i could very well be a halfwit *** -
all white: piglet pink / orange of Essex -
by starking contrast -
but i do spend $60.00 on a book
by someone called Heidegger:
oddly enough: i rattled
the mid-life crisis early...
obviously it's hardly a splash-out on
something quite comforting like a yacht:
but still, bricks come cheaper
than books:
you ain't gonna
bother so i might as well ****, oh sorry,
rap my way through the sedimentary
otherwise clowned as the rudimentary
blasé.
i really do solve sudokus drunk:
a higher preference than beating a woman
or starting an argument,
like today,
a white *** ****** arguing about beer:
drunk like a skunk, happy to-fro
black ***** saying: if i had my mobile out
the police would be here in a minute:
black lives really do, matter.
she say shye man's drunk:
****-smear on his trousers, maybe this is
how you mourn someone dying: getting ******* -
but obviously with citizens on patrol over
'ere, that doesn't matter.
she defends the cashier kid, the drunk whitey
gets the Gertrude Stein treatment:
otherwise known as
the cold shoulder -
i don't know what to make
of the whole debacle -
not even with a poem or painting will you make
a squiggly-clean citizen that'll do small-talk with
you and rein in a sunrise worthy of a *******
postcard...
i was promised £8 by a Tesco cashier
for a book i've written, what did i
get? diddly-squat.
so back to square 1, drink one night,
don't drink another night -
and back to: just because you're woollen and
middle-classed and squeaky clean doesn't
mean you're interesting, actually:
you sanity is so ******* boring i'd rather eat
with pigs, and drink myself dead-serious comatose
with a bunch of other assorted hogs.
truth is so ****** obvious, no wonder it's painful.
so i decided to spark 3 chances of beer after
seeing the debate with the Sri Lankans -
with temperatures nearly freezing after wholesome miles
undergone: i sat in a darkened world war i memorial,
then walked through
a leafy part of a would-be graveyard -
and almost everything felt eerie -
like i was son of sam writing from prison -
a self-guide manual or something.
then writing this i became agitated by some s o r t
of c o m p u t e r: v i r u s -
y o u, t h i n k i would be operatic
paranoid having invoked such scenes of the night
with one or two Essex foxes foraging household waste?
it's a variation of the typical Trojan in f e c
t i o n:
i.e. to make human langu a g e
keyboard: rather than alphabetical -
the prin ciple is the same: why not
a e i o u b c d f g h j k l m n p q r s t v w x y z
(mathematics last)?
i could very well be a paranoiac -
but in a Salvador Dali linguo -
b u t l e t's
face it: this is fresh, this is new, and we are naive
in our use and development of it -
we have thrown so much of ourselves out
into the world that the world will not necessarily
throw our self back into us:
mind you, some of us are protesting at our
job losses versus the Chinese -
we want those jobs back: we ain't getting them
back!
well hello! what's your name?
feminism. hello feminism! what do you do?
we are the people behind solely software ergonomics -
all our hardware antics have been exported to
Ching Chang Wu: or Yin in Yiddish,
and Yang in Walla Walla.
it ain't coming back - replica wall versus
Mexico? (Juan Yoddle **** Jack and yack
happening and Xavier?
exercise and ha ha ha? same ****, different cover.)
slamdunk that **** like it was Deep Purple
when in fact it was Blackmore's Night -
hey! me too! i used to work a nightclub so i could
buy a mandolin and do the Rockefella round the clock
jingle to boot too:
got harassed by some gay guy while
cleaning the
toilets where people ****** into
emptied beer bottles, rather than into the actual toilets -
so yeah: big up the latex rainbow parade!
any gimps needing their midnight walkies?