I’m in a small group
I am a small group
I’m small
I’m smelly
I’m a smelly small
I’m in a very smelly small group
I have a group of smalls
A very smelly group of smalls
I'm in a very smelly groups
A very smelly small group of smalls
A smell
A group
A small
A small group smell
(PS: 'smalls' is an old word for 'knickers'

So I wrote a Notorious word to the Crook King
of Brooklyn who wrote the street book
Based on how the street he took
with feet quite fleet.
You know his spirit i did meet,
first last year on bicycle day
A tab of acid found its way
on my tongue it lay,
in the bathroom mirror I was prone to say,
"Biggie Smalls, Biggie Smalls, Biggie Smalls" and my heart did in fear fall,
Thought to myself
"I swear I hear a glock click near my left ear" so I got the hell out of there.
The second time was a bit more fair,
the air of a fellow player, yao slanger,
beat banger, he spat a 16 bar prayer
of how he was an unknowing player
In His plan a silent hand of hope
for all the ****** that are broke.
That the Sky is the limit,
only make moves when your heart's in it,
then you are guaranteed to win it.
Ain't no sin against it,
**** the world don't ask it for ****;
that's word to BIG

I didn’t choose to be born this way
How life starts we really have no say
You know we can’t help the way we look
So don’t judge me like a cover of a book
Just because I look this way don’t defy me by it
Yeah, I maybe african-american I will not deny it
On a job application I’ll put down “black” as a race
As a dark chocolate color has covered my whole face
When I look in the mirror that’s all I’m gonna see
I’m stuck this way so I’m just gonna let that be
It don’t feel good knowing your ancestors were slaves
And how they were severly beaten when they misbehaved
I’m gonna be like this forever so I’m making the best of it
Yeah I may not find it enjoyable and I may not even love it
But this was how I was created so all I can do is deal
But you know, how I look is way different from how I feel


You won’t see me living the ghetto
Or use the word “*****” to describe my fellows
Doo-rags are okay but it’s because of my messy hair
Don’t say I’m a hoodlum even though I might not care
So what if I like jersies, that dosen’t mean I’m a ****
I’m not a typical black man, you won’t see me do drugs
Don’t need that **** to better myself
Proving myself I don’t need your help
The suburbs is the place that I wanna stay
I perfer to live like that, I don’t care what you say
I don’t want to be on the streets
‘Cause I’m not some homeless freak
You may not see me with a diamond chain
A crime-free life is what I want to maintain


Never will I sag my jeans all the way down to my knees
Unlike most folks, my boxers are not meant to be seen
I will not put shiny rims on my teeth
That’s not even close to being neat
You might see put on gangsta clothes
But not hear me go and call a girl a “**”
Or slap them on the backside making ***** calls
Won’t see me hitting up on them in the halls
Or whisper in their ear, begging them for ***
That’s really disturbing and incrediably sick
Really, how can a guy think or even be that way
Chasing after every girl they desperately crave
The city is where you usually roam
Many of you call the streets your home
Speaking in slang that I can’t actually understand
Don’t wanna be that way, that’s what’s who I am


Just because I’m part of your family dosen’t mean I wanna live like you
The streets are not my place to live so I don’t even wanna be in your shoes
I was not raised to jack people up
Don’t like how I am? too bad, tough!
I’m agaisnt gang violence and want no part in it
Never robbed and jacked someone, never done it
Coming from a black guy I know it sounds strange
But hey I’m not here to amuse, impress, or entertain
I’m just telling it like it is
It’s how I really want to live

I thank my parents for giving me a decent name
And not something obscene or anything strange
As many black names contains apostrophies
Which you know is something nobody really needs
I usually perfer proper language over ghetto slang
Knowing people talk that way is really a shame
I’m part of you but yet we speak different languages
Not all blacks speak that way, that’s the way it is
Don’t get me wrong, I really have love for all of y’all
But your behavior and actions is making me appalaud
Stealing and killing people from your own race
You think it’s funny but it’s really a big disgrace
After doing that, how can you look yourselves in the face?
Through the civil rights movement we all loved each other
Now all of you are there on the streets killing one another


For goodness sake, solve your problems through words
Not through guns, knives, or even through racial slurs
It’s really not worth all of this
All of this is making me sick
Making me ashamed to be a black man
****** in cold blood I cannot bare to stand


Okay so enough of this, so let’s move on
It’ll take me forever to describe what you did wrong
Lived a life in the suburbs so long I feel that I’ve become white
Sorry black folks but it’s really white females that I like
Been that since birth I really don’t know why
I like their eyes, their face, I really cannot lie
I’m respectful of girls of all races
Don’t take it the wrong ‘cause I like girls of all races
But I’m most likely interested in girls with white faces
I like seeing white girls go at it on MTV
Then see black chicks fight on BET
You can say hello to me and we can even be friends
But you as a lover of me I would not even recommend
A church where blacks shout out to lord is not where you’ll find me
It’s not my religion, not how I think of faith, not something I need


You may hear Biggie Smalls playing from my bedroom window
That don’t mean I’m ghetto I’m just trying to my life simple
I’ll cheer for Obama when he becomes president
But the streets will never ever be my residence
You may find me weird, you may think I’m obscene
But that’s the life I choose to live in, that’s just me

I swear these days the kids think they can rap
With their #swag and their #yolo and snapback caps.

But I'd like to show them what RAP means in this country
I'll spell it out: RHYTHMIC AMERICAN POETRY.

Without your stanzas and word composition
you're just another rapper with an arrogant disposition.

Without a positive message and a humble demeanor
you've got negativity causing the children to get meaner.

You blast the bass and you spit your rhymes
you claim that the haters, "they be lying."

But you fail to see that at the heart of it all
you're more like Lil' Wayne than Biggie Smalls.

I'm truly sorry if you get offended by this rant,
but first thing's first;

Pull up your pants...

pre-scriptum:
                no polyglot would experience this sort of "paradox", it's not even a paradox of a "paradox" off a 'paradox', bilingualism has its methodology, as Kant could explain, extracting his methodology off the page into a meticulous day-to-day activity... the sage / if not the clock of Königsberg... i can imagine this obsessive-compulsive mini-rituals that would always escape the throng on a Sunday... the Sunday eucharist wasn't enough for the man, there were so many rituals to take care of, having famously not married, while Kierkegaard having: infamlusly not married... i appreciate their strategy... reading them while also reading Nietzsche, these two gentlemen, by comparison, if not in work, certainly in life gravitate above the popularity of Nietzsche... why? Nietzsche appears as an incel... fan boy, are you? *******... but you need some sort of structure if you're not going to marry... Kant found his daily routine an eternal mass... so many routine daily tasks seemingly mundane to some, can enlarge themselves to become out of proportion pillars of preserving sanity in face of standing before god and a post-life scenario... hell is not so much a place of suffering... i can tell you of the most "mild" form of suffering... an extrovert becoming drunk... constant talking, lack of purpose as in: lack of direction culminating in: lack of concentration, pandemonium is the heaven of a flickering light for a moth... again... this always bewilders me... why did Sisyphus have to drag the stone up the hill? was there some overlooking demon with a whip looking over him? couldn't he just... sit, and concentrate on the stone, create pleasure, from thinking? is that really so odd... i suppose so... given the grand h'american export of the freedom of speech... few people will find pleasure in thinking... Kierkegaard, which Nietzsche didn't read... said: why do people concern themselves with the freedom to speak, when they already possess a freedom to think? is this, me speaking, because it's the internet and it's a public space... surely i don't have an eloquent speech, i speak too quickly, i sometimes mumble, this is an extension of thinking, it's not an invitation to speak... rhetoric is an art designated for people who joked about philosophy and took sophistry seriously... i don't like Nietzsche... i still think of the man as the esteemed bachelor... apparently being freed from women allowed him to write his Critique with the sort of clarity that comes, in a cascading form, at the end, in the methodology of transcendence... which reads, like a page-turner tabloid narrative... once the formalities / difficulties are established... i'm no polyglot though, but i do succumb to some eccentricities... as any entrenched bilingual might... notably linguistics... how there are no diacritical markers in english, but there are: in other latin script based languages of continent europe... how i've never heard of dyslexia outside of the realm of spoken english... how orthography does not exist in the english language, which creates all these silly english questions of: what is reality, what is perception... with no orthography: metaphysics runs rampant... and "another" thing... i really can't read a philosophy book in english, i always have to revert back to my mother tongue, to Polish... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i looked at Plato once in english... the aesthetic is lost on me... but the Irish know of the Slavic aesthetic when it comes to dialogue, i.e.:

(a) the english standard for dialogue weaved into a narrative -
"i want this," she said,
   "as i want that," he said...
(b) the slavic standard for dialogue weaved into
a narrative...
- so?
- what?
- will we try to speak without
   the reiteration of who said what?
- we could.
- no, we should.
smoother... James Joyce noted this,
casual - no point adding descrptions of
how the puppet-master lost power
over his puppets with " " ditto markers of
dialouge of a: he, he really did say...
no, not he, the narrator...

   i simply cannot read the genre of philosophy in english, too much easy access points of pop culture with that umbrella overreach... matrix, memes, darwinism, blah blah... too much focus on images and very little focus on words, esp. etymology, that other component of history that focuses on: a universal application of words, beside status king, or status pauper... both the word bread can succumb to the king's tongue, as to the pauper's... but with an origin story? anything beside **** similis, the monkey, will do me just fine... then again... there's no one strand of monkey to begin with... a bit like looking up your own *** for too long, you decide that there's a coherent, "bigger picture" and it begins with chimp- and ends with -rilla... doesn't anyone else just tire of looking up a monkey *** to peddlestool the importance of darwinism for so long? i mean... at least chemistry is a playground among the science... there's no worry for a beginning... there's only play... no... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i have to read it in Polish... which is also a... january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, novermber, december... you'd think i'd be able to recite you the months in my mother tongue... styczeń, luty, marzec, kwiecień, maj, czerwiec, listopad, grudzień... english alphabet? a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, m, n, l, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v... **** gets scrambled... pointless rubrics... give me the practical! - i've just picked up a copy of Plato's republic... straight away i know that i'm finding my gensus in Plato rather than Aristotle...

    och ty, pijaku z psim pyskiem,
                  a za to z sercem jelenia...

    oh you, drunkard with a dog's snout,
                           nonetheless, with a stag's heart...

again, Nietzsche: Kant is an idiot, Plato is boring...
perhaps in German, for a German,
looking for Germany while roaming parts of Italy...
well... Plato, really seems appealing in
high slavic (western), the conversations breed
a sense of clarity, about fog, about darkness,
or any akin metaphor to boot...
                           between Nietzsche's maxims,
i'll take la Rochefoucauld succinct observations
before i succumb to pop-nietzsche modern
cult meme fucklords...
                          Roger Moore... prime example
of a bachelor, Kant, the same, Kierkegaard...
as for myself? if i married?
  would i still have the same sort of access to new
music, that i currently enjoy?
   for god's sake... i have to fall asleep while
listening to music, if i spend a day without
at least 5 hours of music on the headphones
   i start to lose the plot...
              my drinking is merely a side-note...
a p.s., given that now i'm a reformed drinker?
having cut my dosage in half...
     i'm still a music *****...
   women don't like music junkies...
                   and when my ex- started reading me
a qustionnaire from a russian cosmopolitan
magazine on the train to moscow from
st. petersburg... i thought i was going to shoot
myself in the head...
             perfect girlfriend this,
perfect girlfriend that...
             bob dylan saved me...
        but not for long...
                         women aren't feline...
at least with a cat you can ignore it...
                  he's pretending to be a solipsist and
you pretend to be: caring...
                 food on the table,
a clean litter tray... besides that?
                                                 fuckoffski!
     and i write this from a perspective of endearment,
nothing beats the zenith moments in a hetrosexual
relationship... the odd date...
                 talking impromptu... making food...
***, ***... ***... *** *** ***... ***... ***...
       but the petty arguments...
   the attention to detail...
                   god... anniversaries?
  i don't even celebrate my own birthday!
i fake celebrating christian holidays...
                    today is today, tomorrow:
that's tomorrow's concern...
           o.k. england winning the cricket world cup...
but that's a celebration with a calendar!
it's not regulated by hormones and
the impossibility for nostalgia...
                 i tried the relationship,
i tried the ***...
                       i had to visit a brothel for
the anaesthetic with regards to the past...
  i needed to visit the brothel to also visit
the butchers...
                               i needed to become meat,
to **** meat... and stop concerning myself over looks:
they only brought me trouble...
like i was walking with a "telepathic"
c.c.t.v. crow on my shoulder...
                             so i put on the weight i lost...
and... at that point? it was liberating...
mind you... if you want to lose weight?
  bicycle and swimming... no gym...
fruit for your last meal during the day...
eat anything you want...
  but losing weight? and all that bulimia,
classical roman bulimia:
training the oesophagus with first *******
into the mouth... then with no fingers
down the mouth?
                beauty... is not worth the trouble
when you really tempt yourself with the expansive
temporal canvas...
21 was my peak... after that...
                     voluntary celibacy...
                   a **** here and there...
            but no... it's not for me...
                    i guess i looked up to the right sort
of men... with regards to staying a bachelor...
to be highly invested in something,
   like Kant in a transcendent methodology...
like Kierkegaard invested in the arts...
like Nietzsche invested in waiting for
the fruition of his prophesies...
                      you have to be born to want to live
the simple happy life...
                  the "expected" life...
       the whole Hiob motto of: once taken,
can be regained blah blah...
                        it needs to have trans-generational
breeding involved...
                   a list of expectations...
                social-pressures and for that matter:
intrinsic socially-cohesive-stratification...
i'm a ****** in England...
             and... that puts as much social pressure
on me as... a chihuaha barking does
to an Alsatian's yawn... that's the stereotype...
the smalls dogs bark... the big dogs bite...
                 oh sure, when i visit my grandparents
back "home"... the older generation put
the pressure questions to the test:
even women from Warsaw...
   so where's your girlfriend?
to the old folk i reply: well i can't exactly force
a woman to be with me...
to the women of Warsaw?
   i'm practially a monk...
                        why?
          you don't really want to be aged 21...
forced with a scenario of:
happily dating, presumably reciprocrating trust
with regards to contraception,
being forced to reply to the scenario:
i think i'm pregnant... my my...
   and we were only 6 months apart after
the break-up, living in two different cities...
em...
                     on a lighter note...
what's the most fun you can have in Kenya?
   sitting on the balcony, in the shade...
feeding rascal macaques anything from nuts...
to bags of sugar... you, two macaque monkeys,
one balcony... the indian ocean frothing beyond...
it doesn't require a genius to figure out
what's worth cherishing without having
to feel obliged to the whole of humanity for...
offspring - many already figured this out before me:
you learn to give birth to your self (reflective,
and yes, not yourself - the reflexive)...
   which brings death to having to stand on its head...
... isn't Sisyphus the son of Atlas?
            couldn't Sisyphus just sit beside the stone
and... well yeah: think up the philosopher?

.em... looking back at the british empire, and the loud-mouth former colonial people... by god, i've never seen such leeches, i've never seen a people, so proud of being colonialißed! what's there to be proud of?! looks like in a post-colonial world, these former colonial busy-bodies had to, had to: step up and move their markers for Aladdin being performed in the West End... *******...  never in the history of the world, were post-colonial people endowed with so much pride, the whole m'ah bwee'dish *******... to counter herr zeppelinmann with the pakistani in the p.s. framework of the british empire... rotherham... ring a pakistani blue?! have a guitar on y'ah?! see... i don't like these former colonial states, with their people migrating to england, having their overlord say it now, say it clear bollocking... i don't mind a top hat, tux donning ******* giving me directions... but when a ****- does it?! sorry... i'm so sorry... will you please excuse me?! i just don't like *******, i don't like the sort of people who celebrate being colonial subjects, esp. after the whole post-colonial celebration of "libertion"... i don't like ****** / pakis who have to find their "past" by playing the cricket ball of, "the former" colony! i hate copper skinned ******* of ****- origins! former colonial raj-vizier... how can you breed these sort of people, who find pride in being under colonial power?! the **** didn't understand freedom, only understood it when being subject to its lack?! well... so much for english women... i guess they were only going to go for pakistani grooming gangs... drowning in the ganges... i have as much of jesus christ on the cross in me, as i have plenty and enough of pontius pilate's worth of soap to mind the next few years; never in my life would i have to witness the former colonißed to bribe their way, into an acceptance "speech" methodology... the ****- to fable the englishman for his, "tea"... no conquered people, no colonißed people should ever glorify their conquerers or colonißers... i guess the british achieved a double subversion... why do the ****- (stanis) still play cricket... i don't want to know... i'm new here... but... but... when a ****- attempts to displace a european from europe? that's my breaking point... i don't like being displaced from europe... the next ****- that will? well... the obvious target, a northern english teenager girl readied for grooming. i said! next ****- that tries to displace an european from europe... well... i guess.. given the power of the current politicians... nothing! ha ha!

well, with the e.u. article x, y and z...
herr zensor just flew over
London and dropped a bomb
from his zeppelin,
             because?
         two year ago,
       a teenager, girl, aged 13,
downloaded some materials
regarding self-harm...
              now the english government
is implicating regulations,
it will regulate social media usage,
mind you: ***** 'arry was pushing
the agenda all along...
   never mind the competent users...
just tackle the problem
with the addicts...
    oh look: no ******, no alcohol...
ms. amber: i'm sorry, we've failed,
we punched "the agenda"
of a blank canvas too far,
    we're going to have to double down,
for a while, so we can just
survive and have this sort
of a punching-bag of a blank
canvas readied for us...
               so the government will come
in and regulate,
       come on, 13 years old,
but the rising queer epidemic of
premature depression in the youth?
    while the parents do not
implement internet safety
   for their children,
        no block filters...
                like blocking pornographic
sites,
      so the infiltration came
            from within the supposed
safety-net sites?
           ****... i was exposed to
rotten.com by word of mouth at
school...
                           just when the internet
launched with that whole
dial-up modem,
    chris rock in lethal weapon
moment talking about old telephones...
and people bemoaned e.u.
articles...
         there have to be consequences...
people should / companies
should be taken into account...
     what about the *******
  who sold me chemically enhanced
marijuana?
            well of course:
   better a guilty man walk free,
than an innocent man become imprisoned...
that logic is still kinda flimsy
for me...
                 i don't know why...
   but it just is...
    surely there are parental filters
for what a child can and cannot see
on the internet...
                 when i was first exposed
to horse on woman *******?
       em...
         is there anything honest to think
about, at this point?
          maybe that's why i decided
to "ghost" around 200 fwends on fb.,
i figured...
        **** this pseudo-voyeurism
of what people want me to see...
    i've invested a decent amount of years
and settled for the 13K poem / doodle count...
and some pictures...
   none of them saved on a personal
drive...
         why would i stash the content,
hide it, when i want people to peruse...
'it's always dark before the dawn',
sorry, i don't know how much
of a ****-******* optimist i have to be...
before a stoic cynicism grinds me
to a halt of:
                   "branching out"...
              i came here for the punching bag
of a blank canvas...
              i never came for the fake
sycophancy or some count of numbers...
i came here, for an outlet...
      it was either this,
                     or a punching bag...
and you almost sense that this whole
farce of "national sovereignty"
is about to be dropped into the *******
and flushed...
       because... it will all become
                             "too inconvenient"...
oh they'll stall... until the european elections
take place...
                   and there's a u.k.
                        (probably the only time
where an N does't come between
vowels)...
                they're wriggling themselves
out... public: 1 vote...
                parliament: i've lost count...
it's not even akin to rats jumping ****,
more like a maggot **** in a pit...
                        that's what a cynic is:
a realist...
                         if i'm wrong, i'm wrong...
but...
              on several occassions
i haven't been wrong...
           and you just have to watch for
that glee in the eyes of channel 4 journalist
anchors...
     i know that glee in the eyes...
it's a glee of hope...
              a sly variation of hope...
               it's also a certainty imbued
               with a certainity-expectation;
thank god i didn't use the video medium...
no passive watchers,
      at least with writing...
certain sacrifices have to be made. / / / / / / / / / /
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

a "p.s.": well of course i'm not happy
with the news coming from today,
mind you: ever spot a woodland pigeon?
god, aren't they plump?
               bloated *******,
they always seem well fed by the forest...
a pair nested in a tree in my garden,
only yesterday, i picked up two
almost translucent offspring of theirs,
thrown out of the nest,
   the bride and groom
               decided they were sick,
weak...
                  they did look weak...
     death stared back at me,
          what once was animate,
lying there, among the stones, inanimate...
what a strange sight...
            do i believe in god?
            well... tell me...
   what is the driving force that coordinates
hearbeats, the functions of the stomach,
intestines, liver, kidney and lungs?
the categorical imperative split of the brain:
thinking, memory, imagination?
the bank of pathologies?
              tell me, what is the universal
1: nth term functions of the brain / 1 (divided
by 1),
                 the heartbeat / 1,
              the liver's function(s) / 1...
              the stomach's function / 1...
the pancreatic function / 1...
           i sometimes wonder:
  i own bones only in light of the thin
skinned extentsions associated with
fingers and tooes...
   sometimes this sort of thinking helps...
to "fake ignorance",
in order to rediscover awe...
         as if a genesis story...
to be the first...
        you never actually know what you will find...
sometimes there's no point being caged
in all the advancements of knowledge,
of certainity we are presented with
on the secular altar,
            ****! i can't even begin to comprehend
how i managed to clamour out from
beneath the eisenvorhang...
    a brief interlude... and straight back under
the siliziumvorhang...
            i guess i need to sleep the better dues
to pass this day...
           it was expected though,
i was, after all... sending out an S.O.S.,
     wattpad... what is it?
              teens wet silly with poetry
associated with no messy love,
mostly girls...
              YA novelties and novellas...
side projects...
               again: vampires, warewolves,
zombies, blah blah: yawn a year later...
         teen girls: sensitive as
daffodils, but as soon as a presence
comes along: little scheming modliszkas
   (mantises) - since daddy would not
approve...
              i discovered marquis de sade
in my teens: thank **** that i did...
i wished for an exoskeleton,
i moved past it, into lizard skin,
until my skin started resembling
an oyster shell hardness...
                     you snooze, you loße...
i only saw the trilogy once,
in the waterstones of Greenwich Village
in London, when i was doing some roofing
for a housing project...
i only saw the trilogy once...
i only bought Joris-Karl Huysmans's
Là-Bas once... i should have bought
the two other books...
  since i never saw them again...
  unlucky me... having succumbed to the sterotype
of the magpie stealing silver spoons...
the cover...
   artwork by aubrey beardsley:
                        'of neophyte and how the black art
was revealed to him by the fiend Asomuel'
   (the pall mall magazine, june 1893)...
on amazon.com you either get a chance
to purchase this book, or:
Against Nature (a rabours)...
    but there's a trilogy behind Là-Bas...
zee fwench: sorry, and not sorry,
the english can be grand poets,
but when it comes to prose?
                they're not even sniffing
the toes of the french...
                what happened to woodland pigeon
coos today?  wattpad.com,
2015...             the same for me...
an outright ban... because some girl
decided to be offended by me cutting off
a conversation with her: wish her a good life...
and i really out so much effort into that page...
zip it shrimpy: cut off, little richard
on the guillotine... cut!
                well... i was clued into
the world of 'olapoesía.com,
           hallopoesia.com
                       sveikidzeja.com (lithuanian...
dzieje? happenings, events, in ******)...
          and just my luck...
      leave a harmless comment in an in-group,
in a hive?
              how the nazis were not exactly
mongols, or the first christians who
burned down the library of alexandria,
when notre dame burned...
      when the blitz of london...
and how st. paul's "miraculously" survived...
and i said: i'm pretty sure the people
in command said to the luftwaffe squadron
about to bomb london:
you drop a single bomb on st. paul's:
firing squad...
           they were nazis: but sure as ****
they weren't the people of the siberian steppe!
so hellopoetry.com,
  2019, suspension from may until december 2019...
but unlike wattpad...
  i still have my account!
   and guess who's digging trenches, right now?
poetfreak.com and minds.com are
step-overs...
why did i delete my 200+ fwends off of
facebook.com and reduced it to
3 random strangers?
          eh?
                   as much as i abhor darwinism
poking its head through to give
every single existential explanation...
i have to side with darwinism on this point:
a defensive modus operandi...
lie low...
          pretend to be dead...
                   i knew the censorship storm
was coming back in 2015...
and this current banning of woodland pigeon
coos banning?
     i'm sort of happy...
but not for the sort of reasons stemming
from the ban...
     i can finally spread the "love"!
           i finally know what it feels like,
for someone who liked my work...
         being cut off from my content...
frankly... it feels great!
                   i can finally entertain my perspective
with a pinch of empathy...
sympathy is already here:
since it happened to me back in 2015,
and in early 2019...
         now for the 3rd time lucky
on the platforms i already mentioned...
but like this hindu woman said to me...
1st time is an honest mistake,
2nd time is a lesson in learning...
3rd time? there's nothing for you to learn...
and that's of course in reverse:
of me being banned.
                         after all...
if marquis de sade is still with us?!
                 marquis de sade...
                              i knew herr zensor was
coming...           but i didn't exactly
expect to climb from under the iron curtain,
to be draped over with the silicon curtain...
and these people know they're taking away
our former playground,
our youth center,
                       well...
                           but at least i didn't make
passive content akin to a video...
         if they really want to ban me a third
time...
       i'm glad someone took the effort
to read my work...
   saves them the time ageing toward granny
age, resorting to binging on harlequin
romance novels.

p.s.

you've actually caught me in my berserker
drinking mode... i'll just spew...
and spew as i must, i never expected
the "useful idiots" to comply to what my thinking
didn't prescribe them to do...
even hegel once pointed out:
something about 3D chess,
a thinking man, with pawns of willing
actors... i never liked hegel...

                  hegel has become too much
of a crucifix, a bookmark,
of what and where, "things" went wrong...
i hate bookmarked people...
kant isn't bookmarked...
         all the slander that nietzsche offered him,
as some repetitive jargon booster,
with the sort of a bachelor lifestyle
he greatly admired: rooted in Königsberg...
****** worked like clockwork...
his predictability was the great deception...
forget shuffling ideas and whatever
like a northern semite...
weren't the vikings the semites
of the north? restless creatures,
constantly displaced? weren't they?

mind you... eh...
     you know how many necromancers
actually exist?
   you ever read a book by jean-paul sartre?
james joyce? stendhal? dumas?
sienkiewicz?
      you sure you're not
a necromancer?
                it's not an exactly
illustrious title to hold...
             when reading the books
of the departed, aren't you invoking
their living presence, into the current storm
of affairs?
  sure as **** it's not a spectacular "title"
to hold, is it?
           to think: one is more likely
to cite the dead, having "risen" from
their grave, that one is to make
   "compensations" with the living...
   when journalism ****** politics...
and the sort of admired journalism,
akin to all the president's men...
died...
                a slower death than the traversing
speed of a snail...
   like that other quote beside
hegel:         the terrible...
                   has already happened.
the holocaust, chernobyl...
   that has already happened...
               awaiting what could ever be
worse: is but akin to the sword of Democles...
it's hanging in the air,
   blood-thirty,
  like the talking heads of
the french aristocracy, once the guillotine
chop happens... gagging for "free speech"
in a basket...
what is mary antoinette just said:
let them have croissants?!
    fat fake cake binges would...
with a snap of the fingers... be over...
still... the english crumpet...
      tyson fury vs. manny pacquiao
    (the obvious choice of crumpet,
and the croissant getting battered...
akin to a french toast,
               soaked in beaten eggs)...

you read any book by a dead person,
you're a necromancer...
             i'm a necromancer...
                 you're a necromancer...
the dead arrive at your head,
have a ******* with your thinking,
then leave,
you continue,
   in your own right,
and in their right: of mutating their
original thought...
          that lost ambition of narrative,
transcending any and all
moral 'oughts...
                    try me after an hour
spent with a ******* doing nothing
but kissing her:
just, because, "on a whim",
i forgot to trim my ***** hair...
                stealing kisses from prostitutes
isn't exactly easy...
all that pretty woman dogma...
     **** above a kiss...
          well... "yeah"... in reality?
                   i'm thinking about three things
right now... growing a heard long enough
to reach my heart...
   bonsai: in both the tree botanical form
and a feline form of a shrunken tiger
akin to a maine **** cat...
   and a pagoda...
                      don't ask me why...
i'm good at su doku puzzles... mahjong...
really **** on the crossword puzzle scale...
hence? random words just enter my mind
and i need an ars poetica impromptu
to lodge them into.

p.p.s.
i already know what the inquiring man would
or could ever do with a child,
to inquire about his own development as
a child, to find the: dot dot dot the missing
answers, to see for himself as he developed
into an adult, or, worse, to project his own failings
onto the child, child genius tiger mums team
alpha-bravo... child prodigy gehennah...
it's almost a psychological fetish for some,
to bind oneself to the canvas of a child,
better off with a cat, or a dog if that's your
"thing"... at least you won't be hurting anyone...
worse still: the marquis de sade ******
scenario... i still have memories from when
i was 4 years old... Ganesha must be looking
over me: the stereotype? elephants' memory,
which is as long as its trunk...
      "conundrum": if an adult male can fathom
his child: himself at the age of 4...
if he can fathom a metaphorical foetus,
why would he have to procreate,
to produce a d.n.a. mongrel to satiate his
curiosity further?
      besides that... if society was once overtly
religious, moralistic...
today's society is overly-psychologised...
i hate psychological stereotypes,
everyone is this part-time hobby-psychologist...
             i don't exactly require a biological
part-replica of myself to preserve at least
one thought with origin and end within
the confines of my self...
       i'm not exactly prone to utter patriachal
proverbs that encompass whole ethnic groups...
maxims or categorical imperatives
cater for individuals...
                   not the masses...
i'd have to be a patriarch to utter proverbs as
a way to gather the brood of my own
sow and subsequent harvest...
to be so obscure,
    to be so... concerned with lineage...
                   you have to be born with the facets
of necessarily ensuring that future generations
are to make the same mistakes...
           that's why i would never trust western
neo-atheism... d.n.a. as the only future blah blah...
         sure... if you can lodge a thought
into d.n.a. and receive the token of finding both
self and consciousness within such claustrophic automaton confines,
"somewhere down the line"...
      much older generations would have told you...
that's in the fables, the mythos, the temporal crux
and crossroads... time doesn't give a donkey's *******
about your "rational", scientific materialism's worth
of continuum...
                         etc.

A blast of hatred of acid tongues,

A needless phrase to scold the tall,

A forgotten hero they never mention,

Take a look at the one called Robert Smalls.




A swipe by fist of foul means,

A dangerous concoction of sparks,

A cowards language of sorts,

Take a look at the one called Rosa Parks.




A definition of weakness in ruling,

A slap in the face of the now free,

A collapsed cult now gone forever,,

Take a look at the one called Isabella Baumfree.




A word is a word to fight and hurt,

A sentence pinned together from fools,

A paragraph of silence descends upon you,

The N word no longer a relevant tool.

I got attacked by emotions unexpectedly
It was a sudden turn of life. It was as if ma
life got cursed
I met love which seemed abit shy but it
came in an introduced me to its friend
Happyness
Happyness showed me the true meaning
of love, and surely I did stupid things for
love
Amazingly I saw the true colours of
love.....they were too horrific and painful
towards my heart and soul
Smalls strings of bones in ma heart were
broken and that's when I met
sadness...sadness introduced me to his
guys called Anger and ignorance which led
me to their boss called bitterness. Through
bitterness I was mad as **** then I lost
everything...I faced depression which
made ma mind think terrible things about
me. Suicidal thoughts came along me but
then I thought to myself. After dying what
was I going to be worth to the people
who loved me. I had to complete my legacy
in life. Through the road the goddess came
along within me, his name was hate..I
hated everything I loved with a lot of
jealousy though. And yes...I met jealousy
through all these emotions. Jealousy would
make you like seeing another person
suffer. Everyone thought I was just a
happy kid in need of nothing in his life. But
I was as lonely as a scientist living in a lab
on his own.
U seeing me smile is just another fake
disguise of the shame of feelings I had
within me
I'd like to think myself as a black EMO kid
who lives for nothing but TROMATIZING
LOVE

There's an office away from the high street
Where the ordinance survey resides
And the walls there are painted with boredom
Not a singular giggle abides
But there's one room below, in the cellar
Where Connor completes the new maps
Adding green and blue spots and churches
Putting pine trees in all of the gaps

Now just two days before publication
He was feeling mischievous and bold
So he pulled out the map of his village
And he penned the words "Here Be Gold"
Then he folded them neatly and deftly
He took them for copy and print
Bid his colleagues a wonderful summer
And he left just approaching a sprint

So the map making season was over
And his handiwork soon was for sale
Connor waited and made preparation
To ensure that his scheme didn't fail
He rented a tired ice cream van
And he filled it with cunning supplies
When his phone rang one Saturday morning
He spoke with well measured surprise

That call brought a knock to his doorway
And a nod to a neighbouring field
With a mind to extract precious metals
And a promise of half of the yield
"That field belonged to my father"
Young Connor was quick to invent
"You can dig just as much as you like there
It's three hundred a day for the rent"

There was much in the way of discussion
Then a scratching of paper and pen
A shake of a hand and a smiling
They were gone by a quarter past ten
So he counted they money they left him
They had paid him a week in advance
It would certainly pay off the mortgage
With some left for a weekend in France

On Monday there came with a rumbling
A convoy of notable size
There were trailers with diggers and cabins
And vans full of tools and supplies
All halted by general consensus
They unloaded each pallet and crate
Not seeing that over the field
Young Connor had bolted the gate

With a fever they started to burrow
With the sun beating down on their backs
They were tiring by the mid morning
But provisions were curiously lax
When in rolled a tired ice cream van
Playing green sleeves in hideous tones
Soon the workers were queuing in masses
For Fanta and lollies and cones

But the bill drew a gasp from each punter
Though the thirst had them caught by the *****
So they paid the extortionate prices
And stripped to their workmanlike smalls
At the end of the day they departed
And only young Connor remained
With a plan and a shiny new toolbox
Which he'd only just lately obtained

The next day the foremen and drivers
Found their diggers unable to dig
The engines were gone from their bonnets
And the oil had escaped from their rig
There was much of the pointing and cursing
And some harsh accusations were made
In the end they decided to press on
And continue with bucket and *****

They made quite a hole in the field
And they slowly descended from sight
They were forty feet down by the evening
And lamenting the vanishing light
When one of them turned with a bucket
To ferry out some of the spoil
When he came to what should be a ladder
And found only two dents in the soil

Connor slept and he dreamed of his fortune
And was thankfully hardy and stout
Or he'd certainly be more exhausted
After dragging those ladders about
In the morning he took to the field
With a bag and a rope and a smile
He leaned forward and peering downwards
Did proclaim in benevolent style

"Ahoy there you diggers and bucket men
Are you stranded in this here hole?"
There were cries from the depths and more cursing
And pleas that would shatter the soul
"I am sorry but I have no ladders
But I do have a coil of rope
You'd better shed weight for I'm sickly
I'm afraid that I may well not cope"

"So take off your rings and your watches
Your mobile phones and your cash
And pile them into a bucket
I'll hoist them all out in a flash"
After further complaining and shouting
Connor stood with a bucket of loot
And with that he went back to his cottage
Twas a very successful commute

The next year in the ordinance survey
On the map of the place he resides
In the field that belonged to his father
Amid pine trees and yet more besides
There are words in the faintest of letters
Between pictures of diggers and tools
Saying "Here Be Gold if you know where to look
And a ****** great hole full of fools"

THE GREAT POOL TOURNAMENT



we are here at the Green bay packers football club, for the annual pool competition

and we have a great line up of pool champions from simon o’heary and brendan itato,

they are the players who fought it out in last years final, and this year promises to be a bumper

of a tournament.    


the first match is between samuel patrice and johnny carter, and samuel gets the break which is a beauty

knocking the number 14 in first and then knocked the number 12 in next and his third go, he attempted to

knock the number 9 in but missed by a whisker

and then johnny had his go, and he is on smalls, yep he missed the pocket with the first shot by the skin of his teeth

so samuel lined up with his next shot and knocked the 15v and the number 9 in, and only had 16, 10 and 11 to go

before the black ball, samuel was on a roll, and then samuel knocked the number 10 in, and there was no way he was

going to lose this game, no way, but then he knocked the 16 in and then straight away knocked the 11 in and then he was

on the 8 ball, and if he knocks this one in, the game is won, and the black was right near the hole, which was easy for samuel to sink

and he sank it, and samuel won, and johnny carter was out yet again, and samuel moved onto the next round, where he played the

winner of the other table, who was phillip cutherhead, and this was promising to be a promising match, so the referee tossed the coin

and phillip won and decided to break, and when he did he sent the ***** to 7th heaven, you see phillip beat 17 year old colin hayes,

who was hoping to ****** up the tournament, and when we interviewed colin, man, he was very disappointed but he knew that this year

wasn’t his year, samuel had the second shot, and by geez, he couldn’t have whacked a more perfect shot knocking the number 6 in the left

middle pocket, radical, samuel continued to show style by knocking 4 in right bottom and 3 in left middle and 5 in left middle and 2 in middle right

and 1 in middle left and 7 in middle right and then knocked the 8th in to win this easily.

the next game started with samuel and his opponent harry burns knocking each ball in 1 by 1 and samuel ended up winning this close match by a flukey

knock of the number 13 and the next shot on the 8th meant if you miss this you are going to harry’s  turn so he knocked it in and samuel went to the bar

to rest up till his next game.and watch the match to see his next opponent, and the match was between brendan schultz and simon weather by and brendan

broke and it was a ****** powerful shot and simon was left wondering what hit him, brendan was the third best last year and he was determined to become

2 times better and simon wanted to set a trap for brendan, so to speak, he had some tricks lined up, and brendan wasn’t shy to display these shots in the match

brendan did a trickshot knocking number 14 in middle right and 9 in bottom left and 12 in middle left all at once, which left simon completely speechless,

brendan ended up winning and was waiting for simon to finish his losers interview, so he can talk about that win, simon told the press a pack of wild bulls

couldn’t beat brendan in this match and then he congratulated brendan, brendan was happy to be in the final against samuel to see who comes 1st or 2nd


1.  they played the national; anthem of the USA

2.  Samuel and brendan stood back to back and the referee was standing behind them

3.  10 year old benjamin whaler tossed the coin to see who will break in the tournament final, brendan won and chooses to break

4.  brendan and simon had a arm wrestle in the lead up and on with the GAME in this bumper grand final


brendan broke and by geez he broke a beauty and knocked the 11 ball in and is on bigs, the next shot, brendan scattered all the ***** on

every corner of the table, and samuel had his next shot, and can’t believe he missed everything forcing brendan to have 2 shots, must be nerves

from the other two wins, brendan’s first shot knocked 16 and 5 in, which ruined the 2 shots that samuel gave him, samuel was very excited, he went

straight over to knock the 3 ball in and then knocked the 7 ball in and then nearly knocks the 4 ball in, but didn’t, and after that brendan sank the white ball

which gave samuel 2 shots, let’s hope he doesn’t do what brendan did, samuel concentrated very hard hitting the 3 ball in and then 1 ball in and then

the 6th ball in and then knocked the 2 ball, and without knowing it samuel was looking like winning the tournament, as he was 1 ball away from winning

the tournament, and samuel had his next shot but there was a lot of pressure, he sank the white and gave brendan 2 shots, which made brendan have

to concentrate, because he couldn’t make a mistake because samuel was on the 8 ball, brendan did a trick shot sinking 9 ball into middle left side and 10 ball

into middle right and 15 into right bottom, and then did another trick shot knocking 11 ball in the left middle pocket and 12 ball in the right middle pocket and

13 ball in the right corner pocket and 14 ball in the middle left, and both samuel and brendan were both on the 8th, the next whot brendan missed the right bottom pocket

and samuel had his shot and sank the black right into the top right pocket, which gave sam the tournament and brendan went out of the building refusing to talk to any member

of the press, the next step was



1.  brendan congratulated sam on his great win

2.   sam gets the trophy and says thanks to the crowd for making this all possible

the speech

i didn’t think i would win that last match

brendan was putting on some very good shots

and if it wasn’t for him missing that last shot

i wouldn’t’ have the chance, THANKS EVERYONE

and then sam held the cup over his head, and did a lap of honour around the pool hall, , and then the announcer said samuel, you are the best

and we will see you next year

GOODBYE

'I'm going to run away Miss - I'm taking
a t-shirt and a pound of ham with me,'
he wanted his dad, how very sad - that
little boy was barely a lad, treated bad.

My dad said that I shouldn't show anyone
my private parts, only my sister saw me,
she said: 'What's that?' I said: 'It's my *****,'
'It's got a hat on and looks so silly.'

'Where's daddy gone?' 'He's in heaven Billy,'
'Do they have a pub there?' 'No, only holy water,'
'Where do babies come from? Does the stork
bring them, is that why they have a big beak?'

'He hit me in the 'smalls' Miss, and that
boy who smells said that he wants to give me a kiss.