Vod:
No longer alive inside something missing, i dont know why..

Mr.zeal:
I'm no longer in fear of the beautiful scandalous night.

Vod:
I find a bright light that gives me new insight and winds me, im away from the evil that blinds me.

only when i know i'm being overly cruel; for some reason some of us have a conscience and are willing to execute it; a bit like stomping on a mouse... give me a cow to butcher, i'd do it... i remember this once instance, when people when phobia-prone to killing animals on a farm... oddly enough not all of us came from the "privileges" of an urban environment; a part of my family (cousins, aunts, etc.) remained in their original setting of the rural world. i visited it once, and saw with naked eyes how a chicken gets butchered... chop to the neck... and the thing is... the other chickens rushed to the stump of wood on which the "execuition" took place, and started pecking / drinking the blood of their "comrade", while also pecking the head that had all the matrix-movie-slow-motion expressions... that wasn't the horrible part though... the horrible part was plucking all the feathers from the body and... the stink was impossible to stomach... i can't believe i actually ate the: poached-chicken soup... but then adding a few vegetables to the soup helped my sense of smell.

and why are all soups in england without
any clarity? they're all goo...
    creamy... baby food pap...
                      i mean, i was a fan of heinz's
tinned tomato "soup" once,
        it had a certain sweetness about it...
    but it's so mundane sometimes to not be able
to peer into a bowl of soup like you might
look into a glass of water, and see the bottom of the bowl...
that poached-chicken soup?
        the jews will say they invented it, i've heard
it before... it's called *rosół (rho-soow) -
but you won't say the H in ρ... and you're bound to
imagine the W as a branch with many other branches
that get plucked and then the branch turns into
a bow, i.e. that it becomes bent... kinda like a ł...
         or for lack of a better phrase: hard to find
a V or an X or a Q in slavic languages.
where was i? oh right... drinking ***** in england:
is a complete nightmare...
               you can't do to ***** what the english do to it,
they're incompetent with *****...
      for ****'s sake, i've seen them drinking it in
an orange juice mixer... a ****** mary i can
understand, with a rhubarb stick or a celery stick
plopped into the glass... orange juice?! seriously?
and they don't give it enough tenderness,
or... let's just say knowledge.
                         whiskey? sure, you can drink it
with ice, soda, ms. pepsi, or as the puritans do in
scotland... warmed by the heat of your hand holding
a glass: pure, slightly warm, to infuse
    the idea of burning amber, warmth, coziness,
brandy?
              ***** though? the english are incompetent
with *****... you go to any nightclub here
and the ***** isn't stored in fridges along with the rose
wine... it's hanging up there on the bar wall
along with all the other spirits...
                         dead man's ruse in jerusalem...
mr. vod molotov, please come down and... ****...
don't even stand in a fridge... head to the refrigerator...
and that's the beauty of a good shot of *****...
you need to get it to resemble a syrup...
    and since ethanol has a lower freezing point
to water... keeping a ***** in sub-zero temperatures
makes it pleasurable to drink, on its own...
     and you can actually manage it...
                            i once had a warm shot of *****
and i could swear i experienced alcohol poisoning...
it's like filtering water... you filter water because
you don't want to drink tap water that can also
be found in your toilet...
                                  freezing ***** gets rid of
all the impurities that might be in it...
                   which is why you prefer to eat a cooked
piece of beef rather than a steak tartar for fear
of a chance of a tapeworm embryo...
                                  in conclusion the english don't
know how to drink *****...
                          oh god, this one time, at band camp -
no no, just ******* with you...
               2004... new years eve, Posen (Poznań) -
vanilla absolute ***** (swedish brand,
also comes in cherry? definitely lemon,
blackcurrant?) - anyway... what a memorable night...
only because it was served coming out
of the refrigerator... not a fridge, not room temperature:
belowing the freezing temperature...
                              because that's what you do with *****.

In my oppion you all deserve a light everyday for your poetry.
They can be beautiful while revealing your hurts and suffering.
Or be beautifully written by you and the Christ together here.
Just as Brandon, Alyssa, Catherine, Gary,FJ Davis, Leeann. Mark.and Paul.
Plus so many other great authors of these beautiful poems.
Or write dark but beautiful poems as I said before my friends.
Just as Elsa, dark and beautiful, Wolf among others thank you.
Or just write beautiful poems with no intended purpose.
Just as Rye,VOD, Dash Switchblade,John Steven, and Pax.
I appreciate you all, for all of your inspiration and encouragement.

you read a saturday article, you gain insight into the void,
and then you attempt a su doku...
i couldn't finish of no. 8902 (difficult)...
i attempted no. 8903 (fiendish)
and lost the plot at square-to-linear
interchange with the number 1...
        all the while not really concentrating
on the puzzle, or trying to master
the craft to a competitor's level
of expertease...
  it became a game of trying to find the origin...
summarised by the words: not here, not here,
                  but here.
the crux of no. 8903? only one 2 on the "palette".
        and two ones. i reached the point where
a square of the 9 and a linear completion didn't
correlate... exactly... a misplaced 1.
                   so then i conceptualised:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
                             1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 2, 3, 4, (3?) 5....
         iocus numero similis prior cataracta;
a case of parity...
               coordination e.g. (9, 9)            (9)
elsewhere...
                                the dynamic soon
shifted into
              (1, 2, 1) through to (2, 1, 2), then into
(1, 2, 1, 2)... (2, 3, 2, 3), (3, 4, 3, 4), (4, 5, 4, 5),
         (5, 6, 5, 6), (6, 7, 6, 7), (7, 8, 7, 8),
                        (8, 9, 8, 9); and that equals?
the encompassing void of 0.
                  ',  ,'           (or the collpasing effect) /
implosion.
           just as much to distract me as an article
about mayte garcia / the first wife of prince...
    *****, ms. pepsi and the windowsill and the night...
yesterday's antics: a decapitated daffodil
a fiołek (violet) head... pinched rosemary and pinched mint...
     laid down on a kitchen counter...
            a cat... and "someone" talking about
scents...
                       3 sharpened kitchen knives in the garden,
on a stone that oozed off dust (as the knives were
sharpened with such verocity)...
    and now today... more ms. pepsi with vladimir vod
           of the excess of thus stated opinion: ruling,
unchallenged; because who the **** would
take sober opinions, seriously?

foremostly: drink a little, and then write something,
there's absolutely no point in drinking
and rummaging an abdandoned house,
better still, what use would a spider have for
an abandoned spiderweb,
   that hasn't been kept in order, for two months?
what of the old hunched
crow-shadow posture in a chair?
            in poland i remember having trouble
associating myself with writing
in turkish akimbo on a hard communist concrete,
and the bare minimum of what
could be called a carpet...
              let alone the insomnia grandfather
snooping around at 12, 1, 2am...
     begging me to pretend to be falling asleep
while smoking cigarettes indoors,
   writing by candlelight in the kitchen...
it felt as it feels now:
               having lost a limb... but subsequently
having regrown one...
      there is no technique to what's
               closely associated with: rigour...
drinking is one thing:
                     writing habits? quiet another!
for starters there are offshoot verses
of nonsense, or: exploring the consequence
of simulating alzheimer's of some
sort...
              less metaphorical than the romance
with schizophrenia, the romance
that is a razor blade thrown to a person
drowning from anxiety...
                list: US consumes 50% of Xanax
production,
          the UK consumes 22%...
                            2017 sore 240 call-outs
for Xanax abuse by children aged between
11 and 14...
              half of mental problems
begin aged 14, three-quarters come
sober 18...
                         70% increase in rates
of depression in >25s...
   2 to 1 (:) ratio of women hiding
the same problems men have...
                50% increase in suicides in
England in the past decade -
                                hello Bristol university!
now that we juggled with the facts,
    like we might pass taking shots from
a bottle of ***** like some rude
teenagers in a playground in a park
   come the last solar hours of
                                         a sunsent...
facts: you can plagiarise -
          that's what they're there for -
no need for citing where i got them from,
one source is as good as the next.
         now... routine and writing...
   england is so different from poland -
namely, big town small town ergonomics -
small town? good chance you'll
get a romanticism bug... read a book
and start seeing swans in clouds...
               big town?
                    no real chance...
            talk-the-there's-no-talk scenario...
i had to remember how i used to function
in england, when the tactic i had for
treating anti-depressants as sleeping pills
actually worked...
                and no... it didn't involve
                 the affair of a bottle of ***** per
     night to imitate an executioner's axe...
or a mike tyson upper-cut for:
        seeing black-holes, of former stars...
god!
             death?!
                        black holes are the death of
stars, and yet they fascinate physicists more
than actual stars, which they reduced
                  to a hydrogen-helium interaction...
what i clearly forgot is my routine,
and the rigour involved in ushering in some
worthy blah-blah...
               my day constitutes of 48 hours...
which technically is two days,
                           but that's debatable...
stay up for a minimum of 24 hours...
                  actually, 24h is a breeze,
   not even worth contemplating since i only
stopped myself shy of doing a 48h+ stretch...
but, see... i became bogged down in
   video-books...
                    billions: ******* genius soundtrack,
very much akin to baby driver...
   but **** the precision of acting...
    favourite character?
                       WAAAAAAAAAAAGS....
a bit like snooping in on the wives of
european footballers once every four years...
binged the ******* that ****,
    finished season two and just waiting for
the next two installments...
            and?
                           versailles: on a techical
note... addressing Kant while watching
this ******* of a show?
                      power is better understood
than knowledge, visually, when contemplating
power: a priori,
                            so much easier...
   knowledge doesn't have the same rich
                                 association attached to it...
because? knowledge a posteriori
diffuses into perfecting replicas -
                    say the original cobbler...
        and subsequent cobblers and, "cobblers",
or trivial Cains...
                 visually speaking,
    since the dynamic of power, a posteriori
     is just blinding in terms of hierarchy...
         well, "blinding", i mean: illuminating...
another welcome routine prior to writing
something down and drinking at the same time?
solving a sudoku.
           this is the sudoku interlude -
   scatter-brain sequence (if you like):
           visually speaking power a priori creates
a more sensible visual explanation of
                            of power a posteriori...
          given that a priori power is a vacuum -
a priori knowledge doesn't exactly have
an agreeable imagination basis -
         to the pop. scrutiny...
                    ****... even retards know how
to laugh, even though they might not even concern
themselves with stand-up schematics
of a joke...
                  knowing how to laugh, is just like that...
the a priori knowledge of laughter
         is not designated to an exclusive
            a posteriori knowledge of laughter...
intellectual brown-nosing is the same
    as a ****** laughing: although i bet my wet-winkle
that i'll laugh with the ******,
                       than the intellectual pop-****.
power though...
              god, where do you even begin?
       the power that comes prior to
      the subsequent compenetration of
the anti-cartesian: res vanus replaces res cogitans,
yet res extensa remains intact...
           louis the 14th and the "thought" project
that became versailles...
                 and it would have been a "thought"
fabien marchal...
            it used to be monsieur philippe I,
but then i became bored of
my irritability of being unable to assimilate
the deviances to such carnal finalities...
best of all, just recently,
  the appearance of marquise de montespan
with her keen observation -
        purely a priori, well, 3's the lucky number...
the inverted crown woman...
  the crown of thorns woman...
       how she took hold of bouffon gossip cueues...
and became...
          sorry... she can't be defined as
          the king's favourite "mistress"...
          ha ha! she was the ******* madame!
feed the hydra another hungry bite at its
neck...
            and you can make a brothel legitimate
without the concept of money...
                   worded-"bribes"...
if she was a mistress of louis xiv
then i was the nun
           in the rocky horror show, if there was
any nun, in that movie...
            madame through and through,
because she became more obliged to the queen
than the king:
             misconcept of pushing women
rather than allowing them to fester
like sores?
                       heart becomes detached...
less... clingy...
                                       boyish...
packed with dormant dynamite lodged
in stone...
             but without the fuse of
an authentic woman's tongue that asks
for bribes in acts outside of the most piquant
affair of carnal festivity...
               endless ******* "metaphors"...
       which is no wonder why adultery is
what it is: an emotional and an even cognitive
investment in a: story, rather than
a mere body...
                          which is not to say that
the body isn't cherished:
                   last time i checked...
     i forgot to take my genitals with me to
the brothel... left it in the dollhouse
                                 of Barbie & Strappy...
yet what's persistent is the rigour in
writing the casually sporadic...
                    sleep deprivation and a diet of
decent video-books...
               a drink... a sudoku...
                    and the chance to catch up
with about 10 hours...
                             and having the ******
decency to do minor things that involve
other people's boring trivialities...
            like cooking dinner...
          feeding the cats...
                            watering the garden...
and trying to figure out:
                      that teenager who gave me
the ten quid he probably found
  (since it was so scruntched up) expecting
me to be his "good uncle" while buying
*****-juice?
                         ****, i thought i was gullible...
he didn't think i was going to
buy something beginning with vod-
                  as anything less than 37.5%?
he screamed and shouted at me...
                apparently the "good uncle" was
on his way, and instead a drunk father stood
before him, telling him:
         now you can take it from me and run
along to what's going to a heart-break
since the other guy and the girl you're trying
to impress have already run off
and you're standing with someone twice your age...
or?
        so putting the goods on the pavement
taking a step back and putting my hands
on my head said: your choice...
           it was your choice to give me the tenner...
but hey, i even put in a little extra
            because i probably misheard you...
just a madman's luck that he was screaming
at me as if i was scalping him
   which allowed for the attention
     of the supermarket
security guard to be prompted
         and some people in the carpark...
rare event...
      very plain... nothing too spectacular
                         like climbing mt. everest...
if he started screaming:
           you're buying alcohol for minors!
what, with my own money?!
            i gambled putting in 6 quid of
my own so that he wouldn't take a litre of
*****...
    hence he shouted: theft!
                           which made no sense since
he voluntarily gave me the ten quid...
          fascinating conundrum...
                   like **** i'd buy minors
                 alcohol using my own money...
some, the bigger the group:
          are smart enough to know the difference
between a common interest,
say, 5 guys and then the scenario becomes
         two pipsqueaks and a smurfette...
i already said it once:
                   me, beer, straight road...
some honest cases you can work with...
teenage tantrums of that sort?
lucky madman loser...
                 saved ten quid on a bottle of *****.