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i think i have to places to visit...
based on the people i've met...
   friends of old are nothing compared
to the strangers i recently meet...

based on the fan-base of the Liverpool
football club:
i need to visit Liverpool...

why are the women, the girls, the women,
the girls... so much more beautiful:
wholesome up north...
compared with the stuck-up *******
of London?

they can come up to you...
kiss your cheeks... brush their cheeks against
your bearded cheeks...
i think i need to visit Liverpool...

and what is it with these Scoussers?!
even today this boy was playing a game with me...
tapping my left shoulder: i looked right...
he tapped my right shoulder: i looked left...

so i finally turned around...
he giggled... i giggled: long match...
isn't it? you're bored already?
it felt like a microcosm of my own childhood
where we used to play hide-and-seek...

i missed people: but i guess people also
missed me...
figuring out a bypass for a woman
with a broken leg to not have to sit in her designated
seat, but instead have a seat
in the disabled area...
went to the vendor of hotdogs...
grabbed a spare chair... blah blah...

if women weren't these scared does...
doe: plural does...
hugging... kissing... patting...
two Irish boys... one an Adam one...
older brother?
we were talking about the pharmaeutical
industry like it might be: the "industry"
of the undertakes...
we exchanged numbers...
we we supposed to drink till late because
i told them my birthday was today
yesterday...

            we finished the shift late...
my legs were killing me...
my back too...
     i'll send Adam a message of regrets
tomorrow...
next time you're in London...
or? i'll take your dialectic proof...
i won't visit Dublin...
i'll got all the way to Cork...

we both admired our admiration for Edinburgh...
i had to mediate the rude stewards...
******* ego-tripping on pseudo-authority...
it took three... before i was the fourth
and we took this
sick boy... to the toilet to freshen up...
i brought him extra water...
i suppose he managed to pull through...

people are great! as long as you can piece
together the ugliness in yourself
and present it with a veneer...
i'd love to work with children if i'm currently
working with adults behaving like children...

you play the game: i have no authority...
even though i'm technically supposed to be
a representing authority donning
a high-viz. vest...
   but i'm not an authority figure...
that's that game i play...
        i even tell them... but if it were
up to me... you could do whatever the hell
you want...

i need to visit Liverpool: find a wife...
or maybe Cork and too: find a wife...
    i can't be this much of myself by myself...
it would be so much fun to find a woman...
talk her into boredom:
talk her into death...
                  
but why the **** am i picking up numbers
from two Irish guys... to later go drinking?!
lovely guys... i even told them:
even though they wanted me to buy me a pint
and a steak & ale pie:
i wish... i wish i could be on your wavelength!
you know...

a sober person talking to a drunk person?
one of the brothers understood me...
one brother left the other to finish off his pint...
the one left said: well... he appreciates
football more than drinking...
me? i appreciate drinking more than football...
we giggled: because we shared the same sentiment...

i've been living so isolated for almost forever:
the impeding "predicament" of
the pandemic didn't really slow me down:
it just meant that people caught up to me...
or slowed down to my pace...
when people started to feeling longing...
isolated... i could be there: however i was all
there all along...
point being: the women didn't change...
the men changed...
now we can freely hug... we can shake hands...
we can talk...
brotherhood... ****** tension remained
however it always was to remain...
the same...

which is the sad part...
and... frankly? i'd rather a boy tease me... tapping me
on my shoulder... either side:
so i look the other way than a woman...
whatever a woman does...
with the number of prostitutes i've been with...
i'll visit one tomorrow... because it's my birthday
and i'm not about to feel special...

that's what's unbearable...
i'd chose feeling like a father everything time 100x
more times over
than feeling like Don Juan: a lover...
i'll drink this litre of ***** and think about
something fine...

i would chose being a father over being
the most successful lover: "almost": every... single time!
a ******* looks great in the mirror...
but?! a boy tapping your shoulder...
once to the left: you look right... huh?!
once to the right: you look left... huh?!

Hugh! stop it! you turn around and...
a bright sunshine of sunlight at sunset of a youth
is reigning over you...
no woman can equal: compensate that!
not with any amount of ***** ***!

because it comes across: so differently!
the masculine application of tenderness toward
a child: esp. a male child compared to
that toward a woman... a grown woman...

it's like chalk (die krupps - im schatten
der ringe) vs. cheese (SJÖBLOM -
brand new life);
i'm undecided... love for children or love for
women... ****** gratification
within the confines of women...
but absolutely no emotional impasse...
or with children: no ****** gratification
but not ****** impasse...

to be honest? i think children win me over...
i don't think i could be a polygamous *******:
the envy of a man among men...
even though tomorrow i think i'll
visit the brothel...

i need to visit Liverpool...
i think i need to visit western Ireland...
but...
    oh dear little ******.. if we're going to
be playing your game...
it needs to be HIDE & SEEK...
            i want to want to love women
more than i love children...
i don't think that's ever going to happen...
for the man's man... in me to be born:
children could never exist...

these ******* critters... these cute: additions
of the explanations of existence...
of the two song choices:
i always choose the sterner...
i do wish women were the answer:
they're most certainly "the truth":
but... between... truth, lie... question and answer?

what's most useful? the "truth" or the "answer"?
if woman is the truth... then who is the answer?
children!

       i love women: i love to **** them,
i love to pander them with flowers when they're
most unwilling...
but... if i were to chose between a child and a woman?
i'm tired of sexuality...
i'm more prone to parenthood...
   i'd be more hyped up being a father than some...
****...
  lover... ascribe...

i could cut off my phallus off...
turn it into a ******* oyster of a trans-gender
mentality...
i need: brains! i feed off brains!
let's play hide & seek... little fellah...
              
                it's a bit like witnessing a cat of Mein ****
sleeping peacefully in my bed...
i can have *** when i can "buy" it...
*** is *** is *** is not amusing...
             rigid muscular doctrines....
more *****! more *****!

at what point did it become apparent:
i'm more patriarch Abraham than....
Don Juan?!
          
      it's so refreshing when working with
children...
              it's so refreshing in that...
you could almost... solo project: Panzermensch them
into: doing "whar": but not feeling culprit!

because speaking any Deutsche is supposedly
**** spreschen... n'est ce pas?!
502 bad gateway bypass:
chuckle baron,

mishaps at 0.5 degrees
of a circle.


picked up an unfinished cigarette from a jar i have
placed on my windowsill
instead of an ashtray and smoked it...
ooh: those ***** little pleasures...
    so ash on the filter... and in general:
***** cigarette finish...
                 sipping my whiskey...
   found a new band i can't stop listening to...
SJÖBLOM: which is a surname by several
Swedish people... the album? demons...
i always found that the Swedes have an incredible
pop sensibility...
a bit like Abba... a bit like Roxette...
it's infectious music...
   i don't care whether someone calls its "emo":
it's not... there are not screeching vocals of teenage
angst... it's melodic...
it's a bit like discovering Alt-J or the XXs...
or Porcupine Tree...
           then again: it's like trying to find the antithesis
of the major bands of the 1980s...
i needed to get something from that decade
beside only listening to the Cure or Depeche Mode
or Duran Duran... since that's what my uncle was
raised on...
turns out the 1980s were probably the best
decade for music: nothing mainstream matters
when you discover post-punk, dark-wave...
and no: not that pretentious indie music from England
from the 2000s...
   even Brit-Pop is bearable compared to that
strange movement...
   i was a child when Brit-Pop was a major force
to contend with American Grunge and Metal...
      to be honest: anything from the 1980s that wasn't
mainstream is... better than anything mainstream
that came out in the 60s or 70s....
   dad rock...
                well: progressive rock was never mainstream:
King Crimson will still have a special place
in my heart: i don't think there's a better album
than: in the court of the crimson king...
    it's my youth...
        well... Roxette's Joyride... that album is pristine...

tomorrow's F.A. cup final between Liverpool and
Chelsea ought to be fun... i'm already gearing up...
how long to stay up and doodle?
what time to wake up...
    eat something prior leaving?
shine my shoes... doubly iron my trousers...
iron a shirt...
     i already asked to be placed inside rather than
outside... near the VIP section... near the Royal box...
hell... i might even brush against the future
King of England...

i sit back and remember my grandfather:
how long has it been?
   2 years since he passed?
      he was a peoples' person... he could make
people work for him...
   i'm sort of growing into this role too...
even though: we're not talking: proper work...
in a metallurgical plant...
heavy duty stuff... Die Krupps - im schatten der ringe...
i still don't think this is work...
trying to make people not drink in view of the pitch...
trying to make people not drag their mobile-shishas
in stadiums... searching bags...
general security *******...
    i guess i don't think it's much work:
but it would have been... if something like
the Manchester Arena terrorist attack took place...
maybe i'll be made a supervisor again...
last time at Wembley i was frantic...
   a Tyson Fury boxing match... trying to tend to about
20+ people under my supervision...
this one guy... mental health issues...
broke down crying... poor mother:
i'd get slapped about for saying the stuff he said
to her: and she bought him the tickets...
the amount of time it took to calm him down:
panic attacks...

while he was running backwards and forwards...
insulting my stewards...
i had to step in... thankfully this black guy helped
me... a steward under me...
it's like in those 1970s movies about mental asylums...
all the orderly seemed to be black...
i didn't want a response team involved...
i hoped the two of us would reason with him...
and we did... he stayed...
he didn't know London: had no money
and as i sat down with his mother
she told me he was being a little brat...
a 25+ year old man needed my support...
cried in front of me... while i tried to tend to him...
touch... touch... hand on his shoulder...
   etc.: no need for the details...
i just said to him: you paid to see this event!
it's not fair that i'm getting paid to "sort of" see this
event too! look! bright lights! stay!

i still bewilder myself... this isn't work:
i don't treat it as work... i've already got used to
the infrequency of toilet breaks...
sometimes i come home constipated like a turtle
that only ate sandpaper...
   and it takes me about a day later to recover...
i don't even mind standing like a ceremonial soldier
at Buckingham Palace:
i swear... 4 hours on a bicycle is less exhausting
than standing still...
what's sometimes on the news?
ceremonial soldiers dropping from exhaustion:
because they're imitating statues...
which is more exhausting than... movement...

this is a "joke" of a job compared to roofing...
whenever i tell someone i used to be a roofer
they're like: what's that?!
Romford is the capital of roofers...
oh you know, tar work, hot-melt, waterproofing
roofs? on an industrial scale...
that summer of 2004 was probably the most
glorious summer... working, sweating on
a housing project in Beckton...
   shame that in the same year: i was on site
when we heard the news about the bombings in London
my ex-girlfriend was going to catch that
bus that exploded...

i think she missed it because she was running late
or some ****...

i miss those days: because tending to people is
hardly work if you are both an introvert
and an extrovert... although: i don't really know anymore...
i've recently come across this acronym I.N.F.J.
acronym: i watched some videos...
mein gott: what ego-stroking...
sometimes: no, all the time... it's a vanity project...
this sort of categorisation of people
is laziness... psychology is lazy compared
to philosophy...

   ooh! really?! are you that special?!
the term advocate? in the ****** language?
it translates as: lawyer...
   but it's true... i've seen people with these S.I.A.
badges that are trigger happy on violence...
i'm always certain any issue can be resolved by conversation
alone, by building a positive rapour
by standing your ground...

psychology is boo-ring to me... it's predictable:
it makes people predictable: cagey... caged...
superficial... psychology used to mean something...
it used to be theoretical: almost philosophical...
now... since it's pop culture...
it's useless... you better look into the underbelly
of psychology: psychiatry... after all...
psychiatrists are psychologists *** pharmacologists...
that's the ugly side...

or see a priest, or see a *******... or read some
philosophy...
         i might have been hurt...
but it was a sort of a pain mollusks feel when:
that ex girlfriend of mine that was almost blown up
in 2004... she once told me that as a child
she would pour salt on snails...
    
         yeah... and when i was much younger
i came across these two boys that caught frogs...
smear them with lipstick and then set them alight...
go figure...
  
to lessen suffering... i always thought that was best...
perhaps that's why i don't think i will ever
have to put up posters of: LOST CAT...
on trees in my vicinity... how can you,
for ****'s sake, "lose" a cat?! you don't ever "lose" a cat!
the cat has had enough!

just a little bit of tenderness... understanding...
i'm thinking: if this isn't work: crowd control...
i should maybe start looking into work related
to metal health... it would be sort of funny:
a guy, diagnosed with a psychotic disorder
starts working in a mental hospital...
    that would be kind of funny...

on a scale of 1 to 10... how mad are you?
10: mad enough to read Kant and Heidegger in the 21st
century... i think that's mad enough...

what a ******... only two days ago
people were complaining about traffic surrounding
Romford... what happened?
a 22 starling... a boy... not yet a man...
jumped off a four storey car park...
and a pretty pancake he must have made...
between 8:52am and 9:02am he was.... GONe...
gone...

when i was having a hard time during my "breakdown"
i tried to imitate Odin... by hanging myself
from a tree...
the noose was there... i was sitting on the branch...
i dropped... ******... the branch broke...
some of us are not so lucky...
even my godmother mentioned this story once...
drunks and madmen... we have all the luck in this world...
we're talking... 7 storeys... high...
in one of those Communist style living blocks
of concrete...
the guy fell... like a... ******* sack of potatoes...
landed in a bush... about an inch from
a metal ****...
got up and simply said: o kurva!
                           oh ****...
and walked on: for another dabble with some
***** mistress...
                                
i sometimes wish this was fiction...
but drunk people fall like sacks of potatoes...
there's no defense mechanism...
they don't try to pretend to fly flapping
their hands in the air...
i remember when i tilted back and fell down
the stairs... did a Lucifer's dive...
of being born: head first...

i don't remember any bruises: any plum tattoos
on my body... that other time...
when the summer was really... really hot:
unbearable in England... 2016?
i'd wake up gasping for air... run but naked
into the garden and lie on the grass in the shade...
but this other time i escaped my bedroom
and decided to snooze in the hallway...
i rolled from side to side... dropped about 2 metres
down onto the stairs...
like a ******* sack of potatoes...

falling to your death: it must feel like that "analogy"
in Salman Rushdie's the Satanic Verse...
one of the characters drops to earth: laconically...
is that the right word? while the other...
is hardly in a freefall...

this 22 year old darling was lucky: he died...
i would have thought it would take a much higher height
to drop dead like that...
at least he didn't survive the fall and have become
bound to a wheelchair and being fed milkshakes
of protein through a tube...
let's be absolutely frank about this fact...

but that's the luck of drunks and madmen...
i was about to start work on the Olympic Village
prior to the 2012 events...
i panicked when my father said:
you'll be drug-tested: he always ******* lies...
they do test... but not to the point of paranoia...
i was about to start the next day...
what did i do? i ****** off to Athens...
the next morning...

i've never been to Athens! i remember catching a bus
from the airport to some random hostel
in view of the Acropolis... on the mountain side:
illuminated... it truly reminded me of Edinburgh...
although... there's not much on Arthur's Seat...
by comparison... first night?

in Athens?! drinking absinthe... putting a hand over
my eyes... left? right? then spontaneously giggling,
laughing... pointing forward...
from what i later heard: it was the ******* district
of Athens... the philosophical quarter of Athens...
plenty of "bums": did i meet a Diogenes of Sinope?
nope... second day i met a few guys who i thought
were Syrians... i got into a car with them...
we drove far ******* far from where i was staying...
to a *******...

at one point: what's the policy in a *******? no touching...
i had two broads on either side of my shoulder...
mingling my lips with their collar bones...
elbows... that parts of the body men can biceps and triceps...
*******... running out of money fast...

escorted by one of the gorillas (bouncers)
to withdraw some more cash: account empty...
******* my pants... literally... i ****** myself...
over excitement or whatever...
sneaking out onto the streets of Athens:
a city i've never visited... we must have been driving
for about half an hour...
yet my drunken GPS woke up...
how i made it back to the hostel:
i will never want to know...

amnesia...

i return to this memory because i remember the coach
trip from Greece... via Macedonia...
Serbia... via Hungary... via Slovakia...
the snow of Serbia: just outside of Belgrade...
looking like a ghost when i encountered my grandparents...

it's a burning in my mind:
i was so cautious whenever i visited Paris...
when i went to Stockholm... i was always so sober...
but in Athens?! random strangers?!
*******?! **** it...

i remember this girl talking to me dropping a green
peg onto the table: insinuating:
i'd like a private audience with you...
i even remember what song was popular in Greece
back then: Rihanna's: only girl in the world...
it was playing on the bus from the airport...

but "we" freefall like a sack of potatoes...
there's no hands flapping...
that boy was lucky: thank god he didn't end up
in a wheelchair... being fed protein milkshakes
through a tube...
lucky *******...
   i sometimes wish the branch i was sitting on didn't
break and i managed to hand myself to
the eternal night of the gods...

but like drunken GPS: how it gets turned on...
don't ask me:
i must have migrating bird genes...
how do storks migrate back to central Europe?
storks... most associate with ****** mythology...
i must have a pea-sized-brain or something...
since... first time in Athens...
and... driven to a ******* minutes from
the city centre where the Parliament is...
**** my pants... and still manage to walk back
and get a good night's sleep!

it's a bit like when i first came to England aged 8...
what knowledge of the English language did i have?
maybe one... or two words... having seen them
written down...

you want to know the slang term for klawisz?
i.e. klaveesch? a button... a key...
on a keyboard... or a piano...
in Poland it usually refers to someone who's
a prison guard...
everyone: or rather, everyone ought to know
about the failure of the Stamford Prison Experiment...

i'm not a klawisz: in this "work" i'm "supposedly"
doing... i'm the mediator...
i never ask for assistance: those... sadistic little
busy bodies i could twist a wrist off if i wanted to...
talk... talk talk talk...
violence comes last: first comes metallurgy...
first comes roofing...
first comes: the art of judo...
first comes compromise...
brute strength comes last...
  but all these ******* i'm working with are:
technically: "rapists"...
i don't agree with their techniques...
talk... talk... we're civilised people... or: i hope...
i believe anything can arrive at a compromise...

i'm already working with people who have
complaints... made complaints...
like that one time against Liverpool fans
when they played the semi-final at Wembley against
Manchester City...
i had a woman from Liverpool walk up to me and kiss
me... she wanted to feel what ***** on a man's face
felt like... and when they were walking out
en masse... ugh... childish *******...
one started tapping me on my shoulder to my right:
i looked left... "no one"...
then some other started tapping me on my shoulder
to my left: i looked right: "no one" there...

i love that we can return to being children!
that's the whole point!
i know i' return to being a child by being
easily irritated!
but at the same time... this easily irritated me
understands that: it's archetypical!
i'm not serious about: whatever the hell this is...
but people can be... dealt with:
without employing: even the least amount of force...
with my own eyes i can attest that:
convo... mere convo...
if by staging this macho you create a subversive
allure of authority...
guess what... i'd rather **** than showcase a taste
of strength...
        
no no... none of this: you think you have authority therefore:
i have no authority to ****...
but i'd rather **** than showcase
a sputnik's worth of authority...
because this showcasing: this grandstanding is:
a load of *******...
it concerns people who never had
to wrestle with themselves to cycle for 4 hours...
who had to break themselves...

that's all it is...
it's just in plain ******* sight!
why didn't i get laid when i dropped round her house,
twice... when i defended her integrity on one of our
trips back:
on the way toward the shift the guys were
making ****** jokes...
i told her: i'm coming back with you: don't worry...
what did the boys talk about? ******* cereal brands...
she didn't have to posit her elbow on my knee
and relax... she didn't have to do anything:
drink my wine... laugh...
giggle... smile... sing in front of me...
she didn't have to invite me into her home...
she didn't have to make me want to drop her
Valentine's flowers in the middle of the night...

she really didn't require me to make her
feel the requirements of feeling protected...
apparently any football hooligan is immune
to the argument: imagine if i were you mother...
a different story if i just stand there and... wink...
oi oi... ups to two toe nothings, eh eh?! wink-wink...
wanna giggle?!
i know a proper rattle that even giggles me
about...
    i like to... put out cigarette buts on my knuckles...
you... want to try?!
it truly is a: transcendental experience
of "emotion"... well... more like feeling...
well.. more like...
              can i break your knee into cartilage?!

but she was so perfect! ginger 'n' all!
ah man... a ginger girl... just 4 years older than me...
a ******* bombshell!
she already mentioned that this guy wasted
20 years of his life to approach her with enough:
******* or... ego or... ****** or... unicorns...
and i was like: **** it: bungee!

   eh... no wonder... what a glorious shrimp: ginger: imp...
there's another one on the horizon...
but this one is less cougar and more: mousey...
but ginger and freckles is like...
cumin and coriander... powder... curry base!

well i get what i can get... alttürkischrabehaar:
old turkish raven hair...
i was born with a fetish for blonde haired girls...
sorry... the story twists...
gingers... Celtic gingers... time's up... the night's
most welcome.
imitation Hebrew within the confines of
the English language:

how?
             apostrophes...

e.g. guns 'n' roses...
        but the same could be likewise
for another three lettered word...

    and 'n'...
             one and AND... you can clip those "wings"
from either of the words...

   but... obviously... it's not as popular...
to have to peer into a little bit of the niqqud...

let's face it... when properly digitalized
the apostrophe is almost indistinguishable
from the yodh...
                                   '               י

just write in Sans-Serif...
  or... hell... write in monospaced: י
    oh look... slight curvature of the Greek gamma...
being ****** by a chiral mirror:
   Γ...
  
      or how does this "clock" / "compass" work?
it's not Copernican...
the "lambda" off V: via: Λ...
   γλωμ (gloom)
                
             La La... La La...

in how many Greek letters is the iota the protagonist
of the key, keyhole and door?

i find three... ΞΘΦ...
no wait... i find four!
                            ΞΘΦ & Ψ

ΞΘΦΨ: that's the Greek equivalent take
on the Hebrew tetragrammaton...
will need to change that around a little...
to keep in line with the Hebrew ה... heh...

i.e.       ΨΘΦΞ...

the symbolism of this implies: either opening
the same door twice... or... opening two doors...
insert a key in: vertically: |...
turn it... to a horizontal position: ー

four ******* iotas by the end of it...
seriously...
if the Greeks wanted to have a new testament
conspiracy "theory" about an Egyptian
false prophet with the Hebrews
to undermine Rome...
sure... 2000 years "late"...

            but my antithesis is here...
and i'm not as sceptical as Emperor Nero
that the Hebrews relied on a "theory of fire"...
it's purely phonetic: perspective has taught me:

the disappearance of ancient Persian cuneiform...
of Egyptian hieroglyphics...
Chinese ideograms are no more ******* practical...
Japanese katakana is...
Korean Hangul is... there's no reason as to why
Chinese ideograms survived while
the other two writing formats didn't...

the god-eater that's the Hebrew deity became
******* with the people who used these phonetic encoding
methods... the Chinese never enslaved
the Hebrews...
but even the Hebrew deity must have been
a bit ******* with his people
when it came to undermining Latin...
it's... still here... and it's already entombed in
electric technology...

you can't undermine the Latin script...
not now...
you can't get rid of it...
           it would be a bit like coding using
either Hebrew or Arabic when doing
modern mathematics using the Latin
method of VI + IV = X!

isn't that amazing?! architecture constructed
from... no real demand for numbers...
for a mathematical language...
i've already mentioned it:
not even because of hindsight...
we don't owe the Arabs or the Hindus for
the invention of numbers...
we already had them:
simple example that the ancient people
used letters as numbers...

what's 1? I... iota...
what's 0? O... omicron...
what's 6? b: beta...
what's 3? epsilon E...
         what's 9? P... rho...
what's 4? loosely G or P again...
what's 5? S... sigma...
           what's 7? gamma or el L...
2? that's zeta: Z...
8? B... beta... hey presto!
                 letters morphed into numbers...
it was already here: within us!
maybe Arabic numerals helped...
or Hindu numerals...
              who cares is chess was invented in India:
football was invented in England...
as was rugby...
chess isn't a replacement for religious fervour...
it's not an EVENT sport...

i'm not going to be thankful for the Arabs
"inventing" numbers for us "ignorant" Europeans
since i see... letters that morphed into numbers...
precisely because the ancient Romans
used letters as being synonymous with numbers...
they could interchange a phonetic measure
to a spatial or temporal measure...

no ******* this time round...
i'm not having this deity-eater that i much admire:
regardless shove kippah ******* pancakes
under my bed pillow in some crucifix excuse
of "suffering"... nein!

tried with the Germans... fail...
well... the resurrection of Israel... so not much of a failure...
but i'm not going to get clobbered
in the head... get Islam shoved down my throat
because: Gaza is still not part of Israel...

and no! i'm not going to be thankful
for the Indians or the Arabs for the existence of
numbers...
we already had the letters that "sort of" represented
the numbers... we already knew that
letters could be used as both letters and as numbers:

ergo: VI + IV = X!
tonight she’s clipping her obstinate fingernails
healthy, hard and alone on her atoll of sofa
surrounded by a stony sea

automatically I look down; my deficient talons
at a loss and uncreative; thumbing the possibility
of courageously communicating with her complexity

******* the idea of getting close to her
beyond my standard compulsion to
use flattery, force a smile or be mutually inauthentic

leafing through the elementary school years
that predeceased her current level of intelligence
grappling with my empty handedness, and
finally locking us in on the folded faith of hopeful futures

Sara Fielder © Apr 2017
just these two songs: rope sect - handsome youth
SJÖBLOM - Telephone...


creative burn-outs are spectacular...
   they are also more cognitive burn-outs as they
are creative burn-outs...

profanities creep in: racial slurs...
  the mind becomes so stretched with too many
ideas all at once: but the stamina disappear:
there's no clear motive with regards to
pushing yourself that far...

it is always easier to run a marathon than attempt
a seven thousand worded poem in one sitting...
it's easier to cycle for 5 hours straight
than to write for the same amount of hours
in one sitting...

         but this burn-out doesn't happen spontaneously...
something very unremarkable has to push
you to the limit... for me? it's regression...
when i'm being lied to in a very subversive manner:

it's easier to say:
the Holocaust happened... then deny that it did...
rather than say: the Holocaust didn't happen...
and try to convince someone that it did...
because the horrible has already happened...
i can't explain it... properly...

in my case... i could judge a psychiatrist for
malpractice... if he insinuates that i was abused as a
child... and he tries to instill this idea into my head...
i immediately turn into a curled up hedgehog...
defensive: because i don't recall that to be true...

this one instance only recently came about
from being accused of pouring oil into a bottle of gin...
today: after a hiatus, bed-bound for two days:
not eating... catching up on the socio-cultural /
socio-political narratives: depressed: or rather deflated...
not eating anything... i maybe ingested
about 100kcal... thereabouts...

       the state of society is depressing... it's best to hit
this nadir and catch-up with the narratives
than listen to social-ailments when you get to return
to writing: keeping yourself busy...

i need to return to myself...
   i need to salvage that poem where i broke...
there's some good stuff in there...
but obviously this implies: rereading what i wrote...
and i never do that...

a return to listening to music...
back to post-punk...
     bands and such songs as:
actors - like suicide
creux lies - becoming
syzgyx - your eyes, they speak
iamnoone - labyrinth
movement - gone
plastique noir - asleep in the night train
homefront - seagulls
serf - unkown, unkown
haunt me - this sadness never ends
rope sect - handsome youth
SJÖBLOM - Telephone
the true faith - i wanted more

i don't even think that getting paid for my efforts
would change anything about
these burn-outs...
no, probably not: if you love something...
and do it habitually: to relax...
because writing becomes more relaxing
than thinking:
with writing there's a linear nature: a vector...

a bit like my concept of cycling:
the unconscious coordination
of space: squeezing through traffic...
   sure... i could cycle into the countryside...
i sometimes do: but the unconscious coordination
of space? moving near buses... big trucks...
sort of being the leech...
    it's more interesting...

and this was all before i finished working
with the kango on the concrete in the garden...
three days... why bother going to the gym?
each time i was amazed by some little nothing...

i have plenty of encounters with woodland pigeons...
in ****** tongue a woodland pigeon
is known as a: SYNOGARLICA
a Eurasian collard pigeon...
      both are here... in my garden...
                 and i just sat there on one of these warm
May days... where i wasn't using my mind...
just my body...

    their call: which i once found irritating for
a particular reason that i will mention... but this time
round i laughed: because it made sense...

'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-ó!

    and... it varies... you can count it on your hand...
the second time you lift your thumb up
to count: it's bent...
how else are you going to count?
   from thumb to pinky... or from the pinky to the thumb?

and yes: that apostrophe at the beginning
of each 'ooh... there's a reason for that...
you could basically write the word gnome or
Gnostic beginning with an apostrophe:
   'nome or 'nostic: since the G is a surd in each
case... it's silent...
but woodland pigeons are not cuckoos...
there's no letter to decipher that sound...
the 'ooh is the best approximate...

and they are prone to do it either once...
or... up to 21 or 31 times...
i sat there and counted:

   'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh
      'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh
     'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh
         'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-'ooh-ó!

because they always finish on that acute omicron (ó)
half breaking their song...
    
it's like they know they need to break off
with a shorter version of the string of the x5
'ooh-'oohs...
           but what arranged that: changelessness?
like the gargling of the KRR of the crow...
in between their croaks...

i've aged to the point where i think i'd be able
to go beyond a cordial conversation:
intimacy is elusive... more me on a piece of paper
than investing in another human being...
it has transcended a melancholy of sorts...
it's a near impossibility to be without an attachment
to myself...
   love and all that frailty of wishing for
reciprocated intimacy...
           absolutely lacking in me: almost like
a psychopath...

now the mother-tongue will wake up:

   nie wiem čemu (in mother tongue i just hid
a Z with that caron... in English i'd be hiding
a H) Y nie jest w kategorii samogłosek...
bo jako jedyna litera w polskim języku
ma swoją nazwę? id est: igrek:

                        Y Y Y Y
                    Y Y Y Y Y Y
                 Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y
                    Y Y Y Y Y Y
                        Y Y Y Y
                          Y Y Y
                              Y
                               I
                               I

but you couldn't draw this schematic
of both the tree and the serpents tongue
prior to the existence of Latin...
no: you could... i don't know why i have this
"prejudice": after all... we're only talking about
a shape of a sound... clearly it's a G
in Greek: a gamma...
          like I is no more an aye: affirmative to:
eye...
           to... iota squared...

isn't that how a tree looks like?

   י is more akin to an apostrophe...
   yodh: י / '
                  the curse is so minimal is can be
barely seen...
        the letter itself is not as pronounced
as... say... the letter aleph: א
of heh: ה‎

or reaching toward the Phoenicians's waaw...
i'm standing on a backlog of history
and i'm going absolutely mental trying to organise
a narrative for the beginning of the 21st century...

this is the Hydra talking in me...
    i'm splintering...    

it's time... maybe i could writing my pronouns
as:
        אֵ
     ∛i...                     i³...
                 a lot has changed since i last studied
the qabbalah... notably: the vowel chirek
has morphed... completely: with name alone...
what was once known as chirek is now known
as hiriq...

                 kametz has become kamatz...
shurek has become kubutz...
    etc. because i don't feel like going through all
the Hebrai vowels... i'm already stretching myself...

either a Hebrew headache or a return to old Church
Slavonic...
i was looking up the history...
hmm... probably a descendant of the Vandal...
the Vendi... and all that interesting crap...
either way i am standing at a crux of history...
a lot of people... even i found the Glagolitic script
by chance... prior to what St. Cyrillus
made of a Greek reinterpretation of the script...
making it look: absolutely cheap...
Cyrillic looks cheap: not as well refined as Latin...

one example: the lower-case looks the same
as the upper-case...
unlike the refinement of: Αα...
           Γγ...
                        Δδ...             Ηη...
             Λλ...                   Μμ:                 Ξξ....

then again: you couldn't do a lot about K and k...
well... you could have... not make it... Кк:
the uppercase letter just... shrunk...
after all... K I<
                     has a giraffe's neck... and no head...
Kk...                   it's not lowercase by simply
being smaller...
   and countless examples Дд: otherwise: Dd...

         the cyrillic Тт and the latin Tt...
           that's a big one...
            but Greek had this aesthetic problem to begin with...
let's begin with iota: Ii... but there's no dot
hovering above the letter in Greek...

blah blah... what are the exceptions? omega?!
again: the same in Latin: Ww...
Oo... Uu... eh... not upsilon...
   Pp... but R and r?
               Hh... Gg... Ff...
                                        Dd... Ss...
                       Zz...                   **...
                                           Cc...
                                 Vv...
                       but Nn...
                               Yy...
                                           Ee...
                          Ll...
                         Jj...
                        
no... of course there's no consistency to what i write!
i'm not Atlas... the rest of the vicinity couldn't care
less about what i think about certain matters...

it's not that i even don't care:
but whereas i endear myself with being satisfied with
their entertainment...
i'm dreading the 14th of May...
i'll be going back to work with people...
i have no: talking point to engage with...
while they have children
i'm thinking: ****- is not really racist...
is it?
   esp. if you stress it with a prefix justification...
akin to how the English language
is lazy for using the apostrophe...
shortening + coupling words:

do not becomes don't...
wouldn't has origins in: would not...
vowel eating... letter eating...
it's hardly offensive:
you say ****-...
because you don't feel like saying Pakistani...
it would be... mightily weird to say:
Afghanistani...
instead of simply saying Afghan...
what's with this zombie sensitivity to certain
sounds?!
giggle... bigger... blubber...
  two consonants so coupled will make the river
Niger somehow less... flow-some?!

we already have that with the Thames...
that river doesn't flow...
what river in the world is known for
a tide in... and a tide out...
it doesn't flow... it ripples...
almost bubbles... like an agitated lake...

honest to god... i sometimes think to myself...
given my personality:
my life would have been so much simpler
if i were inclined toward homosexuality...
it really would....

it would make things a lot more easier...
      inherent "prejudices"... it's almost as unfair as
someone who has to justify being homosexual...
with the more intelligent types:
why would i find pride in something suspicious,
couldn't it be simpler to not be ashamed
of something?

i find it less: tiresome to not be ashamed of something
to counter to have to feel
pride in something that doesn't deserve credit...
no one in their right mind-set would
feel proud of being a heterosexual...
imagine having some attraction for a single mum...
you bring round a banana loaf you made yourself:
she implores her "boyfriend": her son to have
to say thank you... no... mate... you didn't have to...
you bring a bottle of homemade wine...
get her drunk... get her singing...
catch her smiling... even the boy notices...

you cycle in the middle of the night...
falling over your own shadow...
bicycle... wheel... drunk man... no no...
William Hazlitt! this is not going to work
with Alfred Jarry in the background!
but you enter this woman's presence...
try to comfort her...
   but she just keeps nagging at you...
about her past: abusive boyfriends...
and there's a boy in the background:
he might as well be ******* already...
no... itch... one itch after another...

she tries all her best to get you fired for
rumours... of drinking on the job...
the job i'm currently doing is not:
a ******* spectacular job...
it's not even a job... it's not like
i'm doing the work a plumber might...

but that's heartbreak...
you leave her flowers on Valentine's day...
in the middle of the night...
just because she said:
oh... this guy... was trying to court me for
20 years...
   you're on the "job"... she's ******* on Tinder
swiping like mad: left left left... left left left...

forget it... just forget it...
romance is dead... even though you're the guy
with the limited amount of baggage...
i could seriously give up drinking and writing
for a red-head like that...
i could imagine myself as a surrogate father...
clearly i'm needed elsewhere...
i have had prior plans to take care of...

back to Thespian matters...
      we're all going to be actors by the "end" of this...
since acting is the current,
& predominant mode / median / mean...
form of any: if at all... of human artistry...
not painting... not writing poetry...
acting and "pretend" acting...

            shadow-stealing... for once!
for once i don't feel like writing this term in Deutsche!
i don't even want to employ the term:
doppelganger!

              we'll be grand ******* Thespians by the end
of this crux in time...
     proper psychopath nut-jobs!

i've drunk enough for both Winston Churchill
and me... i could do with a sobering up period
with a ginger... single mum and her son...
but obviously... that's going nowhere...

can't you start with flowers on Valentine's day
and work from there?!
teasing easy steps: nibbles... can't you?!

i'm ******* hanging on a tree right here...
when you get older... the heartbreak becomes
a little bit different...
   the first heartbreaks still leave you:
somehow... believing in humanity...
    but once you get older... you... eh... you sort
of stop... disillusionment kicks in: proper...

for sure: you're a disappointment...
but... so many people are not far behind...
it's that crab bucket mentality...
i understand... i get it: throw that argument at me...
for all my imperfections...
i have them... but...
                 people are so disappointing when
on the verge of recreating what was once
their "******" innocence...
when they want to put on the more "serious"
airs of their approach to relationships...

so, what... the fun's over?!
right: "now" it is... so... why have it in the thirst place?!
that was the last time i bought a woman
flowers... last... the absolute last...
well... unless it's my mother
and it's her funeral...
       i'd sooner prefer to throw a handful
of stones onto her grave like a Hebrew might...

just the idea that she tried to bluff me:
i turned off my phone when walking to her house...
she texted me that she wasn't feeling well...
i only read the messages when i came back home...
but she was dressed up...
she was burning incense in the house...
she had no make-up on... no earrings...
no rings on her fingers... she looked... as a woman should...

and how i enjoyed her smiles... her giggling...
her singing... while she made her son his supper...
and we blah blah... and...
i don't even care for logic... women have no logic
capacity...
i was better attired and the dog didn't slobber me...
my ears... the wounds on my knuckles
from the burns i made myself from cigarette
buts i extinguished on myself for:
sadist? i enjoy the extremities of feeling pain...
the dog licking my wounds until i bled...
less attired: no baker boy hat...
licking my ears...
but this time round... i dressed up...
cake... wine... franziskeiner cloudy beer
to match my home-made beer...

   she looked so happy...
   she was, *******... singing dua lipa songs!
she might as well have been vacuuming
and... completely ignorant of vacuuming: singing!

i think she's the biggest heartbreak i've ever
had... and i didn't even **** her...
and the fact that i would have to sober up
and become a surrogate father makes it all the more
worse...

to hell with my non-drinking insomnia...
some purpose in life doesn't hurt as much
as the freedom you gain from purposive-lessness...
genes are blah:
        you can always influence the mind
of someone...
             i don't mean: control it... steer it...

i was so willing to find home in her...
but i'm obviously some Ted Bundy stereotype...
unpredictable: unreliable...
              unwilling to change...
yet i was so willing...
    i was gagging to take the role of someone
responsible...
     oops... hey presto! back to the brothel
and the prostitutes...

             well at least there i'm not afraid of:
those girls take chances...
           "success" story: exclusive rights to unprotected
***... because... your hygiene is on par
with the ******* and she recognises it...
and she's Turkic... perfecto!

but there were clear signs!
  play?! play?!
   why start off by resting the elbow on my leg...
seeking comfort within the confines of my body
on a way back from a shift?!
why invite me into her home?!
only recently i've that a worse problem...
a supposed "supervisor" of mine...
snuggled into my arm-pit and torso...
falling asleep... slobbering all over me...
on our way from a shift at Oxford
back to London...

   i was reminded of why i prefer to be single...
my left ****-cheek became numb...
that's the trouble with sleeping with someone
in the same bed... half of you becomes numbed...
literally: not metaphorically!
literally! i was sitting stiff while she was
suckling up to me...
i remember sleeping with Ilona...
not the *** part... the actual sleeping...
half of my would always end up being numb...

i hated it... truly abhorred it...
i still don't understand why it's such a taboo subject...
rich people boast about mansions with 30+ toilets...
how about...  3 bedrooms...
the 1 bedroom each you sleep in...
and the 3rd bedroom you **** in...
how's that? sleeping with someone is *******
unconformtable...
i tried sleeping with a 10kg Maine **** cat...
he usually ***** of by the time i get serious
about falling asleep...
even he knows: no... this is not going to work...
well: ******* d'uh!

- and that's where: that is: here.... where i want
to find the remains of myself...
so i can move forward...
i want to have these regrets...
i want to be able to misunderstand people
by also understanding the becoming of people...
as a misunderstaning,
like some horrible mea culpa...

to pretend folding two stones into
a mountain...
is better than keeping a mountain
from stones...

but at the same time: maybe it's a little bit naive
of me...
maybe she wanted to spare me the agony
of a relationship with her...
i like to think of it that way...
perhaps telling her outright that i didn't
feel like buying a car...
         she was the one with the council flat:
provided by the state...
she was the single mum...
   idiot me wanting to become a surrogate
father...
   maybe i was like her son-of-a-boyfriend:
someone somewhat innocent...

innocent my ***...
   that's why i backed myself up with having
promiscuous *** with prostitutes...
indiscriminate unprotected *** with at least one...
because we established high standards
in terms of cleanliness...
   proven time and time again:
standards in prostitution have changed...
i don't even know how STDs travel...
through filth... and most common people are
filthy... it only takes about a minute
to see it... men in public bathrooms at football
stadiums taking a **** and walking out
not washing their hands...

filth! but i'm guessing some women are just
as bad when it comes to cleaning their vaginas...
me? every time i ****... every time i *******
i need to fold back the ******* and wash everything
there with soap...

plus a canny insurance policy...
   child support? for a *******... esp. in a brothel?
so... they'll throw me into prison for...
what's illegal in England: although i don't know
the logic behind that: it's illegal to own a brothel...
prostitution in itself is not...
            i.e. the whole incentive for self-employed
women not having to give money to a third party:
even though: that third party probably
offers muscle... i.e. protection...
   because we're not talking pimps:
   we're talking bouncers and a Madame...

plus it's no ******* one night stand...
it's: cough up money up-front...
     hell... if you're lucky: you meet the right one...
you might just try ******* for the first time
aged 35... and realise: i don't know what the fuss was
about...

and returning to: the minimalistic life...
      well... there was always going to be Sophia...
great Sophie... philosophy;
    she could always fill a man's life with purpose...
if as Nietzsche pointed out once: woman is the truth...
the march of life is independent of me...
homosexuality has the same trials and tribulations...
well: maybe not so much with surrogate prostitutes
and those 2 daddies...

    bitter... resentful? harsh... yes... harsh... hangover...
yes... realistic... yes... but bitter?
    oh, fair enough: sarcastic...
                                  sardonic... but i can't imagine
myself as bitter... i'd rather drink one of those...
Czech: heavily hoppy beers...
       no... the beer is not hopping... hops...
bitter hops... very much unlike... ugh... English ales
are disgusting... why?! they're flat!
they're tasty... but they're flat!
                             it's like drinking flat pepsi cola!

as simple as money:
   i wasn't making more money than her...
                             she had too many regrets and a memory
of a once shining career in finance:
now with a bad credit score...
   with a son that "apparently" made his own money...
sure... sure... aged 8...
a child "actor" that only starred in one... flick...
that is probably not going to be released...
        me? i was surprised when i opened a second
bank account with only a passport
   and... no real background credit check....
                      that's the problem with earning too much
money...
    courts... court systems...
     defamations... LAW... lawyers...
                              money laundering... tax evasions...
lawsuits... greedy people...
                                 bribery, nepotism,
                                    eh... if you get by on just about
enough...
      a horse would be a luxury...
                nothing compares to riding full gallop
on a horse... it's probably better than ***...
   a horse is a luxury... some flashy car... eh...
                    not really.
antennas to
tin cans and strings...
https://tinyurl.com/y2wh9v4n

two crushing days, Atlas must have taken a break
and dropped the entire earth on my shoulders...
or rather: my stomach...

    burnout! completely lost my bearings...
or i copped out... whichever it was...
        i guess all those poets in China who wrote
haikus didn't have such problems...
they'd drink for a month before sitting down
to write the bare minimum...

i mean: i'm not a novelist! i'm not built for fiction!

at the same time what exhausted me
was finding out that i can actually sing in a Mongolian
fashion...
three nights ago i sat there disappointed with
myself... or rather...
           i was doing some housework...
drank a little of my mother's gin... poured some water
into the bottle...

i'm pretty sure it was water! i'm certain of it!
because i sipped some of it prior...
                     so what, the % went down from 37.5
to 35%...
                  but i get called in the evening when
she's about to have her drink... my father shows me
the bottle...
there's oil floating on top... body lotion oil...

and i get all defensive: because i know this tactic:
it's regression... it's implanting false memories into
someone's head: some sadistic psychiatrists
do this... i know what the psychological "game" is...

so i tell them... i can separate these two substances...
father exclaims! do you not know anything
about chemistry?!
        basically: you're stupid...

   oh sure... i keep my mouth shut... but i'm devastated...
he so easily insults me when it's "necessary"...
well: he can be a ******* but he still
has some hidden bitterness over the fact that
his mother abandoned him, his father abandoned
him and he was raised by his grandmother
and her second husband: so not even his grandfather...

i'm not a push over either...
but certain things at certain times just crush a man...
it doesn't have to be a massive rock...
stress at work... it's always the little unexpected thing:
and it's not even external...
its whimsical and within...
             it arises just as well as an ingenious thought...

2 days in bed...
        strapped to it... lethargy... a general unwilligness
to see either sun, moon or stars...
or people...
                   because i have studied chemistry...
to a degree level... i know you can separate oil from
alcohol... esp. since we're talking alcohol and not water...
not... completely...
but to a good degree...

which i did: took an empty ketchup bottle... petite?!
no no, i forget the names of equipment sometimes...
since i don't use them...
poured the bottle of gin into a bowl...
and watched... probably the best movie i've seen
in years...
there's that joke about watching paint dry...
this one was better...
  
watch oil float on top of alcohol and...
     i'm good with words... but i don't want to describe
what i saw... i did feel like a warlock looking
into a cauldron... an alchemist...
at first there are these bubbles of oil...
that are below the surface level...
then... all of a sudden they start to join up...
creating these surface level contact lenses...

i mean... until the whole thing comes together...
it's the best thing i've seen in a long time
and i'm planning to see the Walter Stickert
exhibition at Tate Britain in the near future...

but i used this empty bottle of ketchup
like an inverted dripper...
     i pressed the bottle.... to get all the air out...
and ****** up the oil...
    
almost like that... ****'s sake... chemistry at university
level and yet the fondest memory
of a chemistry experiment was from high school...
the even horizon of synthesising polyester...
a bit like this... two liquids... and you'd have
to pinch the event horizon and strands of white
polyester would "magically" reveal themselves...

so i ****** most of the oil from the top of the gin...
eh... a little bit of oil... well obviously i'm not
going to empty this gin into the sink...
don't be silly...
                       i once heard that a good breakfast
is a cup of black coffee with some melted butter in
it... sugar... yeah... tried it... disgusting!

so i started drinking this gin...
and... melancholy... sadness... something was stirring
in me...
i was already exhausted from working
with a kango into the garden... 30kg... i mean...
it's not an easy tool to work with if you don't
have an upper body stamina...

not that i don't... and a 7K+ poem spread over
5 days will always disappoint you...
now i have to train myself:
a poem in one sitting...
    remember: the Japanese circular form...
ensoo... one sitting... not ******* trying to be a novelist...

i can't go back to something i already
started... either in one go: or no go... at all..

in the night it came...
   Asia... she came in the night...
           Azja...
                   from history: the Golden Horde...
the great Khanate did knock on the doors of Europe...
it stopped around Poland...
******-lack-land...
   King John: Lackland... same ****... different cover...
how the king lost the Angevin Empire...
eh... ****** noblemen and that silly
idea of an elected monarchy:
   foreign rulers... the ***** of European monarchs...
that's what the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
was...

but she came... and i truly don't remember
hearing this music before...
i was sitting there... drinking my gin...
and...

                    the khoomei...
Tuvan throat singing...
                           i can't say: like a professional
singer... but... it was... Mongolian...
where did i learn the technique?
it's almost as if your nose disappears...
best with vowels... the least amount of
consonants... there are some...
but... i wouldn't be surprised if i have some
Mongolian ancestry...

i'm not even going to get a DNA check...
i heard once... what you're interested in...
is where you come from...
but i wasn't expecting to break into
a Mongolian throat singing...
      
                             it felt a bit like that sketch
from Family Guy... when Peter first farts...
maybe that's why i was bed ridden for the past
two days...
     old history woke up in me and crushed
me... i started to look for this type of sound...

but because my voice is a bit deeper than
the above given example... where did this khoomei
come from?!
what ancient darkness is stirring in me?
how did this technique just come out of me?
the wind heard it, carried it away...

   maybe for all that's Europe's implosion:
i'd love to meet Douglas Murray...
   if there's any intellectual alive today: he's probably
my most respected example...
even though: i much prefer listening to him
talk than actually read him...

but i'm sitting here... bewildered...
surely you need to be taught to sing like a Mongolian...
unless of course...
well: the famous Hejnał Mariacki -
St. Mary's Trumpet Call...
a story about how a trumpeter was running
up the stairs of St. Mary's of Cracow
and was shot in the neck by a Mongolian
arrow...

stated each noon... or... however often...
i was born only 3 hours' bus journey
north of Cracow: i still don't accept Warsaw
as the capital...
   what are the chances that... one of my ancestors
wasn't ***** by a Mongolian?!

i've seen it in real life...
i used to date a half Indian girl...
lovely girl... she married a white guy:
i guess that tends to happen...
women of mixed-race heritage will choose
the race of their father rather than their mother...
2nd generation in? her daughters?!
god bless her... she didn't catch on...
when i said that on her fifth she had the saddest
expression on her face...
she responded: well you don't have any children!

i didn't mean it in that way...
    Henry VIII's complex...
            five daughters, i.e. no sons...
must be frog season...
      i mean: esp. since she had two younger brothers...
a bit ******... no? just being able to pop out
daughters and having no ***-diversity like
having a son... must be frustrating...
but obviously i didn't tell her that:
because she didn't figure it out in the first place:
what i was implying...

but 2nd generation in and... you couldn't tell if
these five girls had a half Indian mother...
they were... ahem... bleached!
so... it only takes about 2 generations' worth of
******* for the race "balance" to return:
so... we don't somehow end up looking
like a globalist neo-Brazil or H'arab Central...
coppernecks and all...

   - because isn't diversity our strength?!
last time i heard, that was the message...
  it's good to see black people, asian people...
eskimos... mongols...
   every single ****** time: i go back and visit
Poland... usually to "smuggle" cheap cigarettes
since... now that my grandfather is dead...
and my grandmother didn't tell me about his
deteriorating health only two days prior
to his death: while he was struggling for a month
and i could have went and helped out...

n'ah... i have no ties with that country...
excepted some fixations in my head...
                 historical narratives... but... everything else
is gone... plus i write in English predominantly...
so... go figure...

every time i go back... nausea hits me...
it's so... monochromatic... homogenous...
            wow! i don't feel unique: i don't feel like a minority
like i do back in England...
i can't pretend to be a German whenever
a Muslim asks me / insinuates that i might be!

wow! two generations... before the bleach kicks in
and a half Indian girl is popping out blue eyed
girls...
          obviously the same is true for...
                   the chocalatier department...

but i wasn't expecting to be singing: in that sort of way...
i'm truly bewildered...

hell... with my deep voice... it was more of
a kargyraa (каргыраа)! which implies that it was of a lower
pitch...
   but i felt so down in that moment...
and perhaps i needed to be comforted by
the ghosts of my ancestry...
    which just so happen to have come from Mongolia...
but like i already said:
2 generations and you wouldn't even know if you
had any Asiatic blood in you...

you have to start looking somewhere...
and if it just comes out spontaneously...
   without any restrictions...
                 you must be the designated inheritor of what
sometimes passes off as sleeping...
i don't need to do a DNA test...
no one taught me the Kargyraa...
                 or the Khoomei...
                    and from what i can remember...
it's not easy...
                      
you enter into a trance... like a Sufi dervish might
while spinning... mix that with a little
bit of alcohol... i forgot how long i sat there
while the night listened to me...

                        2 days later i've come out of the trance.
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