THE CROWD at Raf Simons’s Spring 2017 menswear show at Pitti Immagine Uomo in Florence seemed more uptight than usual, yet that’s exactly how Mr. Simons intended it: Scattered among the wound-up throngs of editors, buyers and gate-crashers were 266 secondhand mannequins, some seated stiffly, others frozen into upright positions, all clothed in archival pieces from his 21-year career in fashion. Though the dummies were arresting, the Belgian designer, 48, later downplayed this unconventional look back. “The pieces weren’t chosen with a certain kind of curatorial intention,” said Mr. Simons. “I didn’t want it to look like a typical kind of retrospective.”

Mission accomplished: Between the spooky setting in a cavernous former train station, the wooden mannequins and his decision to show “off calendar” (forgoing his usual Paris Fashion Week time slot), it all felt more like a Robert Gober art show than a museum tribute. Mr. Simons is, after all, still hard at work, his every move watched by industry insiders amid speculation that he may be joining Calvin Klein—after concluding 3½ years as creative director of Christian Dior’s women’s collection, in 2015.

Mr. Simons continued to riff on his signature elegance in his Pitti Uomo menswear show. The cornerstone of the collection was a series of loose, photo-enhanced shirts, knits and jackets created in collaboration with the Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation: voluminous pieces emblazoned with images of Debbie Harry or eroticized flowers by the photographer, who died in 1989.

Much like his designs, our chat with the usually circumspect Mr. Simons reflected a broad array of preoccupations and influences. He was outspoken about tailoring (“so much bad suiting out there”) and his design process (“no system, no rules, no structure”) but also about mobile phones, the African countryside and ’70s dance music.

One of my favorite spots in the world is: Puglia in Italy. There’s a house by the sea I go to, and outside, it’s just a horizon line. It’s that feeling of eternity: It allows you to think. If you put me there, I wouldn’t need love or anything anymore.

Between the country or the city, I prefer: the country. I live in Antwerp, a city that’s kind of like a village.

A place I’d like to visit again is: Kruger National Park in South Africa. It’s mind-blowing how it sits so far away from anything you’ve ever experienced in a city. There were no people, no proof of human life, just animals and animal behavior. It’s survival of the strongest, which is fascinating.

One thing I’ve had forever is: A yellow T-shirt with a black print on it from the movie “The Shining” that goes way back to when I was a teenager.

If I could be granted one wish, it would be: solidarity. That may sound emotional—politically emotional—but with everything that’s happening, I wish everybody would just let each other be in peace.

A current band I love is: The **. At first they seemed weird but they overwhelm me—massively—all the time with their intelligence. They may be the group that’s had the most impact on me in the last five years.

An old album I still listen to is: Kraftwerk’s “The Man-Machine” [1978]. My 1998 show was called “Kraftwerk” because I had four boys in red shirts in it who looked like replicas of the band members.

If I could tell my 20-year-old self one thing, it would be: grab and protect love when you find it. Cherish it, focus on it, concentrate on it.

My dream client would be: anyone, really. When I design, I am thinking about a lot of people, not just one. It’s more about connecting to a certain kind of generation or a certain kind of person that will connect to what we do.

I always wear: Adidas Stan Smiths. I have had periods where I only wore Stan Smiths, maybe from age 15 until I was 25.

The place that most inspires me is:everywhere. Some people have to go for a swim or have a holiday to be inspired, but for me, it’s there when I walk out the door.

My favorite movie directors are: Stanley Kubrick, Todd Haynes and Alfred Hitchcock.Kubrick’s movies are so visually striking, especially “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “Eyes Wide Shut.”

I collect: art. I started collecting more than 15 years ago. Cady Noland, Richard Prince,Cindy Sherman, Isa Genzken, Rosemarie Trockel, Charlie Ray, Robert Gober are artists that have made a huge impact on me on all levels, emotionally, conceptually, visually.

The hardest part of a man’s wardrobe to get right is: the tie and suit. [There is] so much bad suiting out there in terms of fit, style and fabric. So, when I design, I don’t start with fit or fabric, but with meaning. The phrase “suit and tie” has a special place in our vocabulary.

One of my favorite books is: The Christiane F. book [“Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F.”—about a teenage ****** addict]. The movie [1981] was an amazing interpretation, but the book is more striking.

I feel most proud about: simple things like being able to handle love and friendship and family. Or taking care of my dog. Of course, I do also feel proud of what I do.

I am a big fan of: furniture design, especially French or Swiss designers such as Jean Royère, Pierre Jeanneret and Jean Prouvé as well as Japanese-American designer George Nakashima. I love how beautifully designed furniture sits in history—it’s unpretentious.

The one thing I always travel with is: my sweatshirt from Vier, a skateshop in Antwerp. “Vier” is the Dutch word for four. I always take it on flights because I refuse to put on the pajamas they give to you.

I wish I could always be with: my dog, Luca, a Beauceron, who behaves like everything except a dog—more like a cat or a frog. She’s still a baby.

The one thing I wish didn’t exist is: mobile phones. I am old enough to remember how it was before them. There was something much more beautiful about not having one. We communicated in such a different way with each other.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

It's 1:45 AM

I'll write a poem for you. I don't know what it's about.

Maybe it's about something that happened to me recently.
Maybe it's a reflection on a weird habit I need to change
Like taking an eight-hour nap after work (why?)

Or maybe it's just to fill in the blanks of my mind
That I know will end up being used in a little bit
For "Computer Love"

Kraftwerk released it in 1981.
Before **** sites and YouTube videos of girls kissing.
Coldplay used the same melody for a 2005 song, "Talk".
(Class it up, Chris Martin.)

Now my little observation is done.
And I can make a rendezvous with the Internet
A data date.

yeah, thank **** for that, and i want to be trans-zoological,
well, that won't happen in a millions years...
i want fur to keep me warm
and obstruct the chance of skin cancer
from suntans - i want a tail instead
of the puny coccyx - i need to be
a natural gymnast -
but **** no, you won't give me one,
nor the fur - you'll just say:
skin the fox, give him a comb-over,
done... like **** done -
make me trans-zoological
ortho-gender or meta-gender or something,
i like the idea of a panda bamboo diet
or a koala's eucalyptus diet,
and one pair of clothes for life,
no shampoo - modern monkey
akin to ancient monkey,
back then the problem was nits & gnats,
modern problem is odour and knitting /
well, tailoring for the cuffs and neck-tie nooses
for the well attired beetroot turkey faces -
mouths like a toilet although less edgy
with fluoride and sugar -
one monkey said to another...
'smell that?' 'yeah, a horrible bake.'
'that's what i thought too!'
'geniuses in pairs, no einstein would emerge.'
'fell fame and the famished.'
so there you have it, pampering was
intended to name the practice of toiletry -
take a **** spraying household perfumes
to doubly hide "something",
um... om... a ******* ****... what a mystery!
you do know that german electro music
evolved post-Kraftwerk - vey vork... vow!
now who's the gummy glutton bear
readied for a rub rub of tummy in the sauna tub?
mm chuckles as the cheeks are pinched
by an odd auntie to create a sound imitating
******* with ******* -
you have to excuse the punctuation
lacking a punchline evidence, work it out,
it's not exactly a times table of mathematics -
**** goes here at 90 degrees, **** goes there at
350 degrees... Simjit's your uncle...
i told you: i have, no, social, status,
i'm not a maid apparent to be wedded by a king...
via ******* and bureaucratic entitlements
via henry viii...
no wonder the after-fact (artefact)
of how Islam is practised... the founding mother
of Islam was Abraham's concubine...
a *****... Islam (the movie): the *****'s revenge!
i can see it now, in Los Angeles, hands readied
for the picturesque "thinking outside the box" moment...
yeah, founding mother of Islam was Abraham's *****...
she was sent off into the desert,
came back in a Niqab after meeting ***** satan
telling her: stop running between those two
elevations! and there we have it, holier than the ******
birth story - they're all virgins now -
former ****** with their former chores
readied for the silent movies cinema -
well, guess what... chuckles! and muttley!

is there really enough genius bound
to speak in complex μαθ?
         among demons, angels...
geniuses... corpus miseria -
          and some other additives.
        it's a wonder, that it does happen,
ventures Newtonian, Copernican -
         but there's also that stance
toward language: whereby one reaches
a limit... because a marble-engraving,
like so many otherwise:
   bound to the fate of dust,
     those rising above it, settle in ornamental
celebratory guise... depending
on what's going to be the next finicky
cruelty... whether the wind,
or whether the talk of Parisian vogue:
primarily begun with anorexia...
    could it have been otheriwse?
models as sketches,
   skeletons for the glitter and paparazzi
blink... gluttonous maggoty-flesh
whirling in the bedroom: intoxicated
by champagne and canapes.
                 there are geniuses out there,
they do seek the limits of the human
endeavour... they use language of
solipsism,
       god Solipsus in his carved emblem
said so...
                 but there are also geniuses
who numb...
           when given language, one is given
utility,
             say: learning French, to do your
shopping, and learn French, to read a newspaper...
learn a langusge, and become as useful
as a hammer...
         well: all that's left to fathom is a care for
applause!
      but unlearning language?
                  can it be done?
    not because i wanted to become enigmatic,
not because i wanted the divergence...
       it came naturally, i paused,
and said: my limits are bound to be completely
uncreative, if that be the permitted clause...
                 as to how: language can become
dislodged from hymn,
                        from a letter (formal or informal),
from a petition, from anything invoking
a congregation...
     there's Einstein with his theory,
    and there's me... without such a theory...
  it's already trendy, labelled deconstructionism...
as ever: architecture in reverse...
                i can sometimes be bound as having possession
of a nation... i can fall into rank,
           i can be a political motiff...
i can circumstance everything on the "i am'',
have a thousand leeches suckling at me,
be prone to wavering and other subtler mechanism...
                 simply because: i have surrendered
myself to something that could never guarantee
thinking, as something worth making finicky...
             i trusted the convening of vogue,
to no testament worth reciting...
                      the labyrinth is already there,
                 question is: can i mirror it?
               so yes, there are geniuses out there,
who reveal hidden complexities...
             without necessarily using a said language -
                 death & the democratic ideal...
            throughout life and still honing toward
that one vote autocratic...
                                some even care for epitaphs,
as if chiseled in marble cares for distinguishing such
last words...
                           i have no competence to
   rummage in the a priori...
   man was always bound to create a safety
   in a historical certainty...
   a way to suggest: the carousel will stop...
               we'll find El Dorado...
                              and sure, mathematics
has the same punctuation marks
      as what is necessary to be a merchant...
i + pause            or i, pause...
                                       i could have written
a theory that might elevate man,
   but i decided to deconstruct language, whereby
i'd reach a limit, and find a 21st century
                                if there ever was one...
given the fashion industry...
                   it's hard not to see a need to plagiarise...
and so striving for originality becomes so
****** exhausting... you stop to even care for it...
                the herd is and always will be:
the dicta.
                           anything beyond it...
how we wake each day to the past, and this
persistent abortion, this panic asking:
   am i the flesh of those, kindred?!
                  take the crucifix, and it's glorification,
abstracting the tetragrammaton:
   worthy for those uneducated barbarians to be:
everything, and summary.
          have i the potential to mould a copper
effigy of a bull, empty, and place people in it
   and put the bull under a fire, and hear the cries
of agony, like some Sicillian tyrant?
                                   the title **** sapiens
came too soon... it's too immature...
     i can't grasp the argument counter:
herbivore                                        and on god's
green earth...                  the wet-eyed sheep -
  or dangling the iron maiden mould on the neck...
so it is... every, single day:
   i wake into a nightmare of the nagging man...
                   how did the third *****
create this ant-like subordinate race,
can anyone really comprehend such a congregation?
                               it's almost staggering,
that unison... that non-existent desire for
    the artist's own...
                                   no individual:
but a people...
                                       can that even be revised?
                 it does't matter...
                                    i can't imagine it,
having totally discarded the theological circumstance
   and embraced the completely natural
      slaugherhouse... as glorification of nature
   states: of god and the weakness...
                                    of nature and strength.
        and if the ancients spoke of a nonsense,
                             i cannot say anything more than
this hanging shadow of apathy.
              are snakes without eyelids?
                    transcript insomniac...
it's almost, as if, Islam is trying to rummage
in graves of ancients...
                                                 as if we are
sodden with apathy, and readied for an en masse
awakening, that's bound to Istambul...
                                 and if i think i'm writing
something contemporary, i'm always fidgety
when giving that fabled precursor that's history...
               i never know the schwab from Silesian.
ja... dicta esse noon, and anorexic shadow...
                                   and so begins,
alternative cursor... beethoven into kraftwerk...
             music in the elements...
from classical winded, into rhythm and earth
   and the bass and drum... marquise of raz, dwa, trzy...
            cztery, pięć... pięść... zex....
                       synthetic... gorgon siedem... decalogue...
                                              ginger root
Pomerenian... filthy blonde...
                                          chasing the Pruß...
and some say violence is a dietary equivalent of
fibre... or roughage...
                                    and i say:
           dogs may bark, dogs may whimper,
   but a dog will be more rational than
man with his god and his exclusion zone...
                      i feel:
                                               a fraction of
what's believable...
                                and thankfully: a moment
of being ingracious in feeling a common status
is enough... **** spaciens is a worded escapism,
it is never a fulfillment -
                             a marking worthy of universal
appeal...
                      it is man
                              trying to escape the rotations,
     it is man attempting to find a standstill...
          why bother though?
   everything is an inward continuum...
          man and his plumbing?
   plumbing, sure... darwinism and the big bang...
                     assured in finding the plughole...
            and a thousand convened ballerinas in
a tornado... silently: tip, toe, tip, toe, tip: tugging.
        branding cattle and prostitutes...
   i found more humanity in their eager whip,
than i found lipstick on a hankerchief...
                 and yes: kisses lead to bloating.
        i am glutton, meaning: am deutsche...
                               there are no germanic peoples,
          the

I don't like Jordan's, I like Chuck Taylor's
I don't want a Maybach, I really want an impala throwback or a mustang modern day
I don't speak in slang I don't have badly done dreadlocks
I don't sing in autotune and I don't sag my pants

I play guitar, and I listen to Rock music
I prefer classic hip-hop over trap, which is an anomaly in and of  itself
I'll take Charles Wright's "Express Yourself" to azalea banks 212
I love electronic music, Daft Punk, Deadmau5, Kraftwerk, Glitch mob and I live under the sun not the moon

All of these things differ me from others, hopefully I don't come across stale,
but out of all the things I do and like, I'm an 18 year old black male...

Strange Isn't it?

**** it, 9 quid in the bank-account, came back haunted
with my ****** arithmetic and forgetting
how i really didn't prioritise how much i spent:
20 quid in the gas tank... ah one more night...
i always write raw words when drunk
and the kaleidoscope sort of opens,
although the kaleidoscope is in black & white,
so nothing really life changing to be seen
through my side of the lens, but i'm sure
for someone, somewhere, it might be - but that's
beside the point... i have an overdraft
limit of 550 quid - ask why the bank operator said
i had a healthy relationship with money
when i pleaded with her to not take away my
2000 quid overdraft limit in one go, but reduce it
every month by a 100 quid... i was nearly -2000
quid beneath the sea... and i got out... so what's
that and 4 nights of not drinking and writing less,
and writing what i find mundane poetry... eh?
i'll get to watch the complete diet of x files at night
rather than during the way having saved up
three episodes and binging in the afternoon -
but i had to prepare myself for the reduction of
alcohol, cold turkey is kinda hard, but not when
you suddenly decide to do some gardening work
to get excess toxins from your body... gardening...
meaning cutting a 7ft tree to the stump - i was
given orders to do so, it wasn't a mad moment,
the tree was too thorny and prickled - suffocated
by vines... see... boring poetry, too much detail.
so four days with the turkey, avoiding using sleeping
pills therefore staying up all ******* night,
watch a movie, read a book, write a poem...
and then something amazing happened...
don't know why i started watching friday the 13th
part v: a new beginning... i know i know, cheesy,
80s gore and the ****** Doo gang of helpless teenagers,
but that was the aura of pop gore back in that decade,
in the 70s.. the Exorcist and Omen, religious themes,
no! no! this is not going to be a discussion session
on mixing poetry and cinema like James Franco talking
with Frank Bidart... no... what got me from this music...
the absence of 80s diversity in music that's remembered,
because boys said in the 80s: that's cheesy, yet they danced,
they kept the dark, character building bands, angst synth,
whatever, Depeche Mode, the Cure, the Smiths,
that's what was passed down, A-Ha and Duran Duran
on a similar scale, but the latter two by girls...
i can cite Visage, and obviously Europe's final countdown,
Bryan Adams and what not... all the Cheese Disco (it had
to be an oldie word used)... but i mean...
who would have thought that a quirky dance of a girl
in the bedroom (oh yeah, and the Alan  Parsons project,
siouxsie sioux and the banshees, etc. etc.) listening
to Pseudo Echo's song His Eyes got me ticklish
with infatuation as to find the ****** song... enter...
the mighty internet! the best patch of to forage like
rabbit... the track ain't bad... if you're comparing music
within a genre there's a certain feel to it, you don't
go and compare it within trans genre parameters...
now wouldn't we all love to just back the **** up
and talk TRANSGENRE of music rather than what's
happening in the ***** tree oasis in the desert of politics?
compare it with Visage and Kraftwerk, well -

great bands
are the ones with
the rhythm section having
a lot of fun... esp. the bass player
(tool / red hot chilli peppers -
because i could never catch the bass line
in metallica after the original bassist died,
except in two songs: my friend of misery
and devil's dance),
makes it a befitting continuity of jazz,
not just the boorish: let the solo guitarist
invoke the soprano and have all the fun...
******* that one too?
no wonder air guitar came about.
i mean... i wrote an essay
in music class once about the caribbean
and wrote nothing about bob marley, i know;
it was so good i got the prize
of having vouchers for the bookstore w.h. smith
and got myself a book.
otherwise? learning music in a catholic school?
well just a bunch of keyboards on the desks,
you’d think kraftwerk was at work
styling a revival of the bouncy wet biscuit dance
allowing these epileptics into the club
without a warning sign: strobe lights!

i can still look into the velvet depths of the night,
whether in forest or perched on a windowsill grazing
my eyes into the night, and still see nothing except myself;
or you should see me walking down for a refill
of ice-cubes listening to ***** & the maytals' 54-46
that's my number - i know whitey boy albino given
an injection of rhythm, well at least you were given
a creative outlet under the stiff-upper lips of the redcoats,
the jews weren't even told to build the pyramids under ******,
you gave us the blues, jazz, and pirate reggae,
what could the ******* jews offer us to compensate the atrocities?
**** all apart from memorable guilt and autobiographies!
oh yeah, and german industrial music, what fun!
ha ha... robo- -boy with alias Kraftwerk.
in my long gone list of artists i forgot to mention
Alpha Blondy & Barrington Levy - high fidelity poetry
by someone not called nick hornby.

it truly is a rare find...
          no... not louis zukofsky's -A-...
juggling adorations for Bach's
polyphony...

       i need to sketch this...

i have two demands...
    a young man should only read
philosophy when he was
started to tease his 21st birthday...

by accident: and no accident...
Hume of all people...
            but i was young and i made
a faux pas:
i started to collect music... compact disks...
too early on...
i should have listened to the radio...
it's not like i will
return to... taproot...
i might return to: dry **** logic...
i will not return to korn
or slipknot...

although... when mojo was still
in print... and there was that prog rock
special... and i... bought up...
the top 50 prog rock albums...
some yes records...
gentle giant...
                        pink floyd doesn't count...
king crimson...
doesn't count either...

in all honesty:
   the only albums i bought that...
are not a "mistake" of...
youth...

             probably the oeuvre by tool...
but then... that's writing musing:
something one might enjoy in
the background... writting... doodling...
some music prevents you from
simply listening to it...

i can't remember the last time
i wanted to rhyme my words...
    i somehow had to... think rhyming
to be... something to be abhorred...

if sarcasm is the lowest form of wit...
then... rhyming is the lowest
form of escapism:
how one might pride oneself
claiming a rhyme...
                      
           i can't remember the last time
i took a tool album on a bus ride...
or read a book to it...
   i desired... metaphorical laying of bricks...
to be absolved by the music:
cushioning the background...

    a bit like... Proust lining his study
with cork...
  there was always a music to fall asleep to...
when i discovered...
christopher young's hellraiser soundtrack...
hammock's ketonic...
dead can dance - into the labyrinth...
            
    when i first heard ola gjeilo's northern
lights choral pieces...

combichrist - today we are all demons...
godspeed! you black emperor...
die krupps - machnists of joy
:wumpscut - bunkertor sieben...

                   an ex-girlfriend elevated
me from rammstein toward in extremo...
i elevated myself toward...
   garmarna...
wardruna... hedningarna...
    żywiołak...
                      danheim...
                                                heilung...

i also found some lao che...
                      notably the gusła album...

demdike stare - tryptych - £30 for a c.d.,
not a vinyl... and i did buy it...
   vomito nergo - fall of an empire...
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles... etc.

             wooden schjips - west...
            distance - repercussions...
   dead skeletons - dead magick...
       the besnard lakes - until in excess...
   uncle acid & the deadbeats - blood lust...
naam...
    the soft moon...
              allah-las...
    the chromatics...
         pablopabo & ludziki...
           black ox orkestar - nisht azoy...

last time i heard... music under the radar...
vex'd...                     burial - untrue...
          which probably translates best
in the north east of london...
from that... doom of the southern estates...

   rotting christ... a greek "dark metal" band...
kata ton daimiona...
    susumu yakota - grinning cat...
       beat bizarre - somersault industries...
younger brother - weird on a monday night...
bohren & der club of gore - mightnight radio...

   i listed all these examples for no
particular reason...
  apart from: i did buy physical copies
of these records...
   i don't trust the radio in...
either playing any of this material...
there's already that whole...
affair of    HARAKIRI DIAT -
  primitive knot - puritan...
                 ******* of brutalism...
                    years of denial - body map...
filmmaker...
          i'd love to own a physical copy...

it could be just so plane jane & basic
to know what you were looking for...
honestly: it doesn't work like that...
that "thing" you were "looking" for?
it has actually been looking for you...
  you are only sieving...

    irritated by a stressed rubber-band
song on replay... sick-poppy-uber-glue-pop
song like mabel's: don't call me up...
or... britney spear's criminal...

                  ****** ***** music taster...
or... refreshing a desire for iggy "z" pop(s)...
but sometimes an album just happens...

always big into the dandy warhols...
every time... she said...
you listen to... good morning...
think of me and how you ****** me...
ex-girlfriends...
and a brief mythology of smurfs... to boot!

one album stood out...
from all those listed...
     i was never a big fan... prior to...

                  aufheben...
                 by none other than...
the brian jonestown massacre...

           that's one album... and the other?
heavy moon's... fünfzehn (15)...
      it's not a case of itchy-thumbs...
but the drill srgt. of rhythm stole my index
and thumb on this one...

    music: it's hardly what i think of it...
it's what feeling it dictates me to write...
no... i could never be a needle-drop...
internet's busiest musical nerd...
i can't fathom music like a nerd...
a drunk? oh yeah... as a...
a music that i enjoy drinking to...
rather than writing...
   that's a breath of fresh air...
   like ******* for virginity...
  that same quote: yes... making war for peace...

then... on a second listening...
neue echos der erinnerung... what a blast...
too busy... fidgeting with my
constipated variation of solipsism...
echo-sputnik...
years down the line...
someone less... disinhibited...
took to warping time and gizmos
with a pen and a litany of typos...

     a rare moment... false praises...
in the moment though: the angels were singing...
then... memories...
too many memories of...
     tangerine dream... and... kraftwerk...
sensible... german music...
no... i was completely wrong...

i guess i was my usual self...
perched on a windowsill
sitting on my folded foot...
and i caught a "neighbour" looking
at me from afar...
   trying to escape the straitjacket
of glued-eyes to t.v. mantras...
and i decided: fun to catch a rhythm...
and **** clicked...
there was a lunar eclipse...
the sun-worshippers suffered a great deal...

i did buy the van **** parks album...
songs cycled... oh yeah!
big fan! i used it... to pass the time...
when... decorating the civil room...
                     pokój (room and peace)...
   ciwilny... i.e.: the living room...
        well... when i was painting the ****
"think outside the box"...
to watch the box... with my dear dear
muvva...
                   because...
you'd only listen to van **** parks...
when... painting a living room
with your mother... moving furniture...
that sort of: project of escapism...

     medieval music and orthodox byzantine chants...
medieval music and...
frank zappa... not the music... though...
the interviews...
             walther von der vogelweide...
                  chevalier, mult estes guariz...
       vox vulgaris - la suite meurtriere...
                    
some people should know...
their language is not... yet... supposed...
peer...

the concept of
the diminutive...
    mały-malutki-maciupki...
the diminutive as a form of endearing...
a size...
wielki-wielgochi...
                      diminutive:
concerning the same word...
a standard prefix... a suffix variation
of gradation...
because! yes! english is awash with
said: plenty!
                    the assured: sire
of the shat upon: shire... by queer
buckingham!
                
                  for any love...
this most loved... this debased...
and a loot of a frown....
          the furrowed brows...
to own a bed to fit two sleeping
in it... ******* in it...
yet more... is to presribed from
an "effort" of sleeping on the hardening...
beside it...
like a greed riddled *****
of a bed-fellow caving to... scrutiny...

furrow-of-brow-down-bidden...
because of a leisured frown...
this and what... to escape with a love...
made ideal...
less of a love and less of
the gymnast who might parade
with ******* statures
of: the well bent...
that of the AK-47... and WD-40...
well oiled... scripture...

                  the music enjoyed...
the music orb: tow: revised...
              
  fidgeting... fetching... fidgeting...
fetching... calls for nuance...
loop holes.... writing under the
policy of spoken truths...
BBC radio 4... depeche mode...
punk-esque and...
              and writing under
the... lost under-belly...
who who's of the cringe fest...
  litany... mollusks r us...
   and... the crab-fetish...
   gamer-no-gamer:
biggest hard-on...
                like... the insensitive...
parody of *******...

                              kippah looters...
******* statues...
old school cringe and toblerone lego...

maurice! oh maurice!
please entertain the advent of
whittle steward!
              
  yes... best to pretend to grieve.

the twin towers of smoke and fire: it only made it necessary for me to bring a mirror by peering into the river... up north: around the vicinity of Upminster in the village of Wennington; south of the river a tower in Bexley: at Bexleyheath... very ******* Lord Ring'y if you ask me... the gateway was opened... two pillars either side of the Thames... these are my parts... well... Wenningston is by no means in my imagination: i used to cycle through it... Upminster, Rainham... Cold-Harbour... the Thameside Nature reverse... the A13 motorway... Rainham landfill site... these are my parts... climate sceptics: wait until it come knocking on your door... and the Thai-"least affected" by monsoon season... i tried being a climate sceptic... i truly tried: sure sure... no problem... this **** is just normal... but there's also a beauty about it all... twin ******* towers of smoke... either side of the Thames... not really far apart geographically on the longitude lines... that's the beauty of England: the Greenwich mean-time... you're either an equatorial (latitude) sort person... or you're a longitude sort of person... i'm of the later persuasion: in terms of being fascinated... mind you: all innovations happen with longitude in mind... latitude is merely the north standing on its head... nothing more... and certain aesthetics of life... like... the further north you go... chances of insomnia during summer? probably high... vampirism during winter? also probably high.... but that image... i can't erase from my head... towers of smoke... and fire down below... one at Wennington and the other at Bexleyheath... with the view of: yonder! the pearl of the world that's London...

I.

there's something about the first 40cl of whiskey
you drink, smoking cigarettes...
finally... the heat-wave is concluding...
   there is moisture in the air...
during the heat-wave i could swear that
there was salt in the air:
by way of osmosis: water in my body:
the body that is however much water was being
drained out... sweated out...
during heat-waves: i swear... there is salt in the air...
tiny particles of salt...
                             elevated to atoms...
NaCl just bouncing around with the gases...
salt-gas... because it's impossible to breathe...
it's impossible to move... it's impossible think...
and you're sweating all the time...
the sky isn't blue: it's a tinge of blue: it's almost white...
the air isn't dry: it's hot-salty...
             and now? ah... almost like an ******...
i get my breath and my soul and my cognitive functions
back... proper...
and there's nothing quiet like the equilibrium:
hell! even the wind returned...
a cool breeze... too: best associated with the night...

i even managed to summon a ghost...
my bedroom: locked... then i was looking up "X"...
and this household gust (przeciag)
pushed open my bedroom door...
             "ghost" or no ghost... if i were to live in
an atheistic-materialism i'd write zilch...
nothing could be interesting: interesting at least in the sense
of keeping a narrative...
i'll mention "X" somewhere else...
   i'd just be regurgitating facts: i'd be a walking
trivia show... an encyclopedia... a walking: one of
those omnibus showcases of museum's
stalemates with dust and hoarding...
        40cl is the starting point:
perched on my windowsill looking into the night:
thinking about what i already know what
what i'm going to write about:
this section is the part where i thought about
thinking about writing... this is the part where
i thought about not-thinking: ergo... writing...
it's a momentum build-up...

II.

i'll get to "X" in a bit...
             but i just realised something...
you can't be an artist and raise a family... impossible...
i wish i tried... i did have a chance, one, at least two...
but with women i was always elsewhere...
i'm still always elsewhere:
i can give one 1 hour every month...
properly... the heat would not have allowed me
to **** anyway... plus... there's a 2 month delay
in my shift-payment...
funny... everyone else that signed up with the company
was given a self-employed "contract":
i was given an employee contract...
they spared me all the minor details and...
lucky me: i know what being self-employed is like:
self-taxing... all those forms...
              so i'll wait for the cold to come
and my libido to come back...
   perhaps other mammals get ***** when it's warm...
as a man... i prefer the ideas of night
and cold to get groovy... because:
if i didn't have a television: i'd probably invest
in a fire place: and whisper into the river secrets
of the soul and wind...
  as it would tell me the secrets of the earth...
and then we'd parade shadows of the death around...
or... i would invest in an aquarium
and ask for Poseidon to appear...
   but i couldn't possibly raise a family...
even right now... what am i doing?
    oh... this is a gem... anti-thesis pop music...
folk music...
            this band Faun, the song? Aufbruch...
i was cleaning the house today as asked:
yeah... it was seriously *****... i mopped the floors
and was shocked...
took a break and listened to the labourers
fixing my neighbour's garden: she finally installed
fake grass and managed to relieve herself
of the jungle... she even gave me a bottle of Peroni
to celebrate her happiness blah blah...
but i was listening to the labourers...
conversation? not so much:
most of it was: x, y & z are going to be at the pub
after work... blah blah this... blah that...
i started honing my hearing to the music
they were listening to...
    
                    ahem... compared to Faun's Aufbruch?
electronic... the artists are tools...
producer music types and typos...
electric voices: not even Kraftwerk sort...
mein gott: dies ist überscheiße!

point being... it felt terribly sleeping with women...
not the *******... the sleeping part...
i was the guy who needed to fall asleep
while listening to music... she was the type of girl
who wanted to fall asleep in silence...
already mismatching...
    and then... ugh... the numb left leg and torso...
falling asleep hugging her... then...
not hugging her... she hugging your back...
sleeping with someone is worse than ******* them...
impossible politics...
at least with cats is like: you're making my
uncomfortable... fair enough... i'll ******* leave then:
great! thanks for coming round in the first place:
but also thanks for ******* off!

hung-up... only because of the ***...
then again: i'm more solitary than it could be led
to believe...
           dim-witted conversations about... what?
prior to sleep? we're going to be talking about...
Walter Sickert paintings of "X"'s music...
or are we going to be talking about... gas bills?!
then we have nothing to talk about...
i try to "think": she might have introduced to me
In Extremo after an **** of Rammstein...
but i moved on into more folk regions...
i spent 2 years with Heidegger...
i spent a year and some with Kant...
              if i had invested in a woman and had children
with her... would i have?
would i currently be listening to Faun's Aufbruch?
sure... the prospect of "dying alone" is oh: oh! oh!
so scary... we live alone most of the time...

and i have a ******* cycling partner?!
as much as i loved squash and as much as i loved
rock climbing... hell... what's the best sport to do solo?
cycling... no lions in my vicinity:
ergo? no need to run...
i can do that 1 hour a month i get paid
to prove to myself: ******* hasn't distracted:
being of the generation
that still had to pass the social-stigmas of buying
magazines from shops rather than getting it
free online... Belgium was best...
even the women selling them didn't mind: scrutinise
teenage boys buying them: truly liberal times...

nothing English; PURITANICAL... *******...
that's why i never explored the "fancy ****"...
of *******... i always steralise myself
by turning the sound: hell... the whole medium of video...
i go back to the images...
and... it's most dressed women exposing cleavage...
or some thing: i mean: ha ha!
it's not like they don't do that already...
i set my boundaries... people can ******* and do their
kinks: whatever...
i once a reached a point where...
i was actually jerking off to Bronzino's:
Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time...
            what idiotic theory that men have a gateway
mechanism whereby they have to increase
their digestive potentials for ****...
for me? a ******* was very much unlike
a pornographic, filmed... *******...
i felt... cut in half... it was ****...
                   it sound great... but it was ****...
why? because of the two girls i only wanted...
the other just jumped on the bandwagon of being rejected
the last time i saw her!
   she was so adamant... i was like: o.k. fair enough...
and throughout... the one i wanted was my perfect
sort of Pandora's Coy type... i liked her and she liked me...
that's what i wanted: you don't get intimacy in
a ******* *******...
there's always the unwelcome party...
duck-lips: bloated: quack quack...
demands: oh: you're going to **** me!
             am i? unlike in pornographic movies...
the changing of condoms between each take on oral ***...
it sort of breaks the momentum:
but... don't even resurrect Jack the Ripper...
modern prostitutes are... minded in healthcare...
in cleanliness...
             listen: if one can be a judge of character and have
unprotected ***? what does that tell you?

oh man... a ******* is ****...
i felt like... crucifixion is the zenith of suffering?
what about the death of the prophet Isaiah?
wasn't he sort of cut in half?!
      i felt cut in half... o.k. so one is performing oral
*** on you... the other is pressing her *******
in your face...
how many eyes are present?
      i was hoping for 4... instead i got... now... it's not 6...
it's five and a half... i'm split...
the idea of ******* two women at once
is a failure of envy...
      i didn't have the care for experiencing it...
i was forced by one ******* i denied twice...

that's the difference... it would have been different
if i wanted a *******...
of all the girlfriends i ever dated... did i break up
with them, or did they they break up with me?
HA HA... they broke up with me!
ergo? it's a completely different dynamic...
it would have been different if i asked for a *******...
but a complete jar-of-cookies if being asked
to have one... no wonder the one i denied
during ******* asked me sort of trying to boost
any egoism in me to begin with: you must feel like a king...
she still didn't get it...

she never figured out she was late to the party...
there was not even a lesbian-interlude of them
kissing during the whole *******...
she became an unwelcome "member" of the "party":
because the one i truly wanted knew:
she kept her mouth shut: i never understood talking
during ***... why bring god into the "onomatopoeia"
of *******?
i couldn't... two?! at the same time... split my body
in two... i'd require some hard-on pills...

i stopped smoking for three days expecting a better
performance from whittle 'ichard...
instead... i had to smoke a cigarette to get
a "better view"...
         but by then i was snuggling into the neck
and collar bone of the one i wanted... kissing her neck
and cheeks... while she was giving me a hand-job
and the unwanted one was a canvas of ugly duck-lips
and ****... which i utilised to add cushion...
come on... if she's a ******* and she doesn't know
how to deal with *******: it's a sheath!
it's a sheath! it's mine whenever i feel constipated:
it's yours when you pull it back...

i thought male genital mutilation was simple
for you ladies?

but me? listening to Faun's Aufbruch...
reading Ovid and Zhuangzi: simultaneously?
while also entertaining the status of fatherhood?
clearly? impossible...
come this very night... would i want to find myself
sleeping in the same bed as woman?
would i want to be asleep right now?
and be sober? i don't think so...
       family life would ruin me!

if i were married right now: i'd be a shell of a man...
yeah - and sure... good luck thinking like some
elder men think: i'll just live the given platitude of
life... i'll career it through...
then, when i retire... i'll pick up my youthful
concerns for art...
sure... that might happen... but it rarely does...
career-wise... that comes first...
not minding having any money? problem...
not minding having any social status? problem?
having a soul? PROBLEM!

i tend to sniff out old dogs that pretend
to be wolves and tell them...
sniff sniff... sniff sniff...
i smell a scent of leash...
i smell a scent of leather on you...
                  
i couldn't possibly raise a family...
i've dedicated my life to prostitutes and art...
and philosophy...
sure... i'll die along: my grandfather died along
too... and he raised some of us to conjure him
as a patriarch: but my grandmother treated it
as a joke of philately...
                          i still own the stamps...
a mostly Soviet stash...
                          
             hmm... i think i might be a millionaire...
but i like playing the pauper...
it's a great filter for... filtering the character of people
that come into my life...
i like playing the pauper...
                         you pretend you have nothing:
but you actually have...
well then... you judge people accordingly to
your experience...
so far? a load of ****** disgruntled folk...
i'll wait... last time i checked: waiting:
is space-expansion relative to "expected" time...
time: after all: is linear...
so waiting... is... counter-time-expected...
it's space-enacted: and space-enacted is expansionism...
                
III.

eh... she might have been a Russian girlfriend,
but even she didn't know anything
about Soviet music... it took me years laters
to find out what i really liked...

Ви́ктор Цой;
Viktor Tsoj - my new Nirvanna-esque mratyr
Moskvitch-2141 vs. Ikarus 250 on 15 August 19 at 12:28 p.m...

i might have dated a Russian girlfriend...
but... she didn't introduce me to
the band CINEMA..
**** me...
the Russian girls of Russian immigrants
in Canada knew of Дельфин (delphin):
dolphin... but i'm talking about something:
Soviet assured in preservation...
this is my take on what's to be preserved...

the current Anglo-culture ***** sax...
                   a Russian-existential sadness that
exuberates a presence that counters
any Scandinavian 19th century existentialism...
perhaps...
              she never introduced me to this band:
i had to find it myself...
    i always tend to find "things": by my own accord...
imagining children is a horror...
esp. if they ought to be my own...
                      i'm more comfortable dealing with the children
of others...
        i don't have friends for a reason:
they're a recurrent boredom: predictability...
   something worse than casting a shadow...

SPASAJA BYGONE!