Sources of inspiration
Dead for years before me
Whispering into her ear
The wind is talking to your hair
Control the tempo like the jaw string
Scraping up against the wall
Bend the eardrums to the crypt
Cruise control on the wild people

I see the cycles
It's all inevitable
I see the cycles
It's on the wall
I see the cycles
All encompassing
I see the cycles
They'll be our pitfall our downfall

Glory moving like an anthill
Wall of wetness upon entry
Can't see out but for a second
Can't make way to the back wall
This transmission is corrupting
Stop the noise and eat the wolf
Chewing on your own teeth
Swallowing the lip ring

Cycling, cycling, cycling. Cycling
Cycling cycling cycling cycling
Cycling cycling cycling cycling
Cycling cycling cycling cycling
You think it's better than?

it's not like i was away from society,
sure, i crawled into my room and stockpiled on books,
the Tibetan Book of the Dead was never something
i was going to finish reading and find translatable
insights to compliment...
but there were plenty of books...
enough newspapers too... all the culture sections
written by critics: just today i was reading
up on two reviews in the culture section of
yesterday's the Sunday Times:
  poetry reviews! wow! wow! poetry is being
criticised in a mainstream media publication: still?
isn't poetry dead? last time i heard
TS Eliot killed poetry...
    well: if anything needs a killing -
i imagine trying to **** a dead person...
**** a dead person by mime?
**** a corpse by propping him in a chair...
talking to him, it, her,
pouring her, it, him a glass of whiskey...
dealing cards to them?
pretending the dead thing is somehow still
a body and all the mechanisation process of SIGMA
we dare to call soul or a seal of falling leaves or self?

horrors of the novel and all things
flashy and pop... i could if not for the autobiographical
drip drip drip...
   today i stood in the kitchen and imagined
myself: the demon cook of hell...
tomorrow i'll be making a Turkish dish
of finely cut beef... rosemary (oddly more complimentary
of beef than lamb), chillies, garlic,
sumac, pepper... cheese... white wine vinegar
to cure the meat...
                        black pepper... salt...
eaten with LAVASH...
                                          gorge of all gorges of
the thirst -
      but i will also be making two curries for the day
after tomorrow... to give myself more time for:
more time...

i went away from society: but didn't...
society tried to cement my ear into a lunatic asylum:
how i wished i made it among the madmen,
truly... how i wished i was at one point sectioned:
i tried my luck, i tried and tried but failed...
i never was... pop pill X white as nerves
and the bleaching of aluminium -
   pop pill Y... no result... the desired result...
the world span forward and still the same world
i returned to... although with quaked psyches
reaching out for hands instead of receiving
pointing fingers... exclude you: exclude i and you:
you-not-you i-not-i: or even:
i as "i" and you as "you"...
                    
in this kitchen: this, not this: any kitchen...
what was playing in the background? a spin on vampirism,
a blood-disease romance...
i thought about: if i wrote a YA novel about
vampires in the decadent period of the 1980s
with the height of the AIDS epidemic?
imagine: i "said" to myself...
    imagine vampires with AIDS... i started to imagine
vampires suffering from AIDS...
    not the sort of pristine vampires that needed
virgins or children to survive...
just a wild-thought: an unnecessary thought...
i'd be better off thinking of windmills...
    like that one coming up to Upminster from
Hornchurch...
               because this book, will never be written by
me... but a theme exists...
vampirism at the height of the AIDS pandemic...
vampires with AIDS...
             the homosexuality of vampires is yet
to be explored... seems these creatures might want
to exchange blood, spit and *****...
perhaps vampires would be immune to AIDS...
but then again: that's irrelevant since there's a cure
for ***: the virus that designated the past-"redemption"
state of AIDS...
or at least: this is what i "think" i "know":
point being - i don't care to know...
                              
the following rubric also came up...
on the topic of gravity...
swimming - ∇ (you find gravity in the top part
of your body... in the torso)...
the feet are slackers... they come in for the swim...
cycling - (again) ∇ nabla schematic...
your torso actually manages the coordination
of the body on the bicycle...
your feet do all the work... peddling...
but your upper body needs to coordinate
the centre point of gravity being: you're not falling...
you're not falling when either swimming
or cycling...
you're not falling when walking...
you're not falling when climbing, rock or tree...
∇... the legs are only there for the "ride"...

but? ice-skating... it should be the same!
it should be a ∇-schematic...
but is it?! is it?!
hardly some darkened mysterious, poetic O...
oh god... not another of those O O's...
like O is ****** or O is orbit
or O is eye or: whatever happened in Ur
and why not Oor for up-sigh-alone
   is not different to oh-mega-n: oh Meghan?
not a name in the tabloids... just
a coincidence, a little coincidence...

i can't be blamed for underachieving in the second
wave of literacy: basic example i can give:
frightoffreedom = "FRIGHTOFFREEDOM"
print(f"{frightoffreedom.lower()}")
who write so complicated but still performs
magic in 2D and can't translate 2D into 3D?
did every child start speaking said, any said
language to an unsaid capacity of a Buddha's
silence? gate-keepers some say,
a new literacy i say: i too could learn if
there was someone willing to teach...
but as the first pigs to the trough...
first learners come first and the rest "struggle"...
that's me sorting out the basics of ever used
EXCEL twice, properly...
HTML building blocks once...
sorting out my father's change of accountant:
three years prior to his retirement:
quick-books confuses everyday tax-payers
except for the intended audience of accountants...
but... how happy i was... filling out the rubrics
finding math fun without doing any math...
my new favourite expressions
are =SUM(D3:D34)
   that's for the total of money spent...
next column... =(D3*1.2)
   that's the rubric for the Netto (without VAT)
slide the mouse down from D3 through to D34...
next column the VAT (Brutto)..
    =(D3-E3)
             ergo... the VAT in cell F3... scroll down
to F34... then at F35 type in:
    =SUM(F3:24)...

                   modern poets are yet to have discovered
or used the internet or computers...
Poet-Luddite... conflated language:
i want to forget outside of the immediacy of having to
know an elephant is an elephant and
there are five blind men trying to tell apart
a chair from a table...
                 perhaps seeing each item represented
by a cubist painting would leave them
the same blind men if they were only given
a snippet of sight to tell a chair from table apart...

conkers left on windowsill and other locations
in the household allow you to spend the winter
months: freed from feeling spiders...
spiders apparently abhor the scent of oak seeds:
i've been huddling in my winter abode
freed from spider bites... in winter...
when spiders morph into mosquitos and draw
blood from mammalian flesh...

- i can't believe it though! it was so easy!
but... it had to take a lesbian to ask me out on a date!
it took me from the age of 21 through
to the age of teasing 37, done so casually...
hey: do you want to go ice-skating with me
after the shift is over? sure! why not!
today i paid for it... however many hours
i spent cycling, today i felt muscles i never thought
i had... but it took a lesbian to ask me on a date...
a coworker mingling scenario...
we worked the shift, we went ice-skating...
she filmed me trying my best not to fall over...
her laughter, or rather, her giggling reminded
me of Ilona... that masculine-feminine aura
of self-assurance...
i'm not attracted to these women:
they just seem to be attracted to me...
tattoos, piercings, bully-boy butch-Toms...
standing a proud 5ft4 eyeing up a 6ft2 example
trying to kick punch and kiss all at the same time...
well... it was so easy, so much fun...

it should follow that finding the centre of gravity
within the confines of ice skating
should be the same as that of finding the centre
of gravity while swimming or cycling...
i.e. ∇... that's the schematic...
upper-body: the torso is giving prime psychological
concerns... the legs are secondary...
but no... it's counter-intuitively: "intuitive"...
you can't exactly begin finding gravity while
either swimming or cycling by flapping your
arms about pretending to learn to fly:
but you do! you do!

            a drowning man is flapping his arms about
but his legs... his legs...
i'm starting to think i'm getting this theory all wrong...
swimming = cycling = ice skating = ∇...
i kept looking at my legs
pretending to walk while simultaneously trying to glide...

Δ schematic insinuates: don't look at your legs...
no one who walks upright looks down
asking the legs to do the walking...
one looks down to resemble a humbling
expression of grace: thank you: mechanisms of
what binds water to a tide and the mountain
to itch for rising above the setting sun...
thank you...
no one looks at one's legs insinuating:
you're not performing my unconscious demands
of moving from X to Y...
but on ice? ice skating...
it's a fake schematic... ice skating is truly like
swimming and cycling...
next time? my 3rd time on the ice? i will have to let go...
i will have to fall the nth number of times...
what's scary is generating a momentum
so easily without any obstacles of a hill
of grit of grind...
     it's a bit like: people exercising in the gym...
performance art... they can lift weights as a spectacle...
they can create a sexed-up physique, body-shape...
but throw the same people into a manual-labour
environment: with the drudgery of manual labour...
the bulkiest of them will stumble...
tell them to lift, perform "art work" on a roll of
      felt in the roofing industry...
lifting weights is an abstract compared to actual
physical labour...

still... aged 36 and the first "date": it wasn't a date...
was with a female who just so happened to be a lesbian...
what sort of heterosexual woman would go on
a date with me so simple... she asked to go ice-skating
i would have asked: want to go cycling with me?
want to go to an art gallery with me?
was there any talk about what job i have?
was there any talk about what living arrangements
i'm living "under": more like over given
the current climate of renting in London:
12 months upfront rent?!
             of course i still live with my parents...
i clean the house, i cook, i sort out my father's invoices...
i do the VAT for the accountant,
i tend to the garden...
                              i pay "rent"... well...
thankfully i didn't have hopes to get married...
so... my parents didn't have to fork out from their savings
for some grand fakery parade of ceremonial pomp
of ****** white: bride to be...
easier with the prostitutes in the brothel...
but i figured: if the the 8 year old me figured out
how to ******* before he could produce *****
he could also have an inkling into the current debacle
of men who *******: like that was ever a hindering
"problem": because women are all pristine
because they rarely talk about it:
cipher: Madame Bovary...

         two bad experiences having *** in one brothel
and i'm thinking about curing my ills seeking out
another brothel... but it's winter and my libido is
obviously not up to scratch...
so? three times daily... jerking off to the point
where i: i don't have to actually enjoy it...
no movies... just pictures... cleavage... ***...
eyes... mostly eyes...
                           bacon, butcher, bacon,
tenderising meat, curing meat with acids...
spices... herbs...
                 the more i do it the less i think of it...
worried about communal hot topics about loss
of testosterone?
                   i have hair on my chest
my stomach, my back and on my chin...
                  blah blah some parrot said...
seagulls dived in for a *******... the Kraken yawned...
Norse mythologies crept up on dying Christianity
and all was well... meadows covered by frost come
late January somewhere in the open green patches
of Edinburgh...

                - the labour and the pains of the crucified-foetus....
some say it's like waking into a world
where women perform the splinter-membrane
argument of what's living and what's not...
how ancient male mammals performed infanticide...
yet how chemistry and the abstract allowed
a new-mammalian-wave of female infanticide:
because: early birds in the dynamic of ***
made their first falls the fault in the opposite ***...
while some of us waited and waited and
by waiting became freed from ugly brides
and social expectation: Darwinism's pressures
to procreate...

i can't listen to both Darwinism and Buddhism
at the same time: i simply can't knife through
to the fork to subsequently spoon up and gulp down
this sort of duality...
like i can't stomach the dualism: if there is one
of consolidating the aesthetic with the ascetic...
i can't consolidate the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC!
Christianity did just that! Christianity
married the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC"

Brian Molko was already doing the current wannabe-trend of trans-sexuality long before trans-sexuality was a common "thing"... tracing back some ulterior taboo settings... today on my way to work i spotted my first trans-******: wow! obviously he had manly hands... large... he was tall... he had large feet... but slender legs... and a face, with all that necessary make-up of eyeliner... hair? not very long... shoulder length... yes... a deep voice... but then again my godmother has a husky voice from all the smoking and drinking... but i fancied him... the dynamic on the tube was magnifying... three women sat beside him while he was talking to his geeky (maybe, probably) boyfriend, a plump chap with eyeglasses... i couldn't stop thinking: ah... the solidarity of men... when in shortage of supply of women, men will find alternative avenues to compensate for women, men will find women in men... the idea that i might be a transphobe never occurred to me: but it did occur to me that women: for all their supposed glorification of acceptance would never allow men to be attracted to men who are: beyond merely the thespian gay-lord, *******... ally... this... "freak"... i fancied this man... i could omit all the stressed "imperfections"... but such a feminine-feline face... it really suited him... i wanted to kiss him... i was thinking... i'll tend to the "oysters" and all the tender bits and bites of being with him... andd do the butcher's work with a *******... problem solved... this skin-head middle-aged (i'm coming to middle age, or life expectancy, not the lottery of mortality, mind you) sat next to me and was sort of nudging me with a shadow missing in the full-glare of the lights of the tube... you fancy him? insinuations via body-language: yeah... i do... is it wrong? nope! check the women sitting next to him... do you fancy them? nope... me too... of the three or four women sitting next to this trans-****** specimen... none had a lovelier face... mutations just... "happen"... the eureka-oops moments... i could seriously forget about the shared dimensions of large hands twice as big as that of a geisha, same with the feet... i could forget the baritone voice... i really fancied this boy... in a way that gay-lords just make it difficult having mingled with actors too much and not retaining an aura of: suspense and: something in me is frigid, alien... i shouldn't but... hell... i really should! i will! benevolent London that is... he was prettier than all the women i saw that day... like my grandfather once said: there are no ugly women... there are only abandoned... if not abandoned then neglected women... to think that women could ever be neglected: says as much about neglected men... men will find alternative avenues to women when the women self-exfoliate in their "privilege" of: first-come-first-served-and-thus-the-only-served menu... **** that! but what was special about this trans-****** specimen? it reminded me of the time i fancied Brian Molko, still do... in a non-gay sort of way... in a Plato the Plumber there's a blocked toilet of reincarnation afloat... it was actually, sort-of, actually-sort-of-funny watching the women on the same carriage trying to read my reaction... for once a man was more attractive than a woman to me! wow! being accused of trans-phobia... in London? well... only if you can't pull it off! it's like saying: coulrophobia! fear of clowns! with the clowns being without make-up? conflating the Apex Twin gargoyle from Window-Licker?! yeah... scary ****! the grin that's the length of the equator... i couldn't be attracted to a standard homosexual... Thespian leeching or intellectually pleasing akin to a Douglas Murray... or body-building blah blah... but this trans-****** specimen? that's an affront to a woman... all women... a man can have a prettier face to a woman's if... a man deems the exampled woman to be nothing more than akin to a lineage of... never arrived at cosmopolitanism... beetroot countryside proud... all red and irritated... i fancied this one... i was one step away from askig him: can i have your number? again, to reiterate: i didn't mind the deep voice... i didn't mind the size of hands that could match mine or the size of feet that could match mine... i was... infatuated with the magic dust of PIXIES! maybe that's what i learned from going to the brothel... but if you're going to play the trans-****** game... can you please avoid the mishandling of the Hippocratic oath... so little is actually necessary to accomplish a ****-heterosexual confusion-attraction that leaves women feeling inadequate: you, wouldn't even want to begin to believe! i'm now currently thinking of that film: the Odd Couple... Walter Matthau as Oscar Madison and Jack Lemmon as Felix Unger... Felix being the male-feminine counterpart of the feminine-man slob child pampered to: or however this quadratic works... i wouldn't be doing the cleaning and the cooking out of a feminine dignity to avoid doing the hard work of society's demands... no... i'd be perfecting my cooking to match up to the sort of food available upon heading out to a restaurant, i.e. not eating out... i've seen some car-crashes of trans-****** attempts... but this one stuck out for me because i started to think along the lines of: who needs women if men can appear prettier than women?! i'll just close my eyes when hand meets hand... it's a sickly sweet sensation but i could stomach it: if the conversation was kept to a satisfying lubrication: and it wouldn't be even remotely associated to the feminist-gay "commonwealth"... alliance... i don't need homosexuals to tell me XY&Z... i'm actually grooving this trans-****** trend: if spotting the exacting specimen to curtail all the wannabes... if there's an authentic Brian Molko specimen walking around... wow! reimagining being *** starved on the Western Front... a few guys with more artistic inclinations... rather than the rough sea-faring roughage of **** on the spot job done become involved... prettier faces than those of women... i could: no! i would succumb! it's just the terror in the eyes and on the faces of women... hey presto! a stick has two ends! freeze eggs... follow a career... demand a car a mortgage blah blah... my my... what a curiosity this trans-****** worked up to a perfection specimen of disphoria awoke in me... good enough cushioning blanket of sleeping with enough prostitutes... now i really want to sleep with a man... which is not gay... i'm bored of prostitutes... they're like any other woman: you pay them... yet they still complain as if you haven't paid them when not getting a hard-on because of (x) tiredness, (**) distraction, (***) life... per se... whatever... but those female faces... i pretended to be snoozing... they knew i knew... i kept an itch of a blink at this specimen... woman: ANGRY... no... actually... not angry... woman... what the **** is going on? of the times i went to a gay club and didn't pick up a Francis Bacon i wondered: did i drink enough? homosexual lust and all that same-for-same feminine-pro erotica of the jealous stone-rub-stone-offensive... the trans-****** "confusion" is a bright light... if done properly... done... naturally... i'm mesmerised... without... obviously... without... people succumbing to the breaking of the Hippocratic-oath... obviously... i despise the gay-pride movement... at least the authentic trans-sexuality movement is subtle... it's philosophically laden with a curiosity of more lips and less **** stressing fist-*******... this morphing of the pareidolia toward: seeing a female in a man's face... or seeing a man in a woman's face... hardly gender dysphoria... *****-utopia and... just as children look alike, regardless of ***... so do old people... also regardless of ***... but to achieve a heterosexual attraction in the realm of trans-genderism? it can't be forced... it has to happen ha-ha-naturally! i'm laughing at myself... only briefly... i'm more inclined to see the female in a man without seeing the homosexual... because homosexuality is like that quote from... no... not Human Traffic... about being gay and eating *****... how... eating ***** is not for real men... while ******* **** is all All Spice Alles Mensch... whatever... the gays are too proud might as well look out for the shy, proper, proper shy... trans-sexuals without any anti-Hippocratic-Oath mishandling(s)... the women become jittery thus...

i should have come home and reflected on spending
the past several hours on a shift
in Bishop's Park, overlooking Putney Bridge
watching the tide of Thames' recede back into the great
mouth before mingling with the salty waters
of the North Sea...
     all loved-up with the cold the dark and the wind
putting on some Woljiech Kilar soundtrack music
from Dracula - love remembered...
well... i was in the mood for something like that:
i put the track on... nope... can't feel it...
i'm tired, i'm cold i need to put on something to groove
to... we ain't going out like that - Cypress Hill...
tiredness swells the imitation pigeon-strut
in my head... bouncy-Billy will also ask for a chance
to express himself...
    the joke ran with Martin's team (Chelsea)
losing for the first time since 2006 to Fulham...
         the police officers were in a good number...
they even brought their horses...
two stood across from us when the final whistle was
blown... one of them started "laughing": if that's
what horses do, i.e. laugh...
no onomatopoeia here: hey Martin! even the horses
are laughing that Fulham beat Chelsea in the most
local derby of London...
    Craven Cottage is what? a mile at max two from
Stamford Bridge...
          one can only love the ever infuriated Martin...
but still the Thames receding...
   at first glace i might have stretched across
the balustrade and probably touched the surface of
the water... by the end of the shift when the river-bed
started to be exposed i started to wonder:
all that volume and now apparent air where once
there was water...
  no river in the world akin to the Thames...
tide in and tide out... at Westminster it's a river
that rid itself of the kettle and is nonetheless standstill
and boiling - during the day...
while eating a chicken wrap of torsos and tortillas
talking to a Norwegian who came over to watch
the football for the week...
last time he was here in the 1980s... have things changed?
the oyster one-touch travel card...
sure... it has just become a little bit more expensive:
but nothing has changed that much...
but during the night, and if its windy... well: clearly
there's a flow... a tide in or a tide out...
by the time i got to Goodmayes i walked past the brothel:
thank god i have nothing more to prove
thank god i have satiated my base needs and that's that...
what am i looking for? a compliment to a pharma-knock-out
of generic painkillers in the form of a bottle
of whiskey...
    too tired to **** not tired enough to think:
maybe i could fall in love again...
   fall in love... fall in love: but... ugh...
               fall in love and not pamper a woman's needs
with all those basic "tattoos" of courtship...
i might as well ask any future father-in-law:
so... where's my cow, my wedding dowry?
                     where's the pick-me-up to work with?
well if manna from heaven will not drop into my lap...
i hardly think... who the hell needs a car in London?
given the oncoming ULEZ restrictions?
bicycle, underground and the trains, plenty of buses...

today i was sent the most odd message from a coworker
who i am supposed to do a shift at the ice rink
on Sunday...
i was rather surprised - a "box" i never thought i would
unbox (as it were)...
i'll be honest... she's damaged - seriously damaged:
i'm on the "top" of the pile of damaged goods...
a mythological schizoid - ageing - each year turns
out easier as the madness spreads around me:
madness or the crushing mundaneness -
mundaneness or mediocrity -
    in a democracy it's all and the same: in the grey yolk
of bureaucracy -
         pushing letters through keyholes that leave
no door open: unless playing the "system" like
a criminal or a mummy with five different shades
of children from five different fathers...

                       the trouble with Russian girls is that...
they don't like a boy who appreciates music by Placebo...
huge disagreement... her take on Nancy Boy was
rigid and could never be biding: no appreciation of the music
for you... well... that be that...

this girl is hurt... i am hurt: everyone's hurt...
but i still find reasons to find silly happiness in cooking
cleaning, general groundwork labour of changing
the garden - some carpentry: cycling...
keeping up appearances of a well-kept diet
and perfumery of all sorts... at least dressing like
my idol Karl Lagerfeld... like an animal wears its fur...

she even changed her name to Frankie -
Frankie... i.e. is that Franklin, Frank?
no... it's actually Francesca...
the running joke with another girl i work with
runs along the line:
wouldn't that be something, to put on your CV
if you managed to convert her?
convert? or reconvert?
after all she has managed to produce offspring...
god knows why she's not in contact with her daughter...
but it's not like she was always a lesbian...
forced lesbian... it's not something a priori:
it's a posteriori...
after the facts that include: her biological father
beating her biological mum...
her biological mum abandoning her and her siblings
to escape with her dear life...
    how her step-father is like her biological father
but then the problem arises: the mother is unhinged
and now her step-father is facing splitting up with her
mother... of all the siblings she's the only one
keeping contact with her mother...
the other siblings, at least one... is ******* up to
her biological father who was: the greatest intersexual
boxer of the domestic environment to have ever lived
(in her eyes at least, i bet Tina Turner could compensate
such allowances of vanity)...

she used to be a man's woman once...
but now she switched... ******* without all
the Hippocratic misdeeds of the modern, current, narrative,
cutting off ******* and other genitals,
hormonal treatments... it's almost as if Joseph Mengele
died in body but his spirit lived on...
it's like a never-ending Auschwitz or at least
encryptions of mad-scientists for thirst of knowledge
have continued on a side-note of eugenics...
but at least with the closure of the 20th century
there was safe ******* experiments undertaken
by individuals without any authority of government:
the boys would grow their hair long and put
on eyeliner...
    perhaps even use girly perfumes or wear
dresses, nail-polish... hell... even sniff ******* or wear
them... but not with medical authority creating
irreversible ****** changes...
the girls would put on more weight or work out
and pretend to be East Germany's Olympians...
cut their hair short... who came the Pixie girls...
get tattoos wear signets: those bulky rings worth not
a gram of gold but their own worth of bulk...
    and like Francesca get an undercut with a Mohawk...
change their tone of voice... defence defence defence...
and become suddenly less and less agreeable...
still retaining a feminine smile and the odd feminine giggle
that could be unearthed...
or like with her text...
'hey... i want to go ice-skating after our shift...
do you think you'd be up for it?'
sure... although i only ice-skated twice in my life...
a long time ago, 13? i fell every single time...
i looked like someone who escaped from having
suffered from Polio...
i'll still look like someone who suffered from childhood
Polio akin to Israel Vibration's
Wiss", "Apple Gabriel", "Skelly"
      or Ian "Lane" Drury...
                                    instead i sent her a text replying:
sure... but i'll look like a spider equipped with
roller blades... i'll need to bring a casual set of trousers
just in case i fall and rip my work trousers...
'ha ha ha ha(insert crying with laughter emoticons)...'

oh sure... it's not a date... i'm not just going on a date...
we're not going for dinner...
i'm going ice-skating with a lesbian...
a butch-lesbian a hiding woman...
tattoos six-pack and muscle...
no wonder: only hours prior i was admiring
a would-be Brian Molko on the tube...
        
she followed up with a text of yet more defence:
but i'm skint - it will cost £10.50 for an hour
and a bit...
      we'll see i reply... as if she was implying:
if we can't get in for free... would you be willing
to pay?
i didn't reply with agreement to paying for...
then again: i'm not thinking about ***,
or homosexual conversion therapy...
i just don't remember when a girl last asked me to
go on a date with her... after all:
isn't a girl asking a boy to go ice skating with her
sort of asking a boy to go on a date?
she said she was quiet adapted to ice skating:
she owns a pair (of ice skates)... and i'll be the hilarious
polio walker / spider strapped with roller blades
trying to swim in quicksand...
mind you... i'm trying to rid myself of the past two
interactions in the brothel... terrible ***...
that one with the madam where i was limp...
the fate of the Sabine men gripped me...
i won't deny it...
second time... she calls herself my favourite:
she isn't... she's deluded... to the amazement of the other
girls i like to **** in the brothel...
i only extended my per usual 30min stay
by clocking up an extra 30min because i was so close
to climaxing from a *******: knock knock on the door...
time's up... no... not this time...
i'm going to finish... ergo...
but even she has paved her way onto a path of too much
physical augmentation...
if the **** don't come first... then the duck quack lips
reveal themselves first... she's an aging *******
and she has never done anything in terms of work
prior... no laundry no till service...
pregnant aged 14 and in the profession aged 16...
this is the murk and the sully of the gallows
of everyone: once, former, youthful idealism of love...
trotting a horse with broken legs like
waking up into birth by a man sitting in akimbo
for too long... standing up with numbed legs...
moving awkwardly...

obviously i was going to be robbed of Khadra and Mona...
Mona became stupid for getting pregnant
with a customer... hmm... i wonder who...
last time i saw her i teased her without a ******
and this massive fright gripped her face
because i was only teasing and she thought i was
a premature ejaculator... clearly a ****** was subsequently
used and the deposit in it: **** knows...
she should know... i haven't seen her since...

i think i'll text Francesca (Frankie) and tell her...
bring your skates girl... if we can't get in for free i'll
pay for the two of us...
only two shifts prior she was insinuating about
going for a pint: i just replied: i would...
but i had to help my father write the fortnightly
invoice and send it in...
like tomorrow... tomorrow i'll have to help my mother
with the taxes and VAT...
they're getting a new accountant and she lied
about doing her taxes on a spreadsheet...
**** me... i probably used Microsoft Excel twice...
twice, properly... but since i only used it twice...
i'm a bit rusty... so much worth of secondary school
education or the university...
   they taught us the bare minimum of real-world
life-long tools of the onslaught of technology -
   hammer and scythe i can use to count heads...
oh well: there's bound to be some crash-course for dummies
on the internet...

i waited until 9pm for the three of us to sit down to
eat some fajitas...
i overdid it using Kashmiri chilly powder
and three fresh chillies in making the pineapple salsa...
but the hotness neutralised itself with the addition
of the tomato salsa i made... and the guacamole...
the sour cream and obviously cheese, esp. cheddar
neutralises all possible excess spices...
we ate, chatted... one big ******* family,
me, father and mother and my "brother" and "sister"...
well... at least the cats meow and don't bark...
oddly enough: i'm happy... mediocre sort of:
that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
were the protagonist - a corrupt police officer -
is forced into a nightmare of having to relive his
eternity in his childhood's bedroom...
living with his parents...
shouldn't the horror be... your parents getting divorced?
i don't know why mine are still together...
they must be freaks... i must be a mutant:
well... born only two weeks after Chernobyl:
no riddles, only clues...
     i keep the conversation going...
i help around the house...
  
                        Frankie dealt me two nuggets of hashish
in the past 4 months... once i was desperate
when the hashish ran out so she gave me the number
of a marijuana dealer: great green all the way from
America... i only used the service once...
maybe that's me being bulletproof...
i'm cutting down on drinking and i will never return
to smoking marijuana to achieve a Buddha-esque glow
meditating while high and hungry...
weighing in at 78kg... it's a bit of a yoyo with me these
days... from 99kg through to 103kg...
but then... i pinch myself: i summon the ***** to pinch
back... hmm! no man-****... so i could try out for
some amateur rugby matches...

a butch lesbian asking a boy for a date to go
ice skating... i feel... truly terrible for all the conventional women...
i would have offered a cinema date...
she beat me to the better sort of entertainment...
she said: let's go ice skating...
i would have retorted: i do own two bicycles...
how about we go cycling in the night...
round and round Raphael's Park...
round and round... and if we're lucky...
and if the winter air aligns itself with some idiot
setting off fireworks... we can get snippets of whiffs
of imitation autumn... as if the leaves of the trees
have fallen in the dry crisp air and someone
set them alight and there's no rot and knee-deep
digging of plush-decay exfoliating a sickness
in the air... how's that?

i'll send her the text... hell... i'll pay for her...
i'm not interested in ***...
she might be a butch-lesbian trying to hide her
femininity... but she still smiles like a woman...

oh sure... i remember the last conventional:
heterosexual date i was on...
we met in a sweaty night-club... if we kissed we kissed:
i don't remember... she gave me her phone-number
i gave her mine... i was in the company of
about 3 girls who i met elsewhere, otherwise:
also randomly...
at least one made something of her life...
she ****** off to Norway - totally off-the-grid...
by now probably breeding huskies for sleighs...

the next time we met... i bought two bottles of wine...
the "date"? a job interview... we talked...
subsequently we went to a pub while i had a pint...
she was feeling claustrophobic...
i was the alcoholic and she became the **** of boredom...
she excused herself: some prior engagement
with her girlfriends... i guess she thought she got away...
i way happy to get away by same mechanisation
of oppositional psychology...
all this talk within the confines of carpe diem that
centred upon: what do you / what's you living
should i think about life insurance - will we live to be 70
years old?
well... that's the cherry on top with Francesca...
you want to go ice-skating? sure...
you want to go cycling with me in the night?
sure... life insurance / what do you for a living?
how much do you earn?
             can we live a little outside a prison within a prison?!

so much for Dawid Bovie's idea of the androgynous man:
if i'm to be surrounded by "butch" lesbian
and prostitutes: that's my lot then...
i'm not going to succumb to the CV-project-veritas
in-vitro infanticide females with CHOICE
like... my spunking into a bucket and calling it:
falling asleep with the sound of rain
trickling trickling on a metallic roof...
in the night when the horrors come and horrors
claim all the little details of frailty
of mortality...

                  for every tear-jerking sympathy for
a Romeo there's the mantis of
   a Judith kissing the decapitated head of
                                                             Holofernes:
**** it... the prostitutes i truly loved ******* are either:
pregnant or on "holiday"...
i passed the brothel only two nights ago...
i spotted a man walking out from the door...
he froze like a doe in the headlights and didn't move
until i turned my head and kept walking...
i was about to blast out with wind and voice:
no shame in having to share women
we will never impregnate!
start thinking like a woman, dear man...
think on ground of evolutionary bias...
for every women there's this boast of:
50% of men reproduced successfully...
while all the whole lot of them the 100% of train-wrecks
and Piccadilly butcher's antics with the flab
have... their greatest success story to ever live...
i could be worse off... than right now...
i could have married an ugly woman:
by definition: if a most feminine man
grows his hair long and applies some slapstick
makeover creases of eyeliner...
i can forgive him his match-for-match size
of hands... height... size of shoe...
but never an ugly woman... UGLY...
that goes beyond mere the physical-glass...
i'm talking: character... there's no prime-ego
LEGO building block... no architect's corner stone...
there's nothing to work with...
just everything to work around...
to avoid...
                    
    if: for ****'s sake... i'm not planning: i'm providing
the revenue... i want to go ice-skating!
she doesn't have any money? i have "too much"...
i don't: but for the worth of life in life that's only
to supposed to span a month's worth of living it...
hell: i have no better idea to pass the time...

at one point i found out that Francesca has some Irish
roots... you're Aye-Reesh?!
              really? never would have conjured up
a sharing of ******* on a leprechaun...
**** it for good luck... like circumcision:
that's apparently Hebrew for: good luck...
with the addition of: ensuring your bride to be
be donning a niqab and all those "other"...
culturally sensitive, exclusive terms of
cultural-dis-appropriation: or whatever the **** is
coming out of H'America...
             once upon a time when that cultural export
was relevant: these days: nothing new to be
found... except the abandoned moon...

well... i sent the text... sure... i'll pay for the ice-skating...
but you have to promise me to go cycling
with me during the warmer months
with me... don't worry about having a bicycle...
you can have my mountain-bicycle
i use for the winter months
while i'll get on my summer month
road-bicycle...
we'll head toward Thurrock...
and elsewhere that's Essex friendly
and far away from London outer-suburbia...
fresh... fresh...
Jean Claude van Dame...
                       Fresh: that's her idea of working out
before the shift... and then going ice-skating...
FooR x Majestic x Dread MC...

                oh well... life in Loon-downs...
or is that: no apples... i'm sure there are no apples...
if she takes the bait...
i.e. i pay for both of us going ice-skating tomorrow...
she better go cycling with me during the
summer months...
she says no to ice-skating tomorrow
i'll become Trojan in my own defense...
if she wants to be all ******* lesbian defensive...
i can be defensive too...
i'll arm myself with enough brothel visits to erase:
first... comes... oh my grandmother disappointed
me... i could have been there for my
grandfather stabbing himself in the leg
while entering the state of AGONIA...

                    i could have been there: she? trying to protect
me against the advent of mortality?
or her... biting my grandfather's alcoholism she
induced by being a terrible woman?
his last pleasures?
crossword puzzles... cycling, fishing,
rekindling with the day-tripper postcard sender
vouch! you're the simulation tourist with
his... grand... chill... no... not -dren...
his... sole and only grand-child... i.e. me...
him buying me the books i read over the summer holidays...

women are so ape so cruel...
i stopped believing in what's idealistic and rare before
me: which i can't replicate...
i'm happy being freed from:
i don't earn the sort of money that the state
demands taxing me... weird? no!
i don't earn enough to be taxed!
weird... i'm sort of pretending to be a jellyfish
afloat... simulating gravity:
gravity is always a simulation in the medium
of water...
                by air contra vacuum:
the mountain breathes in winter a cascade of
frigid snow slides down...
a Michael Schumacher goes skiing...
****** races cars at 200kmh... one loose turn and twist:
cranium like an opening of a watermelon...
jellyfish fighting for life dead-locked style
in a sick-bed while people nearest to him
think about magic-spells: how best to live without
him: how best to milk the cow with *****
instead of milk... hmm hmm hmm...

if she wants to go on a date with me to go ice-skating...
and i'm supposed to be paying for it...
she better be readied to go cycling with me
during the summer months...
if that's not going to happen:
she shouldn't have suggested
going ice-skating in the first place, for ****'s sake...
like: anything by Bricktop in ****** is
Shakespeare to me... perhaps even more...
living with the times...

                                oh well some well: Samuel!
Samuel: you're not Samantha... learn to become
a transvestite first... before we employ the ****
Hippocrates to mutilate you, o.k. darling?
    learn to grow your hair long...
learn to put on make-up... learn to wear dresses...
learn to sniff female underwear...
Samuel! Samuel! you're not Samantha (yet)!
we will not give you up to the Joseph "Hip-replacing-******"
Mengele: shy away from everything American
in the realm of: worth being culturally exported
and influencing foreign cultures: esp.
in the basin of the origins of the English ZZZUNGE...
that's England...
                  
HIPS FOR KNEES!
                    America: beacon, former: beacon of the world
to come... came one Cain for every second cannibal
no Satan was spawned: at least that's Iranian paranoia
covered: converted, shut the doors on Tehran...
bigger whoops happened when...
Garry Glitter became pop once more
with the release of the Joker movie
and that mad dance scene...
on the 132 steps where Shakespeare Avenue
meets Anderson Avenue...

    i will never, ever... visit... anything... remotely...
resembling... or being curated as being:
North America... i've had too much north american
cultural anemia...
             prior to words not being so much politcal
as agent orange doing all the "talking"...
                                  
  tam tam tam dam dam dam... ditto... do no more than
the necessary "evil": just, bass: on the base
on insinuation;
hell... if the afro-cosmopolitan is the new "cool",
the new "groove"...
let's just keep it... marred: in murk: in murky.

.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!

yesterday's cycling session broke me, perhaps not so much
the cycling as having cycled to the former village of
Wennington: oh **** me... this is sad...
it's not like wild fires on the news in California or
in Spain or Greece... this is right on my doorstep -
well... i felt pity: not guilt... i don't own a car...
                      it's pointless owning a car in London...
the public transport network is just too good
and owning a car is too expensive...
        plus i can go anywhere on a bicycle... i can skip
traffic... i: don't have to pay insurance...
i don't have to pay road tax... i don't have to pay
for an m.o.t. and i don't have to worry about breaking
down... just flat tyres from time to time:
and the odd crash... touch wood...
i only had one... but it was all my fault... i was drunk
and lost control of the bicycle while trying to avoid
a pothole...
               but it was still a great experience... falling
over the handlebars must have looked something
of a Francis Bacon painting... smudges of movement...
a black eye... a massive wound on the forehead
and on the cheek... a skid bruise on the forearm
and a massive bruise on the right leg with a mount
of an incision: a garden of lavender and plus around
it of dead blood...
                          spectacular, absolutely spectacular:
crashing like that on a bicycle...
   at work there's this girl: Harini - the law student...
the one who kept on nagging me
about how there are too many white judges...
   too many white judges... in England? or was she talking
about barristers? either way... i tell her:
as long as a system of meritocracy is in place...
then what has race got to do with it?
   equity, right? the equality of opportunity not
the equality of outcome, no?
a variation of natural selection - the most naturally
gifted at X ought to do X...
anyway she once rode those electric scooters...
but fell off... and she never went back on riding it...
*****... literally... how do these people live any life
worth contentment?
          would i give up my passion for cycling
just because of one crash?
                                    fat chance... sure...
the first time after the crash i was shaky...
                                     shaky ******* Stevens...
at one point a pain came back to all the areas mentioned:
and a headache too...
then again... as the saying goes...
drunks have the GPS implants of birds...
        and they also fall like sacks of potatoes,
meaning: they hardly break anything...
two examples...
1) the GPS of drunks...
                 i unexpectedly booked a flight to Athens...
don't ask... i was having one of those psychotic episodes...
which is sort of like a panic attack
   but a psychotic attack is a panic attack
     in reverse... you crave adrenaline to suppress it...
and unlike a panic attack which is localised on the spot
and in the moment... a psychotic attacks takes you places
and can last for days as you build up more
and more adrenaline from doing something very
unfamiliar... i flew to Athens... i spent the night
crying in Hyde Park (what the **** am i doing?
i don't know what i am doing) - then went to Gatwick
Airport in the morning... took a shower in the airport
bought new clothes in fat-face and ****** off...
  arrived in Athens... found a ****** hostel in the worst
part of Athens: one Diogenes of Sinope after another...
(bums, homeless philosophers)...
opened that bottle of absinthe and sat down on
the street... i remember... with my left hand i covered
my eyes and with my right hand i was pointing
at something... and laughing my socks off...
magpie-type cackling... maybe it was the absinthe
or maybe i was seeing something:
proud Greek with their expensive-pension
economies... ha...
            ****... what year must it have been?
     i was supposed to be working on the Olympic village
for the 2012 Olympics.... i'm guessing 2010 or 2011...
just before the Greek financial crisis emerged on
the global scale of being known about...

second day? i go into this market square and sit in a cafe
and start chatting to strangers...
turns out i'm going to join them in going to a *******...
mind you: i'm still in psychotic mode...
this could go either way... bad for me... or bad for them...
if they're lying, that is...
            complete strangers... just met them...
hmm... when in Greece you never really know if you're
talking to someone who's Greek...
some are pale in complexion while others look like
Syrians, Arabs... then again: this was my first time in
Greece so i shouldn't have expected to know what
the average Greek looks like: complexion and all...

so we get into the car... just outside the Parliament
and we drive acres and acres out of the city centre...
it must have been at least 30 minutes...
i had drank some of my absinthe prior: left over from
the night... we enter the *******...
oh man... my first time... i've been to brothels before...
strip clubs... a strange aura...
                  completely different... more teasing...
drinks... yep... immediately a girl walks up to me
and places a green plastic circle next to my glass...
what's this? well: now i do know: "green light"...
   for a private dance / something more...
    at least i knew that i was broke... i was broke...
i had about £30 in my bank account (funny... now i have
an emergency £3000)
                   but i'm like: i'm sort of enjoying the
show that's already costing me £5 a drink...
but she sticks around, we start chatting...
   then another older stripper gets involved...
blah blah this blah blah that...
                 i catch the eye of a third: the look she gave?
i will remember for the rest of my life...
it was not a scornful look, nor angry...
i was already burying my face in the older strippers
chest with her giggling: two on my arms
and a third looking on...
                   one of the guys that came in me kept
nagging me for money for drinks:
i said i have none...
until it hit me... i reached point £0...
            my card was denied...
                               credit card? me? me and a credit card
only met once... once upon a time...
when i was a kid and had my bank account set up...
credit cards are so ******* annoying: at least
that's what i found...
         you pay for something...
  and then... wait for a month to get the bill...
sure... credit in the form of a mortgage i can understand...
it's just credit cards i don't understand...
i only work with debit...
      i spend what i have rather than have what
i shouldn't have spent money on...
so anyway... this bouncer escorts me to the nearest
cash machine...
    as i tell him: to get some cash out...
i get the ******* escort and all (i said that already,
i know) to a hotel... he ***** off to talk to the concierge
while i fiddle a bit at the cash machine...
then... i start ******* myself...
          ah... the sort of "sobering" ******...
i look where the bouncer is and... leg it...
literally speedy Gonzales it out of there... or did i just
sneak out? memory: fuzzy... perfect when it
comes to a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e truths like 2 + 2 and spelling
but memory from experience? fuzzy... fiddly...
anyway... first time in Athens... no map...
nothing... zilch... i don't know how i managed
to get back to the hostel with the already disgraceful
fact that i ****** myself...
     i was thinking: oh... ****... this bouncer is going
to bring me into an alley and beat the **** out of me:
wrong... working on a debit system means you
can't overstep the mark... i didn't own anyone
in the ******* any money: i was bad-money free...
but that's the point a drunk has a GPS like birds
have when migrating...
                    that's why i won't stop drinking...
it's too good for my brain... and the liver i can box
around with... but how the hell did i manage
to find my way back to the hostel when the car trip
was like 30 minutes long... we must have been doing
(on average) around 40 km/h that's 20km (circa)...
in the end i stayed one more night in Athens...
no... i didn't visit the Acropolis... i had it in plain sight...
i liked the fact that it remained on the hill
and i was down below: some things are best kept
forbidden... but i did manage to write some poetry
in the hostel...
    i then emailed my uncle and asked him for enough
money for a bus ticket... from Athens... via coach
to Katowice... through Macedonia, Serbia...
  Hungary... Czech Republic...
           and then to my grandparent's house...
where: finally the psychotic attack was soothed
by reading a book or two and talking with my grandfather...


2) drunks fall like sacks of potatoes...
my godmother had this anecdote... she was sitting
on the balcony of her flat... she heard
a whizz of air and a thump on the ground...
apparently one drunk was locked out of his house
by his wife... he tried to get in through the balcony
having climbed the roof and descending
from the 10th floor to the 7th... well: when there's
an "oops" like that... he fell... 7 floors...
what's that? 30 metres?
                he fell like a sack of potatoes...
like that Salman Rushdie opening where Satan
is falling head first and careless... while Gabriel
is falling trying to invent wings flapping and crazy...
probably feet first trying to be: SUPER-CAT...
catch a rhythm of the flapping hope to land on all 4s?
it gets me every time i replay that memory in my head...
the way she dropped the punch-line:
i like my godmother... i don't see her frequently /
not at all... but she's a heavy drinker too...
intelligence... it burdens the mind sometimes...
we need to slow down...
she's a doctor i'm a poo-et...
                        anyway... so she hears this whizz in the air
and a thumb... the ****** landed
   about 10cm from a metal pike... in some bushes...
7 ******* floors... he gets up and utters the words
'o kurva' (i.e. oh ****)... and walks off...
that's a bit like me and my cycling "accident"...
a guy got out of his car and ran up to me
bandaged my head while i was figuring out
why my hands were red (from touching my forehead):
two old women screaming...
i was asked if they should call the ambulance...
gladly they mistook my drunk-state for a state-of-shock...
i was like: no no.... but thank you...
i walked off... came home and took the best
medical advice available: self-prescribed (of course)
i.e. sleep...

i sometimes wonder why i'm not your stereotypical drunk...
i drink to hyper-focus on something...
i never get angry... well... i get angry at things:
because they're so ignoble... then again:
defining what a "thing" is hard when dealing
with a well-crafted table or a chair...
i don't actually know how to define "things"...
even "nothing" is a "thing"...
            the supposed "nothing" is a gateway to antimatter...
i suppose the closest "thing" to a THING
is what's an abstraction in the distance...
something you pass at speed that you: don't necessarily
ignore but don't take a concentrated account of:
you don't focus on it... ah! i know the best
example of what a "thing" is...
esp. in a gallery... looking at a painting hanging
on a wall... that's perfect... the wall is a THING...
because you're actually looking at a painting...
mind you... i appreciate all the classical paintings
of the Renaissance... but... you can't see any brush-strokes...
i like paintings where brush strokes are
visible: it's painting then: it's not geometry riddling...
painting by way of insinuating the idiosyncracy
of the hand by leaving several if not dozens of "accents"...
that's why i compared my cycling crash
to Francis Bacon's paintings...
                         well, sure: because the theme of the macabre
also helps... as did his ****-erotica...
and the drinking...
thank **** i'm not a loser drunk that needs
to drink to pronounce some averse trait of masculinity...

better for me being this loved up fool
with a GPS of birds migrating in my head
and a body that behaves like a sack of potatoes
when any harm should come to its bones...
i fall like a cube... a sack of potatoes...
anyway...
         can i imagine living a life that...
like this coworker suggested: oh no, no no...
one fall... i'm not getting back on the electric scooter...
*****...
          then again: cycling is my passion:
i hate runners... those arithmetic arthritis wonders
of the world: jelly-knees i call them:
if you're going to run! run on grass!
and mind you: if the "mob" should ever come for me...
they better not be driving cars...
cars make no sense in London...
too expensive...

                        now... the pivot... i have an 8am appointment
with my hairdresser tomorrow...
i needed to start drinking early so i could write
this and go to bed by 12am...
i'm coming to the ****** and i don't want
to come to the ******...
  the heat-wave is over... i can finally breathe...
ah... i think that's how you write...
or begin writing...
                all those very important people
and all their very important "autobiographies":
let's face it... ghost-written while still alive...
   i guess biographies make more sense...
i think fame, in the truest sense is a testimony
of post-mortem...
    i don't believe in fame in one's own lifetime...
i think fame is something akin to
what's most temporal: what can be passed on...
what employs being passed on for so long
that the name most associated with...
for example...

who invented Champagne? Dom Perignon...
ha ha... back in Poland we were taught
the French song:
frèe jacques:
        
frère Jacques
frère Jacques
dormez vous?
dormez vous?
sonnez les matines
sonnez les matines
ding ding ****
ding ding ****

                 it's a burning memory... like watching
Cartoon Network... when it was... good...
i don't believe in a fame of the living...
the dead are proper dealers in this concept...
fame... how people strive for fame...
whether through good or through ill done against
others... because fame doesn't escape
the muddling of good & evil...
the fame and the infamy...

i was broken yesterday... i know how much i ****
off women's football but i still ended up watching
England play... who did they play?
never mind... they won...
i was going to watch the Sweden vs. Belgium match...
but i thought... if i had a hairdresser appointment
at 8am tomorrow... i need to be asleep by 12am...
go get up at 7am and shower and blah blah...
then i have to go to the Turk to get my beard
and moustache trimmed...
but i'm still not watching football...
i'm watching Tom-Boys with long socks
and hair dangling pretend something...
sure... there's some green of a football pitch...
but i'm not watching the football...
weird... when i watch female athletics or female
tennis i'm watching athletics and tennis...
   for whatever my opinions i have:
i'll watch... what the hell...
at least it's more interesting than some ******
Hollywood movie based on a comic...
or an overtly existential meditation that came
too many years too late: since we covered the outpouring
of Bergman...

now...

    there's the thief... the burglar and the opportunist....
there's this Slavic motto:
znaleziony nie skradziony...
found not stolen...
i operate this maxim...
when it comes to money...
i have found a £20 banknote on the street one...
i have £10 banknotes once or twice...
i've found pounds... i've also found pennies...
would i be stupid enough to find such devaluating /
evaluating / re-evaluating "things"
(money, that's another "thing" in my gallery
of "things" that i can't place... justly...
Nietzsche was attempting to write
his magnum opus: the trans-valuation
of values before going south of cuckoos...
money is one "thing": am actual "thing" is another...
i find a £20 banknote? i'm keeping it...
found / lost ergo not stolen...
the principle of luck...
i could have spared the man the agony of
crafting ideas about a simple answer to his question
about trans-valuation... money! no ditto!)

i've been a thief before... i managed to steal a compact
disk record from a shop...
Queens of the Stone Age's song for the deaf...
i was sly... but this was different...
i was tired from cycling... i bought a bottle of whiskey
and a bottle of Lukozade... berry: ******* merry...
at the self-service outlet... ooh... what's this?
someone left the newest version of
either a Samsung or an Apple smartphone...
is it at 10.3 or whatever the hell it is at?
lucky me... i need a new phone...
so i grabbed it... it was just lying there...
packed my rucksack...

well... i didn't steal it! it was just lying there!
but i don't need a new smartphone...
i just don't want the one i own to **** up on me...
i honestly don't remember the last time i topped up...
i have £0.75 on my account and i'm still using it...
each peddling started to weigh down on me:
if it was money i wouldn't have cared...
if i found money: like i sometimes found money
i wouldn't give two fivers-worth-of-***** for
anyone who lost them: the idea behind money
is that it's transactional...
they taught us the wrong lessons in school,
e.g.: what would you do if you found a briefcase
of money on a street? was it bribery money?
was it ransom money? it's ******* money...
might as well be leaves of a tree come autumn...
money? i'm ******* keeping it..
no morals... no: no nien niet nie!

but here i am with this... £1000+ smartphone...
i ****** it... start cycling home....
i get this numbing headache without an ache...
i remember the time a former "fwend" of mine went to court over
a stolen phone...
how i helped him but he didn't help himself
therefore didn't help me...
what prompted me?
the phone started ringing...
  
who was calling? "mommy"...
hell... if it read "mom" i'd be like... *******... ******...
so much for your spontaneous lapse into
pretend Alzheimer's... imitation amnesia...
but the calling card: "mommy" got to me...
i actually don't want a new phone...
i don't actually need a new phone...
i just need the one i have to work...
mind you... money never talks:
money always listens...
i have no scrupules over money:
                      money lies on the streets all the time:
sure... most of the time they're pennies...
but sometimes... if you're humble to pick but one...
lottery-luck... you might find a pound...
or a tenner... or a twenty...
but... "mummy" is calling...
i was like: if it read: "mum"... i'd be like... lazy ***...
leaving his / her phone on the self-service station...
my gain... your loss...
"mummy"... "mommy" kept ringing...
i was already at the end of Oakland Avenue
trying to figure out how to turn off the phone
and get the SIM card out so i wouldn't be tracked...

i don't need this... however much i was tempted...
i was tempted...
but then the dawn of something akin to reason
came to the lightness of my mind...
better i return this find...
it's not gold...
and "mommy" is calling... so... it wasn't an idiot
that just left this £1000+ item in a supermarket...
as the sayings go:

myśl dobrze mów dobrze rób dobrze (a) będzie dobrze..
on Oaklands Avenue i had that "moment":
after seeing the person calling me on a found /
not a stolen phone... "mummy" is calling me...
if it simply read as "mum"... i'd be like:
well, too bad... Alzheimer prone:
spontaneous memory idiot...
this phone is mine...
          i didn't steal it: i just found it... but then something
kicked in... a headache without a headache...

I'M NOT GOING TO DO THE FOLLOWING
BECAUSE IT'S RIGHT... some absolute GOOD vs. EVIL...
i'm going to do this because i want to FEEL...
goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood...
like glue mixed up with goo...
because that's the focus of reality...
Abel's revenge...
on the vegetarian: moral-posturing Cain...

i can't put a kid through this... the parents will probably
grill... it turns out she was 7 years old...
her for losing her phone / a mini-computer
on a self-service counter in a supermarket...

i had second thoughts: i like second thoughts...
thought that read: not because it's RIGHT...
something selfish... animating the ancient strives...
i want to feel good...
like the mantra already stated:

myśl dobrze mów dobrze rób dobrze (a) będzie dobrze...
(think good speak good do good and
maybe all will turn out good)

as i was turning the lost property in... i already received
several phone-calls from "mommy" / "mummy"...
i think that stealing this phone would have felt
much more thrilling than simply finding it...

so me and this police-officer start talking...
found this phone... yeah... 10 minutes ago...
where is the phone / where is the "mummy"? she's on
her way...
           any details? so she can say thank you?
you think i got a thank you?
i received no thank you... oh: glory to the inhibited
nature of man concerning what's good in this world...
i didn't want to be thanked: thankfully i wasn't thanked...
i could have easily ****** off with the phone:
insurance probably paid for such circumstanes...

but this is why Cain slaughtered Abel...
people are naive... i'm thinkiing:
the gods were probably just as naive: if not more...
i think the gods were naive:
me? i just tested being exceptional...
but if it was money? oh: like ****...
no chance... money is money...
money is both stone, both tree,
both a heart-transplant...
i find money... i'm keeping it...
                i have no morality concerning money...
but when a...
what sort of parent... gives authority of ownership...
of something worth over £1000 to a prepubescent
girl?! and expects not to "forget" once in a while?
is that authority and worthiness building works?
you need, strangers, to ask themselves moral
questions!
          i didn't have to ask the said moral questions:
i could have profited outright from
this scenario!

        but i asked them: regardless!
because? i wanted to feel good rather than feel lucky:
lucky on the basis of "theft"...

it's highly uneconomic to mix fizzy drinks with whiskey
coming from a plastic bottle than coming from
a can...
better, better still?
leave the already opened bottle of pepsi in
the sun... and each time you unscrew it...
after filling up... shake the bottle up...
to keep the fizziness in it...

i wish i were more evil that my inherent ontology
disavows me from being...
then again... burp... ****... 30 minutes down the lines...
i do visit strip clubs and brothels...
so... i'm sort of like...
                i'm already what's best reserved
and at the same time: what's best kept hidden...
what's to be explored:
by those not willing to explore to begin with.

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|||||||||||||­||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|||||||||||||| = 100
what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

sometimes it so happens that... you ride a bicycle to get a... suntan on your legs... the face is covered, the hands and forearms too... little blonde hairs protruding... giggling copper-neck: i have become...

a purely joyous endeavour, it has to be,
there's no otherwise...
cycling... against the eight winds:
gusts from either the south, east...
or gusts from north-east...
perhaps i could brag about knowledge
of classical music...
but something wonderful is brewing
in Europe... a pagan revival in music...
example no. 1? Faun...
tanz mit mir! there are plenty others...
i was almost waiting for this to happen...
to escape the constipation of a Glass...
sorry... i can't listen to the "music" of
falling pianos or shattering glass...
give me the sparrows... give me the sparrows!
by now... a crow croaking:
uncorking a bottle of wine sounds more
pleasant...
i'm alone... there's a maine **** cat sleeping
in my bed... how did i manage
to have a cat that likes me?
doesn't matter... peasant music... like peasant
food: the simpler it is the better it is...
of the people: for the people...
i'd settle for some chants of the templars
while i'm at it...
anything medieval... too...
because i can't remember having fun with
music since...
oh... silverchair's: frogstomp...
or... tool's anaemia...
                                or... king crimson's:
in the court of the crimson king...
or culture's: harder than the rest...
- i never understood any sort of music snobbery...
Phil Collins has had a terrible time...
whenever his solo project
or whether still writing for Genesis...
surprise surprise...
on a cool night when...
it really takes 2 sessions of cycling to complete it...
the 2nd... cruise mentality...
the most perfect song: Genesis' no son of mine...
the bicycle turned into a drum-kit...
i was hammering my legs
on the pedals and grooving
finger tapping...
don't know: perhaps it was just the excuse for
a day spent...
a most perfect song to listen to
while cycling through the labyrinth of
streets of outer London...
peeping into houses
watching them ferment into cucumber pickles
watching t.v.:
i still watch it... i'd much prefer an aquarium
filled with fish... better still...
a fireplace... t.v. Plato's cave it is...
from time to time...
10 years not cycling:
i still can't get over the fact
that a £125 viking road bicycle is a better
machine than a £495 trek marlin mountain bike...
what else?
i seem to have forgotten something
having found myself this very evening...
ah... cycling in the evening...
when the air thins out
because it cools...
you can get up to 30+kmh on some
stretches of the road... whizz whizz...
the trees forever stand: deservedly rooted...
i imagine what it must feel like
to jump into the swimming pool...
i haven't swam in well over a decade:
it's not like i've forgotten it...
i haven't forgotten my centre of gravity
on a bicycle... those 23cm tyres really
pierce the tarmac...
the momentum is unreal...
as is my aggressive cycling...
i like to shame the people driving by being
quicker out onto the roundabout...
not being a **** about it...
but... solipsistic cyclists that get themselves
splattered into liver pate...
drivers that indicate too late or...
too soon... then change their minds...
to hell with owning a car!
why would i need a car?
by car, what's implied?
road-tax... m.o.t.... i can fix my own bicycle up...
plus the thrill of tight: lycra...
the closest i'll come to latex and b.d.s.m. ***
i wouldn't substitute a bicycle for
a motorbike even if i wanted
the added speed...
what?! so freely... no helmet... wind against the
face... eh...
absolutes... minimalism...
i would be most tired trying to pretend
to be a good lover...
i'd be tired of the dates...
put me on a bicycle
and i'm off... rummaging in my mind...
- and as i left Upminster and headed toward...
i'm most thoroughly: through-and-through...
what am i? i must be an: Anglo-Slav...
i'm pretty sure the Anglo-Saxons were
Saxon-Saxons prior to reaching these
isles... where... the Romans found the Welsh
and the Scots and all the other Celts...
well then... then the infusion of French Normans
and the French Normans having roots
in Scandinavia... Danes... etc.
who are you? i ask myself...
perhaps i don't agree with the layer
of culture ruling these lands...
i knew this would happen...
when my grandfather died i knew i would
close a chapter of a book
where i still felt some... organic...
thirst for my native Poland...
the English have a knack at organising
land... the Polacks lack it...
ask a ****** what a village should be...
all the houses at the main road...
never... like the Ingleash... German... huddled together...
scenic...
i once loved the pines of Poland...
forests of birch trees! the scouts
of the kingdom of trees...
i've settled for the oak of England...
kings of the north...
Anglo-Slav... well... i have been living 'ere
since i was 8...
i'm 35 now...
if the natives care so much to pander
to their former colonial subjects...
at least the Sikhs can be met in the middle:
in no-man's land...
and almost everyone else...
but it's their problem...
i just acquired this tongue and i'll use this
tongue over my native tongue:
even though i rather read a philosophy book
in ****** than in English...
i can't read a philosophy book in English...
English pragmatism is too strong
to settle for continental metaphysics as
somehow... entertaining...
i don't know the months of the year
in my mother-tongue...  i rather think of numbers
in: raz... dwa... trzy... cztery...
than one, two, three, four...
this apparently makes me a schizophrenic:
literally: bilingual...
to hell with it... bothersome little: turnips in tunics...
i stopped minding when i learned
that... people don't really need to be
that important...
- how else doesn't it therefore work?
former colonial subjects came to England
and began their quest to own the English
institutions... laws...
lawns...
so much for the debacle of Rotherham...
me?
i came for Bower Wood... i came for
the rolling hills of Essex...
i came for the oak... i came for the jolly
green...
even if London has "fallen" and become
little Lahore...
i'm not native enough to cry over the loss...
i'm looking for an England "elsewhere"...
eh... they didn't leave any wolves roaming:
i'll settle for the foxes!
it took me an almost "forever" to "befriend" one...
but then i cooked the most amazing curry
and he came sniffing...
i fattened him up for a month...
before he was hit by a car or...
worse... poisoned... a fox that became a dog:
no food went to waste...
well... no need to masquerade this freely:
come... freely on a whim go...
i don't need to lie about being a Don Juan...
i don't need to go on dates:
i can just find my way into a brothel
but by then: cycling is more available
ergo? by then *** becomes a chore...
hyped-up: i like to use the muscles associated
with cycling... i'll bench-press my body
to deflate the "*****":
i just don't need the lies of purity...
body-count... who's fooling who?
a dog invokes a need for a leash...
how much i prefer cats? no leash...
and there are periods in the day
when they disappear: best ignored...
if only women were like that...
women are hardly feline creatures...
i like my £120 an hour *******...
if asked to go on a date i'd be gagging for the whole
day... an Edward Hopper hour at the gallery...
a film... then some food...
that wasn't a date... it was a day!
i'm diesel like that... it takes me a lot of day's
worth to build up momentum...
first come first served:
stomach is to be associated
with butterflies?

nice cinema... great memories...
well...
    what's not to like...
best baked with all that's sincere and makes
life worthwhile...
however much others undermine your
neglect of ambition being
satisfied with crumbs...

life is so completely mine at this sitting
of doodle that:
well... a maxim of sorts would quite
simply... spoil it!

'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.

for Jennie in gratitude*

For days afterwards he was preoccupied by what he’d collected into himself from the gallery viewing. He could say it was just painting, but there was a variety of media present in the many surrounding images and artefacts. Certainly there were all kinds of objects: found and gathered, captured and brought into a frame, some filling transparent boxes on a window ledge or simply hung frameless on the wall; sand, fixed foam, paper sea-water stained, a beaten sheet of aluminium; a significant stone standing on a mantelpiece, strange warped pieces of metal with no clue to what they were or had been, a sketchbook with brooding pencilled drawings made fast and thick, filling the page, colour like an echo, and yes, paintings.
 
Three paintings had surprised him; they did not seem to fit until (and this was sometime later) their form and content, their working, had very gradually begun to make a sort of sense.  Possible interpretations – though tenuous – surreptitiously intervened. There were words scrawled across each canvas summoning the viewer into emotional space, a space where suggestions of marks and colour floated on a white surface. These scrawled words were like writing in seaside sand with a finger: the following bird and hiraeth. He couldn’t remember the third exactly. He had a feeling about it – a date or description. But he had forgotten. And this following bird? One of Coleridge’s birds of the Ancient Mariner perhaps? Hiraeth he knew was a difficult Welsh word similar to saudade. It meant variously longing, sometimes passionate (was longing ever not passionate?), a home-sickness, the physical pain of nostalgia. It was said that a well-loved location in conjunction with a point in time could cause such feelings. This small exhibition seemed full of longing, full of something beyond the place and the time and the variousness of colour and texture, of elements captured, collected and represented. And as the distance in time and memory from his experience of the show in a small provincial gallery increased, so did his own thoughts of and about the nature of longing become more acute.
 
He knew he was fortunate to have had the special experience of being alone with ‘the work’ just prior to the gallery opening. His partner was also showing and he had accompanied her as a friendly presence, someone to talk to when the throng of viewers might deplete. But he knew he was surplus to requirements as she’d also brought along a girlfriend making a short film on this emerging, soon to be successful artist. So he’d wandered into the adjoining spaces and without expectation had come upon this very different show: just the title Four Tides to guide him in and around the small white space in which the art work had been distributed. Even the striking miniature catalogue, solely photographs, no text, did little to betray the hand and eye that had brought together what was being shown. Beyond the artist’s name there were only faint traces – a phone number and an email address, no voluminous self-congratulatory CV, no list of previous exhibitions, awards or academic provenance. A light blue bicycle figured in some of her catalogue photographs and on her contact card. One photo in particular had caught the artist very distant, cycling along the curve of a beach. It was this photo that helped him to identify the location – because for twenty years he had passed across this meeting of land and water on a railway journey. This place she had chosen for the coming and going of four tides he had viewed from a train window. The aspect down the estuary guarded by mountains had been a highpoint of a six-hour journey he had once taken several times a year, occasionally and gratefully with his children for whom crossing the long, low wooden bridge across the estuary remained into their teens an adventure, always something telling.
 
He found himself wishing this work into a studio setting, the artist’s studio. It seemed too stark placed on white walls, above the stripped pine floor and the punctuation of reflective glass of two windows facing onto a wet street. Yes, a studio would be good because the pictures, the paintings, the assemblages might relate to what daily surrounded the artist and thus describe her. He had thought at first he was looking at the work of a young woman, perhaps mid-thirties at most. The self-curation was not wholly assured: it held a temporary nature. It was as if she hadn’t finished with the subject and or done with its experience. It was either on-going and promised more, or represented a stage she would put aside (but with love and affection) on her journey as an artist. She wouldn’t milk it for more than it was. And it was full of longing.
 
There was a heaviness, a weight, an inconclusiveness, an echo of reverence about what had been brought together ‘to show’. Had he thought about these aspects more closely, he would not have been so surprised to discovered the artist was closer to his own age, in her fifties. She in turn had been surprised by his attention, by his carefully written comment in her guest book. She seemed pleased to talk intimately and openly, to tell her story of the work. She didn’t need to do this because it was there in the room to be read. It was apparent; it was not oblique or difficult, but caught the viewer in a questioning loop. Was this estuary location somehow at the core of her longing-centred self?  She had admitted that, working in her home or studio, she would find herself facing westward and into the distance both in place and time?
 
On the following day he made time to write, to look through this artist’s window on a creative engagement with a place he was familiar. The experience of viewing her work had affected him. He was not sure yet whether it was the representation of the place or the artist’s engagement with it. In writing about it he might find out. It seemed so deeply personal. It was perhaps better not to know but to imagine. So he imagined her making the journey, possibly by train, finding a place to stay the night – a cheerful B & B - and cycling early in the morning across the long bridge to her previously chosen spot on the estuary: to catch the first of the tides. He already understood from his own experience how an artist can enter trance-like into an environment, absorb its particularness, respond to the uncertainty of its weather, feel surrounded by its elements and textures, and most of all be governed by the continuous and ever-complex play of light.
 
He knew all about longing for a place. For nearly twenty years a similar longing had grown and all but consumed him: his cottage on a mountain overlooking the sea. It had become a place where he had regularly faced up to his created and invented thoughts, his soon-to-be-music and more recently possible poetry and prose. He had done so in silence and solitude.
 
But now he was experiencing a different longing, a longing born from an intensity of love for a young woman, an intensity that circled him about. Her physical self had become a rich landscape to explore and celebrate in gaze, and stroke and caress. It seemed extraordinary that a single person could hold to herself such a habitat of wonder, a rich geography of desire to know and understand. For so many years his longing was bound to the memory of walking cliff paths and empty beaches, the hypnotic viewing of seascaped horizons and the persistent chaos of the sea and wild weather. But gradually this longing for a coming together of land, sea and sky had migrated to settle on a woman who graced his daily, hourly thoughts; who was able to touch and caress him as rain and wind and sun can act upon the body in ever-changing ways. So when he was apart from her it was with such a longing that he found himself weighed down, filled brimfull.
 
In writing, in attempting to consider longing as a something the creative spirit might address, he felt profoundly grateful to the artist on the light blue bicycle whose her observations and invention had kept open a door he felt was closing on him. She had faced her own longing by bringing it into form, and through form into colour and texture, and then into a very particular play: an arrangement of objects and images for the mind to engage with – or not. He dared to feel an affinity with this artist because, like his own work, it did not seem wholly confident. It contained flaws of a most subtle kind, flaws that lent it a conviction and strength that he warmed to. It had not been massaged into correctness. The images and the textures, the directness of it, flowed through him back and forward just like the tides she had come far to observe on just a single day. He remembered then, when looking closely at the unprotected pieces on the walls, how his hand had moved to just touch its surfaces in exactly the way he would bring his fingers close to the body of the woman he loved so much, adored beyond any poetry, and longed for with all his heart and mind.

I go in circles of self love to self loathing
I go in circles of I love her, I love her not
I go in circles of I'm straight, I'm gay
I can feel my life cycling slowly as if it were going down the drain.
I go in circles of happiness and depression
I go in circles of I can do this, no I can't
I go in circles of being too full and starving
My life is cycling like a bike up an unknown path
And I know at the top of this path, at the bottom of this drain I might find something worth living for
But right now I feel dizzy from all of these circles

precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.