like the inconstant moon I change,
cyclical about circumstances,
serendipity and fortune exchange
appearances for second chances,

and as we each alter our perception,
we see ourselves as constant,
each and every change in direction
still seems like a straight line

with no more than closer inspection
looking behind to the distant
fading horizon in the failing light
the pattern of circles and spirals

and zigzags, stops and backtracks
a wandering chorus line of fools
all singing things I can’t take back
the realization that I am not an individual
:
but an average of multiple formulas
complex variable algebra and simple subtraction
a vector resulting from many forces
pushing and pulling and thrusts and attractions

the color of the liquid in the test tube
fizzing and changing with every next drop occurring
an organism that adapts to its environment
to thus fill its requirements and its fleeting yearnings

a flock of birds, a can of worms, a herd of cats,
an untamable unit described in terms
of the time it exists in existing- that is
another illustration, another article, at any other time or mood

a crop whose fruitfulness is determined by unusual farmers
one field ploughed, one weeded, one fertilized, one seeded
akin to the Bible, a book of numerous authors that tries to
merge allegories into a useful, enlightening anecdote with which to furnish the brood

flesh, soul, chemical, inspired, mechanical-Angel
a temptable machine whose springs and cogs
could be found to have been hand-wound
at any given time by either His Rival’s or God’s

and if Made in His Image then I must be both
wrathful and loving, vengeful and forgiving,
quick to temper and eternally patient
yet limited in time allowed to be spent living

the difference is- my choiceful subsistence briefly caresses
this quick struggle and my purpose not yet fully defined
would fate’s justice have me on the gallows for my excesses?
or would not passion for the endowment of living grant reprieve?

where is the solace for the incurably ardent?
maniacally spontaneous, courageously aloof
what cheer can be brought to the seers?
dejected clairvoyants, puppets or puppeteers to the truth

however never simultaneously clever are we
always we must be one or the other each seen
though never seemed to be separate things
now see what difficulty wrecks all my dreams
:
catharsis then epiphany then pensive then somber
an artist, a daddy, a mocked captive, an avid doubter
carouse then abolish then regret then absolve
a spouse, a skirmish, an uncommon asset, an outlet resolved

how do I bring about the determination of the jury?
which of the accomplices will abide full recognition
and be he who will stand to read the indistinct verdict
to the culpable crowd assembled in this the trial of alternation

so contempt be then to the court of constancy!
no thing in heaven or earth adheres to its philosophy
render the sentence that I may be found guilty
yet I am consented to return undestroyed, now let the die be cast

these confines beg for stasis I cannot deliver
my cell itself is afloat without a tether
these customs require that I be a quitter
yea though the pendulum returns to the tock once the tic has passed

maybe you are sad
because your hair is so long and
that’s where sorrow lives,
sleeping sickly and close to your ear
if i could i’d put you on my shoulders
and carry you to the edge of lake powell
in arizona and say look, alea
there is beauty beyond ourselves
and to us it will always remain indifferent

I’m indebted to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 4th Edition 1996

Ab Imo Pectore

Ab imo pectore,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
Cadit quaestio,
Desunt cetera.
Est modus in rebus.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae,
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
Hic finis fandi,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
Jacta interdum est alea,
Labuntur et imputantur.
Magni nominis umbra,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Res ipsa loquitur.
Solvitur ambulando…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
Urbi et orbi,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.


From The Bottom Of The Heart

From the bottom of the heart,  the falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
The question drops, the rest is wanting.
There is a balance in all things, every man is the creator of his own fate.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Let there be an end to talking, for who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
The die is sometimes already cast,
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
No one can claim to know all things,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor and rich men’s houses;
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
It’s so obvious, it speaks for itself.
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
And to all the world,
There’s no turning back.

Ab Imo Pectore / From The Bottom Of The Heart

Ab imo pectore,
From the bottom of the heart,
Blandae mendacia linguae,  
The falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
Cadit quaestio,
The question drops,
Desunt cetera.
The rest is found wanting.
Est modus in rebus,
There is a balance in all things,
Faber est quisque fortunae suae.
Every man is the creator of his own fate.
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.  
Hic finis fandi,
Let there be an end to talking,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
For who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
Jacta interdum est alea.
The die is sometimes already cast,
Labuntur et imputantur.
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
Magni nominis umbra,
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
No one can claim to know all things,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pallida  mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor man and rich men’s houses;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
Res ipsa loquitur.
It’s so obvious, that it speaks for itself.
Solvitur ambulando…
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
Urbi et orbi,
And to all the world,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
There’s no turning back.


r10.1

I remember the day you realized you always write about water

and I always write about fire

I also the remember the week I took too much ibuprofen and

slept with my eyes open in the back of your car while

allison stole from the salad bar at whole foods and

here we are on two different continents

writing poems for men on circled corners of maps

you ripple, me ash

the sweat cools
where the body overheats
in sudden wakefulness
within the dead of night

no sounds but the heavy breathing
of a startled form beneath the covers
momentarily dazed, unaware of the surroundings
in which it finds itself

eyes shut, it all comes back again
those lucid pictures, vivid sounds
where insects crawl beneath the skin
and one drowns on land

the fault was singular, of course,
a suicide in a fake landscape
a poor show of emotion
where no one may judge

quite often it would happen
in painless reality
where red stains white and
black beats blue

no other - a windowsill and an open window -
sitting on a folded leg and slouched
like a crow - i would be begging for it to rain -
no other music can capture rain -
safety net of all that sporadic improv. -
                      other other music - except jazz...
whether it be rain nibbling on the countryside
or the full-on cosmopolitan havoc of grey,
dust, grease, cement and rats and glass...
                 never mind: because i never thought
i'd say this...
                of the moderns... closely ruling out
wojciech kilar - for no particular reason other than
he's probably more known -
christopher young - since his hellraiser stint...
what's new - the revamped pet cemetary?
well... if christopher young was primo...
      soon to follow him... graham... plowman...
work on h. p. lovecraft adaptations...
                     horror as a genre...
                                the music wins me over...
however spectacular the visuals are...
                               if the music isn't bone grinding -
unsettling the nerves -
well... that's like pop music when it's raining...
i guess: oh i guess jazz can capture more feelz
when it comes: when it's raining...
when it's lazily sun-dazzling with the impression
of an "underneath" sizzling sensation -
or melting butter - or for that matter melting chocolate...
or adding splashes of cornflour made in water
to a sauce and watching it thicken...
this recipe i will remember by heart...
i will have to at someone point...
but this dhal was quite sublime...

   scrap book recipe...
          a man in a kitchen...
               and in hell... the devil's mastery...
almost like a chemistry experiment...

       half and half: masoor and mung dal... lentils...
kabuli chana (chickpeas)...
    a bay leaf...
              3 cloves...
  a tsp of cumin coriander turmeric
                     chilly powder and another of kashmiri
   chilly powder
                chopped tomatoes
  coconut milk...
            onion ginger garlic
                spinach
      gochugaru flakes coriander for garnish...
veg and chicken stock...
                          ghee...
butternut squash...
                    cayenne pepper (1 tsp)...
    i was looking for a pinch of asafoetida...
i knew it was in the kitchen...
    alas... also know as a substitute for those
vegan cults that don't include eating onions
and garlic... or perhaps just onions...
    cinnamon stick? no...
but three decent pinches of a homemade
garam masala...
  and yes...

   https://ministryofcurry.com/moms-garam-masala/
is the only spice blend...
   the russians can have their nukes...
the americans can have their nukes...
i have an arsenal of the following spices and...
i'm feeling... like i just had a manicure done...
the only garam masala:
asafetida, bay leaves, black peppercorns,
black cardamom, cardamom, cumin seeds,
(sorry, no black cumin seeds),
      cinnamon, cloves, cordiander seeds,
dried chillies, fennel seeds, fenugreek seeds,
(mace? no mace)...
         nutmeg, poppy seeds, star anise...
turmeric...
          again: no stone flower...
well... that's almost covered it...
                it's not the recipe asks for black
mustard seeds... those i do have...

                   cult recipe and it says: who needs...
meat?! even i'm convinced...
god i do love a good steak tartar...
    anything ****** and oozing wriggly bits
of life - as tender and gelatin grizzly as a...
even the names: bleu... ooh... saignant...
  haha... medium: demi-anglais... what else?

the butchers rolling in their graves
when someone orders a steak: fini-bien...
                          or some other frankenstein of the kitchen...

coleman hawkins - the high and mighty hawk...
some guys were putting up a fence
for me and my neighbour - it only took 15 years
but who's counting - they were told to
cut out all the bushes and foliage in my garden...
so that they could get a straight line
and so the fence would be put up...
unlucky for my rosemary bush...

r.i.p. my rosemary bush...
        today i started to salvage the poor thing...
the newer shoots i placed in water for
a drink and hopefully 2 weeks from today
i might think about planting them back in
the ground... for the rest of the bush?
i had to freeze the rosemary...
all afternoon my fingers were scented with rosemary...
which is fine... when you're working
with a raw piece of lamb...
but i'm no walking and breathing and aching
lamb of god about to be hanging
on the cross...
                even through the soap...
an afternoon of my hands being heavily scented
with rosemary...

vivaldi can have spring and the other three
faces of "god"...
holst can have his mars and the other circle of hell...
but thank the high-flying-****
that jazz can capture a rainy day better
than that song: i'm only happy when it rains
by garbage...
            
  guess i'm not letting go...
         an active rebellion against classical music...
one jazz record after another and i can gravitate
to...ward... the entire e.p. being played...
none of that new wave harakiri diat l.p. scene -
much appreciated... but i always need to move
beyond the half-an-hour mark...

         then again: i can't see how jazz could
compensate for snow - snow on the exit format -
jazz doesn't - then again...
no, categorically...
                           if there's only a sly insert of drum...
no horns - the piano and some guitar -
  
   otherwise you can't go wrong with
joshua redman - back east...
         a modern classic - notably with zarafah...

speed-conversations - none clinging
to a cameo of a date...
                 fickle minded - always changing
the course of events that... nonetheless remain
intact on binding themselves to a blind will -
        
music and all these interpretations are my own -
too bad to see and have to work with
a cipher - what's behind this image -
what's behind that image -
at least music stands stark and shivering naked...
less chances to abide by some propaganda...

unless of course mathematics is to be given
the crown - i hardly think: one shouldn't really
think about music -
                one can never really fathom
the constraints and the escapees from these
constraints... these constant revisionary scribbling
over and skimming the orthodox:
brick-on-brick intricacies of: immoveable objects
being: nonetheless moved...

- i too am waiting for my libido to die off -
anytime soon... like right now...
no harem therefore "jazz hands" and the algebra
of "magic fingers"...
idle man and all that *** that could have been...
until that magnetism is steered off a cliff
of: not another tomorrow -
                    at least no ***** or *** doll upon
the horizon -
            no point getting intimate or personal...
only a few days back i found a weakness in
this exoskeleton -
standing in a shower... pouring running water
onto the back of my head...
i almost knelt and said my prayers from
the exhaustion of succumbing to this multiple-******
of nuance...
       right on the spot where
a higher evolution of a more, protruding occipital
bone: as i've heard it once before: being noted...
i'm waiting for my libido to **** itself off...
in the meantime no harem...
imagine my luck when it comes to
the wisdom served up by men like king solomon...
even by then:
this most exhausted man had
to settle for a swan's dignity in monogamy
with the queen of Sheba...

                 but it's hard to translate wisdom
when you have all the basic forebodings
already at your disposal... the harem will discover
***-toys and you will be...
the limp **** in the whole affair...

                 such hard-on feats of fear when it comes
to... two cakes too many
when all you've been asking for is, merely a slice...
jazz... i can't find
a clint eastwood in alcatraz...
or steve mcqueen in sagan...
               or witold pilecki in auschwitz...      
but i can find myself in jazz...
hummingbird or some, other, champagne flute
and that bothersome fly...
nothing against flies: everything against
mosquitos... i would **** those buggers with
the same joy of donning wool having
just sheered a sheep or two...

jazz and: the wriggling fish...
jazz and all the fish out of water...
i'd call them constipated ***** and lobsters
but... jazz and the wriggling fish...
jazz and smoking a cigarette to appreciate
the deaf centre point of night's culminations...
living close by to central london...
"walking in" and not feeling like
anybody important: or a tourist...

       if i wasn't a billy joel: i would most certainly
not want to be a bob dylan -
hard to be living the obscure with a cross
made up of iconography...

the applauded and the: billy joels' piano man meets
neil young's old man...
they shake hands and subsequently depart
where the crossroads begin, and end...

believe me when: i'm the last to be believed...
usher in a dozen penguins attired
to be... fizzy kosher dosh...
in all their napkins and bowtie-neck strangle 'em
into a hush of a bamboozle...

such the life the music the mathematics
of living in shackles - wriggly ol' ****** with
those improv. would-be-turns and...

how many words will it take for it to be clear...
i have nothing but rejoice at clinging
to my obscurity... primo amigo:
alea iacta est: too bad for me...
or too bad for my shadow...
                       faking being a gemini
in the horoscopes of fate and superstition...
shadow: mime out of the confines...

      these is my second chance at retaining
the crown of obscurity? is it?! is it?!

   to have to burden oneself with love...
akin to... well... if i were about to spoon her...
but no... i wanted to catch the 8 hour kipper....
but every time i would fall
to sleep... i'd fall asleep with a tarantula bite...
numb all over to one side...
because i was oh too willing to fall asleep
when clinging to her...
like a bracket fungus to trunk and core...
one side of me complete in numb...
which had a rubric of recitations
should all else not be true...

but *****! that slap in the face...
                             come to think of it...
i'd like something to eat...
less **** with... that could pinch me...
i'm starting to think that
being ganged up by a group of hyennas
is not such a bad way to go...
perhaps being mistaken for a tuna
when a shark attack is being
noted...
            hard to imagine
sharks or bears or lions as having
sadistic undercurrents to their day-in-day-out
beats...
  even sharks nibble but never gorge
and feast on... this cranium solid first and only
hope when it comes to god
not making mistakes when gambling...
the ******* roulette or a black jacks' "choice"
of cards...

i can't exactly "think" this out to appease
a gravitating en masse...
                       pour me another shot and
debackle! all in the faith and hope
of un-thinking thinking...
trying out this suction tenticle of the void...
replacing descartes' res cogitans with
res vanus... what is due: is due...

no more wisdom from me aged 34
as me aged 73... there's only rain and jazz...
i'm buying time...
concerning whether it would be even
remotely likely to appreciate jazz
when it's snowing... unlikely...
very much hell-bent unlikely...

      - who would have thought that peering
into an aquarium would have to,
become more entertaining that zombie-clad
watching a t.v....
what ever happened to the watching
a klepsydra... or the tick-toe-tightening
of seconds into minutes into hours...
dying from the skeleton diet of time
whenever catching-up: unaware with
the clock in the confines of:
old people not really...
no, not really, listening to coleman hawkins'
much of anything...

                     because this doesn't tease
the affections of the young...
like a trainspotting revamp might....
because there's, clearly no new dracula...
and there's no new: new....
                     i wait patiently like a salamander....
no easy picking no low hanging fruit...
no fatty boy'oh to matter...
         no leeching off the three-quarters
of                               the better part of the engineering
cohort that were behind
the manhattan bridge... or Malbork Castle...
and hands on hands: do touch...
the event horizon of a dead star...
                    in that: pulling fabric...
basic genesis... talking fire "misanthrope": "god"...
bushes outgrowing fungus when
it came to 1970s ***** flicks:
notably in fwench and italian...
                   prune the perm hair...
                             keep that afro on a leash!

these days ***** is half of the cure's nostalgia
and more...
onomatopoeia and...
    refining the contorts with painting...
and keeping the act on a hush...
               the lazy hands speaking
dozen **** cracks being discovered but
none being experienced...
bone the hand...
it's called a ****** just because
of oysters... it's called a ******
because of the clams and of the irises...
and because the tongue:
god... ever time i wanted it to exfoliate...
it's forever that timid tulip!

         what came of a ****** became a hand
and the cusp... and what would never
become a San Francisco needle hinge epidemic...

was anyone praying that
one direction would become the next rolling stones...
cougar: meow...
that **** jagger was going to be
the "reincarnated" harry styles?

           knock-knock... who's there?
a premonition... i.e. touch-wood...
base: i will require the wood to be touched
by bone - notably a crunch of the knuckle in how
the fist is formed / fathomed...

        otherwise known as the lap-lapping-dance-off
with a tongue wriggling in imitation
closure of a worm...
or a fighter for a boxing champ. contender...
belt-up... knot and noose down....
the new news is no: good skit...
i **** myself to fickle my shadow
whenever i see a hoopla or a trance inducing
recoil of the swinging dancing spare
of a: rope that's not leftover for
the dangling first come first served...

daydreaming zeppelins...
the day the elevated english man will fall...
and bring down the bowler hat with him...
touch the philosopher's stone and turn
that attache of good taste into an umbrella...
the same day i stop daydreaming
about zepplins...
will see me think of the anglo-saxon
as whittle brother... the younger Swabian...
and all part of the infuriated minor
Germany that found inkling to behave
like the nomad Yids...
and move... and move... and...
never the sort of people to conceive of a ship...
without also being receptive of carrying
an anchor!

then again...
                   monkey man albino and...
forever the one to follow the white rabbit back home.

Abeja blanca zumbas -ebria de miel- en mi alma
y te tuerces en lentas espirales de humo.

Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos,
el que lo perdió todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.

Última amarra, cruje en ti mi ansiedad última.
En mi tierra desierta eres la última rosa.

Ah silenciosa!

Cierra tus ojos profundos. Allí aletea la noche.
Ah desnuda tu cuerpo de estatua temerosa.

Tienes ojos profundos donde la noche alea.
Frescos brazos de flor y regazo de rosa.

Se parecen tus senos a los caracoles blancos.
Ha venido a dormirse en tu vientre una mariposa de sombra.

Ah silenciosa!

He aquí la soledad de donde estás ausente.
Llueve. El viento del mar caza errantes gaviotas.

El agua anda descalza por las calles mojadas.
De aquel árbol se quejan, como enfermos, las hojas.

Abeja blanca, ausente, aún zumbas en mi alma.
Revives en el tiempo, delgada y silenciosa.

Ah silenciosa!

the idea being, opposed to what james joyce invented in ulysses and sartre replicated with a lack of punctuation marks: point being - at what point is atlas speaking, and at what point is sisyphus speaking? and, as it happens: when are both speaking, and where one of the either is introspecting in the domain of thought... that least futile realm of action, that act of mining: enter the minotaur, who said: you keep both your orbs, i'm attempting a crossword puzzle from (a) to (b) with the only clues intertwined with a memorisation of R L L R R R L L R L R L R L L L L R L R R E (R. turn right / L. turn left, E. exit).

i'm getting this void re-entering
the orbit of planet-365 -
and it's bugging me -
  quite a simple observation -
what's with the volume of jokes?
western society is peppered
with comedy, or rather in
the non-classical sense of what
a comedy ought to be:
    they ****** the poets throughout
the ages: but comedians are
not writing comedies:
they're writing sketches - comedy
sketches... is anyone as tired as me
languishing under the:
  why is the fate of sisyphus always
deemed worse than the fate
of atlas?!
             i find that western society
has become infested with a comedy
virus...
   i've never so many jokes akin
to ****** laughter, where what could
have been genuine, is merely
canned laughter replication...
so many jokes have been said:
but of the many jokes -
i remember my childhood,
as children we used to tell each other
jokes, and remember them...
there was this one about killing
mosquitos and how we went to the 3rd
mosquito's killed funeral...
some classics, that remain lost,
or at least archived in the deepest
recess of memory...
      if there ever was a plight of the west,
it came when western societies
"thought" themselves to be funny...
   ****, it was going so great up to the early
00s...
      boy, they could sing... they could
sing their hearts out!
but then they stopped singing
and thought it was better to tell a joke:
mind you: there are no decent jokes
in the anglophone world -
because:
  (a) too many jokes are being said
(b) a joke is a correctional facility
based more upon insinuated-clarification
than slap-stick spontaneity...
and there's, of course
(c) with so many jokes, it's hard
to tell a decent one...
  a memorable one...
   i still think the anglophone world should
have concentrated on their singing
prowess...
can we talk about the black privilege of
the bible belt gospel choirs?!
  the 100m sprinters?!
          breathing apparatus of the choir
like the guns of navarro!
          why do the english-speaking
nations suddenly think they're funny?
they're not...
    if you managed to watch the original
comedy show from the 1970s
you'd find that there was no canned laughter
instrumented like a bad italian *****...
akin to the moment in *the brand new testament
with ea telling marc that he has a nice
voice, so he does the "subtitles of onomatopoeia"
versus authentic pleasure in the movie...
and meets his german sweetheart...
      the downfall of western society,
if there ever was one, given the 1920s observations
from germany: when the english stopped
singing, and turned their sight toward
comedy...
   i hate comedy for lazy people,
as much as i hate intelligent comedy,
i hate modern comedy because modern comedy
is sketchy, it's not scripted to a proper
comedy in the classical sense -
       the more jokes you tell,
the less chance you have of a memorable
joke -
    i sometimes wish to read a book
of maxims: and find a joke among them -
like the joke of the two picts copper wire
a penny argument and stretch armstrong -
or how welsh men get laid,
              pushing a mutton off a cliff...
tell me a joke worth being said
side-by-side akin to vine vidi vici -
and you can have the floor...
             i think i've had enough of
laughter,
     i am actually beyond tired to respond
with laughter...
          the anglophone world used
to have just great songs, and by having
great songs was renowned for
telling bad, overly intelligent jokes -
                  in all honesty i find more
laughter from moments in between
sedative refills where i am looking for
       a cogito - that has no ergo-bridge
arithmetic into a sum -
   i laugh, because once i start
looking for my "narrative" -
    or the "loss" of therein -
    the moment i stop thinking and
never demand it to resurge with a "purpose"
i find that - omnia in aether est
                    (all is in the air) -
   which is just an alea iacta est
                                            reiteration...
funny: i find catching myself not thinking -
more funny, than any current take
on comedy -
    and it's not exactly pennies
falling from heaven:
   everything on this earth is thrown
into the air, and whoever catches what he
catches - he tends to -
                       the same fatalism as of old.

Je suis la Muse, Ta Muse
Ta pudique, Ta sage cornemuse
Sisypha, l 'allumeuse, tisseuse de tes envies,
Je t'enflamme,
Je te seconde,
Je te féconde,
Je suis l 'idée, le mot, le rêve, l'espoir
L'image !
Je craque un mot sur le grattoir
Et la flamme jaillit, tu enfantes un monde
Le feu de ton imagination te rend fébrile

Et je savoure, je me délecte et je me décapsule
Quand sous l 'emprise de cette terrible envie de moi
Religieusement tu bandes, tu gonfles, tu te dilates
Tu brûles d'aller boire au plus profond de moi
Tu aspires à m'aspirer en toi.
J 'appuie à distance sur le détonateur
Tu exploses !

Et moi au **** je danse, je cours, je vole, je souris et je dégouline de poèmes !
Tu sais tout, tu es mon ombre
Tu m'as entendue
Tu m'as vue dans le miroir chanter le vin clairet
Tu as aperçu mes lambeaux de poèmes lubriques
Tu me cherches dans chaque enlacement passionné
Je te cherche aussi
On s'est croisé au pied du Vésuve
Je marchais insouciante
Et tu m'as appelée Gradiva.
Tu vois ?
Même si on ne se voit jamais
On se sera déjà vus !

Je suis ta Muse
Notre amour est ainsi fait
Amour-sourire de Muse et Artiste
Nous nous imbriquons l'un dans l'autre
Toi l 'artiste prodige
et moi la sublime Muse
Jamais je ne me suis doutée que j'avais les pieds aussi beaux !
C'est toi qui les as façonnés ainsi ?

Alea jacta est
C'est le destin qui m'a mis dans ta bouche
Ne te mords pas les lèvres
Accomplis tes quatre-vingt-huit travaux d'Hercule

Je suis la résille de soie grège
Que tu tisses lentement de tes doigts agiles
En mailles losanges ou carrées
Cette résille est digne des Pléiades..
Tu dévides ta navette et au fur à mesure que tu crochètes
Le filet de soie prend forme
Et se fait crespine
Je m'inquiète :

Vas-tu vouloir avec ce filet capturer
Sisypha qui palpite au creux de ma nuque
Pour la garder prisonnière de la cage
De l 'oiseau qui me picore ?

Ou vas-tu
En ceindre mes cheveux
Et les emprisonner
Dans ta tour de soie ?

Ou veux -tu que je le porte
Sous ma bombe de cavalière
chaque fois que je te chevauche
Et que je tente de dresser ta monture
Aux sabots gravés de mon monogramme ?

Ou peut-être fétichiste
Concoctes-tu derrière ces mailles
Une surprise pour Sisypha :
Un petit body décolleté en résille jaune
Et un débardeur en résille noire ?

Pre-scriptum (and yes, no italics this time round):

i was never going to do this day any justice by writing about
it, not in a hundred years, after all: i was going to write about my experiences prior to actual events external of me: not out of egoism or for that matter: a solipsism; i'm just not the type of "poet" akin to a Richard Blanco: the inaugural poet for Barack Obama's second term in office: i just can't bring myself to that Atlas' pose with a pen: perhaps i would require too much paper, but to stand there: like the inaugural poet does and speak so much mumbo-jumbo is... it's not beneath me, it's above me... i'm the "poet" of the Coliseum, i'm the "poet" of brothels and the "poet" of madness and the "poet" of shadows and the night, of the moon and of the forests, i'm the "poet" of aloneness, i'm a "poet" of the philosophers (perhaps a poet-philosopher - a vain title, i know), i'm not an oratory "poet", i'm the "poet" of the old tradition who sometimes smiles and giggles when he finds: rather than brings himself to rhyme! i already drafted something before writing this, i'm currently skim-reading it and trying to make it somewhat salvageable... i doubt i will find anything worth salvaging: that day (3 days have past) will remain a Titanic at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean for me... and so it should be... not that i haven't made the already necessary reflections: well... they were the reflexive-reflections not something i would give much thought to, for a reflection-proper: i absorbed too much on the day to be so generous... but i did the smartest thing imaginable: i took crux-photographs... pivotal pictures from the day... and catalogued them here: https://bit.ly/3d1Tto2...

i have to actually write a schematic if my approach to this is to make any sense: of course i will also interpolate the schematic, jumping from one "event" to another, the schematic is as follows:

(a) babysitting Malvina

                                  (b) West Ham vs. Steaua București
                                      at the London Stadium

(c) the brothel

                                    (d) Afghan "Jamie"
                                          and his gift and everything after...

question? i'm asking myself this... whether to abide
by the schematic linearly a > b > c < d
or to simply (as i already referenced) juxtapose?
interpolate? i.e. a = b = c = d
                    the latter option seems more viable...
i don't like cascading narratives...
for me there's no river of narration: there's the wrathful
sea of narration... water comes all at once: water doesn't
flow: it bashes and sieges the land: esp. the lands
of islands... water, water everywhere:
and not a drop to drink... i'm not going to quote
the poet who wrote those lines...
i'll treat this as a puzzle-box... being a huge fan of
the Hellraiser "franchise" it would be wrong not to...
puzzles... i imagine that if i were good at crosswords
i wouldn't be able to write so fluidly...
i prefer misnomers to synonyms: but that's just me...

when will i begin?! i'm tired of explaining myself...
it will come of its own accord...

ah! first things first...
    QUEEN and KING...
                          so i'm guessing that when the next
international matches are played and
the national anthem is sang... it won't be women singing:
but men... for the simple reason that
women can allocate a higher pitch to:
how does the word queen look like, when sung
by a professional?
                      god save the: queēn!
                                i would have applied the acute diacritical
marker, i.e. queén...
i'd agree with either since the crescendo of the anthem
comes with the last word: either queen of king...
in the case of queen: que-eeeeeeeeeeeeee(n)
the N is there: but the fact that the vowel extended
takes so much breath away... the singer of the anthem
might as well treat the N as an apostrophe
i.e. quee'                    and only women can reach that
pitch of song...
it's a lot different with KING...
          god save the: kíng vs. kīng... since?
well... you need a baritone to sing the word king to
a prolonged crescendo... kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing
    and like the N on the end of quee-n
                              the -ng are meshed: strangely...
but not so strangely...
              i KONG KY crystals...
  (that's KY of: IGREK: a hollowed out y-why,
KY not KI not KE not cat not queue: not question
of qwhestion, that would be a Welsh spelling)...

the day started well enough, the manicurist / pedicurist
was supposed to come a day prior
to sort of mother's nails out... she was was supposed
to come with her baby daughter a day earlier,
it was supposed to be a Wednesday...
apparently the little rascal was giving her trouble
when she tried to attend to other customers:
she would ignore her mother's work,
she would hang around her mother... pull her trousers
(or t-shirt) making it near impossible for her mother
to do her work: even on that fateful day, that was
a a Thursday, she was sceptical about whether she would
be able to do both my mother's hands and legs...

now, i imagine that having children of my own would
decrease my hormonal level of testosterone
(talk about a Chemical Circus, psychiatrists still talk
on chemical grounds when it comes to psychiatric
disorders: the ancient "chemical imbalance" in the brain...
these supposed "atheists" don't even acknowledge
the fact tat the "soul" is chemistry-free,
there's no chemical imbalance: but they still pump
the sufferer of "said" ailment with an approach
that's post-experimental, i.e. a failure) -
no one talks about a hormonal imbalance...
me + children? i'm fine with that: as long as they're not
my own... with the children of strangers i get to
keep my Abrahamic integrity: i invest in the moment
rather than some concern for lineage:
what matters is the child in the moment i'm sharing
the moment with it...

so? i knew there was only one approach for the girl's mother
to do her job... do both hands and feet...
i needed to exhaust the child...
last time i saw her she wasn't walking: she wasn't speaking...
this time i upped my approach to the tender
"fat-thumb"... i put on Disney's Alice in Wonderland...
a somewhat distraction... then? i watched
as she found it fascinating to play with my cats' toys...
ugh: my cats have become terribly existential,
they are no longer fascinated by toys...
they're more fascinated with what i'm fascinated:
i.e. peering at "nothing": staging a coup of "nothingness",
a coup of "nothingness" and of space and of time...
but this BOBAS (the ****** equivalent of the Italian
BAMBINO) took to the cats' toys...

at first she was throwing the toys in the air,
while i was catching them...
each time i didn't catch the toy / ball i heard
the angels sing: no... i didn't: the time i heard angels
(descending?) sing (ascending?) i was terrified...
i just heard the honey trickle of a child giggling...
at first she was shy... pointing out that i had a beard...
she liked my beard... last time she was tugging on it
trying to conjure up a teddy-bear from it...
i like women who have an insatiable urge to pull
on my beard...
but that was the last time i saw Malvina...
this time round she was throwing cats' ***** into
the air and i was catching them... snap-reflexes...
i missed one or two throws: i pretended to juggle...
she giggled and ran back to her mother
to express her joy: this man is playing with me...

man: not boy...
we did that for a while... later we moved to a different
game... we were throwing ***** up the stairs
and watching the ***** roll back down...
then? we sat at the (insert the proper noun,
it's not a table) and i taught her the "art" of spinning
the *****... then i "taught" her the "art" of:
you know... ***** can be thrown... but they
can also be rolled... so we were playing a game
of rolling the *****... rather than throwing them...
the expressions on her face were so intense...
i couldn't ask her why: unlike the prostitutes
in the brothel when asking me: why is your stare
so intense?! WHY NOT?!
you want me to talk?! i'm not bringing our nakedness
into the equation: i'm not going to talk
when we're naked! we talk as if blind people
seeing Braille rather than touching it!

i was just about to offer her some makeshift
Black Forest Gateaux sponge of a "muffin" when
her mother looked up, the little, dearest babe climbed
into a cocoon of pillows and started indicating that:
there has been enough excitement worth of a day's
worth of today... she snuggled up in that cocoon
of pillows... picked up her "smoochie": sucker?
and started giving me the lazy eyes...
i picked up a cover and laid it across her...
the light from living-room was glaring...
i joked: maybe if i put these (here) sunglasses
on your pretty petite visage will you fall asleep?
she managed the joke for about 10 minutes
before pulling them from her face...and... naturally...
as any child exhausted by play could: COULD tell you...
play is exhausting: esp. when playing with someone
who's experimenting on you psychologically...
from throwing *****, to spinning *****...
to rolling *****...
she couldn't have cared to *****' worth of what was
Alice in Wonderland about...

i don't think i will ever forget those cheeky ******
expressions... akin to: we were rolling the *****
across from each other (pretend chess)...
one ball went missing... i was lazy enough to keep
it missing... she grunted: protested!
exactly! we were playing with three *****!
i had to retract my "misguidance"...
well... if she wanted to change of stamina from
throwing them and me catching them...
to now rolling them... we needed all three!
when we were throwing the ***** up the stairs...
what a clever little creature...
she had her favourite coloured ball...
she was throwing a purple ball...
i had to throw the orange coloured ball...
she shared the "adventure"... the game...
but it had to be so... her consciousness already
recognised anti-ghosts of both form and colour...

why would i be bitter?
wouldn't i want children? me and the children
of strangers... sure as **** i wouldn't be trying to teach
them any "pronoun muddles" of the muddy waters
of: if the old COMMUNISTS came in contact with
the "communists of the west"? they'd be GULAG FEED...
some people become fathers and mothers
and are underserving of such roles...
people like me never became fathers simply because:
the would-be mothers are undeserving to
have children that could be fathered by people like me...
it's a calculated truth...
how much ******* money do you need
before the money is only earned in order
to be ****** away by a woman?!
i earn enough to keep myself content!
once a single man reaches this zenith: it's hardly worthwhile
to sink to a nadir of expenditure...
you can always find some stranger's baby to babysit...
then again: not always...
i'm just lucky that i have found my Bambino....

at some point some journalistic Da-Sein started trickling
in: into the household while i was entertaining
a baby: who finally managed to become lullabied
to a sleep that lasted well over one, and half an hour,
even my mother exclaimed: how did you manage it?!
i just replied: i was just being myself...

the news came along the lines of: she sovereign
is peaceful, she's gladly on her "death bed"...
no mention of "death" though...
but when the news increased in detail:
the whole family was to be made full attendance of:
(what poet ever wrote about the death
of Julius Caesar? no one... all of a "sudden":
then, ****! like the "hidden" emergence of the smoke
of history from the fire that was, the man
who uttered the word: alea iacta est -
none on the day of the event... most poets were
busy with their "poetic" *******...
few were scheming the full depth of womanhood,
from baby, to queen and to a *****)

i finally uttered my fiery tongue:
i will give her until tomorrow...
i even said: i hope he suffers the anti-illness of death
prior to the match starting, the match i'm working
a shift on...
she has until tomorrow to back her bag of bones
and flesh and her detailed imprint on the psyche...
until tomorrow: but i'm hopeful too:
that the match will be cancelled...
alas!
  i went to the shift: there was a buzzword in the winds
congregating around the Coliseum:
but the buzzword wasn't either Elizabeth or Queen...
for the first time i experienced the conquest
of veneer: which came days later...
because on the day? i was injected
with an anaesthetic of: what the public is all about...

sure... it looks pretty: "just about now": the veneer
of a caring people... hmm! "caring"...
i pledged two promises in my lifetime, in secret...
the first to Jeff Hanneman: when i was attempting to
grow my hair long in high-school...
before the poster of the band Slayer: i pledged:
i will grow my hair long...
and i did... i remember being fat, un-liked:
a complete nerd: a goof in high-school...
prior to one summer with my grandfather...
shedding weight... growing my hair long...
i was invisible to the girls in the school...

    then one summer i had enough length in my hair
to tie a pony tail... lost enough of weight...
wow! i suddenly became "visible" to the girls...
i paid no attention... i ended up dating the new-comer
Aussie chick... the most popular girl in school...
sure... it took us over a year of friendly courting
me taking her on one of the most glorious dates:
gallery, cinema, restaurant: i paid for all of it...
when *** was *** and man was man
and woman was woman...
all the girls that ignored me prior
were facing an abomination:
a boy with a French braid hair-do...
                        i had this one mantra in my mind:
well! if you didn't show me any interest prior?
why should i show you ny interest now?!

i'm still living in the: REITERATION period
of my life... i still have about 10 years left...
i can wreck a lot of havoc in those ten years waiting
for me... and i will... i will...
i'll **** all the prostitutes in one brothel before having
to move onto the next brothel... and when i ****
all the prostitutes in that second brothel:
i'll move onto the third! and so on, and so on...
all the while enjoying babysitting children
and listening to Crusader song...

i am: done... playing "nice"... nice is no quest for me...
for the stern heart of stone and an arm
cast(e) from an iron grip...

it was all a veneer though... if you attended the football
match between West Ham and that team from Bucharest...
you would have known that: the public?
paid no respect to the passing sovereign:
the football match was more important!
animals! ******* animals!

something else...
                  prior: much prior...
it amazed me... i asked the management team:
so... the usual per se of the football match advent will
be obstructed? when the Coliseum started playing
Debussy and Sartre... i knew...
we opened the gates for the public at 18:30 the supposed
hour of her passing...
so the match would have to go on...

i pledged her a secret allegiance...
i will not succumb to my suicidal thinking until
you die... me?! i want to earn and spend
banknotes with your son's visage on them!
i'm going to outlive you: you HAG!
i had to! i promised Jeff Hanneman my long hair...
i promised ol' Lizzie my life!
i have kept my promise:
i'm alive... she's "now" dead...
thankfully i didn't make such promises on
a promise she might have known of...
i made these promise "unto" her:
but? mostly unto myself...

if the people of England who witnessed the spectacle could
have witnessed the fans of West Ham
on the day of the passing...
they weren't the usual season ticket holders...
absolute animals: paupers! serf! ******* imbeciles!
i spotted one usual season ticket holder
among them: rabble...
we hugged... but the others?! ****-soaked jeans...
oh, **** me: your queen just died
and you're still here chanting for your
football team?! you, *******, PEASANTS!

give me a ******* OAR! give me a ******* KITE!
you, ******* ZOMBIES!
that's why i was given an anaesthetic...
i was given one... at one point
i was telling this ******* TURNIP... this...
BEETROOT of a "man":
you swear at me, one more (*******) time...
and i'll have to ejected!
not today, "mate"... you don't get that (*******)
luxury...

sure... sure... as if people ever cared...
i was bitten by a "tarantula" watching the public
reaction: absolutely no reaction...

the light of the moon is closest to the "heart"
of the shadow come the time of the harvest of the seasons:
come Autumn and the time of Winter:
the brightest shadows are cast upon this
glory of earth...

i was due a proper celebration...
i had to summon a libido of grief...
from a shift at the London Stadium i had to make my way
back into Essex
and visit a brothel: i wasn't expecting to wait for
an hour though: although an hour i waited...
i entertained the Madame
with some Red Hot Chili Peppers....
apparently i have a good taste in music...

brothel, the usual ****?
i'm not going to go into any details:
Duke of Sussex has me covered...
the whinging ginger **** that he is...
BALDY-BALSO!...
ooh! slapper-'ed!
    
    of course i went to the brothel!
i had my **** ****** akin to being
circumcised! i "thought":
now's the time for three-*******'s worth of
feels!
i waited for an hour...
once the hour was "gone"
an Afghan "Jamie" emerged with
a pocket full of marijuana...
i started sniffing the bud like a dog...

oomph: oomph!
what sweetness of an Afghan..
who isn't selling you cut-off ******* of
Jamaican *******...
you just know:
an Afghan sells you marihuana...
he's also selling you poppy milk...
but at least he's not selling you:
******* SAWDUST...
fibreglass from the Vietnamese cookie-cutters...
i got home and drank a little more...
then rolled my a fatty... smoked it in the garden...
and: as usual, the mixture of alcohol and marijuana
hit me like a falling mountain...
the last time i smoked was... ooh...
well over 10 years ago...
  and i'm saying: if an Afghan brings you marihuana:
or rather...
i had to waited for that ****** hour while
all the girls were busy...
i asked the Madame if i could go out for a cigarette...
standing outside: for me, standing casually outside
a brothel is like me standing casually outside a pub...
aha! here we go! one scuttling rat...
i saw him trying to leave in the corner of my eye...
i saw him open the entrance door and then
cower and go back in...
                  English, obviously:
those Victorian "sentiments" concerning sexuality
are: ******* prosaic on someone born
on the continent... i was going to say: hey, mate...
don't be coy, alright? you're not a woman...
i think what put him off was that as he was leaving
the brothel he heard my choice of music
blasting in the waiting room...
he must have been like: "what?! no Romanian
giddy / ****** pop-rap?! who put this music on?!"
he finally made it out in one piece or another...
trying to avert me gazing at him...

oh! such shame! such shame! such terrible shame!
i walked back in and that's when i met
my Afghan "Jamie"... weird name for an Afghan,
isn't it? i thought... long hair... the complete ******
look...
i'm telling "you": if an Afghan offers you marihuana?
you ******* take it...
Afghans are not Jamaicans or any of those little
Vietnamese ****** that mix fibreglass with the "herb"...
the last time i smoked marijuana this good
i was smoking it in Amsterdam...
i was slightly drunk: sexually emptied / satisfied...
the queen just died... i had to...

lo and behold! no paranoia! nothing!
all the best grooves... i was falling asleep in a transcendent
cocoon of my own self:
grinning that creature in Apex Twin's video:
Window-Licker (nice term, for a ******)...
when i was younger i would use the cognitive-whirlwind
in my head to write something:
i'm older, a bit less stupid... i was like:
oh no no... no writing... i'm taking to the "surf":
i'm going to be grinning like a crying clown all the way
to the land of Nod...

i gave the Afghan my number, he couldn't remember his...
he promised that if i met him again:
he would introduce me to Afghan hash...
he still hasn't called...
i'm thinking: if i go back to the brothel, again...
i'll leave my number with the Madame and tell her:
when Afghan "Jamie" shows up, can you please
tell him to give me a call?
he gave me two buds... again: that's another aphrodisiac:
marijuana... but it's an aphrodisiac in reverse...
it perpetuates the ****** encounter:
it elevates thinking about *** along the lines
of daughter, mother, grandmother...
    sister... wife, *******...

on this very day i experienced every possible
category of woman...
**** me: add queen to that list...
                                so the Afghan was waiting for
his friend... they paid by hours... me?
i figured out the brothel after earning my money:
half an hour slots...
i'm not here to see a priest or a psychiatrist...
although i didn't see the former: i've seen enough
of the latter to know the ******* slapping tease it "feels"
like to talk your problems out
rather than doing the utmost sensible thing of:
thinking yourself out...

how did i combat my "schizophrenic" symptoms...
bilingualism! ha ha!
i stopped thinking in narrative-English altogether...
my cognitive-narrative ability has been long ago ******...
i'm a shrapnel-shadow of my former self...
when everything seemed "solipsistic" and in a rigid-linear
form...
mind you: they diagnosed me as such...
but did i ever step foot into an asylum?
not, that, i, know of...
        i did see a lot of medical students though...
the psychiatrists asked if it would be o.k. for them to
scrutinise me as part of their training:
sure, no problem!
    that's the funny thing about going mad...
you can only go mad once...
the second time madness approaches you:
  you're already riding the death spider into a cobweb
of: like a tired man falls into his bed...
i started falling into a comfort of wearing armour...
that i myself crafted under the guidance of
Hephaestus...

  monotheism and globalism: two inseperable concepts
known to man... and both: terrible for all men...
come to think of it... monotheism = globalism...
i sometimes wish i knew more about the Slavic gods...
but i guess the Greek deities and the deities of the Norse
men will suffice... at least with this trend of thought:
there's less concern for the self as atom and pivotal
for everything that's otherwise decided by luck,
fate, karma... no... the western thinking concerning
the individuation process of establishing the self
as the pinnacle has reached a cul de sac... a dead end...

it's time to return to the old order of things...
i can't be stuck in the monotheism of: mea culpa this
mea culpa that...
this idolatrous self-centrism and self-critique:
i know when i'm wrong... i'll apologise:
but certain "things" are beyond my control!
and for "things" to be beyond my control?
there can't just be one god with a plethora of names
of noun-adjectives:
what do most people complain about in terms
of politics and organisation? esp. in America?
local government vs. the centralised federal politics...
it's the same with theology...
i almost wish there was a politicology...
but there isn't... there isn't...

oh sure... sure... monotheism is grand...
just this "one god" that's the (+) magnet for all these
(-) selves... my self, your self: in the reflective form...
myself and yourself in the reflexive form...
only recently i managed to witness the shift
in the earth's trajectory: it tilted...
that... the URSA MAJOR = URSA MINOR...
it's the same ****** constellation!
the earth moves from summery seasons
into the wintry seasons... it, *******: TILTS!

it's the same constellation! during the summery months
we witness the microscopic detail of the constellation...
in the wintry months when the north is tilted back:
we see the same constellation: on a macroscopic detail:
it's one and the same!
there are not two apart... well... from where i'm standing:
believable by the naked eye... that's what it looks like...

unless light can turn ******* corners...
i'm going to be fixated on that...
or that there are "corners" concerning floating
orbs in silence to begin with!
Little Bear during Autumn and Winter...
and Mother "big" Bear during Spring and Summer...
i thought that was ****** obvious!
no? what am i? another ******* Copernicus?!
****... ****! oh ****: i have no telescope... ****** it all
to hell!

i do have this one query... see... i sometimes play
a game with my eyes... i stress my hawkish eyesight
on something close to me...
do you know that we have these strange parasites
living on our eyes?!
oh... they're microscopic... i can see them...
i'm not talking about:
  the eqalussuaq and the ommatokoita... well... i sort of am...
yeah... they're like ribbons of procreative jelly...
winding and swirling... i can see them with my eyes...
on my ******* eyes: can you imagine?
i'm looking at someone that's on my eyes:
microscopic... i must be out there: no wonder
i haven't touched any psychedelic drugs, yet...
when dementia kicks in: please! dementia! kick in!
i want a mushroom to hijack my gorilla brain!
              
mein gott: if i had children of my own...
what horrible monsters i would have to create...
but i have no time:
i'm forever enthralled by the 1980s post-punk
music scene... Depeche Mode and the Cure
were just the tip of the ice-berg...
recently? i came across Blue Kremlin... the song:
fallbeil... i was sort of aware of the genre:
i could never do much with either punk
or rap music...
who was that protagonist of spreading the knowledge
of music to people? Sam Peele, Tim Peele?
John... i sometimes feel like i'm the audience
of one... i hate listening to the radio:
the reasons are obvious: i like to sieve through music
of my own accord:
i switch off whenever i hear music curated for: not me...
no wonder i'm using facebook at a back-catalogue
of music i listened to...
diary entry no. "x": i was actually looking
for this song...

Musta Paraati: Romanssi...
              my bookmarks failed me... i need to employ
at least two sets of bookmarks...
then i move onto the next band...
if i had children of my own? i don't think i'd have
the time to sift through all the music:
democracy is painful...
it would sometimes feel so much easier to follow
one "line of letters": to only have knowledge
of the Quran... to abolish music...
it would last longer...
i'd be the one with a wife and children
and cultural responsibilities...
instead? i'm? hardly lamenting...
the one without a piggy-bank of expenditure...
ever heard of a penny-rattle-inside-a-piggy-bank /
a lean pig?! life's not getting any better:
life has reached a plateau...

for sure: the children of strangers with me
playing the role of the "weird" uncle:
i'm just distant... even though the queen died...
what game me sanity was: thinking about
playing with Malvina...
throwing *****: rolling *****...
oh: and of course: the brothel...
i just couldn't believe how veneer prone the whole
affair was...
these, *******... would still, rather:
sing the "anthem" of their local football team...
than sing: what ought to have been sung:
god save the king, instead?
they sand god save the queen!
the queen is dead! "was": is!

i was given a dose of the anaesthesia that only crowds:
unruly crowds can provide...
  i was even asked by one of the managers to
not "drool" with a sombre expression on my face...
with my eyes i told him to *******...
maybe it has no consequence for a people
lifted from the squalor of western Africa
now living their dreams in the Caribbean...
but **** me... some of these places were
not colonies: they were obliged to be: protectorate(s)...
they were under the obligation of the British
Empire to continue their ways:
they weren't colonies... they didn't have
a colony status: they had a protected status...

who was robbed? Africans sold African into slavery...
the chief of X-tribe realised: wow! i have too many young,
strong, retards in my tribe...
i want this amount of women in my harem...
might as well catch them and sell them off!
it's not like the Africans ended up doing the Slavic-******
jobs of coalmining...
seems rather glamorous: moving from cotton-picking
to playing basketball / inventing jazz as a breakaway
from classical music straitjackets...

bemoan my hernia when i was born: i will:
but not this... funny that... all those first prized black
supremacists bemoaned: the **** of our women!
the **** of our women!
i've seen how certain black women raise their kids:
it's ******* ugly... why black men fall back on white
women... me too (#): black men have nice features...
i'm not surprised why white girls fall for black men...
i have no issue:

but there's a "Russian" in me that will not be cucked...
so if white girls find black men so attractive...
am i? supposed to follow suite?! i.e. find black
girls attractive?! i... SIMPLY ******* CAN'T!
at work we were queuing up and i was just slightly
brushing up against this black woman ahead of me:
i was being bushed from the back...
she had so much defensive armour about her
i felt like a Saracen archer talking to a Frankish knight...

me?! touching you?!
god forbid i ever touch you! i don't want to touch you!
i hope you don't touch me?!
how am i touching you?! i showed her the distance
between our bodies and exposed both hands
holding ****...
i don't give a ****'s two uncle's spare of white
girls "breaking boundaries" of crafting the second
non-Hispanic "Brazil":
as long as they're not Russian girls:

this is going to be an anti-racist statement...
i feel gladdened seeing a black man with a black woman
having black babies...
why is this an anti-racist statement?
because it doesn't force the RACISM of INTERRACIALISM...
of blurring the whole origin and perpetuation
of race to begin with...
sure... white girls can have a thing for black guys...
but as a white guy... i don't have a "thing" for
black girls...
Turkish? Iranian? Arabic in general?

anything with raven hair and olive skin...
once in a while i pass the passage from Ilford to
Stratford... some Pakistani simpleton feels this
dire desire to spit on the pavement...
******* toad of a creature: hopefully not insulting
the toad: the "conqueror": what a necessary belitteling
of a man... i do understand cyclists harking
spit when becoming exhausted:
but for the simple circumstance of a ****- seeing
a white man "invade" his cultural membrane whittle
"Mecca": it's like rereading Dostoyevsky's Notes
from the Underground in reverse...
little people: little things...
              
              little concerns for me to begin with...

between the dictate of segregation:
all the Pakistanis occupy the lands between the A406
from Ilford through to Stratford...
Tower Hamlets...
all the "better" Indian subcontinent folk moved
to the outer regions of urbanisation...
from Ilford all the way through to Romford
we have the Sikhs and the Hindus...
at work? i'm a minority white boyo...
ha ha... "talk" of minority status:
who the **** ever said i'm English?!
perhaps in Chelmsford: but even there
i would have been asked about my "accent":
and i would probably reply like that one comedian
at the Edinburgh comedy club: you maybe have noticed
that i have an accent... yes:
it's ED-U-CAY-TED... educated...

it's a generic accent: standard English:
not localised English...
i can become a mean: pompous *******
when i hear enough pompous ******* *******
from people who "think" they are worth more than me
without any basis for receiving the required
credit in making: said assumptions...

rancid Berlin!

only one's missing: the one with glasses...
afer her: i will have ****** the whole brothel...
and still i'm not satisfied!
i'll need to find a new brothel!
**** me: that was, slightly, unexpected!

the queen is dead! long live the king!
i have no time for pardons...
the wilting flowers is ever a prescription for
spotting a wilt of tree (a),

i'm having this... Milan Kundera moment...
what other Czech writer do i have in my library?
Miroslav Holub: a truly great poet...
my mother's maiden name is: Batuk...
which is probably Czech...
            often confused by my "fellow" countrymen
as Batóg...
      i'm listening to Heilung's Norupo....
                      i'm writing in English...
      the tongue of commerce and idea-fluidity...
but i'm having this Milan Kundera moment...
       it was at the London Stadium overseeing
the ingress of the crowd for the Monster Jam (monster
truck) event that i overheard the minority tongue
being spoken: by a father to a son...
******... i was almost tempted to say:
miłego spektaklu:
     have a pleasant time seeing the spectacle...
two words vs. seven...
              English is so imperfect...
you only need to hear the natives speak so profoundly
of it to realise... but i can express what i want
in just two words... while the English
have to use seven words to orientate what
they're trying to say: i don't need to orientate
what i'm going to say: i just say it...
hence? the almost complete lack of using
the pronouns in the ****** tongue...
    esp.: the iota: I...
            
            living in a multicultural society:
i'm used to it... i build up with nausea whenever
i return to the "homeland"... when i'm
swallowed up by the crowds of Warsaw...
i'm white among whites...
more so... i'm ethnically this swallowed up
by what's ethnically me...
                           i don't have a problem with race...
i'll **** anything than moves...
i prefer Romanian girls, i prefer Turkish girls...
i'd love to **** a proper Celtic ginger, though,
but they're sort of taboo in their own eyes...

point being... that *******...
it's the closest i've ever come to rekindling memories
of childhood...
it truly felt like rekindling memories
of my childhood... back in Poland...
at the twilight of the dead-end closure of
the experiment of Communism...
perhaps in the West the Germanic peoples thought
the Slavs were stupid enough to invest
their efforts in Communism...
sure... we tried it... it failed...
    since the West wasn't ravaged by either
Ottoman Turk or Mongol invasions...
this buffer zone of the continent wanted to try
something different...
              
while neutral countries like Sweden were given
American handouts after the second world war...
Poland was given a handout...
first came the Nazis... then came the Communists...
super!
          
the *******...
   one knew i was favouring the other...
*** has transformed me...
   transactional-clarity *** has...
                   i don't date...
hmm...
           i'm always turned off when someone's
talking during ***...
   alea iacta est...
                         ******* of stating the obvious:
two girls? you must feel like a king...
30 minutes later i was the same pauper poet...
but the other one knew my intentions...
she tried to avoid giving me her lips...
she gave me her cheeks... her jaw...
her collarbone... her ears... her hair...
and... her hand-job... well lubricated...

                   her eyes... her tenderness... and her eyes
that knew everything... that a massive storm
reigns on Jupiter with that eternal whirlwind
of the Eye... and she told me that without me even
needing to invent a telescope...
by simply looking at me with what became
a mutual consent and contentment of a longing...
like magnets ++
         repelled yet at the same time spontaneously
flipping into a +- dynamic...

how do i know this?
  the boisterous one... the one with duck lips...
the one that insisted on having the *******...
she was all too ready to earn the money...
her ******* did come into good use...
makeshift ******... i must have *******
right up to her chin since she retorted with
an awkward surprise... took a shower...
insisted i take a shower too...
    but the girl that was giving me a hand-job... didn't...

after i climbed out of the shower and started
dressing myself in my work clothes...
buttoning my shirt up and putting on my tie...
the loud duck-lip fake-lady of the night
was already too eager to tell me goodbye...
    but the girl i truly wanted was standing behind
me... before me: a mirror and myself...
she behind me... massaging my shoulders
and back...

                  you learn to shut up for long enough...
you learn to read eyes...
   oh those eyes...

and that memory of mine...
didn't i conjure up the idea that Darwinism is
a geocentric model... the antithesis of the Copernican
heliocentric model? does it really matter?

i can't say that memory is a fickle creature:
sure... it's eroded by education 1 + 1 = 2 etc.
but... even if my first memories are of being 4...
i do remember sitting on a stump of a tree
eating candyfloss... contemplating
the idea of: inseminating a ***** with human
*****... and the reverse... inseminating a woman
with dog *****...

    that's all before being revealed / made aware
of Mary Shelley's idea of Frankenstein...

race-mixing... Darwinism... so why is it that
a Gorilla will not breed with a Chimpanzee?
if man is all-powerful and so godly...
why not try this experiment?
       what man did with dogs... surely man
can attempt with primates...
breed Gorilla males with Chimpanzee females,
no?
        well... if it took us so long to
adapt geographically to our environment
whether via Africa or Scandinavia...
the levelling of copper-neck pseudo-north-African
throughout...
let's mix the primates...
like we mixed the canines...
       let us create some new hybrids!

i'd love to see what a mix of Gorilla and Chimpanzee
looks like...
but why is it that they do not mix inherently?
what?!
             personally i love seeing a black boy
in a romance with a black girl...
it's my new found fetish...
          as is my fetish for seeing...
perhaps: the ***** of a horse invested into
the reproductive parallel of a cow...

how else were donkeys conjured?
                    hey! hey!
                 why stop on creating dogs with
smashed snouts and breathing problems?!
seems rather cruel to not explore further...
after all... Darwinism is a geocentric model...
i don't need to explore the heliocentric
model any further... the moon has been conquered...
let's be brave!
           let's become children again!

we're mixing races... let's attempt to breed
giraffes with elephants!
          who said no?!
              how were pigs brought into existence?
a boar was given access **** to...
exactly?! what was furless and resembling
the boar?
         and the Sphynx cat?!
                        
once the theory of evolution emerged... people...
have become very... very much:
reserved... we could be creating so many new
breeds of life...
instead of simply falling back on interracial
"affairs"... that's the lazy option... copper-neck
plateaus... we'll all be quasi-Arabs one generation
then the racial diluting will overtake "our"
luvvy-dubby prejudices of "modern times"...
modern my ***...

             and i am a hypocrite in my line of argument:
which gives me "privilege" in "arguing"
this point... i say: free the reins! let nature reign!
after all, nature abhors vacuum!

natura abhorreo vacuum...

           why stop?! clearly the ancients had some
imagination and a sense of thrills
beyond the safety-nets of base-jumping...
imploding gravity...
        they "invented" the pigs...
no... they just figured... too much hassle hunting
wild boars... let's create something dependent
on us to rear it... let's breed the boar
with something resembling our nakedness...
let's tend to it...

    the Muslim antithesis of god the creator of all
things pristine... the sun and the moon
and when the mountain came to Muhammad...
yet? well... not such a pristine god if he also
prohibits ingesting something...
     bad logic... very bad bag of logic...
chances are the biggest tapeworms are to be found
inside marine creatures...
no prohibition of eating *****...
   even though ***** are scavengers...

        i say **** it... let's mix everything together...
let's have a Darwinian festival... a "pride month"
of experimenting with inter-species...
we might conjure up a second donkey...
by breeding bull ***** with a horse's ****...
i'm tired of the sensible pact:

    pax sensibilis of exploring the void... the stars...
we're not moving... to hell we're not moving!
i'm supposed to be the madman
but i'm living among bigger madmen...
i'm fuming at the mouth thinking not thinking
about how unrealistic people are becoming...
so... safe... so cushioned... so... vanilla...

and what happened to the people who tested out
Communism... after...
was it the French Revolution that prompted
the ****** from inbreeding "royalty"?
or was it the Russian revolution that made
the inbreeding ****** reconsider their power dynamic?!

let's face it... the first "world war"?
family infighting... cousin fighting uncle...
just when mother died...

nicknames and funny surnames,
i can take apart Darwin...

dar (gift) win(a) - wine / guilt...
gift of wine...
           troublesome the win(a)...
i.e. morphes into: dar winy (gift of guilt)
whereas dar wina (gift of wine)...
                      hey... tongue of playgrounds...
i'm still refreshed by a game we played
as children: hide & seek...
i'm still hiding myself from myself
and seeking myself into / within myself...
it's some ancient game some of us lucky ones
were still "promised" to be allowed to play...

unisex... boys and girls...
                not this current pseudo-Germanic
in vitro anaesthesia dynamic...
  it's sick mannequin *****-donning condoms
on your head superstition of above-average
superiority...
                            some ******* calamity of moral
agendas... of course i'm fury! of course i'm
havoc!
               why do you think the Russians
attacked the Ukrainians?! why the Polacks
allowed over a million of war-refugees into their land?!
eh?! ethnic-implosion...
  
   i might write in English... but... i'm not English...
no ******* migrant crisis from either Africa or
the Middle East is going to bother the Slavic people...
i once joked with my mother:
Polacks have this aversion to spices...
bay leaf... yep, sure sure... all-spice... yep yep, sure...
paprika... smoked paprika for the Hungarians...
horseradish... rosemary, thyme... parsley...
     dill...

listen! it's Darwinism in action! why be averted by
what's supposedly common knowledge?!
not everyone can be as post-colonial cucked
as the English bourgeoisie...
              who's kids fancy a neo-Communism...
when the old Communism: defeated...
was... pretty much a Pan-Slavic movement...
right... the bright-younglings of England and former
colonies are going to usurp a system that
breeds beached-whale-beauties...
          
   never mind that Communism was first experimented
with in Mongolia...
a sort of: thank you... for Genghis Khan genes...
me neither... i couldn't strap myself
to a single woman...
               i couldn't... i need to be vague when i ****...
elusive... not even there...
i need to love as many women in a pardon
for sometimes hating myself...

ha ha...
      what crisis?!
   where?! self-defence mechanisms kicking in...
are we truly all loved up with each other?
and what African nation ever conquered anything
outside of Africa for the "race" to be dubbed
the Orcs?!
              honestly? i've love to be a minority
living in Kenya... maybe i might be chosen
for a television advert... advertising... soap...
or... cheese...
                            
                        clearly i love the war inside my head...
it will pass as soon as i stop typing this...
i need to water the flowers in the garden...
very Voltaire of me...

                      sometimes a subject that claims the authority
over the world comes into my vicinity & consciousness...
whether by force or by authority...
or by passively lingering...
                      and i acknowledge it...
but... at the same time... this world has no
authority to claim the sanctity of my little makeshift
monastery of solitude and heightened
hypocrisy of eroticism...

   it's not longer enough to be simply "right":
or, "moral"...
               times are changing... it's no longer to
be the super-man... to be the over-man...
to overcome being human...
    times are changing... it's time to be the allesmann...
to be the all-encompassing man...
everything! the good, the ill! to look beyond
good and evil: truthfully!
                       no need to pander to the nunnery...
the fine line between contradicting oneself
and at the same time embracing onself:
conflating good with evil
   rather than making distinctions between the two!

maybe the serpent should have said:
and you will know the difference between good WITH evil
rather than... and you will know the difference
between good AND evil?!              no?!

obviously both sentences are a joke...
good is good
    and evil is evil...
               man left in a limbo of nuances and the bible
of lawyers', rhetoricians', sophists'... i.e. the thesaurus:
man writes laws: all of man's laws are subjective laws...
man uses the thesaurus...
man doesn't write objective laws: man doesn't write
the law of gravity...
man discovers the law of gravity...
man utilises a dictionary; the end.

there's that saying: you'll be lucky to have one true friend
when you get older,
perhaps one in your 20s... befriended in early childhood
or in your teenage years and the friendship
with drag into your later life... at least through your
20s... rarely into your 30s...
                            i don't think there's anything to bemoan
about that... why would there be:
      esp. if you manage to find a centre-of-self within
      you will almost certainly find a lot of "things" to be
classified as without:
                on top of the fact that you can never find
what some people (mostly women) call this concept
of self-love... me? love myself?
               i hate myself and i "love" myself...
in the light of words: i think it's more important to
be able to comfort oneself, to be able to comfort oneself
is what love denies on the stretch of the other's whim...
i hate my irritable bowels when i spend the day
contemplating why it's impossible for me to take a single
well-baked **** and forget about it for the rest
of the day... instead... these cut-off nuggets of ****
that turn my head spinning and give me an inverted
headache of the brain knocking on my forehead
rather than shrinking in the skull from dehydration...
people grow apart for good enough reasons they
were close to each other for the same good reasons...
although i sometimes dream up the sort of life my
grandfather led - watching a small town become industrialised,
the population never gravitating beyond 100,000...
familiar faces... all the familiar faces...
                 a thief wouldn't be able to walk through
this same "village" through twice: Heraclitus and the river
analogy... if water is the emblem of time
then space can only be air...
                 i wonder what's fire and what's earth...
                            reading snippets from Knausgaard's
volume 6 concerning ******...
           honestly? if you turn a blind-eye on all the horrors...
i think he lived a most admirable life...
honestly... but like any "apologetics"...
                     if i were to disregard actual history and just
look at ******'s life up to a certain point...
****... perhaps not only an admirable life but also an admirable
person... sounds strange...
                   but maybe that's the only way to read
Mein Kampf... if it is read and written by someone else
in the context of his own life...
                          of course excluding the reality
of the Holocaust... or the fact that ****** didn't actually do
any of the slaughterhouse deeds...
                    you can admire something so disgusting and murky
on the basis of the central proponent of the deeds
having a Pontius Pilate approach: i.e. having clean hands...
Pontius Pilate's deed of washing his hands clean
from the whole affair is like Julius Caesar uttering
the words: alea iacta est... let fate decide...
                  let's gamble... the frivolity of responsibility...
friends aside...
                                  writing might have been a passion
for me once... when i first started to scribble my little extension
of thought...
   but after a while this passion became a:
compulsion... now... a passion is not a compulsion...
writing has become a compulsion...
                    i can't stop doing it: therefore i don't care
whether i do it well or do it poorly:
   which is why i don't really care for recognition for it,
or money, for it, or awards, for it...
               i just can't stop doing it...
                                    but you'll be lucky... truly lucky...
to be able to pull but one passion from your childhood
into adulthood...
    i was lucky... i tried various things...
rock climbing, swimming, lacrosse, rugby,
      walking marathons... gaming...
                     collecting *******...
                              
on the basic premise of what's to be celebrated
in western culture, i.e. individualism:
then yes, ****** is an admirable figure...
i hate the idea of this man being the epitome of
what's evil... i can find countless examples of evil
could breed toward the fathom of your average
in-and-out solipsist...
by now Genghis Khan is venerated
but as the story goes... each nation that was
conquered by the Mongols set that nation back
200 years in development...
early Christians burning down the ancient library
of Alexandria... Pope Alexander VI (Borgia)...
oh the highly venerated status symbol -
yet what god-awful deeds are hidden under his belt...
this masquerade of concretely stating
what is good and what is evil...
                to me it's all meshed into one massive
confusion-stressor... it was a lie bound in metaphor
of the origins of this story...
                               i.e. 'and you will know the difference
between good and evil'...
if i were to write a Hippocratic Oath song
i'd sing it as: what doesn't harm is oh so good,
because what does harm me is oh so evil...
whiskey whiskey no blues...
just like i don't know whether i should
like Madonna's don't tell me is
a **** song compared to any high-brow-beatings
or rather is, a quintessential pop song
i can listen to and feel stupid about liking (it)...

there's enough time for revisions to be put in place...
in no defence of ******... Himmler was worse...
i'm justifying none of it but without ****** there would
be no sped up resurrection of the state of Israel...
personally, i feel there's no new start originating
in the 21st century... but so much was done
in the 20th century that as the years pass of the first 22 of this
century i'm witnessing a plateau-sickness...

passions versus compulsions...
   thank **** and the tiny dove of god that i kept
one passion from my youth... namely? cycling...
even today... cycling up Bedford's path up the hill
to Havering-atte-Bower village's cricket ground...
pebbles pebbles everywhere but no mountains...
and then? a prior to crash on the A12 junction
cutting up Mawney Rd. - stopping off
an a Tesco Express to pick up today's newspaper...
walk in, walk out... get back on my bicycle...
feelings mutual: wonky...
get off the bicycle... check with my thumb
the air pressure in the tyres...
oh no! no! **** it! how did i manage to flat-out
the front tyre? it took me about 40min to walk from
the point of puncture all the way home...

                           but cycling is still a passion:
it's not a compulsion...
                      i sometimes wish i could stomach telling
myself: you know that this writing is mediocre,
no? you could spend the same amount of time
talking to someone intimately...
right... about what? what curtains we need to buy?
what's missing in our lives?
   what's there apparent... i think it's just the same:
i write about something mediocre or i write about it...
at least by writing about i'm wasting my own time...
not having those supposed counter-moments
of intimacy with someone concrete...

i think about this for about half a minute while i...
lapse into my other passion:
rolling tobacco... since she complained that
i was **** at rolling cigarettes...
whenever we would be smoking marijuana during
or prior to or after having ***...
well... time spent apart gave me the right sort
of "itchy fingertips"...

strange so... being in one's mid 30s moving from
memories of being a child and showcasing in the mind
the crux of an existential affair...
the deaths of those currently closest...
i'm gearing up and thinking: what am i going
to do with all this clamour, this hoarding...
it's not they invested in a dowry...
like they might have invested in helping me to
get on a mortgage ladder...

i wake up and always remember to teach one lesson
of mortality thoroughly...
i'll be dead if i'm not already dying...
introspection of all things blasé:

       ******* Horace...

nullus argento color est avaris
abdito terris, inimice lamnae
Crispe Sallusti, nisi temperato
splendent usu.

    the brilliance of a treasure in the earth
will not be gained for you, oh Crispe,
even if the most grandiose would gather
only mediocre use of explanations
of the nobleness of silver....

that sounds about right; right toward an eight...
i translated some Horace for
posterity, time can, tumult in a tide
and move on...
the excavations of our times... archeologically...
historically... is going to be crushing..
the already presented reality is  crushing blow...
time is a geology without mountains and stones...
Darwinism is subordinate to geology...
personal life? trifles...
         this impossible reality and history to live
in... given the set scientific standards of
explaining ****... while also working
a job of minimal skill level improvement...
as a supermarket cashier...

******... sooner rather than later
flu will not be a problem but a collective
depressing realisation of... living in a lapse
of time ever passing... passing a certain dictum
of furthering progress...
i remember to light a candle with a scent of vanilla
and i try to remember that... newspapers
are not printed... for at least one day
in the week's worth of cutting up
a differentiation of time...

i need to acknowledge my mediocracy....
mein eigenes mittelmäßigkeit...
              i'm not about to bloat and blow up a balloon
of egoistical fancies...
          the sea is here, the mountain is here...
so is the sun the moon and the tide...
and i'm also, slowly, here, too...
           i want to borrow speaking German
without having a conversation...
because? after all, ****** was German,
Austrian, sure... whatever...
he tried to imitate the look of Chaplin...

                                  it's still freshly cleaned wounds...
but all the Ubermensch died serving the cause
of the Wehrmacht... anyway...
so... look at me... trying to be least invested
conjuring of continuum...
the past said: no no... the future hardly said
a yes...
                i feel both entrenched and both
strapped to a spider-web with latex
inhibitions of: playground fun....
translated into bedroom antics...
                
                 admirable, the agility of the human
body...
            as if: the human mind
is to best equipped with, having: standing:
equivalent to... freely ******* in an alleyway....

i shouldn't have ever, rekindled my
desires for marijuana smoking
because: oh god, society's great endeavour...
in familial ties contradicting individualism
and the great ****** exploration, epoch...
my god... butcher the "****"...
that one ought to ***** a *******' worth of
"trendy"...
                  
      sorry ******... here we tilt toward
***** and: leisure!
                  let's get skin-basked....
while the returns are? a ******* plenty!

All roads converge
In Rome, they say
Wild geese do
Stop here on their way
To Libya, to grab a lunch
And to greet their kin
On the Capitol Hill
The church bells do fly
There on the Easter holiday
The weekend to enjoy
And to taste the Dolce Vita
But does the Thirteenth Legion,
Know where it goes,
While marching south
Through January sleet
On Via Flaminia,
Rubicon left past their heels?
I know the dice are cast,
But the men,
Do they know?
Great Caesar,
Respond,
I ask you
Virtuous Gaius Iulius,
Do they know?