basis of drainage:
    then two tonnes of earth and some new lawn... etc.

waking up at 8am: going downstairs -
drinking a bottle of cherry kefir -
                   going back up: laying in bed for
half an hour: then another half an hour laying
on a cold wooden floor...
   listening to music and reading...
first Spinoza's chapter 3: on the vocation of the Hebrews
and whether the prophetic gift was peculiar to them
from the theological-political treatise:

never failing to resonate with the clarity of
the writing: even though it might have been written
in 1670...

then getting up, shuffling around the house wondering:
well, there isn't much to do -
not for now... two people need to be involved
in further curating the eucalyptus tree
since one person needs to be doing the curating
while the other has to be standing at the base
of the ladder to ensure a firmer base...

(now insert a break of character,
  now insert the nitty-gritty details of absolute
concentration on the words read)

what to do... ooh... the kefir starts working its magic
on the digestive system: taking Plato's
Theaetetus to the throne room... sitting on the throne
of thrones and taking a most glorious dump
doughnut conker... a first edition mind you:
as translated by Robin Waterfield (1987) -

how Plato is not so much a bore like Nietzsche thought
but just simply funny: for there to be any dialogue
for there is never really a dialogue to begin with
but more like Socrates talking to his demon
      (whether it was a hallucinated creature
or otherwise that "6th sense" of the daimonion)
or perhaps his demon talking back -
whichever... that there's hardly any disagreement -
an imploded dialectic -
       that Plato: stylistically is less boring but more funny
that if you take out Socrates...
  you reach the conclusions of Alfred Jarry in
   that book exploits & opinions of dr. faustroll
pataphysician


from the section in question: knowledge and belief...
puzzles about false belief
knowing and not knowing
    being and not being...

without Socrates - as Theaetetus alone the replies
are as follows:
- certainly
- absolutely
- no
- of course not, Socrates
- clearly
- no, that would be entirely wrong
- perceiving. what else could i call it?
- i have to
- that's right
- no
- evidently not Socrates. it is perfectly clear now
that knowledge is different from perception
- that's called thinking Socrates, i suppose

and it goes like that and it goes like that on repeat:
but there are breaks...
some sweet-bits where dialogue might even be
established:

- well, i can't say that it's thinking as a whole,
since the beliefs that are formed can be false; but perhaps
true belief is knowledge: i'll try this answer.
if, as the argument progresses, it turns out to be wrong
and we find ourselves in the same position that we
did just now, then we'll try another idea...

i've taken off a mask i put on at the beginning...
now: if i were writing in my native tongue:
there would be no pronoun issue... since: when a ******
speaks: he rarely utters his own pronoun...
because he is aware of being the person speaking
or the person thinking...
pronouns are a non-starter argument:
whether grammatically or ideologically...

and Plato isn't a bore like Nietzsche thought...
he's not a bore but you do need to have an essay...
within a book... you always require an essay
by an academic when reading Plato:
   the schematic of reading Plato works like this:
you first read the essay... then you read the "dialogue"...
and then you jump backwards and forwards...
that's how you read Plato: you don't read Plato per se...
you read the accompanying essay related to a specific
text of Plato's...
no one reads Plato for Plato... one reads Plato
for the interpretation of Plato...
unlike Aristotle: one reads Aristotle for Aristotle...
there's no point making your own mind up
   about Plato... since he's too inquisitive and doesn't
really riddle you with anything firm:
everything is still questionable in the mind of western
man... everything is question worthy...

if you break a dialogue down to talk of letters?!
seriously? S & O... and no further S...
together they are the first syllables of my name...
does anyone who knows the syllables know
the two letters independent of each other?
clarification: independent of the syllable itself?

you can't read Plato for Plato...
   he's a philosophical mutant... he's forever changing...
that's what happens when you keep
a text in such high esteem and for so long...
now... you turn around from Plato and read
some journalism... wow! like: ooh... that's *******
tragic: red is red... blue is blue...
so much narrative-certainty...
                
that days such as this are very much counter
   to Lou Reed's perfect day...
     whereby two other songs compete for the sunshine
the shins: new slang vs. sjöblom: brand new life...
or at least prince's raspberry beret...
because it's sunny you feel like falling in love
with a girl...

because how would a song like: spent it with you:
who?! me myself and i?

- and as you look into the distance at a very limited
horizon of the tops of trees of Bower Wood
you look at the sky: i should have become a painter...
simply because: well if Edward Hopper wanted
to paint light and shadows in rooms of lonely people
you start getting an itch saying:
all i ever wanted was to paint clouds on clouds

a cumulus on a canvas of altostratus
   and some cirrostratus
    or perhaps those behemoths that are
the cumulonimbus...
  hell... i think i would spend a second life (if i had one)
just painting clouds...
or cauliflowers...
     men and painting: because life could be simpler
like that... last time i heard: hands are very difficult
to draw... i can't suppose clouds are any different...

- because i'm most certainly going to do what
i planned... or didn't... whichever...
on a whim... that Walter Sickert exhibition at the Tate
Britain) which is just a few peddle peddle motions
past the house of Parliament is calling me...
from Romford, by bicycle? 2 hours...
it would take me just as long if i used public transport...
because then i'd have to walk from Westminster
toward the gallery...
    
  but then i'd miss all that build up from Essex
(the green belt separating the extension of London
toward Chadwell Heath from Romford)...
and with weather like this...
hell... what was the last exhibition i was at?
oh... right... from Russia... also at Tate Britain...
that's when i was wandering the streets of London
smoking marijuana and figuring out:
kind of pointless getting a second degree in history...
at UCL... the prices went up from circa £1000
to circa £3000... and for what?
6 hours of lessons in the week?
    so i dropped out after a year and progressed toward:
madness and then creativity...

i don't understand how people with interesting
lives... boxers... rock climbers... explorers...
politicians... finally muster enough idleness to sit
down and write an autobiography:
a retrospective autobiography...
it's like the second erosion of memory:
the first erosion of memory being instigated by
pedagogy... 1 + 1 = 2...
selective history dates...
knowing where Mongolia is on the map:
but never visiting Mongolia...

like the argument against big government:
local knowledge... like i know that the best Turkish
lavash bread you can get is en route to Mile End:
after leaving Ilford: between Ilford and Manor Park...
on Romford Road... on the 86 bus route...
the best lavash bread...
for that recipe that's better than any kebab
or fish and chips... refika's kitchen:

i would have never guessed that rosemary works
so well with beef...
what does she call it? bashed beef?
hammered beef...
   so few ingredients: as the saying goes: less is more...
off the top of my head...
rosemary... garlic... black (whole) peppercorns...
sea salt... chillies...white wine vinegar (to cure the meat,
which is only marinated for 15 minutes)
olive oil... cheese... cheddar is more poignant
than any mozzarella types (amore! amore!)

or rather... you could hide that exclamation mark...
how? ha ha...
    amoré (but it's itchy: simultaneously...
because you want to drop the upside-down "iota")
you want to scream like Lucifer falling head first...
you're going to regret my ejection from
your autocracy of heaven!
wait for our demonic democracy down below,
just you wait!

- and no... i was never a big Blake fan...
i'm not a fan of rhymes either...
lyricism: stuff you can sing?
Aud Lang Syne is a tier above anything by Shakespeare...
but rhyming: that's constipated poetry...
ask Horace... ancients Romans didn't rhyme...
they also didn't treat language as
squares:

-ed                      -ed-

the dead
    who ate
what was said
with a missing head

-ed                        Eddie...

the Iron Maiden mascot... ha ha! i'm in love
already: and i think i'm thinking about
Khedra... i must be...
i'm going to cycle to see an exhibition of a man
accused or insinuated as being
Jack the Ripper by some female novelist:
fetishist...
    on the throne of thrones i needed to relax
the "remnants": so?
photographs of Kendra Lust... because i'm all the way
into that older woman types...
but it was just a prompt...
a tight dress... some revelation of the flesh
concerning the: problem...
with mermaids... invert the mermaids...
i'm stressing... replace the lower part of a woman
with fish-details... or replace the top part of
a woman: likewise: with fish-details...
hmm... that's tough... those legs... that ***...

but i found myself looking at the tiles in the bathroom:
conjuring from memory a picture she sent me...
full-blossom lips...
wearing glasses...
and the *** we had... ******* nymphomaniac...
i wouldn't slap myself with a banana across
my face... i'd sooner punch myself...
then again: the idea of straightening bananas sounds
a bit like: remoulding apples into pears...

ah man... when money is left on the table:
straight up...
   i couldn't: i possibly couldn't go through
the ordeal of date-bluffing... i'm not a donkey
and a ****** is not a carrot...
i love making myself laugh... that's the best
laughter... because it originates in thought...
and not in the imagination of the other...
   it's spontaneous combustion: metaphorically...
and almost literally...

and now: to enjoy this day:
prior to it taking form, as i've written about it.
502 bad gateway:

title: left-over meat
body:
left-over: d'ah beat!
boom! Chloe wadies in
the hizz dep.
shout the harem chant
out loud!


in the full stare of the sun i sometimes feel like
the music dictates to me:
somewhere between Julian Winding's neon
demon and anything by Boy Harsher:
country girl e.p. / the song pain...

for the first time in my life my grandmother didn't
call me up to wish me a happy birthday...
i was always of the impression: cringe...
i don't like to be awarded anything: esp. when
it's a given: it's not ******* accomplishment...

i can remember having about 3 birthday parties
in my life...
one where i screamed: i'm afraid i'm afraid
for having to pop off the cork of a make-shift
non-alcoholic champagne bottle:
which i later spilled onto the glass table
and started slurping it like a dog...
like: a dog...
whereby i heard the prompt:
Matthew! we don't drink from the table!

what was the surname of those two boys?
Zawacki... no no... Ostarek... that's ******* *******...
i just made that surname up...
Ostatek! yeah... those boys...
i bashed one of them months later and
ripped off this crucifix: geld necklace...

one other party in a bowling alley...
whatever...

my 21st? oh sure... sure... that was "great" too!
i had to manage the crowd
and also deal with a jealous girlfriend
tightly knit in her spider-web of jealousy
smoking marijuana in my bed...
wanting everyone to leave:
because she couldn't stand me getting any
sort of attention...
then my high-school friend whom i invited
to stay over with three other high-school friends...
drinking too much...
vomiting outside the toilet on the carpet:
me... having to clean it up...

Jesus could have washed feet!
**** Jesus! i was cleaning up puke!
   to hell with that sociopath!
            hell: i'll grow my hair long if i have to
be missing a towel... i'll wash feet from dust...
you want to take care of
a, a Roman **** feast of bulimia?!

and why is it, that i don't celebrate my birthday?
a bit pointless...
now that my grandmother stopped giving a ****:
my maternal grandmother...
my paternal grandmother i don't even know
what she looks / looked liked...
she abandoned my father so she abandoned me...

woo boo hoo: who hurt you?!
   no one...
         that's why i go and visit prostitutes
to relax my heart...
like my maternal grandfather said to me once:
make sure to keep your heart small:
then you'll have people in the clench
of your fist...
              
              that's of course when...
my maternal grandmother phoned me two days
prior to my grandfather's death and told me:
oh... he's about to die...
2 years later... ah... the anaesthetic is finally
kicking in... for me!
   she's dead already...
3 ******* months prior i was sitting with him...
getting private dental treatment
because... England is a place where you
find: the non-existence of teeth!
people just slurp pre-digested proteins and
other assortments of shakey-shakey:
vegan "milk"-shakes...

             i managed to find... karl ove knausgaard's
alternative project after his magnum opus...
my struggle, i.e. Autumn...
  that part about eating the entire apple...
with the core... i sometimes do... whenever i feel
like eating an apple... rarely i stopped feeling
it was necessary to eat apples...

it's so much more simple when...
   you have issues with... your grandmother...
than... say... a past girlfriend...
so much... simpler...
               because the "misogyny" is not so...
harsh... so... obvious... sexually related...
   no no... it's... subtle... it's more on the level of:
distinction: i'm a man... and you're... a woman...
let's compare...
it's not like i want the stereotypical antagonism
of misogyny of: i want to **** this woman
but she doesn't want to **** me...

oh no...

oh look, who's here? Sylvester ******* Stallone...
i can be proud of my cat...
maybe it's just me...
   moo... he actually ******* moos and there's
the moon and i want a simple meow
but... after a certain hour when the foxes run
rampant i don't want to let him out:
but he wants to go to the toilet...
meows like Sylvester ******* Stallone speaks...
i have to chase him into his cuvette
whereby he... d'uh... decides to leave me
a doughnut's worth of **** in those flakes
associated with cat-litter...

he actually needs me to watch him urinate...
so i can immediately clean it up and
he doesn't have to bother with the "hide the evidence"(!)
side project...

moments later... Sylvester ******* Stallone:
meows like moos like the final speech
in the boxing ring of Rocky... it's doing my head in...
i go back up... number 2... with a slight tease
of diarrhoea... now i have to clean up...
and wash the ****** up...

i look at him now: lying in my bed...
sort of happy-proud that he has an owner that takes
care of him...
if only i had a child... eh... i sometimes wish...
but as a Mary Shelley experiment...
oh no... not with a partner...
i'd like an experiment as a male: not a single mum...
that must be fun...
you can play around with language...
morph, mutate... it would be...
then again no: people have their own agency:
young people succumb to peer pressure..

- but it's different now...
   oh who hurt you? who? might ask some "future girlfriend":
ah ha ha...
my grandmother did...
she told me only two days prior of my grandfather
and best friend being dead...
but she knew he was deteriorating a month prior:
and i had all that spare time on my hands:
i could have cared for him!
fishing trips! climbing trees! horse riding trips!
foraging for mushrooms! sure...
he did drink! that's all she remembered...
he drank because of her!
trips to the metallurgy plant!

i've learned my lesson: money's on the table...
i can only be gentle with prostitutes...
or let's put it this way...
whatever violence was performed on prostitutes
in past centuries... esp.: notably in England in
the 19th? that's *******, gone!
that's done and over and... gone... ****!
gone...

i couldn't harm a *******...
whenever i visit: i don't visit her for lies...
if she wants to say some truths most women are afraid
to say: fair enough...
i'm there to ****...
like i go to a butcher's for a pound of cool, red, raw,
Tartar... beef!
like i go to a florist for a bouquet of tulips...
i'm not there for some ***** **** latex suit gimp
fetish ***!
   i'm not saying that's wrong:
but like i already said:

once you walk through the desert of ***, less, -ness
long enough: you stop being thirsty...
and it doesn't matter whether you ******* or don't...
i tried both avenues...
you are simply turned off...
or rather: prompted by cues from animals...
pigeons do it too often... on rooftops...
you need a female cat and groom her while
she raises her **** of an *** with her nail
wriggling toward your nose...

that's how i was woken from my slumber...

it felt so good not hearing and good wishes on
my birthday from my grandmother...
for once! finally! i'm freed from that superficial *******!
i didn't accomplish anything by being born!
so why the **** would i celebrate this day?!
sure... it's nice when it's covertly celebrate:
no chores around the house...
no cooking... some champagne... fair enough...
but... oi oi! gather round! friends! family!
what a load of crock-****!

- today i was curating my eucalyptus tree..
cutting excess branches...
not a bad beginning... i'll be keeping the CROWN
of the tree... let it grow higher! higher!
but i'll need to cut off the branches outgrowing
sideways...

while doing just that... i was prompted
by a memory at "work": the first and probably the last
time a **** tried to work around me:
instruct me... "tell me off":
became angry with me...
     all of this is of course in my head:
what's outside is usually cordial, formal...
she said: you're not supposed to be here!

i should have said: and you should stop being
so confused, pretending to be macho!
why be ******* with me while at the same time
wanting to **** me!
******* ****: macho ****** are a massive
turn off... turn off the lights
and i still would do doggy dodge-style...

i have an ego of an iron maiden in my head....
it's all nice, politeness on the outside...
in the shallows of a veneer...
dig a little bit deeper and i'm savage...
today i proved that to myself...

it would have been so much different if i were
that stereotypical male hurt by his ex-girlfriend...
sorry, girl... that spot is taken...

so while i was curating my eucalyptus i was also
rummaging in my garden...
this poor apple tree... infested with parasites...
it's in ******* plain sight!
a bit like seeing the parasite mistletoe!

people hide, when cancer attacks: but trees are
in plain sight...
i don't even know what attacked it...
fruits about to blush further up...
but further down... these *******... critters!
these... aphids... i don't even know...
                                        coccoidea?

i don't care... i didn't... dearest mother was supposed
to spray these ******* off...
no... can't wait... i know a better procedure...
i'll just cut off the infested branches off...
and i did... threw the cut-off branches into a bag...
sealed it: now! suffocate!

i hate to see a suffering tree...
i guess: more than seeing a suffering animal,
more than a suffering human being...
because... trees... are mute!

so Edward Secateurs came into play...
no... no need to wait for spraying these ******* off...
i'll just cut off the branches infested...
put them into a bag: suffocate them...
cut off their live supply...
       i will embrace a rat...
vermin: king of the hierarchy balance...

i still don't understand why it's almost, somehow:
oh so, "normal"...

i think i idealised women once upon a time,
that's why i allowed myself to love them...
within the confines of a prescribed narrative...
my heart's too small to love like
a teenage boy, ever again...
i idealised women once upon a time...
after all: once upon a time there was
a once upon a time that was spread infectiously
like a cognitive-pandemic...

if i were to replicate my fish-dinosaur genes
any time soon... eh? too many complications...
potatoes cost too much:
i don't feel like driving or owning a car...
i don't want to extend the misery...
or pursue it in a linear fashion...
    i better be dressed for a vertical take-off...
white shirt, black tie, blak shoes...
                  black trousers, bye-bye...
oh... right... some underwear would be nice...

i figured it out though...
i'm not lonely: i'm longing...
that's the crux of the debate:
no one is truly alone... no one feels lonely...
lonely is sick... it's a sickness... it's parasitical...
i figured it out...
not now... some hours prior....
i'm... longing... i am prone to project vague:
idealisms on people... it's a sort of a 2nd reminder
of Romanticism...
i'm longing... wow! even i'm astounded!

ich bin sehnsucht! i am longing!
that's my only counter: when people try to make the distinction
between being lonely and being alone...
me? i'm simply: longing...
it's what drives me forward...
that does not give me exacting coordinates of
existence... in situ / in vivo / in vitro...

i need: ich brauchen bewegung!
i need movement!

for sure: polite societies: salon societies once
need rhymes and piano / violen concertos to
entertain the ladies to be a better: ****...
but... no...
talk is cheap... art is cheapest...

those botanical parasites attacking my apple tree
sure as **** got their worth's worth...
i almost cried with joy cutting the infested
branches off... stuffing them into a plastic bag...
sealing it... hello gas chambers two-point-oh!
unless any willing vegans might want to
change, their minds, any? any?!

well then... limb by limb we go.
turning 36 the next day isn't easy, i was supposed
to tend to the eucalyptus tree today,
by tend i'm implying: trim it, curate it...

oddly enough i knew where the ladder was:
but apparently it's too windy to use...
so i said to her: gravity never fails...
i don't end up floating up... i'll just fall...

i never understood how women have
to mingle *** with pain from time to time...
next time she asks me about my scars
on my knuckles... i'll tell her to snort that
******* of hers while i smoke a cigarette
and then put it out on my pinky knuckle
without flinching...

*** and pain don't mix... not in my "dictionary",
i treat *** like two mollusks...
having evolved to invest their shells
and get some backbone and elbows and knees...

perfect example of what i'm talking about?
the song: pain by boy harsher...
turn off the light... no! in the brothel it's always
under dim lighting... with mirrors...
and sure as **** not under the bed sheets
in a sweat cocoon... we're not ashamed of
our bodies...

so i found the ladder... i too found that secateur
on a spear... every time i use it
i think of gerimannoz... no... ****... that's too early...
those spearmen belonged to the great migration
period to the tribe of the Suebi...
i mean those spears... no... pikes!

the reisläufer and landsknechte... well i found
that secateur... but some branches are too thick...
i need a handsaw...

what came later was an explosion of superlatives
of the most debased language imaginable...
my mother tongue woke up and started making
oaths... KURVA... PIERDOLONA MAĆ etc.
ŚCIANA KLEPTOMANII!
   one thing on top of another...
    
  my father can lecture me on a lot of things:
but certainly not on keeping order...
  a wall of kleptomania... one thing blocking
another thing...
i need the ******* handsaw!

and like i said to my mother after i gave up:
it would be pointless to sieve through all this crap
just to find one tool...
   sure... i can find about 5 hammers...
what am i going to do? hammer a branch down?!

that's what i call curse / oath / profane words...
urywniks -
     kurva is an urywnik - which stems
from przerywnik: cut-scene...
     and also from the word: urwać: break off...
rip off...
      when you become so angry that you start
cursing and forget yourself / rip yourself off
from your self... and there's a reason why
   that's not compounded... the your from self
detached... it's almost a loosely associated sense
of reflection: not the reflexive yourself
but the reflective your self,
    but at the same time lost to fury... havoc...

it's not that my father is a hoarder...
   that i can sort of understand, but that this one tool:
the handsaw... is obstructed by unnecessary things
stacked in an idiotic way...

work: obstructed... what am i going to do with
the rest of my day?
   return that ****** black tie to Marks & Spencers...
because i need a clip-on tie and i don't exactly
feel like being tugged my a proper tie in
the event that i meet violence... in a stadium...

i even started to think: well the keyboard isn't
there to easily access the diacritical markers of
my native language... what if i just play the Hebrew
and hide the diacritical marks
(not out of laziness) but like the Hebrews
hide their vowels...

although: that's ******* debatable... considering that
i'm suspicious of the following in
the Ktav Ashuri:

א - it's given equal status among consonants:
but it's also a vowel...
where's the Eva equivalent?
there isn't... there's only that story of
the two Adams of Eden:
                                              ע - ayin and aleph...

because how did life start? sexless...
don't even get me started on the niqqud...

now: if i were to write the name of the Islamic
god in Hebrew, how would i write it?
i'd white it as follows:

אללעה

            that's how logic words:
take the Greek alphabet...
    the rule of the PREXIX-suffix when given
names to atoms that are letters...

αLPHA... you have a name for a letter...
       but you strip the letter of its name and you're left
with just the letter...
to build words with...
    Σigma - likewise: the -igma drops off and you're
left with Sssssss....   (Y) - serpents in trees...

so what do you get with the noun: aleph?
a-leph... ergo... a vowel given the same status as
a consonant... kametz and the patach are the vowel
A... but treated as diacritical marks...
the "degraded" to status of the niqqud -
    since vowels are seen as feminine...
while consonants are seen as masculine...
on the simple basis: ** and XY...
                      
                              a vowel is free-standing...
**... while a consonant requires a stacking...
RA... otherwise... sure... you could turn R into
a vowel... but it would be a trilling of the tongue...
a rattlesnake sound...
you could turn M into a vowel...
   but your mouth would have to be closed
and you'd have to hum the M...

oh ****! consonants can be vowels...
  but your mouth has to be closed to turn them into
vowels!

- i rarely dream, but today i woke up from a dream,
like i already mentioned: every day is a birthday,
i go to bed, sleep, rarely dream... wake up:
born "again"...
    i was searching the meaning of the name Linda
yesterday... originally 'linde': ref. to the the lime tree...
don't ask me why...

but the dream wasn't visual...
it was: auditory...
                          only with a blink of the eye
upon waking and quickly closing it did i conjure
up what i heard...
i was talking to someone about the etymology of
words regarding chess pieces...

a mix of English and Polish and: clearly a third language
because... thinking back on it...
the etymology didn't make sense...

the names of chess pieces in English:
king         bishop
queen      knight
rook         pawn

the names of chess pieces in Polish:
król                              skoczek
hetman         ­               wieża
goniec (laufr)             pionek

    (mind you, these rubrics are mixed up,
    they're not like for like)

why is the hetman not a "queen": not damą
(potocznie) - as it was referenced to keep
with the vogue of the English tongue?
                      and how many women in the past
ever waged wars, beside Joan of Arc?

point being... the topic was about the bishop...
it turn out we were talking
about the term bishop originating in:
rolling barrel...
                                the laufr: lauframi...
giermek... someone who used to run in front of
someone's carriage: or rather: läufer...
properly...  i.e. lauframi gives only 1,240 results
in google...
but lauframi potocznie gives 7,120 results...
and the proper term: läufer and not laufr...
   since lauframi is plural... and the correct way
to cut out the plural would be to say: laufr...
without saying the word in Niemy...

                          i had to change around
lauframow nocleg
   into lauframov nocleg to get a google-whack...
a 1 result search... but it's not like in the good-old-days...
now that single search result
is hidden among about 5 different advertisements...
you're better off with 2 results... which is the former
with the W rather than the V...

well... anyway... this has been the most vivid
exclusively audible dream i've ever had...
it's jumbled by that third language i can't decipher:

rolling barrel... no... wait:
it wasn't even the word rolling...
certainly: baryla - i.e. baryła...
       or even the diminutive baryłka...
hopping? jumping...
the prefix: dam... dum...
                 biskup... that's bishop in Polish...
the third language: in dream-world context:
i don't think it was even a human language...

how did i come to this point in life:
i must have written (yesterday) that...
(while) walking through a *** desert
you become less and less thirsty as you walk further
without ***...
        you turn your attention to things like:
die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft -
a Teutonic crusader song...
     after the death of Barbarossa... funny how he
died... did that pickled ginger reach
Jerusalem in that barrel of his?

                did they pickle him or sustain his
body in... oh no... wait... medieval man...
well... apparently circa 1430 a(n)
                  Isidore from Chudov Monastery
discovered *****... Isidore...
   now: i didn't give consent to being baptised...
i sure as **** didn't give consent to being
    confirmed: i'm not confirmed...
i'm an apostate: last time i heard...
   Richard Dawkins has been confirmed...
atheist on a whim... i made my mind a long long
time ago... even if i met "god": i'd be running
to the devil to get the whole picture...
but if i were given the privilege of being confirmed
what was that name i was thinking of?
that third name? Isidore...

      anyway... barrel... Barbarossa... barta-blondine...
blonde moustache: that's me... i still don't understand
why my grandmother used to call it ginger...
then again: she used to call drinking beer
ingesting "empty calories"...
she never learned to ride a bicycle or swim...

what diacritical marker would you use on the ιota
to morph it into an e? so that barta-blondine
would become ala-dean?
    i.e. the -e would become an optional (e)?
i'm thinking... macron...
   barta-blondιn... wait wait... maybe that's it!
why is the hovering "halo" above the i and j even
necessary? surely there's no aesthetic improvement
if it was simply ι & ȷ:
   clearly you can easily confuse uppercase I with
a lowercase l and lowercase L with 1...

i'll just do the Hebrew from now on...
if my native tongue will spring up i'll just avoid
using the diacritical marks...
sort of hide them... not on purpose: perhaps on purpose...
too much fiddly bits and bobs...

oh hell: my throat is dry... i need some wine...
i shouldn't have added that tease of pink gin
into my coffee... well you know what they say...
even a little bit of gin in your coffee is better
than no coffee at all... sorry: gin...

           maybe that's why those girls simply:
never stick... around...
    i need something tremendous to wake my libido up...
last time i went on for several years without
getting intimate... but when my libido was woken:
and woken it was by grooming my female cat:
she raised her **** into my face because
i touched all the right spots... that was it...
i was cycling like mad through London trying
to avoid the one brothel i knew...
  
   obviously i ended up going there...
lucky for me the prostitutes changed...
    where i met Khedra... i want to see her again so bad
but i don't feel like underperforming....
there's no need...
            i need to get the mood... the mood...
i want to get thirsty:
and i tried not watching ******* to "wake up"
from being some "docile" whatever...
1 month sober: nope... that doesn't work either...
plus jerking off helps when you're constipated or
whatever bowel problems you have...

sure thing... ******* and water...
or water and the back of your neck...
  or your scalp... that tonsure region: the kippah aqua
hot-spot... or... the occipital bone... + water...
streaming down... good thing i have my *******...
that i wasn't mutilated by religious orthodoxy...
if i didn't have my *******: in some societies
i'd probably have a wife...
a wife that would have a hard time divorcing me...
save your foreskins! for god's sake!
or... whoever's sake...

no no: i get it... her past relationships... she was
playing the whole gimmick of Laurence... ****...
that's the Arabian guy...
Florence Nightingale: night-tin-gale...
she was trying to make these poor, broken men...
better...
            one being a woman and child boxer...
another abandon-er... another a ******* stiff-y...
me? oh shh shh... i drink a little write just as little
turn completely cuckoo in silence
          make my own wine bake my own cakes...
she couldn't figure me out: she ****** off when
she realised she couldn't improve me...
                      that i wasn't going to play the role:
her son's older brother...

                  i need to get my mojo back...
i feel like doing what i used to do:
hang around the brothel and rub my fingertips
on harsh coarse bricks before going in and touching...
pouches of flab and muscle and hidden bone...
too much of *** leaves nothing to the imagination...
i need to find my oasis: my fata morgana of an oasis (even)...

but first i need to shed off at least 2kg from the current
100kg i'm on... sure sure... it's more muscle than
anything... but i need to feel leaner...
but first... some wine...
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