now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

one - i don't understand why saying "it's the 21st century" is somehow seen as a compensation for 20 centuries of our inhumanity, or a case of: only improvements reside in us - seems just as false to say - men can overcome angels, as stated by the first Christians... yeah, we can do miracles with technology and ultra-secular communication dynamics - discarding the existence of such beings resulted in hen parties with plastic wings and halos... what a great method to discard such being, and subsequently appropriate their features, if ever needed, but altogether unnecessary... two - that disrespecting heterosexuality aligned with the power of science has made it altogether a pointless endeavour in re-enacting the monogamous nature of swans: if we can breed the many perversions, ahem, deviations, we surely require en equal share of respect, before science undermines any deviations into an economic format of breeding pure heterosexual contingencies... three: who the hell said i was throwing anyone off a roof? i was just curious about the slack pressurising the alias big brother / grey matter dictator into teaching us language, then to later make us into a Koranic cyclops or having to sway one side, but not the other, teaching us vocabulary in school, but robbing us of a fluidity of language beyond school, in society... any rational man would say: just teach me the knuckle, the stone and the stick to express my manners... because, to be frank, i'm not into faking being civilised, just teach me to be a barbarian from the start, don't dangle the magic carrot in front of my eyes when it's a fake... teach me the barbarism you want to suppress later on in life: i'm not into being Dolly 2.3419, and an attache to a sheepdog for herding purposes to take it up the **** and shut up: because a member of Parliament did it to me aged 14; for example.

subjectivity is doubled attacked, it's not the merely rationalist
approach of an objective side of things,
i could understand tiresome efforts
Chinese politics while walking
the tourist plot on the great wall -
in a society that's seismically acknowledging
social or whatever coherence,
i find it a bit of limbo of paraphrasing
trans - or trans-physics, or the active
way to usurp metaphysics, by deviating
from thought as an activity, and more
how words are sense datum co-ordinates
that are like dictators: because it just, feels,
funny, and, offensive. ***** vocabulary,
that's what i call it... after a while you concentrate
on what ****** you off, first the educational
autocracy teaches you a vocabulary,
then come the St. Thomas' terrorists with:
you need to revise your vocabulary...
like **** that'll happen, you don't own
language, i don't own language, you're
little fascist agenda to censor such awoke
the boy that was supposed to wake Barbarossa
from his slumber with the cry: crows! crows!
a cloud of crows! funny how the eagle is a
failed emblem for empires, and the crow isn't...
mind you, the English succeeded with
an empire half-and-half: a lion and a unicorn...
i'd guess as much with a monkey and
a centaur, or at least a Cerberus - something
mythical - well, sure, the Poles are attacked
in Britain... but ever hear about the Scot
being attacked in an English village?
a Scot was attacked just the other day,
because kilts were deemed offensive...
so trans-gender is good, meta-gender is:
had a wee t'ink 'bout it...
   robots start with the pronoun use: one...
royalty start with the pronoun use: we...
                 and in between we have paranoid
they and we... and insecure you and i -
or as e. e. cummings would have it:
    *i say no world
                 can hold a you
   shall see the not
             because
  and why but
                          (who        -
true, but as much of not is entanglement
              with knots - or ought to tries -
  to not or to knot and be -
                              Shakespeare also said:
  funny how i was born neo-liberal,
millennial tattooed - and fake-left...
   i hear the right is a tsunami of focus these days,
all the generation Z are buying into
obstructing gay-marriage, and are adamant
   on not abusing pronouns - hence the current
revival in grammar school education in England -
they don't drink, i.e.: taking psychopathic gambles,
they're prone to social-media overdoses
rather than succumbing to excess ecstasy and palpitation:
i had 190 "friends"... let's just call them vantage points...
   sheered that social media sheep: only 13 left...
but at least objectivity outright says:
       subjectivity is subhuman, science taught us
that subjectivity is the fire between two flint stones,
all in all necessary - but objectivity said:
             two flints! two flints! no fire!
what attacks subjectivity is not objectivity,
it's satire... to humanise everything: good or bad,
with a standard of humour... well... telling a sad
joke to later tell the same sad joke by satirising it...
punch in a face; because there are only so number of
things that are funny in life... the English language
doesn't seem to understand that even the odd chance
of black humour, will not lift the spirits of those,
who, quiet frankly, don't want to be humoured...
the only humour left is not to provision the public
with barbaric satire, sometimes empathy will do,
because it's emphatic humour,
   it's Godot's roundabout humour: the shared experience.
laughing for the sake of laughing is
             a cry from apathy's lost interest in
being pardonably dasein - laughing at all the truthful
autobiographic desecrate is apathy's last
chance to impress: but how foul it all sounds by then...
   the western version of buddhism suddenly feels like
  a taste of pears in november: not sour, not bitter...
just maggoty foul - yucky goo
                  of a plum-shaded rouse of the skin
tinged hue after contact with knuckle and knee.
  but they attacked a ******* Scot in an English village,
because of a kilt...
                                   he knows the strand of ganging up
in hyena numbers and then the celebratory drink
of compensating conscience - they'll sooner accept
     a trans-gender dunno'h than a hot-blooded
heap of tartan - ever ask the homosexuals what
they think of St. Thomas' gospel?
              i think: too much, too early, too innocently.
and if they tell you: speak differently!
they will, i'm ****** sure they will want to
control your grammar without any specialisation -
you'll wonder: summer in Syria?
                     because as racism goes,
they attack the difference, and the difference is only
skin deep, like they did with the Afros of Kentucky,
the Kentucky Afros will spring right back,
    because the abuse was only skin deep,
therefore their soul was enlarged, and they'll
play the blues, and the jazz, and rap, and break-dance...
but if the abuse goes to the depth of soul...
in that it's soul-deep...
                                and because it's white v. white...
it will ferment, and nothing positive will come from it...
no jazz, no blues... nothing of cultural importance...
   it will be haggled in the political market
to the point where both sides will find it utterly
unbearable: and then start to sheer their skins...
        you won't get anything from this soul-deep
attack... if the holocaust is what it felt like,
            then this is a minor post-holocaust episode,
a reminder...
                          and by god, i thank god
for the fact that the Picts are involved -
                                                            whe­re to now?
O Imperium Gladstone paraphrase?
                            it will be hard to beat the unicorn -
all empires donning the eagle duly fail -
centaur and a frog? maybe next time.

now i'm going to to finish a
bottle of 70cl whiskey,
catch a mosquito in the bathroom
while taking a ****,
trying to feed it to that
****** reptile in furry disguise
(cats, of all felines have
  reptilian pupils - slits instead
of spheres) - who'll disagree
and i'll feed him the usual crunchy snacks,
when i'll go downstairs and eat
a packet of sushi -
                then i'll go to sleep;
if this isn't an autobiographic
millimetre, when compared to all
other, previous autobiographies,
then i don't know what is:
meaning? as life in the moment,
and written about,
but not as life lived to a moment
equated with scholastic precision
listed according to: the speed of light,
pi, gravity... sure, those facts are
important, and i'd love to write
an autobiography that's merely
a postscript to these facts...
but i've written mine according to
what's also universal and equipped
with the stated scholastic facts: now;
or being oblivious to the power
of images... writing a word softens the blow
where an image would otherwise be equal to a k.o.

well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.

.and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...

high-brow my ***...
         because iron maiden's phantom
of the opera... did... does... predate...
andrew webber's stab...
                 hard rock 'ammer...
       as in... a paul di'anno bitchboy
                 scant-gimpwhore fan... etc.
the castrato operatics... later...
n'ah...               but that's oh so much
an origins story...
                    and hardly the evolution...

- that the phantom of the opera stands on
a skeleton of three songs...
revised...                morphing...

perhaps not, not that they are songs...
i'd have to sharpen my scalpel for
attempting the smithy deeds on words...

a skeleton of three themes...
       thus noted:

               "angel of music"
            "phantom of the opera"
    and... last but not least:
                     "masquerade"...

what a day... or what wasn't expected...
no one ever told me that:
a musical per se... differs so much from
a musical: for the stage...

by musical...
                 i'd be shaking to conjure up...
the screen musicals of a west side story...
etc. -

            and one can easily so tire of
this trap...

  and what of the internal jokes?
jokes at the expense of the opera...
              - poor fool, he makes me laugh
       - hannibal...
quite the jokes...
   having to draw the blood from
the mundane talk elevated to an operatic
context of song...

that a musical is... somehow...
when opera can be reduced to talk...
and can be thus reduced to:
the joker in a hand of poker...
   a whimsical little card...

the 25th anniversery of the phantom
at the royal opera house...
one can somehow forgive the electronic
attaches of the overture...
whether the electric guitar of the drum
machine...

   like one can forgive:
                 nirvana's unplugged...
at the end though...
   even andrew webber looks perplexed /
nervous... how did we get away with this?
i don't know:
the only style of genre that...
actually requires a stage and props...
and ample volume of space!
a theatre: since otherwise...
opera: pure technique...
                and prop minimalism...

and...

because can a musical: not require a stage?
does it indeed feed too many images
that need to be attired with quacks...
with feathers... with leather boots and chandeliers?!

now i'll toast! i'll toast to a new reason
to go down the alleys of ah bit tipsy:
itsy bitsy sniffing a bottle neck...
bloated from a champagne cork pop!

truly... if only the stage...
   that allowance to perform a performance
a need to perfect: always never:
the editor in charge...
   all those out-takes left to what life is
left behind the curtain...

     the musical of the movies of h'america...
whatever they might be...
to name but a few would be best...
           and if i didn't first see the phatom
on a television screen...
but in its natural environment:
with the volume of required air...
     i wouldn't have been able to choke
my tears...

and i have seen the theatre
and i have seen the opera
and the ballet...
                            i sometimes...
"sometimes": wearisome...
try to forget the maggot pit of phelgm,
sweat and ***** of a rock concert...
        of all the mediums...
         this jumbled up swedish table platter...
what a cocktail of a rollercoaster!

i could forever take off my garments
of jealousy: of which there's that pitiable
affair of a beard-envy...
                well...
                           well well...

how pristine: they even had a music-box!
in that crude relief of finding
"revisions" and alt. interpretations
of... perhaps it's only a matter of
two themes and that overture?

             and if it's song and dance...
       it's not a candy-smiles and tap-dancing buffet...
it's opera and ballet...
because... it's opera:
                 ha! empty these cupboards!
no one needs to attend an opera
like a foreign language movie:
with subtitles running on a FTSE100
reel above the stage...

                      the musical: is the reinvention
of the opera... a musical is an opera...
with mild added animation of theatre...
and there's a pinch of ballet!

          this will most certainly not translate
into me liking cats... or les misérables...
       this will do...
                   sing-along / sing-through?
and everyone is, suddenly... equipped with
a deciphering ear to translate the over-infuated
vowels of an operatic breath?!

- and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...

- but if someone would tell you...
a musical... west side story? yes?
     i'm pretty sure it would be all about:
singin' in the rain... fair enough...
             but all for that popcorn entertainment...
and the tap-dancing...
and chewing-gum advert smiles...
and all that technicolour dabbling...
and all those heavily bothersome editing
processes... like... the plumbers
most associated with veins and arteries?
sorry: the romanians are picking the fruit
and veg for the next: x-factor star...
the next youtube vlogger breakthrough chart
topper...

blunt and ******* obvious...
      and how has english changed since Dickens?
i made a note of...
because i will not make notes
of what's already passed...
a direct etymological association with a loan,
word...
  not from dutch, german or french...

       SA-LU-BRI-OUS
            (healthy...)

                   PER-EM-PTO-RILY...
         (not being permitted a denial)

that 19th century victorian english that...
just had to loan words directly from
latin... this much of reading Dickens remains
in me... after having just experienced
a blitzkrieg of a musical: proper...

there are still the same old nooks 'n' crannies
for me to find shadows and moths
in...

    because: i am most certainly the one
about to cite: they took away my circuses!
and m'ah bread!
there's no football! well... no football?
goodness me! what are, what are...
the alternatives?!

         opera you can... disregard...
theatre if... movies are your...
ahem... sartre's curiosity with the keyhole...
voyeurism: to exist is to be seen...
but only through a keyhole...
                     which movies aren't, of course!
the editor comes in...
even in the golden age of cinema...
the panoramic view... resembled a stage...
and in the old movies you could
time... the editor taking charge...
and how long it would take for
the actors to forget their lines...

            not that that matters... given...
there's no stage... but the red carpet
of postures and toothpaste adverts...
and paparazzi *** epilepsy from the strobe
glitter ball of the leeches congregating!
not even vultures make such a spectacle!
i saw the same...
then the concrete was layered with enough
frost at night...
the crevices would become impregnated
with diamonds of ice...
every twist of the head would
agitate these sparkles toward imitation
of a flash!

there's a "musical": in the advent of the h'american
sense... and there's: a musical...

- and if you happen to hear a subtle joke
by evelyn waugh in the meantime:
at the better for you...
              what is an encyclopedic "ogling"
within the confines of scrutiny:
that man may forever be attired...
and the genitals just dangling like
champagne flutes without any,
any sort of, scrutiny of...
not having to play the Oedipus!

               here's a fork... here's a donkey...
here's a spoon... here's the Schleswig-Holstein
and its siege of Westerplatte!
here!
   the Schleswig-Holstein tenor of
                           the opera: Westerplatte...
oh joy: a "my" in a "history"...
and none of it an affair that might...
disturb the peaceful lives
of those lived: under the splendour
of a charles II and a handel firework's music
to have to somehow: "put out"!

clearly: i'll be dying from the ******
of all the collective forces of the universe
and gambling and... oopsies...
i am here... and it's not that sort of grey...
pistons assured!
- had i the face of beauty...
beside starring as a tadpole of potential...
a voice with a stage to make outlet with...

- what could ever become of this...
jigsaw puzzling overdue do...
                         the narrative in the classical sense:
hardly what, and what not:
this vector and the in-between
from some mythical (a) toward a journalism,
and weekend opinion pieces...
and all that insomnia riddled "journalism"
of the current year of crux denoted with
a (b)...

               all true: from darwin and the "big bang"...
and of course... time shrinking...
in between... beside carbon dating...
and let us not hear of things speak
for themselves: but ourselves!
untrue! hercules!
untrue! prometheus!
untrue untrue untrue!
but darwin and the ape: nod! gentlemen!
we have proof!
myth or no myth: but a journalistic integrity!
that's enough proof! for today and tomorrow!
and... what's not the fiction that's already
memory?

and what is... this imagination that's...
not a single street witnessed of Paris
in the circa of the year that was... 2004...
or 2006 or 2007...
                      
for the art... and this detail of science that
once upon a time shocked...
now... only comes... burdensome...
a ballet on ice... a shaking of hands with
a shadow... something beside this:
base revision of culture and civilization:
this bogus lopsided quest for:
re-inventing... nothing more... than a zoo!

so little must have happened in the case
of english history...
this hannibal and the mountains...
but what curtain: the great wall of china:
built among the mountains...
ingenious: doubling-up?
  xerxes whipping the waves of the aegean...
the great wall of *****-chewing-wall'ah...
i dare become the new albino...
i dare... and i the next japanese porcelain
frailty...
               many thanks: for the <caugh caugh>...
hooray!

              oh my mother:
the cindarella of nations of europe...
         i seriously can't do much worse than
that cocktail and carboot sale of tchaikovsky's
1812 overture...
   it's an overture!
              
really? the phantom of the opera is because...
of the overture?
last time i heard... prokofiev's lieutenant kijé
(kij - stick... kije... sticks)...
romance... was all a rave! "rave"...
              a nibbling at a crescendo...
    but hardly: then again: a nomad chorus...
a reminiscence... a memory lost: yet foretold...

and if... the anonymous provider...
of the full extent of the carmina burana...
      what if?
        i play... this cliche... this... my most
democratic oath: for the bettering of the voice
that could allow the congregation of
the many! my democratic oath: my quasi:
civic duty... me joining the club of the most
sober bottom's-up! pick'ld-week!

                 such are the affairs... hardly a worthiness
of a frenchman of pander...
or of being so blessed by an island...
when being neighbour of europe...
and easily bound to be found because:
france never too interest in the robot antics
of the scandinavians or what
was ever to be assured by iceland!

thus came the crude: skeleton waiting
to be refined... a peter schteele interlude of:
fancying a giant to a tumble...
i will not satisfy myself with a biography
outside of the realm of immediacy...
how do people write a biography without
the peacock of whim and of what's readily
available? a biography with a past...
automated: futurism... n'est ce pas?

         - i escape for the transcendental relief in
beauty... my own lack...
therefore better neglected: rather than denied...
it's my own that Belzeebub should
****** with maggots and acne synonyms onto
my face...

          i escape for beauty... not... sorry...
pardon my fwench: a ******* conversation
of the paupering sociopathic sort of
a job trotter sordid kin'!
                  if only crocodiles could cry...
they'd be warm-blooded...
and i would be year after year
an oscar nominee for a toast
of best actor at the oscars!

          pity... pity and the subsequent
dumbdrum!
                no! i do not want to guillotine this
affair with the autobiographic as long
as i am drinking and not any champagne
in sight... or... schnapps...
              
i best be off... this is enough frivolity
of the heart for a day's worth!

A poser
not a poet
autobiographic poetry
hand-picked
ignoring pain
stepping past
**** times

Enjoying
my poems
the reverie
of past loves
saluting
heroic
women

Not
recording
so many
stupid
actions

Waking up
walking
naked
weaving
through
parked cars

Romancing
feeling
nothing
but animal
lust

Decisions
made
that hurt
me
friends
loved ones
strangers

so much
and guilty
it cannot
can it
be told

well, now you know, the opening sample on the orb's album: the dream, borrows from a prog rock band (Canterbury scene, inc. the soft machine), caravan's winter wine.

i don't want you to think this is a soppy poem,
it's not...
                     it's what defines an autobiographic
oddity, 10 seconds, more or less:
that stretch into infinity and would otherwise be
seen as the atypical tragic event in a person's life;
i had two previous girlfriends
worth noting... that French girl i lost my
virginity to at university is beside the point...
both of these girlfriends were minted...
one was a star in Australia and provided her
dad selling the entertainment business for
a million (she lied about this,
i didn't catch on... should have bagged that girl
into matrimony)... the second, oh boy, the most
memorable was the Russian from
Novosibirsk - with two apartments in St. Petersburg...
dumb me no. 2... should have bagged that girl
to a matrimony also...
she the most memorable, because, thanks to her
i am living as a second self, the twin i never had...
but believe me, this is all based upon supposition,
Ripper Street type investigations (detective work),
and that fact that, like Nietzsche noted:
people aren't telling me anything - so it's based
on guess work... oh how people cradle their
little privacy - and boy, in the realm of:
and he was crucified for our sins... well:
no one mentioned lies... he didn't die for lying...
i have a dual-carriage way of dealing with this:
don't like, and have a **** rather than
getting emotionally attached... that ***** concerning
the person in *** is so ******* ridiculous
i'm about to take out a measuring tape and
measure my genital personality to prove a point...
oh the many white lies that mislead people...
me? i would never want to address people
as Mr. Goldfish, i offensively do believe in
that there are a few intelligent people out there...
two apartments in the centre of St. Petersburg
and studying in England, a Russian?!
you'd have to be minted to do that... so there,
i didn't get reeling in manifesto quickly enough...
but the Russian did try a strategy of entrapment:
faking taking contraceptive pills: darling,
i don't mind the rubber... noop...
the seed already planted, we broke up, i'm
at a different university doing history and part-time
roofing (industrial flat roofs) she calls me up one
night: i'm pregnant...
                                 well this is where a Greek in me
says something about moral relativism...
                she was still a teenager...
  at university,
                              and women have argued about
having the right to do abortions since donkey's years...
i didn't force her, i suggested: maybe that's an option
you would consider? that's how moral relativism works,
it's basically a cauldron, you put
abortion and ****** into it and say it's synonymous,
moral relativism is a case for synonymous judgements...
by the term ****** i envision killing someone:
fully formed, and possessing an inkling into the world...
by abortion i'm envisioning killing something...
       mainly because of the diaper principle:
that thing is mine, it's not fully formed... i'm killing
a part of me: a white tadpole... and in case of the woman:
apologies for ****** that sacred space of your,
i'd be greatly relieved if you got rid of it,
but all of a sudden, contradictory to all the appeals
to the right: she has to have it! what the ****?
that thing is mine in your body, i shove millions
of that existential murk down the toilet when i feel
like it... women just shove empty eggs down the toilet...
but since that's ****** my rights of ever
producing *****... sure... keep it... but you're not
talking about the possibility of the next Beethoven
prior to it gaining **** strength and stop using the
diapers... i thought that teenage pregnancies
were to be avoided, ensuring women are to be educated?
no? back to square one with Abraham and Isaac?
women: perpetually the gimmick of Freud.
oh yeah... wait! **** on me: ever heard of Freudian
geometry? it's the unconscious version of
squares, triangles and circles... everyday objects...
hats... cucumbers... that ****'s for *real.
once again... this part is speculative...
              the part that isn't is what i already said isn't
about soppy invocations...
              exemplified when i told a "supposed" friend
about it... and he came out with the words:
aw... want a hug and play you the violin?
                    i don't mind abuse, i'd probably eat a 100
trolls for breakfast... they might be whipping me...
what ****** me off more than anything is ridicule...
every single poet or writer will tell you that ridicule
is the most abhorring thing to experience...
                 it's worse than saying a woman is a *****...
believe me... i've been to prostitutes and
later i pass them down the street and they say:
                             that's the devil...
must be doing oral on them, *** included: once again:
there's no person involved: only two objects
with or without lubricants.
                          why did i go in the first place?
university... apparently a paradise for getting laid...
well... apparently not.
                                   at least they were human enough
to accept a small payment and make me feel warm
for a little: fake or not fake... the most beautiful compliments
i ever heard were from prostitutes, esp. that
Ukrainian girl in Poland: saintly depiction?
        well, still quiet eager after all that ***** and
tightly embracing and her words: you're a good human being.
           ****, how to relay back to the original intention?
well, of all the days, today i decided to drink three
beers in a churchyard, lazily on a bench,
                  not mystified by not thinking like Buddha
might have been calling it meditation...
                  sedative was on its way...
   9 years and counting where once a soul-like substance
allowed me to daydream and think whatever i wanted,
most notably: with ease...
                                              and have the full capacity
of my body -
                            but now? that ******* television-static
in my brain, like the meshing of alien d.n.a.
                            (but actually just blood)
            around the synapses of my brain - just like
an x-men prologue sequence...
                  and that's after seeing 5 or so psychiatrists
with an obvious problem: staring them into their eyes
and they were conjuring up their own imaginary
symptoms that i didn't seem to exhibit:
a. good eye contact
b. not biting his nails
c. empathy towards others
d. coherent speech
e. knowing everything about current affairs
f. reading Kierkegaard
                       they ****** off inspecting me after i
told them i go into the woods at night and drink
beer... hello the heart of darkness and apocalypse now,
                they really didn't see the obvious problem,
that ****** television-static like pain in my brain...
            mind you, i exploited it,
   it became an exquisite pain, an almost aristocratic pain,
my vocabulary expanded dramatically,
  and i focused on philosophy -
                               because Σoφια is the name of
   ******       on the mouths of every woman who
    encounters a philosopher: ******* kindred of
                              Oedipus and other bachelor lazy-*****...
true story, that.
                             well, what happened happened
9 years ago... it's not soppy, it's rather idiotic...
but after smoking marijuana anyone can be called an
idiot... a happy idiot... but your critique of surrounding
people and things numbs...
                    three people involved,
  in the beautiful city of Canterbury...
                                     being told that i could experience
a smoked version of l.s.d., aged 21, wouldn't you?
the story was false by the way... but the previous night
a fun night to say the least, old friends from school...
partying, drinking, smoking dope (no, not slang as in
cool in using it, we know the technical names,
i.e. Mary and Juan rather than Joseph) -
                    and yes, the church has nothing on me,
i didn't sign up to baptism, hence i didn't sign
up to confirmation and a third name,
i.e. matthew conrad Olaf <surname>...
                             that's called breaking the bureaucracy
with christianity... i'm redeemed...
                            so we were smoking in the morning
and the Amazonian death-**** was given to
me with the promise of a shorter trip than if i were
to ingest l.s.d., oh ***** me... dumbo's coming...
toked... and the show started...
            it's really strange looking someone in the eyes
when they have just attempted to ****** you...
esp. if they're your childhood friend...
you listened to the muse's origin of symmetry together
among other albums, you fell in love with Iron Maiden
and he sand you over the phone (gay), and you
played happy birthday to him on a guitar after only
you and someone else showed up to celebrate it...
   i slid into a vortex... years later i noticed an advert
investing in the public awareness of someone experiencing
a brain haemorrhage... half the face coming off,
slid to one side...
                      well... in terms of a first-person account
what was happening to me on that sofa 9 years
ago didn't exactly register... it's hard looking
  into the eyes of your would be murderer with that sort
of face... but **** me, the burning...
              moments worth an aeon later i was
shaken, quiet like an epilepsy by what i can only
describe as something with a biblical reference:
         jacob wrestling with an angel...
but in this case i was being shaken back to life,
           such was the strength of the interaction...
standing up, i extended my hand and i saw four
clear divisions as if i was pushing four doors open -
         the other person there?
    a nobody... he came to our school when we were
doing our a-levels... didn't really know him...
        the person i knew? the childhood friend...
first of all: i didn't know what was happening...
second of all: well, there's the new me...
          i'm not rich, suing was not an option,
but i'd know what that would have been like -
humanity isn't exactly Einstein when it comes to
          judging correctly...
i let it go...                                 i did something akin
to the Cain affair... let the ****** go...
                            and he's still out there,
after the event, years later, we met up and went to
an American Head Charge gig -
                          when the song just so you know came
on he was hiding in the toilet, i was downing pints
of beer...
                                            oh my god, that band looks
ruined, they've lost a few band members, i remember
them supporting Rammstein when they were
playing ensemble at the London Arena in the Docklands,
got chatting to a dustman about the gig outside,
and a few member of a Greek metal band:
         ever heard of Rotting Christ? great band.
sure, he's still out there... and i'm still here...
    ha ha... he's actually a lawyer by now...
the funny side of all this is that... well: imagine being
a lawyer after an unsuccessful ****** attempt
(you have to admit, it would have been exquisite...
but then i had a chemistry, and the police would
have said

i can't say much about today, well, i probably will,
made a burger and did house chores with Steptoe,
and i know what you're thinking -
the common trend in western society, you actually
like familial interactions, you're not into
7 year itches, you're not inclined to conjure up
Norman Bates all of a sudden - you're content,
quiet respectably normal - and to be frank,
the following as happened to me: the psychoanalytic
technique of regression, i.e. planting false memories
when being psychoanalysed - page 25 of Friday
July the 8th 2016 the times newspaper - headline:
THERAPIST FACES CLAIM OF "BRAINWASHING"
GIRLS - she implanted in them a Freddy Krueger -
a reverse Friday the 13th scenario -
one psychiatrist tried it on me - he hushed the words:
'oh... he was abused as a child' - but the pronoun
usage was already wrong, or simply odd -
this sort of musing aloud got to me worked up,
i said nothing, i continued with an interview, i had a few,
don't you worry, they passed me around like hot charcoal,
they couldn't put a box on me, (bragging? on this subject,
just the reality of what happened) - they employed about
five psychiatrists and two students to decipher me,
i was holding the joker card every time -
they couldn't understand that a real physical ailment
could be translated into metaphysical ailments -
if you mean metaphysics turned into a lysergic acid-like
experience then i might as well have talked to the police -
five of them, none bothered to use the funding the
national health service gets to book an m.r.i. scan,
they prescribe psychiatric drugs assuming your brain
is a sponge that soaked up a chemical soup -
i'm talking natural sedatives, alcohol, not synthetic sedatives:
anti-psychotics. the structure of the family breaks down
in the west, but it's fine, we have legal partnerships
and gay marriage - i guess the latter is the only positive,
but like any married couple, the nagging will invariably
enter the scene, and given that heterosexual marriages break
down, i'm hardly going to bet on homosexual marriages
being the maiden voyage of Titanic without the iceberg.
so 5 of them, beaten to the core, but only this recent story
made me think of the inherent sadism in psychiatry,
regression "therapy" whereby i did for a moment play out
the trick and thought about what sort of abuse i might
have suffered as a child... oh, that time i taught myself
how to ******* aged 8? well, that's self-abuse -
and a pretty good one i might add, few people will *******
and feel ******* but not the end product, or maybe
just me - so Ms. A (as is noted in Poland when a criminal
is identified) did this regression tactic to break up families,
she might have failed hers, and strategically invoked the failures
into other people - we already know that psychiatrists are
very sick people, we just don't know how sadistic they can be
by being subtle in their methods... after all... thought
equated to the senses is 5 times more fragile, and more
sensual if you think about it - all the senses bundled up into
one function, and we don't necessarily know what that
function is taking away a Cartesian moment of realisation,
your daily chores, your professional web of utilities,
after all, what is thinking? fail-safety-mechanism in philosophy?
ask a question - the alternative of a ¶, a new paragraph.
so when a society shuns public intellectualism, philosophers
poets... who do you think will enter in their place in terms
of political dynamics? yep, the men in white coats with pills...
pills pills pills... nothing more, and bogus theories half
expanded and half shunned by a zoological treatment of
human beings - i know there are exceptions, a man last year
stabbed a pensioner 30 times over a minor traffic-accident,
he was labelled a paranoid schizophrenic... oddly enough
i too was labelled that... a 5 minute diagnostic session,
man comes in, i say - a woman across the street is walking
around naked, and so are her daughters... i'm getting this
****** fuelled fantasy working on me, can you tell her to
invest in curtains? i don't mind the naked bit,
but imagining doing a mother and two daughters is a bit
too much for my pigeon brain.
the stimuli ingested by the senses are nothing compared
to what stimuli thinking ingests -
it's less the sun the moon a summer breeze,
and more McDonald, Gucci: pseudo-capitalism with
your generic schizoid symptom - insinuations.
oh believe me, faking this condition out of personal-interest
was necessary - to fake it, to take an interest in it
to see what the other side was doing about it left me
with an inexhaustible source of resources: experience.
i think i'll end the intro and tell you something else.

two books on my lap, Jung's *answer to Job
and the long hard road out of hell - a semi-autobiographic
by Marilyn Manson and neil strauß -
so before you think i write about religious matters
like some cuckoo evangelist having a library of
only one book and a lot to talk about, i don't -
but we live in times where everyone imitated someone,
that someone is already obvious -
funny though, the Greeks invented the concept
of Antichrist... without knowing that the concept
of anti-matter would pop up about 2000 years later -
a coincidence you say? not given the Atomists
Leucippus and Democritus - the theory of anti-matter,
but in a religious person?! travesty you scream!
john of πατμoς - he had the anticipation of anti-matter
like the Atomists cited (obviously there were some
in the east - the Jain Genies - modern day scenes
from Tokyo and Beijing - wouldn't eat a ladybird
or sniff up an airborne microbe) - but hell, if Johnny
~anticipated anti-matter, but really didn't, why
was the anti person invoked? it took all the dereliction
of religion to provide the basis for anti-matter,
and that's no surprise, it makes it easier to think of
another world, no scientist would come up with it,
because only a religious person would somehow conjure
up a mechanism whereby what was once matter turned
into anti-matter, or a version of Christ that reads,
writes, and doesn't give sermons... well, why not?
let's go crrrrazy. yet the main point of this entry is, well,
the profanity Christianity took to when learning about
the tetragrammaton, there's much beauty in it, and yet
for Christianity a crucifix is somehow an improvement...
benedictio fontis (blessing of the fountain), the sign
of the cross is made - Catholics make it on themselves:
forehead, left right, stab at the heart and then
romeo:
if i profane with my unworthiest hand
this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
to smooth that rough toush with a tender kiss.
juliet:
good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much
                                                  (you **** a lot),
which mannerly devotion shows is this;
for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm in holy palmers' kiss;
Orthodox Greek and Russian: forehead, right left,
stab at the heart - hey, why not put a few together,
you know, those gesticulations -
(index, thumb and ******* - the "holy trinity"
in Braille) forehead, left right right left (****,
where's a traffic warden when you need one),
and then hand clenched into a fist... smack... a mea culpa
straight away - honestly, god to a Polish Catholic mass...
go to one... you'll end hearing a Satanic murmur
roaming through the crowd, esp. as the creed of faith
being said... shivers down the spine.
but that's what's written in Jung - from the eloquence
of yhwh to † - in effect a bit more than Christian sign language,
more like the acronym n.e.w.s. - north east west south -
and when he said kneel, he replied don't tempt me,
and when he said kneel and all the kingdoms will be yours,
someone ordered chicken chow mein in defiance
to the moment, and China remained with Confucius,
predictably confused when the one-child state policy came
into effect - ever wonder why they play that pebble
game at the Hajj? you think they're throwing a pebble
at a raw Rodin block of stone before the chisel was aimed
thinking they'll throw a pebble and get two pebbles back?

Funny Autobiographic Thoughts

In 1966 I burned my bra –
Haven’t worn one since,
Content with what God gave me once;
No plastic *****, no silly-cone nonsense
Standing up when l lie down -
A thought I find amusing
To be added to when musing;
Funny mem’ries such as these
Will carry on as they occur –
Which they will I’m sure.
Bubbling up unceasingly.
(to be continued in the future).

Funny Autobiographic Thoughts 12.4.2016
Pure Nakedness; Circling Round Woman II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin

i still can't believe i'm entombed in about 4 months of the total of my life: which now stands at 30 years... those 4 months are like the facts of sunrise followed by sunset, summer prior to autumn... i should be counting my i.q. score as if i was counting marbles... to think that 4 months, spread across the cities: Edinburgh, outer-London and St. Petersburg are as necessary for me to continue to write (even though i preferred manual labour) as they aren't... i just mean... i have fonder memories that keep me occupied in what i deem the cinematography of disorientated cognition - but for 4 months of my life to be so designating the "progress" of my endeavour... it just so happens that we easily accept natural grievances, you never hear talk of god's imbecile jurisprudence among cancerous children... usually among the wealthy and the reasonably healthy: talking about the pointlessness of a god, using the most crass example: a tapeworm, or such other sucker. still, 4 months to provide the momentum for writing? the girl in question? last time i saw her, she was playing butcher with her hand, some idiot told her to cut down her arms, rather than her wrist... and the boy's friend? apparently he was diagnosed as bipolar... so all ends ******, should it begin ******... as a thought that's more akin to a warning: learn to let go.

epitaphs and maxim fit perfectly where livers and hearts
used to be - as to d.o.b. and d.o.d. - death? oh, i've met
him before, he released me from his trickster
clutches and said:
revision 2.0.
                     so i started revising
my life, undoing all the wrongs
i've ever could have done to others,
to my surprise, i was roaming
a wilderness - not a single person
in sight!
               deer and foxes,
kestrels and falcons, seagulls and crows,
woodland pigeons and sparrows -
magpies and cranes -
                    blackbirds and squirrels -
yes, death, i've met him before,
           i only wish it was the one time
that i had - kicking the calendar -
on a saint's feast day preferably,
to overcome them all...
                and when the *jaskółka flies
high, there is little chance of rain...
    but when a swallow flies low:
the chance of rain is imminent -
                  thus epitaphs among skeleton:
where once the lodged liver, now, a few words...
i've met death before, by my second time
i hope to place the laurel leaves under
poets' buttocks to epitomise laziness
    than on top of Caesars' heads -
for haphazard ruling of a dominion -
yes, death and i have met before,
in a haemorrhage likened to an epileptic spasm
we conversed ever so briefly:
before the hyenas of lost law came and
fearing the most audacious prognosis:
****** me into 7 years of imitating premature
dementia - as in any autobiographic sketch:
people lie...
                     boy meets girl,
        girl loves boy, boy loves girl,
   girl thinks she's perfect, boy thinks: well,
  there's always room for improvement,
girl tries to make boy into a piggy bank...
  girl stops taking contraceptive pills,
boy isn't informed about having to put a ******
back on... boy and girl break up...
                  boy heads home to work,
  girl is rich and continues studying...
               girl sees boy with his ex partying...
become Hera like jealous,
            ends up ******* the boy's childhood friend...
the boy played happy birthday to the friend at one time...
  the same friend that sent a picture of his genitals
to his ex... yep, the usual soap opera...
                boy's friend attempts to **** him
using the former fiance's knowledge in anthropology
about poisonous Amazonian hallucinogens...
              boy get high, gets fooled into smoking
the poison up... boy experiences a haemorrhage-epilepsy -
   gets twisted in a web of deceit, for some reason gets
diagnosis as a schizophrenic... resurfaces with poems
  such as these: no one has proof of anything like this
happening... Rasputin comes in to congratulate everyone
and starts to applause... the girl gives birth to son...
son doesn't know the whole story, will probably end
up killing the boy after his mother tells him enough lies...
          boy is waiting, rubbing his hands like a fly:
          whenever you're ready;
i love it, for all my education, i've only learned one thing:
   distrust everyone, and avoid everyone
                     and coagulate with a hermit's plausibility
           of the isolated life,
           in a society of however many millions
              who nod to the words: god is dead,
        and we are slaves unto the dietitian:
who begat in physics the calorie atom we so forcefully
                  occupy an interest in.
yes, death can come once more...
            all i see is skeletons and epitaphs -
  gravestones and where once a heart pounded:
                    some easily forgotten words.

.i don't know are you here to listen to classical music for the same reasons as i? i never bothered with any i.q. testimony or how: i'll abstract "better"... i'm here because... quiet frankly... the drums are doin' my 'ed in... thump thump thump... knocking on doors and the sound of hooves on cobblestone clanking along would probably be a sometimes of a: more appealing hope... and quite frankly the lack of vocals... otherwise modern music and the drums would require one to scream rather than sing - to pass a soul a breath through the custard scrutiny of a wall... why wouldn't drumming translate into gore-screaming sensations; - i'm here to escape the drums and the vocals... some would claim that: Vladimir Lugovskoy has the most serene wikipedia entry of a life: that's better lived - if not best lived... no chance of drowning further than one should: with an epitaph... i have walked many graveyards... i'm yet to find a grave with an epitaph... to me that's like... finding a unicorn!

for as long as i remember... i thought that prokofiev
couldn't better his oeuvre...
outside of his lieutenant kijé (suite), op. 60...
notably the romance piece...

there's a saying about a classical music station...
say, a classic.fm - that what is played is only a fraction
of what was ever produced...
how is a pop music radio station any different
to a classical music station?

it's not really... and there's that other saying:
that most of what is played...
is by a fraction of composers...
the "lesser" composers are only known
for a single piece...

edging toward 34 years...  and... no...
i haven't heard this piece before...
for me it's like a compensation for
liking wojciech kilar's: the beginning
from the film dracula...
oddly enough...
how these two pieces seem to
                "borrow" from each other...

but no amount of time listening to a classical radio
station would have brought me here...
the youtube algorithm spat out an: anomaly...

        otherwise during the day... there's that program...
from 1pm to 5pm... when people phone in...
and... they rarely ask for something specific...
the names of classical music
            pieces are already complicated...
they instead ask for... something akin to the mood
they're in...
well: who would bother remembering
the names - muzak express!
high-brow my ***... music...
that... after all... is... the antithesis of
modernity in that: can i hear any drums?
i wouldn't bet on the drums being included...
whereas most of what's modern:
if the drums are not involved...
does that imply: there's no rigor and standard
bearing to time the matter?

i thought i better call in sometime ago...
and ask for... christopher young's - something
to think about - from the hellraiser II: hellbound
soundtrack...

well...
sergei eisenstein's 1938 film alexander nevsky -
and what prokofiev gave for it...
notably: the battle on ice: 5 April 1242...
but this is new to me...

it's not like discovering: the moody blues'
spin on pop music with:
nights in white satin and... days of future past...
i have listened to the radio many a times...
but prokofiev's alexander nevsky suite
never made it... to be aired...
a relic - russia under the mongolian yoke,
song about alexander nevsky,
the crusaders in pskov, arise ye russian people,
the battle on the ice,
the field of the dead, alexander's entry into pskov...
there really can be worse ways
to spend circa 40 minutes of your time...

was there a composer that might have
celebrated another date...
15 July 1410 - my history - this sort of history -
perhaps even "god":
apology - i know it's rather... infantile of me
not donning the proper togas and
contentious smiles... of it's a wish for salting
the open wound matter...
of course: always: the "other" the "forgotten"
crusades...
bride of the crown: lithuania -
the pagans that lived into the 15th century!
again: circa.

next on the list: prokofiev's ivan the terrible
suite... but i'm guessing that's going
to very ambitious of me...
but i have allowed myself to stomach
miles davis' ******* brew and coltraine's:
a love supreme...
  prokofiev's ivan: i don't predict anything
less epic... the ultimate nerve-ending shatter...
but... probably not as...
philip glass toying with penderecki...
mahler... even in classical music there are limits...
when a bout of existential apathy seeps in...
and you have grown out of cutting your arms...
or chicken-scratching them...
you might own a female cat...
and forget to cut her nails...
and you pick her up wanting to find
a babushka doll insides -
find the ultimate bonsai tiger to the already
bonsai tiger she already is...
and she digs her nails into your arms...
all this while imagining putting a needle
into your ear while listening to some mahler...
or penderecki...
that's: well... the ultimate sacrifice for anyone
self-harming...
a combination of the two...

otherwise, in history... why did the northern
crusades takes place?
well... the calamity of the 4th crusade...
the largest army... the german army...
pickled barbarossa and... the drowning in the puddle...
and the loss of moral...
a crusade was going to happen...
anyway... if it didn't happen in the holy land...
it could happen in the east:
perhaps a mongol or two could be converted
too...

but: mein gott - i have to check if i have
any tattoos on my skin...
why? perhaps my "soul": no god no soul...
ergo summa summarum (grand Σ)
that other explanation for what "motivates"
me and what: doesn't make me think
about my heart: unless i'm having a heart-attack...
this membrane that shields my thought
from acquiring thoughts concerning
these thoughtless items -
when i walk: i don't think about walking
or moving my feet...

come the exclusive res cogitans...
coupled with the inclusive res vanus:
the thinking thing vs. the empty thing...
no god: no soul...
but there's still a summa summarum!
thinking is not the spider
and my body is not the spiderweb!
****: i thought you might suggest: ego, spider...
that we still have "ego theory"
and the counter: the germanic root:
prefix automated equivalent: self-...

and that no serious history would ever
take place... outside of the ethnic minority
reactions from the 20th century...
then i am... infantile... or imbecilic...
for looking toward the old forest...
with... not all crusades happened in the holy land
and against the muslims which ignited
Saladin...
some happened in north-eastern europe...
where the last pagans sat dormant...
at least into the early 15th century...

they have a name: krzyżak...
and the breath of the world: the wind...
blew these ******* in our direction...
because... barbarossa was pickled...
and he drowned in a puddle...
and what better way to invigorate a loss
of morale... and... be "left out"
from the 4th crusade party with richard I
and philip II augustus of france than...
turn one's attention elsewhere...
but by... historiological standards...

i be infant... having this tattoo of history...
i need to be told:
the only serious part of 20th century
history is: the m.l.k. oration!
some other... social justice cwusade!
wow! you brought the welsh with you?
i figured: what's the point of tattoing my body
with something akin to...
a Lale Sokolov's 19860515...
i'm still "there": as much as heidegger's
dasein allows me to be:
an inflated tattoo... it's missing 10 million
at least... to reach this number...

all serious history ever happend after 1950...
in terms of social change...
the closures of psychiatric asylums
and those... clown "fakeries" from:
bulletin lobotomy...
we all have that added spice in... all soz'
we wuz' knots not yuz...
yizzy? hasiddy yizzy gerschwitz
mild rash: what's that?
we can change the "jew" to a ***... no problem...
but i am tired...
what? "jew" becames a ***?
em... yiddish? lazy ol' sloth in acquired
english slang: ***- as prefixed...
omitted a punctuation mark: susan me!

             the following history that prokofiev's music
was invested in... "idiosyncratic"...
or... a juvenile delinquent case of:
keeping remains of a memory that...
oh: mein gott! doesn't include...
a... multicultural mandate!

from my perspective: this borrowed tongue...
i wouldn't be looking for
remains of the crusader armies...
but then again: barbarossa did drown in
a puddle and was pickled...
and the germans feeling they were being left out...
marched home and found...
their second jerusalem in Wilno...
i guess the mongolian itch was also the "real"
reason why... why loiter?

i have my own... what? history?
oh right... the past is me either being "romancing the stone"...
or the celebrated fate of the mamluks
and the janissaries? slaves or slavs...
etymology... i wonder how that excess
of an added E... looks...
alongside... what's to be eaten...
from: GERMANS... ah... the A and N...
said the "germs" to the "slaves"...

word: swovo...
                                            yabudyed!

it's infantile history though:
the only history that would ever concern
me as having come from the 20th century
and the furthest past...
no... not necessary...
the social juice and oratory speeches...
character before afro...
in english: i remember moving to england
aged 8... and... well...
being born into a monochromatic all white...
society: brave Zulu warriors...
under the patron saint of joking paul II
braved the berlin wall and the satellite
yoke of the communist empire...
and made it! into Poland!

this story... is a tree: that needs to be... ****** on!
liberally!
otherwise? no **** no ancient oak
stamp... savvy?

it's still prokofiev! it's still the alexander nevsky suite!
it's me starving... 30 years without litening
to it... it's... making sure...
that wojciech kilar... doesn't "borrow" from the suite...
otherwise: russophobia...
a quiet literal fear of the evil genius from the Muscovites...
while, simultanoeusly...
appreciating their sing-along and literature...
further alienation on the trench line of
islamophobia: apart from Rumi...
and le trio joubran? what's new in arabia?
law-rence?!

i know i know... having a body free from tattoos...
but a brain tattooed all over with these insignificant
dates... my bad... my, travesty!
i should best remember the civil rights movement...
in a country...
how many times have i visited Ypres?
enough to play sunflower: he loves me, he loves me not
using poppies...
i'm still waiting for my first ****** overdose
from the trips...

schematic: western europe remembers the 1st world war...
eastern europe: remembers the 2nd world war...
but that's still me being: infantile...
why have i been dealt this ****** hand of cards...
in terms of: what history is worth being
remembered... and what isn't...

whatever is happening to the palestianians...
under the israelis...
nothing quiet akin to what happened
to the ottoman muslims under the serbs...
and... what if the soviet union...
took the route of yuogoslavia...
when it collapsed?
what if the soviet union... happened like
yugoslavia happened?
upon disintegrating?

can you imagine?! there's only one praise
for the soviet union... the way it folded...
after all... the soviet union didn't do a ******* ms. sarajevo
as yugoslavia did...
pierdolone jugole... abused prefix term further
up north...
what's that? proto- / any pan- ethnicity umbrella
movement? oh... i thought the germanic plan
was working so well...
who failed? the british: these little brother
saxons... or the p.i.g.s.? portugese, italians,
greeks, spaniards?
i once upon a time figured...
so it wasn't about eastern europeans joining?
well... who was bringing the bulgarian
prostitutes into england? the turks were...

i am gnashing my teeth and peeling a suntan
to later burn over a fire and call it...
once properly stretched: the sort of leather
required for a pair of shoes!
or a belt!

am i still being infantile...
given i know historical figures akin to:
philip II augustus... alexander nevsky...
conrad I of masovia...
       ulrich von jungingen....
no... wait long enough: these people will
become myths... phantoms... ghosts...
no sooner than with the onslaught of time
in the ***** of journalism!
why is there a myth of Oedipus:
it's safe! it's safe to reap psychoanalytical
archetypes serfs of ego from
the couch-sitting bollocking-*******-herders!
it's safe... until the day...
when the crucifix will emerge as nothing more...
than a *****!

east? anything east of the Oder river
is called a... cyrillic! maestro!
a... швaб... a szwab... a "swabian"... a helmut...
hell-muttering of some ****...
he's not a ßaß... that proud term for a people
that came along after the romans
left these isles: which i am speak from...
little africa in northern europe: deutchland...
the pomeranians, the bavarians:
the швaбы...

as the old proverb states, my grandmother:
the only woman in the world that
always wants to fiddle with my beard...
i have never met a woman that wanted to play
with my beard... apart from my grandmother...
well... she says:

if you go among the crows: you better croak their croak...
that's too over-worded...
kiedy wchodzisz miedzy wrony:
musisz krakac jak i onny...
(no diacritical markers...
i feel lazy a'today)...
how's my assimilation coming along?
unique, due, unique "dude":

if you go among the crows: you better croak like
a crow...
so... given the russian is a bear...
moi... the french slav... ******...
well... i'm either the totem stork... or...
the bison... the european wunderkind!
from what i've heard? the letter: Ł?
well... it's as much kashubian and sorbian...
as it is... navajo... inupiaq...

when jung asked: modern man in search of soul...
i asked the materialistic question:
better or for worse: this has to be reworded...
if the breath became the soul...
and the soul became the spaghetti of daydreams
and other leftover rewards of thought from
having abstracted outside or inside
the triangle and the letter delta...
there must be a categorical impetus:
i.e. nothing is true... but i'll continue a...
roulette of will... subsequently...
i'll call it the corona-sigma: the summa summarum...
the crown-total...
wow... there's even a chemical name for it:
18-Crown-6  (1,4,7,10,13,16-hexaoxacyclooctadecane):
yes... the remains of alt-vater-deutsche:
words: notapprovedtobewithouthyphens...
still make it via chemistry...
everything else? oxford hyphen standards...
must be kept!

an imperative is not an impetus...
an imperative has the faculty of a sense of sight...
an impetus? blind man sentenced for ****...
how the hell he ever managed to find
the key let alone the keyhole that led
to the shameful expression of O of the door being
opened... and... guilt!
the pleasures bound to...
the least obvious investigations...
and by now... any drunkard's roulette
when the words come less as a precursor...
but more as: dear... still clinging to a "moral"
afterthought? non sic?

we were talking about prokofiev... weren't we?
lieutenant kijé suite - romance -
my epitome of: "sad and lonely": but god!
my most happy!
and... the newly found: prkofiev:
alexander nevsky - the battle of the ice...
and: how, somehow, wolciech kilar...
borrowed or played ping-pong with this music
to... originate with a dracula soundtrack:
the beginning...

me and my tattooless body...
what is this history? does it have to belong
within the confines of the 20th century exodus?
aren't people always speaking in the 21st century like:
but it's the 21st century!
if they say such things then the exodus must have
happened in the 20th century...
circa 50 years later...
and we're expected to behave like...
at least two centuries have passed since...
1968...
the inverted circus: hear the bang of a firework
first... then... the actual firework explode!

it's not something you'd want to experience
when walking down the Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg...
that i did pull off...
i managed to find a russian girl to fall in love with me...
she only wanted a spring and summer...
an autumn for a break-up...
thank god for that...
who is going to see russia from the people
i went to school with?
india's a bore... thailand is a bore...
the U, S of A... a bore...
we do have the cultural export frontline exposure...
what's new?
hell: if i want... i'd make it to israel...
but a month in russia?

oh it was worth the slap in the face...
even she knows it...
we were young, we were cruel...
we only had obligations for the heart to weave
a pseudo-mind and a quasi-skeleton we
would later call: the siamese crux...
and just before i met her...
i remember Edinburgh being haunted
by a ****** eclipse of the moon -
some would even claim it was the first time
they saw a marsian moon...
tinged crimean... borrowed from cardinal red...
and crimson...

some life... 13 or 14 years ago...
like i said, once already...
memory: cameo cinema that i love to revive
almost every night, when drinking...
because: it is not the most spectacular
a life that's worth... a backlog of autobiographic
entries readied: end of life sequence:
better scribbled than forgotten...
but an ongoing parrot's chatter... impromptu...
this the most unfortunate of love stories...
one where... we didn't allow ourselves
to have to mutually share: adult responsibilities
as to have to squander good conversation...
when the bills came a'rolling in at the end
of each moth...
i guess we allowed ourselves
the last idealism of love either of us
would be able to experience...

for a relationship where she proposed...
she chose the engagement ring...
and she herself decided to break it with me...
she would later... "i think i'm pregnant":
descartes: "i think i doubt" therefore "i am"?
the supposed contraceptive measures we took...
how many partners did she have
after we broke up? cuckoo or what?!
oh i remember the ones i had...
the ones i payed for...

               what's not cling to: loved-up and
still not having the sort of...
love with obligations:
love as... the most pristine failure...
that... children in love...
without the existential focus points to...
achieve the invitation of time... inclusively
of boy becomes man becomes father becomes
grandfather...
and not exclusively as: you and me...
i.e. me and her...
etc.