you see, i came to england when i was eight years old, and i still retain the primitive early structuring of being born in poland, e.g. i identify my father from the ages of 4 to 8 as a voice on a telephone and the odd package of gifts, my mother between the age of 6 to 8 as a mad doberman a parting gift... and the fact that i can't read philosophy books in english but in polish, whereby i translate what i read into english... the english language is terrible at expressing itself philosophically, too much shrapnel (i.e. too many little words in between graffiti like usage of the bigger words: conjunctions, prepositions, articles over-burden such catchphrases like zeitgeist, global capitalism etc.), i read poetry and fiction in english, but philosophy i read in polish; and i do speak four languages in that i can speak posh anti-essex-accent english, speak a polish accentuation of english, speak plain polish and speak pleb village-idiot polish; polish immigrants are overweight to soar like canadian geese introduced into england because of the trill of the r (mind you, introducing grey squirrels mirrored the seemingly perpetual overcast of the english weather) - indeed, the english use of the letter r is tongue-numbing-curl - instead of trilling the r the english curl it like an apprehensive turtle / hedgehog - and too the oddity of the h, hatch hay-puck-itch hey-a-haystack? two of the many more linguistic anomalies in the english tongue included.*

that's the problem i have integrating
into a post-colonial multicultural
society, i know i should celebrate
the english defence of poland should
a war with germany take place,
the short lived re-emergence of poland
quickly gulped up by the joint
expedition of **** german and soviet russia,
the exported government of poland
to london, the plight of polish and english
pilots over the skies of england in
the battle of britain, i should technically
be experiencing a great assimilation sensation,
but multiculturalism has really complicated
things, esp. when you turn on the radio
a first hear things about the emergence of
recorded sound, the gramophone,
the iconic jack terrier before the machine
and a very old acronym of music outlets:
h.m.v. (his master's voice),
or that in poland - knowing of the mass emigration
of poles to england the tabloid newspaper
the sun is cited with the highest credibility
(never mind the toned down **** on page 3
of that newspaper, which prompted *******
to do likewise) - currently i'm sifting through
the power broker pages of the newspaper
the times, i.e. the editorial pages, just
after the opinion pages... you see, the editorial
pages are almost anonymous, they're filled
with a major investment, high profile
people (usually professors and sirs and what not)
seeking attention of the editor, beginning with
something like: sir, at a time when european
challenges of security... and then indeed about
three articles of unchallenged dialectics by
the editor himself, e.g. (monday march 7 2016)
headlines: an autocrat in ankara; plan obsolescence;
cripes! (https://goo.gl/EzCbDO),
as i said, i find it overbearing to integrate into
english society, it's paradoxical actually,
so i have to integrate (tick), speak the tongue (tick),
become eloquent and gentlemanly (tick)...
but i can't acquire the history (a prime social
relation coordinate), and i certainly can't feel
pride... unlike those from the colonies integrating
and feeding this strange strange national pride
of identifying england as if by them originally
possessed; maybe three years in scotland fed
my alienation, i really did love mingling with
the scots, the only place on these islands where
the presence of the irish is limited by that
funny existential curiosity of a sikh speaking
a wee trill here, a wee trill there...
maybe that's it... because, you see, the oddity
comes after hearing the story of rash behari bose,
the one who was the shadow of peaceful gandhi...
who spoke like adolf ****** who actually
collaborated with ****** to no avail, who
then collaborated with the japanese -
how am i to assimilate into english society if english
society is a barren wasteland where newton
and michael faraday used to roam?
i'm just too bewildered in this sense of integrating
like a prerequisite of becoming a chameleon -
it's nauseating just to think of it - all this
psychological complexity to simply use a tongue
that's favoured for commerce and political
stagnation into the iron stage of a status quo
of russian and chinese oligarchs creating
a mortgage inflation from their power-source
that's london? this immediate sense of what used
to be mass propaganda has turned into
mass political correctness, same ****, different cover,
i really don't know how to integrate fully,
esp. with faked results that disallow falsification
because they're already false in that would-be
"science" of psychology which is just a crippled
humanism... how can you be a serious psychologist
when you focus on the interchange of the invading
barbarian word self and then become pompous
with so many theorisations of a single sound, ego?
after all we're, in the majority using the sound self
as an affirmative of 'i'm here, yes, check the utility
manual of my spine moving my fingers typing,
no descartes wasn't trying to prove he existed,
don't be stupid, what, because such a proof is
not compatible with you after his death proves
he was trying to prove himself a recipient? i too
buckle on the nonsense of some people, even my own
is worth a rusty door hinge and doorknob.'
and poetry will always remain the safeguard medium
of abstracting, poetry isn't a happy science as one
man suggested dying at the dawn of the 20th century...
poetry's eager spontaneity makes it an abstracting science,
there's no point arguing truth, in that abstraction is
required to cite a momentary pigmentation of
the everyday grey realism with a poem.

Minä en ole yhtäkuin paidan- tai hameenhelman pituus
tai seksikumppaneiden määrä
Hetkittäinen rohkeus ei määritä minua,
eikä hetki kun henki salpautuu kassajonossa
Se ei kerro mitään jos väistän katseellani, annan sen kulkeutua ohitsesi
Tai se, jos pysyn nauramatta tuijotuskilpailussa

En halua koskaan uskotella tuntevani sinut paremmin kuin sinä tunnet itsesi,
mutta sinä olet enemmän kuin särkyvä ääni puhelimessa,
enemmän kuin humalassa hoipertelu rappukäytävässä,
enemmän mitä isäsi sanoo sinun olevan, enemmän mitä äitisi odottaa sinulta
Turhaan olet niin ankara itsellesi,
jos suutelet väärää tyyppiä kotibileissä
jos kätesi tärisevät niin pahasti ettet pysty piirtämään suoraa viivaa,
ja läikytät kahvia uudelle paidalle
*Se peseytyy pois

From the Ankara of Augustus wandered,
east to the clefts of the Earth's breast:
at Shambhala i seek the tooth
from the maws of paradox,
a teaching from Lord Maitreya,
a stretching through the void of ascension.
In the cycling Kalachakra looping
step three, the divine is inside
and divides, as out so in.

As above, so below.

It claws through the pages to reach me,
and you, to strike the gong.

As within, so without.
Beyond you always,
eternally inside.

It was always there
The conflict
If it wasn't at the Kurdish border
It was within the heart of Ankara
Spreading rapidly through the country.
They named the airport
After Atatürk, First Turk.

Bet you would turn in your grave
I still remember your portrait vividly
There was reason and natural authoroty
In the depths of your brown eyes.
We fell asleep under your watchfull gaze
now that's a handsome man

She marked herself as
"safe in Istanbul"
The tension rose within me
And I knew that if anything
Ever happened to you
I'd never get over it
I gritted my teeth and typed
"Why don't you just come home now"

On paper, you are home
But in our hearts
Your home is here

Come home
come home
*come back

My feet move me
Like a sailor determining the
Fate of a ship
Kilometers I move, away from my hut's threshold
Where I battle in thoughtless thoghts
.
Solid thoughts,
Roaming on my mind like hawkers
On the streets of Lagos
I felt the tears of the cloud
Drenching me with knowledge on
My only piece of "ankara"
.
Where would fate lead me?
For I fear it's forces may ******* into
The forest of unfulfilled dreams
Will I end up like my fathers?
Who had many wives with shorten lives
Ha! I need the compass of life
.
Let me excrete myself on the platform
Of golds not of the gods
Not reality in an invidious thoughts
Yes, I decide my fate!
Not the gods, reality or some stupid thoughts!
.
Balogun David Tolulope
Drunk poet*©️2017
IG=acedadrunk_poet

I tell them to watch a movie- that one when the sun sets like aloe on their scalded skin, that one where after sunset, the guy kills himself. 

But I don't tell them that part, I simply lather the lotion thicker, suffocate their burn and boast about the healing powers of cinema I so humbly wish to share.

In honesty, there is little need for conviction as I so kindly spread love on their wound, proposing the perfect solution, a comforting press to the chest.

On condition, they are instructed to watch alone; travel to Ankara and snuggle beneath cloudy blue skies. They must take extra care. And under no circumstances should they tamper with the blooming blisters- they should let the summer breeze do all the work. 

They trust me, pathetically, even as the hours wane on, even as my waxy ointment melts to oily paraffin and slips far, far away from the wound. 

I doubt that they even notice, but I know that with five minutes to spare, all hope of healing will be held out of reach- especially as my soothing facade shatters beneath blinding strobes, as my fibs fade and salt sprinkles their skin with the promise of a permanent scar, fragile tissue that will surely wither with the sun for an eternity to come. 

The credits roll and so do the tears, until their cheeks are so stained, so branded with hollowness that all left to do is howl out for the end to near.

Now, they feel like I do, and we will suffer a lifetime of sorrow in unity. It makes me feel a little better.

Alfred out fishing

Alfred the pianist, who insists he is not my father,
And I went out fishing, we caught a few and when I gutted one of them
We discovered a ring which Alfred said he had given to my mother Olga in Ankara
before the war. It was an expensive ring –
Gold was cheap back then- and it fitted his *******.
We didn't feel like eating fish after that, and I gave them to an elderly seal
resting on a sandbank, it lived on what other seals gave it.
When my father Alfred was very old he gave me a ring I to give Olga
my mother who refused to believe I was her son, she had never
seen the ring before and refused to take it, so I gave it back to the sea
and the forgotten tragedy of someone drowning alone; mind it is
rare that someone holds the hand of the ones who drowns.

He wouldn’t follow the days, he would cry.
If only the hours passed, just the hours.
Again, those old thoughts would get stuck in his head.
He had no respect for anyone.
(Especially not for himself.)
He’d seem very angry, but
(Again, not at anyone, just himself,
Because everything that happened to him, came from himself.)
But he would think,
Sometimes, maybe,
I don’t know.
Who knows what.

He was a little fond of women.
Not too many, just one.
There was one, though,
He gave up on her, thinking he might save her.
He couldn’t keep up with himself.
The bad, wrong,
Temporary,
Base,
Selfish,
Ish,
Me,
Nobody,
Decisions he made,
He didn’t want to drag anyone
Under this massive snow.
Not because he didn’t try,
But because he was digging his own grave.

Good or bad,
He didn’t know.
He usually didn’t know.
He liked to look like he knew a lot,
But he never did.
And he didn’t even want to know,
Everything seemed too complicated.
He liked girls (he hated himself).
The girl liked him (then he pitied the girl).
Sometimes, he would think he was God,
He knew everything.
He knew life,
He knew death,
He knew the unknown,
He knew what was right.
There was maybe nothing he didn’t know.
He would say, "There must be,
But it’s not worth knowing."
He didn’t want help,
Would drink water but never take medicine,
Would get sick but never go to a doctor,
Would run away from needles.
Not because he was afraid,
But because he thought he was God.

And at the end,
Like every god,
When he realized he contradicted himself,
He would swear to end everything he had created.
But again, like every god,
He also loved chaos, the bad.
He loved threatening the parts of himself
That he had created.
He loved watching them die,
Maybe even supporting it.
Not killing, but not living either,
He loved it.
A true god/scientist.
A man, yes.
Unseen, unaccountable,
Not an animal.
A humanoid being,
If you ask biologists,
They’ll say "a man," or XY.
If you ask society,
They’d call him a true tick,
A freak,
Useless,
But not necessarily harmful,
A real fool carrying hell on his shoulders.
They’d say that about him.
Everyone would say something,
He thought,
But no one would ever think,
That he was left alone.
He thought he had created an army from himself,
He had no one left to fight with.
Still ongoing,
The umpteenth war of his unique self.

And the soldier wounded in war,
Would we pray?
But there’s no single god,
We tried every kind.
There was a familiar face across.
(Here, every face is familiar.)
They had created new gods for themselves.
They said their prayers.
None of them survived.
We thought we were right.
No, yesterday we buried another familiar face.
But he was from our side, I think.
We had no bullets,
No weapons.
Some tried to fight with fists, but
No.
Sometimes some of us die.
We write on the board here:
"TWELVE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE" "EIGHTEEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE."
One day we’ll win, I know.
I’m not sure what we’ll win.
(But sometimes, it’s just about winning.)
But,
Sometimes,
We are humanity’s crime, each of us.
We are war criminals,
Each of us civilians.
The god we prayed to,
Walks among us because he’s civilian.
He helped us count our dead at first,
Because there are no bodies left.
There’s only one body that doesn’t look like us.
Hair made of blood,
Eyes green and brown like Ankara cats.
(These soldiers only know Ankara and Istanbul,
They haven’t seen other cities, and haven’t seen these cities either.)
She was a beautiful girl,
The biggest loss was that day.
But, she said,
She was our earthly god,
Our greatest gain today.

And those muscles controlling the eyes
Look at a person passing outside.
Don’t you think,
These gods, godlike humans,
That this man walks sharply and carelessly,
Wearing black high-heeled shoes,
With a long purple dress,
And a hood?
Not with high-platform heels,
But like sharp, strong, knife-like weapons,
He walks like a gazelle.
A person passing outside,
A magician,
Throws himself into the fire again.
A magician, a person, a man passing outside,
A real man with masculinity in his heels.
A magician, a person, a man passing outside,
His hood and the breaking of my confidence.
CONFIDENT AND BANG.
HERE, THE HOODED,
MAGICIAN,
WITH A PURPLE ROBE,
A MAN,
A HUMAN,
A WOMAN.
The clothes belong not to him,
He rules the clothes.
Then, he looked in the mirror.
It was time to go home.
His head was filled again.
He looked in the mirror again.
This ugliness, this elegance,
This head, this eye, this hair,
This leg, this arm, this hand,
And the abundance of XY chromosomes.
It was time to go home.
To think,
To live,
To keep up,
Wasn’t for us.
It wasn’t.
Wasn’t.
No.

Ankara Ad lib in Idlib
just like Armenian
genocide all over again.

Turkey, pardoned by
Donny T for Christmas
the go for it metaphor.

NATO members in a
dilemma, Assad has
Russia at its back.

Coronavirus soon to
be forgotten, was just
a viral news item only.

Old, On The Fence & Err


Ps

Biden Netanyahu & Erdogan
On the way to Damascus for
Christmas to carve up Syria.


Ps x 2

Genocide Joe pardoned 3
Turkeys this thanksgiving
The feathered one, Hunter
And Erred Again in Ankara.