The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ----
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free ----
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

Gendering Woman *******

Beautiful, anatomical part //  Ugly, anatomical part
Natural, pleasurable             //   Burdensome, loathsome
Female Symbolic                //    Femme Symbolic
MALIGNANT                             HEALTHY

fearful, tearful, wretched     //  joyful, hopeful, euphoric,
bereft, wept, grieving          //  embryonic, rapt, relieving
leaving, loss                         //  believing, gain
m a y b e - d e a t h                                            r e - b i r t h
                                                   BI-LATERAL
                                             MASTECTOMIES
Operating Theatre

SURGEON                                         ANAESTHETIST
cleaning/ cutting/ knife/ scalpel   //   doping/ unconscious/ airway
blood / tissue                                 //   hypotension
loss/ damage                                 //   shock
drains                                             //   sinus rhythm
stitches                                           //   pain deadening
tight binding                                 //   reversal drugs
                                    
POST-OPERATIVE
a l i v e                                                a w a k e

draining, bound & stitched               draining, bound & stitched
                                            DRAINED
    ­                                   ~ UNBOUND
                                       -- UNSTITCHED –

Empty chest                                                    Flat Chest
FREEDOM from Disease                               FREEDOM from Dis-ease


© M.L.Emmett

the concept of money, a dualism of value and devaluation, was based upon the worth of what darwinism could say about that monkey statement: you scratch my back, i scratch your. darwinism is a failure in terms of economics, that great human get-together, let's congregate, and instead of a stampede of buffalo we'll have ourselves a revolution... the failure of the monetary system: an invisible shining of gold is the fact that gold was once valued and now is devalued, money is a very serious virus, it requires something new to make it an asset, and something old to make it devalue it (a non-asset)... money is also a way to say: you be a plumber for me, while i be your middle-classed opinion making machine paying you, there's no monkey scratches another monkey's back in this story... money is the only invisible object that wants to intertwine so many others in its spider-web...  just so it can make itself visible, money added to gold will only be seen via the madness of thrór (throor).*

for now most of us are literate,
and by literacy
we are told to plough
the great genetically modified
fields of vegetables...
we've been made literate
but by the same acquisition
of literacy, the old powers
which once laid sway to this
monopoly have left its powers,
and instead of those to tend to
arable land we are left with
poets... we have become
straitjacket bound to the blank
pages... once the expression
of the mountain of muscles
which left us thoughtless...
now the work be eased,
and our body's harsh expression
of mandibles b forgotten...
and how we search for the same
expression of labour...
to have thought labour be exchanged
into equal labour of thought...
like muslims favouring
the elemental intoxication via the
element of air and its burned weeds,
discriminating with the element of
water and alcohol...
but we have been deceived in
being given such sudden literacy,
when literacy monopolised for so
long a status of power...
and because there's no field to plough
and live naturally, exhausted,
we've seen to be living by a new plough,
bishops and knights of the new order,
the legions of psychiatrists...
the stiff air of rooms with brimming
sulphur awaiting... no free air
of the field and strength of ploughing...
for ploughing can be quantified
with eager hands and hungry and emptied
bellies... but how quantify thought?
why... you'll only quantify thought
by a failing... and leave the quality of thought
to the ones reigning the quantification of it,
and the quantification of it
leads to nonsense or nothing,
akin to the ones qualified to
think, not the ones quantified
to do so in think-tanks
and political parties:
why then gollum invisible and sauron visible
wearing the ring in the narrated depiction?
well... apparently, the question aside:
we're not qualified to think,
because our "thought" is quantifiable
as soldier, baker, banker, spy...
but it's qualified to be an expectation
of a non-quantifiable thinking
which de-qualifies it from an original
intention, the intended quantifiable,
which leaves the existence of quantum physics
the deity of two humanisms arguing
on the simpler geographic, i.e. spelling:
quantity v. quality: both qua (as being),
far far away from what i said to an
anaesthetist having my wisdom teeth pulled out,
saying: quo vadis?
i guess it would make sense to have simply said:
qua quo non vadis esse omnis verax
(as being, as going, nowhere to be honest,
in all honesty).

“We are all actors in an idiots play A tale of sound and fury,
meaning naught. Yet who would care to be a wise man's pawn
Where every twist of fate is well deserved And where a single flaw
could ruin lives? Far better to be in a madman's mind At least for
those (and are we all not so?) Whom fate has smiled on more than
we deserve If life were fair, earth would be hell indeed.”

“Macbeth” William Shakespeare.


From out of the darkness I can see an ever increasing
glow. Intensifying with luminosity as it gets closer and closer.
The blinding eye of fate is upon me. I am thrown with
tremendous vigour. Into where? I have no idea! Surrounded now,
by the blackest of blacks. I can only liken it to a bubble in a pool
of crude that flows wherever the black tide takes me. All I have is
the familiar company of my own voice. A continual narration that
one could expect from a television documentary. The life and
death situ of Michael Simon Jones, filmed in black surround
vision. It reminds me of oh so many nights, when all I wanted to
do is sleep. My mind just wants to stay awake, spouting that
continuous torturous soundtrack into the early hours of the
morning.

Through the darkness a piercing light, coming to me and
then gone, to me then gone. Do I dream? Perhaps of the high
seas. I picture a large tower, It protrudes out of a vast nothing.
The only safe path to steer by is a beam of light, cast down upon
me, from up high. Its beam Revolves continually around, a never
sleeping sun. A light that prevents many flimsy craft, from
grounding onto the craggy rocks that are hidden in the darkness
of the stormy oceanic swells, that roar below.

Again the quiet is shattered, am I not to be allowed to
sleep.
It can only be a dream, for through my bleary eyes I see a figure
of a man, sporting a bright yellow helmet. He seems to be
holding a huge lobsters claw, it is chewing its way through shards
of steel that seem to imprison me. His mouth moving, but I hear
nothing. I half expect to see subtitles appear below him, like an
old Buster Keaton movie. Then he is gone and once more I drift
into that blackened void.

Now a shadowy figure appears. Bending over me his hands
are holding something over my face. I think I can feel myself
struggling against his advances. He is too strong, I can’t breathe,
is he is killing me?

What sort of nightmare is this? Flat on my back in the
darkness, I am gliding speedily along the ground. Intermittent
lights flash past my closed eyes. I recall the deep red on-off glow
of the light, diffused by the blood that rushes through my closed
lids. Can somebody turn the ******* light off, I’m trying to sleep.

Gaaaaa………… I am blinded by the worlds brightest
light! Where am I? The light subsides and I can see, but nothing
is clear. It is like looking through a frosty glass window. There is
movement below me and the bleeding blurs of colours finally
evolve into recognition. What is this? What’s going on down
there?

Rather, what the hell is going on up here? How did I get up here?
I am suspended in mid air. Look I can move my legs. Holy Mary
mother of God, I’m naked! Naked and floating around what looks
to be a hospital operating theatre. Hovering above several
gowned professionals in the toil of their labour.

A naked satellite orbiting above the planet NHS.

Now tell me if there is something wrong with this scenario, but
this is totally not normal is it? I just hope I don’t need to have a
****. I believe that there can only be two possible answers for my
predicament. First is that I am in fact having one totally out of
my head dream.

Second, that I am experiencing some sort of out of body
experience. If that is so, then I can only assume, that the person
lying on that operating table, somewhere under the mass of green
hat and gowns spread eagled on that table below, is me! If only
that fat doctor would move his head out of the way.
Bah! Only so another head can immediately take its place. I think
I now know how a ****** feels when he cant get a clear shot. Oh!
Hang on a second, the assassination can go ahead. I can see!
No that don’t help, I can’t tell who the guy is, he has a mask
covering most of his face and more tubes coming out of him than
a Scottish pipe band. Oh my God! Who else do you know with
that tattoo? I should of known that an indelible red cartoon of the
devil would not be the luckiest thing to have etched into my skin.
I wish now that I’d gone for the Sacred Heart. That might have
been the healthier option and may just of tipped the scales in my
favour. I can’t really see Saint Peter letting me through those
pearly gates with a picture of Beelzebub brandished for all and
sundry to see. Oh ****! That’s me okay, and from this position I
don’t look at all in a healthy state. Can a spirit or whatever I am,
throw up?

But how did I get here? I can’t remember anything that could of
led to this. I do remember going to bed last night, I had an early
night, don’t know why though cause I never get to sleep before
4am. Its a bit laughable I suppose, an Insomniac reading a book
called Insomnia. Perhaps a novel called sleeping tablet would be
more apt?

Unless of course…………… If I can’t remember anything since I
went to sleep then perhaps it’s because I’m still asleep and that
this is merely a dream. That makes more sense, doesn’t it? What’s
happening down there? Something doesn’t look right, things
seem very intense. If only I could make out what they were
saying, everything is silent.

“Hello! What is happening down there? Hello! Hello! Can you
hear me?”

They can’t hear me, no, of course they can’t but why can’t I hear
them? What if this is no dream? What if I am really dying on that
table down there? I can’t make out what they are doing to me but
it doesn’t look good.

There’s a lot of blood.

I wish I had taken more notice when ER was being aired on
television. The only thing I know for sure is, that is a scalpel the
surgeon is holding. The guy at the head of the table should be the
anaesthetist? the woman to the left whom looks like a nurse and
is passing the instruments, is a nurse. But the others I don’t have
a clue.

If only I could hear what they were saying. ****. This is a
nightmare, I can’t believe this. I can see them, why can’t they see
me? Oh please God let them hear me.

“I’m up here, listen to me you death ******* I’m up here.”

So close yet so far away. This can’t be real, this can’t be
happening, not to me. I’ve, never done anyone harm, I've worked
hard all my life. Always been a popular guy, never had a problem
mixing with people. What’s that the nurse is pushing around on
the trolley. I think its one of those crash box things. That’s it, a
defibrillator! *******! I don't think I'm breathing. Look at the
screen, I’ve seen enough movies to know that the green line
should not be one continuous solid.

Oh no, I’ve flat lined! I’m dead! Oh God no, not like this. Looks
like they are going to try and defib me. Here they go.

BAM!

Oh no, the line is still flat. They’re going at it again.

BAM!

****! Still nothing. What they doing now? No don’t stop!
What are they talking about? What have you got to discuss? Just
get on with it, this isn’t a ******* seminar. I’m dying down there.
Just crank that hunk of scrap iron up and send some volts through
me. God, I sound like ******* “Frankenstein,”

That’s it, he’s greasing up the connectors, here we go, here we
go.

_When I came back to the real world I had been in the land
of Coma-City for almost three months and for all of that time it
had been touch and go. It was later explained to me that I had
been involved in a RTA.

It had been surmised that due to my sleeping disorder I had fallen
asleep at the wheel of my car (A classic American 1950’s plated
Cadillac) and had veered into the oncoming traffic. Hitting at
least one vehicle and careering off road and down an
embankment. Finally coming to rest three parts of the way
through a brick built structure, this in turn supported a steel
constructed dome. Used as a point for ramblers trekking high
above Sheermont Cove and offering excellent views across the
horizon and out to sea. An ideal location in particular for budding
photographers to shoot the best possible images of Sheermont
Bay Lighthouse. The Caddie precariously balanced with its long
bonnet hanging over the edge of the cliff top.

In fact I believe that it was the domes heavy steel frame that
secured my fate. The brick walls now demolished beyond
recognition caused the now unsuspended dome to fall onto the
roof of my vehicle. Pinning it solidly to the spot, it crushed the
roof in on top of me, also saving me from plunging to the depths
below and almost certain death. I was trapped under the structure
for almost six hours. I remember very little of the ordeal as I
tripped in and out of consciousness. My rescuers had to cut me
out of the vehicle, with a tool commonly referred to as the Jaws
of Life and I was flown to hospital by air ambulance.

And here I am to tell the tale. But!

Did this metallic redeemer smile on me that fateful night? Saving
me from that almost certain death, on the rocks below Sheermont
Cove?

I think not.

The Dome. It saved my life I know this but the price I would
have to pay was far to high a toll. As I spend the rest of my days
drinking my food through the proverbial straw with only my own
mindful narration forever keeping me company.

I pray to die.

has anyone in their right state of mind ever cared to notice that Norway has: a) a rather monochromatic demography, b) has a population size worthy of royalty (i.e. small) and c) it never bothered to join the union? no, well of course not, soon the Alliance of Feminist West, i'll just cut my ***** off while i'm at it - internalised vocab correctness and a desperate need to join a club that still fights prostitution without sharing a dinner-date bill, because it's clinging to the code of Chivalry - how soon the multi-cultural experiment crumbled, oh sure, they mention the Communist experiment, but they rarely mention this ******* failure... and what a Colossus it was when it hit the ground and shattered like porcelain with gnashing of the teeth and an Indiana Jones whip of a tongue - no one mentioned the a, b or c of Norway... my grandparents are slightly xenophobic too... i guess your grandparents were more so (comes with old age, but yours see their grandchildren more often)... well... if you want, we can send you Auschwitz brick-by-brick and repatriate it in a Essex countryside if you wanna: as Burroughs noted: guards of the camps had to pet a cat for months, before gauging its eyes out to see if they had the stomach for the position, as ever, the ***** were there, but they were wondering about the stomach - now ain't that a fine fine comedy to consider, ol' Sax.

i don't know why they'd hate the Romanians,
having contacts on a building site
i can reap the benefits of such connections,
just today - two cartons of *Benson & Hedges:
that's 200 cigarettes per carton,
a bargain at 30 quid per carton -
elsewhere, extortion, a packet of Benson & Hedges
sold at a supermarket will fetch £9.66 per packet of 20 -
i got mine for 3 quid a pop -
my ten versus their "legal" 3 - not bad, not bad
at all... it's good to have friends in low places...
and believe me, they don't sell the brand in
Romania... so... well, catch a snooze while
i think of nanny and diapers and whether or
not to smoke them and eventually become an acronym
member of some civil police service minding
people's morals - strange to see the message in
English: smoking kills, smokers die younger -
missing the additional: thank ****!
when's the next train leaving? i have a bunch of
sheep that need a pat on the back re-affirmation
of the unshakeable military-industrial /
materialist-atheistic complex - we need these people
here... they need to be fed life as a placebo
with death the only effective component of their life...
but still, there's me, puffing away like some Thai
child at my Benson... good to know a few Romanians
rather than slandering them as donkeys...
you never know when a gypsy will give you a bargain,
a lucky charm and a palm reading to boot -
and believe me, don't use too much toothpaste,
use less, as told to children according to the Brothers Grimm,
a pea-sized amount, if you use more your teeth will
magically stain from the tobacco, you use less...
magic! teeth aren't stained - i haven't seen a dentist
in about three years... well apart from two wisdom teeth
being pulled out... story bite-sized before the injection
of the anaesthetic -
anaesthetist - so what do you like doing, in your spare time?
me - i like to read books.
anaesthetist - what books would you cite?
me - quo vadis.
if an epitome on a grave or my last words... just those two
would do just fine... quo vadis / where are you going?
and Britain (ahem, soon to be Scuba-diving Scots) left
the proposed resurrection of the Roman Empire, thinking
the grannies and grandpas would rekindle the stories they
heard from their grandparents about the zenith of the Victorian age?
no one is invading anyone, enslaving anyone like that anymore,
what the **** are we going to export this time round
when we don't have the redcoats to export?

islam provided a change of etymology,
ha satan is no longer
a matter of definite or indefinite accusation;
more a case of the accusing
deceived, for it it now know
that the downfall of israel due to king solomon
was due to an accuser indeed,
but its resurrection could only be
incremented by a deceiver.

p.s. a philosopher that does not meddle
in theological nouns will continue, time and time
again, entrenched in whether
hydrochloric is true to qualify
rather than already lose to the aristotelian
quantification parameter of naming, cf., properly;
apparently there's an atom spare
and it justifies socrates uttering he
knew nothing while being paradoxically engaged
in the previously un-discovered dialectics
to undermine rhetoric with a methodology (i.e.
knowing something).
before they pulled my upper madible wisdom teeth out
i was asked a question by the anaesthetist
to which i replied *quo vadis, odd, because i
should have said qua vadis, meaning in translation
not where are you going, but in second in command:
what is your manner of travelling the path being fulfilled?
by foot or by hoofed trot?,
which would make up a chiral momentary inertia
where i, a poet, about to have his wisdom teeth pulled
out, and he, an anaesthetist induced a coma on me;
so it made sense, basically.

What an intriguing opportunity a trip to Rose Cottage,
Sure sounds magical to me,
It's not a woodland haven or a diminutive house by the shore,
Came out from anaesthetist's trip,
I drifted, in and out,
A crazy dream it seemed,
Woke in rose pink room,
Thought I hadn't made it through,
For in the land of work,
A flip side of such a romantic image seen,
Rose Cottage, delightful though it sounds is life's penultimate stop called mortuary,
Before undertaking on one final trip,
Final destination, last stop guaranteed!

I wrote this as I left work after work and heard a porter discussing coming to take a patient to 'Rose Cottage'......It made me think....Hence writing this....and the anaesthetic bit is true...Freaked me out at the time!! Livvi **
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I was a new-born when you promised
You would carry me anywhere I wanted
And at any time I wanted,
You promised me safety
You promised me freedom.

Dedicated and deceptive
You had teased me growing up
But I never would have predicted
How malicious you could be
You fooled everyone, even me.

Parts of you were destroyed
But you always found other ways
To stick out, ugly and obscene
You screamed at me, you harassed me
And everyone else recoiled.

You were ruthless, relentless,
I needed your permission to leave
On the worst days I could do nothing
But lie there and seethe.

You were always there waiting,
Until I was distracted, to capture me
Trapping me in a time loop dimension
Loop after loop after loop;
Like an elaborate knot.

My tongue no longer tasted
My humanity began to rust
Like a corpse and its restless ghost
I was dormant but deprived of sleep
How could I rest under your glare?

Like a deranged anaesthetist
You forced me to the very edge
I hung over that abyss, wondering
If you would let my hand go, or pull me up
Until boredom struck again

Amidst the beeping and droning machines
Serpentine, you still twisted around me
Pungent disinfectant; the white-room scent
And the pointed metal tips
Their shrieking tongues turned to monotone.

Well, organs and cells,
I had long outgrown you and
Your demented, slothful ways
What did we have in common
Anymore aside from me?

But we are bound like conjoined twins
As fused together as can be
I’d die without you, you’d die without me
I aim to live in harmony with you
And help you gain a much sunnier hue.

Caught surprised

We fall down ******

Whilst drinking with an anaesthetist

So we sought the fat ventriloquist

Sat down upon his greasy fist.

He said:

We have your measure

By birth and by hat size

Domestic displeasure

Subvert and destabilize

More bread and more butter

Hold her nose and she swallows

While Rome burns

We toast marshmallows.

how bewildering, to be able to **** out two bottles
of wine,  but unable to do the same
with a bottle of whiskey. or was that me just saying:
post-existentialism has to tread the path away from
the father of existentialism: which is phenomenology...
and back into Kant's noumenon?
i'm probably the only drunk in this area to be bothered by
such problems... alternatively seek out
the 20th century poet boasting about listening to
classical music... but if existentialism came from
phenomenology... then post-existentialism has to come
from the Kantian concept of the noumenon...
       and given existentialism,
attempting a noumenonology would
be a bit, pointless... i mean, should i be bothered
by such bow-tie concerns?
       i don't even look the part, first i say:
  i can **** out two bottles of wine, but can't for the help
of god **** out a bottle of whiskey...
then i might add: i'm quiet content in my misery,
all that's missing is a dancing monkey
donning a fez, and an accordion and a street corner...
but as honesty goes: i'd prefer a dancing monkey with
an afro and a pharaoh's fake beard...
   i might play you something on the accordion
like a romanian pauper, and the street corner is easily
cloned and disposable, and therefore merely
the grey area... easily replicated to counter your attempt
in imagining it otherwise...
             and to think i wrote
this with an unlit cigarette lodged in my mouth...
i'll never know... it could also mean: chances of a meteorite
shower to boot... because: who said it was about
trying to be funny? i'm funny because i'm tragic...
tragedy is the real comedy, it's what western society calls:
reverse psychology...
                i don't know what comedy is,
simply because comedy started to employ the ghost,
canned laughter... i don't understand comedy...
    tragedy i get, because i'm making it,
and i'm laughing at my failings like any mortal might...
          what with the world giving me
no new pieces of worthwhile info, i read the news
i get depressed, at least what i write in my delirium i
take to choking at it with laughter....
  it's the tragedy i am able to stomach...
canned laughter killed off comedy...
     tragedy is comic, but only for a piquant
palette, say: you like
televised Scandinavian drama, but don't
like a pickled herring in white vinegar?
don't say Cnut... shh... the Danes might
just have a rethink and come once more...
     but then again: who the **** wants
to come to these isles, given their over-exaggeration
of the ten commandments?!
         well the Danes, sure, but not
in times when you could be fooled by Hamlet!
      i actually wish there was a profound
cultural exchange program operating Europe,
weaving it together into a worthwhile tapestry...
but then again it's not happening...
      ask anyone about sienkiewicz's quo vadis
and you're most likely to meet an
anaesthetist... or say: physicist vs. physician...
    because you weren't prescribed enough
atoms...
             the mere idea of globalisation
is pulling europe apart....
take the narrative into a small town and watch how
little you really need to know about
what's happening in Tokyo...
                    still...
i'll **** out two bottles of wine and talk as
crass as i can, because i can...
               and whatever hope i might have
had about making a indentation in this world
will become like: a **** in the wind...
               well aimed, badly received...
    because isn't the sole proof of solipsism, bound
to farting in a crowded public space.
   **** in a crowded carriage of the tube,
immediately you're the sole
appreciator of your own stink, and subsequently
a genocide happens, **** in a crowded train
and you're the sole person in existence...
  everyone else marches with distaste to
a mass grave... farts prove solipsism...
      there's no need to think about
an argument, there's no need for a narrative...
just **** in a crowded space... and you really
do become proof of being the sole recipient
     of life...
        we really have become so detached from
each other that such feats really are,
the alternative to serious argument...
a **** in a crowded space can replace the idea
of solipsism... men forget that women also
burp...
     well... if you live in an igloo...
   it's no surprise that you get bemused by
an aquarium.
    Eskimos really do exist... every time i go to sleep
i actually think about Eskimos...
    and how the world looks like without televisions
or the internet... i really look at this world in hope
of cradling an anesthetic, that cares very little
about selling the Parisian aesthetic... and i think about
toothache too...
         and i think about not sending postcards...
    and i think about Bukowski placed within the 21st
century, and how he wouldn't be able to write
the post office, and how all the letters he'd walk with would
be pointless... what with e-mail...
                    and how quickly the world is changing
and how i try to recognise myself in it...
  and yes... those aliens, the last tribe of the Amazonian
jungle... coming out the blue to eat a Mars bar
and see us in lycra...
                     and then again, yes, those Eskimos...
a bit like contemplating mermaids...
    stuff of myth... it really is.

that's almost sandinavian in origin,
the missing grapheme of d ******* j
for a d'yeah...
  what do you call someone, drinking,
propped up on the windowsill?
io? oh right yu... ю      you...
yew? you yew you you?
                  ?
                     tree-hugging.
personally? i found that poetry (beside
the 20the century) are horrid, in that
they are rigid,
a bit like braking a shin good...
         who the **** what's a broken ankle?
limbo heaven darling:
  the ankle and wrist is already borken,
we're talking about those elongated bits...
     funny you should, i said quo vadis?
to my anaesthetist when i had "wisdom"
teeth removed...
once upon a time a muslim friend of mine
corrected me about the difference
between physicist and physician...
phy phy my ***... we thought that by eating
pork i contracted kuru...
i mean: what are the odds?
               i ate too much salt-meat which means
i ate human flesh... maybe kuru comes
from the notion that human flesh doesn't
require seasoning for the added fetish effect?
it's never bread and wine,
given there's no salt, pepper or butter.
          **** me aren't the greeks funky cool with
their ******* about a crimminal (of jewish origin)?
it's like: foundation layer a. we will have..
foundation layer b. we will not have...
foundation layer c. evangelicals hurrah!
   i was really onto asserting what the correct word
was for that weird **** they do in the ukraine...
apparenly is has a name in many variations;
there the noun [ɦoˈpɑk]: a language so abrupt
in ' it being used / in terms os usage... that no one
really does... linguistic *******...
   but the curiosity is concerning greek
translates into cyrillic... it's the gamma (Г)...
it's called a hopak for a reason... chłopak... boy...
it does denote the concept that only boys dance
this dance... i've ate
russian orange caviar and the ulranian borsh
of beetroots... me full...
        but who the **** writes this *******
more serious than the journalistic infirmary?
                exactly when did Г ≠ G,
but instead "E" / eta Hη?
                              what's the part i missed?
some historical fact about Columbus?
                      some muslim who's nostalgia is *******
me off trying to revive the crusades?
that part?!
              if you reread the encoding the word i
entitled to be the title reads as: gopak...
   but if you revise it and spell it as it "ought"
to be spelled, it reads as: hopak... or chłopak...
which just means boy...
what?! you going to teach me how to read
                  czech republic you ****?
caron c (č)                          eh... h the stressor, not
a variant of eta...
                               čeh,
                 due to the caron the other c is missing,
and the h is marked to imply a hark...
and hry sound (y is a hollowed out version
of i... like a cave)
                          which means that (c with caron)
is the equivalent of
                                  č = cz = ch.
             i was originally a chemist, seems to me i'm
starting to get really ******* by english
on the internet, that ******* of returning to
the obelisk and writing              :)
on it...                 do i even look like i'm smiling?
given the minor problem that this is...
and given that i'm writing about it in youth
(30 ain't old)...
                  i'm starting to think it to be perfectly agreeable.

the diacritical markings are there for a reason, they are intended for a sharp japanese pronunciation: no breaking apart of su-from-doku... soodo(h)koo! hai! there's a reason why i have managed to ask myself the reason for transcending mere letters... reign from above: in the realm of diacritical markings... hence? hai... as the japanese would state (very quickly): sūdokú! hai.

in only came to me upon no. 9242 puzzle...
i wanted to write the most accurate schematic,
i.e. sūdokú in algebraic form...
some might add: a three dimensional
concept, within a two dimensional
working "thesis"...
               i can't stress enough why or how
i'm fascinated with this ****** puzzle...
but i am, and i will never be able to
solve a single *******'s worth of
a crossword puzzle...
     i'll just open a thesaurus and get,
pretty much the same; a short-cut!
**** yeah!
              but sūdokú? that's different:
samuria: soodohkoo! hai... hai.
       better still: haí - shee?
    (said with teeth tattooed with honey) -
oolmoosht a gee of a j, aha, haí?
******* better learn to swim the next
time a tsunami breath comes from the belly
of poseidon; and where was the japanese
army, dropping bombs into the tsunami wave
to distort it, disperse it? where?
         noooooo where, busy cracking tetris;
but i have it! i have the algebra form
of understanding sūdokú...
   after all, it's an imploded lament cofiguration
(i like my cubes, i like my cubes
very much, i like my cubes because i like
hellraiser II (hellbound) and hellraiser IV
(bloodlines)... i like my cubes imploded
onto a page... i like my cubes -
i get fickle with lightbulbs too,
   the on-and-off i.c.d. - i get to think
if i do the lightbulb "trick" enough times...
my i.q. status will sky-rocket)...
   it's a wonder though:
  ever heard someone with a high i.q. score
tell a decent joke?
              i haven't, and i hope i never will;
it would simply break me theory that:
you have to be a complete ******* to make
people laugh...
      really intelligent people don't know
the basis for encouraging a laugh...
  they just employ "intelligent" jokes,
but their intelligent jokes are reduced to be
being jokes... only if supported by canned laughter.
oh yeah...
     so... sūdokú no. 9242?
   reads almost like an auschwitz check-list...
so, sūdokú 9242 (empire of the sun
was godly... esp. the young batman singing
that kamikaze song, shay shoon toong sho -
whatever the **** it was, i cried) -
i worked the algebra format,
i had to, look how complicated the asiatic
languages are,
they don't have the rigid 26 letter format,
they have syllables...
        somewhere between the greeks,
that treated their letters as syllables in
the noun format: rho vs. r...
           and where did the castratos come from?
from the sing-along "republic" of the vatican...
i say a, the greeks say alpha,
         the chinese? *******:
    picking up match-sticks with chopsticks!
and thirty thousand complicated years later,
i'm saying chew, and they have used up
my patience, using | | | | | | | |,
or whatever number was used to write a syllable:
the chinese are good at mathemtics,
why? they have absolutely no concept of
a ******* letter!
   of course they'll master it!
look at them... a ******* billion of them!
i haven't finished the puzzle
but i have the schematics of 1 - 9 in algebra form...

   y    x    
 * x*    xy   x        x        x       x     x     x      x
         x     xyz    xz      xz
         x     xz      xyz    xz
         x     xz      xz      xyz
         x                                  xy
         x                                         xy
         x                                                 xy
         x                                                       xy

oh, i make my sign of the cross,
    it's an optical game after all,
you spot the heretical (english) concept
of a straight line... i.e. you invite a third
mediating coordinate...
   when drawing a straight line you
don't really need the pythagorean equation,
you just get your point (a) leads to
point (b), or you buy an a - z...

the title? i became annoyed at the optical
illusion in the puzzle,
one of the numbers wasn't showing up...
so i clenched my teeth and said to myself:
no way are you going to publish this
not having solved the puzzle...
   i almost finished with a question mark,
but then i spotted the:

   x 4 x
   x x x
   x 4 x                           blunder...
      
i once stated that learning the greek alphabet
could ease solving the puzzle...
now i'm thinking algebra notation will suffice...

oh, i still perform the *sign of the cross...
but i'm not into lazy sundays...
  i blind the blank squares
with my pen, mostly doing
only the: in nomine patris,
           et filii...
                           by orthodox concern
i'm leaving the third "person" blank...
    solving a sūdokú, i only have the #...
oops...
                only heretics know more orthodox
mysteries of a religion, than
the actual orthodox useful idiots dare to mind;
e.g., a choir in a st. petersburg cathegral was
singing, i sat on the floor,
  i was told to get up,
  and ******* the priest who was reciting
the bible and not facing the crowd...
                          wha', da' ****, izz, dis?!
burn *******, burn!
  the roof is on fire, we don't need no
water let the ******* burn,
burn *******... burn!
   you pushed way beyond a justifiable
aggreviance of suggested ritual...
this aint'the ******* louvre...
    i want to be the doubting thomas...
you don't want to execute the rights of
a doubtful thomas?!
   have your little transgender ****,
      guess who you're going to see more of?
******* muslims!
               take the fairy-tale,
forget you ever looked at, or read
the nag hammadi library excavated with
poetic brilliance, in 1945, just after
the twins hiroshima & nagasaki were born;
and before every operation i ever had,
i always asked the anaesthetist... *quo vadis?

you know...

  that when you mingle
10 minutes

       of something
akin to: annamae renee...

  and retract...
          rob zombie:
                  michael (lyrics)...

the part where i grew
a beard...
    i decided to remembering
towing both
ego, and shadow...

  giggles...
                giggles...
oops... new york ******
gonna spot me...
            likd:
there's a hand,
and there's a cookie jar...
and there's subsequently
in it?
               pauper boy
better pay...
    
      this world can't
be more ****** up with me in
it to boot...
nope...
              but this is
the newly arrived
normal...
      
                             h'art...
            ah ha ha ha...
              lost the E...
    and all i can begin
to fathom is a murky night,
a romance...
       a low hanging fruit
metaphor the the moon
and...
familiar people i no longer
want to be familiar with...

minimum colour,
maximum canvas...
and something to be allowed
an ingestion
of                  l
    e              t                t
e               r              s
moulded into
                       verbatim...      
words...
   sentences...
            high-minded
provoke: the remains
       of meaning:

      who is of whatever is my
worth beyond the man
that has to tease?

Brian does all the thinking?
and Harley does all
the "feeling"?

              last time i checked...
after Brian did a haemorrhage
shackle spasm...
coordination is just fine...
narrative switched a little...
    aged 21...

          subsequent psychosis
"l.s.d." trip...
                   so... my thinking
originates in my brain...
the medieval people used
to cite their soul being derived
from their Brian...

all heart, no thought...
hmm...
            can i suppose
an antithesis
of the pronoun I...
with the sum-minor-&-major
origin
of energy momentum,
the 21 grams...
the Σ...

    all i know is that once
you succumb to cancer
people are expected to feel sorry
for you,
but when you succumb to
schizophrenia, and they laugh...
they're expected to laugh
and you're supposed
to be doubly punished...
   bewildering...
how some of the stereotypical
schizophrenics react...
forgetting to laugh
at the cancer succumb...

   if you ******* a schizophrenic...
i guess...
you were really gagging for
it;
my honest opinion;

   which part?
the part where i tell you:
no... auditory hallucinations
  aren't fun...
  they're not something aking
to ingesting psychadelic drugs...
        
met a thief,
met a ****,
met a policeman
   in gucci bracelets
while having just finished
******* in an alley...
met a *******,
met a madman,
met a priest,
i might have met
a poet...
saw a ******* get kicked
in the head while
distributing
leaflets in a suburban street...
****...
  i'm missing a serial killer...
i should be missing more...
i'm suspicious...
there have to be more...
   "characters"
akin to the list of the ******...
i might have met my
shadow...
dunno...
my ego is doing the round
of faking everything
using me, as body,
while remaining silent...
calls it: psychology
of the puppet...
        oh sure... met a football
hooligan...
met a plumber,
met a supermarket cashier,
a turkish barber,
a cobbler,
        might have drunk a beer
with a jazz band drummer...
maybe...
   decided to skip
the actor and the whole scene...
thought much about
russian ballerinas
and new york models...
      gave my dislocated
index finger to a hungarian
a & e doctor...
gave my 'quo vadis?'
to an iranian anaesthetist
and my rotting wisdom
teeth to a german dentist...
my first *******
to cameron diaz circa
1994... the mask...
    and... all that would ever
not fruition into a platonic love
affair...
        love of a steering-wheel?
to the no. 5 bus driver
from my hometown...
     and all that became
constituted into a boiling-down
of eccenctricity...
   to the garden state
soundtrack...
  climbing the scaffold...
   attached to, old college,
edinburgh...
   and watching the firth of forth,
solo...
     at night...
              as if the northern
lights descended upon the waters...
and there was a vague
whitened illumination
in the waters...
no... not a fog...
a luminescent serpent
of myopia bothered
to make itself
            concentrated
into a weaving sculpture
upon the water.