oh yeah... i too think about
glory holes...
those boney ***-holes
of African women...
the ones my puny *****
might fill...
why don't measure up to
12"...
perfect *****...
   can't expect so much
*** without
so much phallus...
  but then again,
the hell do i know?
   but in the odd revision,
a black girl with a tight,
boney ***...
can make perfect
partner with
a European
benefactor
of lacking intent...
     nice ***...
shame the *** that requires
the sort of *******...
that's native...
lucky me...
having ****** a boney
African ***...
   really elongated my phallus
bumping hard...
against my pelvic bone...
     grew an extra 6"....
    come the the white lady?
can't feed of being jealous...
she's cool *******
a dog, right?
      i sort of lost
appetite;
    i can't explain why...
i, somehow,
lost, rekindling...
a revisionary plot-line.

actually, editing poetry, or simple adding to it as a form of editing is the most enjoyable allowance of art... it's the perfectly-pitched whimsical allowance... all you're investing is a second chance viewing of what was originally intended but not perfected. i wish i could have italicised the review insertions so you might mind to tell the original from the revised apart; but, as ever, i write these pre-scriptum intros for an overall stance on editing's graces.*

i don't know, it's like magic... i get state sponsorship
of a debility cheque that's £120 a week, i drink a 70cl bottle
of whiskey a day among a few beers...
i watch the sunset,  i watch the sunrise...
i read newspapers, i laze all day trying to
bring exfoliation to many ****** dreams and ambitions...
i read reviews of books about seismic shifts and some sort
of -ology... get used to reading, rendezvous
at a library, or a graveyard...
carry a concrete crux in the midst of
a "the existence of a soul" psychedelia...
rebel! rebel! oompa loompa! gooey goo mascara!
capitalism can't sell me life...
**** you not, it can't sell it to me...
it can try... but trying is hardly the 100% quote
you need for PREFECT EMPLOYEE VERSATILITY...
i too care for Armani underwear to show
off prior to a hard-on...
look here, a ******'s likened hard-on
upon waking, but really wanting to take a ****...
and so it flows, cascades of the golden drizzle...
man translates toxins as yellow... ironic liquid sunshine...
mind you, it's hard to play a piano that only
voices surds... #plato or descartes-dur?
you get the river invocation too? noting
the chemists i too would have joined in that labyrinth march
claiming to be a river of slacked smoothing over
(connotations with aged silver or crippled dull mahogany):

                      run away the heavenly;
                      lost souls of reverie;
                      running wild and running free;
                      two kids, just you and me;
                      and i say hey, hey hey hey,
                      living along with the renegades!
                      
ah never mind the advert royalties... the feeling
sticks like a pancake to a frying-pan...
arr ma'h matey! to cross frontiers of forgotten
hopes, and an 'o! captain my captain!' note in the margins
for the glory of a sinking ship with
all the immigrant rats on board,
with all the rats seeking sewers at the grand seas;
indeed too much sympathy for the Hindus
burning the dead and never minding the food-chain...
cremation and a sovereignty as nature intended:
overcome the festivity of insects in your zombie
grey body prior to overcoming the tsunami.

the most important aspect of an entire night's
worth of drinking?
  rhythm...
the ongoing rhythm -
   not missing bass -
          but last night? lost...
so there i was...
   frying myself an english breakfast
at 2am...
  ****!
    just before the egg was ready
the lights went out...
    ****... a burnt out fuse...
   thinking about technical terms,
when you've just been drinking for
four hours?
    trying to get out of the rhythm
of gorging on shveedish *****
as is anticipating some sort
of celebration...
    ****... breakfast at 2am by
candlelight...
    and then figuring out the burnt out
fuse...
    took me about 40 minutes
when i found the slots...
   but i sobered up in between and
lost the groove to drink to my satiated
"self"...
        but i couldn't just leave it...
if i did...
   the content of the refrigerator
or the fridge?
    a tale from the reference to Noah...
today?
  different story...
    pristine slow-cooked pork belly...
tender in this great marinate of
honey, cayenne pepper,
soya sauce, salt, pepper...
    what else? hell... can't remember...
with the skin that melted
in your mouth...
all you needed was a side of tatties...
since the meat was so good...

and i really, rarely, rarely thing about
this sort of ****...

trans-categorization -
to catch the imperative...

   if the sun could be categorized as
a planet...
could Mercury be treated
as the sun's moon?

   Venus might then explain
the intermediate nature collapsing
with the vibrancy of earth,
with a moon...

    Mars' phebos & deimos...
Jupiter: with his 79 sons and daughters...
Saturn: with his 62 sons and daughters...
Uranus: 27...
          Neptune: 14...
   Pluto: 5...

   pentagonal limit of sensible
observation?
    drunk thinking...
   i'm surprised at one detail though...
that Kabbalistic Rabbis never
mention the number of moons
in any of their writing -

  in reverse to what they're used to...

Mercury is so close to the gravitational
pull of the sun
that it can only be allowed one
orbit, that of itself...

   i'd still argue that even though
Venus is a terrestrial planet...
  2 : 2 -
              it was too close to allow
a dual orbit of the sun...
   i.e. of the planet, and of a moon
attached to it...
    then again... why would
Venus even require a moon...
when there's only talk of
the moon acting upon the currents
of water, akin to Mars?

            if there could be any water
on Venus - it would probably
    gravitate in massive waves
like in Interstellar...

             once the sun cools down...
Venus might become a planet
completely immersed in water...

evolution, make man from monkey...
bah... ****** timescale...
    
when the sun was much hotter
than it is now... and earth was
uninhabitable... sure...
life on Mars...
                two moons could have
meant:
           no salt water on Mars...
no seas... yes, lakes...
   no rivers...
                       wild theories...
no rivers? wait... that would
imply no rain...
                  
but why such a ****** name for Earth?
why not Mercury,
  Venus, Gaia, Mars?
          earth, dirt... a potato field...

yet how could Pluto lose its planetary
stature, when it has five moons
orbiting it?
    i don't see moons orbiting a comet
or a meteor...
   so it's still a planet, yes?

so the planet to moon ratio is

     9 : 189

    1 : 21

            wow... a perfect ratio...
that would mean:
   for every planet, each one "could"
contain that many moons...

i find this fascinating...
        although i rarely think about such
matters...
      
   0, 0, 1, 2, 79, 62, 27, 13, 5...

the problems, anomalies...
    Mars is smaller than Gaia...
   27:13 makes sense...
    
wait... couldn't Pluto be classified
as the Sun's moon?
       fair enough Mercury can't be...
but if Pluto can't have
a planet status,
   can it at least... have a moon
status, which would imply
that the sun has six moons?
  six six six...
                **** it...
if i'm going to gain an imperative
from all of this -
i might as well invoke a trans-categorical
approach to certain objects...

all you need is to fathom
the ratio of
the size of the earth and the moon
and their distance...
with that that size of the sun
and the six moons of the
Kuiper belt
   and the distance between them...
or some like that.

feeling peckish, i'm storming around the thought of a perfect poached egg on toast, with houses of parliament sauce to boot.*

you know that you can only become
mad once, right?
problem is: you can become
sane twice... the second time you
become sane you realise
the unfathomable:
   all these people in my life: are ******* mad!
funny that i was supposed to be
the "madman"; i guess not being
honest, and not being blunt does to you:
the idea of english two-faced politeness
creates an national ethos for the russian
observation of said: "eccentricity" -
and with the situation with islam -
i find myself wishing for a cold war II...
this war on terror has too many
cliffhanger moments...
    at least with the soviet union we knew
that dropping more than the 3rd nuke
meant it wasn't profitable to make war...
dropping nukes never makes for
profiteering war barons / dogs...
a nuke warhead is ransom money,
but a million ammunition rounds?
that's business.
you're looking for windowlickers?
find 'em elsewhere;
everyone ought to have known that
the cold war nuke fear was a scam...
nukes don't make wars into profit...
nukes do not make war dogs...
                wars are not fought on
ultimatums -
                 they end on ultimatums -
wars do not begin with terrorist ultimatums!
there are investors to mind!
you will get more money on
ammunition in the 100K+ numbers
than a single nuke...
                                  pity the fool!
hey, if the ***** mohawk said it:
  he's not saying it for anything other than
an A+ grade in highschool.

if i wrote this earlier in the day i could remember all three
dreams i had in one night,
a sort of sketch of William Burroughs' take
of My Education -
                                        having stopped drinking hard
spirits, whether that's absinthe, ***** or whiskey
and turning to a soothing diet of cider - 1 to 3 bottle
to aid me sleep... mingling that with being my own
pharmacist (well, at least getting a chemistry degree
has finally become useful), i.e.:
alcohol + phnergan + naproxen + paracetamolum =
not drinking so heavily for too long,
it means waking up in the night,
going down to the kitchen to nibble on something
and then going back to sleep and dreams...
the first dream i don't remember so vividly...
but the other two dreams?

2.
i was filming a gang-**** of a woman...
i remember picking out a guy with a fire-red afro -
by the contorts of the shadow...
oh... she must have been ****** by about
10 of them... each taking his turn...
somewhere in the shadows of a street...
intervention, by moi? 10 of them and only 1 of
me... even Bruce Lee would tell you:
terrible odds... that's why all the security personnel
at stadiums don't know any martial arts:
or have any training: the tactic is to gang-up
on a single individual, swarm them with numbers
usually a 3:1 ratio...
after the gang **** is over i cringe at the idea
that she might have actually liked it...
            she starts screaming these words i see vividly
like a Belshazzar at the feast forewarning
the fall of Babylon...
                              my dream architecture is
wonky... the scene suddenly shifts with me walking
with the girl, trying to persuade her to the authorities...
she's unwilling... ergo my cringe and almost
austere look of wonder at the double-standard...
***** but not *****... reluctant blonde... another
actress... but i tell i have the evidence...
                     white knight? getting a limp **** *******?
what?! Freud... i'm new to this dream thing...
i'm just realising that dreams relax my consciousness...
my consciousness is no longer strained by having
to utilise my memory beyond mere arithmetic
and spelling and regurgitation of recipes or
scientific facts... dreams are new to me after a heavy
drinking hiatus... i'm treating the meanings of dreams
as dreams-per-se... i don't actually worry about the content
just the fact that they simply exist is enough...
i finally persuade her... even though i don't know why
she's snuggling under my arm...
     we end up in a building resembling a school...
in one room there's this authority woman figure with
something resembling a polygraph machine -
the page in front of her is like an inverted slit of a niqab...
and text appears in the slit and soon disappears...
and the "actress" in question had to read the text while
i present the woman of authority with the video evidence
of the gang-****... hmm -
   my taste in ******* has always been rather vanilla...
even today i found myself preparing for a visit to
the brothel... Saturday? i'll be tired... i'll finish at 10:30pm...
by the time i get there it will be almost 12am...
no, i don't care what the madam said about my
underperformance... i know exactly why i didn't perform...
it's not what she said about the 30min thing...
she's the madam, 1. that intimidating,
2. she sent my two favorite girls, Khadra and Mona
away... to never work in the brothel ever again...
Mona became pregnant... with whom?
   3. she's in her 50s and she's plump i mean: beached-whale
plump which is not a girl in her 20s that's plump
but less a beached-whale and more a female sea-lion...
cows... yeah... i tried looking up the body-build of the madam...
well no wonder why she complained that
i couldn't get a ******* with her... i just diverted
her attention to pretend to be tired from work...
if i can't ******* in private to that sort of body type...
no... without pornographic make-up... rude amateur
photography: reality snaps... no ******* wonder!

mommy don't know daddy's getting hot at the body-shop,
doing something unholy -

i hope does lyrics don't imply "body-shop" to imply
a tattoo parlour, i'm pretty sure that's not what's implied...
but my god... the importance of dreams:
to hell with interpretation of the... noumenon -
dreams could be considered a phenomenon
if we all shared at least one dream, of the same content,
but dreams are a noumenon -
sure, the phenomenon that we dream...
but are there like to like interpretations based on
seeing a red hat in a dream, or a boat?
flimsy... what about seeing printed words in
dreams?
                    i don't have the luxury of interpreting
dreams: i'm basking in the luxury of actually having
dreams... since i quit drinking heavily i wake
up rejuvenated... my memory is no longer strained
i no longer grasp the razor that was once driftwood
in the sea of memory trying to keep myself
intact... now i'm rebuilding my consciousness
with dreams... their meaning is meaningless given
that i have have a better use for them...
i stopped waking up forcefully trying to remember
a "decalogue" of formidable memories...
i think i can let them pass... remember them at some
later date... for the sort of remembering
that someone like my grandfather suffering from
dementia employed... i.e. employing a Memory Cinema:
i guess dementia sufferers probably don't dream:
mix into that cocktail insomnia and the finishing
line of mortality... that's when memory needs to be
deployed... not in one's youth...
but i wanted to understand his suffering that
i succumbed to mimicking it, by drinking heavily
and robbing myself of dreams... now that dreams
have been resurrected... ah... i can relax...

2. this dream was even better...
i was placed into a mental asylum...
who was my room partner? do people in mental asylums
get room-mates?!
well... my room-mate was someone resembling
a Jeffrey Dahmer... from time to time he would
break into these mirror-shattering fits
mirror-shattering epilepsy... walking angry...
sometimes frozen in time sometimes breaking out
of that labyrinth of staggering visual effects...
i guess i was looking at myself... what was poignant
was the distinct glasses...
before i was put into this mental asylum i was
met on an edge of a hill by an orderly in pearly white
(if he only had wings i'd suppose i arrived in heaven)
who said something...
then there was this great escape... me and "Dahmer"...
the orderly came against us with a pit-bull
that was wearing a metal-mask... a bit like Alex Dumas'
man in the iron man...
    the scene shifted to me wrestling with the dog
in yellow mud... wrangling the metal-mask off the dog's
head... i could almost feel the dog's teeth...
but i didn't.... i saw the dog's teeth but what was
hurting me were the metal-mask's claps / jaws...
wrestling peering into the dog's snout...
i managed to rid the dog of the metal-caste...
the orderly ran away... nowhere to be seen...
the scene shifted to the pit-bull turned into a puppy
(almost a puppy)... lying on my torso while we lay
in a hammock or a car with a reclined seat...
pretty pit-bull eyes looking at me endearingly
as if telling me: thank you for getting the nozzle off my head...
the orderly came back and said...
non-verbatim:
   'some people take a sparring partner to get this
level of introspection,
so few manage it on their own like you have done'...

historically i wonder about about all those poets
from the 1960s and their experimenting with
psychedelic drugs... hmmm...
and i wonder about myself: drink to the point of
arriving at the abyss - and then being resurrected
from it, by one's own devices -
i.e. drinking none of the unholy spirits -
personally: i'd rather drink in a vein of gradation,
if i can write something like this after only
two bottles of cider... why would i need
to drink half a litre of whiskey and wait
for my psyche to snap into writing?
if i can write this much after drinking so little
only thanks for the added dimension of dreaming
that has been so sorely missing in my life...
dreaming that upon waking relaxes my consciousness
as i no longer need to strain my faculty of memory:
this is me returning to the flow of water in time
rather than standing elbow-to-elbow like
a stone in space:
why would i need to take any psychedelic drugs
to elevate with whatever crude tools i already have?
i wanted to stop dreaming to find out why
my dementia riddle grandfather utilized memory
to create a Memory Cinema - dementia and insomnia...
of course he could still string two sentences together
and would spend his mornings reading the newspaper
from beginning to end and solved the crossword
puzzle... that was all there...
but... the way he employed memory...
it was sort of like me "forgetting" to dream...

well... granddad has been dead for almost 2 years now...
i think i can drop the project of understanding
dementia...
no wonder i felt so good having a 2h cycling session
today in the heavenly winds...
i was asked by my local surgery's nurse to drop
by and pick up a blood test form and clock up
my blood pressure... an average of
123 / 82 heart-beat at 93...
i know... it's not the best...
but i managed to drop from a systolic 143
to a systolic 123...
                      and this is after a 2h cycling session...
while i also managed to drop my diastolic from
over 90... 93... to 83... after 2h of cycling...
i imagine if i didn't cycle it wouldn't be considered
elevated... not bad... and i only stopped heavy drinking
since... 30th December... had a whiskey relapse on the 31st...
but it's the 4th of Jan now... so... well...
at 36 years old: i was still sort of expecting a quick
recovery... given my intention were in the right place:
i strained my body because i needed to strain my mind...
to understand... mortality...
i don't think the recovery would have been that quick
if i were simply drinking heavily, sniffing ******* on
the side by being a ******* octagon-type
Wall St. Bankers... would i now? my heart was in the right
place...

the added aesthetic bonus? my body might look great
from all the exercise, but yet my face retained some
puffiness from the excess drinking:
apparently it happens when drinking spirits...
your body attempts to retain as much water as possible,
no wonder i was rarely hangover...
my body built-up a defense mechanism against
being dehydrated, it would store liquid
in undesirable places... notably in the face...
puff-cheeks... oh ****... my face is.... SLIMMING...
i have cheek-bones! it's almost looking natural!
it almost suits more than ever having a full beard...
project no. 2... i'll trim the moustache myself...
while trimming the other expendable body-hairs...
retaining a proper turf from beard through
the chest and the rest of the torso toward
the ***** Eden region...

ah! but dream 1. wasn't really a dream...
it was a thought-dream...
i was conjuring up... a metaphor in my mind...
a cherry tree...
what comes before a cherry on a cherry-tree?
a cherry blossom...
what could a "God" give unto Adam...
or rather... if antimatter exists...
what could an Anti-Satan give unto Eve?
before a fruit is a fruit...
a fruit is a flower...

and this only exist in the ****** language... what?!
the following formulation in the rubric: qua -
as being... i.e.

kamień kamieniem
woda wodą
kot kotem
pies psem
litera literą
    ogień ogniem
czas czasem
              gitara gitarą
czerń czernią
smok smokiem
prawda prawdą
    wiatr wiatrem        all... all in all:
                                (~)QUA...
    dog (as) being a dog

if the serpent supposed ******* confusion gave
the woman the fruit: he gave her the womb first...
no wonder! it is time the serpent gave unto her
the fruit, the supposed ******* confusion
her ****** back: for her to... bear barren fruit...
in full blossom outside the realm of "patriarchy"...
****-mafia of the serpent...
aren't we ssssssssssssseing it right now?
finally! women can entertain the flower...
but not the fruit...
they can have their fruit tickled and teased and
glued to as many bothersome little bees...
lick tease lick tease thump and pump...
voodoo! voodoo!
oh... but first the ornament on the altar of man:
woman being given the fruit: the womb...
only now... barren womb...
now comes a sidewinder giving her the flower...
her ****...
the fruit is now rotting in the barren pool of history...
now! the exfoliating flower...
ah... but unlike fruits... that can be turned into
jams, baked... flowers last only ever so long...

if one is allowed to borrow from the Metaphors
of Moses...
if this supposed fruit, forbidden was given in...
paradise... seems strange...
not even the correct adjective - strangely:
ah... but the fruit was given in paradise in order
for man to replicate reproduction
of all the other animals... imagine paradise with
pregnancy, reproduction,
no wonder Satan no. 1 gave a fruit rather than
the flower of the fruit that was to become:
perhaps he saw wrecking ball Adam
inexperienced in tickling flowers enticed poor
Eve: by Oedipus man will get a chance to please
you... but for that to happen:
you will need to open up the fruits of your labour
and reproduce, while he will stomach nothingness
and a bright genius in his mind
to combat the elements: water with ships
with the aid of the wind inventing sails...
he will bring down fire to ease the warmth...
i can't imagine... perhaps Satan didn't want to
pluck the flower of the forbidden fruit tree
and give the fruit to Adam...
that would have been... a mightily short story...
if Satan gave the flower of the forbidden
tree to Adam... but no... he waited until the flower
turned into fruit and gave the fruit to Eve!

as i have learned, dearest, "father"... once you eat
the forbidden cherry blossom
and not the cherry...
    perhaps it's no Eden... perhaps it's just a brothel
in your palace of arrogance of Pandemonium...
perhaps... but... i just don't care if she ate the fruit:
that she's fertile...
i've eaten the forbidden cherry blossom:
i don't need to eat the forbidden cherry...
maybe that's why the Madam banished Mona back
to Romania: what if... me teasing her ****** without
a ******... just teasing... before her putting it on...
and ******* into the rubber...
she... decided to self-inseminate herself with my *****
and ******* back to Romania?
what if God is the Madam in this story and she
was banished from the "Eden" of the brothel?!

mommy don't know that daddy's getting hot at the body-shop
doing something unholy...
ssssssseems befitting... i'll call this the year of the flies...
why would my house suddenly entertain
these... dozen if if not more... fleshy black...
dearest, "father"... is there rebellion in the ranks?
why would Beelzebub send his emissaries come
the new year?!

seems no reason, none: whatsoever,
cider is a bit like champagne: more fruity and most certainly
most sweet...
i know that this writing is but a sketch and something
more prolific could morph out of it...
something as succinct as the last book
of the old Testament: the contradictory concept
of reincarnation of the prophet Elijah as promised
by Malachi... monotheism is still teasing with
the polytheism is so despises...
no wonder that both the polytheism of India
and the atheism (conventional human wisdom
of intellects sparring) of China feels so...
sssssso undisturbed... no wonder the concept
of the civilisation-state rather than
the western take on the ethno-state...
why is it that the western world is so polygamous
in its ethnicity... the crumbling civilisation:
Oedipus gave his plucked-out eyes to Samson...
and Samson is shaking the cradle with baby-Holocaust
in it...
sure... they were Jews: given that the state of Israel
was established... but by law... they were Polish nationals...
easily forgotten... given...
the close "alliance" of resurrection of either of the people's
states...
           unlike like in England were
the last invasion happened with the Normans in 1066...
plenty of time to invent cricket, football,
afternoon tea... pastime literature...
lazing about and Victorian moral standards...
of: doth black so well without an Arabic veil!

enough! 12am has come and my bedtime has
arrived... i don't need to torture myself through and
thoroughly into the night!
the night is for sleeping... and right now?
agitate some beehive of dreamsssssss!

i knew i was never a big fan of eurovision, and probably never will be, but i just had to watch the 2nd semi-final, to see if any of the acts could better belgium's entry (blanche - city lights)... i mean, an elephant might have stepped on my ear, and i might be slightly "deaf", or i might have just a ****** taste in music... but no... hence the fraction... 1 song, out of 38 entries, and it's the real odd-ball... it doesn't belong in this contest... it has transcended the atypical ****** pop / dance or whatever it is that's being contested in the competition. i'm trying to imagine if i didn't hear it, and didn't find this gem... it's too modern, too urban to belong in this competition; so today i was listening to snippets of songs, and flicking through channels irritated by the idea that the belgian entry might not win.

what do you think happens when you've been fasting
for an entire day?
      well... "fasting", the remains of yesterdays spiced ***,
three bottles of czech beer...
      at about 6 in the afternoon?
   you enter the kitchen like a ravenous wolf,
      or like a mongol, that has been riding for three days,
and all he's ingested is horse's blood?
              you already have cooked pasta...
                 afterwards it's automation, impromptu,
a mad culinary scientist...
               you just think up a recipe for the hunger is making
your stomach the size of a cherry pip...
          this is not a recipe as such, it's much more akin
to alchemy... ****, put the things together under the blanket
of intuition and self-exploration, and see if it tastes good...
me? i devoured what i cooked...
  (a) because i was breaking my fast,
    of (b) it tasted pretty good.

                  *- the wolfish hunger recipe -
- pasta (d'uh, the ****** canvas, obviously not potatoes) -
    - crème fraîche
        - sweet chili philadelphia cheese (that's the sauce) -
           - bacon -
     - asparagus (cut up) -
          - garlic (paste) -
     - onion -
                - pepper (red, better than yellow, to contrast with
          the asparagus green) -                  papryka
                          - chili infused olive oil (to fry on) -
       - fresh coriander (to garnish) -
          - paprika -
          - blackened cajun seasoning -
                                - pepper (i guess, optional) -    pieprz✝
             - green olives -
       - sugar (to counter the saltiness of the olives) -

      yep, no salt, it's already in the bacon, and the olives.
what sort of fun would cooking be, if you didn't take risks
and were given the exact measures? you wouldn't be admiring
the transformation of the ingredients from their raw state
into an edible construct...
                     well, it's not a michelin star recipe...
    because it's not a culinary art-work... it's wolf food,
           mongol food... breaking fasting type of food.

✝for ****'s sake! what's with english having the same ****** word
for two obviously different things.... green, red and yellow peppers
(vegetables)...  and pepper.... black pepper... that sneeze-dust next to salt!

i sometimes spend the first 30 minutes
of s drinking sessions
ingesting bachelor videos...
men's opinions about women...
i have to grant some, perhaps almost all
observational pointers,
come to think of it: i think for a while
about a dialectical approach...
on such subjects i don't really want to
have an opinion...
like: i don't want to be famous:
i want to be left alone...
so i listen... opinion X and opinion Y...
sure, could have one,
but i... am... sort of lacking...
investing in opinions,
that will later not be dialectically
scrutinised, what's the point?
too many unnecessary feels...
most people cower from their original
opinion to begin with,
when push comes to shove,
or when shove comes to a clenched fist...
my life doesn't revolve around
staging a snippet of some *******
Mexican / English soap-opera...
my use of the internet it simple:
1. listen to some music
2. check the encyclopedia
3. doodle something, equivalent to this
4. email someone
5. complete some form
6. buy a book, or a CD / vinyl
7. check the dictionary
8. look at pictures of myself:
i've "recently" lost a sixth of me...
down from 120kg to 97kg...
like i told my neighbour,
i'm very much like a vampire...
of course i see myself in a mirror,
but i really don't...
sure... if i were to go to the nurse,
she wold check my blood-pressure...
no more dizziness...
i had two options: lose weight...
or be put on some high blood-pressure
tablets, **** the second part...
no more pills...
it's enough that i mix a knock-out
punch with some whiskey, some cider,
some naproxen, some phenergan...
some APAP...
oh, quiet the contrary, i'm not sedated by
alcohol... i'm soothed:
not exactly pushing a cube through
a square hole in the wall...
when comparing the words: sedated vs.
soothed...
i need a chemical knock-out
to find release from a vibrating mind...
that's of course if i start writing...
i need an opt-out scenario...
what points have i already mentioned, are there 8?
9. checking general information,
perhaps some news, but i rather like my
cul de sac existence, so i rarely bother
about being informed, unless
10. TfL... train times, esp. concerning Sundays
and holidays
11. maps, i sometimes ride my bicycle
into Essex countryside, completely
forgetting where Epping or Theydon Bois
is placed... oh, right, i'm "here"?!

o.k., these bachelor videos...
m.g.t.o.w. or whatever: read some Kierkegaard,
who the hell composed the music
for the Giselle ballet?
           Adolphe Adam, Theophile Gautier,
Jean Coralli?!

so i listen to their videos... eh... easy listening...
men talking to men...
it could be worse:
it could be... getting dating advice from women...
that's why i prefer exchanging
messages with older women...
in their 50s... 40s...
60s is sort of stretching it...
come on...

that taboo of teenage girls is a flimsy fantasy...
it's ****** at first, at first, prior to them opening their
mouths... of course the debate concerning
outliers and Humbert Humbert...
ha ha... catch-22... major major... anyways...
sure, there are outliers...
like i acknowledge the existence of nymphomaniacs...
for a split second i was going
to turn ol' Humbert into: Herbert Herbert...

i'm out, Pontius Pilate style...
i have washed my hands clean from this whole
"affair"... speak to older women whenever online,
don't engage in the comment section
on any item you're ingesting...
why would i stop myself being from
being the passive reader, spectator,
why do i need those 2 cents of "thought"...
of opinion...
and... just ******* to the brothel...
if *** is what you want...
the clarity of a monetary exchange...
no dating...
oh, sure... i remember going on a date once...
we were both 18...
i paid for her gallery ticket,
since i invited her,
but he later went to the cinema,
she paid for herself,
then for some Japanese food...
she split the bill with me...
we weren't dating prior... just high school-friends...

this other date i was on...
we were "dating"... well... it was more like...
she was a first year university student
living with other girls in student accommodation,
i was a third year student with a flat i shared with
only one guy... what was his name...
Tristan! from Bristol, a math major:
a complete brood... some German lineage:
go figure... a half-German
and a fully-blooded ****** living under
the same roof... "complications"...

look at her go... now that i think of it...
she moves it... she has escalated her worth by getting
out of student accommodation,
she moves into a flat on Montague St.,
because... as time passes by, the candles did their magic...
she can give decent head...
we go to St. Petersburg, see Metallica in Moscow...
i return to London, she remains in Edinburgh...

with all the women i was ever with...
all managed to break up with me prior to me
even whispering that i might...
thank god that none of these relationships lasted
per annum... just a few months of my life:
lost...

now... older women on the internet...
and prostitutes...
at least i know what i'm buying...
i'm hardly going to buy a girl dinner...
if i'm not assured some... extra...
like a Chinese fortune cookie peek...
so i listen to these bachelor videos...
"misogyny" etc. again:
like the minorities... throwing words against
the wind, so frivolously...
i am the minority, how many Polacks
live in England?!
like my training suggested:
not all disabilities are visible...
most Arabs+ confuse my physiognomy with
that of a German...
hmm... i can use this...
if i look like a German: even to my fellow Polacks...
if they can't identify as one of "their own":
great... i can merge into this phenomenon
of how the entire world seems to have
congregated on these little isles...

- i wish i had the concerns of the natives,
what are they? being undermined
demographically, what else?
i'm pretty sure the story goes...
even though Britain staged:
we will make war on Germany for invading Poland...
funny, that... it took both Germany
and the Soviet union (35 days)
to completely subjugate Poland during the theatre
of the second world war...
1 September 1939 – 6 October 1939...
but it took the Germans: alone...
6, *******, 6 weeks to subjugate
France (and the little ******* extensions of
the Benelux)
10 May – 25 June 1940 (6 weeks)....
if the current climate of, ahem... "discussion" is anything
to go by, or pretend to go fishing....
like **** i will: unless we're hunting rather than
fishing for whale...
killing off an Estonian elephant (a mammoth)...

easily: the French **** welcomes the ZZ-top
SS-mensch(en)... who attired them?
no, it wasn't Gucci... it might have been
Chanel... Hugo! *******! Boss!
yeah, how could you ever make
khaki ***** into uniform somehow bearable...
beyond me...

from under the iron curtain to now, "this"...
sorry, i'm not going to comply...
trans-genderism with flaky transcendentalism...
sorry, what?!
you can only do so much within the confines
of a metaphor, within the certification
of metaphysics,
three directions... meta-physics...
trans-whatever...
ortho-graphy... English is a language with no
knowledge of implementing orthographical
critique: it, does, not, employ, any,
diacritical, markers! the end!

all that English has to replace a study of orthography
is, the para-avenue...
Charlie ****-sense might have glorified a spelling
mistake by citing the term orthography...
poor Charlie D...
oh my god... i'm pumped!
it's what ******* might have felt working his way around
a genesis of a blank canvas...
me, i just have sounds... but i'm not encoding music:
i'm translating meaning...

i'm not even translation two languages
etymologically apart...
i'm translating language in order for it to be written
to begin with...

some other point... why i use the internet..
i listen to some of these bachelor videos,
but then i have to step back...
get completely pummeled,
become pulverised, become almost deaf with
music that's the antithesis adhesive of
someone talking... lately?
COMBICHRIST: all pain is gone,
   sent to destroy, never surrender...

12. looking for "googlewhacks"... mostly those i can invest
in as secondary search results...
13.  what the ****'s a "13"?
if ever, summon an elf: + / ?

it just so happened that a flight from Warsaw
landed simultaneously with
a flight fron Turkey & Romania -
and a bearded man was walking with
the masses...
                            it just so happened:
     because while he was in a queue through
the customs he was asked by a shy woman
in uniform where he was travelling from...
so he said with a startling hesitation:
from Warsaw...
                      and the ego really must be
considered a limb pained with thinking
akin to an arm with moving:
   or the lower-back with not sitting
hunched like a crow -
                       and this was me coming
back from visiting my grandparents -
i did not spend a minute in an Isis camp -
but because i was donning a beard:
my vanity project akin to owning a dog
i had to be asked in hushed tones by
a border guard: whether or not i was
here to do damage:
            unless you mean the sort of
damage: that exposes the reality
of this country? then no,
     i'm here to plant a narrative bomb...
      and if you mean:
   drink, sit quiet and listen to some Prodigy
akin to the song get your fight on?
then, ****, sign me up!
           i once listened to a computer
science major about the reality
of hacking:
                    it's not what science fiction
has actually explored...
    it's not bashing mashing a keyboard
in a frenzy...
             for almost two weeks i had
a problem in my mind...
  and it was seemingly unsolveable...
        but what a reception!
if i replied that i was coming from
Istambul all bearded i would have been
asked to step aside...
          a conversation with my grandfather:
don't like your beard: you're too young...
prior to i hate the same problem
with this aesthetic "concerns":
  long hair is not for men...
      so down the border i can't have
the "right" to hide my chin and neck?
  no wonder the english boarder officers
find a white bearded man a worth
to ask a question: to make measures,
whether or not to concern themselves with...
m-aaaaaah t'un chops!
               mind you i'm probably listed
as: target practice...
             because i managed to escape
the urban environment of the lumber-******...
and do not own a cafe...
    or a cereal bar...
                       pretending terrorist
has suddenly become the new punk...
        but that's how the end of
an exhausting 13th January commute ended
up being...
               a simple question that
on many other occassions
                 is worth so much authentic
concerns...
                    thank god the beast
in pristine ****** white of pixel finally asked
   to be fed...
      2 weeks of bewildering anticipation
for it to react:
     and, how it desired to be fed spew...
     nonetheless it's worth repeating:
donning the traits of a terrorist -
i.e. a beard - is the new punk akin
to donning a mohawk;
   esp. when walking through airports.

who's afraid of
someone who downed 140cl of whiskey
going blind blah duck blah
qua qua quack for each and
every dwarf like ***** wonka tasting cyanide
saying: it's syrian blue cheese, or else middle
eastern schnapps! refreeze! refreeze the snowman!
we got a bucket-load of adverts in nappies
for charity companies; every parishioner on the ready...
gluttony regurgitated go! blow inserted into the
word blah, akin to bloat but with blah the cursor.

yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy -
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!

150/100 & 142/90 -
   hardly rare ratios in terms
of blood pressure...

but prior to that...
prior to weighing in at 253£s...
and having the nurse
cite the fat problem
using a concentration camp
analogy:
voluptuous and giggly...

well... there was me getting
all pretty for the visit...
even applying beard oil -
soaking wet from soap
and a brisk walk...

        that i had to walk out
of the house with a brain
agony as if my skull had
to next a hedgehog with this:
beaten sponge like substance
moulded from
    an octopus and
some swizz cheese...
        
      a walk most memorable...
sunglasses although
the day was overcast...
some music on the headphones -
culture: harder than the rest...
and... an apple...

the left hand in my trouser
pocket... the right hand moving
to the method of eating
an apple while walking...

     because there was a method...
in Knausgård's meditation
on autumn...
                it's not like haven't
done this before...
but... yes...
eating the whole apple...
with the core...
for... prior to eating the bitter
core: the sweetness of the pulp
in mouth from first bite
insignia hard...

           yes... the core... a reminder
of something: otherwise...
what guilt? to throw an apple
core onto the street would be
like... spitting out a chewing gum?
i could have:
            
  and then... come evening....
a new way of drinking...
   25 x 10 = 250ml, which equals...
             circa 500kcal...
apparently i need to bring my
blood pressure down...
i will not be easily persuaded
by high blood pressure tablets...
at least: prior to a bicycle...
if...                a solid diet...

yes... but most certainly translating:
alcohol turns into fat around
the waste: so much for ******* it all
in for a veneer physique...
                   it's not that bothersome...
bothersome is...

looking at the eastern europe
region section
       on poetryfoundation.org...
and seeing how...
there's not a single ****** poet...
             tristan tzara is not included
in the list: so much for my english...
perhaps a much
   misunderstood "exile"...
the idea of nation-building
right now is a blister -
         traitor as i, "technically" should
be writing coś takiego...
                  i.e. something like this...
  
u nich: wszystkie głosy są
                    gotyckim postrachem...

what a lovely gloss of:
ideology from busy-body to nobody
to: a muddling in middles...

back to visiting the nurse:
          by god and the devil's
testicles and *******:
            wearing a face mask
in a very formal setting...

   was i complete cool cucumber /
bonanza bananas ******:
at one point i pretended to smile
to reciprocate the nurse
"perhaps" smiling too...

           and how nonchalantly
she gave that concentration camp
analogy and the modern ill
of machinsation easing certain
physical labours...

just saying...
            what a strange view from
behind a pseudo-niqab...
       i'd just need to shave my beard
and my hair...
well... i did shave my armpit hair
before going outside...
and as i stood in the mirror with my
arms behind my head...
the hair on my torso: chest
and stomach... and these two
pitiable holes of flesh and stubble...

metro-man!
           all that would be
necessary now would be a tinge
of pale pink in my clothes...

       from the list of eastern european
poets: austria is eastern european...
milan kundera says that there's most
certainly a central europe...
but it is well known in western europe
that's a banality outright
and also a banality concept...
          
the greenwich meridian thumb -
central being germany -
  some little cluster-**** drifting
between existence and negation...
     a far away place we know little
of... Chamberlain with
a loo roll coming back from Munich...

ivan blatny: as denoted by
rude pravo, march 30th 1948 -
                  perhaps i share some
of his struggles...
alas! where are these ritzes of
yester-century that i too could
perhaps frequent:
for all those... "uncomfortable" people
outside a purpose built:
psychology macabre...
                    pyramid schematics
were once the furore!
- and sensible language!

jak grochem o ściane!

the list: elfriede jelinek,
             marko vešović,
              ernst jandl,
               jános pilinszky,
         marin sorescu,
               miroslav holub,
      friederike mayröcker,
   paul celan,
        tomaž Šalamun -
           (if) i add more to the list...
it will be the same list
should it only have included
SHalamun or veSZović -

pić, palić: konia walić-
   drink, smoke, *******...
alt.: pije, pali, konia wali
  (he) drinks, (he) smokes, (he) masturbates -
so much for gender neutral
pronouns when...
there are gender neutral verbs...
except with a past-participle:

piłem (he said: i drank)
piłam (she said: i drank)
   paliłem (he said: i smoked)
   paliłam (she said: i smoked)
   konia... waliłem... etc.

it's just somehow staggering that
the english can be thus
butchered, treated like a piece
of crude ore...
   that grammar can be
a bad surgical glitter coax...
to give birth to...
       i'm sure joseph merrick
had a beautiful soul...
                  but i imagine...
the veneer of a generic body...
but the language that looks
exactly like: when frankenstein
took it upon himself...
to inseminate a woman with
gorilla *****...

yes... quiet frankly: what a day!
that part of walking
with one hand in my pocket
and the other holding an apple...
just walking and eating an apple...
i don't think i need to dream;
there was enough architecture
in that alone...
a skeleton and the roughage
of cement / slabs...
and of course... a pair of shoes.

i laughed until i
sported a six pack;
but it wasn't:
   just a sheep belly.

the humble sloth sees no morning and no worm in the sun -
nor the chittering of a few eager sparrows,
either -
             he sees everything square in
rhombic - squinty eyed, sorta:
should i bother it, or will i wait long
long enough till it bothers me?
that's me, right there, a young man will
idealise women, until he finally idolises
them in the naked form at-moist
sensual... and this will go on and forth,
he'll pass the corridor of a few
teenage pregnancies, because there
was no *****-Nilly & the Eager-******
scenario for him to scream and moan...
until dawn.
                      the natural contract is there
and it will knit & pick out the most
useless lions... until a few lionesses start
to congregate and do what the lion
does... every lion's statue akin to man's
is not even in a state of contemplation...
strange how man glorifies life and sacrifice
and indeed sacrifices the worth of life
by burning incense, and selling goods,
and running around the world
for a worth of a scalpel's worth of
a barber overdoing it... calling the forehead
a man's chin, and bluntly stroking it
until a dentist can take part in the wreckage...
might i say: i am sometimes like a sponge,
i read a bit of e.e. cummings and act on paper,
i don't plagiarise as such,
i merely focus on how one might repeat -
he said, she said,
       and return to: nonetheless, it said
for both of you: without a neuter pronoun:
she'll say eve, and he'll say eve,
    he'll say apple, and she'll say apple,
and you're still both, both! going to sit on a
******* chair... deemed obscure for
the sistine chapel, but indeed worthy to
scribble the lesser findings of graffiti into
a classroom table, like GD GV M GD CCK...
       so i i dabble a lot, in much of what
really is testing the young men who begin
with misogyny comparisons of genitals
at Billingsgate... and later try to find
one and only monocle to a bowler hat and moustache...
that train? long gone...
     so let us find people like me...
who idolised women, who made them divine in
supposed grace, and... well... eventually
all babies look similar, as do old people...
women chop of their locks (unless
they want to be deemed Merlin's brides)
   and the fat embodies them and they all turn out
alike... we all think heaven is the pinpoint -
    governed by an aesthetic democratisation of
all our faults... i just don't trust a world to be
wandering a forest of oak, while in the background
man settles matters of what dwarf eye of the beholder
should be asserted above the immortals' arrogance...
         but there i was... idealising women...
what a horrid affair...
     the moment you encounter woman
you already know she eats, she farts, she snarls
and she stares... after all: what woman is a woman
who isn't building a cosy abode?
            the moment you begin from a fascination
with women, that you state your anti to a misogyny
well... try wiping your nose with paper
   and even bothering debating feminism with anyone
except a homosexual... you haven't got lunch,
you have this seemingly 1970s film from Polish cinema
that states that feminism is equally transcendent
to encompass Aristotle in the present age,
       as it is not encompassing some frivolous
   ancient Greek joke... why women have less teeth
than men... i guess they hide them... then they
practice felatio... n'es pas?
                    i have a wriggly worm, she has a
hollowed out bone to fill with juices of the marrow...
     then she's practical enough to call Aristotle
an autistic astronaut... i say: give the woman! a time-machine!
         why? she has no sense of humour,
or no historicity concerning humour,
    or how there are necessary fluctuations...
men these days tell rapes jokes...
           because the one joke they are afraid to say, is:
at a ceremonial altar, with the punchline: i do.
               i do is hardly synonymous with the more
appropriate: i will.
                i do is a stagnation coordinate:
how can i do all of that if i say i will do such things
only account of mere ceremony? surely
the chaplain gets paid... but what do i get?
alimony checks, court-hearings and how
        i have two testicles, she has two *******
  and we debate the 2 to 3 ratio of d.i.y. holes
     for inviting sinister sergio to do the plumbing;
cos the ******* cobwebs got in the way by way
of leeching on the purse.
              see where misogyny comes from?
not getting an Aristotelian joke... or basically not
getting an ancient Greek joke right...
because off they go! mistaking dualism as a dichotomy...
   you start idealising women, you encounter
a woman and ****! the dream is gone, and out
pops shaggy and ******-doo...
                   and if you retract from idealising women?
you begin with Billingsgate and genitalia...
me? personally? i always thought of marinating my
chicken thigh in a warmed marinate of yoghurt
and tandoori spice - mix the two: you get Coronation
pink... all fluffy and unicorn and wonderful...
           idealism can be hard to shake off...
unless of course you tell either Americans or Russians
how finicky things can get in the bridal-chambers
of Essex on the Grecian isles of Cos,
   or Ibiza (I-beef-ah), or anywhere where there's
contrary speed-dating shakiness that's bound
to be representative of Essex, once upon a time,
when great music played a key-role in merely
utilising all body parts when dancing, i.e. snogging,
and lo and behold... when satan averted his
eyes composing the two serpent composition,
he looked into the mouth of man and a mouth
of woman, and found no resemblance unto his
original investigation: speak no ill of tongues:
for the tongues of men are merely ill-fated
         against themselves: for they revel in
other parts of their anatomy bearing the sting
and quickened step,
   but whether it's politics or uniting two tongues
in a dance: they're sluggish about it
ever becoming fruitful quickly enough to
            sediment into a snail's shell worth of
chattering teeth into old age, for the slug of both
sexes' tongue, having no such allowance,
         and subsequently left wriggling into their
daily trough of the competitive: first come,
first served.
                   but then man want's clarity!
if i idealised women, have i not become a gimmick
to such idealisation in the first place?
              how can i display this with all but words,
well, i can, all the more simpler...
                 by idealising women i have conceded
to a contest that has brought me against my fellow ***...
              and all because by having idealised woman
as a concept: i cannot see any of man's achievements,
i cannot see any achievements worth striving for
   in what could be translated as creating a reverse
idealisation of woman, in that other men might idealise
me, to later idolise me... all saints were fools in
idealising jesus, which is why he's strung to a crucifix
made of termite-wood... the minute they hang him
upright on mt. golgotha the crucifix collapses...
                        how could he be an ideal if
  the obscurity of righteous judgment be so-far removed
from the people? is this the construct of the pharisees
appealing to the reason of the greeks to save them
from the roman "oppressors"?
         can this really be the case? just because the greeks
had so much more to think about, and so many more
things more interesting than the romans to think about
that they would have rather written the "new" testament
in greek?
    i am indeed graced by an incompetence
   of having begun with idealising women, experienced
a woman, and thus begun idealising myself
    to a status of idol, or a moral example of plagiarism
worthy of imitation...
               does a crucifix imply a metaphor of
marrying a difficult woman? how many poetic
angles has a man have to write to rob these filthy
philistines of taking things too literally
      and provoking Islam?!
                      when it comes to the old testament
poets only exploit the book of genesis...
   but with the new testament... it's almost like
this need to create a poetic attack on the established
order... and when the book of revelation appears
as the exodus-equivalent book...
       we get: a democracy of poetics...
           which accounts for escaping the health
of the body, and an inherent illness of the abstracted
brain: the mind, and then that becomes
     cubed and encompasses nothing quiet
once more able to take literalism mind's experience
of the world: back into it.
             sheltered man of civilisation can take
a painting more seriously, and then explore it in
his dream factory, than the man pledged to the land
with no galleries, and instead given a canvas
that might swarm with tornadoes and give him
absolutely: no luxury to dream.
   dreaming is a luxury... the last remaining luxury
most people have these days...
   i don't think people can be artists by simply
dreaming... i think they're luxury hobbyist,
       call them the ones standing in line
            as Joseph's Travel Agents... 7 years in Tibet
     (lean years).... and 7 years in a district of Beijing -
where have the "blind" prophets disappeared to?
      and why do so many seem blind
      and blindingly obey to the prophets of "sight"?
nonetheless: frivolous questions...
                 i idealised woman to the extent that
upon encountering a woman: i could not find
an ideal to suggest idol worship for other men...
or create a continuum of dialectical embedding
or the sight of following the cause toward becoming
a sacrificial lamb: whether under the bachelor's
ideal of becoming a martyr - or indeed
                      the idea of becoming a martyr:
bound to old age... and woman - for where did
the wooing of man recede to?! farting into an armchair
and arthritis... much aplenty about that much
could be said about me too: solo.

-
     ****, turns out i'm good at
                                              fanboy lit.

or what i should rather say,
                           the beast
that constitutes
            the sound technicians
at music feeds studio,
even with a cheap
                   SoundMAGIC
headphones
           inserted into a samsung
device...
        nirvana...
      notably with the following
track                ghost's
rendition of their song ritual...
otherwise the burned
       version by 22valkryia's
channel...
           yet there's a more subtle
point,
             i never really appreciated
metallica...
            because the rhythm
guitar section almost always
overshadowed
        the cushion underpinning
of employing a bass guitar
    to make a drummer
      less pots and pans
        and actual drums...
so...
   i could never pick up the bass
notes in their music...
      well, apart from devil's dance,
but... that's hardly an
argument...
                    if i can't pick up
on the bass guitar presence,
       i don't know why the music
has to lean so much on rhythm guitar,
rhythm guitarist's megalomania
i suppose...
               it's still amazing
to appreciate the golden ratio
   element of how to synchronise
   all the instruments, with the vocals,
condensed into a bite
              rather than just overblown
concernt hall orchestral suites...
          golden ratio interpretation?
   the following schematic:

                                d:v
                                  =

              with instruments in between
    the extremes grinding teeth,
  i.e. synchronised flow,
                   d? drums
                             v? vocals...

              if drums are in synch. ratio
to the vocals,
         authentic melody can
                                    "rummage"
between them...
                          
             always the missing bass line
in metallica,
      overbearing with rhythm guitar...

i'm not surprised why
              9,260,609 people have
listened to this track
             at 01:47 sunday march 4th...

and to think that
something like https://oeis.org/A060707
    (the online encyclopedia
             of integer sequences)
                        exists...

and here's me,
                      a pauper with a poem.

             i have absolutely no idea
what motivates me to write these
                        bites into a blank canvas,

just today i "discovered" 4chan.
                      little help did it do me,  
                         arthur scherbius
   and his antithesis
                              alan turing,
and now this:
                          users,
                                     content creators...
   if i were to make my bets:
         i'm collateral (in the adjective form)
         but hey,
in the meantime there's the remaining
whiskey,
           and this track
   of music
                 that's infuriatingly good
in the capacity to cause
                                              a shiver.

                       in the memory of: martyrs.

.oh i don't know, why would i have a "problem" with christianity... where and whence it went into the new lands like some conquering reject... i'm all still hot & bothered that so few people read the counter mainstream: **** me... the atom bomb didn't wake them up, why would the discovery of the nag hammadi library wake them up? st. thomas' gospel: like... jesus playing chinese whispers with thomas, who wrote, after hey'zeus took him aside, told him something, upon returning to the other disciples they inquired, and thomas replied: if i told you what he told me, you'd stone me... back in hey'zeus' time... sure... social ostracism: b'ah b'ah black sheep says: wolf! the clown cries, the theatre burns down and everyone enjoys a night out... back to basics i guess: we're not talking about outright social ostracism... we're talking about psychological ostracicism: is it me... or has cogitans per se reached a zenith when it was to tickle the traits of calustrophobia... it's no longer ego cogito... it's... ego cogito: superego noose quasi- / semi- "thinking" and the unconscious id aspect of ego... whenever attached to "thought": short-circuits and goes into an epileptic spasm of: what to do?! what to do?! what to do?! *******: you have your new freudian pseudo christian trinity: mental gymnastics provided by the israeli co-op to teach you to count pythagoras via spaghetti curly-whirly... fun! fun fun fun! i once lived alone in my head, having only one body... now i have one body, but many paranomal "telepathic" insurgents living with me... who do not concern themselves with the concept of space... ego, head, toe, does it really matter whether a manicure is to be exacted? i don't like smoke, i don't like mirrors: i rather melt in the fire... i am the son, i am the heir... of a shyness that is criminally ******... probably the best lyrics in the world... i am human and i need to be loved, just like everybody else does... magic, par excellence... please... jesus basish died when it left europe, now a h'american resurgence... happy people happy sheep go to sleep without question... happiness is an act of levitation in terms of existentialism... and when it shatters... it's not a nervous breakdown... even on the scale of the individual... the fall of the tower of babel comes with the fifth horseman of the apocalypse... riding a ******* unicorn... well... he's actually the sixth... the fifth is already riding... ha ha... horseman... he's riding a donkey to the site of execution... who needs drungs when you can measure what the co-op convenience stores are selling as a liter of whiskey... they're actually selling 1.425 liters of whiskey... i measured the sloppy herring slitherings and salmon high jumps... see... the atom bomb was dropped... but the mainstream christian never mention my angst... the nag hammadi library is never mentioned... why isn't the unearthing of the nag hammadi library never mentioned? the hebrews are all over the discovery of the dead sea scrolls, their dissociation simulated with their 2000 year old the penance for unrightfully sentencing the prophet isaiah to be cut in half... and he was a courtesan (isaiah): so what?! did he speak truly? 2000 years of jewish history... summed up by the unjust killing of the prophet isaiah... lesson learned... the lawful killing of hey'zeus: well, 2000 years of masochism of willing converts to "appease" the god: coincidental shared "circumstances"... why am i not a christian? if love is what is and what is the cross: sorry... can i decline having a fetish for a latex ******* *** fantasy?! or... you know that story of the perverted dog? the one that is so ***** is latches onto your leg and starts to ******* you, imitating the **** of you with a curled hand to propose the **** itch-tight simulation? oh no... we hide the socially ostracised... so we wheeled out the retards for full display... and monger... the critique has become elevated... it's harder to pick-out the knitty-picky intentions of people who want to differentiate before the grand c.c.t.v. altar of the omni-unus watching via the terms: proselyte... pharisee... sadducee... baptist mongrel presbyterian... honestly... spew me all this post-atom-bomb *******... oblivious regarding the nag hammadi library... mainstream h'american christianity: honestly, with this amount of reading even atheism doesn't suffice! atheism doesn't suffice! the antithesis yet to be explored by the masses is my curriculum motus... mea motus vitae! h'america is yesterday... yesterday being late 90s early 00s... now it's a quasi-balkan paranormal export cultural affair of tarantula bit-frames of former convo... it's like watching a regurgitating boa constrictor snake rather than an ingesting boa constrictor with 2 weeks spare of waiting in smog for the next meal... why didn't i follow the catholic bureucracy and be confirmed? well... why don't mainstream h'american "christians" come out and say: yes, the emergence of the nag hammadi library is problematic for us... it's sure as **** problematic for me... and what will come later, and reach the mainstream... with be the sort of explanation associated to the clarity of depiction of a human face, as close as picasso came "close" within the framework of cubism... hellish contortions and exponential deviations... imagine how hellish the human face is depicted in cubism... now imagine that same face smiling: within cubism.

there you have it, automated phone service,
the pinnacle of the national health service,
the surgery got rated 1.7* (stars),
1 for the fact they exist, and 0.7 for the service
they provide; god almighty i hope you
don't fall ill in england these days,
it's like trying to buy a ******* turnip at
the butchers or fishmongers...
dial the number... a robot answers
'hello, thank you for calling the north street
medical centre... please note that we do
not deal with repeat prescriptions over the
telephone; please press 1 to book or cancel
a triage appointment; press 2 if you have a
query concerning a prescription...'
2...
'thank you, if you have an urgent query
concerning your prescription please press
0 to speak to a receptionist...'
0...
'hello, welcome to north street medical care
multiple choice questionnaire...'
oh for ****'s sake...
what now?
when was the battle of Hastings?!
1066                    yesterday               mm, maybe tomorrow?!
there i am with a simple need, just write
the ****** prescription and i'll be off,
it's not like i'm asking you to do 7 hours of surgery on me;
no wonder they got 1.7 stars...
there are more receptionists than actual doctors:
ooh spooky spooky ****** doo in the bag too,
ooh look at me, i am Microsoft word proficient,
i'm the cream of the crop... fair enough,
and i'm a ventriloquist in my spare time -
pour me a pint while you're at it,
my throat's dry from all the cursing...
because why the hell do you even have a contact
number for a surgery... if it just cuts you off?!
might as well return to the antiquity of using my
legs and seeing you face to face,
because that's what i seem to have to do...
go for a walk, come back with some poor somali
girl who walked 5 miles for a bucket of water.

what have i done: to deserve... this?
i must come across as the most honest i can summon:
i haven't sat down an read a book
in a while: not because i somehow "think":
synonymous with doubt...
although thinking is more antonymous
with negation... the "feels" the grand "waking"
hour... day... week.. year...
point being... i haven't sat down with a book
for a while... reading newspapers doesn't count:
reading newspapers is a bit like
reading advertisement slogans... prompts...
oi oi! peacock! vector...
if only newspapers were written on
good quality... silk-imitation toilet paper...
i'd wipe my *** with them...
prostitutes have a higher status in my mind
than... journalists...
anchors... ditto-heads...
hell... prostitutes outstrip the worth of
bureaucratic custard-fudge any day...
they know their worth... there's so much
transparency concerning prostitutes that...
i haven't been on a date... not ever...
not since that one memorable date
with an Australian girl... we used to go to
highschool together... i took her to an Edward Hopper
exhibition... and a screening of Troy
in the cinema... some sushi...
she ended up being the most popular girl in
the school...
all on a single date...
that was fun... but by current standards?
a date is a meal?
pretending there was no prior
profiling... i imagine a date to imply:
i'm going to take up the whole of your day...
we'll do just fine: if we need a day...
dating... kind of boring... not boring...
claustrophobic... congested...
the whole culture of "dating" always felt to me
like a screening event at the airport...
getting an x-ray of a broken leg...
i'd require a day...
an art gallery... 3 ******* hours in the cinema...
a bite of sushi...
i don't need a "date"... i need a DAY... ugh...
or... i bypass all that foreplay before
foreplay and charge right into a naked
corpse of a Turkish ******* who's
geared up for... the mythology of hair
in Islam...
seriously... if you had a hair in your soup...
it would be equivalent to finding a fly?
i will forever attest...
the most ****** part of a female body is
her hands... probably  because they're smaller...
geisha riddles the jest of:
proper ****...

no one was going to date her...
i was the tallest in the cauldron...
and she was... properly bred in the outback...
coming up to 6ft...
the loveliest pair of pits on anything:
woman, cow... horse(?)...
in Edinburgh before she didn't...
decide to lose her virginity with me...
i did that work prior...
on some 3rd year psychology major
from Grenoble who moaned about
me having Napoleon on my wall..
the Duchy of Warsaw?
and Marquis de Sade...

ever ****** a ****** once...
72 times is... too much...
you begin by pretending your whittle richard
is just enough / teasing at: too small...
i can't explain the sensation:
it's ******* universal...
it's like... the shared sensation bound
to the hands when... tearing apart
a cotton cloth...

i don't know: what it is...
was i gearing her up to something more:
ambitious... like...
impregnation?
it wasn't terribly "fun"...
just about right... with the timing...
it can't be understated...
having the chance to relax with...
already "sacrificed" *****...
of prostitutes...
it's so much easier: for the transparency...
since no dating is ever to be invoked...

dating: i need a day...
i don't require profile screening over food
i'd rather eat in silence...
for ****'s sake...

just my luck... dating the elder of two sisters...
because: almost always...
the younger sister is more attractive than
the older one...
Promis & Priya...
   Laura... oh that Scot & Persian mongrel link
but i can't remember her sister's name...

"something in the way": clearly...
i was just taking to Knausgaard's vol. 4
of "mein kapf"...
the entire room pulsated with a silence
that only outside noises can intrude upon:
notably traffic...
caressing a book...
there's the t.v. blank...
i'm seriously in need of a fire & crackle
of... a fireplace...
reading a book would be best complimented by...
said sound: never mind...
the hushed murmur of the traffic outside
is also: stimulating...

reading a book... i forgot what that feels like...
it's not like reading a newspaper...
hardly... ugh... notably the opinion sections...
of the 5 major "feels" i can quest for...
reading a book in a room
inviting silence...
petting a cat... whenever a cat feels like it
or rather: whenever i also feel like it...
that i have a maine **** sleeping in my
bed...
is beyond me... i always thought it was
hard for a tiger bonsai to like you...
it is... how men champion dog-ownership...
of sure... esp. in England...
where you have to make cleaning up after
your beloved so ******* public...
in the doggy-bag the **** goes...
not prior to the "pandemic" did these dog-walkers
walk around with hand-sanitizers to boot...

dog = leash = muzzle = walking the **** thing...
it's like owning a bicycle and paying road tax!
to hell with paying road tax...
the argument follows:
the dog is loyalty...
it's also always ******* apparent!
a cat can play the Schrödinger's gimmick...
it can *******: on its own will...
i can ignore it... i can... leave it... freely:
available and... consecrated on some binding
glue whenever it feels like it...

between a dog and a cat and a... ******* fern...
well... the cat is a tier above the fern...
but... a tier below an orchid...
since? orchids need less tending to than cats...
but please don't think
that... it was terribly important to have dogs
when i was growing up...
as the only child they were my substitute
brother... sister...
but as you age... dogs... eh... not so relevant...
again: i'd hope to own one... if...
i also didn't have to leash-the-poor-sod...
at least with cats i can ignore them...
come to think of it...
i ignore them up to the point where
i clean their **** and slice them raw turkey...
hell... this one time: at "band camp":
i fed my maine ****
a "live olive":  fish-eye...
i once held a female mosquito by the ballerina
leg and watched as the cat gulped her down...

seems oddly nice to be part of something...
even if it's only a food-chain of events...
at least a tiger wouldn't...
**** me to get a hard-on...
it would **** me: in order to eat me...
now the ******* parade...
people killing people because they are
some hyper-inflated chimpanzee status
worth... for fun or for status...
last time i checked?
the constellations still worked:
they were kept intact... the moon came
with the night... the sun with the day...
the water with the tide...

of the 5 major sensations...
i don't even know whether there are five...
reading a book...
petting a cat... cycling...
pebbles of Dagenham...
estranged grandmother
*** is great: if you have it regularly...

notes...
pebbles of Dagenham?
oh don't ever try to cycle via Dagenham...
someone must have brainstormed
a pretty octopus when...
the pebbles... like glass...
were... left to season the usual grit of
road / pave...
mind you: i had tires that were gagging
for being replaced... 23cm width...
it was bound to happen...
but Dagenham has the worst roads...

reading a book can almost retain all
the necessities of petting a cat whenever
it feels like it...
it's good to read a lot of newspapers
before relaxing with a book...
i can never relax with a newspaper:
i relax taking a ****...
shame i can't bring a newspaper to the event!
i would... if i could...
i doubly-relax taking a **** contemplating
homosexual antics...
just for kicks...

of all the surprises in this world... family...
i knew my uncle: was going to be estranged from
my mother... brother and sister...
opposites... "poor" father beginning with
no family... pseudo-orphaned...
marrying into this ******* cocktail...
but an estranged grandmother?
well... the "story" goes...
i saw my grandfather all well and certain...
joking about another family relation:
he being alive, my grandmother's brother being dead...
limping on the last remains of a foot...

my mother decided that her mother be estranged:
or perhaps... my grandmother decided with her
son: my uncle... that... it's better to keep ourselves
apart...
my grandfather's death was kept in secret...
two months prior i was sipping coffee with
him... he was rereading a book i picked up
from a bookshop in Kielce:

Knausgaard's autumn: that line about
eating apples: whole... at the end of your life...
to the bitter core...
i liked my grandmother: muffin...
the mornings with sober me...
drinking coffee solving crossword puzzles...
but i do remember her crying in the night...
my grandfather was...
an alcoholic... but she was... still is:
a most... disfranchised of women...

but... death is death...
there were 2 months between his final descent...
now i feel like i was the grandson that didn't
care... i was the only ******* grandson!
so much for family...
reading a book... caressing the pages...
the silence...
petting a cat whenever it wants it...
riding a bicycle...
riding a bicycle...
                        perhaps swimming...
***?
i can't say i haven't teased at it:
but it's best when it's frequented with...
enough repetition...
like... push-ups... if it's done on the spare...
it's hardly equivalent to breathing...
i can spare myself entertaining it...
*** is not water... it's not nutrients...
i can... live without it...

i love drinking... probably as the least frequent
spectacle of... ***...
but i also love sobering up:
while cycling...
here's a beard: here's an imitation violin!
watch me fiddle...
there's a roof?! there's a fiddler on top of:
said roof?
mein gott: bulgari?!

das ist genug!
      genug! genug!
kommen sie die fragezeichen...
fragen! fragen! fragen hier!
fragen jetzt!

           KOHLE: KALT!

i drink... i start speaking Deutsche...
no wonder...
the Pakistanis have taken over
the English sphere of "sensibility"...
eh... little... bog... bother-monster...
little freckle... little mind..
something... quasi-Welsh...
pseudo-Scot...

SILVERCHAIR'S FROGSTOMP
VS... DINO SURF...
TIDE....
NIRVANA'S... POLLY,,
ONE EYED BLIND,,,,

some freckle Cqsper
ginger boing: yo.... yo,,,
tooth-bit....
quickest...incubus...

to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine) for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.

obviously Gibraltar would vote to remain,
it would be one of the few remains of
the British Empire, the Spanish
version of Hong Kong,
4.1% leave, 95.9% remain,
no immigrants there, just expatriates
from Benidorm - if it voted to leave then Spain
would double the emphasis to eject
the British from the region;
but if you're going to fully pull the thing apart,
and go to a history of myth, Arthur
prior to Angevin Empire, i guess you have
to give that little scrapheap of pride back too -
this referendum is really like watching
Gorbachev pulling apart the Soviet Empire
in slow-motion, it's not chunky like
Kazakhstan, a banoffee pie, but more
like what remained of feeding the 5,000 thousand
at the last supper.

of course the age of scientific positivism
was glorious,
the hopes for curing the lamentable ivory cavity
the hopes for anaesthesia in surgery,
it was all there, with all the great minds...
but then our age came along with humanism’s negativism,
and i mean that sincerely...
if you take a concept, like god, and give it to science,
the best it can do in its parameters is take 1...
divide it by the nth term and say something like
0.000000000000000000000000000000000000000001
in relation to something else, which its a part of...
i wish i was deeply religious on this point,
but a catholic school education reminding me
to start early with ethics minding only one ethical decision,
i.e. abortion brought feminism with it...
but as one orthodox christian girl said: even without
legal rights between us... you must accept!
eh... why?
god does not belong to science, science deals with numbers
and a few words...
imagine the book of genesis: and in the beginning was a number...
any random number... let’s say six... and six correlated
with aries, taurus, gemini, cancer, leo, libra...
well that’s half missing...
this argument is starting to make me look silly...
this whole word word word... let’s quantify vocabulary for quality assurance...
it’s the q. and q. relativity, the q-q in terms of saying
(that's the coordinate parallelism between science
and human-ism, where the former states
two essentials - space & time - the latter states
its two essentials - quantity & quality;
now imagine einstein working in the humanistic medium,
it would sound something like... 'hmm
of a french novelist's output i can say as much
as: eat your j. keats and have him too):
the closest i came in comparing the greeks with the jews
is to claim that the students of the kabbalah are like the greek philosophers
in the vein of democritus... who took to a, b, c... x, y, z equivalent to atoms...
albeit phonetic atoms that gave us BIG physics of the planets
and meteros and newtonian linear(s)... and little physics... quantum stuff...
like why the romans wrote el... the greeks lambda and the hebrews lamed...
ah you know trivial stuff.
all i’m saying is that scientific atheism, in terms of using words
is, too coherent... if you want real atheism, you have to turn to the humanities,
james joyce is perfect... we don’t live in an age of scientific positivism,
we live in an age of humanistic negativism...
all this talk of extinction and nuclear weaponry,
it’s almost like a scare tactic to allow certain professions mechanisation
by robotics... i know it’s real... would the newsstand sell insensible newspapers?
again... if you deny something you’ll only end up doubting it later,
so with sartre trying to escape the cartesian dialectic if a complete and utter failure,
by denying something it’s hardly possible to erase it, make it extinct,
the faculty of memory does not allow this to happen,
so doubt re-enters and the doubting thought process revs up,
the negating thought process is only momentary, a nano-second if you will,
doubting takes aeons to consider itself un-doubted;
so i ask... coming from a scientific background, why would we
care to push scientific positivism further, given all the discoveries and
ease-of-life assurances when there’s this bulging and growing
humanistic negativism, entitled: we are the 99%! hmm?
science will not make economic strategies go away,
nor will humanism... but with humanism, at least there’s a human face
saying something... rather than science itemising everything
to fit 0 next to 1 with a dot between and call it: a tenth of a metre.

p.s. there's only one doubt of denial and it's unconscious,
because denial is a safety mechanism that automates
to provide a blockage against the world events:
*******, ******... war...
denial is automation... doubt is nurturing...
regret... well... that's natural concerning choice
in events not engaged with; honestly, there are people
who have regrets not engaging within the napoleonic wars,
thus they idolise napoleon... a bit like the neo-nazis
and the third ***** scenario... they can deny certain
aspects of the third ***** mechanisation didn't happen,
but they can't doubt it, because doubt-in-itself
is a sort of thrill
(that's covered by a blatant truism in argumentation,
which is denial, which technically robs it
of the doubt cherished for the thrill)...
'****! it happened! it really really happened!'
and then regret comes in and says: 'but you weren't there.'
then nostalgia kicks in... and that line from w. burroughs
about how you got to be an ss-man in a concentration camp:
gauge the cat's eyes out... yes, the one you petted for a month,
fed and gave affection to: gauge... the... cat's... eyes... out!
dass ist ein anführer befehl!

n'ah ah, you ain't getting away with it this time,
there's no room for a squeaky clean
move, little miss sunshine;
you're not passing unto the dead
with those words coming from your mouth,
i count them as the psyche from the ****.

why do people confuse the *dead sea scrolls
with the nag hammadi library?
while at the same time ignoring
  the entries of the historian
flavius josephus
                      (joseph ben matityahu),
well: the sure as **** shared
same physiognomy - the jews
    and the romans...

the second coming? it happened!
it happened in the year 1945 a.d., with
the unearthing of the nag hammadi library!

the current transgender zeitgeist?
it stems from st. thomas' gospel!
          no ******* clue as to why it has
become un-reproachable,
but it has...
                        but why is there this mundane
confusion,
   of stating that the dead sea scrolls
refer to jesus?
                  clearly you don't understand
the bigger controversy, namely
of the courtesan prophet isaiah -
the dead sea scrolls are of those beloning
to his adherent heart...

theology? sure, and existential boredom.
           what's the grand controversy?
well... let's just say that when you
are executed by crucifixion,
  you're not exactly taken to the limits,
given that isaiah was cut in half
            yep, right at the abdomen -
imagine that!
                       why are this servitude in
pity toward the crucified one?

      but what a mighty conclusion to
2000 years of huh?!
                       why were the books of isaiah
hidden and why were the entries of
a jesus also hidden, and by "luck" -
re-emerge at the same time, to shape
the 21st century?

            the dead sea scrolls are mentioned
more times than what has become
the christian denial of the exitence of
the nag hammadi library...
   after all these years, and the ******* still
love the idea of pyramids!
     sorry, i'm not so keen on crafting such
elaborate sentiments (monuments) for death...
i'm not buying it...

            the 2nd coming has already happened,
but then again most people are too devoured
by the zeitgeist of androgynousness -
  and i source that origin in keeping
things "holy", esp. texts, namely
                                 the nag hammadi,
which refers to jesus,
which doesn't refer to isaiah and
the dead sea scrolls...

             as ever, the religious know so little
in what they gesticulate...
    who was the first person to
write the first verse of the koran?
     (a spanish H on the j)
                      k(h)adija(h) the literate -
imagine that! a woman wrote the first
verses of the koran!
  ****** was a ******* all the way through,
he had to allow a woman to write
his schizophrenic revelation -
                  then he became mouthy with
a 9 year old...
                       ****-load-peek-ah-boo!  
****;
last time i heard he didn't know how to read
or write...
       this arabic version of charlemagne
this shylock, this merchant of mecca
(why didn't shakespeare write that play?!)
if that camel jockey started writing,
we'd only see:

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        yes yes, plenty of kisses, thank you,
no thank you...

                     the 2nd coming,
already happened! and look at what it brought!
   ***-change-demagogues!

the ninth gate,
or how, even a bibliophile
can have a little
adventure...

perhaps there's a world
out "there",
but there's also the Heideggerean
retraction  from the world,
into Tao...
         or at least, Tao,
with a bit more of a European
entanglement of narrative...
or past 4 summers
to count, exploring
        moth flight into dust
made into sediment
on yawning bookshelves...
as much of a world out "there"...
as there is life in th vicinity,
in a myopic worldview,
almost aquatic...
        via the H. retraction of
dasein... being by a plateau-esque
increment...
rather than the synonym
big bang and 20th century
exponential circus of populations...
epoch of consolidation,
and cultural exhaustion...
since art could not be industrialised
with a focus on originality,
standing face to face with
industrialised "art" of household
decorum... back to the cave it went
to craft a think-tank,
and a safe space...

which begs the question
as to why certain people allow themselves
the chance to exploit the haiku...
rubric rigid, however-many
syllables it takes...
prior to, some Ching Shin Po
drinking heavily during
the night (why would
you ever drink during the day?)
laughing at the moon,
astounded, mesmerised...
terse saying, sealed lips,
never a haiku being intrusive,
never the haiku made into
a jazz standard,
or a because a sonnet rhymes
like so...
                 20 years,
and still waiting for a haiku...
not this, industrialised:
'aving a blueprint,
ergo: mass replica pulverising
tumult...

           tickling-fingers,
using bookmarks rather than desecrating
books by folding pages into pytharogean
origami...
                reading best investigated
as private tele broadcasting channels...
ad intermissions...

       tonight all i have to offer is this...
a bibliophile's tender woven care...
  holding a book, 3 years older than
me... namely 34 / 35...
in pristine condition...
namely... and the pages are still white...
ironic... since the content
of the book is about ghosts...
take a printed 1957
and the pages turn to sepia...
unlike those barons
and stubborn sycophantic
       wine, "conneisours"...
   the pleb turned snob
is harder to find among book
fetishists...
             the oldest in my possession?
a 19th century print...
     amrican...
     in one psychoice instance
i gave the works of Emerson to
Oxfam...
not that i mind charity,
but that I mind Oxfam...
                  
a new breed narration,
if art, for art's sake...
digression being the new form of
narrative... because
i don't remember what i was going to...

ah!

   Duchy Polskie: Wydawnictwo
         PTTK "KRAJ" (Warszawa 1983)
person in question?
the illustrator,
janusz stanny...
and notably the method
of translating a flint stone
into graphic...
                 hell...
a little corner of the world
and nothing as mundane as...
a postcard from the usual:
wish you were here,
and wish i wasn't,
      sending you this ******* postcard
making me look
like an utter plonk...

and what of the commandments regarding
a neighbour...
big town no neighbours...
small town... promotion
into gossip... little talk...
big town no gossip,
suffocated little interests,
plotki... suffocated to the point
when too it's too late,
and the straitjacket comes out...

the forgetful faces
and the dizzying carousel of urban
living...
              if fame is to be worth 15 minutes...
friendships have a life-span
of a dumb mosquito sitting
on the arm of a lucid man...
            teasing this minion
of the antithesis of Belzeebub
before the needle...
   SMACK...
                         pancake.

        the digressive narrative...
or in better grammar without
a doubled -ive...
digression as the new form
of a narrative...
    as such:
      acute amnesia...
    regarding the muse...

               not for any other,
other than the love of the craft...
or how to escape
the Alcatraz... of sitting through
and English literature / language class...

oh ****... would you loom at that...
a rhyming couplet!
   that's as rare as Van Helsing
finding out that... beyond the romance
of the sickly and sweaty sweet Bar-fe-lona...
all vampires are like mushrooms...
kept in the dark and fed ****...
namely... all vampires are albinos.

on the odd occasion of finding a rhyme,
without even looking for one...
esp. not pulverising a reader with it...
every,  single, or, other, line!

February - 45,000 people in one week watch performances of rokabirī music by Japanese singers at the first Nichigeki Western Carnival.

February 14 – The Iranian government bans rock & roll, claiming that this form of music is against the concepts of Islam and is a health hazard. Iranian doctors warn of the risk of injuries to the hips from the "extreme gyrations" of rock & roll dances.

March 12
Billie Holiday is given a year's probation by a Philadelphia court following her arrest and guilty plea on narcotics possession charges in 1956.

In Hilversum, Netherlands, 'Dors, mon amour' sung by André Claveau (music by Pierre Delanoë, text by Hubert Giraud) wins the third annual Eurovision Song Contest for France. Domenico Modugno places third for Italy with 'Nel blu, dipinto di blu' which, retitled 'Volare', will reach No. 1 in the US Billboard Hot 100, and will win two Grammy Awards next year for Record of the Year and Song of the Year for 1958.

and amongst other things, Sylvia Plath writes a poem,
a modest insertion to the world of history and chess,
but nonetheless more spectacular -
all that candy, all that ******* candy,
the smiles the pristine pomp - the goody suede shoe gimmicks,
but there she is, ravenous woman of the swamp,
one of the Graeae - question is, one tooth cannibal
shared or one eye to see Pericles?
ever wonder why poets solely keep the Grecian myths
alive and not involve themselves with saintly tales
akin to Assisi? boring as cow **** fried with shrimps,
that's me and father jack (father ted, a sitcom)
on the matter... but seriously, the celestial beast that
Sylvia Plath is given her housewife circumstance,
no girl this dying age would write such magnifique
superstition - well, that's pomp in-itself,
i don't know, call me stupid, but globalisation is
hardly an argument to expect being well informed,
i have a graveyard for a library, or the other way round,
i'm reading books that desire to be kept in a winery,
for example... well, anyone will do to fit the following
words: a château 1865 - pompous ******* 'n' all,
but you see, what gets me going is 1958 and the poem
Perseus: the Triumph of Wit over Suffering.
i don't care who won the chess tournaments,
or if Elvis was a high-tonne larder than usual -
whatever the hip-replacement tactic of Iranian doctors
was like, for ****'s sake... this is a religion that
puts emphasis on prayer and "music" five times a day...
the Islamic call to prayer is sang, it's not hamstrung,
it's not smoked salmon, it's not Catholic petition
murmur, it's sang... ting a lick'ah ling...
******* church-bell uvula (i know i swear, oath words,
i told you, in polish kurva is a conjunction word
akin to the Achilles heel,
mind you, a cure seeing **** than seeing f&!k
might help with the **** addiction, and...)
i mean i wept listening to an adhan once,
but please don't get me wrong,
if you'd take Mozart to be rain tapping,
and a bunch of cooking saucers to be a drum-kit what then?!
i don't like Islam for one reason... i love music too much,
and, from the way i see it, Islam doesn't like music,
even though i don't like castrated choir boys either
penetrated by the almighty papa who pretends to
be a Jew with his kippah, i'd rather listen to music than
that godforsaken recitation about 72, and how
pomegranate juice will sustain me better than
a whiskey on the rocks... the end, pa pa!

without a benefit of a doubt, attempting to persuade a drunk.

the 1960s children treat the internet /
computer: not as a thing that
requires content, but requires
utility...
               in the same way the 1980s
children treat the television
as a: waste of space...
      that said, 1960s children:
        now nearing 60 have this
envisioned (concerning the internet):
internet banking
                     and shopping online...
the principal point of the internet
can be congested into two uses:
banking and shopping...
       the grey area in between?
    art for art's sake argument...
yet the two most useful enterprises
with regards to the internet
       are: banking, and shopping...
i'm still fascinated by the existence
of postmen...
                        mailing a postcard?
we haven't lived in better times...
but we also haven't lived
   with an immediate nostalgia...
the immediacy of nostalgia is
  the current historical enzyme it would
seem...
            at least in the 19th century
there was a nostalgia concerning
ancient greece among the germans...
now?
           i'm nostalgic about
1998...
                because occupying
my mind with the entire spectrum
  of human history
    is equate to:
             a claustrophobic cube
inside a much larger cube
                      rather than a sphere...
see: it aligns, it's not "fidgety"...
         yes women are more vocal
and most painters are men...
which has made me to resort to
geometry to "paint" by writing...
              whatever that means:
it's still a numbing point that
    there is an immediacy of nostalgia
hanging in the current year,
        while at the same time
the "completeness" of human history...
and that massive "void"
     in between...
             this has entire surrealism of
attracting a *in stasis observation...
  i really have a fixation concerning
animate things being asleep,
     or instilled as un-moveable...
     a bit like conjuring Sisyphus saying
to counter the punishment:
    can't move this rock...
                  in turn morphing
his ego in the rock,
  and leaving his body as a mountain...
but i am a man punished
   with a history of immediate nostalgia,
rather: written by an immediacy
of nostalgia...
                  at least in 19th century
germany i could have had a regard for
ancient greece...
                         god is an indigestion
in my mind, compared to the congestion
via the universe and it's apparent
   "awe generation"...
             might i look at these *******
pebbles while you look at the stars?
   popular physics is akin to
popular biology...
                                 mind numbing,
popular science, well,
    perhaps it doesn't have heretics
burning at the stake,
           but it has cognitive ostracisation:
to have breathed the air,
toiled the land,
                         and had no
                                           eureka,
having died the death of an elephant
upon the savannah...
           to have lived a life not having
to complain...
               but rather complaining while
dying...
                 to have lived a life
by complaying while dying...
                     and made sense of dreams...
and having abandoned the rigid
structures...
            the universe: i am sure -
  does not allow geometry...
                                 and if i wrote but one
word without writing this?
   it would be treated as a noteable herald;
back into archetypes
   the pyramids,
               or the void of a "beginning"...
   shame though:
      that the aztecs are extinct and
we do not note what their pyramids
were used for...
       ah... but we "know":
    guillotines...
   sights of capital punishment...
               well...
                              because why would
it be so ******* awe-inspiring
               looking at a gigantic grave,
in a desert?

.metallica, manchester 2019... master to whos mastery: whos puppets to whos puppeteering... i have to admire the fact that you have to play the standards... its not like even plagiarism comes into the play, but it must be tiresome to have to continue to play the crowd favorites... no compensation for what's expected as new.... if i were stuck in the rut of replica upon replica... regurgitation upon regurgitation... doesn't this art form tire so easily... who was that poet, who went to bed crying after listening to liszt play? matthew arnold... god i'm freed... all the fame and fortune and also not enough time to make your shadow a friend... one inherited temptation is enough to succumb to facing the subsequent ones... come playing a guitar staged before a horde... or fiddling with my beard in the background without malicious intention... but the poverty of lyricism... sure... blues players and their incessant rhymes... but these modern lyrics? to hell with it: i'm no better... but how can you fathom the stamina to replay, to replay, to replay the horde's echoing boom boom mantra fantaticism? i couldn't do music... rememebering words, contonuing a course for replay of the greatest hits... even if expanding into unwritten new territory was a farce... so what... come the bad with the good and the tabloid quality... but having to "love" your work in order to erode your memory like your standard pedagogy manual... i don't want or would't want to remember my words: half if not a third is hardly worth remembering... to a verbatim suited & booted closure and an opening for poet turned entertainer... i don't see how these people cling onto their nostalgia performances... well: to please the crowd is to please the crowd... ilona (former russian "gif") reminded me when james hetfield opened his mouth: he's such a redneck with that accent... god, this russian loved how i appropriated the english shropshire accent... what was that word she called me? ah.... i was a.... yuppie! then the moscow crowd took out their cigarette lighters and we snogged... god i miss relationships, being in that state of vulnerability... i really miss being vowed to a woman and free-falling into a grace of competent trust without question... now here's me calling out the lost trill surrounding the R in both the snake-bitten english numb "R" (without the trill) and the hark of the Francians... i miss being vulnerable... which is what love feels like... being assured a safety when staging a dangerous theatre scene of... say... free-falling before the parachute... that's love: the ability to feel vulnerable... love is and never was some ******* poetic ideal... of perfecting the "art" of loving... to love was always to feel vulnerable... i really miss that... to love was to trust, it wasn't ever about spewing out amour cliché after another amour cliché... sad news being, i will (probably) ever experience that softness of the heart, always the anchor of the weight of a marble slab... never the emotions derived from the heart, forever bound to the bowels... gut-sensations and the reflexes... never a mind to compensate incompassing reflections and the expansion of time to a fixed space... i once loved... is it better to have loved than to have no loved at all? that's questionable, riddle with... is it better to have lived and died, without the knowledge of pain associated to a brain haemorrhage or with: said knowledge? any man can claim the same: it's horrifying to have to live the rest of your life without the cushion, the bed, the feathers of love where you throw yourself icarus-esque, head-first, as a vulnerable babe... shedding the wolf's mane and softening your heart to escape the rational, reflexive array of emotions derived from the bowels.

guess who's diacritical abstaining from the prose...
      kurwy codzienne
czy te kuchenne... a raczej
               zbyt?
no churrah w mnie i horongiew
       wapnia i kurczu -
i tyle to, by gadać tchu!
pięć łatwych utworów -
you made my mind up to counter...
    i said no to the niqab,
so i said yo- to the -gurt...
and let me franchise it babe....
because when i do i won't be
the Franklin as the heavy heave to a scutter
and rat bound
smartease of a Jefferson's lighbulb...
you get boring
more so with the season...
***** and the farthing: quick-change
to quicken your step,
spelled Tokyo... takes two with reminders:
now pay and wait and pastry-size to
concubine the shadow....
                        of hiding cassette and
the lung to breathe through to gorgon enterprise
of the three-headed alcatraz.
i said score ***** harry
     i said i said it twice... 7070 film...
                  i said it thrice...
i said it a fourth time...
the fifth time i was left the overs,
and america r.i.p.,
and i said: god: just let me be!
you were the 20st century fake in the project act
and it was named kevin spacey....
           and you said drive-by
bygone shoot-out... and i said: hamburger
        tattoo and other things worth
the same idea of gluing **** together...
                         and then the toad's hiccup...
rhapsody of burps...
and then that...
  and then i want to be: martin luther king jr.
and a national holiday icon,
and when i want it... and i gag for it....
and then i die for it...
   and then i hate dying for it.... and
so i earn my living as a plumber....
    and then the nation goes for iraq...
and then i am president and face a q & a...
and i'm like: happy are those
who come with applause...
    because i'm the sole one battered with
with the qualm that might translate
as america bound...
well ye-ha! aren't we the lucky living *******!
then i'm about to pludge-****-and-poach-the-*******-yankees
into a question of: a horn brigade to toll the folding bridge;
scatter skew the next new coercion for a parade...
infantile french be the said: long gone...
germanic kinder less a rhyme,
and more a gas... just gaß... or governor:
that should have been gaś or gaš... but then you're
so ******* boring, it makes sense that you're rič...
because you didn't actually get that part...
to be: clint the runner in western and not
***** 'arry...
say you laugh, you don't say clint eastwood
when you actaully watch al pacino in
dog day afternoon... and 1970s america makes
sense...
             and you won't be able to replay
1960s america... because you can't... and it makes
sense why it all feels filthy and dry these days....
that you believe in recitation as you might
believe in the word regurgitate....
and all you want is horror and a.i.,
    and you will never wake from that dream again...
because there were those not lazing in learning
english, that you were left, so glutton coerced
into learning more anagram of english than french
wasn't...
and sure: you created these games of a language
for the sole reason that you wanted to avoid learning
french or german...
you created games from language
because you felt superior... and you created
these games from language because you said
it wasn't worth saying anything in french...
LAZY, OBSOLETE, MOTHER... *******!
but i say: it would have been easier to learn
german than to invoke the game of anagram...
   but then again... who am i to judge?
              who cares, when there are over a billion
chinese and we are but a case of ****
in asking for the perfumed number?
             i say thank god for the indus and the chinese
with their billionth marking...
    it makes no matter if i'm white
and speak english or german or swede or *******...
     it took just one of us to be as lazy as we were
to leave the rest of us happy in tuning toward
becoming extinct. ha ha... ha ha ha ha ha ha!
well, d'uh! you ******* dodo!

and so much
bass;

                   emo jazz;
revival queer...
             lost dot,
                   lost dots are
everything.

title: at <H. 20>
body:
troop movement
w.
ammo shortage:
abandon
   <H. 20> position.   502 bad gateway bypasses have become more fun than looking for google-whacks

i once tried to be this dad-rock sort of guy:
a massive fan of the stuff from the 1960s and the 1970s...
but... the more i explore the 1980s...
i'm finding out that... in all honesty?
sure... the 1990s grunge scene etc.:
not to mention TOOL... Fugazi... etc.
   but... hmm... well... there's a war on...
no one knows how far its going to go: or how
it might escalate...
          i'm not going to take sides: or write with
moral overtones regarding what is good
and what is bad...
i've heard the argument that moral judgements
are not right: to mediate this conflict as
a third party... or just as a person...
moral grandstanding: Ukrainian flags on profiles...
pouring Russian ***** into the drain...
just drink whiskey...
                          this stems from the Pariah Principle...
i'm just guessing to giggle a little:
the doping scandals finally got to ol' Vlad...
because it was funny when Mo Farrah pulled out
at some point... as did Bradley Wiggins...
started making income from adverts...
           yeah yeah: no, doping of athletes is not
systemic... all over the world...
   i guess some countries just have better doping
schemes...
   and while Russian was kicked out from
the mighty club of the G7 that was for a while G8...
i guess no one likes being left out...
no mention of China expanding the club into
a G9 or India for that matter... G10...
            plus... if the whole world spins the narrative
that you're evil... Russian subversion of American
politics... you're going to one day wake up and be
like: o.k. - fine... i'll be evil...
             aren't people liable if they slander someone
for no good reason / proof? can't someone be
sued for slander? i always thought the Russians
to be evil geniuses... but that softens the blow:
they're smart - in a malicious way because:
hell... what's there to do in a Russian winter...
you can only **** so much and drink so much *****...
so you get into hacking... for fun...
        but it's not Ukrainian politics was ever pristine...
i remember the days of the Orange Revolution
when Poland was involved in Ukrainian politics
for a while... long ago i said to myself...
it would be useful is Ukraine was allowed to join
the E.U. - just after the "famous five" joined back
in 2004... obviously i have no proof that i said something
along those lines back then... i wasn't writing then...
blah... politics... as ***** as money...
   i rather think about... how i managed to get
a ******* to want to meet me outside of the brothel...
rent a hotel room for the night...
pay for dinner... get a free **** all night... talk...
improve her English... learn some Turkish in return...
and music... i rather think about music...
i was going some ironing in the afternoon...
and i realised... of all these old vinyl records
that i brought back from Poland from my grandparents'
house... the ones my parents collected...
i was stuck on Maanam's Nocny Patrol (1984)
for too long on repeat... let's see what else is there...
oh... the original New Order Low-Life vinyl (1985):
**** me... an object that is older than me by
a year... well i did already know that New Order
emerged from the collapse of Joy Division...
well... the suicide of Ian Curtis... the precursor of
Curt Cobain - post-punk... well what came of that...
i never liked punk... more into psychedelic rock...
prog rock... but like i said... 60s and 70s music...
it grew on me... then... i grew out of it...
the whole boomer schtick of: we had the best music
your music is ****... give me a break...
- and it's not like i could get into Joy Division either...
i tried... it would be much easier to get into
65days-of-static if i were going to be perfectly honest...
or boards of canada...
      i tried... but... you can't let a tragedy go to waste...
so with the emergence of New Order...
and never looked into them... blue monday... faith...
but never looked into entire albums...
gateway album... Low-Life...
   and then it hit me... this is really the proper alternative
to The Cure... the Smiths... Depeche Mode...
i must be having this post-punk phase...
               at one point youtube was spewing out
post-punk suggestions all the time for me...
as if in the good old days of youtube being the best
jukebox on the internet...
plus... on a vinyl that's 36 years old...
oh: with the older vinyl you can hear the imperfections...
"imperfections" or rather the crackling...
newer vinyl doesn't have that crackling...
now i have a few good hours in the bag of going through
the entire New Order discography...
again... this conflict... i'm not even following it...
i've built-up a media burnout after all the repeated
news about Covid... i followed it at the start...
until... people started clapping for the NHS...
i switched off... i' already switched off regarding
this conflict... i'll make that dreaded hippy statement:
make love, not war...
  well... i'm on it... perhaps if i could be a mediator...
i'm not going to use moral language...
i'll just show people what life can be life...
do some ironing... put on a decent vinyl from the 1980s
plan a *** marathon in a hotel room...
with a girl you have no qualms over the "body count"
as some guys look for frigid nun types...
ah... what a mandible beauty...
            elsewhere... yeah... people are fighting...
but people are always fighting elsewhere...
- and it's not like nothing is being done...
over 1 millions refugees fled to Poland...
      i went into a forest and found something symbolic...
a branch of wood in the shape of a Cossack sword,
the shashka...
             i think my extended family might have
been affected by the UPA genocides during the Second
World War... mind you: the Ukrainians cheered
when the Nazis invaded... mind you: such wounds
should run so deep in me... it's ridiculous...
i should, maybe, just maybe: have the English attitude
toward the Norman genocide of Anglo-Saxon nobility
after Hastings from a purely historical point of view...
but then again... i knew a woman: my great-grandmother
who had to give opiates to her new-born daughter
(my grandmother) so she wouldn't cry when
they were running and hiding on the front...
  or how my grandfather remembers his uncle lying dead
in the back garden after being shot by the Nazis...
or how he would run up to two SS-men in their infamous
Hugo Boss black and shout: herr! bite bon bon!
and they would give him sweets so sweet that
his hands would be stuck together... etc.
           there is a lineage... memory... it's almost like
one person having many hosts... you can't exactly cut it
off... but... how ridiculous western democracies look
now, for their former criticism of Poland not taking in
enough refugees... really?
just like Turkey didn't take in enough authentic
Syrian refugees? oh... the type of refugees that drove
the trucks of peace in Nice... or performed
the Bataclan attacks? the Cologne *** party?
no Ukrainians on rubber-inflatables crossing the Channel
from Calais? i get it... the wrong sort of hue...
well... i guess old grievances can rest for a while...
you must really try your hardest not to be called
racist... but then one day you'll wake up
   like a Russian... after being called evil, foreign affairs
meddler... Olympic cheat and be like...
**** it... i'll own that slander... i'll just act upon it...
hmm... Dinosaur Jr. - but that's more grunge
than post-punk... no no... post-punk is something
very beautiful... it gets mixed up with the term Indie...
like... the Smiths are probably considered Indie
rather than post-punk... but i think they're post-punk...
god... i hate punk... probably as much as rap...
- and it's sort of a crying shame...
Russian, back in 2007... was such a welcoming place...
obviously my then Russian girlfriend
timed trying to get impregnated without my knowledge...
how does it work with women?
the highest chance of getting pregnant is just after
a woman's period: i'm not a woman, i don't know...
she was supposed to be on the pill...
hey, unprotected ***... well... she was rich enough
to not need my money, just my genes...
but the people were so welcoming...
i'd put the Russians on par with the Scots...
oh hell: her father was a timber oligarch out
in Siberia... she had multiple flats scattered around
St. Petersburg and even Moscow...
i look at it as follows: being a ***** donor doesn't
really cut it... what, just reading a man's profile:
window-shopping for *****?
obviously she wanted the relationship
to get to know the character of the man...
rather than some objective rubric: education X,
employment Y... but character? in person?
in practice? well... that's Z(ed)...
               well... if i'm not going to the type to
shoot bullets from a machine gun...
i might as well be shooting something else
somewhere else...
                              is that the conclusion you come to
when she calls you... tearful... in a happy way
and says: 'i think i'm pregnant!' - i think therefore i doubt...
i don't think that applies to how women
use language...
years later when i visited her... hmm... toys scattered
all over the apartment... hush-hush atmosphere...
she invited a lot of people round...
i think she was still with her newly wedded
neuroscientist: would be dumped months later...
married some poor Scotch schmuck...
well... at least she's keeping a tally...
    she might get to no. 5 and finally be like:
                     well... that was a good enough party...
no ***, just watch t.v. with me...
   oh hell no... i was exposed to Marquis de Sade
"too early" in life to somehow ******* without
a proper hard-on...
              well... first shot with the Turkish girl...
second one might hit the mark...
who knows... but this one photograph she sent me...
there's this young pretty thing sitting
in the background... a nice looking bump...
hmm... the last time i was there....
and shot a load into a ******... must have been...
oh... 4 months? 5 months?
what happened to that ****** with the payload?
women are such subtle creatures...
i might just be living in La-La-Land...
             but your mind sometimes goes out to lunch
in a non-demented way...
   it's not like people are transparent with each
other... it's not like we don't have our secrets...
secret avenues that other people never hear about...
it's not like that doesn't happen...
maybe the less i know and the more i speculate...
the happier i am... whether it's true or not...
i like to think that women like for a full beard
a hairy chest and a hair stomach, a 6ft2 100kg posture
is something that's worth salvaging...
freely given, on a whim: because... eh...
   i'm not a fat 4ft9 stinking Mongol who left a lot
of people in Pakistan with a surname: Khan...
and he done that by ****...
                                 spectacular... life...
and as long as i'm in a working environment and
i treat the... less lucky guys with candour:
with a camaraderie... what could possibly go wrong?
obviously everything...
                     but if they don't know jack ****...
and i keep them at a mutual-respect length...
ah... no open flirting with female coworkers...
at work... i feel so fake at work sometimes...
   at least in the schoolyard there was open banter...
at work i have to force myself: all the time...
            i just want to be left alone... do the shift...
*******... go back into seclusion and scribble down
thoughts to remind myself: i would never say as much
with my mouth as i "say" with the use of my
itchy-finger-tips... it's staggering how rhetoricians find
talking so easy... what's the old suggestion?
they enjoy the sound of their voice?
must be... i drift... mmm hmm... 1980s post-punk...
feels good... now that New Order discography to sift through.

why i am an only child?
you have to ask the Polish women
who were forced to drink iodine....

1986...

  Chernobyl...

      it spread to Poland from the Ukraine...

  a "rainbow" effect,#as my great-grandmother
recounted...
in the local park?

streaks... of autumnal trees
in their full bloom decay,
      and the furthest green in summer...

a strange time...
why wouldn't my mother have
more children?
i guess, in fear of breeding a ******,
pro-life, what?!

you raise them!
see how they turn out when
you're dead!
god's "grace"...
               you ever curate the fate
of your grandmother?

well then!
                 now you know!
nature is ruthless!
man attempting to
overcome it?!
                        you know
what nature does?
i know what nature does...
  steam-roller and...
somehow the most vocal speakers
are those daring to
question the feathers
of a macaw parrot...
substituting it with
fashion trends...

mort in concencus,..
   vive in conscissio...

         i might have been born with
a sibling...
  but i wasn't...

the Scandinavian countries learned
of it,
from under, beneath the iron curtain...

and who can actually blame Gorbachev?
when the U.S.S.R. was made
dissolute?
      and no war took the  zeitgeist
garments of a pope's approval?
no cardinal red,
with Attila's river...
  
   who is to blame,
the scolded transition period of peace?
no one unless my grandfather can
understand the peaceful transition
of the disintegrated U.S.S.R.,
into a Russian Fed.?

               no one?

                   but the women of Poland
and the Ukraine? still had
to drink iodine...
                  and i am...
i am...
                           i am...
  i will always be...
the long lost cousin of the Chernobyl
geblüt;

there is not concept of
a butterfly effect...
when it comes to the query of an,
atomic reactor!

the imnpetus is to write something: anything
to conjure up new reading habits
and i was serious that Kafka wanted his books
to be printed in large font
but that didn't happen
each edition i read i might as well be salvaging
wood for toilet paper and Chamberlain
wiping his *** with it at the Munich Agreement
because i'm pretty sure Bukowski
got the larger print or font
for fountain: not rooted in Greek etymology
of something big, fat... a wedding crasher...
but i was wondering not so much
about language but the inner-workings
of language:
not the idiosyncratic use of language:
although so few achieve it in that space of knowing
as distinct from that space of thinking
after all: i think therefore i am is a recurrent
theme, iotom, which is like the idea but in a different
spelling... so a different res per se
iota + idiom
      + om + sparkle sparkle...
iotom
                  beause i can change a word
at my whim
today i heard a child in the great distance
and the child said Yahweh
and that is far away he's in it:
he is the one who hides the Muslim women
and i can't help for Ha-Shem the name of names
the un-named i mean
Yahweh is actually thinking about
a name for himself
he wants to be called by a personal name
YHWH isn't it...
and he contemplated Allah
for a little bit...
but then Allah ben Akhbar came along
with the Somali Ali and the Iranian Ahmed
and India was born again as Hindustan...
of the Ummah with Pakistan...
first the great wind the dispersed the choir
then an angelic voice in the world
a distance of dasein
           a there: rather than there's being...
i thought about how useful studying linguistics would
be to shy away from philosophy
and religion and i found the idiosyncracies
of punctuation and spacing in Jon Fosse
such book i never found
and James Joyce is Dead
because that was all Charlie Chaplin outdated
literature of the late 19th century
and like James Joyce is Dead
and the Cult of the Irish Holymen of Iceland
before the Norsemen came and settled
the island
there were Irish Holy Fathers Popes
on those isles... did you know that?
i will study islands
and long before i met Edie
and pen palled her
i was thinking of moving away from England
to the Faroe Islands or Iceland...
i am the dancing Shiva dancing on my knees
i beg you release me from Oedypus Kristos
Rex... i know what the Second Coming Implies:
Jesus ******* Mary
no Joseph a Single Mum raising a Son...
believe me and there's no ****** in Sight
and secretly the boy will emerge with Father State
and strangers and i wonder
i think therefore i don't know
why does thinking precepitate into being
when it doesn't among day dreams
and not so many geniuses of stone
just the flow of people like water
and i'm fine with this life being a simulation
almost that video games make it easier
in Plato's Cave having overtaken passive television
and i played roll the dice Ludo
i think that's how the game is called:
reimagining simpler and simpler
of the complex and abstract and paradox:
the only way for Christ to return would be as the Antichrist...
not as a resurrection per se
but as a Paradox
monotheism is not compatible with the polytheism of India
i abhor that theological mongrel
that is transcendence of kingship of monks
like the hierarchy with daft meanings
but that comfort of being approachable
but without reality of hierarchy
Marx and being naked or simply slave or broke...
one life one death one god
1 1111'1'1'1'1'111 1 1 1 1 111 1 1 1111111 1 1 1111 1 1 1 1 111111
rhythm...
at least conceptualised
maybe if i switch to Latin:
cogito ergo non scio...
i think therefore i don't know...
   whether i am or i'm not...
so idiosyncrtic punctuation or: rhythm to reading:
like looking at a painting and taking angles
but no selfies
like this world is becoming more and more abstract
esp after my interstellar trip around London
this morning
and it was like: before AI was invented
man collectively created the CITY
and you know like you travel the city
and... don't have to wait for the bus or the train
because you have such skill in time management
that you're like the White Rabbit in
Alice in Underland but you're cool, measured,
devilish, ecstatic... calm, foxy... collected...
just the burning fire in water...
you don't wait for the bus
the bus waits for you
which is better than a Chinese rich kid uber... uber...
tube oobah...
            i can't believe in Jesus Christ on a few
sayings the saying: turn the other cheek bothered me
until i learnt the nature of time within space:
how there are pockets of time that thought harvests
and there are pockets of space that knowledge harvests
like i know unconsciously
but i don't know consciously
because consciousness was involved in discovery
knowledge the speed of gravity
the temperature of the sun
the Enlightened source being Martin Luther
the Protestant...

oh ****: i just realised!
i'm a workoholic-alcoholic i need alcohol as fuel
and focus and like car i am gasoline
i seriously write poetry
PRO BONO
and that's at best associated
with Lawyers and what Pro Bono means
when you uncouple poetry from the form of art
and give poetry an equal footing
to, say... jurisprudence, law writing,
journalism...         history...
poetry is not a music not an expression of image:
POETRY IS: AUTHORITY!
of whatever deviation of time
in this, required: space: of the individuum atomus

Chakituen

  an Aztec deity wants to speak
/hawk/-e-/tu/-/en/

  the fear the mongrel and the silence...
this unfinished poem
is a bothersome edifice...
a THROMBOSIS is a word i'm looking for...

only music to know
well what, is the difference
articulation with signatures of proper articles:
the good
evil
                              knowledge
               ­               ignorance

   retards guarding angels: ******..
  
           the truth
           a lie

because i'm pretty sure: i didn't tell THE lie
i only told a little incy wincy lie...
i said one lie
but God?! but said all the other lies!
you will live eternal!
you will this that and the other!
i am! the whirlwind!
i am your friction!
i am! your vitality!
i am your ******* quake
and your daughter's **** unconscious of mythology
give me mouth and ear
and i am hell is purgatory and heaven too
i am a quantumn traveller
time is the relative irrelevant
while space so infinite
is play-dough
some bread
i am wild eyed: purple in red
then purple in blue

sometimes like a dog i keep chasing
my own tail
so i imitate a dog chasing its own tail
like imitation serpent
in myth
the dynamic cinema of image
in Plato's cave i countered television with gaming
and this emerged:
Cities are like Bodies
imaging traffic as
blood clotting and buses and *****
and blood and roads veins and ******'s
AUTOSTRADS BAHNS...
the arteries
and 100 years from now
Gandhi was right already now:
the Europeans used to hail Christ before going
somewhere:
then they'll start Hailing ******:
Gandhi said from Christ to ******:
and yes between Arab and Hebrew mutiny
that circumcision should be a rite of passage
not something to simply: SIMPLY inherit at birth
but something you EARN
like a cockring and an ice rink and a wedding ring
and drunk marijuana high known
intellect: pro bono: i rule the useful horses!
i am the... so unearthed in an Egyptian shepherd
and the chess are alive with zombie music
of the elevator or telephone waiting in line...
the grey zombie without love
or fear of god reality
because you can live a life without love or a ******
partner:
but only with a fear of god and a thirst for knowledge
and a mild tempered wisdom fission: fusion...

i came into this world as a diamond of coincidences
and God the Myriad
with Chernobyll April
father Ares
mother... Pisces:
aligned months
Mother February
Father April
Son May
                             March of the Witches...
                      conceived in September... allign the Hexes!
allign the Hexe!                              no need to
add English pluralism to the original Greek:
Hex (singular) Hexe (plural):
tranS-genderiSm...

                   but poem cna be like painting (a)
a painting...
if you forget it for a bit
blank out
before the canvas
with too many thoughts

i know that i think

        that's truer than cogito ergo sum...
thinking doesn't translate into being:
since so many zombies around...

scio id cogito.... wow! even i feel like trembling
like when jon fosse i think i i think think i think i think think i think
b

yes i'm thinking of retiring but not
being a taxi driver
read philosophy early
marry like Muhammad a nice older woman
hear your mother in law nagging
like Hercules mythology because
you are marrying your mother
age wise realistically weird
rainbow ******* talk of Puerto Ricans
life is all rainbows
like Edie's mom doesn't sound like Louise Low-IS:
dyslexia from Family Goy... voy voy...
i'm a ******* RECEPTICON

         the hammer made the smithy
and the algorithm and AI made the cyborg or the android?
because ape or human i ain't!

weren't the Slavic people who pushed
Judaism to the limit:
should we say he was:
and if he wasn't i'll walk through the Holocaust:
let us make Marx give us
Christianity as Utopia and not the Man:
treat Christianity as Either Man or the Utopia of Man
what do you seek in Christ?
a Christ-World?
or the Man? the Individual?!
what do you need him for?
            you want his vision?
clearly man's ontology does not allign with what
Nature prescribed...
man can't escape man only
tame himself...
           the passive aggresive harmony nature allows
we deploy false sentiments for
having just grieved a lost faculty
of world-adaptability: concerns:

      weather and clothing...
           i wonder whether that lie was so bad
you will know good from evil:
why did i have to tell you that?
because you were born unable to tell
truth from lie:
so i had to introduce that quadratic thinking
of linear patterns
i needed to allign you to the cyclone
of Jupiter's headache at having only one eye:
Jupiter wants to be blind:
he's envious of Neptune's blind dog Pluto...
i had to tell that one lie under instruction
to keep you motivated by a tongue that hears
and ears that speak and eyes
all those harvests of eyeless souls...
              i see the lion's lineage and i see my own
beard and i see:
                               an s growing into an S
and then slithering across E
and across X like the diadem of the trinity
an hour a minute a second...
too practical a solution
to be so personal
well if i can oppose said parameters...
Anti-imbued to reiterate
like old mysterious thinking of Europe
now Africa... that new home of the religion
since Christianity left Europeans
atheistic and secular and lost
it's not high time for Africa to receive that medicinal
wisdom of a ******
born of a ******
not having sedated a woman to
just what exactly are we talking about?
this is the epitome of mankind based upon
two or three ******* sayings?
double ding ding ******* dodo ding ding
second round but i don't think
islam will solve this )either_)
so ******* Russian much pepper

i know that i think: because to measure:
dementia prognosis: gnosis
going fishing my old friends: who are dead:
as a memory:
a trajectory otherwise associated
with:
meditating in the cold, needing to ***... getting a hard-on
for a dead **** star: Ava Lauren
Aria Giovanni
Ilona Osadchuck Edie Valitski:

        like that's why **** is not so bad:
if you still have your *******! xenomorph laughter...
and Peter Griffin...

rite of passage: when you get married:
unlucky for me
i have two serpents circling that part
i'd love to get rid off
knowing i'd have regular ***
with one woman...
and it would be Edie
and all the unmarried and uncircumcised men
would have to walk around with rings
and the married men
would walk around circumcised and no jewels...
and that could possibly be my one world:

circumcised men
were the married men
and wouldn't wear any rings
i hate the metals on skin
first a wooden sword
then something else
like a tongue for conversation...
but a wedded truly intellectual man
would be with a woman
by being circumcised and not
having a wedding ring on his finger
of fingers...
       the rite of passage:
don't take that away from them
when they are born:
let them the freedom to *******
the world away before they settle
and find their beloved
their suckle... i can't i wish but this is
what i prescribe...

and that's what you are: cheap Arab:
one book library strong:
same Mongol Muscle:
retreat please:
from the Laboratory of Europe...
please *******
you're contimatating it with your
Inscest and Bad Poetry Schemes
your faith doesn't bother me
nor the blind...
so go with it!
but you are contaminating the laboratory
of pristine ideas
motivational ideas
sorry... shoot them...
the hybrids of cousin ******* incepticons are
closing in!
RECEPTICONS vs. the INCEPTICONS...
cousing ******* passions?
will never look
at the next ****** ***** every bad
again! more like
a wise woman of Afghanistan!

sometimes i find or too many thoughts overhwhelm
me and i find myself the dog
chasing its own tail
or like me looking for my beak
but instead
finding
a nose
and cross-eyed diving into water
and becoming a very bad reminder of fish
and if cross eyed
there are parasitical worms symbiotic
though
not edible ones
living on our eyes
so need for carrots
and onions and vitamin A...

cared about Ukraine as much as Czechoslovakia:
Czechia it's almost like
people somewhere someplace
far far away like Delhi and Prague
great double-think just the cowards
politico i think maybe
i am i am somewhat a bit of what i also think
now anything is possible
and coinciding with anything and everything: possibly:
potential and possibly all...

these weren't....
just ordinary Mongols...
KUZI! MUI!
HI(GH)!
SENG SHEE!

             the bed is such frivolity
but then nth adventure starts
there's a daughter
and anti-christ to begiun with
Beijing be-guine...
    
             him-she: 海 so imagine
the Heb rew text trying to me superior
to... that...
fair enough with hieroglyphs... but....
imagine Hebrew competing with Kanji...
and the Japanese

    カイ
KAI
       かい

             Chomsky:
semantics
phonemics...
i wonder if Aristotle will do....
given the two turtles drifting Japan apart
the Hira and Naga
Shimo and Sanaka...
            
you... want... to test me robotics
style... please...
let's begin...

oh sure, they have their: preservation of the d.n.a. arguments...they have the chimps, and the zoos... me? what am i after? the ultiamte sleep, namely death... i just want sleeeeeeeeep... **** the dreaming bits... i alway found the act of dreaming to be exhausting when it came to drawing blanks... mortality is exhausting; at least in terms of "immortality" i can take a massive blank-slate yawn... and forget both man and chimp... i always think of an epitaph in terms: what's the last song i'll be listening to when i drop dead? grand comfort.*

and to think,
that so much
goes
into writing
so little,
and that only
the least
of all possibilities
ever
conjured,
makes-up
  a novel
that serves
a 100 years...
  as i was i testing
the idea...
   fire-eyed...
"crying"...
          when
in fact trying
to testify
some other
  worth to also
claim origins
without
a clue regarding
tattoos...
      that might
direct me
by a compass
bias...
    
to me it's still
the year 1997,
when diana died...
  the crime?
economic migration...
father and mother
in handcuffs...

the home-office,
and me punching
the wall...
        if
the greek hated
moral relativism...
then the modern
us
should abhor
historical relativism...
islam loves
historical relativism...

oh **** me,
sure as ****,
             islam loves
historical relativism
in the same way that
ancient greeks
      hated
moral relativism.

come on! come on! stop grandpa tickling me... i too used a v.c.r! and i too remember television static, like watching into the eye of beelzebub, looking out... with that huge *** like a black girl who was really good at running short distances... can you even lodge that memory into your head? remember the *** on those televisions? they weren't exactly kenyan or ethiopian long distance runners.

the year *pearl jam's yield
                     album was released,
    and also the year that
      metallica's reload album
was released...
     the difference in which
i prefer?
       well, i listened to pearl jam's
on c.d.,
          and metallica's... **** me...
on cassette;
           i'm starting to realise, that yes,
there is life on mars...
             i'm starting to think i'm martian
having lived through the closure
of the 20th century, and now,
odd... 21st century, present;
  i should be at 70,
writing of such oddities, and my own
self-serving bewilderment...
           but ****! i'm only in my thirties!

if only with a sense of irony, if that word is
even remotely meaningful anymore -
what you, what is irony?
I was supposed to be writing this an our
early, far far away, in lil Charlie's kingdom
come, or whenever that old hag will
thrown in the towel and hip,
just itching, itchy winking spider starting
spinning a mandala on my rechthand...
fingers begging for the dough
or the copper strings und...
english-german
    english-polish-german...
polish-english-german
          polish-german...
my axis of the beyond,
russian would too be handy,
had not the orthodox Athenians
dug tunnels behind the Roman empire
and moved straight from Greek
to Cyrillic... alas... rigid Latin rubric,
german grammar engineering,
and a slavic hot head for drink,
     plus the Anglican lisp behind
a thespian: Y-tongue serpentine...
                     siamese kiss...
                                   on the 19th April,
jests... a bothersome headache...
the Warsaw ghetto uprising...
   never mind, upon return to Israel,
like and p.t.s.d. baptism, scolded and shunned,
apparently not rubber enough,
not eventually reaching the palms
and date trees of Tel Aviv...
      don't worry... grey Sarajevo was around
the corner, around the corner the deflated
Ottoman...
         to tell the truth: what I inherited
is, perhaps but a ditto, making me nothing
more than a Ditto Eddie...
                    like grating root veg for a clear
soup, instead, floating, murky floodgates
open...
           what are these names,
these mental tattoos supposed to do
to me? at least in England the are but two
dates summarising the 20th century,
11:11:11 (Armistice) and 1966...
                    and that's about the summary
of England, as given by pedagogy...
   only when watching Deutchland '83...
    beauty in the west is achieved by
creating an en masse consent of apathy...
which isn't exactly verbatim...
                    somehow quasi immersed,
a return of an "exiled" 8 year old...
westerplatte isn't exactly the story
  of thermopylae... but give it enough
time and there too will come a window
of necessary myth-making, id est:
exaggeration...
            i am i am a psyche-mongrel...
which transcends whatever the other
mongrel is...
            but the transcendental menu
changes...
   on a side, in philosophy:
in the phenomenological vernicular,
is a nation a phenomenon,
or a Kantian res per se, id est: noumenon?
apparently both...
        the Mongols became a phenomenon
of the golden horde, subsequently
some polished glass fatamorgana
                                      north of Gobi...
flatter than a Parisian pancake...
        a dry horse meat blood drinking boom,
Baghdad gambling houses
               were skulls were thrown with
painted one to sixes, blindly from a bag...
and whenever Islam thinks it stopped
the horde, and didn't assimilate them
into Crimea where Mongol became Tatar...
they'll cite the battle of ain jalut...
    and mamluk becomes synonym with
janissary, meaning,
probably one of those children from that
infamous Stephen of Cloyes expedition...
which I hardly think was a noble cause...
that ******* slave handler of orphans
I can add, to the wheel of Fortune of Dante's
inferno!
              a year from now on whatever
day or month, it will be 75 years from
the next kamikaze expedition...
        sure,  applause,
but on a lesser note...
in a tiny town like this,
come to think of it,
    i'm only 2nd generation urban...
my grandmother was born in the country
(or rather on the Front)
my great-grwndmother (who I still remember)
was born there...
     and you see these remnants,
after all, Ukraine the bread basin of Europe...
after all Poland und der Größer Pyr
    (Posen)...
                     ******* mental grafitti
everywhere, beg to differ if you think you're
walking on eggshells, relics,
      sacred ground, schloß...
    or Hegel's the philosophy of right...
seriously GDR had a problem with Shakespeare
over Marx?
    I have a problem with Marxism being
at once the Liverpool Project co. Engels
and as much, a critique of Hegel's lecture
notes...
I can feel England breathing on my neck,
the relentless misery beyond
the south east, the nibbling, nibbling,
scuttling vividness of the last east end rat
making it to Romford, as spotted
at the bus stop...
   ****... if the rats are leaving London
and moving further afield into Essex County,
what the hell does that tell ya' about Cockneys?
yesterday spring, today:
            these feral lands...
                if you want a sample of Ukraine,
head to the West Warsaw train station ***
bus station... even the signs are written in
Ukrainian...
        but alas, no Polish-Lithuanian romantic
heading to Donetsk...
because how far back does history become
revival,  when nostalgia becomes
less thought + sigh...
        and more... well, the ******* caliph
of Baghdad and the hidden gem miles
from Tripoli?
                            and should you know,
I think Assad is going on the Haj...
just shy off a slap-head, given the shaved
moustache...
                       at what point can we cut off
a the criminality of past events?
well, apparently inheritence is taxable
on two fronts... material goods,
and psst hush hush events of our ancestry...
but history as a criminal act not
perpetrated by future examples of
"said" peoples? mind boggling...
            looks like ol' Jack of Whitechapel,
the ghoul, is more in favour
than your everyday German...
                                       ah, no ancestry,
no inheritance... tax...
                 hence the romance with ol' Jack...
unless you compare that to
the reality of the mechanisation
of serial murders,  their frequency etc etc.,
but history as a crime,
               a little tapeworm spawn lying
dormant in some distant body...
keen whisper says to me...
what if anorexic women were to ingest
a tapeworm...
   how would a tapeworm react to
a body that didn't want to eat?
secrete some hallucinogenic?
after all, the idea is not far from the medieval
ages, and how leeches were used
to drain, bad blood (schlechtblut)...
      for all i know tapeworms are not
feral parasites, not worms in dog insestines...
they're clinal parasites,
like bacteria in yoghurts are clinical...
all it takes is one brave soul
suffering from anorexia to ingest a tapeworm
spawn...
                 evidently a hit and miss,
a parasite will know if the host body
is worth attaching itself to the small insestine wall,
after which, its evolutionary mechanism
will kick in... and the host will be "forced"
to eat...
              and that comes from a cul de sac
idea from a schizophrenic friend of mine...
   he had the delusion of being a tapeworm host...
but... he didn't exactly know what a tapeworm
could be used for... should Europe
return to the Dark Ages barbarism,
and using leeches...
                hey... it wasn't called west,
before it was called wild...
         at least a tapeworm has a mouth
at the head rather than a mouth
in its bellybutton...
                    oddly enough cancer,
that botanical translation with roots
in mistletoe has no known mouth...
pseudo fungus...
                              yes yes, let's play
normies... the antibiotics are just about
to run out... no wild ideas are going to save,
the niche markets of ailments, akin to
anorexia.

.shouldn't we revise, "some" things? united states of america, the soviet union... well... currenty? the russian federation... back in "the day" when h'america had their cultural export kingpin upper-hand... what's apparently, "now"? we (in europe) see such a disgruntled and a divided "union": we never managed to spot the differences between states, we only managed to see a unified states union, music, cartoons, movies, etc., that was once, but now? these "unified" states, under a heavy federal critique? i'm seeing less of a 50 / 1 and more 1 / 50 scenario... "united states of h'america"... russia reiterated the soviet union, doesn't h'america need to revise its "state of the union": u.s.a. my ***... the h'american federation... once upon a time h'american cultural export would never avow to reside in showing off their weakness... now? i can see all the weaknesses... weird, isn't it? how did the cultural export from h'america simply, end? when i started seeing h'america as maine, california, kentucky, iowa, florida... united my ***... given the current criticism of federal powers... united states of h'america my ***... the russian federation... the h'american federation... A.F., A.F., there's so much in a name... hell... sport fans all you want... U.S.A.! U.S.A.! just as weird as the olympic federation of britain... G.B. at the olympics, but... the english football team, the scottish football team, the welsh, the northern irish football team... united we stand at the olympics, divided we stand as football associations... over here in Europe we used to understand a united h'america... these days? there's no united h'america... there's only a federal h'america... at least if there were more localities akin to quebec (french), or california (spanish), of speaking different languages... wisconsin being german-speaking ("vierte ***** / zweite kolonie")... chicago being the global ******-capital of the world... not back in the 1990s early 00s... did the h'american cultural export look so bad... can't exactly hide behind a ******* Costco, can you?

harsh, isn't it, given the numbers, and your selfie...
i.e.: you're not that much interesting,
here comes Generic Joe and Clone Clive...
so much for the pout and the smug
beach-suntan crazy shot...
like that famous socialists...
who defined socialism as if it was worth
sitting on the floor on a train...
yeah mate! that'll work!
you the right honourable social elitist of them all!
cos the west is begging for socialism,
sorry, 1 billion Chinese got it right,
you wanted a **** Pope to smile
and kiss the tarmac...
i told you, you got it:
efficiency is first, the looks come later...
but no, no, nah nah ah ha...
****** pay for it, now that you're "down with the kids",
your kids are collective rapists, i.e. pirates...
hence breeding karaoke culture...
because the Japanese attacked a military base....
you attacked a civilian area, you suddenly became
saints... 9/11... oh right, the hamburger rule
known as diplomatic immunity,
they filmed them half skinny... but as the media says it..
1 American is equal to 3 Chinese,
and that's not even in a factory, i mean
1 American is equal to 3 Chinese on a commercial flight...
well it was a joke... it was funny for a bit...
but then i thought about the kids i'd never have...
and i thought about people needing to revise their little
"invasions of privacy",
i started thinking up a scare tactic...
that's better than thinking up alternatives of
reusable pronto, i mean fear is better than gravity in
making people grounded, peasant 2.0 (tough point owe,
Kentucky chuckled chicken brigade, and as far as
Florida, to get a grasp of the Caribbean for
a Cuban falafel delight) -
better scare them than ennoble them...
keep them grounded, flies honing a spiderweb type of
attitude...
that's 1 fat grotesque American seated
and 3 or 4 Chinese skeletons not asking for a
stewardess, but for a diet gymnast for the 4th of July
celebration gobbling bulges to a fat tsunami overflow...
but then again, it's probably just propaganda,
Cold War Two... that Russians are alcoholics
(oddly enough, being thirsty isn't a sin)...
and that Americans have fat where tendons ought to be.

oh poopee p'ooh...
   please don't
distract me from
what could
never be your fancy
of worth
interests that
   i find more to
be my taste, esp.
  in terms of sunday
mornings
  and a smashed t.v.
and a radio
that hasn't been
turned on...
    it's hard to feel
jealous when there's
this thing called
  mob-rule...
   or at least that
one aspect that can
turn itself into
    a fickle prescence
    that desires protests...
funny...
  some people deserve
graves...
  others, statues...
i wonder which party
has an r.i.p. acronym
engraved above their name...
as so many are laid
to rest,
   the few are being
kept awake and constantly
agitated to give answers...
   ah...
   communism makes
even more sense
in a graveyard than
  when being applied to
resurrecting nations
    like those waiting nations
akin to syria...
     the collective hush...
  the forest of marbles
and of other less precious
stones...
       then again...
           animate the dead
by cremating them
and into the fire, rather
than the earth, and hey presto!
1 billion blue indians!

i could very well be a halfwit *** -
all white: piglet pink / orange of Essex -
by starking contrast -
but i do spend $60.00 on a book
by someone called Heidegger:
oddly enough: i rattled
the mid-life crisis early...
obviously it's hardly a splash-out on
something quite comforting like a yacht:
but still, bricks come cheaper
than books:
         you ain't gonna
bother     so i might as well ****, oh sorry,
rap my way through the sedimentary
otherwise clowned as the rudimentary
blasé.
       i really do solve sudokus drunk:
a higher preference than beating a woman
or starting an argument,
like                            today,
a white *** ****** arguing about beer:
drunk like a skunk, happy to-fro
black ***** saying: if i had my mobile out
the police would be here in a minute:
black lives really do, matter.
          she say shye man's drunk:
****-smear on his trousers, maybe this is
how you mourn someone dying: getting ******* -
but obviously with citizens on patrol over
'ere, that doesn't matter.
           she defends the cashier kid, the drunk whitey
gets the Gertrude Stein treatment:
otherwise known as
      the cold shoulder -
                                 i don't know what to make
of the whole debacle -
not even with a poem or painting will you make
a squiggly-clean citizen that'll do small-talk with
you and rein in a sunrise worthy of a *******
postcard...
              i was promised £8 by a Tesco cashier
for a book i've written, what did i
   get? diddly-squat.
          so back to square 1, drink one night,
don't drink another night -
and back to: just because you're woollen and
middle-classed and squeaky clean doesn't
mean you're interesting, actually:
you sanity is so ******* boring i'd rather eat
with pigs, and drink myself dead-serious comatose
with a bunch of other assorted hogs.
truth is so ****** obvious, no wonder it's painful.
so i decided to spark 3 chances of beer after
seeing the debate with the Sri Lankans -
with temperatures nearly freezing after wholesome miles
undergone: i sat in a darkened world war i memorial,
then walked through
  a leafy part of a would-be graveyard -
                 and almost everything felt eerie -
like i was son of sam writing from prison -
                  a self-guide manual or something.
then writing this i became agitated by some s o r t
of c o m p u t e r: v i r u s -
                     y o u, t h i n k  i would be operatic
paranoid having invoked such scenes of the night
with one or two Essex foxes foraging household waste?
     it's a variation of the typical Trojan in f e c
        t i o n:
            i.e. to make human langu     a g e
                      keyboard: rather than alphabetical -
the prin ciple is the same: why not
a e i o u b c d f g h j k l m n p q r s t v w x y z
(mathematics last)?
           i could very well be a paranoiac -
but in a Salvador Dali linguo -
            b u t    l e                       t's
face it: this is fresh, this is new, and we are naive
in our use and development of it -
               we have thrown so much of ourselves out
into the world that the world will not necessarily
throw our self back into us:
mind you, some of us are protesting at our
job losses versus the Chinese -
          we want those jobs back: we ain't getting them
back!
                well hello! what's your name?
feminism.                    hello feminism! what do you do?
we are the people behind solely software ergonomics -
all our hardware antics have been exported to
Ching Chang Wu: or Yin in Yiddish,
                                 and Yang in Walla Walla.
it ain't coming back - replica wall versus
Mexico? (Juan         Yoddle ****     Jack and yack
                 happening and         Xavier?
     exercise and ha ha ha? same ****, different cover.)
slamdunk that **** like it was Deep Purple
when in fact it was Blackmore's Night -
hey! me too! i used to work a nightclub so i could
buy a mandolin and do the Rockefella round the clock
jingle to boot too:
                         got harassed by some gay guy while
cleaning the
         toilets where people ****** into  
emptied beer bottles, rather than into the actual toilets -
so yeah: big up the latex rainbow parade!
   any gimps needing their midnight walkies?

i love  
that i can
walk with
a glass
of whiskey
like a broken chandelier
and scream: pickled
green chilies from
turkey!
yum... the whole
sour & spice...
of a kebab
ate without having
written about teen love
lied about to just sell toilet paper.

i've stopped counting
the number of googlewhacks...
i can muster....

just another:

900.1k words millionth: 900.1k words millionth: 900.1k words millionth: 900.1k words millionth: 900.1k words millionth: 900.1k words millionth....

https://www.google.com/search?safe=active&client=firefox-b-d&ei=heQXXuHQOoHixgOBwqDgDQ&q=900.1k+words+millionth&oq=900.1k+words+millionth&gsl=psy-ab.3...7644.10875..11577...0.0..0.220.1722.0j11j1......0­....1..gws-wiz.......33i160j33i21.hQIZvTmJMTM&ved=0ahUKEwihpSVgfjmAhUBsXEKHQEhCNwQ4dUDCAo&uact=5

i find the 2nd generation migrants to
be the most racist
they may well treat a 1st generation
child with equal measure to
an adult, they'll be olive skinned
and act like far right white mate
of a ship when all the rats sung
in dive unison: find the next shore!
they 'ave a motto: british, born and bread...
they also think that social criticism
needs censoring but suicidal vests don't....
what would you rather have, harmless
social criticism or an insurgent suicide vest
in the depth of shooing i.r.a. (shaira)?
i guess neither.
but the bright smug of 2nd generation
migrants tried to defeat a 1st generation migrant,
i still write whole english sentences for my father,
he only writes pen tapped against the neck of me
getting anger out of poems...
2nd generation migrants are the filth i need to wash
off my skin... they think all 1st generations
are readied for only hammer and the manual skill...
high and mighty dwarfs... lawyers and terrible
doctors... the 2nd generation are... dwarf filth
the 2nd generation are... unable to speak a mother tongue...
dwarf filth! get this maggoty and sweaty ***** sack
out of my face... get it out of my face!*

i dare say... i understood orthodox dissection,
everything was automaton inanimate,
cardiologist heard the constant heartbeat,
the neurologist the constant electric current,
dissection like that makes sense,
automation of a thing to a near inanimate
consistency of animate makes us clever enough
to study it...
but this psychological dissection?
suddenly Oedipus turned into Ego,
and both complex:
one ******* his mother, the other simply thinking,
but upon dissection, so many non-existent
limbs created... subconscious and unconscious etc....
it's dissection as you go along, cut open the arm
hinduism's deity arms spawn into a threefold ratio...
psychology dissected but at the same time created...
and how can you dissect a creative process that
is a multiple that keeps on adding?
if you started dissecting and only kept adding,
how will the ego ever manoeuvre a thinking kidney,
a thinking liver... all these organs, defined by thinking
as governable by thinking only provide pathology:
liver (alcoholism), kidney (dialysis) -
the collective unconscious of pathogens;
i don't understand why psychology decided to
make incisions into animate thing, when an inanimate
thing under sedation carefully laboured by a medical
butcher took to cut and scalpel opening...
when such incisions only showed constant change...
it's hard to replace the ego with oedipus and allow
both a similitude of thinking, leaving the former
with no analogy and the latter with too much analogy
to only create false analogues?

#triangle-bottomleft {
      width: 0;
      height: 0;
      border-bottom: 100px solid black;
      border-right: 100px solid transparent;
    }

i sort of lied when i said that i don't dream:
but it was a white lie -
i do... but with the frequency of a solar eclipse...
that's why i prefer saying: i just sleep...
but sometimes... i wake up: but on the snooze
button for, say... about an hour...
and i fall into a gentler sleep: nothing too deep
where the body rests... blink a few times to catch
some sunlight and then hope...
just one more hour... maybe i'll conjure something
up...

           i was lucky today...
that code above? it's for a right angle triangle...
i remember this dream from... ages ago...
i was on a *****: ergo... it must have been a right-angle
triangle... right at the bottom...
and i dreamt that i was running backwards and
forwards on this *****...
while... sheep-like creatures were rolling down
the *****... followed by demonic-like creatures
chasing after them with scythes...
chopping their heads off... but...
i had the duty of saving these sheep-like creatures
from a fate mush worse... a fate worse
than getting your head chopped off?
behind me: nothing... an abyss... non-existence
or... as the Biblical translation puts it:
you get to meet God... you are not coming back...
into anything, even remotely resembling
either a heaven or a hell...
   and since nothing: the word itself... is categorised
as... a pronoun... nothing once said:
ehyeh asher ehyeh... so... any more "pronoun" debates
on the plural market of they?
hell... i already absorbed some of this propaganda...
if i had a twitter (****-er) account: in my bio
i would write a royal spoof: preferred pronouns...
one, we...                 there... sorted...
the royal route...

                      people really have degenerated English
grammar very quickly... i'm not even native to
this language and i have more respect for it
than the natives... and... whatever the **** they're
doing with it: it being disgusting...

if you don't respect your language... well...
who the hell is going to take you seriously: in other matters?

but i was truly lucky today... for that one hour
i... i ******* managed to conjure up a dream...
well... when i say: i... it wasn't really me...
        i was sent a postcard from a "celestial power"
that said: well... you're not going to be the sleepwalker
Joseph... but here's a taste of that sort of power...

i found myself sitting on my couch... watching...
the Indian Wells men's final...
Nadal vs. Fritz... i already watched the women's
final Sakkari vs. Świątek -
so i'm supposedly watching the men's final...
because: like hell if i'm going to stay up till 4am
to watch that...
   i look around to my left... moths?
first i checked the meaning of dreaming of moths...
no... wait... it wasn't night-time...
i could see clearly... after all... the men's final
was in the high Californian afternoon...
i wasn't dreaming of sitting downstairs literally
watching the match...
it was daytime...               ah... butterflies...
i can't remember how many... but they were just
fluttering around a vase of flowers...
and some... weird looking cloud of...
    dried leaves... like a glib... was moving with them...
like a jellyfish... like a this like a that blah blah...
and i remember saying in the dream:
what ****'s this?! i have butterflies in my house
randomly fluttering in circles...

obviously since i said something i had
to follow it up by doing what i thought i'd never do...
this had to be an archetypical dream...
nothing truly personal but rather universal...
i.e. not particular... since... like the colour red...
the butterfly is a universal "thing"...
like a dog is... a dog is universal...
an Alsatian is a particular...
                        butterflies... so i looked it up...
wow... oh, cool... i get it... i did write about butterflies
i.e. the metaphorical sensation of falling in love...
yesterday with the sly **** having fire in my eyes
and fire on my face and cold-sweats all over my torso
before i gave "birth" to that abomination...
i get it... this ties in with... my attitude towards women...
i'm transformed beyond belief...
        
    how else would to interpret receiving a dream
of butterflies... dreams, i believe, don't work around
the Cartesian proposition: cogito ergo sum...
i think dreams work in reverse: sum ergo cogito...
i'm dreaming... i wake up... now i have to think about it...
Nietzsche made a footnote: but in the lucid waking
hours of his day... completely ******* wong...
sorry... wrong... perhaps some people are deluded
enough to think they're the architects of their dreams...
a delusion that extends into them having recurrent
dreams... duplications... they think they're the dream
conjurers... they're not... dreams are sent...
you're always on the receiving end... that's why you
get to interpret them: get a postscript angle on
the meaning... i was lucky with this archetypical dream...
there was clear enough symbolism to work with...

that being said: my attitude towards women...
at 35... meeting women of similar age is... rather a revelation
in itself... they have already made their beds...
they're either single mums...
well... Jeminah was... is...
she was probably impregnated by some older
guy in the financial realm of careers...
he pumped her and dumped her...
then she started growing old(er) and figured...
play the cougar card... she met her ex-boxing champ
through her son... her son was friends with
another kid in primary school... who had an older
brother... blah blah...
                beta-not-many-bucks-deluxe...
women: men are supposed to feel ashamed of
having parents... that's what i never understood...
i have to... forgo having my own parents...
so i can have a relationship with a woman
and thereby reject my parents... in order to embrace
her parents?! i need... ******* surrogates?!
well... it worked for my father...
since his parents rejected him and he was raised
by his grandmother and her second husband...
sure... it works perfectly for a man
if his parents are not in the picture...
if he was raised by his grandparents...
but the whole idea of... breaking away from your
father and mother... to be with a woman...
all the while as her gravity pulls you toward
her parents... this whole son-in-law *******:
very unbecoming to simply shun your own
origins... sure... perhaps my mentality is that
i'm being "clingy"... i wasn't raised by my father
from the age of 4 through to 8...
or by my mother from the age of 6 through to 8...

clearly there's a gap... but...
just giving up on an "alliance" like that...
in order to satisfy a woman's needs of HER being
clingy to her parents... a man's parents simply
fizzle out... well then... the woman can fizzle out...
if she's armed with all this ******* feminist propaganda:
i don't need no man... good...
it's not the 19th century... there's no Jack the Ripper
mentality out "there"...
            there's a shaming tactic in reverse...
men vs. men... what's generally termed: simping...
paying E-girls for bath-water... perhaps even a sample
of her glorious juice that's only really her ****...
strip-clubs... well... unless you were me in Athens...
with two strippers either side of me... snuggling...
giggling...
           touch touch... you're going to be spending
money anyhow... i don't want to spend money
on food... i want to spend money for an hour's worth
of intimacy... no dating game...
hell... if she gives you a line of ******* to boot:
not that it did anything for me... i prefer my cognac,
my bourbon, my ms. whiskers - all the right spirits...
and hey... *** olympics are good to go...

   recently i've picked up strange adverts...
erectile dysfunction *******... if i'm not in the mood...
i'm not in the mood... my phallus doesn't have
an inbuilt on/off switch... i have to prep myself
to perform in the bedroom... lucky me for not getting
it regularly... i stop drinking... i ******* without
******* a few days prior... i do concentrated
cardiovascular bicycling sessions... i try to relax...
and then i go in for the ***...
it's a bit like... the comfort of being married:
but sleeping in separate beds...
      
         obviously i can't **** shame any woman
if i'm celebrating my "campaign" with prostitutes...
"body count": that sort of died a long time ago...
i like well worn leather anyway...
mandible beauty... virgins seem tense... frigid...
ergo: i'm no Jack the Ripper... it's not the 19th century
where one starts killing prostitutes...
one celebrates them...
           why? well... if the remaining "available" women
are all single mums... or they have a bad credit score...
in shambles of debt raised by their ex-boxing-champs:
didn't she (Jeminah) mention that he went
to rehab in Thailand?
          **** me... i tried psychiatrists once...
or rather: they tried me... i was usually interviewed
by a professional and a budding student...
i was a case study most of the time...
          they couldn't figure me out... i was never subjected
to the confines of a mental institution...
they... i guess... just let me roam...
they let me loose upon society...
           and my my oh my... what a bunch of fun years
that has been...

but i did tell on psychiatrist...
  i'm reading Kant, Heidegger, Kierkegaard,
R. D. Laing... no... not all at once...
i'm getting my armour ready...
                there's absolutely no chance i'm going
to lose myself in fantasy literature...
i'm not going to be day-dreaming since:
i dream so little... i'm going to be attempting
to chase dreams...
               i was lucky today...
   hmm...           huh?          ha!
                     who would have thought...
                              of all creatures... butterflies...
i'm not even going to look up dreaming of an elephant...
better still... imagine dreaming up a mammoth;
anyway... this is already proving to be a bountiful day.

i know, punctuation can be a *****, esp. when standard punctuation isn't accounted for, it makes sense to provide certain punctuation marks kinship to stanzas: loose a penny, loose a crown.*

but the reward is always
a woman, and that's
degrading beyond my actions,
of a placebo claim for one
to be claimed rewarding
as least rewarding a claimed
end resolve. no women;
poker me, or tell me your name
is heath ledger; ha, ha; ha.

christianity acknowledges its prime lesson
only when laws of the land are in place
and effectively disposed of,
easily done when the culprit in prison
lazing about, easily done there
like john paul ii, to forgive once in the zoological
jurisprudence enclosure, easily done there,
but outside?
my prime culprit who harmed
sat with me during english class shoulder to shoulder,
who chanced a poetic expression
at the end of secondary schooling,
who i played a happy birthday on the guitar:
who’s mother i could have adored as my own,
who i would have waited for hours on end
till our meeting...
but alas that wasn’t to be...
the prime suspect inflicted me with a fake mental disorder...
one i was trying to be rid of over these past eight years,
the woman who craved so much love she encountered
in the poker discard that she only could enclose the one
given by first stripping the man’s caution of the ******,
to later ingest anti-pregnancy pills,
ask the man to buy an engagement ring...
and then stop taking the contraceptive pills
in order to feed the lie of the pills’ placebo...
the friend of childhood, the lawyer decided to
outstretch and become a judge...
of not noble origin he now stands in his profession
outside the bird cage hearing law...
with his own encounter now solidly expressed
by dodging bullets that might hit him but never do...
so is my ode through?
nah... i have an insolent crowd to deal with...
the mockers and magpies
like it was a yacht i had in my hand or a diamond...
******* and fast cars are not the only worthy reward...
the last time i’ll trust a woman
it’ll be my mother speaking her epithaph with assured death...
then i’m through...
but i hope to drink myself to death... like a true writer would care
to mind a legacy...
i don’t mind... i have “morally superior” stoners
franchise on the smoky ****...
they resolved the matter by calling all alcoholics
the stella artois crew...
throw in some metabolic facts and you tend to forget
alcohol is a calorie intake...
the homosexuals couldn’t take it...
even the homosexuals broke down...
all the trans-gender fancies gave the homosexuals legality
and a step into sanity...
it’s odd, years of stigmatised homosexuality
gone within years... acceptance speeches,
heretosexuals siding with the arguments of homosexuality:
trans-gender is too much, even for us!
baphomet rose up in his chariot with **** that
could not be milked unless pouring of celluloid
and gave birth to minature barbies and kens...
but what really breaks my heart is the sheer anonymity
in the mechanics of democracy...
voting in democracy is like *******...
in the x-booth... and then the quick exchange of power
lasting five years... it seems no one is responsible anymore...
quickly implemented and as quickly signed off
without a legislation of worth signature...
i had this dream last night...
i was making love to this ****** girl (someone has to,
as burroughs said: you in for sloppy seconds
or the starter of chaotic emotion when acknowledging
a sexuality of the otherwise hermaphrodite teen mind?),
then i started to paint with blood soaked phallus on a wall
and then started urinating blood on the wall of emerging graffiti...
in the other room people were shouting: but she’s only a child!
but she’s only a child!
then a girl and a boy entered the room i was in...
and from their hands placed in my hand
four necklaces... ****** mary medallions
that placed, in my head, were heavier than expected.
in reality i tried to use my phallus as a scalpel on first attempt...
so why mutilate the girl if the ****** curtain can be cut?
such are the times that it has never felt more
ridiculous to allow women the freedom with the rich male hares
and the subsequent freedom of settling down
with some dumb schmuck ******* when the fun becomes tedious
and the biological clock echoes like the clock
in the croc's belly on peter pan island;
the last time i spotted a noble swan
i also spotted a drunk pigeon taking a **** on nelson’s head.

if hell is where you love - yet heaven where you are at peace: where, i ask - would you rather be?

why doesn't this word exist: SOLEMNOUS...
"borrowing" from solemnity...
"borrowing" from... ah... because there was
the man of sorrows, woes...
there is the sorrowful...

i dared to think there might
be a solemnous man...
then again it's much simpler:
since... i have become the solemn man...

what does, solemn mean?
formal and dignified...
categorized by
deep sincerity...

         -ly: added to solemn invokes:
with: deep sincerity...
hardly a case for a heart of a naive child:
by now, aged 37...
i have aged to actually appreciate
a sincerity of Christmas...

i shouldn't have to make this public...
but i will make it public anyway...

        i thank with all my heart
             for bringing Edie into my life...
i can't forgo thinking aloud
an arrangement with fate
very much akin to the Duke of Windsor
and that of Wallis Simpson...

perhaps i've been binging on watching
the Crown and feel immense sentiment
for the man...

regardless...
finally a love less and less like that of tumultus
youth of changing each other
or jumping through hoops...

no longer an empty Christmas
no longer stationed with duty to an immediate
family... that ship has long
sunk and what remains is three
people on a raft...

the rest of family being crushed by
both death and modernity
and the luxuries the latter afforded each
to dissolve through the death of the last
patriarch in the shadow
of Franklin - the great grandmother,
guard of the kindergarten
the delivery man of lemonade
using a horse and cart...

              i only hope and perhaps i might
even begin to usher in a practice of prayer:
for me to be united with Edie
and Reyla for next Christmas...
even apart: yet a quick telephone call
and i'm there...

and i'm there with a quick snap of the fingers
and a shake of the wallet for
a £700 ticket from London Heathrow
via Anchorage to Honolulu...
a lifetime apart, unknown to either of us
a me or a you or a we as i-to-i...

terrible affair, love... so freely available
so freely given, so unabashedly willing to loiter
to lessen the pains of distance...
yet only loiter on the surface, yet...

how dexterous these hands with this
heart like a sponge...
        how easily to give love to know one can:
also receive     like-for-like...

no longer bound to poetry
   no longer threatened by family or by youth
or by expectations of muddled forensics of
societal norms...
threateningly unabashed:
a threateningly friendly: by my will
            i cannot otherwise...
                          disguise...

even with the throng of badly burnt men
who spew red pill black pill white pill blue will
as if the Matrix could be the only analogy
to a philosophy and how men
and women relate...

operation sirloin steak:
an imminent attack from Norway
establishing a colony on the coast of Scotland
by way of decoy:
to begin major work on canal building
under the English channel...
or at least that's the immediate
reading of Edward VIII sympathising intrigue...

quiet openly: these days you can be working
in England with colleagues
who are sympathisers of Vlad Putin
who have come from Sudan
to re-educate almost everyone from the continent
in post-colonialism...

          so it's not everyone is going
to get of scoff free...
for all that modernity affords us,
                    it still can't give us sufficient evidence
that...
heaven is a place where we can love...
that love is not a torturous liberation
from the stifling affairs of keeping at peace...

i do not consent to a heaven by dictates of peace
and angelic boredom
   while fascinated by a child-god
fascinated in turn by geology, dinosaurs
and the planets...

               for that matter time...

in hell and in love i'd rather reside...
         and perhaps tortured by being bored by women...
i can't imagine anything greater
than... pretending to be bored by women.

hiccups!

(
   &
     trying to yawn!
                                            )

do you know how to **** yourself,
past the expression of muddle?
me too... i also have my doubts.
  hearing you *******
     20+ a day; someone has to be
the orangutan cousin,
           with islamic bait-watch
deficits of *******...
            20 ******* have to die alongside
these comments?
  worth it... with 1 islamic teen readied
on expressing disgust at them being
expressed,
and 100+ europeans not
agitated to state a defence...
   my my... what a lovely couple.

jeden osiem L's* jak zapomnieć,
hit, rmf.fm...
                 Sylvester in Poznań...
perfekt...
  absolut vanilla...
gosia...
shopping in Ikea...
matrix revolutions
soundtrack...
3 nights sleeping together,
she licks my face
and doesn't speak French
tender lips foreplay
prior to oral,
prior to engagement ring
of full on *******...
shame...
helping her move abodes..
vegan flatmate,
anorexic,
    seen fatter skeletons...
star rynnek...
    the saints at shábát...
the angels at yom kippur...
gniew Boga serca płoszy..
a miłość jego...
to brak rozumu...
'zumieć...
                dunno...
it was dark and we slept
in the same bed for two nights...
and when I expected a kiss
on the lips...
     she licked my face...
less ****** genitalia
and more... imagine what I did with
my tongue, other than speak...
mały figiel i o R...
   can we introduce the trill
on the arch... to mimic rattlesnakes?
no?
           perfekt, na podwórku...
miałem osiem lat,
gdy pierdolną we mnie wiatr...
   i co? cuga! hytrem łowi
czinka, czyli rybą Zinga... u,
pod B... suma!
- jebane stokrocie.

children the happy idiots, secondary children doubly idiotic thinking of love idealising via Darwinism, must be a toast... well surrender you and i, i'd too be ably nimble, but i got Mandela on my back quacking: you?! what the ****?! yeah, they said till the field and laugh and pretend. brain dead you *****, BRAIN... DEAD! they didn't hear you, they're english, try Celtic.. Brie anomaly of Normandy... nothing... what about egyptian? sha shoo shisha collar coo coo? hey... that works, lets give the flapping owl a cuneiform signature worth a sunset!*

love it,
slightly drunk,
got a bottle of whiskey ready,
cried listening to a horror film
soundtrack, got over 200 reads on a poem
of mine,
got hooked on a pope song
from the early millennials,
when i was a teen hammering leftover
refrigerators on the sly with a tourist
as a party was taking place,
and the un-lived the happily ever after
with the suicide of the Grimm brothers
for subsequent pressures that demanded
attentive dissatisfaction marginalised
into concrete paragraphs sentenced for a grade
for a furthering from schooled to schooling.

is social media the new form
of mirror?
see the profile picture for
answers;
it it it it it it it it...
      it didn't make pronouns
discriminatory...
but, then, i, guess...
  it it it it it it it it it it it...
and so on, and so forth,
or simply etc.

apparently...
   a good year
for making
  home-made wine
and crafting
a kalimotxo afternoon
3 years later:
the bees' knees
i tell ye...
   the bees'... knees.

punched myself
20 times...

  and not be honest?

that 1 slap in
the face was...

40 times as painful.

/                early lindsay ellis
videos?

             **** me...

that subtle... exposure of skin like it
                                 might be canvas?

do you paint with
your lips, or your phallus?
can't exactly posit slobbery of tongue
or an oyster...

   mind you:
   davie attenborough
never explained how
an oyster managed to
hoister a shell over itself...

or how a snail managed
a snail shell...

  borrowed link in the "mussing" chain of
"command"?

   **** the ape to human
narrative...
i'm more bewildered by
how...
              footballers
in qatar will drop like flies...
or so i hope...
because how can,
a...
        non-liver, non-kidney,
non-stomach,
yet somehow "brain",
acquire an "exoskeleton"
couch of a... the hell it
actually is... that's isn't
king saud...
           or: i-raq or rabbi
                                        arabia...

it's an oyster!
                      how does something,
without a "brain"
that's simultanoeusly both
brain, both liver, both everything else,
muster the capacity
for a "skeleton"... to enclose it?

  space exploration?!
how about, the fish in the sea,
in the oceans, in the:
         marred moon landing
imagination?
        
lindsay ellis' make-up tutorial
                     (if ever)...
bloom lips,
            like looking
at someone eating as rasberry...

who said men said anything
about **** movies?
  are that dumb to not allow ourselves
classical ****** of the static,
picture form of reference,
to then allow our imagination
go wild, deviant of a pornographic
movie?

     guess i've been dumb all along...
**** movies are idiotic "to begin with"...
and all those artists painted nudes
of women, while they ****** and
pretended
there was no ****** at hand?

**** might be made by men,
but it's primarily intended for women...
like a harem colony of
what a walrus might call: turf...

**** is the modern form of
the ultra *****, the castrato,
                    bait for the "beta" male...
it's what harems consist of,
bored women, nonetheless caged
within the confines of a harem,
attempting a bothersome escapism...
    
it's not that i'm even jealous...
*** = exercise...
                                 i'm looking
for much more than ****** motivation...
a tongue of a woman,
to be attached to the absence of
coherent "thought" in my mind...

but since there is no "competition"
to suspend such a thought:
   **** and pillage, hey **! hey **!
thus the seven daft dwarfs alongside
a hunchback shadow of a man.

and she came,
stabbed a man
with a bottle
in the eye
who swore
newton ******
into einstein's roundabout;
and i said the rabbi's secret
termed kabbalah;
of man a consonant
and woman vowel:
or something breathed into.