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Match Schedule
Competition : NFL Wild Card Playoffs
Competitor : Cincinnati Bengals vs Indianapolis Colts Live
Date : Sunday, Jan. 04, 2014
Time : 1:05 PM ET
Location : Lucas Oil Stadium, Indianapolis, Indiana

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502 bad gateway byways short:

Paul's *** never
favoured itself as a prized
asset for making
gazpacho...

this is not an album review per se, that's just the cover, my true intentions for writing this come after... but at the same time: it's a thought experiment - concerning attention spanning... if i continued down the path of being my own pretend radio DJ... listening to songs from as many possible artists i'd lose track of the beauty of listening to an entire album in one sitting... i find that most people these days are unable to listen to an entire album by one artist... it's difficult... i can give an example of one album that trained me to be patient... my father was a big fan of King Crimson... in the Court of the Crimson King is always the album i go back to to regain my concentration skills when it comes to something i haven't heard before...

the first few words will be difficult...
      i'm just not feeling them...
                  i left my feelings elsewhere...
i'm already elsewhere...
    it's truly impossible to make music this good...
what was the album i listened
to last... when all of the opening 5 songs i really
liked? there's usually a high...
   then some middle ground... some low with
a ballad or equivalent... perhaps a stadium filler
anthem: most of Queen's stuff was the latter...

1. holy peak
   2. television
     3. small dogs
       4. i've had enough
         5. ambition...         o.k. fair enough
     this is the first track that i'm not feeling...
but after four tracks that pumped me up...
i need to slow down with the hype... fair enough...
          
now i'll need to take a break so that the music
will catch up with me writing this...
thankfully there's that glass of sharpshooter whiskey
and pepsi and a cigarette about to be lodged between
the index and *******: and the coolness
of the night...

            6. dance macabre - also a welcome interlude...
sort of reminds of the madness of Gong's
flying teapot (radio gnome invisible part 1)...
    during the time i was dating this Russian girl
and every time i put this record on: she freaked
out and told me to turn it off...
                  that's almost like this one guy i knew
and when i put on Greenskeepers song Lotion on
he would immediately tell me turn it off...
so much for adventurous stoners...

   7. valley of the dolls... a song trying to regain
energy... this is the moment in the album
i was reflecting on the prior two songs...
but come...

  8. stars wars... we're back to the energy of the first
four songs... the bass has become relevant once
more...

   the album will finish with two cover songs...
a Bob Marley and a Serge Gainsbourg songs...
i haven't heard them yet... so i can't say: refill!
need more ice... this heat-wave isn't helping anyone...
at least in winter you perhaps wake up shocked
to wake up in the dark in the morning...
but at least you don't wake up exhausted...
there's only one plus of this heat-wave...
a lack of appetite... what did i eat today?
two eggs on two pancakes...
                                     and... a mixed berry milkshake...

mind you... i also made raspberry sorbet...
but clearly people have got it all wrong
when it comes to sorbet recipes...
i'm so glad i didn't follow it to the exactness...
people use too much sugar...
clearly:

250g of sugar
250ml of water... the sugar is to be melted
    in the water... the was: obviously heated...
juice of half a lemon
400g of raspberries...

i didn't use 250g of sugar...
i must have used about 200g but i wish i used
even less...
and i didn't use half a lemon...
i used the juice of two lemons...
and i didn't use 400g of raspberries...
after tasting the slush... i decided to blitz
up probably another 100g of raspberries: if not more...

sorbet shouldn't be sweet... it should be tangy...

9. get up, stand up... well clearly it isn't
a reggae cover... it's a new wave take on reggae...
   it is what it is...

10. moi non plus...
                  i do know all about the ad hominem
response toward ol' Serge... i'll be honest...
               i'm not that familiar with his music...
                      refill...
well... walking back up the stairs was rather
interesting... now i have to listen to the original...
but not yet... the best part being:
REWIND...

track 1...holy peak... twice on repeat...
                now i'm satisfied... i couldn't rewind
on that song alone haven't i listened to the whole
album... that was great... 40 minutes well spent...
hmm... new wave post-punk has always been
my place to go: the origins of punk are...
3 chords? 3 minute songs?
           music for people with short-attention spans...
just like i could never get into rap...
hip-hop: sampling jazz: yes...
                                    death metal too... i can't stand
that ****...

no to lift my mood concerning what i was actually
going to write about...
Faun - Seemann
   the night is looking ****...
                        that rhubarb and strawberry cake
i baked today was also sort of ****...
plus the added sorbet... but on a Sunday as hot
as it was today: what else is there to do?
perhaps watch the World Athletics...
                     oh man... i'm dreading working
the shift at Wembley for the Women's Euro finals...

i don't have a problem with female tennis:
i actually enjoy it more than men's tennis...
i remember a time before the great trinity arrived
that male tennis was all about the serve...
hardly any ******* rallies...
                 yawn...
                          but women's tennis was always more
interesting: for me, at least...
and the "asexuality" of the Olympics was always
appealing...
                but... pushing this ******* agenda
of: women will be as great footballers as men sort of
shakes the myths associated with names
according to Bobby Charlton... Pele... Maradonna...
any other sport... but not football...
not rugby... not boxing...

                tennis is a ladies game... it's beautiful!
golf is boring for either party: i don't see what the big
joke is: except i do... when Robin Williams explained
the invention of golf...
the stats are in... what's troubling is how people
love to lie to themselves...
sure... perhaps in Spain: where the women's Barcelona
team can fill the Camp Nou: unlike in club football
in England where the only people attending are...
small children... friends and family and "empowered"
women...

that's why at female football matches
people with S.I.A. licenses are not given shifts...
no one expects trouble at a woman's football match...
you have too many children...
not enough rowdy teenage boys...
so the risk of violence is minimal...
                     i don't get it...
   women had access to sport... they always did...
they also had access to literature:
who did Marquis de Sade write for? men?
i don't think so...
                     but certain sports are certain sports...
how many sports are there in the Olympics?!
i'm not even bother counting...

so i was watching this World Athletic Championship
today...
hmm... those heptathlon athletes look pretty...
snap of the figure: the idea is gone...
because i stop focusing on the women
and focus on what they're doing...
the same with tennis...
                 ****... Eugenie Bouchard /
   Monica Puig is playing...              i can't....
     concentrate... snap of the fingers...
                       the initial idea is gone... i focus on the tennis...
when i watch a women's football match...
those knee-long socks...
sure... they're not playing in skirts... but in shorts...
but... in England schoolgirls do wear those long
white socks...
                too much ******* hair in the air...
i don't watch women's football for the football:
i watch women's football for the women...
plain as a lost shadow come noon
   on a desert platitude...

let's face it... there are areas where women excel
beyond any man...
gymnastic and ballet...
men are props in ballet...
       tarty-socked-up buffons...
              a sort of Spinal Tap spin-off...
but gymnastic? the agility: the pliability
of their bodies... men's bodies are rigid-strength
structures... in gymnastics a woman's entire
body is used... in the case of man?
his prowess: his upper body strength...

are women's bones made from chewing gum
or something? or are they actually possessed
with an exoskeleton?
i guess girls that aspire to be footballers
only wished to be able to play football with
the boys in school... but the boys said no...
so the girls were like: Mr. Big Brother!
give us a league! give us a league!

but they're so... "unattractive" in their pursuit...
given: looking at the crowd that attends...
thank god this is not the world cup...
i'd hate to have to spot my favourite female
player... what?! because she plays fantastic football?
Hazard player fantastic football at Chelsea...
moving to Real Madrid ruined the poor sod...
i'm talking about...

Alexandria Morgan... football? eh? there's a pitch?
there's a stadium? there are two goals?
what are you talking about?
   i'm not here for the football...
                  ANY OTHER SPORT...
South Korean women at the Olympics in the sport
of archery...
yes... i know it's a woman...
but look at her skills...
     football is hot-wired into a man's head that:
women shouldn't...
i don't care... Alexandria Megan and... something's moving
or something's not moving...

too much history with football hooliganism...
in a time when people are indoctrinated
into what football team they support...
******* club tattoos...
                a grandfather takes his son to a football
match: fanaticism...
and then the father takes the grandson to the football
match: cycle - on repeat...
not all sports... seriously... not all sports...
it just can't be done... otherwise i just switch off...

it's not like girls are inspired by ballerinas or
gymnasts... but apparently some are...
there's nothing inspiring about women football players...
the attendance statistics prove just as much...
it's a niche mentality... pre- or post- feminist?
when is this tirade of a "philosophy" of:

one shoe fits all: unus calceus omnis vicium
going to end?
isn't there one?! feminism ought to be a prefix...
because it's a meat-grinder of ideas...
there's always going to be a counter
to say... existentialism...
there's going to be feminist-existentialism...
the feminist-enlightenment...
the feminist-stoicism...
  the feminist-cynicism...
the feminist-Platonism...
             catch me if you sort of mentality?!

as a teenager i used to dream about women...
i woke up between the ages of 13 and 16
and be like...
Valentine's Day... stop there! coward!
you're brining roses for Janina today...
in art class... Janina became a face i wanted to sketch...
and i did... it was a sketch...
eyes as shapes... the presupposed sclera...
but no pupil and certainly no iris...
peering into a mirror with her as an old woman...
Gemma was another i asked a photograph
off so i could sketch her...

all: worth: jack: ****!
         so i cured myself of woman with women,
with prostitutes...
  now? it should be the song Freebird...
but it's Sweet Home Alabama and me thinking:
cinema *****... a tight ***...
cinema ***** a tight ***...
               i still love... with a grave to distance me
and a "her" apart...
    because if coffee dates are so stupid...
if art gallery and cinema dates are so stupid...
i'm not willing to pay for food and a maybe...
go straight down the river and pay for the ***...
at least: chances are...
she might like you so much
that she'll let you try ******* for the very first
time aged 36...  and you're like...
well that was ****... i'll gladly return
to my cup of coffee and a cigarette for...
this snorting paracetamol is doing **** all for me...

AND I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT
WHAT I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT...
thank you... Thomas Bunce... my English teacher:
he used to teach English via way of digression...
what grammar i handle is my own self-taught...
he had the principle:
if you can write like you speak... you're good to go...
but... he didn't really state that:
you can also write like you think:
and never speak like you think...
which is why writing is a two-edged sword...
i don't even know how to write like i speak:
i write like i think...
and i never speak like i think...
so writing is a "third-man" dimension of me...

HELL... I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT
WHAT I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT...
maybe now: here's my chance...
yes... it begins with the Roman poets' overtones
of conversation, casual:
nothing modern: over-exasperated
performance propaganda related:
western-leftist ideology:
      i come from a sturdy stock...
it took **** Germany and Soviet Russian
longer to conquer Poland than it took
**** Germany alone to conquer France...

and? i have no sympathy for the Ukrainians...
zilch... their Cossack uprising undermined
the concept that was the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth...
you can only take so much...
Swedes from the north...
the Ottoman Turks from the south...
  German mercenaries from the west...
Russian tickling from the east...
                IF it was so ******* bad?
you get what you deserved... no?
that's why i will never get a tattoo on my body...
i have plenty of historical dates
to be mindful of...
          1648 - the Khmelnytsky uprising...
what?! in England people celebrate one date in
particular... 1066...
weird date to remember and celebrate...
while all prior Viking invasions failed...
  this Viking invasion actually succeeded...
and it's... ******* celebrated...
                    i remember when i was wronged:
not when i was conquered...
or at least a fraction of me...

                  I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT WHAT
I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT!

digression... the best momentum for writing:
and drinking...
but of course i know what drinking alone
does to people...
my grandfather, my best friend...
the man i went foraging for mushrooms with...
the man i went cycling with to the lakes...
the rivers... the man i walked our Alsatian
with... the man i played golf with...
the men i went sight-seeing Cracow:
Warsaw? cool name... probably beats
Bangkok... it's a saw-of-war...
                      who went fishing with me at am...
he was an alcoholic...
me? i charge my drinking into writing...
i drink and i write...
i contain the beast...
   he didn't... he drank for the sake of drinking...
i remember him ******* his trousers...
behaving like a lunatic... he couldn't keep control...
me? i have an elephant's memory...
someone tells me i did something...
i usually have written proof: no i didn't...
i was writing: THIS...
alcoholism is painful if you don't have a creative
output... i wouldn't recommend alcoholism
to anyone who doesn't have any outlet in
writing or painting...
i did an NVQ 2 course concerning crowd safety:
oh man... the return to the formality
of language to gain some bogus qualification...
drinking while taking this course
would be painful: the unoriginality of language
was unbearable...
but i wept through it....
   "wept"...

I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT WHAT I WANTED
TO WRITE ABOUT!
when is this digress mechanism going to end...
is there a PRESS: THE END button anywhere?!

i'll try to pretend...
that this is the end...

                                                 right... breath... a long:
carrying breath... both body and soul...
   ambo corpus et anima... et spiritus-visus...

come 3am i ought to be sleeping...

so... i came across the garden come 11pm...
needing to be fed water...
i wish i owned cattle... flowers are plenty...
Sim... one door down came out...
with a black bag... how many rats did you kills?
i killed about 5... perhaps 6...
a narrative starting running in my mind...
i thought he thought: who's watering that garden
tonight? oh... it's Matthew...
it's not Miroslav...

                                   i drank a Beck's... smoked
a cigarette... started to water the garden in the cool
cold night of repose...
right...                 problem...
            i should have been a painter...
            the Walter Sickert exhibition really impressed me...
the early works and the nudes...
who isn't impressed by a painter's nudes?
so i'm watering the garden... a light comes on in
the bathroom of my neighbours' house one door down...

what's that term? for the glass? used in bathrooms?!
obscured... obscuring glass...
as if glass and water mingled...
or as if glass and water and air and fog were mingling...
i could see a shape...
at first i thought: oh ****... it's their mother...
but then i waited for a while...
the... the... i don't purposively "forget" nouns...
some nouns are just not practical:
i'm not about to use them!
  Heidegger's hammer metaphor shouldn't be solely
concerning: two labourers talking about philosophy
while labouring...
it should also be concerning:
two intellectual forgetting nouns...
allocating sign-language to explain...
that fidgety-"thing"... you know... i know?!
they... close door... language anti-verb all hieroglyphic
noun! OWL = NIGHT OPEN SLEEP....
that sort of *******...

        i'm drinking and i'm ***** again...
the glass used for windows of toilets...
what's her name again? i know she's Indian...
that's tragic... i have an oyster's spot of Indian and Turkish girls...
there comes a madness i can't control...
i hyper-focus on raven hair...
i used to hyper-focus on blonde hair:
enough blonde-hair rejections cured me of my childhood
past... now? i just own a blonde moustache...

in the gilded cage of the glass that's used for bathroom
windows...
she looked like a big girl...
at first i thought i was looking at her mother
washing herself... but then again: the "LUFCZIK"
was wide open... after she took her shower
she started pandering herself... applying cream
to her body... she raised her hands up...
ah... the most ****** aspect of a woman's body:
her hands...
i tend to look at a woman's hand's first...
hello: handshake-Geisha...
i count the arithmetic of knuckles...
girl: you must be missing my pinky knuckle...
i see... by the size of either of your hands
that i have the index, the middle and the ring fingers...
but you're missing the pinky extension...

clever Ovid: i might be envious of the "esteem"
of other men... but in your hands...
i'm: normal...
     "expected"....
                    i was supposed to water the garden...
i was... watering the garden...
but i took breaks...
it wasn't a pretty outline...
she looked like a ++ girls... bulging...
a beached whale type... contorts of her *******
as she detailed them with hand movements
making it necessary for them to be nurished
with moisture...
                   of cream of coconuts...
               this Sikh girl is my kind of stuffing...
i'll go mad for anything with her sort of
olive-complexion... with raven hair...
with eyes that discuss the origins of
                               the Sahara desert as:
once upon a time being an extensive mountain range...

i succumbed to a: pinguis-caput...
   fat head...
                 a headache without a headache...
my head was bulging...
                what's caput in ******?
that's it!
                   that's what it means...
so i'm watching her...
what do i see... her hands raised...
tender little Geisha "oopses"...
silver bracelet... to boot...
this glass is not a mirror...
                         contorts of her hair...
her torso... i best have been born a painter...
her ******* as she olives up...
i get drunk on the mere idea of drinking...

she looks like a big girl in the glass...
that's supposed to not invite onlookers...
i shouldn't be the one watering the garden...
not when she's taking a shower...
she's taking for ages...
i can wait...

           and she looks purposively:
she's pressing her ******* and ***
against the glass...
                                  it's like the universe
inverted upon itself, no?
i don't feel inclined to ingest
more hard-core *******...
i'm seeking subtler "stuff"...
                          something more mythical...
hide a naked body behind a strange glee
of glass... but just expose the hands...
the hands of a woman...
            modern ******* is a turn-off for me...
i'm always wanting to turn today
Italian classics... this modern "****"?
there's no float, there's no boat...
it's all sink... sink... sink...

                i was watering the flowers!
but she took almost 40 minutes out of my life
oiling herself!
                i'm thinking: the love of a brother for her sister...
when your sister is unwanted by other men....
and you need to find... an outlet: equivalent of
the qualification of man: to accept your sister?!

it takes me 1 litre of whiskey to fall asleep...
but i need to write first... concentrate...
my grandfather was an alcoholic too...
but... he didn't write under the influence...
           i can't imagine drinking without writing...
without...
            my god... her ******* seem so enlarged...
her torso... i wish i were a painter...
thank god there's no painting in existence
concerning what i saw...
mein! mein alles! my! my all!

at least my garden is illuminated...
all demons welcome...
                                      i don't even think i can
ever be "bored": i'm just the best "side" of...
"soaked" in what's exacting: soaking...
            a bite into an orange...
a bite into a watermelon...
                                      a wetted beard is easier
to brush with a comb...
                                    cats don't behave like dogs
should you have a rat problem.

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i could conceive the western concept of the rehab,
but then for 3 weeks i was in poland
i didn't touch the bottle for that period of time...
i don't see how an addict with a bunch
of addicts can be cured by anything other than
stigma... i'm actually happy addicted to
addiction: i entered my reading-mode...
   that said, most people can't digest a Kraszewski
book... **** me, we read Bradbury in snippets
just to tow in an essay for A-level english...
       philip augustus, or the chess player concerning
the Angevin family... great stuff...
   i didn't choose the book, my grandfather did,
he owned half the Kraszewski collection and read
nothing of it, he had to find a ******* "bored"
enough to read one of the books,
   and as i once said: i've seen the movie adaptations
of the Sienkiewicz trilogy...
         the cossack uprising, the swedish deluge...
and i said to myself: i can't and i won't...
thanks you jerzy hoffman, and yes: thank you
peter jackson...
              the infinite supply of elven arrows
and Legolas shooting orcs at point-blank range did
it for me...
                thankfully i can write something
as obscure as this, and know, for certain, that
there's a back-alley of the human populace out there
that might be searching for something like this...
   but that's what i found entertaining,
i actually had the opposite of wanting to compliment
the film adaptation of sienkiewicz, with an actual
sienkiewicz book... mind you: Kraszewski covers
the same period... and it's all the same time frame...
   should i write a proof that i read the **** thing?
maybe... but the main idea is that:
a metropolis cannot provide the right environment
for a book... or completing a book...
books are read in the countryside, in small towns,
in palaces... in hunting lodges...
          and i dare say: reading a book, getting into
full swing of the narrative is best done in daylight hours...
and i'll come back to the daylight hours,
  as a drinker and writer i chose the night...
  you know how long it took me to restore my
biological clock, and regain the nocturnal realm after
spending 3 weeks with a clear schizophrenia
of sleeping in the night and wriggling about during
the day? 2 weeks! i restored the biological pendulum,
but i have to admit: i feel ****...
    but i guess it's a worthy sacrifice...
i'm planning to go back to my country of origin
during late spring to read some more books...
i couldn't have read don quixote, the brothers karamazov,
bertrand russell's history of western philosophy
    yada yada yada... or kierkegaard's either / or,
or finished off kant's critique without my place of birth...
  and isn't it like a badge of honour?
                some will tell you to speak out an eastern
mantra... om... and the shattering of chandelier...
the western mantra is also a type of hypnosis,
you have to find a rhythm with a book...
  the mantra is the narrative of a book, and the silence
that incubates you has shark-teeth should anyone approach...
   but urban living makes this spot harder to find
than a begger or the ******... you can read books
in large cities... before you head home you're
bombarded with the psychology of exploiting your
literacy, in adverts, in orientating signs...
        with them being so authoritarian, it's hard
to find time for a liberal attitude to books...
            esp. what books are, best described by people
who'd probably like to throw them like molotov
cocktails in protest marches: thick as bricks those
gargantuan apostles of the void are...
       and so we are: sitting in times of hyperinflation
of literature... if that isn't the case, let me know by
Tuesday next week, i'll brood the assumption myself
until then...
      that's 2 weeks it took me to return to my writing mode...
to get back to the nocturnal realm
where everything is doubly black & white...
                 the point is: i want to write at a time when
the surrounding world sleeps...
     last time i remember, i didn't get a message in my dreams,
i'd love to see letters in my dreams, fortunately
i can't... i haven't seen these artefacts in dreams,
      but it's hard to blame memory as not strained enough
to do so... the unconscious and memory don't really
interact that well... it's a paradox that they even do
and that dreams have some sort of existence involved in
the architecture of our psyche...
                        last night i dreamt of lego batman because:
d'uh his endearing sarcasm... and godzilla!
   boo ya!         and this large city being eaten up
by a tornado, and other things phantasmogorical....
well pandemonium here, pandemonium there...
    don't get any ideas about the nature of dreams and
oedial repression... please! unaffordable housing prices
these days can only mean i'd really earn a mortgage
if my ***-drive went to the dogs, of the profession.
    so 3 weeks of a sober life and enough time to read
books... and my return into a writing life, a nocturnal
life, and drinking...
   mind you, in between there was that masters final
with ronnie o'sullivan (at least romford is famous for
something) vs. joe perry... in the last frame, when they
had 30 odd points each, and they were plucking at the
last remaining red ball for the snooker?
       snooker is a metaphor for the savannah...
you either watch snooker, or a david attenborough naturalist
show... there's the herd of buffalo (the red *****)...
           and the cue ball the hunting predator...
well... it's all a bit abstract, there are just ***** on a green
table... but still... at least in snooker you can bug
the "pawn" (red) ***** without having to *** them,
in chess you destroy completely... the pawns go...
there's no time to keep them for a no-man's land pause...
and i just turned 30... which goes to show:
                  if the game of football was perfect,
i mean perfect like tennis is with hawk-eye and
    6 judges vertical, 4 judges horizontal...
                  then football wouldn't be so passionate,
so religious... the reason it is so religious is because
judging it is so ****** imperfect...
     there's a reason why football can't be perfected in a way
as rugby can, where the referee can pause the game
and ask for a replay... the unfairness principle!
it has to be unfair in order for people to feel even more
impassioned by it! that's why in that film
when Alec Baldwin says something along the lines:
god comes first (while his hand holds out
the index and *******), and football comes second
(the index finger disappears)...
      football can never be a sport that has perfect
refereering... which makes me surprised as to why
it can grace the Olympic games...
                   football (in english, not that theme park
of jumping torpedoes) - yes the football known as:
ballet with hairy legs...
                   it has to remain unfair and subsequently
quasi-religious because it generates the most money,
but apart from that, it has gained a quasi-religious
status because it reflects a sort of life we acknowledge:
the referee made a bad decision, god did this... blah blah...
  and we get passion, religious passion that's
best represented by football hooligans...
                        but whereas other sports perfect their
techniques of refereeing a game, football hasn't done
the least possible, because it requires the whole debate
of: life's unfair!
    if it wasn't for unfair refeering, the game would not
be alive, as it is alive, to stage a confrontation
with: apache west ham, and sioux millwall...
       it's the best way to ensure tribalism...
         make the refereeing unfair, don't improve it...
blame it on the man in the sky, or the ponce in new zealander...  
mind you....
   the last football match i went to was at Stamford Bridge,
Chelsea lost to Newcastle United...
             i just just there like a stoic twant...
           i couldn't imitate the screams and the chants...
   i was just mesmerised at how it's so different from
watching a football match without the television acting
like a microscope... i am sure i was looking elsewhere
when someone scored a goal...
                 i probably went to the toilet when i
missed another goal...
                        and i'll reiterate...
   it can't be a gentlemanly sport, the rules can't be fair,
that's why they call it the sport of the rabble,
they have to contain the illusion of being unfair...
       because it's a "rabble" sport...
the referee has to make bad decisions,
otherwise there would be a "what if" dimension...
ask any Pole about the 1974 semi-finals with Germany
and ask them about the weather that day...
  then ask about the Polish wingers... and how fast they
were... and how the pitch was so slosh, and ice-puppy
fudge that the slow germans won it...
                     because the Poles always say:
we could have beaten the Nedetherlands in the final...
        again: football, if it is to be stated as the secular
alternative to religion, has to have an inherent unfairness in it...
all the other sports will perfect their judgement,
football will not move an inch... just like a religion -
perhaps that's also because we live in times of
cold-consumerism,
       a quick comparison is:
   the reactions of antonio conte vs.
                       ivan lendl -
   the former looks like a raving lunatic when something
good, or bad happens...
   the second? is he watching tennis, or playing poker?

England win 4 - nil against Ukraine and
i just can't find happiness...
i want to behind this bread and circus
distraction: it's not the current stadiums
are anything close to the ancient roman
coliseum, either: it's not like
i'm watch 22 eager ballerinas kicking
the guillotine head of Robespierre about...
either...
language bugs me: i write it and avoid
speaking it...
expatriates of England: unite behind your team...
i've been an immigrant from
the age of 8... funny how language
works...
the English have no notion of a diaspora...
their immigrant status: among their own
countrymen is elevated to the word:
expatriate: "us" folk flood a host country...
we: "invade" it...
we are never deemed to be:
repatriating... changing allegiance...
i can naturalize: citizen mr. smith over 'ere...
but... when it comes to...
"patriotism" or... the nationhood and cheering
a ******* football team?
i try more than i ever had...
but i'm not buying the *******...
there's club football...
   i just can't stress how important it would
be for me to witness the final:
i'm betting on Italy vs. England...
and in that final Italy will win:
i support, "support" from an undermining
perspective...
on topic: if i go back to the country of my birth:
i didn't take root...
since the death of my grandfather:
sure... i still have some family there...
but... i'm not attached to them:
it would require a d.n.a. test to get at
proof: whether or not i should be
there is another question...

if only this... if only that...
cob-weaving safety-net riddle shadow-man...
what was it? a lack of ambition...
lack of designation...
most assuredly resigned from time to time:
waking up once i suckle on
a bottle of wine...
the clouds start to make sense:
i see faces conjured up
and i no longer feel a need to
peacock my ambitions...
that i am the subject of
a demonic voyeuristic experiment:
call it whatever phenomenon
you might want to... pareidolia
is a newly acquired word in my coffer of vocab.

a historical status quo is being
extended:
not with my death but with my death
i can see all that's going to bypass
the concentration of subjectivity and
becomes diluted in an objective amass...

i'm not important:
but being jealous simply makes me
double up on being reflective and at the same
time melancholically tinged:
idle blue... bleeding green...

****** if i do: ****** if i don't:
south american nations can have their post-racial
picnic...
i **** a black girl in England:
what am i?
what am i if she boasts of a harem?

but i'm not some olive skinned
inferno of Pakistan
dealing with calling a supermarket cashier
the word-lot of: love, darling...
when i hear it: as she endears me...
she can call me: dearly... lovely...
love... pet and darling...
am i undermining the English language?
am i spreading Marxism?

i want to be a fan of the English
football team:
it's hard for me to translate assimilate into...
entertaining something this primitive...
perhaps i should isolate my fandom
to elevated: individualistic sports...
tennis players...
i can't attach a shared ethnicity to
Iga Świątek...
i'm not Slovenian but...
hearing these two Tour de France commentators
slobber and gag when watching
the 8th bit with Tadej Pogačar
climbing up a 10% to 14% incremental up...
on a *****...

i'm starting to love individualistic sports
than ever...
however much i'd love to support
the football team of England:
i'm not English...
immigrants are expected to integrate:
assimilate into their host nation...
but... somehow... odd...
the English expatriates living in Italy will...
not...
choice of language: i'm sure...

rules for thou: rules for aye...
isn't it how it always works?
English refer to the people who left these isles
as... expatriates...
or if there's enough of them:
and the enough of them start-up a new
ethic identity and become:
Australians... New Zealanders...
Canadians... H'Americans...
        
       it's not mind-bending antics on my part:
i didn't chose the wording:
it was already available...
i can respect the English laws...
i can grow accustomed to the peoples'
idiosyncrasies...
drink their... Siberian milk tea:
although i've resolved myself to drink green...
eating baked beans on toast:
to hell with avocado...
but i can't be fed into an emotional complex
that might allow me to support
the national football team:

the inherently ****** in my remembers...
just, "oddly enough": remembers...
the broken fingers of Jan Tomaszewski...
'Brian Clough's throwaway remark
and his saves for Poland against England
in October 1973' - the clown...
England being denied a place in the 1974
World Cup...

it's stupid it's beautiful it's football...
it's not tennis it's not the Olympics
it's not the ******* Tour de France...
amore! amore!
i'm betting on Italy... such style...
they look nothing like a Teutonic heavy cavalry
charge of the English with their
meticulous passing...
such spark with their no. 10
Napoleon: Lorenzo Insigne...

i'll learn your tongue: i'll do whatever
might be required:
to blend in better and not pretend...
but i can't support your football team...
individual sportsmen...
sure... saying that:
i feel robbed from the euphoria
of a shared experience!

- there are no English immigrants living in Italy:
there are only expatriates...
it's not even funny how wording goes:
i'm not offended: hardly...
i prefer the h'American racial "slur" to
what otherwise pits me up against:
the North & South and St. Paul...
****** being the one word in ******
that's not to be confused with Polish...
but English immigrants in Italy are not
migrants... immigrants... disfranchised people
who said: you deal with that kneeling
******* before a phantom...
pander "them"...
because the English have no concept of
the diaspora!
in ******-land there's this concept of:
Polonia... those who are emigrated...
like hell i'm going back...
but i can't think of myself as an expatriate
since... isn't it ****** obvious?
the native of the English tongue thinks
of his extended family living in Italy...
France... as an expatriate...
he's not going to dub them: an immigrant...
the quality of life is too high to...
oh... these people didn't immigrate
for economic reasons...
or like they might have been...
persecuted Kashubians / Kosovans...

Italy just felt better... the weather... the architecture...
derogatory implying: what?
like the Polacks think of their fellow countrymen
"elsewhere" belonging to this greater family:
Polonia -
the English treat their own as...
hardly an immigrant in Australia...
or H'America... no diaspora to be found...
it's truly a conundrum of wording:
what do you call a Spaniard in South America?
a late Lebanese inquisitor...
my jokes are dry... dry dry: ******* dry...
a pale Persian when i double down
on what could come off as possibly: worst...

i don't suppose you might feel like me:
dear reader...
if only i was surrounded by
pretty things that people might admire
as social status exfoliations:
read books...
not books stacked upon a shelf:
a banknote from the Russian Empire
with the effigy of Tsar Nicholas II
on it... Soviet Empire post-stamps
inherited from my grandfather:
the philatelist...

my mind's in it... the tongue too...
but my heart it grieving...
although not as much as...
what's missing in both the head, the tongue...
the outward appearance of the
the shy jihadi...

pandering missionaries for equal
representation based on anti-racism: nuanced-racism:
this inability to differentiate a Croat
from a German...
we'll just suppose the English immigrants
will be known by a different name...
not expatriates...
like the cricketers... tourists...
oh yeah... expatriates is too bold a statement
when they achieve as little
as drinking an espresso the Italian way...

i can't support the English football team...
however much i want...
and i want to...
ha ha... odd me dumb ******:
every time Germany played England
i supported Germany: ol' Wend that i was...
it's football!
once more... better concentrate on
individualistic sports...
no good ever came from chanting
syllables:

although in the England vs. Ukraine game...
Ukraine in English is formed from only
two syllable: U-KRAINE...
(CRANE)...
in ****** and akin to the natives it consists of:
OOH-KRA-Í-N'AH

U-KRA-I-NA!
       i'm watching football but also listening
to the crowd...
i become lost when it comes
to the Cossack Uprising...
sure... Bohdan Khmelnytsky
                      wasn't Oliver Cromwell...
              wasn't he, though?

a frank zappa album title: sheikh yerbouti...
translates as... twerking /
shake your-*****... no?

this is all we have become... decently progressed
nations being reduced to the thrills
of... a football match?
again: these are not 22 ballerinas
kicking about a guillotined head of
Robespierre... are they?
i could understand that...
the no thrills no support chanting:
sensible: Olympic sports it is...
individualistic: i want to better myself types...
no... ******* Normandy landing...
no historical insinuation:
no historical weaving the current bogus
events with past splendour and spectacle
and all that wave of world war I
p.t.s.d.

currently?
no better football commentator than...
Ally McCoist....
McCoist cane compete with Jonathan Pearce:
any sunny Sunday...
i swear to god of the guillotined
head of Robespierre...
the man played football but also have
more talk behind the ball than he ever had
a kick behind it...
perhaps because he also has a sing-along
trill behind the R...

the **** this Scot conjures up:
something akin to: boy'oh: leg up...
i can't just... conjure up the verbatim...
good enough: time to seek
a kipper.

Italy vs. England in the final...
Italy will win:
i want to be dead-end: wrong.

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