I remember that Day when we sat
(side by side)
On those Stairs
(Waiting for our Train)
And you bought us Miso Soup
(It tasted like Tears)

The Sun hit my legs
(With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia)
Covering them, bathing them. glorifying.
The traffic was the push and pull
(To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising)
Of waves.
Harsh, solid, mechanical waves
(Full of the force of Human Atrocity)

Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet
(With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation)

I thought I was eating the sea.
(I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire)

The Snow-flakes
(Fish-flakes)
Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup
(A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure)
And they swam around and around, Hiding
(Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?)

If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself
(Floating, Filleted)
Amongst those Ribbons of Sea ****.
With each Salty slurp
(That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat)
I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth
(Drowning me in Poison; Poisson)

I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea
(In a Polystyrene Cup)
The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air
(Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru")
Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate
(In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive)

We didn't finish the Miso Soup;
It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.

when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******* disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****,
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.

At Gordon Hill
I climbed aboard
A lazy day
For being bored

Enfield sweltered
Beneath the sun
Then I saw her
She looked like fun

Her torn blue jeans
Showed sun-brown thigh
As Hertfordshire
Slipped quickly by

An English miss
Of that no doubt
My usual type
Is short and stout

But on that train
Just her and I
Her slender form
Did keep my eye

Both Welwyn bound
A summer's day
I fantasised
Us in the hay

That kept the shade
Of her fair hair
They put her there
For me to stare

A poster girl
She was you see
On British Rail's
Class Three One Three.

.                      great!
   the spelling
of an "offensive"
word is
more distressing
to you
than a sexualisation
of a naked body...
   page 3
of the sun comes
nowhere the censor
of the word f%%%;
good boy, good girl,
   make sure language
is *****, and that actual
***** is considered
casual-kojak -
    for
the paedo-ring-leaders;
you try
speaking the truth,
i'll deny it...
        first you apply
the decipher in writing
language...
   and attempt to treat
your invented disease
that's dyslexia....
housewife quacks
wishing for a hard-on;
start talking to nuns
and baking cakes...
or do a downer!
   go transgender!
  the nag hammadi "library"
will surely guide you
down the "righetous" path;
the pronouns belong
to me...
   if "she" can make
me believe "she's" a woman,
i will call "him" a she;
d'uh, coming from a mouth
that once said:
  i'd **** anything
                       that moves,
if a "she" can fool a man...
what's the problem?
   are people forgetting that,
to clarify pronouns,
you sometimes have to grate
some article usage?
    there's a indefinite "pronoun"
that fools hetero....
   but there's also the
definite "pronoun" the hetero
man identifies with, and owns
twice-over....
                if a hetero man doesn't
think about ******* you,
sorry... you're like a frankenstein's
monster experiment gone wrong...
or more like igor's monster...
            the rich can have it all...
     the best you can do is internalise
the dysphoria, and wish
   for a lucky lottery ticket,
  or rich grandparents to perfect
the transition,
   that i might sexually consider you
as a woman...
  otherwise?
              let's just say,
that when western society closed
its mental asylums, it created
  its societies in asylums,
   where everyone could
             be considered mentally
ill.

my godmother was a doctor,
and a drunk,
         she actually witnessed
a drunk fall from a 7 storey,
               ****-limp-numb like
a sack o' potatoes
       and walk away, muttering
the word: kurva...
               i guess there are heftier
concerns for scoring luck...
in that i am also competent:
lucky for me i didn't attempt
to extend, breed a d.n.a.
                          claustrophobia,
and the almost immediate
                 concession for (a) pathos...
maybe this whole human being
with a capacity to do no ill
    is concentrated in how
the romanian women might remember
me...
          two compliments
worth the servitude
                  and, the other bits
in between came from prostitutes...
         along the lines of: dobry (good)
an miły (nice) came from those
infernal gloryhole mouths...
      i can't even begin to fathom
    a philosophy book that strips away
the narrative and entertains
   a dialectic,
        ****, Kant tried it with his
thesis / antithesis section of the critique,
but that's about it...
             not that i mind,
i like the "un"-fathomable quest for shadow,
the cold, and obscurity...
    and to think:
         tomorrow will be just another
day in a life of an other...
             perhaps i'm too much
of a ****** of life,
                   perhaps so much so
that i'm not exactly                      pro vita,
           competence with
a quill, on the whim, a chance to spot
a sputnik,
        and some bull-******* in between...
but at least i missed: the game,
in that i've had the pleasure
to experience an hour's worth of
pure, unadulterated formality...
          most of the time it felt like donning
a tuxedo, drinking a martini,
            albeit standing stark naked...
bypassing the games,
         the supposed: clinging by
                              faking pregnancy...
or not... or whatever the hell goes on
in that Freudian hell-hole of a cranium...
       short, and, sweet...
         i'm acutely aware of the individualist
perspective,
           but only slightly,
   in that:
                 is there an Atlas-impetus to
        listen to an individualistic argument?
i don't mind being the:
   ****** off into a tissue flushed down
the toilet aspect of humanity...
                   an unconscious bias against
women beyond the fornication
sphere...
                  if that ***** of a nurse at
the hospital didn't attempt to almost choke
me to death, enlarging my heart
and giving me a hospital stipend on
the receiving end of: "looked after"...

   well then...

               water under
the bridge...
                    which is plenty of water...
   bored to death listening to
my grandfather talk about his grandfather
with a desire to: actually meet him...

  i've become tired of dying...
               the fact that i wrote something
shows little depth to sustain
a predicament...
    that's always:
          the life that dies before the actual
death: memory...

         it's almost abhorrent,
this, "natural" selection of memory -
           and yet:
   so much of the faculty is wasted
upon learning arithmetic....
     education as an erosion of memory...

i don't hate women,
     just haven't the chance to know one
that stayed around
    longer than the current cats clinging
to me...
       a woman is a concept akin
                       to: growing a third arm...

enough love stored to know
that there's little allegiance behind it;
sure, plenty of potential,
        just like my sober hours make
a lot of sense...
                just enough to spot
the social contraints of acting without
a theatre...

             mind you,
it's almost funny that i forgot my genitals
after i threw one hundred and ten
quid into her lap...
      
     plain ******* doughnut:
               no secret fetish,
                      apart from -
                                    the other, warmth;

a one-dimensionality of a blink,
  with regards to no elaborate sexualisation
   of the matter...
                  something, almost...
  thrilling;
                 still, a persisting thought,
           the thought that's an ought i
without an immediate outlet of an
                 auto-suggestive reciprocation.