it’s not everyday you get to end a 7 year psychosis
when redecorating your room to it’s “original” crimson,
having had such a simple symptom as
brain cell membranes breaking and oozing blood out,
to be misdiagnosed as mentally insane,
and when in need of help from the haemorrhage
not driven to the hospital due to the lack of *******
of having proceeded with the deed but forgetting the onslaught of law
in favour of the hurt party... well...what can you do?
move on, as i’m trying, had it been naturally based
on genetic chronology / genealogy i would have suffered in vain...
but i’m brimming with a hate for islam, and there’s nothing
to do but calm the quasi-communist protestors
in the western lands... ******* calm down... you’ll get
your freedom of speech... once you stop trying to censor vocabulary...
there’s no point learning a language if it becomes
politicised and you tell me to block vowels or consonants
in a non-kabbalistic way (which i’ll come to):
so yeah, a 7 year psychosis over a needle in a haystack...
gives me the shivers...
the many times i thought about killing someone
and feeding the emotions with not doing the act...
so many times i was almost skeletally biased to churn the
marrow haemoglobin into tendon stressor action of taking
the knife and doing halal or kosher with someone...
many a times...as many a times i saw crucifixions in edinburgh
not knowing it was going to happen in syria,
and that night when a muslim tried to mug me
in brick lane breaking down in the street of revellers
kneeling in tears screaming a prayer with tears in my eyes
of only one word: allah.
so i started redecorating my room, crimson is back from
hospital white... my bookshelf is rearranged...
on the left on the top shelf fictional books i either read
or didn’t bother to read because of the movies...
to the right on the shelf psychiatric and philosophical books...
the next shelf is a poetry “corner,” well it elongates beyond the corner...
and it’s split by a dictionary with the right bit of the shelf filled
with english poetry and some literature that’s poetic, and french,
the dictionary is planted to segregate the poetry books,
to the left of the dictionary is a book of greek myths
(did you know all greek theology is derived from the new testament
and not from the testament of orpheus or hercules or Perseus?),
then a book on meditative kabblah... then polish books of poetry.
so i rearranged the room, but i also lodged
an essayist’s book on melancholia, a book on depression
a book on an intro. to jung and a book on
schizophrenia lodged between these massive collections:
to the left all the art books... to the right all the books concerning chemistry...
so the books in between can’t really be seen.
as of today i woke with a p.s. from dreams, or a p.s. in dreams,
i woke and imagined myself talking to my mother
about the identity of al-dajjal... the false messiah,
within the conscious realm i just said the words out of the window:
fool you fool me, when mecca / medina become west of paris / london,
i’ll accept riyadh to be east of tehran / new delhi...
then we'll marginalise plateau east with copernican east
via the stars, and wander aimlessly trying to copper-fill
the sun at sunset...
he (muhammad) said the man would be of his nation,
and he said so with a warning...
but ibn saud got away weighing in at 160kg, diabetic and a brawler
with the stomach, the decadent of all that choose either sugary decadence
or some other form of mental instability in the chosen trade of stolen organs.
me? i keep my sanity with the tetragrammaton, cipher this:
this numerology *******, and it is ******* will not do...
enter platonic forms:
y is so so much more than just 25...
what will you see through y with the number 25?
what? nothing, dry brute that i am...
Y represent 3 dimensional space...
the first h is not important given the second h... which is deja vu,
which is less than what malachi insisted with the fractioned god of
the fractioned “elijah” reincarnated...
deja vu can be explained with science as one of the brain’s tricks
to sense this familiarity of seeing an elephant and acknowledging
the five blind men touching it up for comparative jokes,
the W... well... at least it’s not M... given that the trigonometric cosine continuum
begins at 1.... god is one... ring a bell? well better that than
beginning with the trigonometric sine continuum, which begins with 0...
forget numerology... numbers and letters aren’t related...
forget the dogmatism of rabbis - it makes no sense to say a = 1, b = 2 etc.
and then take a word like ape, and say: ‘ah, a = 1, p = 16 and e = 5; by god!
that’s a kabbalistic synonymity of the word... pea!’
where’s the jolly green giant when you need him, eh?
just look at what a phonetic symbol represents...
like secondary darwinism of a primate hissing to alert the presence
of a snake... past darwinism... past drawing antelopes
in french caves... in the realm of abstract phoneticism that
gave us the cognitive genesis... and made as... dare i say... a bit myopic
in a solipsistic sense.
p.s. ah... what are the newspapers saying?
slapstick humour is one of the prime causes of dementia? huh?!
yes, prime minister... is satire comedy?
how the hell can yes, prime minister be categorised as satire
if it uses canned laughter?
see that bloke over there... doing the omnivore pelican dance?
he joked so readily and active that he created authentic laughter...
don’t know where your satire is going... but it certainly left me gagging
for a springroll.
now now... absurdist comedy is too oxbridge for me...
kings and gentlemen get educated in either st. andrew’s or edinburgh...
we laugh at ourselves.
alt. to canned laughter, given that "canned laughter"
is reserved for the authentic laughter of the crowd
at a live show? what's the antonym of canned laughter
in televised satire? picky laughter... i.e. only one person
in an schoolroom of 30 gets the joke, apart from the comedian...
that lonely everest ha ha... ooh chills, frozen prawns in gravy.

after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
(i actually like this line, apologies for vain-thought).*

"68% of Canadians respondent said that minorities
should be doing more to fit into mainstream society
instead of keeping to their own customs and languages..."

53% of American dittoed likewise...*

              a failure of multiculturalism is a failure
because: it didn't celebrate bilingualism -
i call that the Gaelic effect in Scotland just so
you know it was spoken in over-shadowed Gaelic
within a Glaswegian dialect...

  multiculturalism failed because it was easier to
make a lot of people deemed as schizophrenic
rather than have the ability to be bilingual...
multiculturalism is a failure because it made bilingualism
taboo and instead said: ah... be bisexual!
multicultural societies actually gambled on bisexuality
being more needed than bilingualism,
and anyone still bilingual and not bisexual
was ripened to be harvested by psychiatrists.

but i do wonder what these post-colonial societies
would have made of what the natives might have asked
them...
              i think the natives of America would have liked
the immigrants to appropriate at least some of their
cultural traits... and no keep them in natural reserves like
some talking monkeys...

it's not enough that i have to give up a part of my soul
that i then have to twang the tongue like a banjo
with all that Texan ma'am ******* like those Arabs
in Lebanese American Universities...
oh please, stop this *******,
   i'm puking with the French on the question:
if globalisation is to be arrived at, why is English
the language of choice in achieving it?
              it's not a minority language, that's for sure...
the most poker-laden expression? sure, it is...
but i thought that within a framework of globalisation
(as Napoleon said): if a man speaks two tongues
the first head of the hydra is cut, and two emerge,
hence            the ambiguity of god
      and the proud expression of lizards
and their spies (cats) and why the first letter of
the tetragrammaton is shaped as      Y....
          hence the ambiguity of god and his Machiavelli
in terms of whether there is a world beyond this
one, and whether that diabolical Machiavelli (in all
his despair) did so on purpose to show god the sifting
process...
                    yes, that face of the marine iguana:
smiles like a cat,
              sitting proud on the rocky beach...
yet it has unfamiliar mammalian eyes instead of
those slit-eyes of noon akin to serpents and cats...
            and as Machiavelli said: first time round was great,
second time round: i just don't understand why your
first incentive is somehow better?
        they simply can't know if the first version
is better than their own...
         got to feed them the knowledge of nothing,
so at least they can better what they're been given...
as did Milton, make him less of the two evils...
   what with inhospitable earth and the dream of
colonising mars... or as the history of stars suggests:
stellar evolution sort of does away with Darwinism...
Darwinism is the one form of paper that you
wipe your *** with... it's not a napkin for your mouth:
that ****'s for your ***.
                 at the centre so too iron: as in haemoglobin.
     and we never say stars in a constellation of stars:
those are white dwarfs...
                 is our stellar nebula origin to be resurrected
for a moment into a planetary nebula and then into
stellar ivory of the dwarf?
     personally i think we'll end up being a black hole
unless our right / left politics will lead us into ending
as a neutron... which can only be seen with subatomic
particle goggles... of when Mars and its two moons
housed all thing stable, we are at the stage of the dying
star: hence all our Apocalyptic thinking and bring together...
   Mars experienced the average / massive stage of
a star's life... it's the only planet that shares our common
thread of being solid rather than gaseous...
                    Mercury is equivalent of being the sun's moon
and not a planet if Plato is a declassified planet...
         that's my suspicion concerning u.f.o. sighting and
governments showing us the output of NASA
and then lying that they have this "capacity"...
    old Martians... after all: there were only volcanos on
earth, and then the dinosaurs...
      ******* about with time gets you into these
custard clots of: huh?! i didn't invent the Darwinistic
concept of history worthy noting, Darwinism invented
itself, it's just that after being popularising
the humanities' aspect of the theory came once
the science was debunked... which always sounds like:
see next year, after they told you i'd be
       using a chicken leg fibula for a toothpick:
oh sure, let's get together the Friday after that,
by then i'll be scratching one twig against another twig
to get the fire going...
             after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
the point is: multiculturalism failed because
  it created a toxic environment for language...
it didn't respect bilingualism...
         it respected bisexuality: isn't that the talk of the town?
all your home-grown terrorists? they only speak
a few words of Arabic... they have been harvesting
the toxicity of a multiculturalism that didn't deem
two language in man to be acceptable...
        and no one cared for the trade benefits?!
how the **** did they miss that sort of plus?
         surely if you're going to trade with the Chinese
you'd send a merchant to China who spoke Mandarin,
and not Swahili, right? common sense.
   if the multiculturalism of England embraced my
bilingualism, i'd be selling English crap in Poland
and perhaps vice-versus... but they said: nope, nadda,
n'ah... you schizoid... da' ****?!
               oh right, so i'm a slot machine or earnings or
those ******* farmers of the urban wheatfield of
thought that psychiatrists are?
   am i talking Dutch or something? me integrating
not good enough? a multicultural system that doesn't
respect bilingualism... deserves what history gives it;
and by now... i'm at Drury Lane: fanning the flames.

Sometimes a jolt can stop you.
Like a phantom step that calls for you drive your heels to the ground,
Or a sentence in a book that yanks your gaze back to the beginning,
Heaving and lurching over.

Sometimes I stop,
To take in that I have stopped.
That it has been as few months that I could count on fingers,
The same that have scratched at my insides,
Heaving and lurching over.

Sometimes that same jolt can push you,
Like a static shock from a touch.
And that is why I do not claw, crave, beat or binge,
As I think of you most days, not out of love but as a warning.
For if the shock from your static unmoving self
Had not left me stung and stumbling,
Heaving and lurching,
I would not have ran forward.

*I have been cold inside and out.
I have been clawed and have grown talons in return.
And I was paler than my anaemic self,
Lacking in haemoglobin to burden with rasps of air,
Because my heart was weak and could not push blood to the surface.

But now that the colour has drained from my face,
I can blend into snow.
White, all but for red lipstick,
And apple in hand.
So I know when people have found me
They must have had to stop to look.

death does bind and make some of keeping
kind (that queens and  kings would like to
usher in like spare change when buying ivory)...
seem majestic...
    we alter what that reality
states... paupers' hands and
pauper's mouths...
        dare i feel sly or in need
for the armour of fear, at
a seeing a feeding ground?
is that: dare i? or must i?
     i nevffer heard of a greek
that ate-himself to invert
the metaphor of what poetics had to offer
in the first place...
          how dear the price...
and how dire the lion imitating a fox
on cold and wet outer-suburbia streets
of essex... should a machiavelli
  prance about, like some stańczyk,
for a need of a choir of woe...
and oh the sadness: how it echoes!
        in one grant on the crucifix:
for a sponge-soaked grasp of wine refused...
this be the deity?!
          you refuse wine on the cross -
is that a surrender of honour?
            when you're already on it, why should it
matter?
     so give me unto their religiosity,
but for god's sake leave me alone and have a drink,
what's so honest that it needs to be said?
  and what wasn't said in the last three decades of
of the 20th century?
               i bow, i quasi-dance and play the stańczyk
role, like someone about to embark on
the enfant terrible role...
           as an empty stomach would make you feel
to have a "need" to write something...
               i'm thinking cheese,
and parisian dough baked into a croissant...
and goo...
    the motto stands: the hungry man can think
of nothing but food...
             and if you're lucky enough
your temptations range into the dialect of
******...
                 i'm just thinking of king crimson
and the eton mess...
     and why you'd see fashion models drop in
2 seconds if they had my diet of *****,
given their champagne ingestion...
   i used to do bulimia... but it wasn't about laxatives...
two things down my throat: ugh!
that's the right concept, isn't it? like **** stars
talking about training their **** like any
other muscles for depicting the fetish?
    same as the oesophagus,
   you want to really do bulimia? *******
down your throat... it's like ****,
but something different at the same time...
    like ancient romans used to do it...
i bow... and hope some are eager to continue down
this vein of "thought", or how
                       θ   can equal        φ,
and the door finally opens, and chimeras as released.
i swear to the hebrew god:
  ******* down the throat, no laxatives,
it's what undid the citizens of Pompeii -
fake eating, simply fake the impulse to eat,
then eat.... and regurgitate it back up...
like this theory i had today:
could lactose be categorised as an alkaline sugar?
well... fructose and all the other sugars seem
to be acidic, since they rot teeth... i'm starting to
think the sugar in milk is alkaline...
           the sugar in yogurt is alkaline (naturally),
i don't know why but i'm starting to think
there is a pH spectrum of sugar,
       one side being acidic, and one side being alkaline...
i drink milk in the morning and think
about eating ice-cream (but never do)...
              lactose is categorised as a sugar,
so where's the kantian categorical imperative
on that?                 it has to originate
with a concept that sugar has to have
an acidic and an alkaline spectrum...
               what with lactose akin to haemoglobin
and the Fe+2 centre... then lactose must have
a Ca centre... calcium...
                   i don't have the time to write
the concrete Ca+2 or -2 or whatever it is that couples
this substance... it's an alkaline sugar,
it's not an acidic sugar... it's apparently the thing
that makes strong bones...
i drink it and think of eating ice-cream,
i sometimes had a breakfast of black coffee
a spoonful of sugar and a spoonful of melted butter.

sometimes i have nothing to write about,
my father & mother worry why i love loneliness
and spend all my time alone,
they have good concern to worry... insert snigger...
i down a bottle of whiskey,
stir and stirrup it with some coca cola with a blunt knife -
lick the knife - and remind myself of what blood tastes like.
it truly does it does it does... truly...
accidental stitches undone and blood oozing
are pretty much the same for the palette as a knife...
call it what you want the Fe in haemoglobin is on the knife,
maybe it's the negative on the knife that makes the positive
of iron in 2+ (electron usurper!) of it in haemoglobin so potent to match-up.

You may search for kin in the blood that binds,
The haemoglobin of heritage entwined.
Or you may wade your way
Through the rich and meek
To find those of whom you speak,
Those so oft' hidden in plain sight.

Trust not all that you can see
For disguised treachery
Can lie in the softest of smiles.
Devious plans of mental mockery
Executed with cunning and guile.

Look instead then to the conquests!
Not to those we won outright,
But to the ones that fall to unions
Under starlight, under night.

Perhaps even then we will find
With our silent siege of time
That the Kinship sails on blind.
When the mindful heart
Meets the heartless mind.

We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives
renouncing the living breathing beating heart
in exchange for another photo of craft ale
and home-cooked food with a foot note description
as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger.

We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information
waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine
and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams
rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness
instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine.

We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible
gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters
snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens
the spineless automatons of digitized free love
the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been.

We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power
we unite to save bees and coral reefs
and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian
all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour
and be one of the thousand voices saying:
NO. We won't take this any more!

We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs
imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid
the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes
chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks
and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light
glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations.

We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other.
A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams
You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be,
my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother
quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.

sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.

just when the provincials spoke the common tongue and ensured the urbanites were demasked, and all courtesy went out the window, and there were no actors left to fake an air of superiority and a stiffening of the upper lip... when the urbanites became baptised in a river of dung, mud and fear - and couldn't play our a theatrical adaptation of pseudo Oscar Wilde's: Airs and Superstitions... the champagne bottle-neck was chopped off in the countryside, not in the prosthetic urban environment... and god that bothered them... they could no longer fake being ultra-pro-xeno when in fact wholly anti - even having ethnically cleansed the Caribbeans to speak their own racist tongue didn't help much.

eye on the prize, there she sat, in the shop-window,
a beauty, a mandolin -
with my student loan un-amused i bought her
working three nights a week for a month
in a nightclub carrying empty glasses from
the dance floor and toilets -
got her in the end, my dear Antoinette mandolin;
all i ever wanted was to play the end
of Rod Steward's Maggie May to a girl
from a revised scene of Romeo & Juliet -
played it, her amused but she can no longer be seen,
unless crisscrossing South America in some weird
Paulo Coelho novel alt. - thinking a pharaoh would
be hiding cremated in a top hat along
with Alice's first impressions of wonderland -
years later i bought a Martins' & Son guitar
on debit, my ex-girlfriend's father ****** it up,
and gave my mandolin up for free -
the nightclub where i earned her? ***** near
the Edinbrugh train station - being almost cornered and *****
and serving my fellow compatriots of study made me
leave - not before i earned the mandolin -
the shop? *Scayles Music - they have no
jealousy on me these days, and i'd frankly give
writing up for my former health, i don't care
what readership i get - i'll keep at it - they can
submit their little Kafkaesque interrogations making
me into a fool - sure, they can, but we all serve
the higher lord above the knee-bending baron of god -
death claims us all - for the life i've had
i find it strangely appreciative to have a chance to
write it, and all the more thankful to live a cameo life,
because i hardly think it's proper to write
a book after having climbed Mt. Everest... it's just bad
etiquette (lack of tact) - the lesser life demands literate affairs -
the grander lifer demands portraits on horseback
and in the finest attire -
but what i accomplished thoroughly was buying
a mandolin, playing Rod Stewart's Maggie May outro,
and that's that... for the love of Scotland,
among the inbreeding locals of English suburbia -
proven by a low haemoglobin count of passion-fuelled
pigmentation, passions reduced to xenophobia rather
than xenophilia.

and why do you think
they shot the serial killer
in the back of the head?
you know, having experienced
a brain haemorrhage aged
21 i'd know... there's nothing
kafkaesque about it...
the slow bleeding out via a hole
in the cranium, you really
are a decapitated cockroach by
this point (living two weeks more
dying from starvation), but in
the serial killer's case also a little
bit fidgety...
oddly enough impairment of the brain
doesn't mean your heart stops
ticking... poor kurt cobain
with that shotgun wound of his...
i mean a stab to the heart is wildly anticipated,
but why would you shoot your brains
out, given that the ***** per se
is not an automaton pump, or a decipherer
of toxins (the liver)?
the brain is a puppeteer of bones.
it's the flow of the haemoglobin
that's kind, kind enough for you to be
conscious and decide your last thoughts
on the matter, auto-suggestive atheism
is what i call it... shoot the thing that's
functioning automatically - your
brain is a paradoxical dual carriage way,
it allows both science and mysticism
to reach the ultimate, reasonable parallel;
basically... don't mess with
the sponge soaking up the porridge;
asked politely, seneca slit his wrists
in a hot bath.