Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like that of a full moon
bringing light
from the One
who has commanded me
to wear it
to my face

Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a merry-go-round
rotating with a joyful force
in places near and far
illuminating its power
a reflection of my soul
and inner beauty

Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
the way whirling dervishes move
we're so high
aspiring nearness to Allah Masha'Allah
our act of wearing hijab daily
deserving of much respect
and Insha Allah
The Seventh Heaven

Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a spinning wheel
many made
in different colors
and in different textures
each brightening the world
and when wearing it
like Khadijah (AS), Fatimah (AS), and Aisha (RA)
attracts attention of the best kind

Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like Big Ben
I'm so high
dignified
a visible ambassador
of Islam
saying no to immodesty
and saying yes to our Majesty

Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a halo
starting my day with Bismillah
and looking into the mirror
to carefully donn it
I remember
I'm doing this to help men
married and unmarried
from sinning
and to protect myself
from impurity and immoral acts
as
Hijab is my crown
for me a Queen

By: Najwa Kareem

your eyes are like oysters i'd wish i would have gulped,
  a scenario of Narcissus who ate by the mirror...
     but then i listen to a heavy metal song:
and retract to change the lyrics
toward: fear of the selfies... fear of the selfie...
fear of the selfie... i have a phobia that someone
somewhere needs me to pose.
it's almost a cheerie cry, i'm a big boy i can walk
into a deathly hollowed-out road of
confiscated pride... the route i took,
engaged me with seven horses and one that almost
mistook my fingers for sugar cubes
and knocked my brains out after discovering
the plight of what it was nibbling on...
  but that's so ****** personal,
i might have insurrected the existence
of a satanic cult with me shouting
in the forest one time or other...
never mind that... your eyes are still akin
to oysters... a gulping-down of
whatever content it suggests...
no tongue-waggling, no breathing,
         just that shape akin to feline asiatic squirm
above a permanent slit: entangling with
what's known as sober-faced poker... or beyond
    purring: murmuring a sodden / well-trodden
path: and was anything else expected to suffer less?
   those eyes: esp. bound to a hispanic frozen lot of longing...
oysters jeopardised along with snails
  whenever the inquisition dared to come between us...
ergo dispersed the oily sexed up
***** Juan stereotypes of piston pump-pump...
nevermind, i call them twirling pumper-nickle gymnasts
of all things necessary kneaded into a chasm of org':
                         hispanic tilde eyes...
the eyebrow within the eye encompassing whatever
needs an expression... surprise? mmm, nada.
sunrise and was phone-*** so ever interesting as to
forget writing mistimed odes such as this?
                  thespian hoplites raised their tongues
toward the spear that suggested a marching was
the proper aversion toward a coup
with the director of theatre too violently itemising
Shakespeare toward a boorish scenario of
thrown rotten cabbage onto the stage.
        fewer hoplites suggested ******
  in the trojan horse, and fewer of the said "hashishin"
might have allowed history to bite at Homer's narrative
for posterity, had they not already said: ha ha! dope!
still, that locomotive tilde of the hispanic girl's eye
that ate the eyebrow, and squinted toward a sunrise
in demanding asiatic slit offense:
                           as monogamy for the sun invoking
marriage...
                    spinoza im eisen mädchen?
     hilfe anaconda! hilfe anaconda! hilfe aisha!
pricklengrund von hattin!
              hispanic tilde of the eye that ate the eyebrow
and demised the asiatic natural "squirm"
    and the forgotten sales of eyeglasses for myopia,
or too the once ticklish origin of silk with her
spinning don quixote's platonism to a
dame (akin to that fabled bride of Athos, good grief!)
that's dubbed *riza'doviento'dealma.

what's with this hobby of keeping friends?
i've got two friends that
only say meow...
          and i'm kinda not rooting for
a Colombian hottie for a wife...
                 i abhor this idea of a "loner",
i haven't heard any monks being called that...
  but then again monks do live in a monastery...
why do people always seek each other's
company? what's wrong with liking your own?
it really bothers me... i mean, by current
standards of denoting this man a loner
would make Spinoza laugh...
                  is it because you need to be the quintessential
hermit living in a clay urn or in a hole
in a desert?
                              each night i drink something,
without fail: i feel better for it...
               i'm hoping it'll **** me...
but so many times people who don't known
how to drink get so ******* melodramatic
that i think about ensuring they are banned from
abusing the amber...
                        i hate melodramatic drinkers,
you either utilise the sedative of the amber to
an overcoming potential... short: Kant's
transcendental methodology... you you won't
drink and whine... or bash people about...
and that, i must say: is a rare art.
     1 litre of amber and i'm as silent as a mouse...
i'll say it again:
    there are too many melodramatic whinge-bags
out there... i don't get them...
    i mean i get them: but i abhor them...
                i could really do with a pupil,
nietzsche would do, about time he stopped dropping
those barbiturates and learned to dance!
         tanz! tanz herz im freuer!
yes, sometimes the trip was long
the N86 from romford to goodmayes and
into the brothel near the train station...
but every time i played a folk song,
usually dikanda's ketrin ketrin i'd sit on the bus
for about 40 minutes... aflame...
                i find that prostitutes are only fed the myth
of a tender touch and a complete lack
of experimental perversity... even a kiss is
the beginning of their myth-making...
   ordinary girls are fed the myth of movies,
and how it all works out...
    each time i went to the brothel i sat for the journey
time like a Sufi meditation with the
              dervish dance in my mind...
                 and that's the truth... mind you,
i have a grandfather that supports my work
and buys me cigarettes... then again he lived in a time
when he could age and get a state-pension,
as he does... he's not ailing in any sense, and he lives
in a post-communist country... and i just spent
3 weeks over there... which means my state-sponsorship
in england has amounted: that i could take out
110 quid and give it for a *******...
                and i could remember myself aflame...
  on a bus with a dervish dance in my mind...
           drunk, as usual: but that's the fun part of it...
i could wave my *** at all those
melodramatic drunks you get at parties and in other
public places who suddenly speak and only moan
how unfair it all is...
                      first time i went? well... i did go to
uni after all, the sacred land of getting a good score
for later life... what a sahara when it comes to ***!
   like with prostitutes it still turns out to be a case
of hard facts and harder choices...
                  money...
                        and­ the white historians and who else
in the etc. cul de sac are wondering why our ethnicity is
in decline... it's quiet a thing to be bemused by the freedom
of women and not addressing the point fairly...
                   the women are so free i had to find my own
freedom with a *******...
                         i got bored of too many darwinian examples
being incorporated into the act... once it's the peacock,
next it's the mantis and the black widow...
of sure... there's so much to gain if endorsing some sort
of chivarly, when next door lives a babe with a sugar daddy...
   ***-starved ******* can go elsewhere,
       wild-eyed logic and no manifesto...
literally: there's no hope for a manifesto here...
             there's no manifesto...
                    this is absolutely not a manifesto...
         i'm actually happy that as an ethnicity we're in decline...
  i found talking to other ethnicities a bit restrictive
and boring... i had to censor vocab fluidity with dams
and other ****** architectural constructs...
    so i looked at the shows on television,
a bunch of child-genuises were on...
   i never thought that spelling was like arithmetic...
   but it is... it is, oh hell it is...
  the judge says the word in that odd jumble that a word
is when you have alphabetical distinctions
   in vowel, consonant and syllable form...
    but the languasge is so different, after all
language is not really an optical language as such,
mathematical language is truly anti-phonetic...
and it comes down to the simple example:
      spell the word: onomatopoeia
  start saying the alphabet and it sounds nothing like
this word put together,
   the syllable ono-                
                       then -ma-
                               -to-        and now the tricky bit...
peya...          but what of the grapheme œ?
                you'd really be able to break your tongue
on that syllable suffix...
                       and when the children started spelling
the word: it look as if they were going cross-eyed
   trying to translate the sound into image...
    mathematical language doesn't have that problem,
do the following airthmetic (e.g.)  
   1 + 2 - 5 + 6 - 4 = ?
                                          0...
but that's different when you are told to spell the word
   renaissance -
                                  doubly more difficult if
you are told to create syllables without diacritical mark
distinctions...
               back to drink, like being asked for
a wine connoisseur's palette, when the wine you've been
given has been diluted...
   or in this case fudge packed so there are no
clear distinctions, too much french influence
      and siamese twin graphemes seperated...
excess vowel that i've heard means: kissing...
i'm sorry how the story goes,
i just can't be forced to **** a kenyan penny-picking
                tragedy with my humour...
        i'm bewildered by the arithematic
and the "arithmetic" of putting words together...
                  the internet has quietly become a war
for a freedom to talk... it's more a freedom to think
than talk...
                  and god forgive me feeling so obscure in
what i wanted to think, but given the social structure of
events happening, i had to do a minority report on
it being said, and me not typing this on
a medium of defeat, that i ended up on a warring stance...
i mean, i can understand obscurity per se,
i can't see how i can attach myself to it on a basis
of a phenomenon...
                          so unearthed we are from a structure
that a rebellion against
                  the szlachta was viable...
what the hell grows on concrete? coconuts?!
      i already said: this is hardly a manifesto...
and i truly demand it to be thoroughly agreed to...
                   then comes the shortcoming
barrage of: i knight you the nigh of not worthy...
                        and then the recycling process
bombards you with: many more squint-eyed *****
to come where you did, come from.
       urbanity has forsaken man attached to an organism,
but is feeling it right now,
                 he's attached to an inorganic farbic of testament...
i haven't walked the soil or toiled in it
to feel it's breath between winter or summer..
           i once had so much one-dimensional inclusion
in this world, then my sight was diverted,
and i came across the numbers, who took to being
***** whales and gulped me in one cascade of
the feeding...
              and i was told to walk it alone.
once actors were abhorred by society,
but then there was no office folk to compete for
utility biases when it came to giving gratitude to
pristine plumbing...
                          back when man was highly
economical... and thus actors had to be abhorred...
  to create a tsunami of sadism to keep them
staged... and true enough:
         if christ was crucified in the colliseum
there would have been fewer than none churches to
establish that event... given the colliseum is
made into a subject-trophy cabinet of holiness -
               and how the colliseum did morph...
it's sad talking about being human as excluding humanity,
as it's sad talking being human by including humanity...
               but thankfully (or not)
there's still that case of the arithmetic of the two tongues...
        say the word colliseum
                             co- -lli- -se'um.
      i mean, that means something...
  take to numbers and of the 26, care to call c = 3
               18 + 33 + 24 13 21
                            +                      2 1 2 = 5
                                                    4 3 1 = 8
                            + 58
                                    = 109
    
kabbalah is *******... mysticism was squandered with
gematria... but islam has no alternative either...
sure... if you have to establish a mirror image
of having a care for theological parasites...
   then you turn a into 1, and b into 2 and z in 26...
and then fiddle about until you get a *******'s worth
of bashing about because you couldn't write
a play entitle Macbeth...
               did any of these holy alternatives die
in Auschwitz? most of them living in America didn't
serve in the Israeli army...
                 who wonders whether they died in
Auschwitz?
                 no! they didn't!
       they were bemused by this correlation of
numbers and letters, thankfully we already can read
the opposite of the kabbalistic practices
prostate in the Deutronomy...
           say 10 a thousand times... adds a few more zeros
but leaves the 1 intact...
            please enlighten me as to who wrote the first
koranic recitation if not khadira? please! for the love
of god tell me it wasn't khadira!
         oh wait... given the hispanic um...
it's khadija - the h is silent and the j is actually a hatch...
          a bit like in the west, with y and j trying to
be a grapheme... a load of ******* *******:
and yes: i have to be crude on the matter...
   so we have the first verse written by a woman...
  or was it a bit like saying...
Aisha wrote surah no. 114... i can just picture it...
the young wife said to her ageing husband:
pray with these words, you lecherous *****!
say: say it you ageing carcass!
i seek refuge in the lord of manking,
the sovereign of mankind...
      the god of mankind...
     from the whisper of the retreating whisperer
(gabriel must have left him once the 13th wife arrived,
of god! the symmetry with jesus' disciples!)
     who whispers into the ******* of makind
(evil is in the brackets) -
from among the jinn and mankind.
conscience really can be a ****** to master.
but the geometry of the koran (glutton the q if you want,
makes no impressions on me) -
is that it starts thick... ends up anorexic...
           so much to say at the start,
but then shrinks... it's beautiful in that sense...
given the miracle of muhammad was that he was
illiterate...
  so someone had to write the words for him...
            i'm guessing khadija wrote the best part of it...
i like to think of her writing the first revelations...
    but i also like to muse that aisha wrote the latter
half of the: how do they stress the ******* q k c so much
that it sounds like it's not coming from the mouth
but coming from the nose?! qu-ran... i need
a hanky and snorkel that **** out... qu sneeze! i-ran...
          it's glutton and it's nasal, and it's almost like:
the back of the throat... and then comes the la la la all-hubris
in that song five times a day...
                but seriously... you tell me the man was illiterate
an this book exists... so who wrote it?
   women!
                                         the merchant of mecca in
Finland... left the scandinavian penninsula after one year
and never came back...
                   but how can you have so much
at the beginning and so little at the end?
   a different woman, who was literate (and the man
wasn't) wrote what needed to be said...
    i just look at the surah an-nas as a way to suggest
that the prophet: al suma mal ley *** blah blah
had been asked to repent... repent you paedo!
          that's crude, i know... and i'm drunk,
i'll wake up sober tomorrow and cook a pork curry
and think about leather shoes and shoelaces and belt...
and how camels are dirtier than pigs and how you
can eat almost all of pork offal and when i see a camel
i just think of chewing tobbacco and spitting into
a copper tin... or camel-jockeys...
        or how i think arabs are cursed with oil
and dyslexia and diabetes... how most of them will
end blind or amputee due to their diabetes...
      how a lot of them would like something more
than turkish coffee and baklava, and how
it stops looking cool after a while...
           arab oil, dyslexia and diabetes...
which probably means a palestinian balaclava
at the end of the sequence...
   i'll never know: i'm not planning to have
a stop-over shopping spree in Dubai, any time soon.

where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe..


Amaya-bai* finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot

Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system

Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge

Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie

Aadita,  from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on

Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues

Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village

Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty




might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there







S T - 27 sept 2013 - *freitag

I call you forward to witness thee,
The nightmare, crimson reality,
Red soaked sheets,
A story of once an innocence, now is gone,
Torn away from my flesh,
I ask you this, where is my choice in all of this,
I have had snatched what is mine, robbed, I seek justice but there is no answer.

My cries, cries fall on silent ears,
Through the years, my cries are also now silen-ced,
I have become a story to myself,
When I now tell of my tragedy, I don't cry
Nor do I give that bitter, characteristic laugh,
I look hollow and stare hollow and feel hollow.

… People think that I’m shallow.
I am fine with that,
When has it ever been my choice?
I cry and scream and no- one helps, and passers-by snigger as they go.
...’’She got what she deserved, she had asked for it, what, dressed like that!’’
‘’She should thank her stars, that someone wants her anyway!’’

After all, ‘**** is a kind of... love.’

That’s part of the irony…

I don't feel that loved.      

- Felinely, Aisha.

As humans, we like to think we are humane,

What is humanity?
We like to think we’d be there for our friends; we’d be gentle on our foes,
We’d forgive and also maybe forget; we’d sacrifice and be moral.
When our morality is under question, we’d be loyal and we will live honest lives,
We won’t backstab or ***** about others; we’ll be upright in our opinions,
We’d be righteous and true and withhold composure within the most strenuous times.
We would work for the betterment of society and cosy with strangers,
In Hope that they will be friends.
We’d look for beauty in the world and we’d be happy though strive for more,
We’d live happy human lives and leave behind a legacy for others to aspire from.
We’d be all that we wish we could be, and more.

But how many of us are like that?

Not one. Not one human being.
We lie, we torture, we hate.
We’re not benevolent on our foes, we wish evil upon our friends,
Our morality is outward and forgiveness a rarity.
We plot, we ******, we hate.
We think these things are to be proud of,
We live of speaking evil; it is a need, a drug.
We break. We hurt. We hate.
We blame others for our mistakes; we never take the fall,
We take advantage of those who love us, we run after those who do it us.
We burn nature and wonder why it balances out with human sacrifice,
We live human lives, but wish to outlive our counterparts, looking constantly,
For immortality.
Our legacy is of lies and façade. We are the supreme race and we proudly
Hate, hurt, ****.
    Doesn’t matter, its human nature, we think, we feel it, we just don’t say it.

Felinely-   Aisha.

Dost thou still want it?
This that beats for you?
This that stutters only for you, in every sense of the word?
But what are words?
I've yet to see prose that taught me rhythm,
Just as I've yet to see love that taught me to love.
By God, I hate the lies that come with love -
I hate the joy that comes with love, when t'has left me -
But then how can I love love?
That Cupid's wings are clipped I swear to know;
Then how to take a poisoned shot from below
Without flinching?
Aye, that glorified hunter,
He is not a lover's friend
And it is not he that crafted this;
It is not he who fights for this;
It is not he who chooses if his wound
Is cauterized by your touch
Or is fatal.
Such an unsteady ***** is the heart,
Always frantic;
Always too quick or else too stagnant
But 'tis our driving force that pulls us back
In more ways than one.
Mine is yours if yours is mine
And he cannot claim the key -
Not if you give it to him to hold.
Because the key is not just in the necklace
You wear to sleep and wear to run,
And wear when seams are left undone;
It is your own that holds the shape to cause the click,
And perhaps, if we lay close enough, you'll hear'th it.

By dumb luck our toes have kicked the dust from remnants, mysteries of the Ancients.
Sandblasting time has reduced their instructions for miracles down to perplexing sketches,
Littering a roofless sun-baked labyrinth of echoes.

Science in Genesis?  To be brief, just one example:   Turn the pages to
God broke off Adam's rib and created Eve.
Crowded centuries' have defected over this one in utter disbelief, perhaps you as well.

But analyzing the ancient Hebrew hieroglyph, by letter, by word, by connotation:
within a circumferential envelope, an exterior covering, protecting, shelter
to break off one of the involutions of him
the fixed form, configuration, exterior appearance, animal substance
in repetition, or doubled    (thus a spiraling winding)
into the action of shaping, and the other the object of this action.

Did Moses learn about cellular DNA from his Egyptian royalty pharaoh-teachers?
or was this observation divinely bestowed, a vision in the burning bush?
To describe God's breaking and altering part of Adam's spiral blueprint,
Moses tried to steal electric fire for his goat-herding brethren.
Either way, translators scratched their collective heads and wrote "Rib."

Then, so that humanity would not be alone, God created "Eve"
(But btw, her word actually writes out as Aisha )
Which does not translate to universal woman, Moses repeats that several times.
It translates to a companion, auxillary force, the intellectual woman of universal man,  
The Power and the Act in Will.
Now unique among animals to imagine complexities and bring them about.

With this Creative Volition, Adam becomes a shadow of and a companion for God the Creator.
Moses gave this creative ability a feminine aspect, paired with logic's masculine.
(Not only did he describe our very cells, he understood our minds' anima and animus.)

Does this restore faith, or shake it?  
Sweet on the tongue, but how to digest it all?
And what about the snake?
A serpentine looking hieroglyph, one meaning among many is leaving God's Will.
And if one does, life become difficult, hard labor.

So how do translators pack so many meanings which they don't even fully comprehend,
into a smaller language?   pick one, maybe two meanings:
adapt pictorial and symbolical highlights into an Allegory,
populated with Ribs, Apples, and Snakes...discarding the literal.
The organic sphere of activity = a garden
sentient and temporal  =  basic sensual desire
anteriority of time  = morning      
matter in travail  =  a tree.
Feminine Creativity paired with Masculine Logic  =  "she" is a helpmate.

History will have to apologize,
The new patriarchs couldn't accept Woman with such an equal trait,
Interpreting Allegory literally for use in a power struggle,
Blaming "Her" for their own ignorance,
Bestowing only on her the wayward's punishment of difficult labor. (childbirth).
and having already edited out Yahweh's wife.....
(oh, gratefully a different poem.)

I've barely explained   four   words,   but what do I know, this amateur philosopher?  
Fabre D'Olivet said it best:
"language, the ineffable language.
Those whose dull glance, falling upon these pictures, these symbols, these holy allegories,
saw nothing beyond,
were sunk, it is true, in ignorance;
but their ignorance was voluntary.
From the moment that they wished to leave it, they had only to speak."

Life is about taking breaths
But the most important times
Are when it is taken away
And all that haunts a displaced child
Is when their breath was lost then found again
From the moment a 3 minute warning is given
Where does one evacuate to
When already in a shelter
As bombs blast
And shots echoe in the near distance
When the ground shakes in pain
There is no time to think
No time to act as shrapnel came flying
To pierce their skin
And homes collapsed
Walls caved in
Only to harden their resolve
All out of tears
They no longer fall
When they get used to the pain
They recite the martyred like a grocery list
Mum
Dad
Brothers
Sisters
Aunties
Cousins
Uncles 
Friends
But­ the souls of lost ones are trapped in little hearts
Caged in past dreams
Where Fatima still comes to play with Aisha in the courtyard
Even with her head twisted off by the guards
Tariq and Abdul play marbles with charred fingers
Maha clings onto yesterdays that can never be the same
Where her father's farm was ripe 
And days were spent out in the field
A child sees a child does
So they accept they were born to die
And pick up a stone to fight
At least they must try to protect themselves
Even animals reserve that right
It's instinct
Basic defensive nature and survival needs
Yet the world condemns them
Serpents that bare snakes
They are terrorists in the making
As curses cry out from anger and hatred
A crime to be born in the middle east
The gates and borders of surrounding countries
Closed for their emergency
Where the only place to go is through the doors of heaven
Which are wide open
And in this case is it cruel of me to say
Maybe it is a better option
Than to live and die a thousand times over 
Mentally disturbed 
Overwhelmed with distrust
All that will be left are robots
That have nothing to lose
Time that should be spent in school
Is a time that will never come back
And everyday is a chance lost
Scars that will never be overcome
Eyes that have seen too much
These angels don't belong here

how many decimal points would it take to create
                                                                ­a 2 = 2 scenario?
maybe the cultured swine in me asks such
questions, or perhaps i don't have
enough practical, matrimonial and
heterosexual worries in my life to ask
such a question in the first place?
would it take 2 = 2.00000000000000002?
how many denials
             then?
       maybe i'm asking a question like this
to start trending a nuanced vogue
amidst
            the most discriminated form of
humanity, namely white heterosexual men?
hmm... perhaps.
      last night i watched a movie adaptation
of a video game: can i just say that
Mario Bros. worked, but
the intricacy of game becoming movie can
only work when you get sore thumbs...
can these people: who play or design such games
ever write a novel? nearing two hours into
the movie and i was chanting with a variety
of onomatopoeias a zombie apocalypse
best summarised by the words: agony drool...
well d'uh.. e ragrammaton is a sneaky ******,
pops up everywhere in language,
      while looking for the post-Heraclitean logos
within the framework of phonos
  i came across the surd dynamic of four:
well, three, the H-twins and the trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, leaving Y as the tangen
and a focal point of convergence...
    and Jesus paid no respect the name -
i could tattoo pharisee on my *** and burp
    through it... there, four prime surds...
in Sanskrit: dhaal... you sort of jump over the h
and add a macron: dāl... but let's face it:
the aesthetic is sorta missing, what you hear
and what you see are cued combatants...
              why am i writing this? i just received
Monday's newspaper... could i be less
reactionary about the world inviting itself into
my pleb-bound world? can someone please
usher these gnats from my halo?
no... well... hence the reaction.
          and so much more vitality comes from
self-loathing than from self-love...
   life is more colourful, and so much less
lies-fudge-packed-between-the-sardines-to-an-ideology...
     catch you on a Friday night when it's not
so pristine? sure thing babe... sure thing my
tweaser plucked runny-mascara piglet...
we'll be snorkelling in mud by then.
could anyone think of a reason of mixing mayonnaise
with horseradish?
          but seriously... when did people forget
the concept of polyphony that Bach (ich?
see, the phonos already retracts the polygamy
shared by the same spelling) - say chequers and
cheese in german... chaka demus & pliers
and venting out a tension in the Caribbean quarter
of London, postscript August:
and it always rains... rains daggers and lip-kissing
anger of: ******, not enough scotch-**** chillies.
      and that's saying enough before Shaggy Dry Fuss
came on the scene with: wozzin' me.
   the real whizz kid right there... question is:
alter Paris? Jim Morrison's grave is taller than the Eiffel,
well, all the bums go there and steal the naive
    groupies leaving bottles of wine and joints at
the grave... but yeah... they called it cut-up post-Tzara
with Burroughs,     a zillion things that crept up on me
while i wasn't thinking about Juliet...
                and the reality of a shopping spree,
and all the cliches imaginable...
        perhaps truths too...
                    but even the writing said it was originally
theirs... Bach was already prescribing polyphony...
        let's say multilayered convo....
                       let's say: vogue of millennials'
distractive tendency... and that's so so so much clearer
than what poetry can become:
       a deaf man's tapping to a jazzy / hip-hop beat...
   a tenacious d's   one note song: ******* too,
rhyme... grr...         why do people write poetry as
if they're talking to Muhammad's Aisha prior to
skinning the grape?
                    why don't they talk to poetry as they might
talk to a *******?
                     who are "they" (yes, not paranoid, just
an obscurity with no vectors or index pointy pointy
*******
           the oyster)
                              which brings me to the controversy...
do you think rapists are masochists? or sado-masochists?
there was me on a date, i brought the movie and she
brought the bed and dinner...
                     see, i ask because something odd happened...
first of all was the Victorian practice of *******
under the bed-sheets rather than on top and all bulges
in full view like serpentine lizards (fat? i tend to
see it as seafood)...   yeah... but in the brothel
she would fake arousal for my eyes to see and slobber
her oyster in butter... or l'oreal cream...
   fair enough... but i'm wondering: this one time
she felt so so guilty after getting a genuine ****** on
the job... obviously that's hard... but on this one
authentic anglo-saxon date i got ****** by a dry ****...
       so either rapists are self-endorsing masochists
and all the women they **** have dry ***** due
to fear... or... yeah, that glistening or...
             is this a prescription piece? no, i'm just curious
why prostitutes smother their foreskins with
beauty cream so it doesn't hurt, and this one
pristine puritan babe was all Saharan pouch deepfryer...
                which is why i'm wondering...
   if a ******* can cream-up, and a good upstanding
girl with a decent job in a grammar school with
free accommodation on site can't....
                       you might as well shove your prometheus
        into a tube consisting of sandpaper.
                                         some also call it
    scratching your 5 o'clock shadow.

My contri people
I tire for this mata
Person run go there na wahala
Person waka come here
I beg wen I see
Serious kasala

My contri people
Story full ground
Na so Aisha for detim side
Dem no fit go school
Dem no even fit sleep well
Unto say these people
Dem call BH
Fit just scatter ground

My contri people
We young soji people
We bin reason am say
If we hustle go school
Lock up for morning and afternoon
Softly arrange Ewa Agoyin for night
We believe say our Suru go lere


My contri people
Person turn ogbologbo for school
Sake of say na wetin
Sake of say na so so strike, haba
My contri people
Dis no be story for us o
Na story for the gods

E no get any work for any where
How person wan do Bad guys
Pepper no rest

Day before yesterday
Yomi just come lament
Unto say him chikala done follow one Chidi
Way come from America
International
Yomi say Shade say
'' I am not getting younger
   My biological time is ticking
   You are 37 still leaving with your parents
    I hope you understand''

My guy breakdown
Come to think of the mata
Shade get truth for her talk
She done tire, she done try , she done wait
If na your sista nko, omo na to port na
She got to move on mehnn
I no blame her

Now dem say na election
******* mehnn
As you see me so, I no send
Dem say DEMOCRACY
Demo wat
I say demo fire

My contri people
I NO VOTE
I VOTE O, I NO VOTE O
Who go win go still win
We cry o, die o, shout o
Dem go just look us like lucozade

My country people
people dey bailout
Go yonder
I send dem now
Because that na the way forward
Ds mata no be today
Story full ground
My countri people



Written By; Esther Esuga

.i've written so much, i don't even remember when i begin posting repetitions, i sometimes spot myself "plagiarißing" myself, sure, a commonality feature to writing, the labyrinth effect, a "déjà vu"... ****, i've said this before, which is the key feature of: enjoying the silence... but, like "yesterday", i write on the basis of a graveyard shift, as w. h. auden would have said: little ****** is at it again (i.e. writing during the night)... no, no little ****** here, i just like the idea of writing while people around me are sleeping, i can become this Loki-esque drunkard snark dream-crawler... which brings me to the following observation... a liter of whiskey, that typically takes a few good hours to get through... and, in the end, the sun is up, it's 7am... so like "yesterday" i.e. today... i unfolded the sunday times, and put it on my head, to hide from the sun, kept drinking, and cursing the sun, now and again pointing the ******* at it... cursing: do i look like a ******* camel jockey to you, eh?! i'm not a camel jockey... i once suffered a heat-stroke, watering plants in a volunteering stint in a garden for the blind... no, literally... a garden customißed for blind people... with herbs, heavily scented flowers, notably pine trees... and my favorite... stachys byzantina... lamb's ears... so that blind people could feel it... but yeah... why am i not surprised that muslims glorify the moon? while the christians borrow from the north european pagan celebration of the sun? i became a quasi-muslim only "yesterday", i said a big ******* to the sun, summer is coming, and if it's going to be the sort of summer akin to last year, with me waking up on the floor, on a colder surface to a bed, moaning and groaning from the heat... oh yeah... climate change is not real, like all form of causality just went out of the window... there's no cause (burning ****) and there's no effect... always, all the time, like jean-paul sartre said, his major premise in being & nothingness was the pillar of negation, which spawned the pillar of bad faith. *******.


what's the difference between
a thief, and a magician?
probably
a c.c.t.v. camera footage...
and a... theater stage...
nothing more...
but of course...
      the latter is an example
of... authenticity...
proper... taxation...
a paradox of championed
individualism by western
academics...
   come to think of it...
both are quick...
then... i must have been
the most slothful thief
in the history of ali baba:
the way that i stole
that queens of the stone
age songs for the deaf
album, from a w. h. smith...
____

summer is coming,
that abhorrent season,
the season of mass ******
and a spike in the sales
of ice-cream...

the season where i begin
to pity the cosmipolitan youth,
basking in the cancer riddled
sideways march of the sun...
with the heat doubled
due to all the concrete and marble...

the season of scythes
and tombstones
for the old and the asthmatic prone...
the season where i frown upon
the sun,
even at 9 thirty am,
and drink,
    and am rudely woken by
the heat...
  
  that time of year
where i think about looking
for old europe
in the vicinity of the faroe islands
or, iceland,
or greenland, even,

because i'm not some *******
camel-jockey type of
******* teen
importing cars, and self,
to london,
to race in a 30mph speed limit
just off of knightsbridge...

diesel heads of arabia...
    i'm siding with penguin kowalski...
i'm no camel jockey or
a ******* either...
      copper skinned mash-up
of Babel...
with a hard-on inferiority
complex in tune with
burj khalifa...

      yes... because who is... khalifa?
no, who's Khadija?
   the woman,
who... most likely...
wrote all the first sutras of
the quran...
after all... we are talking
about a prophet akin to
   charlamagne... someone who was:
illiterate...
sure sure...
        islam is the religion
of peace: when Khadija was writing
the script...
    but when she died...
and some ****** of a caliph took over...
then: as much peace
as... whatever equates to the funny
antonym comparison...

what was that book:
in praise of older women?
    stephen vizinczey:
ah... that story of muhammad no one focuses
on... i could focus on Aisha...
n'ah... i'm more interested in
Khadija... the older woman,
the first female arab entrepreneur,
businesswoman...

the woman who was both literate
and had mathematic acumen...
who took pity on the orphaned muhammad...
i want to speak to her...
she's my holy grail of conversation,
i can pretend to venerate the "******" mary...
but what i really want,
i want a word with Khadija...
KA DI YAH...

what's that islamic maxim?
fear the man who only possesses
one book...
   eh... you can also fear the man
who wants the afterlife to be composed
of a dialogue between himself
and only one other person,
beside his ancestors, beside a reunion,
paradise or valhalla...

are we done, "here"?
          i still have about 20cl of whiskey
left, and i rather much squirm
an evil eye at the sun,
regurgitating the fantasy
of finding 19th century european
climate in greenland,
if you don't mind.

not to mention the notes,
    who the hell enthrones a sadist
on what's a hyperventilating compass
......... and .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .               and .     .     .
                                        .     .     .
                                        .     .     . -
what's called conceptualisation, or
   the timessu doku* no. 8860, dubbed:
finding the first 5...
     fractions 9 / 9  and then 81...
it's an eye-sore, maybe it should be encapsulated
by .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
    but i left it it at
.  .  .  .  .  6  7  .  .
.  7  .  8  .  9  4  3  6
.  .  6  .  3  .  8  .  .
1  .  .  .  9  .  5  6  7
6  5  9  4  7  1  2  8  3               rectangles and squares problem
3  2  7  6  5  8  1  9  4                 (imitating a drunk
7  .  3  .  6  .  9  4  .                   watching the television with only
4  6  .  9  8  .  x  .  2                  one eye open to stop the carousel;
.  9  2  .  4  .  6  7  .                              ­  i.e. dajjal watching dajjal)

   that x in there? that's important, i think i can't
solve no. 8860 (i.e. finding the first 5)
because of it...
    and it's on paper, rather than on a digital
format, and that's hard to correct / revise /
solve...
                not to mention the ***** working its
purpose...  
                but such is the joy of being able to do something
that doesn't require crosswords...
  can't do them to save my life...
             i knew a guy once that could
do samurai su doku...
            i have to be content with this tier...
getting an eye-check...
          it's the spacing and 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
   arranged into a

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9      2      3      8      7      4     3      5     1       (e.g.)

so working from that, it's just as much as
knowing for to spell... it's optically infuririating
to have to compensate on something, somewhere...
some people just see clear spacing
and can do these puzzles quickly...
   it feels hard to attack humanism with science,
the whole thing is hard to figure out,
let alone no. 8860 (finding the 1st 5)...

unless you can compensate listening to the offspring's
debut album, no hero and black magic...
  but it really is a problem of spacing...

     i used the punctuation mark of a dot to emphasise
the digital canvas / pixel accuracy dynamic...
    
               how do you start to conjure these puzzles
into completion? should i put a ruler to the computer screen?
      but that x in the "spelling" of no. 8860
         undid me... just lost the heart to complete...
took me too long to insert anything after that...
and i didn't have a second copy, there was
only one 29th of feb. 2017 coming my way...
  
the best i could do is to write a poem counter
to what the theory states... i.e. not all poems
are written for a need of abandon... most of the time
it's a crossword, or as this case proves: a su doku.

           if poems are ever abandoned, it's to stress a concern
for tomorrow,
                     i really can't imagine myself passing
off a clean paragraph that composes a book,
that a book is composed of,
               i can't really imagine a better form
of punctuation than poetry,
           poetry to me is symbiotic with punctuation,
as in: you might just get to write another
poem / colon the next day...

              or like now... i hate that all these columns
of culture are pristine... then you get to read
the biographic sketch that gave such and such a book
to arise on in no man's land...
   like the koran and aisha...

         ******, i partied when there was no party,
i was found singing on a windowsill when no one else
was singing but a sparrow in the night,
the most beautiful thing i ever managed to see
was an insomniac crow, flying while the skies of
england were overcast... a kestrel on my fence,
a robin with a full orange bust fidgeting queer...
and yes, those parkinson sparrows...
   i looked at more birds than might allow me a stipend
to reach the age of 50... and have a saturday newspaper
magazine column actually giving a ****...

   i do not that ignition wasn't the debute album,
but given the sales, it was treated as such...

             i like the fact that poetry entertains sloppy...
   *****, raw, ***...
                    i could never rewrite or revise or edit
this *******, i'd loße my nerve...
                                     i *******... squiggly lines
and random patterns to antithesis phenomenons
that keep repeating themselves...
             i can't believe that writers spend 3 years
on a book, to then give it to critical hyenas...
this carcasss is heading straight down route s. beckett's
watt and j. joyce's finnegans wake,
and ezra pound's cantos...
             this bit of me is not heading for
a bestseller status... is down route per se...
                   because that's what i care, about...
that i am imitating darwinism's natural selection...
well... let's call it a ponce's selection
  and more snobs than screaming beatlemania fans;
or what the concept of persisting royalty does
to you...
            you half **** a refined talk of a    p h via t h
into thy, thigh         or veering into     thesp
                       ian,               or the said much more quickly:
finicky ***** of phonetic arithmetic.

this day made no sense apart from
   being polite to a surgery
receptionist  and downing a bottle of whiskey...
  birds? spring? colours? can i just go back
to england imitating alaska? the more i age the more
i realised: **** day! bring on night!
   and it's not like some horror movie scenario...
i'm not even conjuring vampire
to sell them to you...
   i just think my eyes are sort of: too distracted
                   by the light?
a bit like: am i serious about
buying this vacuum cleaner?
should i be serious about
buying this vacuum cleaner?
   i'd love to live in a matriarchal society,
turn all cannibal and ****,
go shrimp! go!
          swing *******! bite the railings
while you're at it!
            let's see if a gypsy tooth plops out
of your jaw, so we can cast a magic spell
turning the lead into gold!
the ****?!
             oh **** me, i'd love to live in a matriarchy...
it would mean that i wouldn't have to be a man
and have this social construct of
pampering to women... i'd be a lion
with a harem of females hunting...
             need a fridge? go **** yourself...
need a toilet? go **** yourself...
           need a blender? go **** yourself:
chew on a terminte mound...
                to be honest i have a fetish for the chance
to live in a matriarchy... it's almost like what islam
concerns itself with theocracy...
      i'd love to live in this wendol society...
    look how much less you need in a matriarchy!
i'm watching it going: giva'h more giva'h more!
            tazmanian bush-wacker aussie...
   god... i'd love to experience a matriarchy more than
i'd care to support a theocracy...
that's like patriarchy: or what's called
                                              second generation...
islam has nothing on me, i want to
experience a matriarchy... the amazonian
    queens 30ft women doing the new zealand
rugby team's haka!
   oh please let them have it! let them have
women football teams... i'll really want to ****
them afterwards!
                              what is man is what
allows man to internilise his emotions up to
the point that he's playing poker...
               what allows women to be women is
volcanic outbursts of unsolicited emotion...
                 funny how the genitals play a part in
the whole affair... or don't... whatever...
i woke up early today and thought to myself:
****! not enough whiskey!
        theocracy is just second / third generation
patriarchy...
                      there's nothing else to it...
imagine islam as it was originally...
     a matriarchy under the guidance of mohammad's
first wife... who was much older than
him and wrote the first koranic verses...
Khadijah...
                      mohammad is a ***** compared
to Khadijah, the matriarch;
mohammad is just a ***** teenager compared
to her...
               well... her stock did come from the myth
of the origin of the Arab race... namely from
Abraham's concubine...
                    hence the weaving of the walking
h
          arem...
                   oh forget it! the west does something
similar to a niqab... when was the last time you
spotted a beauty that fills the pages of a style
magazine on the street?
                             last time i spotted one?
i wanted to **** a donkey.
                               the end.
        the niqab is like a mobility scooter for women
who won't be stolen in the light of day
by some rich patron who suddenly forgot his
fetish for ******* choir boys...
                   let's level it out!
                     she was the literate cougar that wrote
the better pieces of the koran...
          after she died... the koran started shrinking...
i actually think that
  the last surah was written by Aisha...
                         so who wrote it, if not women?
this is a classical example of a matriarchy -
muhammad was just a useful idiot...
                well apparently he was illiterate, he couldn't
read and he couldn't write...
  like that joke about the police in england:
one can read, but can't write, the other can't read,
but can write...
                                     we have plenty of useful
idiots around here, what does the left mean in
western society when there is no economic policy
to support it? i come from the east,
                     what does the left mean in western
lands mean these days?
               well... if theocracy is only a second / third
generation patriarchy
then second / third generation matriarchy clings
to theosophy... a sort of oops-e-daisy: just one step
away from turning the whole thing into an aleister crowley
inspired movement... and where does that lead?
pi zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ah!

Musa stands for banana
But his name sake was Furhana
His headwear folded like samosa
Not to be confused with mimosa
Yet the fold was like Koya's head towel
Even the fantastic Ayamu's downwell.
That said: Koya heckled with his sickle knife
Never failed in the field to sit and file
The blade to trim out the hedge's tendrils rife
Closed one eye to see the fence's profile
The cutting-hedge technology of fence
Continued without denouncing offense
Rarely reaching any end, the dense
Fence talk gains again as every day commence.

Beauty creation was his faint inclination
At the entrance of the tea plantation
Stationed near to the police station
Part of his task unasked in the division
Was standing and talking to the man on the bike
Talks like, the strike, the Labour wages hike,
How to dodge a strife for a fair bounty
With words coated with 'chondy-chandy sugar candy.
For its said, he can wear any colour, I-uhml-green or P-yellows
To send jaundice or dainties to the Poor-fellows.
The talk prolong as the baron mellows
Till the madam's call comes from the bungalows.

Back to Musa, sorry for the interruption, he was left behind the lines...
For names of Mayan, Maanu and Jaanu make a beeline
Like Beebi and Kaybee,  maybe the guy too, sounding Shanghai,
All are bonanza, for a due stanza.

Musa chirped with chops of English
And fizzed out the name of fish and dish
Proud that he worked even with some British.
Once he mumbled the name mom and mummy
To call out his humble wife to introduce
The visiting chummy colleagues, over there.
Her numb eyes goggled out of a slimy shawl to reduce
Her head to a crummy Kameez that beleaguered  on her.
Not knowing what his trendy husband is telling,
And why he is calling her before them, Asia instead of Aisha!
His friends knew her trouble and told her its alright
And that made her feel she is the same Ayichumma on her own right.

Once Musa stumbled on the name 'chips' at a shop in the city;
Ordered the same along with other civil society
While seeing it packed, he grumbled for his stupidity
And burst out, "O, just the Koya fried banana, that's aplenty in our vicinity".
The shopkeeper gave a laugh,
And there, Musa left in a huff!

Hi it's me again it's been a while since we've since we spoken. But I just wanted to ask you why do I feel so broken.
I've shattered into pieces,yet no-one sees me crying out for their help. You see me. Do you? You can fix me. Can you? If not...it's ok. I will be ok....atleast I hope so.
I'm okay,
              Aisha

calm down: calm down... put on some Faun on...
yes, some neo-paganism ought to sooth me...
ahh... Wind & Geige...
     a great calming music...

no... did what happen last night actually happen?
let me check my account...
****... it did...

        my hands are still sort of shaky...
i woke up and there was still half a bottle of whiskey
left... that's the first time i got a headache
while drinking...

that's the first time i got a headache while drinking
whiskey...

and all i hear is that we live in a patriarchal unfair
society blah blah...
                well... all i see a society guided
by meritocracy... honestly... oh... and that guys
are weird... creepy... perverted...
sure... even i was sent a phallus photograph by
some Arab guy...
and i was like: dude... i'm a dude!
             not homophobic of anything...
    i must have kissed at least two guys in my life...
one... very memorable...
2005... Hogmanay... Prince's Street party...
Tristan's friend from Bristol...
     one handsome *******....
a proper decent snog...
    but i forgot his name but not his face...
                                another time i let this guy
put his tongue in my mouth...
another time my cousin took me to a gay
bar and i started snogging like mad...
this Brazilian treat...
                                 but a ****-pick? seriously?
i did add: show me it limp...
                         that's the "bros'" secret...
they take a picture of their "tackle" right after
having ****** off... and as it's limping...
    it looks double the initial size... anyway...
a guy seeing a ****-pick is nothing...

                    insert gulping sound and shaking hands...
yeah... men all are in creepy... the dogs...
yeah... it's not like i'm a ******...
obviously... it's not like i haven't had a *******...
it's not like i haven't paid for ***...
obviously... but i didn't pay for an expensive
date... i'm a *****-cheap-***...
                               well no... courtship on the quick...
no *******-around just wholesome *******...
the 1960s generation had their frisk and frivolity?
sure thing... i'm going to have mine to...
             oh come: share the love... share the love...

****** liberation 2.0
                                          oh and the much bigger O...
that's 2 prostitutes i managed to bring to the altar
of the big O...
    second time? unexpected... slobbering on the oyster
and using Herr Index and Herr Mitte...
   and i've had a ****** oyster too...
let me tell you: the one that has had plenty of
other... ahem... cucumbers... always taste better...
mind you... prostitutes these days are ultra-hygienic...
they're sort of compulsive about it...
then again: so am i...

    but this July heat wave is killing me...
        i want to get some but i can't: and i don't care
what the stereotype is in the animal kingdom:
hot weather puts me off... my libido goes into hibernation...
i need the cold... winter! come! come!
mein gott... when my parents die i'm selling
the house and ******* off to Greenland or the Faroe Islands...

who else will i live for in England?
no one... might as well have no one to live for
in a climate that better suits me...
Norway is too civilised...
                            i need to go somewhere basic:
with a bad internet connection and plenty of herring...

- now i'm going to have a little joke concerning
anyone abusing the post-traumatic stress disorder,
i've heard it countless times...
sure... like this one girl who i had to fulfill
the role of the Advocate personality type:
"personality types"... for me that's a pet-peeve...
i treat all this psychological-quacking
a bit like astrology: for me it's a hyper-zodiac
model: people trying to mystify themselves
without actually internalising themselves:
absolutely no introspection... laziness...
    they just follow what other people thought of:
as long as it's a schematic A + B = C sort of *******...

anyway... yeah... men are dogs... barbaric creatures
that need to be steralised... or something...
ah... pleasure...
                set... simple... gasp...
i'm no German... but i can see an example where
an ß could be introduced into English...
pleaßure... that's a pristine example of an es-zett...
the S morphs into a Z...
    it's "invisible" unlike in seizure... no... wait...
unlike in steralised steralized...
html! which is... ah...

          sterilized...  LISARD ZALAD...
                                        then again... i have Caucasian
origins... and the Cow-Cass
    is somewhere between Europe and what's the big-buttocks
of Asia's landmass...
no wonder i'm more inclined to Turkic women...
Turkic... a certain Ms. Patel...
                  i'm always drawn to something nomadic...
perhaps because i'm also somehow nomadic...

and all the *** in the most shady of places...
didn't prepare me for this...
that's the first time i got a headache when drinking...
yeah... only the men are freaky... creepy...
just take your average Muslim or Hindu girl...
expose her to western culture and... they too lose
their minds...
so i'm chatting: blah blah this... blah blah that...

she send me a picture of herself clothed...
fair enough... nice sari... nice carpets...
not a selfie... another girl took a picture of her...
and then the ******* N-BOMB...
eh?! that's how the headache started...

N-BOMB? ****! ****... these anti-racists and their
deifying of racial slur words...
there are more important words that ought
to not be uttered... me? i have...
the Name... i.e. Ha-Shem...
                                i can't say The Name:
hence? i say the name...
                          which is Ha-Shem... i'm sort of weird
like that...
   and no... i will never submit to circumcision...
enough is enough... double standards:
calling it FGM while not calling it MGM... come on...
these guys don't know the pleasure
of ******* with a *******!

it has become so bad that even the less experienced
prostitutes don't know what to do with it...
the more experienced ones know that you "half-peel" it...
yeah... it works like a jaw... it's "mandible":
you can work around it...
no... the "head" will not become starved...
the more you do it... the more flexible it becomes...
stretchy... pull-e...
            plus i need it to *******.... esp.
when i'm constipated and sitting on the throne of thrones:
i figured that it eases any tension in the ****
when constipation knocks on my door...

i didn't invest all that time and effort to complete
my William Burroughs' oeuvre for no ****** reason:
i love ****-****** literature...
but that's old school homosexuality...
the covert... subversive sexuality...
the adventurous: the torturous sexuality...
the whole aspect of the deviant taboo...
the best sort of literature...
now? with all the "pride"... eh... stalemate...
stale-bread... boring: yawn... new kinks don't really
cover the original allure...
"pride": yeah yeah... just get in line... get on with it...
YAwn...
  
                       it's a return to basics... paying for ***...
that's the rekindled new-old taboo...
i don't see the point of paying for a date...
well... the very first date i ever paid for
made sense... college-sweethearts sort of memorandum...
but i made a date into a day...
first we went and walked around an Edward Hopper
exhibition at that Tate Modern...
then... we went to the cinema to see the movie
Troy... then we drank sake and ate sushi...
we were just friends prior...
i was 6ft2 she was 6ft... so i was the only good
suitor at the school... she just came from Australia...
she complained about her father exploiting
her as a child being a performer for some
green-globalist agenda... since then
she has had 5 glorious girls... and i...
planted about 8 trees in my garden...

i'm suspicious though: of two women "in my life":
her... she married a guy 20 years older than her...
hmm...
and the neighbour across my street...
the noise is still a deafness to me... the noise
of renovation... surely she didn't move
two doors down from me: from across the street
to be close to her mother... then again:
hands in the air... flapping like a seagull
pretending to takeoff: but rather, more, agitated...
mein gott...
i caught myself being a ******...
hung-over... peeping Tom from behind the blinds...
watching her clean the patio with a jet-stream
of water...
a... "mediocre" beauty... no...
a wholesome beauty... oats... pears...
autumn... not a beauty based on a number scale...
an associative-dissociative attraction scale...

i.e. it's a moon one minute... it's a sun the next...
a river-esque sort of beauty...
the initial attraction was there...
i think i was watching the Silence of the Lambs
trying to nod off and get some sleep...
BAM!
   the mother walks into the bedroom naked...
she did that a few times after...
BAM! the older sister walks in naked...
BAM... she walks in naked...
   **** me... and at her tender age back then...
what must she bee? 14?! well... it has been years
since... she's put on more weight but
at the black guys says: more cushion for the pushin'...

i agree... i "abhor" athletic women...
more cushion... i think i have a fat face...
i can't stop thinking that i have a fat face...
and? if i think that i have a fat face?
i need some more: "bubble"... blubber...

hmm... the truest love i have ever found is always bound
to not understanding women...
the truest love i have ever found has always been
bound to forgiving women...
that's the simplest sort of love there is...
whether in the right or whether in the wrong:
a woman can only be loved if she's
to be: a priori: forgiven... rather than a priori:
understand...

like that common proverb states:
you can't live with them,
but you also can't live without them...

some medical soap opera and i'm sitting watching it...
cringing...
i could think of myself as a vetenarian...
****... vetinarian...
                       VEH-TEH-RI-NAH-RIAN...
           veterinarian... ugh... H-surd sometimes helps
when writing in English...
and i could imagine myself as a butcher...
aha... problem being...
i wouldn't mind saving the life... or rather not saving
a life of something i could also eat...

career path... surgeon?! i'd have cannibalistic
fetishes... and i don't want them...
          it's just not my "thing"...

SNAP!

so it's ****** harassment when a guy does it to a girl...
but when a girl does it to a guy?
i'm supposed to be this: READY-ON-THE-GO...
libido insomnia
SWITCH-ON SWITCH-OFF
   ******* ***-toy robot: no mood... no emotions?!
**** it up Bucko...
             that's the new ******* normal?
a girl... from an obviously ultra-conservative
culture sends me a picture of herself showering:
OBVIOUSLY she's ******* naked...
and i'm like what? Jihadi Aisha sends her thanks...
i don't even think not jerking off will help...
i tried it... it does: **** all...

oh sure... first she send me a picture of her fully dressed...
pretty as a picture... then?
head-chopped off... **** the size of elephant's ears...
i'm telling you: the deity of the Wendols...
the death eaters from the 13th warrior...
my shadow is stirring...
             i feel my face becoming detached...
from the concept of both face and head
and therefore skeleton...
                   my face is becoming a representation
of the concept of what's hidden within
an exoskeleton of an insect: it's becoming
a mush or mirror, smoke, squidge... squid...
i don't know what else...
   i'm not even reacting like an autistic person...
i'm reacting like any normal person should:
you're not supposed to be complimented
by a girl sending you a photo of herself in the shower...
****'s sake...
even the ******* that became fond of me
went as far as sending me a photograph of herself
in her bra and underwear...
but you know what she also did?
she covered her belly-button with a kiss emoticon...

**** me... we're living in times when
prostitutes replaced the priests!
concerning?! ****** aesthetics! aesthetics!
people! the idea of "free" *** is an abomination!
i don't want any set-backs...
i'm not doing this for any set-backs...
to hell with all the sort of corrupt *******
most associated with the culture thus represented:
thus... unsustainable...

i always wondered: profiling: is it a tool to sell?
or is it a tool to explore?
poet or diarist? certainly not a novelist...
i abhor complete works...
novels are complete works...
      but they're certainly not adhering
to the principle of エンソー
                    
   and with エンソー i will revive my origin interest in
Taoism...

yes... but it's the power of consent...
i didn't ask her to send me a picture of her ****
torso...
now i'm thinking: i'm thinking:
i need to milk at least 20 imaginary cows
before i get the idea of pretending to be an
anti-infanct
******* off her ******* till they're numb
out of my head...
Hades! bring me 20 cows that need to be milked!

i'm being visually *****!
i know what **** feels like...
this South African chick...
  i think she spiked my drink...
we watched the Machinist... she... and i cooked
dinner... she was a teacher at a private prep school...
but i was *****...
this was our second encounter...
first time my "Jolly Roger" felt like drift-wood...
she uttered the words: you're not going to deny me...

well... **** me... seems like a Ricky G. joke
about to drop...
true... i wasn't in the mood the first time round...
second time round...
oh... **** me... cuckoon ***...
in absolute darkness... with the bed-sheets on...
i'm naked but i'm also suffocating...
she spiked my drink...
even in the brothel i don't get aroused by
these uncomfortable situations...
          o.k.... fair enough "Pistorius"... hop hop...
you ******* dry Dutch ****!

i ought to know when: ******* dry-**** "ballerina"...
i ought to know when a ******* oils herself
up and when she doesn't...
sure... #metoo... i also ****** girls
i wasn't really into...
but this one broke the norm!
she didn't send me the Mechanist DVD i brought
with me to the date back! *****!

all that Christian Bale effort to play this
tormented anorexic: why no Oscar?
a role definitely more informative than whatever
the **** the Joker: Whack-Lean Fix-Fin won his
Ocar for... whatever... from now on in
i'm going to call them: Woo-Scars...

dry-****? oh... right... i wasn't asking a question...
that's how you get ***** by a woman...
she's dry... she's bitter...
she's probably a teacher in a private all-boys school...
you haven't been circumcised:
lucky you...
at least you were laying slabs on one of the roofs
of the Battersea Dogs & Cats shelter...

one was yesterday...
another was tomorrow...
   **** happens... Newton "happened"...
i don't even think you can think as either being
or not being... or born or dead...
since... well... Newton happened...
and by happening: he's recurring...
    which implies: the utmost of the Tao doctrine
of "not doing"... eh... excesses of para-mortality.

you don't want to be sent a photograph
of a woman's naked torso:
so casually... while she's having a shower...
for my ******* ******* libido to function
it requires respite...
unless... i've been promised all the things
these modern Jihadi Johns...
what about the Ummah and the Chinese Muslims
currently in concentration camps?
sub-humans?! the Uyghurs?!
where's the war for them?!
            ******* *******...

                         no Arab fight for them?! just...
the same old same old boring attack:
post-colonial weaknesses to the fore...
                                       the Uyghurs! they're part
of the UMMAH!
                      i see the modern Arab world
and you know what i see? the Medieval Byzantine world.

I  met a damsel
She is a goddess
Her beauty is endearing
Her aura, infectious
If you know Veluptas
The goddess of sensual pleasures
Then you'll know Venus
The Roman goddess of love

She pulled her magic wand
None could ever resist her
For she passes as a diety
If this is the road to yonder place
Please help tell my people
My choice is made
Afterall, once shall all men die

In her enclave were beauties
Mortal frames in immortal entities
Aisha Quandisha played aide
The magnificent goddess of sexuality
While Aizen Myo-o watched
This goddess of love and lust smiled lustfully
She was a fine sadomasochist

Nothing else mattered
Fearful, nostalgic but ecstatic
I braced up for impact
Like an airplane about to crash
What a **** way to explore and expire
Testosterone became active

He is the god of passion
His name is Anteros
He stepped up to me
Gently he whispered to a mortal
In the land of the immortal
Here, you don't need  aphrodisiacs or tramadol
A good show lasts five minutes
Thirteen by extension, trust me he said

Confused and puzzled I inquired
Then why do the earthly Queen say "Harder, harder"
They never get satisfied
"Stop killing yourselves mortals"
If it exceeds thirteen, it is entertainment he said
Go, enjoy it while it lasts
Go worship in her altar!

As I approached with caution
Flanked by Cupid
The Roman god of ****** love
Suddenly, I resurrected
Back to the land of the living
It took an anopheles mosquito
To make me realise it was all but a dream
So, i was plagued by chronic malaria!

Even though the mosquito I killed
For denying me pleasures forever
I learnt a great lesson Except my will is updated
Never again will I use enhancers
In place of tiger nuts, dates and banana
Lest a WhatsApp status last longer than me

To be awarded a Ph.D
As a researcher per excellence
In the faculty of Gender and Sexuality
In the prestigious University of Life
I need to reach Venus
The goddess of love
We need to finish the empirical study
Via the instrumentality of direct knowledge

If you know the quickest route to Venus
Please "Hulla", "Odimkpa"
Who knows, maybe we can go together
I guarantee you maximum "Shishi"
What I can't guarantee is
If the story will be told by us
But history will be kind to us
For this is a plague destroying homes
The onus of truth lies with us...

They say love is blind, is it?
That which makes men reason with thine hearts
My eyes have beheld an angel, such intriguing beauty, so they say
What a warrant! For a simple closure of their brains
So to withhold their thick skulls from reasoning
Oh! How beckoning it is to reason with thine hearts?
Just to flow in the rhythm of love, oh yes! It reckons from within
The deep abyss of thine fairytale heart.
Oh Elizabeth, how I love you so…I’ll be right by you for all ages
Till the end, says the chapman
Oh Ruth shall I behold you in my *****, I in your embrace and you in mine,
We will be together, ill swim in the warmth of your kisses, says the perfect one
They see not the past days, nor those to come, all for love’s sake they live for the present
Surely love is like the wind, it can never be seen
But it always is felt,
A simple feeling fit to drive men from sanity.
Love is the wind, it has no real destination, it instead goeth in all direction
From the lumberjack, professor, unrued stud
It spreads its fiery blazes through my heart
Such flames only she can freeze.
Love is divine, none can explain its originality except,

I loved you from the moment I set my eyes on you, I knew you were the one
Be it that the origins of love are untraceable, love sure is the end for most men,
Oh Dina you’ll be the death of me, says the sullied one
Oh Aisha, my sweet Aisha none can much your beauty, you are my first and last, says the mouthpiece
Oh Sylvia I knew not what love meant, till I met you,
Come aboard my beloved, let us sail to the land of tomorrow,
On our voyage of love, says the short fat tucked one.
Mercy, you are my sweet delicate rose, your red wine-stained lips,
The petals of my sweet rose, I want to spend every second of my life with you
Till my last breathe, says the tall dark fellow.
Love is the wind, love is surely as blind as a bat and the most proficient end for most men.

1984...
funny year...

that's in the future, right,
the future where
i'm in no part to blame
for any active agency...

no... мы...
           no zamyatin...
modern day politics,
*******
        boney m and
ra- ra-
   rhapsody in b-putin
minor...

     mw'y...
вы - vw'y...
   Y, yes, that hollowed
out iota...
pasture of the sign
of the cross...
lost among
the W and the Ł...
            
but in the days when...
i am...
    born... innate...
with a distrust for politicians...
i am also
to entertain
an innate prejudice
against... journalists?!

please tell me...
at what moment
(if not already)
     i am to, not...
differentiate
the journalist from
the politician?

                at no point?
sorry, i'm a bit slow...
1984 happened
in 20- thereby or so
a year... with me being
two years shy of existence...

suits...
i see suits grieving
being allowed
their rhetorical
   wunderbar!
  sharpen than knife,
herr meißel...
              the ****** *****
epidemic of westen bərˈlin
(ja, ə no
        boar / bore leen)...

how much *******
           "hollowing out"
do you need,
to require an Y become an
I?
           i count to three...
you... cúnt to tow,
or two...
   as in:                  count...
ú is a: pool table
for the saying...
'arp as a cue,
but no queue in mind...
i.e.: ******* coont...
Maine... ****...
                       breed of cats...

complete with citations
of Orwell...
like...
      there is something
inherent in me,
whereby...
            i feel, most inclined...
to not wish to be here...
are you too feeling
some tickle
of the said sentiment?

- but i'm here,
and luck, is no charm,
as neither is...
giving citations borrowed
from Shakespeare...
nor will schizophrenic
paranoia play a part...
they're out to get me,
and i'm in no mood
to get anything,
apart from...
the thrill of the mob...
and a raw herring...
soaked in brine...
later dipped into some
sour cream and gherkin sauce...
eaten like...
that time when a *** ate
what he forgot was supposed
to be... a take on...
investigating the practice
of sushi... on the shoreline
of the Baltic sea...

and its... "people"...
       oh don't worry...
i can dehumanize myself,
just fine...
but such a curiosity cannot
simply go...
   sterile for so long...

   1984...
sorry... what year?
          its like:
people keep citing and citing
that one work of
effort,
to the point where:
stop citing it,
i'm living in...
what was supposed
to be the, "current" year...
        that wasn't supposed
to be: the year in tow...

        and that's not even
the year i was born into,
with the inflation
of a dead come to an end
soviet society pact
for the satellite states
with its: hyper-quasi-Zimbabwe
type of inflation
ergonomics...

      what the **** is this...
always look at the pauper
for any worth of a sentiment
for doubt?!
             juggernaut-kiss-***
*** beg-for-***...
   and then...
in a distance... an angelic choir...
less to assure you
a good-night's sleep
and more...
pseudo-amphetamine inducing
insomnia of...
left, shattered,
and riddled
(don't forget the riddled part)...
the sand baron of
theology stood his ground...
and chose...
his... corpus caedis...
    
now you expect a crescendo
of a juggling act...
suppose...
        i have any russian
in me...
   the ****-nick
of the solistice of me
throwing a dinner plate
in a row over domestic
functions of the atom, and family?

what then?
i pray to caesar:
vis, mors subita...
     only, (a) sudden death.

i cannot shed light
on the parlance
between the fake throng,
the partriarch
and his deadbed...
              as much...
as i'd like to shed light
on...
dying... in the hands
of Aisha (abi bakr)...

   i already known my
meine gedacht...
mein schatten...
meine freunde...
mein charon...
            ich sterben
mit die sohle
   trost,
          auf meine
sohle krank...
                              misch!    

bride, bed, willow...
and all the eerie
chimes...
of  the wind...
killing patience...
playing
an attempt at... flute!

This is Sri Lanka.
We have our hopes and our fears,
And our subtle bigoted tears,
We have our dreams and our screams,
And our avurudu with kokis themes,
We have our joys and our boys,
And our smooth gelled name-calling decoys,
We have our aesthetics, sympathetics, politics,
And our self-entitled acoustics,
We have our Bollywood, Hollywood, Kollywood,
But ’56 jams were the righteous
We believe the world should do good,
While we turn drug addicts in the hood into
Our backyard stash of elm wood.

We believe to be better is best.
And praise the lone man in his mansion behest.

Aisha walks the road in her beautiful double plaits,
Her fears at day, I can’t really relate
Her face fall at the swish of a wimple is odd
The constitution tells her her body is hers after all

We call the whole world to watch
While we fight our Big Match,
Our World’s End and Lion Rock,
Are dead ends and brave shock.

We wave our Namo mathas
But good bye our Sri Lanka thaayes

This is Sri Lanka.
And We love it because it is ours.