i hate technology, its automated typo system, i write one thing and then it starts playing hide & seek with me... i rarely make mistakes, but this a.i. automated typo system makes me look stupid, or neurotic in the least, i hate this automatic typo signification as if i am teaching someone!*

i love that drinking wins over writing sometimes,
like this strange neo-left asking me to top it all off
with my communist grandfather living under stalin
completely in agreement with them girlies weeping
when he stank the dog off the grave in terms of bio-tech
completion; he wouldn't be dear to the left epitaph,
he'd be like voltaire & the priest: given the devil
in the sickbed there was not time to choose enemies...
he'd be branded a ****... worded... the worst kind...
a pseudo pacifist of some sort... couple economy
and atheism and you get a darwinian exclusion
where the ants aren't oblivious to lions but exclude them
for their species so well organised, god can take
the hangover route and make the "self" less sellable;...
(economy of a species and darwinism
demands communism - exclusive economisation;
not inclusive economisation...
that's some sort of theological branch
of personification where man minds spider above
another man, etc.)...
there's no self included, esp. a (")self(") worth selling...
which means exactly that (the opposite of now)...
NO TOURISM INTO THE REALM
OF CELEBRITY LITERATURE...
WHICH IS ONLY BIOGRAPHIES....
GET YER **** OUT GIRLS!
YOU'LL WRITE A BOOK SOMETIME!
god this culture is barren, and to think i dressed up
in uniform for school listening to jethro tull once...
this ain't the same country...
it sold out to the arabs... charles iii
is a ******* traitor!
traitor!
charless the iii is john ii... character assasination
you like you did with diana...
diana's revenge... yeah i believe you
were wearing silk straps of safety and the
driver survived and the parapazzi blinded the driver:
one thing about jealousy... it has dwarf legs.
they pass into the political realm they do....
easier come easier to take on in politics...
economic migrants (we'll see about that,
your philanthrophy just took to faking flight
via an invisible magic carpet flapping its trims)...
i told you once that democracy is like inverse voyeurism...
mark the x on paper, ***** an ****** into jugs for
pale ale... excess carbonation... it turns all fizzy...
the geese marched into winter...
the swans marched right into a royal edict...
the neo carta was never crafted...
but i got the hang of the diacritic marks...
i was walking drinking a belgian cider...
C DER.... in belgian french there's an accent,
stress the c, makes the vowel missing...
cídre - not really acute i, but an acute c...
c         dr. dre, i.e. dre, c dre...
it's the acute stressor of c that makes the vowel
disappear... not that a vowel can actually
become acute... vowels like women wear
mascarra to look pretty, the consonants are
serviced for a complexity... via hebrew original...
c                        dre
not
               si                        ahem...               dre.
in passes on the pompom for expected pomp -
i can't believe it took a bottle of belgian cider
to get that across.
oh sure they can hang me... by the snout...
for i won't be able to march into a field of truffles...
but hey... big snout worthy... never mind
trying to wear leather shoes given the hannibal
treatment for tacky snakeshoe leather.
most say that difficult literature is literature unread...
there's no other difficulty in literature...
difficult literature is simply unread, that's why
it's difficult... simple literature trickles down as easy as water...
and that's why it's easily managed by what
the chinese done already, having no hollywood and
damning india's bollywood... their phoneticism
is lodged in ideograms... pictograms...
european phoneticism is lodged in a skin to number,
B akin to 8, e.g., we get rich owning ovens
televisisions and satellites... but we also own
watiers and cooks who are mechanised...
and have no richness of thought...
who cares if beijing is clouded in smog?
we have 15 more years of carbon emission to wait for
before our idealism is profitable!
ah but the arab girls will migrate to london every year
between may and august... i should be so lucky lucky
australian girl pop lucky with them shopping
in only one hot spot, a grieving egyptian's legoland
of tacky known as harrods!

note: this is not a poem but an account of the mental aftermath of Hanau, where ten people got killed yesterday. one of them was the mother of the killer who worked in a bank, was paranoid and believed in conspiracy theories.


a turkish guy whose name means "justness" was shot to death by him. in the community, he was popular for his kindness.
he was killed because he was an immigrant, a muslim, and because he hung out with his friends in a shisha bar to enjoy his leisure time. got hit by bullets. died, leaving relatives, friends and an entire muslim community, the entire world, in daze.



met three uber drivers today, all of them muslims, two of them know some of the victims personally.  

the first one of them was desperately sad today. i asked him "how are you?" he answered "not well" and told me everything. i was very concerned because i can't deal with such inhumane cruelty.

the second driver was from pakistan. he argued that germany is an open-minded country and that he had left his country due to religious lunacy that is lived by some people there.

the third driver was interestingly humorous. as wired as it may sound, he thought positively after the assasination and said that the relatives of the victims should live on as if their people hadn't been killed.

i don't know about that; yet, everyone deals with terror differently.

hanau is just a couple of miles from my home city, frankfurt am main.

in my heart, my spirit and my soul, i am with all the victims, their relatives, friends and colleagues.

MAY GOD BLESS ALL YOUR SOULS. MY CONDOLENCES. MAY GOD BLESS US ALL.

MUCH LOVE FOR ALL BELIEVERS OF ALL RELIGIONS. LOVE IS THE ONLY WAY TO DEAL WITH THAT.

The killer killed himself after the crime.

OH GOD, GIVE US STRENGTH. WARMTH. HOPE.

I once was something
that I am not now
too much shock
to the system
caused a retreating
away from the world
into myself

A solitudinarian
while my systems
shut down
preparing to reboot

a cocooning occurred
followed by
metamorphosis
then transformation
reordering of
damaged cells
damaged goods
a regeneration
following
the assasination
of my juvenescense
by his malefic mind

6 years
living in the jar
hermetically sealed
spinning silken threads
around myself
tears hardening the shell
impenetrable
invisible
making myself small quiet
wanting to be unwanted
looking to be unnoticed
retired from a life not yet begun
necessity for survival
dictated the state of play
all the while thinking feeling
questioning
then throwing away
all my mislaid assumptions
my mantra

* I want to be happy
a happy life
I will not let him have it
my life is mine
my joy is mine
my freedom is mine
he has taken enough
I am taking happiness back *

an unremarkable day
the day I woke up
revivified
able again to draw a full breath
without flinching
without waiting
for his reaction
I ran in the park barefoot
I swam in the ocean
laying on the beach after
toes in the warm sand
the sun drying me
free
a child again renewed

J.C. honey-tiger 16/08/2019. 4.44am.

back in England,
and back to the similitude
of the pardonable
quest for an,          i...

standing before a wall
of books,
from the floor to the ceiling,
stacked
like some
reminiscent domino
of events that didn't
take place...

     back into an interpolation
of i,
   via an interchange
between ? and !

            as if existentially
content: as if:

      from that persistent
bulwark
               whereby there is,
no nothing...
   either an expected agitation
or a nightmare,
or an unexpected self-encounter...

born a slab of clay,
died a slab of marble,
yet featureless -

   not the repetitive dream
of falling,
   not some dream-world
phobia, guaranteed in,
say: claustophobia...

  something English,
and therefore eerie...
as if teasing American,
or what is the vein,
not the L.A. artery
cultural export...

   the sleepy, hallow and
mistifying north east,
the first indentation...
   something...
  akin to:
     what happens when
you first encounter
Dumas... but not H. P. Lovecraft...
but encounter the latter
in an essay
by michel houellebecq -

**** me... French phonetics
and French linguistics -
either a misnomer
in saying:

        no wonder they
are the basin for idea -
or rather... the Freudian
id etc....

                    the clarity of
phonetic encoding,
to be honest:
    i know of one
that is, but buckles under
an orthographic aesthetic,
like a wronged limb,
there...
   but... dull...
  limp... yet there: provocative...

a return then to: there,
or, rather: "there"...

a month sober,
first night drinking
and one expects to unfold
a month's worth
of a Libra imbalance,
i.e.:
    write as much as you read,
or...
  read as much as you write:

never write less than
you read,
   never read less than you
write...
apparently i read
more than i was supposed
to write...

what with the Sveedish
invasion of Poland,
like some... murky rubric
i learned in the Irish
   niche of the outer
east London nibbling Essex...

Romans...
  Romans...
  this diabolical theatre
of agitating poetics
like mantras...

   either Jesus with his
bread and wine...
or mystical Eve with
a 2 in 1 combo's worth
of an apple...

mind you, i did notice
the difference between
western and eastern
Europe...
how the night is illuminated...
dimmed sulphur like
emblems of a moth's
delight in:

    tip of (the) tongue -
onomatopoeia:
where no noun dare tread...

a month's worth without
   a "freedom" of speech
  (third person inquisitive
contort):
   you mean - diarrhea?

yes - thank you, dear,
whoever, what-
    a character assasination
of the narrator...
say...
why am i unable to write
a novel, brimful
with an assortment
of characters?

  ah... i remember the basis...
of this: "nuance"...
  yes... either a misnomer,
or an ambiguity,
caged in the existentialists'
"       ": lacking
the morn upon the 1st of
May's lark...

         i wanted to paint,
but... i can't afford to buy either
paint or canvas or brush...
and... i grew out of writing
novels before i even began
writing novels...
i found it hard to translate
a childish game
into a novel, hardy,
adult enterprise...

hence this interrogation...

  as a Chinese State policy
child... perhaps a, millennial...
but as an only child...
i prefer to be dubbed...
the third plenum of the 18th
central committee of the chinese
communist party:
of which i am not,
    but... eh... what a waste...

i didn't end up writing
novels, because...
i used to play with G.I. Joe...
marionnettes...
   how then to translate
marionnettes into adult?
ah...
   "eureka"! (mundane tone):
write a novel...

   i cut off my hands
and opened my eyes
to the grand lambda...

   i found her on a coach trip
to Warsaw...
   Λ...
   the sensation / awareness...
once i used to smoke marijuana
to entertain
a lost narrative,
    a "lost" narrative...
   which was cogitans per se
is... with all the annexed ergo
implies: cogito est narratio...

of course... minus
ethics, etc.
          which is how i came
across a keyhole,
θought...            which became:
    φought:
or rather... without a question
of a morose: 'ought -
esse - i.

                             that same
blatant disembodiment
of the will of man...
Voltaire is good at that...
   simpleton,
       Zadig...
                sure, prior to: Candide...
but in England,
let me assure you:
do you think you'll ever
buy a copy of Voltaire's
principles of Newton's
physics?
        
               not a chance!

perhaps i grew out of
toying with G.I. Joe
marionnettes too late,
perhaps...
hence? no novel...
hence(?)                  poetry...

sketches...
     the consort of thought...
there is no other,
and there is no...
poetry is no art,
there is no ars poetica...

   Heidegger appreciates
Hölderlin...
a poem is not a *******
rhyme worth a pence
for a ******* postcard... savvy?!

where philosophy dictates
a wall,
   poetry dictates
a brick...
    when "things" become
too... inedible...
people start to flirt with
vegetarianism...

      but said "things" are: edible...
yet...
   poorly manifest
in the dignity they
demand...
   say... a hunted boar
is a tad bit higher
in the hierarchy of tiers
when man
compensates
   the boar with
a caged chicken...

                    and what of
cultural Darwinism?
the same... the same unit of man,
as bothered by:
how German and French
existentialism / humanism,
became the Anglo-Zaz
futurism / economics of:
always the pristine
                German and Chinese
labor...

          i guess some people
have no notion
of either slavery or liberty,
as much: a soul
or boredom...
        only the English
brought about a concept
that overpowered a concern
for worth, in ethic
(with a missing S) -

                                   or not...
deutsche? arbeit!
   chinesisch? arbeit!
the English? flirt...
flirt with nebuchadnezzar...
and let the jew mystify
everything, pact universal.

my, my disembodiment...

       Λ:

  no... not V...    not 5...
   somehow not A either...

                 two eyes
and a pointer...
no... not the nose...
rather... an imagined horn /
honing device...
as in?

   not the automated nature
of the brain,
jellyfish soap opera...
fungus marionnette...

       m'ah ******* forehead...
Λ = oculus + fore'      'ed
   (Cockney gapoos)

   V = oculus + shut mouth
+ wry & wormly numb-tongue

    or the Welsh salute at
the French... in loan a broan
post bow set loose...
arrow: pointy thing...

      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................

(which is an authentic pause...
filled with
fiddling with my beard)

   like sticking
a stick into a river
       and expecting it
to change course...
    
   a wild idea,
  but...
        some insanities
are adhered to...
   Xerxes "thought"
  the lashing the sea...
           a blind
convent of all
our hearts' content:
life -
or no life:

            a bothersome
clause...
    
                         an intimidating
yawn...
       a bloated
saturation of filth
in a sieve...

                           with a childish
kaleidoscope of causes...

   the:  ergo ad continuum
of science...
a *******'s worth
of existential glue.