only today i felt this strange fear from boredom, i don't expect housewives to feel it, although i'm certain they do, brain-draining watching some Jurassic adaptation where man's imagination really did a runner - not into the fantastical but into the absurd - like in science fiction, did a runner, completely off the mark given chemists making shampoos and toothpastes and fertilisers... ethically-free science fiction - but this housebound fear from boredom, greater than a fear of death it seized me and rattled me, i had to go out to buy a few beers; just like it happens to really rich people, they make their homes into micro-units of what's out there, in society, a swimming pool when there's a communal one elsewhere, a massive library of unread books, when there are plenty of those elsewhere, home cinema, snooker table... it's the entire spectrum of social pastimes condensed into a single household... anyway, i got hot and bothered, i'm starting to think it was not a fear of boredom, but what to do with the piri-piri chicken i was marinating: tomato puree, 1tbsp balsamic vinegar, half a large lemon squeezed, 1sp sugar, 1tsp paprika, 1/2 tsp cajun pepper, 14g of parsley, mint, oil, 2 chillies, 2 tsp of garlic puree, salt to taste - whisked in a food processor; ~1kg of chicken - because i thought whether i should shove the chicken marinate in an oven bag and cook it for a while, or whether to take the chicken out from the marinate and place it on a baking tray... ****!

poems and book reviews these days, nothing more,
get someone else to do the legwork -
a thoroughly modern malaise -
social anthropology - titled *tribe -
the pros and cons of modern life and our
search for tribal mythology -
the 8x more chance of depression and
other mental deviations in wealthier
societies than poorer ones -
once it was called adventure, now
it's called tourism - after a while you sort
of get bored of the naked ego
and the clothing range your thought
provides you - unless you keep thinking
out the same thing, over and over again,
dressed like Armani, all black, nothing else -
odd, isn't it? they're playing the cat game,
cat wakes up, same ****, different cover,
well, the same cover - same fur - can't
change - the paradox or parody of
the fashion industry, i.e. that the designers
wear the same thing over and over again
and insist people require a spring collection,
the latest autumn trend.... parody.
so back to this piri-piri chicken      n'ah, not really,
i was thinking about what we already did,
this anti-tribalism, to have given ourselves
the opportunity to experience the least
amount of pain, the anaesthetic, sleep inducing
on the butcher's table more or less -
but we also created another anaesthetic,
this anaesthetic is not so subtle - it concerns beauty -
ever see it? ever walk into Tate Modern and
think about Raphael or Michelangelo?
you could tell me i'm overly nostalgic -
but what i see in plain sight is an anaesthetic in place,
against beauty, esp. in architecture -
who'd think of building a new Coliseum or
a St. Paul's - the Tate Modern (as you might
or might not know) is inside a power station,
big massive chimney - would have worked
better in the Battersea (Pink Floyd's Animals
album sleeve), but then St. Paul's is right opposite
and what a staggering dichotomy it is -
i'm sure that's what you call an anaesthetic in art,
the sort of art you have to get or not get
because, frankly, admiring a tin-can of tomato soup
even by Warhol's standards isn't exactly appetising -
i know, conveyor belt necessity and all, once
artists painted on commission for some duke or
duchess, or king to be adorning lavish palaces,
but as according to Walter Benjamin - the work
of art in the age of mechanical reproduction -
some could once claim the original to be worth
a stupendous amount of dosh, but with the above
mentioned essay, the original is worth diddly-squat,
because there is no actual original these days,
because artists don't necessarily have to invest
in raw materials - and the copying process is 100%
perfect, what with photocopying and all...
but **** me over once more, how am i going
to cook this piri-piri chicken?
the few beers took the problem off my hands,
i ended up marinating the chicken in a bag
but then shoved it into a baking tray
an covered with aluminium foil, forty odd
minutes and the chicken was tender - ~5 minutes
without the aluminium foil covering while
the oven was switched off and the temperature
was descending - the carbs? couscous -
alt. North African semolina - and extra cucumber
in tzatziki - a few hours later and i'm a little
buddha not thinking an ounce or a continent's worth
of suggestion... one of those rare albums
salmonella dub's  inside the dub plates,
i'm a real provincial with this album,
tumble **** here, tumble **** there,
never settling for a ****-garden -
i told you i'm just borrowing the language, in fact,
given my alcoholic and status as vermin among
the bulldog rigid British (Londoners can have
their little gay pride parade, whatever, they
better give me up for surgery to a veterinarian than
a human doctor, after all, i'm all ******* gerbil from
now on in, it doesn't take enough pacifists to turn
my attitude into a Neo-**** and bulldozer the Union
Jack into a shallow grave, i don't expect the Caribbeans
and the Pakistanis to usher words of: it's how it is,
a rite of passage, **** your cumin and your ****,
battle of Britain, who among the R.A.F. flew and spat fire?
us) i'm more Apache in a bigger zoo than the one in
Reagents Park, i'm in a conservation zoone -
i'm Aboriginal - shaman of the fire water -
i'll be as ******* ridiculous as i want - go chant
you little kirtan get together mantras going,
i'm sure you'll *****-fight-those-pigeons dead without
a single coo being ushered in - and your little yoga stints
asking questions about the flexibility of the skeleton
not pulverised by scientific eyes for a schematic and
a schooling rubric to domino up the cranium with mandible,
ulna and radius etc. -
but at least i know what sort of country i live in,
and what country is wandering into political apology that's
too late, in ratio 27:1, soon to be Turkey + the Yugoslavian
gape, Albanian and Macedonia by 2020 -
>30:1 - great Welsh ratio that is, oh ****, wait, Scotland too?
i never thought about it coming - there's my 2 cents
on the topic, and that England is becoming more American
by the day? that's good? really?! i thought the
aim of England was to inspire America rather than
vice versa... what a ****-storm these few days ended
up being; ol' McDonald didn't have a farm, but
had the slogan - *i'm lovin' it!

It’s not the first cool day of autumn,
but it’s the first that won’t end
until April, if ever. The hail covers every crack
in the sidewalk. I skate across it, turn into rain.

Later I’m standing in the mud, counting.
Julie calls to say the surgery didn’t work,
third one this year.  Doctor referred her to some
research hospital in Ypsilanti, but she won’t
be studied. She’s on a new diet instead,
only avocados and citrus. She says,
That’s why Sudan has the lowest cancer rates
and there’s still lots of time but please come see me this weekend.
I take off my shoes and look for a place
shaped like my feet.  I tell her I’ll build us
a sweat lodge on the Auglaize, I could learn how,
I’ve seen it done. We’ll sing Kirtan
to Hanuman and sage the hell out
of you, that’ll do it. I’m sure.  

No she says build me a school
for the things beneath the things, inside, around,
the scaffolding. There are walls
inside these walls. Enough space for all of us to pray
for certainty the way it prays for us. *Fear
is the cheapest room in the house. I would like
to see you living in better conditions.

Once upon a whispering moon, I rode a star unto Africa.

The land was hot & covered in ice.
My eyes were glass,
Ready to shatter at the notion of ugly beauty.
A duality that would cause the sun to tear itself in twain from fear of metaphorical & metaphysical asphyxiation.

Atlas of the world turned grey as dreams turn dust to shards of crystal liquid light.

Grinning inanely & insanely for the serpent spectre sceptre is in the house of sonic devotional Kirtan emotional Islamic Jewish conditional faith & faith no where but here.
No fear.

The sky explodes
When crying gods do read their own
Stories in nothingness & apple seeds.
Cyanide & Suicide.

Doves, black,  rain, ride.
Release. Release. Release.

Peace of Christmas
suffuses the
bhajan hall
settling like snowfall
over the manger in Bethlehem

Its no wonder
on my way to kirtan
a white car dashed in front of me
embossed over its rear view window
was the Om glittering forth
reminiscent of snow crystals
softly descending from
the lofty Himalayas

Certainly this was turning out
to be quite a
magical evening
there was a hint of Sai in the atmosphere
although the devotees were sparse
we sang our hearts out
Yuletide hymns and Hare Krishna

Carolers on the door steps of God

me? im a whole lotta broken. i wanna get fixed. dont know how tho - OR if its even possible. is it? i mean, the only antidote to the blah and blek and ugh and err is, for me at least, a blank page with a waiting blinking cursor. ahh, pure potential. infinite vistas of what-if. a path not taken is a beinglessness that feeds the imagination with pure uncut raw light extending back into the original whothefuckknowswhereitcamefrom wick that bore its birth... BUT i always manage to mess that up with words words words. so, what then? where from here? i dunno. and i am upsettingly ok w the the idunno, which, sadly is most likely going to lead to me being on the street. my ambition is err not good, at all... its way bad.. i swear to eff i once had a waking vision while nestled deep in meditation of all my previous incarnations - i was a sloth with a lazy eye for, like, ten thousand and ten generations. mmm, now THAT was the life. it was a comfy series of infinite expressions, till that **** ape-turned-human decided to exist and in doing so somehow managed to motivate my precisely calibrated aeon-long string of slothness into idk maybe not sleeping for 20 hours a day?? cutting it down to ohidunno 18 hours.. that was the first initial step. now, im a sentient ambling bipedal brain-heavy avatar that is oh so aware of itself, aka human, and tries to distract itself from the deep abiding blankness that pulses and pumps jus below the left-center breastbone by writing meh poems to pass the time. or maybe there is something there.. i dunno. maybe there is a wholeness. maybe the feeling i get when i can be weird in front of somebody else, and that feeling i get when i stare into the eyes of another person and know that they like me just as much as i like them, and that feeling of community, that yay burning sensation within that drums together like a kirtan, stoking stoking, stoked till all our very molecules begin to budge and shake and evaporate, rising like a riproaring pyre enlightening the nite sky, a light going on forever and ever, reaching past the final last outstretched fingertip of cosmos itself, back into the womb of Her.. and in doing so dimming the fake fluorescent light of ego which usually hangs over my brain's goings on, making me feel like i am not so small, not so insignificant, but central, mandalaing the the youme that burns burns burns onto the canvas of the abyss, creating life itself.... or i jus have a silly overactive imagination that ive never matured. idk. again, i seem to be ok with the idunno. indeed, i may even worship at the alter of idunno that doesnt even exist... "mental *******." that is what ive been charged with as doing by a shaman i consulted with at my mom's wedding. well, she didnt say it directly, but you know, hinted at it with that less-than-royal We - i had been talking about the difference between thought and language, and jus where in the hell thoughts come from anyway - a god? purely biological random shimmering byproducts of frontal lobes? some unifying infinite force? that spicy curry you ate? .. and she interrupted me ".. --- im gonna stop you right there" she intoned  ".. im getting something coming in right now from the Christ Mind, its telling me something.." dramatic pause. "... sometimes we tend to jus get stuck doing mental *******, instead of jus being appreciative of what we have, here and now, in the present - that is why it is called "the present" right??" i dunno, maybe she was right. but i hate that cliche.. the present is totally overrated imho... i hate my ego sometimes. or at least i hate not knowing if it is ego or not.. i hate feeling that feeling like somebody is trying to control me through indirect ways, because i dont know if they are actually trying to control me or if i am just inaccurately perceiving it. i think a lot of times we unconsciously try to control people, not even aware of it. i am sure i do this as well. we all have angles right? .. but anyway, speaking of self *** metaphors for describing the thinking process, i am tired of short skirt blonde bombshell anchors that have been under more knives that hannibal lecter's vics tell me about how scary isis is and how they are gonna take muh white and male murica from me, jerking off my leftover overactive monkey fear gland in my amygdala... its time to turn off the media and look outside. the sky is not falling and the birds are chirping. aright im done writing now. end. of. rant.