fell into a hole of myself--
i know too much

a bag of cheetos in an ill-fitting suit
runs the country - made the mistake

of reading what it had to say
awhile ago

all in the stirring of a feather
my ego, my ignorance

smattering albiet aggressively in an annoying
aggregate, dog-bark bird-squacking

grating my effing ears
these 7am mornings

I always wrote ****-ee before, it made more sense with the context, you are stretching the rope, it is adding to your acceleration, you are, possibly, falling.
My darling friend, it is not the momentum of the rope I was warning you against. Although I wonder what metaphor that could take. No, I was warning you about the fall. Period.
Albiet I warned with an unconscious mind. For I was falling too. No, I did not jump. I shall not take that credit. (Not because I am above it, but because others who read here know I did not jump). But we both fell anyways. We fell for fictional men. We fell for fictional beasts. And we fell for boys.
Good luck to us both. May we never get used to the fall. May each jump feel more strongly than the first. May we never be that hurt that we are too scared to jump again.

Miserably, I'll cling to the fading moments
I spent with you in my bed.
Fed up with things ending too early, I'll constantly
be fending for those soft touches and empty hushes.

Empty.
What a word to describe how I feel knowing you'll
be gone by Sunday, without waiting for me to heal.
Monday will come and my heart will shudder.
Flutters, that soft, delectable feeling that I felt in my stomach
will drop and stop, halting all pleasantries.

Finish
me off with one last kiss,
Make me miss
you until I fade from the confusion.
The pollution
that you have caused to build up in my chest
Best be worth the final touches you caress
onto my skin.

Sin-fully,
I'll compare your clear brown gaze to the
murky lust, dirtied by others.
I wonder if you ever had any room under your covers.
I wonder if I ever had any pull on you, ever.

Never,
Ever
will I ever want to weather that weather-y storm you've
measured with buckets of rain
painfully, locking onto my chest
glued to my teeth
Mistaken.
Misled.
My soul feels erasably unfed.

I bled.
I bled. I ******* bled when you held me in my bed
and the words of your utter denial
Cried out between us, causing a separation
I wanted nothing to be with.

God, just three weeks. That's it.
Three weeks, peaking my emotions to their
utter, serene, intoxicating HIGH.
My, what kind of magic have you poured
into my veins.
I didn't think you could ever be the cause of this much
Pain.

Wait.
I didn't want to be another one.
For me, I've always been the detached one.
The one with a dismissal attitude, a missile
of self-confidence and independence.

Impermanence was all you were ever offering.
While I always was offering you my everything.
Foolishly, albeit. Albiet, foolishly.
I'll be it. I will be it. I swear it. I'll be yours.
But **** it, you don't need it.

So?
Now what?

...

I'll go back inside and recreate
that tall, thick wall of utter
strength and unwavering singularity.
Single.
No more tingle in my bones, woe me.
Woe is me, all right.
Hope for me, that I can fight with all of my might.
If only I had the power to push you away
before it's too late, before I hate even a cell
of that specific date.
May. Thirteenth.

SUNDAY.

“Sorry”,they said,
“No matter how many times,
You shook your head,
Provided with all the necessities,
Now move ahead.

No matter what you say,no matter what you feel
Now get up and be brave,
With time,all your wounds may heal
You wouldn't be taken care of,
So better look for your own meal

There wouldn’t be a lullaby singer;make it a habit now
There wouldn’t be anyone to wake you up,
You have to adjust anyhow,
And don’t be a mischievous kid,
Now take a faithful vow.

Come to us now;it's time for goodbye,
They said they’ll love you like we both,
Albiet it’s a lie.
But you have to be independent now,
Go son! It’s a goodbye”.

the rain came
down in torrents
i grew jealous
and sped home
as fast as i could
on two legs, two wheels
one flimsy frame

when i got there,
i was here and i opened
the door to find i had
nothing to fear

the house was empty
the windows boarded up,
and the sink leaking
as though it were
laughing at my predicament

i dug my nails into
my skin, punctured
a few loose veins
and let the blood
do it's thing,--

look pretty, embrace
the floor, and spread
like wildfire through
the cracks of the porcelain
skin

i fell to my knees
and wailed until the wolves
howled for silence
to return to me

and it did
but not without
fighting my screams

the noises in my head
refused to cease, and so
this continued on for days,
months, maybe even
weeks

until my beard grew
and sheltered me
from putting anything
in my mouth

my ribcage felt like
the talons of a hawk
clawing to get out

i wasn't me anymore;
the me she loved
and adored

instead,
i was much better,
albiet much worse
than ever before

i became the nightmare
i wanted to be

and sank in this reverie
until i could no longer
feel hunger

when i was
a child*

at night
i used to see
shadows dart
across the walls
in the gutters
of our streets

it wasn't
till i got older
till i finally met
those creatures
and called
them by name

some of them
have passed;
some of them
still live to this day

we don't get together
as much as we used to

but those filthy,
albiet, gorgeous
creatures

still live at the bottom
of my heart

where the waste of
my mind goes

A sunrise beckoned me
In contrast, to flee
An invitation earnestly endorsed
for lengthened had I lingered
a bona fide friend
lucidity it had painted
and a landscape captivating
Drop by drop,
had I rendered sightless

Bestowed with priceless emotions
deluged you, with
intentions distilled,
truly were
for you did capture them
at the rise

The once limpid scenery,
opaque, visionised today
the yellow smudged
a sunset to betide

A panic swelled within,
a grave slip-up implemented
for I strived to ameliorate it
Albiet,
Versimilitude solicited distance

I failed to proffer you with,
as the intent, stainless
and a heart devout
remorse, shall lie etched

for the landscape
entailed not remedy
though,
the desire for your understanding
was all I stipulated

imagination
you said
lives somewhere
between dream and reality
but what if
that imagination
shared
experienced
Is real
it was
you
leading, wanting, encouraging
be careful to
understate imagination
intentional sharing
albiet apart in the physical realm
are nonetheless real
nor imagined
and now
although I may never again
feel that way
With you
I am happy and grateful
to now know
The one thing
the only thing that matters
that which I have always known
And that is
what it would feel like, for me
With you

i can already tell you that
                diacritical distinctions
   does exist in the english
language...
(olde english) albiet /
     (modern english)
   although
                    it's well hidden,
for starters
    there is a good example
of an acute u (ú) popping it's
"ugly" head from the edenic
                    camoflouge:
  e.g.? pút...
                 otherwise known
as the double omicron
         in pool -
              varied within púll...
oh **** me, invoking the germanic
ß (grapheme) was always going
to attract attention...
    given anglo-saxons are cousins
with bavarians, swabians
       or pomeranians -
     if ever a prussian print would
exist,
     we'd find that
     they're the fourth
leg of a dog that queer
         in linguistic
terms... the other three oddities?
  finns, estonians
     and the ***(garian)s...
i'm still at odds of discovering
all the particular diacritical
examples (distinctions) in english,
since no example of such
  an instance being apparent,
unravels itself into a universally
     consistent expression...
       try applying diacritical marks
to each and every english word...
       even j. joyce didn't mention
this "adventure" in his
             undeservedly omitted work
  finnegans wake...
                  but it is an adventure
nonetheless...
                  for there are instances in
english, when applying diacritical
marks is, frankly? all-too blatant:
your eyes start twitching,
your fingers start itching,
             your tongue has a crap
dangling off it, implying: walk side-ways
for once, off the beaten track of
   pop trend.

I want to write you and say
That I've never stopped loving you.
I want to write you and demand that you see me so that
I can see that
The love I have for you now is stuck.
Is the love that I had for you
The last time I saw you
The last time you saw me
The last time we kissed.
I want this to be over.
I want to know that I can stop writing
About how I can't let this idea go.
The ship has sunk and
Part of me watched it go from the safety of shore but
Part of me is still inside of it
Sitting
Comfortably, albiet a little fidgety,
Listening to the clock tick tocking away my years,
My loves,
My partners,
Envisioning that one day you'll come scuba diving down
Down
Down
To find me here, where we both know I've been
Waiting.

I want to write you and say
That I've never stopped loving you.
Maybe putting the message in a bottle
Releasing it into the water that surrounds me
And watching where it floats to
Will set me free from this sunken ship too.

if etymology is a history - but not a history: in that it is
more a historiology - which, well: history is the study
of time: but time as exclusively begot by man,
a temporal study of man: by man...
history is, after all: not the history of geology:
since stones have no memory:
only friction and pressure and a time-space exclusivity...

what am i talking about?
probably a quote from the pre-Socratics,
the inquisitive genuis: genius of the Greek
spirit - without citations of Homer:
because i won't: will not cite anything Greek
beside the romantic curving of lower-case
a as α

     perhaps it's just a dreary winter mid afternoon
and i'm feeling all "sentimental":
but sentiments are for women
while emotions are a masculine "thing"...
yes... i see the divergence of the sexes -
my words will not become pop fictive in any retrospect:
handed or mishandled...
etymology and history...

i wonder why i still have the capacity to utilise
the word:     ALBIET
albeit....            to substitute it for ALTHOUGH...
albeit = although...
           old Germanic sing-sing-along...
i would rather use albeit rather than although...
or... rather: that's alðough
raðer ðan                   ðorn:
a halo and a crown?

  i ask again:
         a'h geislabaugur og a'h kórónu?

now i will not ask:
why a'h? otherwise the English tongue would not
hollow out the vowel to a simple a-plha
lymph ah... but a as ~aye... a as a yes...
no...
       ah: dental care: say ah with your mouth open
and a dentist's hands shoved in your mouth...
that sort of ah... but a'h... not ah...
as in no: ah! of relief... an a'h of dental inspection
"constipation"...

hmm... i just had one sharpshooter whiskey
drool of a moment and i'm all ***** Wonka and
the Chocolate Factory in my head...
my eternal demise will be not exploring
the imagination of Roald Dahl as a child...
didn't have time to be a child...
learned how old-English conservatism worked
circa the 1990s in terms of illegality of
migration...
i remember punching the walls when my father
was arrested with my mother: handcuffed...
day short of gaining legal status
since arrival circa 1990...

                    my revenge: banana-boat migration...
now the floodgates have opened for
the miracle of the roaming stars...
but England is a ******* besides:
it's the weather that's a drag...
you must have a melancholic-Scandi disposition
to digest the morose and the melancholic...
by now England is so multicultural that
i begin to wonder whether the English even
noted that: waging war against **** Germany
on principle of defending Poland was
ever a good idea...

       given that Polish soldiers joined the RAF
and fought on English soil all the while no English
soldier stood foot-by-foot on Polish soil...
is Ukraine any, ******* different?
master posing ridiculous affairs of double standard
ethics.. ha...            

ah... another word... constenation...
i forgot what it means: but i remember the word...
"á propos" / pardon pardon:
consternation... not constellation...
akin to the rubric of the word: not grievance...
hmm... not belegarence...
belligerence...

           funny tongue this English and French:
hide letters, show letters: eat letters... regurgitate letters:
dyslexia must be a phenomenon in
the anti-orthography of the English tongue:
'leash... my leash:
my poly-schizoid Shakespearean:
if an apple fell on Newton's head...
a pear for a quill to break the mind
and let explode-in-exploring the phantoms of
abortions...

me? no, i don't have the luxury of choice...
i could (perhaps) choose a naive 20 year old woman
as (a) "compliment":
but then again i find naive women discouraging
for my taste... i don't appreciate the dynamic of
fathers grooming sons or daughters into becoming
the same: football team supporters...
i'm privy to this subtle hyper-paedophilia...
it is... a hyper-paedophilia since the hyper- prefix
denotes: it is collectively: collusively(?)
no, not collusively... openly done...
football team fan grooming...
it is: hyper-paedophilia... a variation of brainwashing
without adherence to ****** acts:
instead... *** ARMY... per example being
a child with a father who's a Tottenham Hotspur
supported...

having digested Ezra Pound's Cantos...
currently digesting Charles Olson's Maximus poems:
i'm not assured anything by postmodernism,
clearly the 20th century was a bridging-gap
in how evolution was to play out
societally...
                  industrially...
already i'm sitting on the throne of bypassing
the old function of journalism:
i have come to question journalistic integrity
with due diligence and find it:
bankrupt: bankrupt like the priesthood:
that journalism was the priesthood of the secular
world i see me: heretic: obnoxious stamina orc...
i'm yet to die... and till then i will:
conjure a hammer and a scythe for every moment
i endeavour to feel a canary of a heart
in my ribcage...

as i was thinking:
of the difference between men and women:
of women and the cycle: birth and rebirth...
the beginning and the end...
while with men there is no cycle:
there's only a way through, a dead end and...
from nothing -
i have no luxury of the riddle of the chicken and egg
i only have the ego and the O of oscillation
i oscillate and do not idea-morph a re-:
recycling, rejuvenation, reincarnation...
i'm a crow's beak device of honing in...
by eclipses of the suns and the gods
and all that is sheen and mirror-smiles...
i am a fetishist of death...
as much as: well... only when life becomes
intolerable do i become: a death-fetishist...
which raises my libido and poo...

         (cut off... not necessarily implying i *******
while taking a ****, but given that
cats can't **** and **** at the same time,
it feels rather natural to ******* while
on the throne of thrones)....

what came first? the ego or the cogito?
that's simpler... can i think without "i"?
clearly i can abstract, which is like: the wording
of division (÷) with words and not numbers:
then again pronouns are like integers...
but given the current climate of "politically correct"
pronoun fetishes of they zee zoo
we have people who have no concept of
pronoun-integer compactness -
fraction-peoples ***-unit abuse victims:
by any decent scrutiny of a glance...
           somewhat casual-schizoid and not:
the classical schizoid-bilingualism...
more schizoid-bisexuality... brains in the sheets
and in the hemorrhaging genitals...

one could add: there appeared a rainbow at
the spectacle of Golgotha...
sickly sweet genius of the Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
against the ailing military genius of Rome...

i am going to write an apologetic letter to
Fulham F.C. for granting me work...
till the end of the year Fulham shifts are clashing with
Tottenham and West Ham shifts and i just won't
be able to fulfill the demand:
and given that both the Tottenham stadium
and London stadium have a summer prospect
of entertaining artists for concerts...
well: working at Fulham is a sort of regress...
although the rate of pay is circa £20 while the other
stadiums pay less... it's still less pay given
that Fulham is only a football stadium
and cannot be utilised as a concert venue

a much needed letter of apology:
given that until the end of the season Fulham shifts
clash with Tottenham shifts...
and that given recent developments at
Tottenham invoke me in a supervisory role:
outside, hands-on... directing the crowd
like a Moses... obviously the escalated "burden"
of accountability is a promising aspect of
any role: given the mantra of:
the easiest job in the world is not appealing...
alias of: but i'm not heart-surgeon either...
tongue and language this spare plaything of mine
i will notoriously retreat into grammatical-gymnastics...

just to reiterate: chicken or the egg?
that's wording it in old Latin,
avoiding shrapnel wordings...
i.e. what came first, the chicken or the egg(?)
similarly:
(what came first) the ego or the cogito?
primo ego vel primo ego cogito?
clearly the construction of consciousness
"consciousness" begins with "scenting" the optics:
"scenting" the optics?
oh... coordinating the senses...
coordinating = harmonizing...
even though thought leaves so much room for
error and does not actually invoke any
active participation in the senses...
the ego: doesn't either...

no amount of thinking equates to the participation
in identity, thinking doesn't
stubborn ego is all about the id in the capacity
of the ideologue of identity...
a quasi-magnetism of adhering to
fixations... a unit a baron of the integer
never too sure whether or not capable
to disintegrate into a schizoid fractionable pronoun:
semi-noun politics:
wording at play...

    of course i'm drinking: to get through Olson
you need to drink...
to get through Pound you have to...
****'s sake... go and see an opera...
to get through Ginsberg you have to listen to jazz
and for the rest of the *******:
i like to listen to anti-feminist lyrics
of Sheryl Crow while reading Bukowski...
something about a "home" being a place
where men lie...
not lie as in: take a rest...
but rather deceive...
       i don't like deception: i already have a shadow
so the night is deceiving me
dragging behind me...

men and women: unlike an INXS (in excess) song...
men think disparagingly:
women think disproportionately:
women have really **** spatial coordination...
i almost punched a woman in the face
while giving directions at Fulham...
apparently my open hand seemed like
a pucker kiss in her mind:
"learning disabilities"(?)               maybe...
the world O so cruel:
but not                            Ω    (i.e. ooh not oh)
so cruel: like there's some juice to be squeezed
from a frigid lemon: frigid?

who can i complain to...
a girlfriend in her 50s and me nearing my 40s
at least i don't have a reproductive incentive...
woke up to fun fun fun
went to bed with fun fun fun...
calls it creamy-pie when the junk juice of
alligator drools oozes from her ****...
because i really couldn't stomach
a woman in her 30s with a Cpt. Hook syndrome
of wanting children...

tick-tock-o-ah-clock-tick-tock-o-ah-clock
(have a double helix on that, mate?)

i'm too fail-safe for that sort of jargon...
if i didn't replicate my genes by now
i want the "fun" to continue...
surrogate fatherhood sounds most appealing...
in line with my sentiments for ancient Roman
history...

but let's face it (face it i, not you or we):
men's thinking distinguishes them from others (other men)
while they return to a generic man...
prototypes galore...
we all want different things...
either riches or festering in a semi-digested state
of existential prowess with mothers and fathers
and hobbies...
some want to scale the heights and have eleven children
by 6 different mothers... rich enough to do so...
as men we want different things...
regardless: even being homeless is a Bob Dylan
phantasmagorical allure for a freedom
deeply associated with: of Sinope (Diogenes)...

the modern world has taught me to be more of a cat...
i imitate a cat:
i like a roof over my head...
i'll cook i'll clean i'll keep conversation...
Matthew the cat...
i like the cold but i also like the warmth...
woman is a universal creature:
all women want the same thing...
although their allure changes from woman to woman
each woman is different, individually:
as a person...
but in terms of a woman being a thinking creature:
all women are the same...

men? men are the same: thoroughly throughout...
every instance... it wasn't a man that caused
the Trojan war...
Trojan war and the accountability of being inquisitive
from the metaphor of Eden?
men are generic in person...
although different in thought: since we want
a variety we come to represent...
by our ***-outliers...
criminality is: rest assured: a search for freedom...

coming to the conclusion that...
well... there was German idealism there was Platonism
there was scholasticism there was there was...
but... what? first wave second wave third wave...
it's still feminism...
            no original thinking no...
it's still stoic feminism...
it's still going to be cynic feminism...
a **** contraceptive pilling of... cartesian feminism...
prefixing femme fatale to anything
a man thought of first to cope with
living without children...

but i do have a surrogate girl i'm very much fond
of so much fond of that i was willing
to stay up almost all night to bake her a birthday cake
so good so that during the pool party
every single attendee SHUT THE **** UP
and gobbled down the carbohydrate plush-hush...
****'s sake...

stoic "feminism"...
one movement to rule them all... Sauron hypochondriacs
of owning *****... as if the role of mother
was a burden...
and not a negligence of "self-discovery"...
oh sure... those desperate brats are brimming on
a necessary spanking but seeing them being
spoiled and not affected by a cane
is also, sort of, disorientating for them...
the joke being: you give them "too much" freedom
and... guess what!(?) they won't be able
to decipher freedom, denote it,
filter out what they might end up wanting!

stoic feminism my ***...
my *** greasing up a donkey's hind with a warm ****...
2000 years of men thinking:
reduced to 50 years of women playing
the crab-bucket game of cocktail miasmas...
it's infuriating given the innate persuasiveness
of women to: get the Trojan horse on the move
by men... gaslighting 21st century advent...
mind you i've been with enough
prostitutes to know the difference between
staged: receiving pleasure and
staged: faking pleasure as non-received...
up to a point where she's calling you up constantly
and you keep reminding her:
listen... i've found my little Robinson Crusoe
isle of happiness and i really don't
mind not proving my manhood anymore...
i've tried a ******* and i can vouch that
it's not an ego boost but a hindering experience
of not seeing a lover's face during *******...

because it is like the execution of the prophet
Isaiah: being cut in half at the bowels...
it's disorientating: ******* two women at once...
of sure... it looks great for a ******...
but in practice?            no....       n'ah ah...
unless... you reduce it to one jerking you off
into the mouth of the other... or something like that...
then again all the ****** tension in the workplace...
by the time you arrive at ****** intimacy
with someone... it will probably be...
something akin to: 2 years
                                              and 7,186 miles away...

or at least...
there i was thinking: what also came first,
letters or names?
nouns...
i'm pretty sure we said words long before
we used letters...
we only came back to conjuring letters after already
conjured up vector-meanings
as words...
the ancient Greeks confuse me with their
anticipation of atoms...
but there was surely a construct of meaning
concerning water before w-a-t-e-r
                    and certainly before H₂O...

so yes... words came before letters...
it's only later that we designated the cutting up of meaning(s)
into... more so...
a - a letter but also an indefinite article...
i - a letter but also a pronoun, personal?    sure... "i" too...
in ******
you have w - which translates to 'in'
and z - which translates to 'with'               yes...

there is a distinction between "air"         and 'earth' quotes...

we must have grunted shovelled, breathed in breathed out
and then! the genesis of the first word...
i wonder what the first word was, ever was...
it sure as **** wasn't god...
given that god was probably the last word...
sun and moon and water and
first to speak of giving names to things
to coordinate... much later time and space:
concepts per se...
curiosity by noun
yet confirmation of a shared experience
by the inequality of verbs:
like banking is not plumbing
and the disparaging rewards of:
say, borderline automation fancy of markets when
investing money and not,
    and when not providing enough poems
or: charitable carpenter with...
hoarding musical chairs no one will sit on?
lopsided supply-and-demand nature of money...
compared to actual goods...

plastic-money... there's too much of it in the world...
apparently money doesn't grow on trees
anymore... since these days banknotes are made
of plastic... and there is too much plastic in the world...
paper-money: simple thinking...
let's go back to basics...
point being: i enjoy books and music...
i buy whiskey and once upon a time i used
to transfer my earnings to prostitutes...

money isn't paper anymore...
nor is journalism a secular priesthood...
the true advent of democracy via the internet
and all the while the current politicians are clowns...
beside who the true politicians are:
the soloists akin to the demagogues and dictators...
because that's who you "suddenly" end up trusting:
solo-actors...
          well at least they are immune to conspiracies
of "in-groups" that languish any accountability...
at least i know who is accountable for what...
because Tony Blair and...          are...    will       be?!

by writing this and posting it...
i can bypass all that editorial scrutiny of what will
sell or not sell...
i earn enough to not worry about money...
that's the whole idea...
money per se being something akin to a "philosopher's stone":
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a plumber...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a train driver...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into...

money is the "philosopher's stone"...
oddly enough... water imitation...
let's keep out of each other's way...
    best that way...
but there is too much wealth in this world...
wealth that is not appreciated: but squandered...
squandered by being floundered...

hell... i'm quite frankly content to cycle through
London, use the public transport than
have to "compensate" with "contritions"
of being mechanically - (&) viable
          for the workforce without a horse but a car...
esp in this oorban gungle... j j jade...

AstraZeneca,  BigPharma,
           BioNTech,  Sinopharm,
Moderna , Pfizer,
              Sputnick,  ZyCov-Di,

The Immaculate Conception
is a trick of deception because
all were conceived incubated
gestated and delivered (albiet
prematurely by a caesarian)
just in time for 2021 as people
were loosing their 2020 vision.

Added to that being Lockdown
Winter and a general depression
of the manipulated masses who
have been made to succumb and
will therefore be queueing with
up rolled sleeves begging to be
saved by BIG PHARMA who is
watching them at all times via
the anode and cathode ray tubes
which 99.99% of households have
therefore the opiation is complete.



Ps.

The author has no cellphone, no
microwave, no dishwasher, no
television, is a vegetarian, reads
The Guardian, supports organics,
votes Sinn Fein and lives in fear
of the current Irish Government.