.compiled with the hallucination of a diety making farting sounds with a hand lodged into its armpit, and then squeezing, extracting a synthetic farting sound.

                                   the belittled heart,

   counter arguments
to a "belittled mind"...

or is that,
what you call....
a "late take" on reproduction,
with birth defects,
and how,
subsequently,
these people,
these "people" are treated worse
than sheep,
when herded outside
the concept of a slaughter-house?
no? no really?

    just because i *******
into you,
suddenly i'm freed from
the pol *** disposition
of performing a genocide
into a tissue?!
      
   "suddenly": we don't care
what you feel!
came the constipated /
constricted heart...
and, who, the ****!
made you believe,
that someone,
might,
   even begin,
to, give a ****...
about, what, you, "think"?!
huh?!
     who ever gave a ****
about what people thought?
you know,
i care, what people think,
because that's the closest
i'll ever get,
to what thinking doesn't
allow...

            "justified" complexity...
i don't need to visit thailand
for that sort of ****,
i just need to dig a trench
into the psyche
of: the neighbors i'll never
talk to,
the natives...
        why?
   and they talked to me to begin with?
no...
           so?
hello, friend, hello, shadow...
            some people haven't
moved outside of their inherent
lodging,
  they, don't know
what it "feels" like,
or that the thinking behind
it requires...
              
        no, i'm with the people
behind the: feel movement...
given that...
pretty much all of the "thought"
associated with engaging
with the currect dialectic,
leaves me...
   more inclined to reply
to feeling,
rather than the "thinking",
of sourced counter measures...

   feeling compensates
the complexity of thinking,
when thinking detaches itself
from feeling and explores
         the regions of when
emotion doesn't compensate feelings...
but...
to somehow turn around...
and debase thinking...
with slander contra emotion...
  to turn us into apathetic
                    autistic zombies /
muslims?
                       a belittled mind does
one thing, it shut ups...
but a belittled heart?
when someone belittles
someone for having emotions?
you know what is worse
than belitteling someone for
the "possession" of thought?
the next, the ultimate,
is belitteling someone
for the "possession" of emotion...
  
i can be called dumb,
i have no problem with that...
but... being called...
"something" associated,
with the automated expression
of owning a heart?
  now, now you're holding foot
on sacred territory...

       and with something akin
to the christchurh shooting...
i really don't need a reason...
   the reason reasons itself
into a completion...
      'i don't care about your feelings!'
reply?
   and i really didn't give
a **** about what you think,
but you managed to speak,
so, i guess my care for what you thought
is off the table.

          but by now,
it doesn't really matter...
the horrible has already taken place...
and...
                english "existentialism",
somehow being woken into
a philosophical humanism,
with the current counter-scientific
delusion of trans-gender
grammar inclusion change...
          i'm post-soviet...
and i want the soviets back...
this isn't working for anyone's
worth of crafting favour...

         nope...
                                not really...    
i'm just hallucinating
the flavour of apples,
and pancakes in my mouth
while i drink having made proper
due to a fast...

                    that usual talking point...
'i don't care what you feel!'
that's true, it's all true...
but why should i care...
what, you think?

   at least feeling is less suspect,
when entertaining the medium
of writing...
   if you really wanted to care
about what you thought...
you should start writing cipher,
if trasmitting thought
was on the cards,
        it would only become fathomable
via something akin
to a sudoku;

    i sometimes hear a song,
pretend to not peer into the night
donning a pair of sunglasses...
pretend,
i didn't just date a russian girl,
who would read me extracts
from the cosmopolitan magazine,
did?
         oddly enough:
the heart, and the brain,
  "talk"...
          the heart reserves the same
freedoms associated with
the brain...
              thought:
i get a head-ache...
    thought:
i have a pang of a "feeling",
a stone grip of the heart...
                 so shouldn't thinking /
ought-making be associated
with the liver?
              the only sensation of
the brain: is a negative
     connotation...
               at least the heart can allow
the entire spectrum...
           no... usually...
when it's "good"...
it's a sense of goosebumps...
which occupies
   the presence of skin and hair
of the cranium,
but not the brain itself...
        
        and by now...
                   none of my thinking translates
into some deviation of an einstein's theory...
but i could never dismiss
the point of feeling,
akin to: no one cares about your feelings...
well, dialectic disclaimer...
some would claim that:
no one cares what you think... yes?

sha! shtil! makht nisht keyn gerider,
                                         der rebe geyt shoyn tantsn vider...
   (hush! quiet! don't make a commotion,
                                                      ­  the rabbi will dance again...)
        and who said that yiddish had
                                               no place, in our hearts?
i shed the tears... because i might have been one of
the polish workers, that might have had to build concentration
camps, with a gun aimed at my head, if i didn't.

pompous ponces... belitteling gang-bangers,
******* fudge-packers...
i just look at them, getting all panicky with
trump* being elected,
  hoping for the unholy alliance of women
running the western politic theatre...
with elizabeth ii being the spearhead...
                     the ponces are so ******* peacock
in their brexit vote...
                  you, you do know that history is
happening elsewhere, akin to you "take the power"
back...
             i can't believe i'm watching this...
there was the austro-hungarian empire...
  what i'm seeing? the holy german empire shifting
to the east by a degree...
          an alliance, known as the visegrad group...
a polain-*** alliance...
            we! we have the concentration camps
we can re-open and allow the migrants in,
handing them out christmas cards with a coca-cola santa...
oh, but you do abuse what you do inherit,
and i inherited the horror stories of my great-grandmother
on the front in the villages, where her brothers
were slain... come on you western ponce... tanz! tanz!
brexit? that's about as interesting as selling a bunch
of tomatoes...
     head east... european union and what not...
but we're not german... look what's forming...
it's almost like a self-fulfilling masochistic prophecy...
any time soon and the visegrad "group" will scare
"serious" people ("intellectuals")... as it become empire prone...
not much to boast the democratic boast
of a brexit...    what a puny excuse to make journalism
into mere sensatioanlism.
         ah but what happened in only a single day, or has
the allowance of a 100,000 listeners... will only last a day,
that spreads into a concern that lasts a week...
      and is then slowly killed over a month, and then tortured
for a year in a necrophilic sense for the basis of time...
       but what happens over the years...
and months, and weeks... and has but a handful of listeners?
you really want me to answer?
fair enough... pythagoras that i learned in school...
         christ i was told to kneel before in his crux "lotus" pose...
oh sure... they don't want to pay for their past sins,
the germans or the english...
         but... thank **** for their current calamities...
the defence for israel's existence doesn't stem from
  the knuckle-meat-head power of the americans...
        last time i checked... poland was missing from
geographical maps for 200 / 300 years?
     heart and will are not the same as mere brute knuckle
cockerel posturing... it's not even cockerel posturing...
more like peacock posutirng, in some ancient
harem of baghdad...
                         as the russians learnt, invading afghanistan,
which the americans, were soon to forget.

does the youth of today realise
it doesn't run a monopoly
                           of internet content?
        do they? really?!
          with the context of internet
banking... and online shopping...
can youth of today please *******
with their belitteling chants
  and, please  use the playground?
it's become a bit like giving
    an aged psychopath a red button,
to launch a nuclear weapon...
oh wait: here comes the nation
      getting all paranoid... being the sole
powehouse to have... actually detonated
it on a civilian area!
        yeah... russia is bad... no no tommy,
no no jim...
              they're like germans...
they imploded... and felt guilty...
but instead of producing great machines
of the 4 wheels... they decided upon great
movies... guilt is internalised in many
shapes and sizes...
                  the french were reasonable
though...
      it's a bit like that fire-******* story...
set of a petard in your hand when it's
open... you'll get a scratch...
      but set off the fire-******* (petard)
        while your hand is clenched...
     boom! try waving after that...
                      the french were reasonable
in that they did their nuclear tests
        in aquatic environments...
        natural insulators...
                      that's actually not reasonable
in the puritan sense of the words...
      where was the japanese army bombing
the **** out of the tsunami wave of
                                         2011 tōhoku?
i swear the army could have intervened...
bombed the **** out of the massive wave
                                  and stopping it by dividing it...
where was the *** army?
      oh right... nowhere... there was a helicopter with
a reporter going: oh ha! nagasaki!
                               kimono sa ka!
              i swear... if they bombed the **** out of
that wave, it wouldn't have travelled inland and
ever had done the damage... that it had done...
        so much for the army... and so much
for the *** emperor...
                 eh?
               you bomb the tsunami wave...
the wave doesn't travel inland...
             1 + 1 = 2?
              really? was that the time to consider
   the question as a rhetorical ambiguity?
by the way? there's no such thing as a rhetorical question...
not in the way the phrase is dropped...
       you really can't ask a "rhetorical question"
if you're rhetorically sound, i.e. readied to
blah blah for the next half hour...
                              who asks a rhetorical question
is not someone already performing the sophist art
of performance speech that goes: on and on, on and on...
  if someone says: that was a rhetorical question...
it's just covert tactic for them to keep on talking...
     what the **** is a rhetorical question?
answer? the person asking that question,
            keeping up with their monologue.
                    a rhetorical question doesn't endorse
a dialogue... a rhetorical question, as a phrase
             is a solipsistic / sophist tactic: the two
ought to be synonymous...
             for the person talking... to just keep on talking
(you can do that pigeon neck movement
          speaking the italics... yeah... like you're
head-banging).

/the bore of moral relativism stemming from the eden metaphor:

i am sure, a satanic lie, but perhaps
a godly one too...
    type on the problem of the three
doherty brothers,
   with the husband having committed
suicide...
  the remaining brothers,
   with the remains of natalia doherty
in one of the remaining alive brothers...
the "disappearence" of
    natalia doherty from luton,
later found in the garden of one of the brothers...
drunk, she started shouting abuse
at the future suicide...
                clearly the story:
           the man who committed suicide
did the ******,
           the brothers stepped in
                  and covered up the burial...
i'm working from first impressions...
                   the husband killed, but could not
stomach the deed, so he took his own life,
his brothers stepped in
                          and took care of the ***** work
of making a crass burial...
                     justice is but water
       between the blood of familial ties...
as it were, brothers in arms...
                  but justice was served,
somehow, perhaps not the burial rites,
   but the fact that a suicide took place...
a g. madonim painting replaces my
aztec calendar, now hanging on my wall...
             and he lay with her for several days,
the brothers did the ***** work,
disposed of the body...
                           in that, they buried her
face down...
                       as if to imitate:
                        the shut mouth that once
took to drunk obscenity...
                    always the most mundane face
behind the most belitteling deeds...
     even if 12 years later...
                   and they say:
actions speak louder than words,
    sometimes words have unparalleled
consequence to be mismatched by deed...
                    guilty?
  who is guilty in this matter,
          if the actual murderer committed suicide?
too much of a brotherly love
        to leave the matter blatantly staring
in the face...
                       and what of the woman
without a grave?
        how much longer does the memory
of a person remain intact without
a "proper" western burial?
                             coffin unto slugs,
rot of wood,
                         or the immediate enegry
release from the Ganges?
                                       an abandoned grave
or no grave at all?
             justice would have been
served, if the murderer was still alive...
              then, of course,
            the remaining doherty brothers
would be guilty...
           but what if the same doherty brothers
didn't whisper a noose on the man
who strangled his wife?
              as they might have added:
    you did the ugly bit, we did you a favour
doing the ***** bit...
                   what respect for the dead
is there in rearranging the body, face up?
               a second dagger, a certainty,
and the two old brothers, with one playing
deaf, the other playing liar...
                      apparently in a fit of rage:
hell knows no fury like a woman scorned,
     but what is that of man?
                 heaven knows not of a man
castrated by a woman's words?
                  in the immediate sense -
                    oh gerald gerald...
said the two elder brothers...
                                if gerald was still alive...
you could judge the elder brothers
as accomplinces...
                                 at first i thought: b'ah!
but at least she wasn't buried as gerald would
have intended: chopped up and disposed
in dustbins...
                      she remained intact in
the ground...
                          since the undertaker walked
scot free...
                  3 months for the liar, aged 73.

Pre-scriptum (and yes, no italics this time round):

i was never going to do this day any justice by writing about
it, not in a hundred years, after all: i was going to write about my experiences prior to actual events external of me: not out of egoism or for that matter: a solipsism; i'm just not the type of "poet" akin to a Richard Blanco: the inaugural poet for Barack Obama's second term in office: i just can't bring myself to that Atlas' pose with a pen: perhaps i would require too much paper, but to stand there: like the inaugural poet does and speak so much mumbo-jumbo is... it's not beneath me, it's above me... i'm the "poet" of the Coliseum, i'm the "poet" of brothels and the "poet" of madness and the "poet" of shadows and the night, of the moon and of the forests, i'm the "poet" of aloneness, i'm a "poet" of the philosophers (perhaps a poet-philosopher - a vain title, i know), i'm not an oratory "poet", i'm the "poet" of the old tradition who sometimes smiles and giggles when he finds: rather than brings himself to rhyme! i already drafted something before writing this, i'm currently skim-reading it and trying to make it somewhat salvageable... i doubt i will find anything worth salvaging: that day (3 days have past) will remain a Titanic at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean for me... and so it should be... not that i haven't made the already necessary reflections: well... they were the reflexive-reflections not something i would give much thought to, for a reflection-proper: i absorbed too much on the day to be so generous... but i did the smartest thing imaginable: i took crux-photographs... pivotal pictures from the day... and catalogued them here: https://bit.ly/3d1Tto2...

i have to actually write a schematic if my approach to this is to make any sense: of course i will also interpolate the schematic, jumping from one "event" to another, the schematic is as follows:

(a) babysitting Malvina

                                  (b) West Ham vs. Steaua București
                                      at the London Stadium

(c) the brothel

                                    (d) Afghan "Jamie"
                                          and his gift and everything after...

question? i'm asking myself this... whether to abide
by the schematic linearly a > b > c < d
or to simply (as i already referenced) juxtapose?
interpolate? i.e. a = b = c = d
                    the latter option seems more viable...
i don't like cascading narratives...
for me there's no river of narration: there's the wrathful
sea of narration... water comes all at once: water doesn't
flow: it bashes and sieges the land: esp. the lands
of islands... water, water everywhere:
and not a drop to drink... i'm not going to quote
the poet who wrote those lines...
i'll treat this as a puzzle-box... being a huge fan of
the Hellraiser "franchise" it would be wrong not to...
puzzles... i imagine that if i were good at crosswords
i wouldn't be able to write so fluidly...
i prefer misnomers to synonyms: but that's just me...

when will i begin?! i'm tired of explaining myself...
it will come of its own accord...

ah! first things first...
    QUEEN and KING...
                          so i'm guessing that when the next
international matches are played and
the national anthem is sang... it won't be women singing:
but men... for the simple reason that
women can allocate a higher pitch to:
how does the word queen look like, when sung
by a professional?
                      god save the: queēn!
                                i would have applied the acute diacritical
marker, i.e. queén...
i'd agree with either since the crescendo of the anthem
comes with the last word: either queen of king...
in the case of queen: que-eeeeeeeeeeeeee(n)
the N is there: but the fact that the vowel extended
takes so much breath away... the singer of the anthem
might as well treat the N as an apostrophe
i.e. quee'                    and only women can reach that
pitch of song...
it's a lot different with KING...
          god save the: kíng vs. kīng... since?
well... you need a baritone to sing the word king to
a prolonged crescendo... kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing
    and like the N on the end of quee-n
                              the -ng are meshed: strangely...
but not so strangely...
              i KONG KY crystals...
  (that's KY of: IGREK: a hollowed out y-why,
KY not KI not KE not cat not queue: not question
of qwhestion, that would be a Welsh spelling)...

the day started well enough, the manicurist / pedicurist
was supposed to come a day prior
to sort of mother's nails out... she was was supposed
to come with her baby daughter a day earlier,
it was supposed to be a Wednesday...
apparently the little rascal was giving her trouble
when she tried to attend to other customers:
she would ignore her mother's work,
she would hang around her mother... pull her trousers
(or t-shirt) making it near impossible for her mother
to do her work: even on that fateful day, that was
a a Thursday, she was sceptical about whether she would
be able to do both my mother's hands and legs...

now, i imagine that having children of my own would
decrease my hormonal level of testosterone
(talk about a Chemical Circus, psychiatrists still talk
on chemical grounds when it comes to psychiatric
disorders: the ancient "chemical imbalance" in the brain...
these supposed "atheists" don't even acknowledge
the fact tat the "soul" is chemistry-free,
there's no chemical imbalance: but they still pump
the sufferer of "said" ailment with an approach
that's post-experimental, i.e. a failure) -
no one talks about a hormonal imbalance...
me + children? i'm fine with that: as long as they're not
my own... with the children of strangers i get to
keep my Abrahamic integrity: i invest in the moment
rather than some concern for lineage:
what matters is the child in the moment i'm sharing
the moment with it...

so? i knew there was only one approach for the girl's mother
to do her job... do both hands and feet...
i needed to exhaust the child...
last time i saw her she wasn't walking: she wasn't speaking...
this time i upped my approach to the tender
"fat-thumb"... i put on Disney's Alice in Wonderland...
a somewhat distraction... then? i watched
as she found it fascinating to play with my cats' toys...
ugh: my cats have become terribly existential,
they are no longer fascinated by toys...
they're more fascinated with what i'm fascinated:
i.e. peering at "nothing": staging a coup of "nothingness",
a coup of "nothingness" and of space and of time...
but this BOBAS (the ****** equivalent of the Italian
BAMBINO) took to the cats' toys...

at first she was throwing the toys in the air,
while i was catching them...
each time i didn't catch the toy / ball i heard
the angels sing: no... i didn't: the time i heard angels
(descending?) sing (ascending?) i was terrified...
i just heard the honey trickle of a child giggling...
at first she was shy... pointing out that i had a beard...
she liked my beard... last time she was tugging on it
trying to conjure up a teddy-bear from it...
i like women who have an insatiable urge to pull
on my beard...
but that was the last time i saw Malvina...
this time round she was throwing cats' ***** into
the air and i was catching them... snap-reflexes...
i missed one or two throws: i pretended to juggle...
she giggled and ran back to her mother
to express her joy: this man is playing with me...

man: not boy...
we did that for a while... later we moved to a different
game... we were throwing ***** up the stairs
and watching the ***** roll back down...
then? we sat at the (insert the proper noun,
it's not a table) and i taught her the "art" of spinning
the *****... then i "taught" her the "art" of:
you know... ***** can be thrown... but they
can also be rolled... so we were playing a game
of rolling the *****... rather than throwing them...
the expressions on her face were so intense...
i couldn't ask her why: unlike the prostitutes
in the brothel when asking me: why is your stare
so intense?! WHY NOT?!
you want me to talk?! i'm not bringing our nakedness
into the equation: i'm not going to talk
when we're naked! we talk as if blind people
seeing Braille rather than touching it!

i was just about to offer her some makeshift
Black Forest Gateaux sponge of a "muffin" when
her mother looked up, the little, dearest babe climbed
into a cocoon of pillows and started indicating that:
there has been enough excitement worth of a day's
worth of today... she snuggled up in that cocoon
of pillows... picked up her "smoochie": sucker?
and started giving me the lazy eyes...
i picked up a cover and laid it across her...
the light from living-room was glaring...
i joked: maybe if i put these (here) sunglasses
on your pretty petite visage will you fall asleep?
she managed the joke for about 10 minutes
before pulling them from her face...and... naturally...
as any child exhausted by play could: COULD tell you...
play is exhausting: esp. when playing with someone
who's experimenting on you psychologically...
from throwing *****, to spinning *****...
to rolling *****...
she couldn't have cared to *****' worth of what was
Alice in Wonderland about...

i don't think i will ever forget those cheeky ******
expressions... akin to: we were rolling the *****
across from each other (pretend chess)...
one ball went missing... i was lazy enough to keep
it missing... she grunted: protested!
exactly! we were playing with three *****!
i had to retract my "misguidance"...
well... if she wanted to change of stamina from
throwing them and me catching them...
to now rolling them... we needed all three!
when we were throwing the ***** up the stairs...
what a clever little creature...
she had her favourite coloured ball...
she was throwing a purple ball...
i had to throw the orange coloured ball...
she shared the "adventure"... the game...
but it had to be so... her consciousness already
recognised anti-ghosts of both form and colour...

why would i be bitter?
wouldn't i want children? me and the children
of strangers... sure as **** i wouldn't be trying to teach
them any "pronoun muddles" of the muddy waters
of: if the old COMMUNISTS came in contact with
the "communists of the west"? they'd be GULAG FEED...
some people become fathers and mothers
and are underserving of such roles...
people like me never became fathers simply because:
the would-be mothers are undeserving to
have children that could be fathered by people like me...
it's a calculated truth...
how much ******* money do you need
before the money is only earned in order
to be ****** away by a woman?!
i earn enough to keep myself content!
once a single man reaches this zenith: it's hardly worthwhile
to sink to a nadir of expenditure...
you can always find some stranger's baby to babysit...
then again: not always...
i'm just lucky that i have found my Bambino....

at some point some journalistic Da-Sein started trickling
in: into the household while i was entertaining
a baby: who finally managed to become lullabied
to a sleep that lasted well over one, and half an hour,
even my mother exclaimed: how did you manage it?!
i just replied: i was just being myself...

the news came along the lines of: she sovereign
is peaceful, she's gladly on her "death bed"...
no mention of "death" though...
but when the news increased in detail:
the whole family was to be made full attendance of:
(what poet ever wrote about the death
of Julius Caesar? no one... all of a "sudden":
then, ****! like the "hidden" emergence of the smoke
of history from the fire that was, the man
who uttered the word: alea iacta est -
none on the day of the event... most poets were
busy with their "poetic" *******...
few were scheming the full depth of womanhood,
from baby, to queen and to a *****)

i finally uttered my fiery tongue:
i will give her until tomorrow...
i even said: i hope he suffers the anti-illness of death
prior to the match starting, the match i'm working
a shift on...
she has until tomorrow to back her bag of bones
and flesh and her detailed imprint on the psyche...
until tomorrow: but i'm hopeful too:
that the match will be cancelled...
alas!
  i went to the shift: there was a buzzword in the winds
congregating around the Coliseum:
but the buzzword wasn't either Elizabeth or Queen...
for the first time i experienced the conquest
of veneer: which came days later...
because on the day? i was injected
with an anaesthetic of: what the public is all about...

sure... it looks pretty: "just about now": the veneer
of a caring people... hmm! "caring"...
i pledged two promises in my lifetime, in secret...
the first to Jeff Hanneman: when i was attempting to
grow my hair long in high-school...
before the poster of the band Slayer: i pledged:
i will grow my hair long...
and i did... i remember being fat, un-liked:
a complete nerd: a goof in high-school...
prior to one summer with my grandfather...
shedding weight... growing my hair long...
i was invisible to the girls in the school...

    then one summer i had enough length in my hair
to tie a pony tail... lost enough of weight...
wow! i suddenly became "visible" to the girls...
i paid no attention... i ended up dating the new-comer
Aussie chick... the most popular girl in school...
sure... it took us over a year of friendly courting
me taking her on one of the most glorious dates:
gallery, cinema, restaurant: i paid for all of it...
when *** was *** and man was man
and woman was woman...
all the girls that ignored me prior
were facing an abomination:
a boy with a French braid hair-do...
                        i had this one mantra in my mind:
well! if you didn't show me any interest prior?
why should i show you ny interest now?!

i'm still living in the: REITERATION period
of my life... i still have about 10 years left...
i can wreck a lot of havoc in those ten years waiting
for me... and i will... i will...
i'll **** all the prostitutes in one brothel before having
to move onto the next brothel... and when i ****
all the prostitutes in that second brothel:
i'll move onto the third! and so on, and so on...
all the while enjoying babysitting children
and listening to Crusader song...

i am: done... playing "nice"... nice is no quest for me...
for the stern heart of stone and an arm
cast(e) from an iron grip...

it was all a veneer though... if you attended the football
match between West Ham and that team from Bucharest...
you would have known that: the public?
paid no respect to the passing sovereign:
the football match was more important!
animals! ******* animals!

something else...
                  prior: much prior...
it amazed me... i asked the management team:
so... the usual per se of the football match advent will
be obstructed? when the Coliseum started playing
Debussy and Sartre... i knew...
we opened the gates for the public at 18:30 the supposed
hour of her passing...
so the match would have to go on...

i pledged her a secret allegiance...
i will not succumb to my suicidal thinking until
you die... me?! i want to earn and spend
banknotes with your son's visage on them!
i'm going to outlive you: you HAG!
i had to! i promised Jeff Hanneman my long hair...
i promised ol' Lizzie my life!
i have kept my promise:
i'm alive... she's "now" dead...
thankfully i didn't make such promises on
a promise she might have known of...
i made these promise "unto" her:
but? mostly unto myself...

if the people of England who witnessed the spectacle could
have witnessed the fans of West Ham
on the day of the passing...
they weren't the usual season ticket holders...
absolute animals: paupers! serf! ******* imbeciles!
i spotted one usual season ticket holder
among them: rabble...
we hugged... but the others?! ****-soaked jeans...
oh, **** me: your queen just died
and you're still here chanting for your
football team?! you, *******, PEASANTS!

give me a ******* OAR! give me a ******* KITE!
you, ******* ZOMBIES!
that's why i was given an anaesthetic...
i was given one... at one point
i was telling this ******* TURNIP... this...
BEETROOT of a "man":
you swear at me, one more (*******) time...
and i'll have to ejected!
not today, "mate"... you don't get that (*******)
luxury...

sure... sure... as if people ever cared...
i was bitten by a "tarantula" watching the public
reaction: absolutely no reaction...

the light of the moon is closest to the "heart"
of the shadow come the time of the harvest of the seasons:
come Autumn and the time of Winter:
the brightest shadows are cast upon this
glory of earth...

i was due a proper celebration...
i had to summon a libido of grief...
from a shift at the London Stadium i had to make my way
back into Essex
and visit a brothel: i wasn't expecting to wait for
an hour though: although an hour i waited...
i entertained the Madame
with some Red Hot Chili Peppers....
apparently i have a good taste in music...

brothel, the usual ****?
i'm not going to go into any details:
Duke of Sussex has me covered...
the whinging ginger **** that he is...
BALDY-BALSO!...
ooh! slapper-'ed!
    
    of course i went to the brothel!
i had my **** ****** akin to being
circumcised! i "thought":
now's the time for three-*******'s worth of
feels!
i waited for an hour...
once the hour was "gone"
an Afghan "Jamie" emerged with
a pocket full of marijuana...
i started sniffing the bud like a dog...

oomph: oomph!
what sweetness of an Afghan..
who isn't selling you cut-off ******* of
Jamaican *******...
you just know:
an Afghan sells you marihuana...
he's also selling you poppy milk...
but at least he's not selling you:
******* SAWDUST...
fibreglass from the Vietnamese cookie-cutters...
i got home and drank a little more...
then rolled my a fatty... smoked it in the garden...
and: as usual, the mixture of alcohol and marijuana
hit me like a falling mountain...
the last time i smoked was... ooh...
well over 10 years ago...
  and i'm saying: if an Afghan brings you marihuana:
or rather...
i had to waited for that ****** hour while
all the girls were busy...
i asked the Madame if i could go out for a cigarette...
standing outside: for me, standing casually outside
a brothel is like me standing casually outside a pub...
aha! here we go! one scuttling rat...
i saw him trying to leave in the corner of my eye...
i saw him open the entrance door and then
cower and go back in...
                  English, obviously:
those Victorian "sentiments" concerning sexuality
are: ******* prosaic on someone born
on the continent... i was going to say: hey, mate...
don't be coy, alright? you're not a woman...
i think what put him off was that as he was leaving
the brothel he heard my choice of music
blasting in the waiting room...
he must have been like: "what?! no Romanian
giddy / ****** pop-rap?! who put this music on?!"
he finally made it out in one piece or another...
trying to avert me gazing at him...

oh! such shame! such shame! such terrible shame!
i walked back in and that's when i met
my Afghan "Jamie"... weird name for an Afghan,
isn't it? i thought... long hair... the complete ******
look...
i'm telling "you": if an Afghan offers you marihuana?
you ******* take it...
Afghans are not Jamaicans or any of those little
Vietnamese ****** that mix fibreglass with the "herb"...
the last time i smoked marijuana this good
i was smoking it in Amsterdam...
i was slightly drunk: sexually emptied / satisfied...
the queen just died... i had to...

lo and behold! no paranoia! nothing!
all the best grooves... i was falling asleep in a transcendent
cocoon of my own self:
grinning that creature in Apex Twin's video:
Window-Licker (nice term, for a ******)...
when i was younger i would use the cognitive-whirlwind
in my head to write something:
i'm older, a bit less stupid... i was like:
oh no no... no writing... i'm taking to the "surf":
i'm going to be grinning like a crying clown all the way
to the land of Nod...

i gave the Afghan my number, he couldn't remember his...
he promised that if i met him again:
he would introduce me to Afghan hash...
he still hasn't called...
i'm thinking: if i go back to the brothel, again...
i'll leave my number with the Madame and tell her:
when Afghan "Jamie" shows up, can you please
tell him to give me a call?
he gave me two buds... again: that's another aphrodisiac:
marijuana... but it's an aphrodisiac in reverse...
it perpetuates the ****** encounter:
it elevates thinking about *** along the lines
of daughter, mother, grandmother...
    sister... wife, *******...

on this very day i experienced every possible
category of woman...
**** me: add queen to that list...
                                so the Afghan was waiting for
his friend... they paid by hours... me?
i figured out the brothel after earning my money:
half an hour slots...
i'm not here to see a priest or a psychiatrist...
although i didn't see the former: i've seen enough
of the latter to know the ******* slapping tease it "feels"
like to talk your problems out
rather than doing the utmost sensible thing of:
thinking yourself out...

how did i combat my "schizophrenic" symptoms...
bilingualism! ha ha!
i stopped thinking in narrative-English altogether...
my cognitive-narrative ability has been long ago ******...
i'm a shrapnel-shadow of my former self...
when everything seemed "solipsistic" and in a rigid-linear
form...
mind you: they diagnosed me as such...
but did i ever step foot into an asylum?
not, that, i, know of...
        i did see a lot of medical students though...
the psychiatrists asked if it would be o.k. for them to
scrutinise me as part of their training:
sure, no problem!
    that's the funny thing about going mad...
you can only go mad once...
the second time madness approaches you:
  you're already riding the death spider into a cobweb
of: like a tired man falls into his bed...
i started falling into a comfort of wearing armour...
that i myself crafted under the guidance of
Hephaestus...

  monotheism and globalism: two inseperable concepts
known to man... and both: terrible for all men...
come to think of it... monotheism = globalism...
i sometimes wish i knew more about the Slavic gods...
but i guess the Greek deities and the deities of the Norse
men will suffice... at least with this trend of thought:
there's less concern for the self as atom and pivotal
for everything that's otherwise decided by luck,
fate, karma... no... the western thinking concerning
the individuation process of establishing the self
as the pinnacle has reached a cul de sac... a dead end...

it's time to return to the old order of things...
i can't be stuck in the monotheism of: mea culpa this
mea culpa that...
this idolatrous self-centrism and self-critique:
i know when i'm wrong... i'll apologise:
but certain "things" are beyond my control!
and for "things" to be beyond my control?
there can't just be one god with a plethora of names
of noun-adjectives:
what do most people complain about in terms
of politics and organisation? esp. in America?
local government vs. the centralised federal politics...
it's the same with theology...
i almost wish there was a politicology...
but there isn't... there isn't...

oh sure... sure... monotheism is grand...
just this "one god" that's the (+) magnet for all these
(-) selves... my self, your self: in the reflective form...
myself and yourself in the reflexive form...
only recently i managed to witness the shift
in the earth's trajectory: it tilted...
that... the URSA MAJOR = URSA MINOR...
it's the same ****** constellation!
the earth moves from summery seasons
into the wintry seasons... it, *******: TILTS!

it's the same constellation! during the summery months
we witness the microscopic detail of the constellation...
in the wintry months when the north is tilted back:
we see the same constellation: on a macroscopic detail:
it's one and the same!
there are not two apart... well... from where i'm standing:
believable by the naked eye... that's what it looks like...

unless light can turn ******* corners...
i'm going to be fixated on that...
or that there are "corners" concerning floating
orbs in silence to begin with!
Little Bear during Autumn and Winter...
and Mother "big" Bear during Spring and Summer...
i thought that was ****** obvious!
no? what am i? another ******* Copernicus?!
****... ****! oh ****: i have no telescope... ****** it all
to hell!

i do have this one query... see... i sometimes play
a game with my eyes... i stress my hawkish eyesight
on something close to me...
do you know that we have these strange parasites
living on our eyes?!
oh... they're microscopic... i can see them...
i'm not talking about:
  the eqalussuaq and the ommatokoita... well... i sort of am...
yeah... they're like ribbons of procreative jelly...
winding and swirling... i can see them with my eyes...
on my ******* eyes: can you imagine?
i'm looking at someone that's on my eyes:
microscopic... i must be out there: no wonder
i haven't touched any psychedelic drugs, yet...
when dementia kicks in: please! dementia! kick in!
i want a mushroom to hijack my gorilla brain!
              
mein gott: if i had children of my own...
what horrible monsters i would have to create...
but i have no time:
i'm forever enthralled by the 1980s post-punk
music scene... Depeche Mode and the Cure
were just the tip of the ice-berg...
recently? i came across Blue Kremlin... the song:
fallbeil... i was sort of aware of the genre:
i could never do much with either punk
or rap music...
who was that protagonist of spreading the knowledge
of music to people? Sam Peele, Tim Peele?
John... i sometimes feel like i'm the audience
of one... i hate listening to the radio:
the reasons are obvious: i like to sieve through music
of my own accord:
i switch off whenever i hear music curated for: not me...
no wonder i'm using facebook at a back-catalogue
of music i listened to...
diary entry no. "x": i was actually looking
for this song...

Musta Paraati: Romanssi...
              my bookmarks failed me... i need to employ
at least two sets of bookmarks...
then i move onto the next band...
if i had children of my own? i don't think i'd have
the time to sift through all the music:
democracy is painful...
it would sometimes feel so much easier to follow
one "line of letters": to only have knowledge
of the Quran... to abolish music...
it would last longer...
i'd be the one with a wife and children
and cultural responsibilities...
instead? i'm? hardly lamenting...
the one without a piggy-bank of expenditure...
ever heard of a penny-rattle-inside-a-piggy-bank /
a lean pig?! life's not getting any better:
life has reached a plateau...

for sure: the children of strangers with me
playing the role of the "weird" uncle:
i'm just distant... even though the queen died...
what game me sanity was: thinking about
playing with Malvina...
throwing *****: rolling *****...
oh: and of course: the brothel...
i just couldn't believe how veneer prone the whole
affair was...
these, *******... would still, rather:
sing the "anthem" of their local football team...
than sing: what ought to have been sung:
god save the king, instead?
they sand god save the queen!
the queen is dead! "was": is!

i was given a dose of the anaesthesia that only crowds:
unruly crowds can provide...
  i was even asked by one of the managers to
not "drool" with a sombre expression on my face...
with my eyes i told him to *******...
maybe it has no consequence for a people
lifted from the squalor of western Africa
now living their dreams in the Caribbean...
but **** me... some of these places were
not colonies: they were obliged to be: protectorate(s)...
they were under the obligation of the British
Empire to continue their ways:
they weren't colonies... they didn't have
a colony status: they had a protected status...

who was robbed? Africans sold African into slavery...
the chief of X-tribe realised: wow! i have too many young,
strong, retards in my tribe...
i want this amount of women in my harem...
might as well catch them and sell them off!
it's not like the Africans ended up doing the Slavic-******
jobs of coalmining...
seems rather glamorous: moving from cotton-picking
to playing basketball / inventing jazz as a breakaway
from classical music straitjackets...

bemoan my hernia when i was born: i will:
but not this... funny that... all those first prized black
supremacists bemoaned: the **** of our women!
the **** of our women!
i've seen how certain black women raise their kids:
it's ******* ugly... why black men fall back on white
women... me too (#): black men have nice features...
i'm not surprised why white girls fall for black men...
i have no issue:

but there's a "Russian" in me that will not be cucked...
so if white girls find black men so attractive...
am i? supposed to follow suite?! i.e. find black
girls attractive?! i... SIMPLY ******* CAN'T!
at work we were queuing up and i was just slightly
brushing up against this black woman ahead of me:
i was being bushed from the back...
she had so much defensive armour about her
i felt like a Saracen archer talking to a Frankish knight...

me?! touching you?!
god forbid i ever touch you! i don't want to touch you!
i hope you don't touch me?!
how am i touching you?! i showed her the distance
between our bodies and exposed both hands
holding ****...
i don't give a ****'s two uncle's spare of white
girls "breaking boundaries" of crafting the second
non-Hispanic "Brazil":
as long as they're not Russian girls:

this is going to be an anti-racist statement...
i feel gladdened seeing a black man with a black woman
having black babies...
why is this an anti-racist statement?
because it doesn't force the RACISM of INTERRACIALISM...
of blurring the whole origin and perpetuation
of race to begin with...
sure... white girls can have a thing for black guys...
but as a white guy... i don't have a "thing" for
black girls...
Turkish? Iranian? Arabic in general?

anything with raven hair and olive skin...
once in a while i pass the passage from Ilford to
Stratford... some Pakistani simpleton feels this
dire desire to spit on the pavement...
******* toad of a creature: hopefully not insulting
the toad: the "conqueror": what a necessary belitteling
of a man... i do understand cyclists harking
spit when becoming exhausted:
but for the simple circumstance of a ****- seeing
a white man "invade" his cultural membrane whittle
"Mecca": it's like rereading Dostoyevsky's Notes
from the Underground in reverse...
little people: little things...
              
              little concerns for me to begin with...

between the dictate of segregation:
all the Pakistanis occupy the lands between the A406
from Ilford through to Stratford...
Tower Hamlets...
all the "better" Indian subcontinent folk moved
to the outer regions of urbanisation...
from Ilford all the way through to Romford
we have the Sikhs and the Hindus...
at work? i'm a minority white boyo...
ha ha... "talk" of minority status:
who the **** ever said i'm English?!
perhaps in Chelmsford: but even there
i would have been asked about my "accent":
and i would probably reply like that one comedian
at the Edinburgh comedy club: you maybe have noticed
that i have an accent... yes:
it's ED-U-CAY-TED... educated...

it's a generic accent: standard English:
not localised English...
i can become a mean: pompous *******
when i hear enough pompous ******* *******
from people who "think" they are worth more than me
without any basis for receiving the required
credit in making: said assumptions...

rancid Berlin!

only one's missing: the one with glasses...
afer her: i will have ****** the whole brothel...
and still i'm not satisfied!
i'll need to find a new brothel!
**** me: that was, slightly, unexpected!

the queen is dead! long live the king!
i have no time for pardons...
the wilting flowers is ever a prescription for
spotting a wilt of tree (a),

you're, breeding them... (a sing along piece).*

        as the british p.m cited:
we're standing shoulder-to-shoulder
with the spanish gov.:
   well... of course you are:
  by allowing it to replicate itself!
  impotent tongue-waggling
                     for all i care.

rarely do i start reading
the front page of a newspaper
and begin by spitting
on the face of the culprint...
come on, the spanish?!

but you know what's abhorring,
what's trully abhorrent in
in all of this?

they call the far right terrorists
idiots, mentally ill,
   gnomes, whatever you want,
losers, living with their parents
etc. etc.

masochism has another face,
the jihadists at least get
to be associated with *pure, evil...
oh no, but the white-boy gets
slandered for his deeds,
he can't be distanced within
the category of evil...

      by my count of words:
you deserve whatever comes
from your side...
this... this quasi-belitteling
of "virtue" that encompasses cain...
that ****** me off the most...
western europe just gave up
the potency for evil,

anagram of vile, if you haven't noticed...

you give up evil and call it a mentall
illness, you are basically
encouraging the same old masochism
of psychiatric "benevolence"...
*******, wankers, ****-eaters...

have you baptism of islam,
i don't mind,
  right now? i'm imitating
pontius pilate:
   i am washing my hands clean
regarding the matter...

you start calling these whites
by the same name you call
the jihadists...
   evil, vile...
       you start calling them
losers, mentally ill retards,
you're only going to infuriate them...
i know how far words can
climb and overshadow: even mt. everest!

stop pushing your little safe-space
gimmick...
   treat them as equals,
   or? have more of them from within...

why do you think the russians
celebrated the outcome the breivik enterprise?
**** me, they cheered...
   i just hope the ****** sees what's
waiting him outside the prison cell...

you can't, you can't, you can't just call them
losers, idiots, mentally ill...
    call them in plain speak: evil...
ah, wait... 'ere come the spin doctors,
disciples of white masochism,
that can only be attributed to, a jew;

how's ******* that ****, for you?
i hope sure as **** that he got
a ***** on the crucifix...
      frictive fiction, that's what
the new testament is: frictive fiction...
the old testament? i have no beef
with it...
    thanks to jesus i can solidify
my anti-semitism,
and... funny enough: it only involves him!

now i just look at words:

          i sometimes want:
to describe what the tongue doesn't
need to prompt or cue -

mostly thanks for e. e. cummings...

it's so necessary to find this
metaphysical tongue
in my brain -
how it's a mundane thought:
nothing at all worth
morally questioning -

loitering in a status quo...
or -
        beginning a sentence
with a conjunction:
rather focusing on conjunctions
bilingually...

an hour prior i would really
focus on etymology and
nouns in bilingualism -

something prophetic had to
be excavated from argentina...
it's not like i don't like new
music... it's that there's so much
of it: listening alone
to it is unlike sharing it...

         notably IAH - III...

to: this
tamto: that
tam: there
           w - in
o - about
            even if english allows
i - ja
              or a - the indefinite article...
z - with...
          
what am i with my born
with tongue that...
unlike those who arrived
on these shores as *****...
in the loving embrace...
that they were born
in england...

              some made-up
propensity to teach
others from a native foundation:
because... the bilingual
is somehow less?

spew me canon fire of words...
mesmerize me!
no: clear vantage point for
exploitation...

a long winding crescendo...
a labour under the gravity of using
wings...
a completed dialectical question...
which never allows
a rhetorical answer...
as plato noted:
a mere yes or no...
for the inquirer is asking
a question to further his rhetorical
pursuit of inquiry...

classics... i should read up on
some Aeschylus...
i can't imagine south america
as an extension of spain...
i guess the conquistadors
really did **** with
the aztec and the mayan women...
i find south america as
unique...
devoid of spain's influence...
language alone is not enough...
spanish was never going
to be an undermined language...
it was never to be subverted
by either german or russian...

but this english litany:
how the new continent is still
having to mind inheritance...
how the inheritance "tax" is so...
suffocating and strait-jacket esque...
i can clearly see
argentina for argentina...
is hardly a whole lot to do with
spain being dragged into europe...
into the funnel...

    celt and prior
romans and prior...
  oh no... this is not a history lesson...
then the germans
then the slavs
then the huns the mongols the turks
the... turkmen etc.
this little crevice of land...
this sort of in between
of continental pride:
a place to build a ship and...
******* to new a greater pasture...
to adventure...
to a small island in the pacific...

i never have to think of brazil
as an extension
of portugal...
   even though their language is
so: base... same...
or mingle with argentina a spain...
but in the anglophonic realm...
tightly-knit community
of: 'just across the pond'...
pond: d'uh... the atlantic...

       you can't call it an english
or a spanish diaspora -
                  hardly...
                 i try to think back
and relate to my fellow language
proficiency exemplars...
what chains bind me:
that i am prior to self-first selfish...
my own owning my ownership...
before i am cannibalised
by a national identity...

            it must seem rather strange
to explore these avenues in this tongue...
cry! schizoid! tremors!
blah blah...
                 that i do find immovable
"pawns" in england...
people who will not... dare thread
crossing barriers with exception
to holidaying on some greek island
or... spain... of all places...
they are so intrinsically adamant
in not splitting their mind
with kneading the dough-for-a-tongue
of a second language...
well... i call them immovable "pawns"
rather than n.p.cs...
        
perhaps i would write in my native
zunge - perhaps i'd tease at some germanic:
alt vater albion to boot...
or scribble some cyrillic -
but then: who has that sort of keyboard
and this narrative is begging
for a fluency of time shortened...

         english has no diacritical marks
that i know... which allows speeding
up the process...
if i were to fiddle and playdough with
diacritical markers:
which venture in their idiosyncratic meaning:
stand-alone...
i would...
the english must have thought
they were the afghans of the ancient
world... that they would somehow
inherit latin without...

a german esses und zeds...
    or a french cedilla...
                        or an iberian ninyo...
                             ~ on top of an n...
they had to determine themselves as...
the failure of previous empires
was... their landlocked ergonomic of
spreading...
lend us the greek concept
of free-city-states!
let us use the seas!
the sun will never set!
insomnia barons and pauper maddened
toy kings...

it's  not like the intricacies
of two towing tonnes os tongue is
in anyway unbearble:

w tym - in this
  
but i find it's unnecessary to merely
focus on the disparagement of nouns...
i find red a bogus...
immediately constructed
into plural / masculine / the feminine...
it's never red alone...

czerń is black...
it's almost a verb when being presented
with red...
na czerwono: on red...
czerwony - red (masculine)
czerwona - red (feminine)...
czerwone  - red (feminine plural)
czerwoni - red (masculine plural)...

chechen renegades of post thunk -
the armenians reading into
an ottoman less lightly...

   look here: my prosthetic limb

red is an impasse in my native tongue...
it's like this anglophone
focus on "gender neutral" pronouns...
i can't seem to find...
a red is red...

or what's: back into english...
i read (once upon a time)
coupled with: i read (currently doing)...
there's... red and there's a reed...

what czerń allows is:
czarna, czarny... czarni, czarne...

czerwienić się: to blush...
but the colour red doesn't stand alone
to stress itself without
a "dismabigutation"
when loan grammatical tools
come to the fore...
and implore the "loss od detail"...

for this only one man
has to know two tongues...
and for that i am metaphorically schizoid...
sK-oid... voiding further
the sofa-esque mentality of people:
how i admire those people
with a knowledge of only one tongue...
or two or polyglot with
not dare reminder of
intricacies:
how they arrived at language
proficiency where everything is
either leftover or works just fine:
it's all reflexive and nothing... is ever auld
or odd...

ah... but...
czerwień is an adjective - an allusion to red...
from the burdens of a synonym cloud -
what was once: a bold
introspection... has become an alluded to...
a loan... a gimmick
a burgundy is a hue of red...
a deviation... how it teases
purple...
                 it's a quality... "esque"...
this native tongue of mine...
well... it can't escape gendering certain
words...

white is gender inclusive...
          all the colours are!
                  one has to find onself
a gangrene riddled dog barking up
the wrong tree...
when the anglophone debate over
gender neutral pronouns comes
to the fore:
this here the tornado:
i here, the butterfly...

           biały... biała...
"concern" for things...
well... you wouldn't say: biały rzecz (white thing)
you'd say biała rzecz

i imagine the birth of the concept of:
NOTHING to imply...
i have exhausted a desire for
etymology, for nouns...
for calling things concretely like
some geologists or chemist...
i'm here, socrates... borrowed for
glue and chewing gum and
the leftovers of conversation...

i.e. "thing" is the precursor generic
noun... nothing = nonoun...
something new... pronoun aside...
nothing for me implores:
gesticulating at nonoun -
Kant almost saw this coming
with his noumenon...

to talk without having to implore oneself
the details of seeing a feline marker...
because: that's what we already
do! a cat is a cat is not necessarily
a maine ****... or a siamese!
a dog is a dog isn't necessaarily
a cocker spaniel of a german shepherd!

a tree is a tree isn't necessarily an oak
or an acorn!
this cognitive construct could
only have been invented by the faculty
of memory: how best to filter,
throw a cipher into a bowl of
borrowing deciphers...
memory this formerly grand
cameo cinema that had to become
a fickle ontology... destined for a per se...

yet how i strain myself to
keep it on a leash...
after the acid bath of pedagogy and...
drilling into me the arithmetic of 2 + 2 = 4...
how i "wake"...
that i spell these words with
such adamancy...
is because i want to: i desire for them
to be strictly bound...
i could sooner slash my wrists than
allow myself to turn all sloppy...
lazily prone to heave: third party
slobbering leftovers of ****-towing-curd...

i will not lend my eyes to spell out
either greek or "proto" greek via cyrillic:
it's enough to know the CZ and CH
and this loitering demiurge
phoneticism: riddle a people with
enough mammon worship:
and sooner or later the pennies just
drag: extensive as to how
copper write was invented:
two feeble scots arguing over a penny...

for the nuance of a solitary reader...
had i the fortitude of a single tongue:
a well arrived at presentation
of a universal man...
i didn't have this blockages of
bilingualism:
it's not that i "somehow" find myself
obstructed:
there's this intilled:
reflexive: pronoun compound:
as there's this reflective: my self...

the ancient 'uns speak of a selb
to masquerade an imitation throw...
i dangle my arm and
pretend there's a stone in it..
i have to gladly arrive
at this sorrow for an ongoing praise
of pursuit per se:
i can't imagine chasing ****
was ever much fun to begin with...

but when it mattered and it must have
mattered...
i weaved a loneliness to the prusuit
of staging aloofness:
which married itself to... some german...
and lately had to revised:

jetzt: now...
           hier: here...
this teutonic beer hall:
tam-da-ra-day...
       sing-along...
                          
               limbo wording when finding
awkward "squares":
the geocentric model and the loath
of patriarchy...
the heliocentric model and
the ****** crisp queen
of gynocentrism...

  today i tried to figure out
how a siamese twin could ever
overcome a sstatus symbol
of herr cain... serial killer....
i couldn't: but the image struck me as...
somewhat... belitteling and...
"sincere"...
           how impossible it was...
to ever find... a siamese killer...
beside the serial stressor...

chances are:
if i were not "culturally appropriating"
this english...
if i had questionable insight
into an antithesis of all is well:
western cosmopolitan...
french of service! please amore!

if this wasn't a shadow
of ol' *****: risky...
                risque?
  esque...
               russian: pax varshava...
              such that the sun never itches
to sleep....
aeschylus is to be mourned...
wait 2000+ years from now...
this will translate
into a paragraph of... less conjunctions
and more... punctuation markers...
i hope the diacritical marks still
retain their stature...

i speak two languages
yet it's a burden for 6 o 7...
i only speak two languages...
yet it's a "burden" that would gladly make
an affair of a dozen "creases"...
have... astounding pressure
being met with:
economical proficiency being...
exacted: as therefore stressed...

for the worth of a night arrived at...
i have to spare you...
endearing prospect of a reader..
my limit...
petting cats i fathomed inately...
for the better half of my exposed
self: churned into ***...
i was an amateaur at...

here's to me ******* a headless chicken:
trans-spaecian misinformed "..."
additionally curses never
to revise a 1950s h'american
nostalgia pillow credo...

  sleep tight sleep tired...
my most bothersome lacklustre additive
of spike and crescendo lobough'
tammy... and a led zeppelin's play
on hay-maker... with a jive of:
jai... tell me the difference...
between jai and jay...
i'm dying to know!
i'm so pristine raw and ignoble
to have to... concern myself
with these overshoots of...
why i didn't happenstance
a life... and the end result was always
to be... a riddle of walking...
employing
a pretend walking stick...
a ball and a hole...

i was blindly 'ere... scouting
for rabbits and deer
and grouse... i was 'ere limping for
a wolf to wrestle with:
i was 'ere for the gnashing of teeth!
i was never 'ere for a leisure...
a praying for comfort,
for happiness...
   i need this uncertainity pulpit:
zenith.. this long reserved crease...
like it might be: tied into a butterfly
or a "bow".

i own
a bed...

          but i rather...

sleep on...

a hardened...
wooden

flooring...

          that there's
an excuse
for a three-some:

soak of two stags...
and two: and a third....

glory hole:
waiting...

        tiny-rubberband,,,
hell-spew: nue-spawn
of the loitering:

third ***** of lesotho...
this... diatribe prince...
blank pawn- and panther...
spawn... best: retort:

a time when racial differences:
where a last:
difference binding
incremental loitering...
lining...

          the rancid "quid"....
copper-flaking...
my most adhered to...
bubble-wrapping...
          my loot and loitering...
skim-reading of erasmus...

      gas-lit...
             incubus...
the last salvaged barber shopping...
that sort of trim...
that rhapsody in...
sub-topic...
*******... debunking measures...
spawn: en vogue...
belitteling meausures...
facing the *****-bank...
basics... and new world conquering...
this great... unfamiliar past
of the bleach panther...

       chain-locket and a mirror of
surprise...
about 4 children later...
some variation of first towed along
"love"... my love my love...
the last lesson...
the first at arrived at grievance...
a bismarck: my last loaded:
sq. hope for a miser:
and some... variation...
a hello... a hello... a hello...

                  as best: heaved...
the last... a remnants of...
                        this a wording...
lost: to the autobiography...
of the U-boat captive...
or the panzer-tank... captive...

                confiscating the captives...
of the lesser man...
of the lesser man...
     confiscating the captives...
for all the time in the world...
and all the world...
was... this... time... most... limiting!

i cant keep my promises
to never do it again
i cant control my moods
theres blood stains on the broken glass
and blood pouring from my hands.
torn up letters and pictures
****** fingerprints covering them.
pacing back and forth from room to room
tossing and turning when i try to lay down my head.
i cant escape the belitteling words or broken promises
empty pill bottle after bottle trying to ease the pain
rocking back and forth closed eyes hands tight against my head
theres no escape from the cold steel blade
that rests in my hand.
it haunts me
with every breath i struggle to take
it sickens me
till i give in