Should we invite the neighbors over for dinner?
Their politics so different from ours.
All the more reason. Combat anomie!
He's worried the town's losing population
but opposes immigration. I like immigrants
but hate passing people on my morning walk.

The whole mountainous western region of the state
is losing population at a rate of 1% per annum.
The young move out, the old stay put but
young artists priced out of big cities move in
looking for affordable studio space. How low
can the population go as long as rents stay low?

We did agree about the fire department expansion
being premature (him) or unnecessary (me).
He argued we should renovate the high school first
the roof is caving in and walls crumbling.
But you can teach under a spreading chestnut tree
or baobab and science needs the world for a laboratory.

I teach at the old 2nd St. jail in Pittsfield
a town that doesn't know if it's coming up or going down.
A few shootings last month, no deaths.
They're holding their breath but also trying to attract life
science businesses to the industrial park. The local bank's
expanding, buying smaller banks in neighboring civilizations.

Eventually our fire department got the vote they wanted,
just called another meeting and packed the auditorium.
The final winning argument was we can do the school,
the fire house and the police station all at once.
Don't accept defeat, limitations. Defeat anomie!
Anomie means lawlessness and purposeless in Greek

so that's not exactly what we're trying to defeat.
It's the mismatch between our aspirations and resources,
no, the dissonance between our tribe and nation,
the individual as ****** animal and intellectual,
the farmer and the banker, the loved one and the litter,
whatever happens to you after you die and belief in reincarnation.

For me, it always boils down to mortality
every conversation, which is why no one comes to dinner.
Whether the fire department buys an exorbitant parcel
at the expense of a future school renovation
in a town slightly losing population but still viable
with a college, bank, artists and a few working farms

is everything and nothing, as Borges says.
Deutsch says death ought to be curable.
The new high school or fire station, conditions like anomie
v. democracy, new life forms, self-conscious species
from the laboratory or the biome. How de body?
Today ok. Tomorrow I don't know. Potential

energy, lover, killer, anomie. Karl Popper
had such faith in the rational whereas Niebuhr
acknowledged man's ego is uncontrollable except
by force. Conflict is inevitable. But at dinner
we agree it doesn't always have to be violent or terminal.
We can do the fire department, police station, the school and anomie.

the Islam of Malcolm X isn't the Islam of today... it isn't really the prescription of Nietzsche had before the Heraclitus flux took sway and said: waterfall or lottery... it really, really, really doesn't matter. the Islam of the 1960s isn't the Islam of today... too tinged with Sieg Heil... although less the Ave Caesar salute and more akin to: who's up for ****, *******? the Islam has changed... if i was wise enough i'd have converted, to mind you... but i thought: putting my faith by only having a library of only one book... i thought... n'ah... that's a bit extreme, can i at least have a comic book strip to add to that massive library? no? oh well, no, sorry, at least one book mentions several authors who tried to imitate but failed on the last hurdle, at least i can revise that, and completely erase the two extensions that borrowed from Hinduism; 'cos' like it ******* mattered.. don't test me, i'm anticipating death like  suicide-vest child... come on! let's start the Slavic crusade!

perhaps it's not about not thinking certain thoughts,
or feeling certain emotions...
but perhaps it just is...
i say, we need the Sophists these days to
apply the fishing-net tactic to deciphering or
simply selectively reflecting our vocabularies...
strait-jacket vocabularies are there in plain sight...
i mean... wait a minute...
i jumped from jazz into pop music on the headphones,
from Miles Davis' *kind of blue defining
moment of the flamenco sketches right into the bog
of one direction - so i guess this is where
the antidote for art being too subjective comes in...
well, they sorted that problem already...
objectivity in art is around us as we speak,
it means "artists" that are manufactured,
art in the age of mechanical reproduction
(Walter Benjamin), it means more props than artists,
the problem got solved, it means reaching an
autocratic plateau of plugging in and sharing
a non-individualistic stream of emotion,
the opposite of democracy is autocracy, it isn't
despotism... i don't know why democracy doesn't
understand that it's ugly sister (autocracy)
is the enemy and not a Genghis Khan style of government...
democracy in the form of autocracy is a failed
attempt at Utopia... it suggests the system is perfect...
it means the institutions go about their daily business
like children in the playground who ******* and wet
themselves (the bankers), and still not one does anything
about it... what was once a demo tape of a indie band
becomes an automatic big seller big grosser E.P.,
just because the tragedy came, and they drove the touring
bus off a bridge in Sveeden... *******...
you ain't fighting dictators, you're fighting your change
from democracy into autocracy... where things
seem so perfect they can hardly ever change,
they're automated, they're not demographically sound...
sure, i'm the clown, i'll juggle a few big words around...
but in term of art? well, pop music has reached
the limit of what "philosophers" argued against...
to be frank... jealousy got to them that argued
for counter-productive constraints...
now they rebel against this objective construct of
artists in the shadows, writing text and tune and needing
some amateur to perform... and where do you
seek their rebellion? in the subjectivity they once
argued against: that famous Rage Against the Machine
protest against the X-factor...
so wait, first you argue against the subjectivity
of the artistic expression, then you postulate the non-existence
of the self: countered as the dasein for all subjectivity,
then you miss artistic objectivity with the karaoke
and what comes as the **** utopia with French
euthanasia tourists in Switzerland and Belgium...
you missed the argument you favoured, i.e.
artistic objectivity, i.e. performers, not people who write
the hit singles, Hiroshima Karaoke,
well, aren't we all objective now, that we have to source
our feelings in the expressions we once made angst against?
odd, isn't it? you never knew how well established
the counter argument became...
it's pop culture, it's evidently going to become viral...
but you see the power of subjective art...
it spreads like an infection, no point arguing against it...
objectivity in art is already a well established
virus, it doesn't really bite into your soul,
it bites, but you just get the odd body chicken ****...
that's what i mean about how a self-assured-without-a-self
democracy morphs into autocracy...
the fake Utopia of the well-established social
institutions actually being bankrupt, starting
with the post-colonial charity companies,
lying sharks and interest rates at 2000% per annum
i'm starting to think of Islam... leeches and hypocrites...
so your pointless critique of the subjectivity of the arts
became your most sling-shot friction strained weapon
to aim at the industry of art objectified,
in the age of mechanical reproduction true art = dodo...
it's on its way out... i hardly think that
50 years from now you'll find someone as idiotic
as me writing poetry for the love of the **** thing...
you'll get Utopian plateaus, anaesthetic democracy in
the realm of humanism, and hanging over you
autocracy... immovable foundations, cos' everything's
just perfect, time to invade another Libya where
some genius ensured the people knew their place
and who kept order on the pretence of
keeping weapons of mass destruction and
dog leashes... but there you will be ****-strapped going
huh? i thought subjectivity in art was bad?
n'ah mate, that's the only thing that made art good...
you got your ******* Karaoke, live with it!
the English Renaissance of the 1960s ain't coming back,
even if you gave Belfast back to the Dublin crew...
i say we need another Protagoras to get
the vocabulary inflation up to speed...
i say devalue the words self, ego... and make the
psychologists bums..
i say devalue the words nation, british and hamburger
to make the anglophile influence on Europe
a bit like sniffing a mortar of ******* off a penny...
i say reestablish the virtues of Japanese feudalism,
scare depressed teenagers with the words:
your only way out is by Hara Kiri.
something must come from a poem like this...
i have rage... you reason with it...
i'm not going to reason a calm into my heart with the words
i just wrote... n'ah... n'ah n'ah... that ain't happening...
it only took one needle in a haystack to give me prompt...
the ailments of subjectivity in art...
that got me, bull's eye reddened mad...
you ain't turning me into Darwinian grey matter!
this is democracy at its most despotic...
let me try democracy first, before i join the legion of dentists
with happy middle-class lives in autocracy...
can't blame ****** in this guise of organising people,
'cos' there just ain't no ******...
that got me hot wired and hired to argue...
first they say: art deserves no subjectivity...
fair enough: 1 man draws a rhombus a 1000 men draw a square...
but now that we can finally see objectivity being applied
to art, we only get pop: **** jazz, classical, rock and speedy-indie...
we get manufacture... as you once hated those with
personal intention to add to the democratic demographic,
now you turn against them for disturbing the status quo...
well, happy are those that come to the sun's repeat jargon
and happily doubt the roundabout...
because criticising art as subjectively orientated
really spared you art having ascribed objectivity to its cause
of attaining mechanical reproduction,
and the subjective placebo... neither thinking nor feeling
anything deeper than nervous yoga twitching dances...
spare me the ******* details if you come up with
a more accurate historical pinpoint.

to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine) for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.

There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity:  a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***,
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/***-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling:  RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
“IT’S CRIME-DRIVEN PROFILING!”
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.

Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******!
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.

Human Trafficking
This one thing evolved
Such a badly that
31.6 billion dollars
Of trade is happening
In the world per annum
Mostly women and
Some young girls
They were harassed
Sexually, sometimes forced
To marry someone or making them
Slaves and more that I cannot
Explain them in words
Because knowing about it
I became dumb
They are tortured and given electrical
Shocks if they refuse their offer
Many are affected with ***
They offer a job by telling about
The packages and the accommodation
And finally when they are in their traps
They will show their evil faces and
Torture them

.a woman's place is not in the kitchen... **** right! about time someone made that observation, the times i've eaten under-cooked baby potatoes and over-cooked pasta? i'm actually ******* surprised that the kitchen was ever intended for a place for women... what the **** are women doing in kitchens? given, that their offspring don't know where milk comes from... or how peanuts grow... huh?

somewhere between eric dolphy
and frank o'hara:
    in terms of lunch...
            i have to gloat over this one...
it was... simply... pristine...

                   women do not belong
in the kitchen the more i'm supposed
to belong dangling off a ceiling of
a cavern emple for bats -
men don't want women in
the kitchen...
  i don't like the idea of a woman cooking...
women can't cook...
          well, for the majority...
   what's this? fast meals,
     junk restaurants -
i'm about to eat something that's
equivalent to me having ******* it out?
sorry... no...

not when i tell what i had for lunch...
iceberg salad,
carrot,
   pepper,
mild green chilli,
         em... ****...
    turkish goat's cheese -
a pear, a ******* FIG (skin intact),
    schwarzforst prosciutto -
chilli infused ****** olive oil,
balsamic vinegar...
        
women, do not, belong,
in, the kitchen...
              a kitchen is no harem...
where... i believe...
Sappho escaped from...
                  but fair enough:
nudge budge: bear a grudge... ha ha...
it's like this teasing contest i had
on my way back from an off-lice
at quarter to 11 one night...
a boyfriend,
    a scaffold(er) and his girlfriend,
drunk, d'uh...
  joking about her height...
this: smurf -

                       we laughed
she was evidently ******* -
but in a way that we could have cuddled
and kissed falling
      acorn leaves in autumn
to imply a next annum of revival...

  but **** me, what a trinity -
a FIG a pear, (a) goat's cheese -
   and that balsamic vinegar
transcendence medium of sweet contra
sour?
        
  oh wait... that was sexist?
             fine, enjoy the microwave
    spaghetti and cheese -
      like some diabolical version
of an electric ballerina twirling -
        
   i have the neo-**** gig covered too...
don't mind, being a *******
****** and all,
   having talked to my great-grandmother
about her experiences on the Eastern Front...
giving my grandmother opiates so
she wouldn't cry and become a beacon
for the Wehrmacht...

            don't worry... i'm supplied
in neo-**** music...
just in case...
   oh lookie look over 'ere...
that song -
   feindflug's größenwahn:
bought the album about a year ago
for £15... now? it's worth £40+...
                     never mind wumpscut:
               i like the fact that there is
such a position of interests that
confiscates a magnetism of
eclectic tastes...
        and please...
   the only reason you would have your
toddler and subsequent child
to listen to classical music is
not an I.Q. resonance -
   it won't make them smarter,
fat chance in anorexic hell -
         hell, let them listen to classical
music, but entrenching their I.Q. is
not the main byproduct...
    how many people, do you know...
who have lost interest in music?
   i know a few...
   some people really, really do lose interest
in music...
                by the time when they've been
fed classical music,
   been exposed to pop, perhaps even
rock...
   and never reached the antithesis of
classical music, namely jazz...
subsequently having the zenith of
having read a Jane Austen novel...
but not a Mary Shelley -
      and not divulged into espresso quick-step
******* jargon of
poetry contra performance, bloated vocals -
and that... annoying,
generic voice, apparent throughout
the spectrum of all vocal performers -
that asthmatic quasi-exasperation
   performance...
                    
true: i could perform...
   drinking got in the way...
the prime vice...
   secondary vice?
       cooking...
              
true though...
   women don't belong in the kitchen...
what sort of man would
allow a woman in the kitchen?
   i've tasted undercooked potatoes
and overcooked pasta...
   let's just say...
  we're not on friendly talking terms.

Hot epidermis
glows with appreciation
warming pesky flies.

Bamboo soldiers dance
In natural unison
Leaves rustle at their feet.

Uncertain rain drops
seeping in sandstone spirit
frosting through ones soul.

The first solar breath
Glistens through dew
Singing life anew.

I never was occupied with the essence of patriotism
The altruism of the conscription of the young, to later express gratitude for their service, for their heroism
The sensationalism of singing of the anthems, and the so-called 'civil defence'
But really, it's all merely an excuse to justify unwarranted offence
It's a weapon wielded as a subterfuge for the ethical codes transgressed
For capital, people become national and subsequently irrational
Due to patriotism, all the decisions of the government are infallible
And anyone who opposes said verdicts is radical
To continue reading about patriotism, please subscribe it's only $120 per annum. Fees are taxable

I get scared easily.
And I always have persisted to allow my mind to be torn out when I let it affect me.
They say, "Worst case scenario is rare." in most situations.
I have yet to seek why they ignore worst case, become it, leaving nothing left for the worst.
Habitually it creates an aggression with associates: replacement and correlation.
Without me noticing inevitably.

Behind.
This shadow that follows, desires its personification;
Consequently the main man must fall,
He will dissipate towards the rock where the one before him stood.
Rather take a spot of one greater, it is that of less higher.
A demotion of sort.
In order for it to transpose into progression, a compromise is of order.
The compromise of time, itself, playing the waiting game - (let us back step)

…replacement…correlation…

The understanding of this is of which I no longer feel that emotion;
It is configured by the other, making a statement which is unrecognizable.
So much, not even I, the speaker, can do anything to prove to you what I mean.
--For keeps sake--
This is no where near a poor pardon for my actions.
They are far from a credible stature. Far from a pity fete;
Indeed a fare apology is in par.
Yet this is a means of report to say in far value: worry.
It is of pure arrogance that I state this claim. Keep this in mind.
That I fear the replacement emotion shall take place in fair time once more.

As the tail is coming back again, second time to be specific.
And your steps in self-fulfillment climaxes,
The steps to which I take are mimicked to that of the first tail.
(The apex forms and your entitlement proclaims its spot.)
I wish it not, to be furthered in my rut.
As of the annum before, was explained by dis-valued ties.
This is not to which I think.
It is your confidence which speaks and separates your feet.
Placing one foot in one path, far ahead from the other.
As I stay with the other, while the other one is altered.
Being free as it walks along with out I.
I wish for an ignoring of replacement, and to this I will forcibly try.

For you, my love.

little white envelope
sealed with a promise
just like the others
open to find means to a better end
no bitter ends will you let begin
colourful notes meant to read
i love you
words not easily spoken
through clenched teeth
jaws locked
rusted with time
years spent unhinged
uncontrolled
spoiled words spoken between lips
unforgiving winds
their destruction still left to rebuild
tension releases by passing annum
moments spent in silence
make way for healing
and days left to heal with you are unknown
days left are precious
words are simple
beholden to their potential
barriers thin but exist nonetheless
not in contempt
but in habit
detox made easier by bullet holes
ghosts
of past attempts to infiltrate
your kingdom
of fatherhood

Your hair was back but your hands were nothing but close. I can't remember what it feels like anymore to hate a touch because now it's all I desire. That look in your eyes was threatening but baby you could **** me and I would still give you everything I have.
The sensation of your entity twirling around mine only makes me wish you were here to give me that look one more time.
Put your hands around my throat.
Turn all my previous fears into sinful wishes.
Put your hips around mine and I'll scream your name as if you're leaving forever in my wake.
Stay with me until you come up and I disappear because we run nothing but cycles and I want all 365 days of this annum with you.

Luna (Latine Lunae) est terrae sola naturalis satellite. [E] [F] [VIII] licet non amet naturalis satellitis in Systemate Solare est, inter satellites maioribus signis maxima quod ad magnitudinem orbes obiecti (primarium) [g] [a] et post Io satellite Jovis, qui est secundus densa inter densitates satellite cognoscuntur.

Luna est in vna *** orbem terrarum, et semper, et faciens facies, *** cis insignis, quae per tenebras inter maria volcanus editis clarus, et veteri crusta impactus crateres prominent. Est enim post solem in coelo et immutari. Quanquam autem id candidissimam, obscurus etiam superficie *** bitumen reflectance fessis tantum leviter superior. Huius temporibus perquam cyclus regularem habere in coelo, quia antiquitus in luna lingua maximus culturae opes, fastos artis fabularis. Producit vim gravitatis luna dies et tempora et levi freta. Nunc de orbita lunae distantia diameter vicibus terra in caelum facit ut fere idem sit qui apparet Solis. Nempe per id fere totum solem lunam eclipsin solis tegere. Hoc simile est de magnitudine visuali fortuitum apparens. Lunaris a terra distantiae lineae sit amet, crescens ad rate of 3,82 ± 0,07 mm per annum, id est, non tamen semper. [IX]

czytając filozofie po polsku, ojciec mój który wyrósł na chemika obudził dziecie, a dziecie pochłoneło ojca mówiąc: od teraz zaczne, carpe annum, carpe zenith ex tempus, filozofia z logiki czy to z rzeczy rosnących - i w garści magika które wzamian za słowa hocus pocus wymawiane są słowa jan nowak urodzony czwartego kwietnia roku 1912 / zmarł rokiem 1973; czy to z rzeczy stabilnych w sensie inspectio ex continuum, czy też na skali micro (atomów), czy też macro (gwiazd); to ja wydam wartości nie-czytne mym ozorem, abyś ty zerknoł na to co jest warte czytania - obudź mnie w ciele ośmio latka twym ciałem dwudziesto latka... bo sam wiesz że przez tyle lat, nic cie nie nauczono -nawet ten bat i ta dysciplina nie wzruszyła cie aby zgodzić się na kawe przy domu pogrzebowym wraz z myślą: jaki to ma być, ten nowy samochód? z dala - ‘taki aby i trumna też mogła zapiąć pasy.’*

zza młodu dziad powiada wnukowi: matematyka, fizyka i sport...
przed dziada rokiem młody odpowiada:
chłód zimy, spacer i myśl;
kocham obiekt zwany kobieta... lecz nie temat...
mój sam bardziej wypełnia sześć kątów niż jej obecność zmartwień,
co jest jakby gra przegrana, więź tematyki mniej
jako wąż a bardziej jak glizda...
lecz chodząc miedzy kratami i domami anglii dostatku...
widze więcej glizd niż kobr czy też pytonów...
skoro geneza słowa jest brana od onomatopeji imitacji bydła,
nic dziwnego że my tesz na bydło zeszli
biorąc teorie lingwistyki darwina przez ch i es -
nic dziwnego że nie jego,
ale czemu brać pod uwage słowem: jak się widzi
kogoś pukającego w dzrwi w tle “słów”
jakby nie jeden knock-knock żart, więcej limit
tego że z nie animowanych rzeczy nic mądrego nie przyjdzie -
tym bardziej dodając do słownika -
jeno ta pierwsza lekcja zagrożenia małpy bez drzewa
z tym pyskaczem wężem, czyż nie?
jaki jest sens utkwić nową lekcje od rzeczy samych
niewinnych swoją interakcją z cieniem lecz bez machania...
jakie zagrożenie od nich? ah wiem, jeno arachnofobia wedle
kamyka rozmiarem ciągu gór mienia: tatry.
więc szkeliet tego boga zwany: komunikat - przez poetów
wyzwany na igrek i mieszanke czasu w pralce
czystości pomieszany: czerń i biel nada szary -
aby zerknąć w igły dotyku bez wargi,
aby te zagrorzenia zostały które miały znaczyć że
zeszły nam z drogi... aby potem tym samym małpim okiem
patrzyć na rzecz dosyć stabilną i sprawdzić istnienie atomowego ruchy
w stajni, między ślepotą a ruchem, mgłą a cieniem.

i almost forgot to mention the one prerequisite of modern love,
they caught the ****** in Scandinavia -
the punter, got punished - not the *******,
the punter - for crossing over the signpost
obstruction: illegal to cross, legally there, illegal to cross -
if you want an antidote to British xenophobia
watch two Brits having *** - esp. those who are
dumb enough to invite omnipresent, omniscient,
omnipotent Onan - Buddha's third and experience
how much they talk during ******* -
and why do you think most people experience
a fall of libido? professionals in ***?
sure, you can just hear behind that professionals
in carpentry - nail it! nail it! you can just hear it,
Chelsea accent and a swear word -
this is Darwinism as much as i care about a panda
bear having 36 hours to be impregnated per annum,
i watch **** out of curiosity - it's a bigger omen
factory than Halley's comet - in every one of us
a Richard Attenborough - well, trans-categorical
monism, **** sticks together - but listen to the Brits
while *******, i say *** ought to be meaningless
and onomatopoeia fuelled - she moans he plays golf,
he ******* she goes on a shopping spree -
wordless, learning a new alphabet -
but hearing xenophobic tongue on the streets of little England
and then watching British ****, you just tend to
'ave a laugh as to why you have to talk so much
when the primeval cuckoo call is already said -
******* is a curiosity for me, having professional
actors in this area was bound to undermine us
and question our libidos as mere friendships -
sooner or later men will pick up on this and will be
like **** prenups, **** marriage, **** female friendships,
embrace solipsism - Paraclete Union -
but it's just weird that modern love needs a prerequisite,
a ******, even if it's acted out, elsewhere translated as
stage-fright - the fear of someone watching -
20th century complaints of serial killers - impotence -
well, we know where this impotence came from, David
Attenborough in the background in hush tone
as if to not disturb - the female mantis teases her Saudi
billionaire into her **** nest to impregnate and then cut
his **** and assets off like a harakiri execution -
as a humanist and not a naturalist my playing field is
bound to be via a third eye, the attributes of the Almighty
reduced to filth of Onan (third eye omnipresent,
omniscient) - but it's modern kosher - Zapruder -
the first to ******* - there ain't no black
in the Union Jack - there ain't enough white
in the Stars and Stripes - one song lost among Prince
copyrights from you-tube - Manic Street Preachers'
ifwhiteamericantoldthetruthforonedayit'sworldwouldfall­apart,
they deleted it - Prince never got radio on the internet;
album? anthem anorexia - the holy bible / went missing
in Shanghai, lived the rest of his life away from the
spotlight, curating fields of rice into origins of geometry.

yes... cold-turkey for a day...
the one will do it...
i just smoked a second one...
and the "hit" is not as benevolent...
simple arithmetic...
a carton is 200 cigarettes...
that's 200 days...
if i stick to this "pattern"...
no pointless cigarettes...
with coffee first thing in the morning:
on the medical "fast"...
after a grand meal...
cold-turkey throughout the day...
one balanced with a generous
amount of bourbon: surfing
the night-cap...
this could work...
      no... no point paying homage
to the romance of rolling tobacco...
a single marlboro will do...
esp. if it comes from eastern europe...
to have to start to treat it
as homage... something...
sacred... that's better than simply
quitting...
much... much better...
this late pseudo-caffeine hit
in the day...
first day... 2 cigarettes in a drinking
session is unnecessary...
one will do...
receptors become blunted...
and now the gratification from
"over-stepping" the mark...
and the gratification of...
not bound to a tarantula numbing-bite...
something has to make sense in
this world: let's begin with this...

i.e. thank god i do not make videos...
writing doesn't really allow
for... what happens with
a video... there's the preserved:
address to the writer...
and the medium of the reader...
rarely will you find yourself
bound to read two readers
competing: for the crown
prince of echo chamber...
not that i'd reply... no higher power...
a laptop... no mobile device...
the internet access is static...

2 is a "magic" number...
after 2 i imagines the gateway: fully opened
for the orc horde of dwugs:
      i'm standing: upright... content...
to tease the addiction...
as if: "as if" for the very first time...
cold turkey my ***...
because of covid-19 "discrepancies"...
no "black market" cheap cigarettes
from moldova...
or romania... poland, ukraine or
bulgaria...

            checked the feed-drip...
cold-turkey for a day...
complete the day with a cigarette...
200 cigarettes in a carton at...
£35... that's what... per annum?
       365... we're talking about...
roughly... 50 quids worth...
of: taming this beast...

                 for a year...
                              yes... this could
very much work...
            and what is the perfect sandwich...
of... extravagance?
a bagel... or some toasted rye...
english butter... smoked salmon...
cucumber... dill... mayonnaise...
and... rainbow trout caviar...
is caviar "all that"?
     it's like marmite... you either love it:
or... hate it...
it's not a luxury... if it was...
a luxury... it would be universally sought
after...
it would be a luxury... for both the rich...
as it would be for the poor...

minor note: how were oysters treated
in Dickensian times?
weren't oysters the food of the poor?
and now? suddenly they have become
a luxury product...
something only the rich are supposed
to enjoy... cods-wallop!

caviar is not a luxury...
but... if you're asking questions about
a palette...
rainbow trout caviar balances out
the smoked salmon...
truly... the fish retains its status as fish...
and the smokiness is tamed...
almost subverted...

the cucumber the dill the mayonnaise...
auxiliary details...
but of course the cemented base:
toasted rye works as many more:
lazarus resurrected miracles as a bagel...

caviar is not a luxury...
in st. petersburg there's this pancake
fast-food outlet... where caviar is dripping...
there are copious amounts of this
**** dished out...
not everyone buys the caviar panny...
because: caviar is not a status symbol
of luxury... it's in the category of marmite...
it's for oddities...
       it's equivalent to... a concentrated
taste of fish...
burst a pill of shark oil fat... omega 3 etc...
perhaps...
    
  once upon a time... TRAN...
was forced upon children in school...
so they could harbour a strong immune system...
tran? cod-liver oil... no... not in capsules...
on the end of a teaspoon...

can i imagine eating caviar...
beside the zenith of the above described
sandwich? well... yeah...
but it wouldn't be rainbow-trout caviar...
beluga / caspian sea caviar...
on the tip of... a slice of...
a napoli pizza...
    anchovies do not have a taste
of fish... salty shrimp whittle wichards...
the best fish: are ate...
with all their bones intact...
sometimes even their heads and eyes...
like...
           smoked... sprats...
nonetheless: caviar is not a luxury product...
nor is blue cheese...
who doesn't have...
a taste for... the "obscene"?

   peanuts and beer in the grand hall of
the west...
in st. petersburg... beer and dehydrated
shrimps... fish...
same ****... different cover...
i much prefer the extra guise of protein
over the fat of nuts... with a beer...

as a warning: oysters were... in Dickensian times...
eaten by the poor of the east end...
and caviar... that's like marmite...
or... salt & vinegar crisps...
you need to appreciate the piquant
detail of the food...
champagne... for example?
i can't drink that fuzzy-brain
anorexic ***** juice of cat... whiskers for
a violin... snarl... shreek...

caviar is not a luxury...
a luxury would imply: a universal...
translation... that... all those who could:
would want it... as much as those who
can't: would strive to also want it:
with enough savings to begin with: could...
but... caviar is marmite...
then again... smoked salmon is marmite...
a steak tartar(e) is  marmite...
i'd call a slab of beef: well done
to be... a doubly-butchered piece of meat...
others... are fond of... fish-fingers...

this can be done...
i can keep track of this choo-choo-train...
200 cigarettes per carton...
that's beyond half a year...
     cold turkey the day...
no... 2 cigarettes is too much...
after the whole day done cold turkey...
it's a beneficial ferris-wheel "dilema"
at the end of the day...
oh... esp. with the bouron...
yes... the matter is not going to be
approved for dialectical concerns...

i call for the advent of "sanctimony"...
         the "superiority" coming from the depths
of... not the cold-turkey lot...
nor the: 20 per day...
and zinc and copper licking tongue
numbing at the end of it...
this one a day...
                     and the bourbon...
ogh! mein gott! come to think of it...
the money?!
money comes last...
so much for "saving" the money from...
not smoking...
where to: a vinyl collection...
aaah... a weekend trip to Prague...
you really need a woman
to spend money...
           given that one can become
very... very... satisfied with
the basics...
esp. when one isn't a gambling man...
these days... gamble on what?
well... save up...
and have *** with a bulgarian *******
once a year...
or pretend to...
            that's probably best...
aim at... salvaging... the most...
wortheless maxim of a translation
of value... in the flesh:
the inanimate concept of money...
the guillotined head
of ol' lizzy the II charming
the heads / tails science debate...
          not getting richer...
not getting poorer...
                   playing a sleeper...
beside the essentials...
it's there... but... it's not there...
it's hardly spending...
it's hardly saving...
      it's a cushion... it's not avarice...
it's not...
beside of note:
the veil that's not in iron...
but is... like...
being paid in peanuts...
peanuts... pebbles... the common
denominator of: one-hundred copper-pence
coins in a brass pound!
i'll settle for... just that.

Sleeping in the womb of Mother Earth
Life to which the rain and ground gives birth
Indulge in the silent light, soak up the peace treeling
Give to the vastness your fruit and sprout a colossal being
House the flying songs, cover the coy crawling lessers
Make fertile your foundations, surprise the soiled crevices
Contain in your coils each annum, the way of all that breathes
Remain a sturdy statue for each generation's leave
Let your roots grip the heart of the world
On your limbs, dreams and history will be built
Life after life, after day and after night
All that will come, will go and you'll surpass in ageing might

Yes, it be two annum since You, i befriended.
Who could have foreseen the
tragic way in which we ended?

You, the quiet rain to mine hearts desert,
grief chained.
I, the stroke to thine ego hurt
where the dark knight remained.

Once i be thy angel with lost wings.
Guardian of secrets that play thine hearts strings.

Now lost and again wandering in the desert of pain.
By mine own hand...silenced the rain.

I beseeched thee to return to mine eyes.
But invain for the sky would not cry.
Yet in this morn I awoke to a new day.
For thou hast graced me with thy return and I wish thee to stay.

A bit luni,
or so it would appear,
to add an extra day
every fourth year,
though leap we must,
Feb adjust,
for a near annum would get lost
over the next fourteen-hundred years.

People are literally dying every single day
But only the celebrities manage to make the front page
A higher level of honour because they gotta lotta dollar
What about the people hard pressed showing signs of survival?

You dont hear the stories of people rotting away
Inside a straight jacket of "normal" human flaws, they say
You dont feel the pain of banging heads going down corridors
You dont see the stress of death clutching your heart to his chest like pause...

Consider whats wrong
How suicide rates escalate since before I was born there's something
In the air, a blank stare or soulful eyes
Begging with each blink that you might hear their silent cries they deny!

Their own existence is not as important as yours
So stop and think a second time before they hit the floor
With gunshots at 50, and with depression about 90,
The percent of people dead per annum, they dont need this **** i highly

Doubt you gave a ****, doubt you wished them luck
Doubt you'd be the mechanic to fix this faulty truck
Just a little more, all the times you saw
Those eyes pierce the night from under those black nightly hoods

Therein is chaos in mechanics, robotics, electronics,
And that's what y'all have become, bystander demonics
Every day is the same to you, every try is lies to truth
Nobody seems to realise there's help needed for our ******* youth!

Turn to drugs to have some fun, cant feel the pain when you're feeling numb
Chemicals to help uphold the happiness you had when you were young
Alcohol to help absolve
The sins of past remain unsolved
But thats okay when every day you forget the reason you were born!

Blades to skin to drown the pain
The blood we washed won't truly stain
Every mark will always change
Every scar will stay the same

Every day is all in vain
All the anger we locked away
In the hopes that it would fly away and fade as fast as the light of day!

Blog our thoughts to keep us sane!
This stabs our mind, steel to brain!
A monster crying out for aid
BUT ALL YOU DID WAS NEVER CHANGE!

So you walk along the sidewalk
You dont see, them swinging
They felt they never had a choice
You never cared, when they lost their voice...

LAYERED EMOTIONS



Heaps of hope she heaved on
the rare orchid, bidding it bloom.

Annum four begot the boon;
it tested its little magic
and sprouted a slender shoot,
sprinkled with decimal buds.  

She kept breathing life into her hope,
pining for the buds’ open sesame,
and daily guarded over it,
with her adored two year old.

Slowly, after what seemed a ‘thapas’
the teeny buds unfurled, one by one,
into a beauteous brooch of mimosa pink.

Moment of pure fulfilment!

Next noon, her beloved two year old
drew nigh, with a spring in his sprint,
chirping, ‘mom, close your eyes,
I have a present for you.’

Mom geared up as per order,
eager to glimpse the gift of love.

‘One, two, three: open your eyes’
the proud voice cooed.

She obeyed and lo!
upheld in his tender fingers
was the rarest of gifts,
the pendant of her four year dream,
the mimosa pink brooch!

He offered his token of love
with a proud enchanting smile!

Should she cry,
or should she laugh?

She did both.

She locked him in a bear hug,
showering kisses all over,
proud of his precious love!

But tears of joy, laced with dismay
silently dripped down her cheeks!

It was a loaded moment
of layered emotions!
heavily loaded, heavily layered!

take a look, naive prince,
in the night,
at the cemetery of Catholics,
with each all saints' day,
with each easter,
i  fall asleep with the same
number of candles lit,
fireflies,
i, sole among the living
willing to embark,
watch in the shadows,
the resurrected glue
that binds the baltic to the black sea...
fireflies in memorandum,
death bows before the candle's itch,
what came last in form of ash,
first come without crown
to turn all ash to wax...
hybrid souvenir!
tow heart, and pray for sea's dear
depth, to anchor posit,
sinking, sinking,
  depth morose....
that sudden near,
a fabled lost refrain in burqa:
cleaved clean from a chicken's neck:
tender, tender, most tender of
all organs, the muscles of
a chicken croak rise...
    Judas my woe,  kin,
plagiarism of an Englishman's "sorry"...
the graves glistened like falling stars,
to hell with Luther, Calvin, Knox et al...
          so st. Augustine cleaves to a shudder,
and a jest via Mozart
  of turning in ones grave:
theatre mortalum....
       theatre of the mortals....
morality and mortality...

fictive liturgy...
but of course the laughing muslim and the latext
****...

             even with my grandfather's praecox
alzheimer's... I find a patience with,
more rewarding, that  listening to this western
pedagogy turned idology narrative
as compelling concentrative posits
worth est. an inquiry...

just another guide of a 1000th blah
times later.

the banquet still resides to testimony,
a hundred or so lit candles in a graveyard,
is my hour of  night's recompensation's worth
of peace... some might call it
a metaphor of the rupture...
       ***** icons,
with only a mongol to cling to steppe
iconoclasm...
        the dust settles...
from clay came wax,
   and a halo of fire to extinguish
the tiresome waters of tearsome
            lost forgotten,
       never as such, bred forgotten...
strange... to deem a dog
by its anti-existential worth,
i.e. traded...
    prince and that pauper...
pedigree and the mongrel...
                     by 5am i  have nothing
left in me but a bidding to safeguard
a universal, goodnight.

Fellas ask me
Are you in love?
I dare say yes,
I am in deep LOVE
DEEP LOVE!

Deep love with the mortals
The ones presented me with life
I am in deep love
With the knowledgeable
The one presenting me,
With a new floor of wisdom
Every annum

I am in DEEP LOVE!
Oh I am in DEEP LOVE
In love with the acquaintances
Who direct me through diversions
Direct me to the right path

Oh I am in love!
In love with the open-minds,
With the aroma
Aroma of freshly turned pages

The good-old books!
Oh we are already in a good relationship!

Oh I am DEEPLY IN LOVE WITH ME!
I love my SOUL!
What else does a lover need?!
This is what I call
Les love!

Here it is
All that matters
In the depth of,
Les LOVE!

I look at a total different perspective,
A total different perspective
Of love!

I dare say,
What then we call
We call all these feels?!

My loves,
This is the only love,
The only love  I want to know  
The only love I trust
The only love I belong in
The only love I want
Les only LOVE.....

it makes so much sense to imitate being german in england, to find an obscurity of an anglo-pomeranian, or an anglo-slav, like in the army of jarema wiśniowiecki: the germans who served in the artillery core, not having retired from the 30 years war: yarema'h! the pogrom of the men a tier below the cossaks... as was said: the houses you'll burn, and whatever looted goods you find you will take... the women and children you will send into the wilderness, and the peasants (i.e. men)? you'll thank them... and so they hanged.

- the current affair -

but there are: besides the points to be made here...
    i once took it upon myself to drink most
of the nights, but leave at least one night
sober... thanks to the pyeongchang olympics
i took it up myself to inact a program:
one day drunk, a day and & night sober...
  but **** me: it's hard watching the sports
that would get more views in public
space if staged in Europe: than
    over there...
     perhaps if staged by north korea:
or china, the public would be told:
    you don't attend: we'll lock up your family.
if we're already having a second cold war:
you can be assured that a 3rd world war
comes when this "war" comes to an end:
but i like to think of it as a: second cultural
exchange programme...
     9 hours later i'm smoking cigarettes
in the dark watching the olympics that are
apparently "excluding"...
   the coverage is a bit ****, but i still watch it,
because i wonder:
     could that african outrun the
     milky-way on ice skates?
          or rather: is the milky-way not
expected to be: son aquarius?
            some might call them:
  the "para-olympians" in realm aquatic
in the summer...
     or as i like to say: just call them
submarines and we'll get another
        picture of drowning migrants...
        but it breaks the heart watching these
sports like a bleeding-eye Inso -
      then the coverage is a bad as the attending
crowd...
                 i do need to sleep, though,
so for the next week or so it will end up
with me having the motif of:
   one day drinking and a night asleep,
countered with one day sober and a night
awake and the next day also awake,
   and then a night of drinking...
        because you know what i've learned?
i feel no shame,
        if i feel shame:
      i turn it into a peacock's tail and
parade my metabolism...
   because it really is a case of "alcoholism"
being a form of metabolism...
    give me a litre of whiskey and
a 115kg frame...
   and i'll give you a sober reply
while showing you what 25ml of
the same liquor: does to an anorexic girl.
                  
- a month prior -

it seems that the only reason as to why
I slept so soundly on my hiatus,
was because I slept beneath a blanket
of an entire body of people;
perhaps I found nothing consolidating
to end argument universals contra particulars -

but I did find that the basic unit of
universals is the analogue,
which in the meaning of particulars
is best understood as: anagram.

Who am I to note the frightening obvious *******:
whereby the sophist is the pristine
student of language,
"liberator" of a meagre worded breath,
echoing the rattling chains of fellows
who might follow suite, such slaves of language,
akin to men who keep a pristine kitchen...
But there are limits,
even on these forsaken tiers,
to neither slave under language,
nor leech off it in the most sacriligous
**** titillating dyslexia:

      i never met a dyslexic pole...
    perhaps a pole who did not obey
an orthographic rubric of an "aesthetic" -
a schooling -
   but there are too many clear
syllables in the language:
  the english simply call it:
   if only it had a few more vowels...
vowels are cruxes for the english
when graphemes are not
noticed in siamese of the original
roman graphemes of vowels:
even though: CH is easily
              chirp and cheap...
      i make music from listening
to sport commentators.

    Moldovan wine, past the 7 to 8 annum transition,
pulverizez the "6th sense" that's non-sense, i
   d est thought, in that alcohol numbs
    the pentagram coordination,
in exchange for a concentrated scalpel-like incision,
subsequently alleviates one from
experiencing a barrage of sensual overstraining...  
to claim a magic...

no lysergic acid Pythagorean shortcuts...
thought is a *non sense,
  which means that it cannot be approached
with a penta-coordination allied
          to the body: 5/1 vs. 1/5...
the mind is not a coordinating focal point of man,
perhaps one of woman, hence the pulverising
shortcuts made in psychology coupled with feminism:

the long awaited rat ala femme...
         hence the fractions of coordinating
the senses around a non sense...
thought the precursor of soul,
  soul the precursor of god the extending thing,
   retracted man in posit qua: res extensa...
alcohol, is properly championed sharpens thought,
non sense into five subtle acknowledgements
of protruding assertions
  (linear synonym antonym game
                     via contra cruxverbum) -
with alcohol thought is allowed bloom,
once thought rods itself of a moral conundrum
  of an "ethical" choice -
    no philosophical answer is readied
in a world built upon cyclone and wheel
to imply absolute with nothing more than
the zenith of scythe - and a nadir of hammer...

but thought outside a moral judgement
is both a blessing and a curse:
akin to the Arabs and oil.
Yet what persists in the digressive circumstance
of I unto ?, well...
    thought is a non-analogous "sense":
soliloquy... drinking exfoliates thinking
which cannot be coupled with thinking
per se / the other... since thinking cannot
allow a direct confrontation with all five
senses coordinated: thought is a luxury for
the mind akin to health being a luxury for the body...
a penta sigma coordination of thought is impossible,
as stated by prophets who cannot attest
to a synchro-synchro coordination,
circa consolidation of the thesaurus dichotomy:
uni particular, subjective (1) objective (0.1)...
for those who know how to drink:
aqua igna agitates thinking while sedating
          the senses: ergo?

How many years of ****** and
how many of Communism? if only for
Deutsche fraulein it could have secured
the Slavic worker his babuschka in retirement.

Jedyny grzech martwych jest: vox uber gott.

No one is taking pictures of each othet: ergo?
Whoever takes the medium of photography seriously,
takes the immaculate selfie has narcissus
turning in his grave, shouting:
font forget the clown!
The rest of them are sitting ducks, and yes,
there is an evil twin of the mirror in hell:
it's called: a photograph.

the narrator of photography died,
ergo selfie: ergo an experiment
          in solipsism: gagging narcissus.

i through | ask the mirror:
     past a vanity of pretty -
     curious mirror: i though | see a ? or a ! (i ask)...

and why did i sleep so soundly on my
Spartan holiday?
     minus the drink?
           i slept among my own kin...
even if i did not speak to them beyond
buying milk and a loaf of a bread...
i returned to a hollow filled
with talking shadows of what
would constitute a past, mine disowned
yet theirs owning...
   i a body in transit:
         in england: apparently cheaper
than a chinese toy imported
freely:
        the refugee mecha-monkey escaping
Beijing, on a ship-load added
to cheap bicycle locks...
                that: can freely move...
a man is half what he can add to
an economy:
                because what he brings
are apparently refugee trades and things...
instead the refugee:
   who brings of what talk of trade
and of what things?
  shackles of war are a noble burden
i am sure...
           as noble as the sudden sight
of Kosovans in Ilford sitting idle
in cafes...
          seen for a year... soon to disappear.

Bury  them with their Motanka,
doll tight in their hands.

Dress them in that  yellow
fleece wanted and put back on the shelf,

two wreaths of  roses and gerberas
adjacent their crypt,

filled with their birth smells,
the sandalwood,  jasmine of the crib,

a towel and a bowl of water
near to wipe their tears.

Flood the nave lightly  dark
so they may chase the path of birds.

Recite the names they gave
the fowl, flowers, everything.

Only you must remain ignorant
of the sun and the dark.

Only you would pray to re-turn
amniotic time to have them again,

nine months to split the seeding moment,
to be be flesh renewed, a new word within you.

Only you will thirst to
return drop by by red drop

the blood spilled from them
to the wanting womb.

Only you will drag their sled
from church to cemetery.

You will feast with others
on the third, ninth, the fortieth

day of their passing, feast again
on the sixth month and the annum,

for each one day past Easter
for another forty Provodies.




Notes on the Ukrainian funeral rites and rituals mentioned in the poem:

On the days of Ukrainian funerals, a bowl of drinking water and a towel are left for the dead as a spiritual offering. This is done because it is believed that the soul of the deceased drinks the water and uses the towel in order to wash away the tears along the way.

Moreover, Ukrainians abstain from drinking water in the presence of the body of the deceased.

Another Ukrainian traditions is to use a sled to move the body of the deceased from the funeral service to the burial site.

They have a feasting ritual in which members of the community join to feast on the third, ninth and fortieth days after a death has occurred. These feasts are also repeated on the six month and one year anniversaries of the death of a person. Ukrainians also commemorate the lives of their ancestors on the days following Easter. It is believe that this puts the spirits of their ancestors at ease so they can continue to rest in peace. This Ukrainian remembrance festivity is referred to as “Provody”.

The mainly faceless Motanka dolls can be found in every region of the Ukraine.  They are a symbol of women’s wisdom and family bounds.  In Orthodox Catholic regions of the Ukraine the face of a Motanka is made of a cross— a symbol of not only their faith but also sun and light, not only a good luck charm but also a symbol of well-being.

i must be in one of those... "moods"...
    i must be in such circumstances follow an almost
ritual: the beauty of life...
coupled with the "fairness" of it...
notably when sharing it with people:
of a more... "south of the border"...
a more sour invitation to it...

                  my "free will": my... what little is it...
when someone else might: rest assured...
express his or her... "alternative"...
                      this a choice...

the wine has ran! down into the gob that
sometimes forgets to thirst...
and when not thirsting... does the unpardonable...
shelters itself in the abodes of ruining
patterns of shadow devoid of bodies...

drinks! listens to scandinavian pagan songs...
tiresome... tiresome those byzantine chants...
for all their worth: but enough is enough...
it would be the most precious time...
to translate some Horace...
   such be my need for solace -
but translation itself is hardly a comfort...

                       the cut-off reads...
   at *** tonantis annus hibernus Iovis
        imbris nivisque (conparat)...
       tonantis - thunderer
     hibernus - wintry
               annus - annum - year...
        imbris - growth...
        nivisque - snow... the cut-off is already:
as always crude...
                                    the whiskey is here!
and the romance of powder...
cheeks and roses! but we might as well
begin: from a beginning...

  beatus ille qui procul negotiis, ut prisca gens
mortalium, paterna rura bobus exercet suis
solutus omni faenore
    neque excitatur classico miles truci
  neque horret iratum mare
                       forumque vitat et superba civium
potentiorum limina.
   ergo aut adulta vitium propagine
altas maritat populos at in reducta valle
     mugientum prospectat errantis greges
inutilisque falce ramon amputans feliciores
insertit aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris
aut tondet infirmass ovis.
              vel *** decorum mitibus pomis caput
autumnus agris extulit,
         ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pita
certantem et uvam purpurae,
    qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater Silvane,
tutor finium.
           libet iacere modo sub antiqua ilice,
modo in tenaci gramine:
labuntur altis interim ripis aquae,
           queruntur in silvis aves fontesque
lymphis obstrepunt manantibus,
                             somnos quod invitet levis.

thus listening to some of what the british
patriots have to offer...
i'd call them the demeaning "natives"...
but then i have on offer...
scottish nationalism
and welsh nationalism...
not to mention the irish: but i'll mention them...
english nationalism...
      hmm...

solution: repatriation... of the "invaders"
of Brimingham...
i know what deportation looks like...
on the weekend that Dianna was
"repatriated": her coffin was towed...
the home office came knocking...
    father doing a runner...
         visiting grandfather broke up his affair
with sober -
'nice com-pew-ter' said the home office
grey...
i was left in tears and punching
the wall...
       so much for integration...
          did my best lizzy... the paperwork...
"got in the way"...
            doesn't matter: the kosovans came
in 1999 circa etc.
     the canines are out...
                  where is my, mosque?
                          where is my kebab stash?
beside the 2004 tsunami...
          
home is where: i have a sparrow's worth
of fear: and perhaps a heart...
when i land in warsaw and try to escape it...
i land in warsaw: i'm a native of these parts:
am i "at home"...
i'll walk you down route 25 bus
past all the babylon and i'll tell you:
nothing like it!
dodo among the peacocks...
humpty-dumpty and sacred cows brigade...
that's not quiet me... but...
         touch 'em with a two metre long
****** if you must!
      
   my affairs with england...
was supposed to be a stop-over...
further argentina... h'america...
     the bleach baptism: ha! ha! h'america!
in search of a great-grandfather...
   guess this is "home"...
sure as ****... warsaw isn't!
      
                   and these concerns...
i will not sing the: god save the queen...
i'd rather whistle to: the british grenadiers fife
& drum... on a scale of: a *****... a nilly...

italy is being "invaded"
germany is being "invaded"
denmark is being "invaded"....
england and france are being "invaded"...
no guns, no tanks... no blitzkrieg?
"invasion"? or just slacking and slurrping
a neo-liberal old liberal pompous brat affair?
sleep more sleep a more dire sleep...
wake up when it's all over...
in the hands of the other...

   an invasion: an "invasion"... no tanks...
just the stories of sorrow from knife-crime
statistics... collateral and human shields...
such concerns...
if it's not the invaders it's the romanians
picking lettuce or the polacks
on construction sites...
but i am as much an exile as anywhere...
and i don't really have a high degree of concern
for my "tribe": either...

   the slow warfare of economic ruin concerning
a town that was sizing up a status of city...
with two metallurgy theatres of operation...
gone: gruzy... heaps of rubble...
           hersch! herr hersch!
     how iz zis evens pozziblah?
               i don't mind the invaders...
marry one: then i might...
   have a little calipso moment and count:
the number of shades of cinnamon,
copper, bronze and cherokee...

                      whiplash... i must be daft...
not to have learned a thing or two from
the **** and the ******... to have to learn
a new: "thing or two" from the... liberals
with their: no tanks, no planes, no microwaves,
no l.s.d. "freedom's freedom" policy!

england big... big O england...
big o: O and exclaimation mark: O! england...
i am not wed to your daughters...
nor the father or grand fairy pater to
them either...
               i didn't bring a mosque!
i didn't bring a flag!
i didn't bring a suntan that retains its
glue in winter!
i didn't bring anything...
beside... there's this idea of a nation...
and there's that...
of a diaspora... which of course...
you had... but didn't...
when... the "proselytes" decided that:
an english diaspora is not:
in our vision... what would become
the invested: hope and character to build
as a grand, u. s. of a.....
so much for the "motherland and the fathertongue"...
or the "fatherland and the mothertongue"...
whittle ol' england...
whittle ol' bargain: and more!

i brought sauerkraut and a poppy-seed cake...
the german might as well have brought
the former... but it's hardly an argument:
the "invaders" from the east brought their own food...
shame... seeing you gobbling down a curry
and a kebab...
who am i to complain?
i eat them too! i have an arsenal of spices
that would most likely compete with
the nuke arsenal of russia!

                      i didn't "integrate" you didn't
"integrate"... i have your tongue as a dearest: polly...
who doesn't want a *******?
that h.p. sauce is genius?
              well... and cricket? but i'll eat your
gob-*****... you will not eat mine...
so you have your bangladeshi "invaders"...
your friday night: chinese take-away and soho...
ahem... "soho"... chinatown...

who's to be complaining?!
exotica! ex-o-tica!
                     shrimp **** and watermelon *****:
requiring... ***** extensions to **** around
with: **** jamai... can oh she cancan but not
in the parisian "sense"...
          
        well... given that this was supposed
to be a translation of Horace...
here's my ****** translation of latin...
it's not a curry... it's not a mosque...
it's not a burning flag it's not a turban...
it's not a roman catholic on a pike...
dying a death more formidable than
a crucifixion...
i'm guessing a viking settling in york:
with something of a believable
scandal when sense of humour is concerned...

i can't promise stale: hardly any poetry...

fortunate he, who from the city's uproar from afar,
free like people of older date,
    with oxen ploughs the fief of hereditary role,
oblivious to either profit or toll,
he doesn't know, what is the **** of a battle horn,
he doesn't tremble, when the sea grieves a vengence,
shuns away from the forum's uproar,
        he doesn't, like customers - who -
                 protrude under the doubling of the wealthy.
he prefers the lush shrubs of grapevines -
with shoots wed to the stump of a poplar tree,
overseeing, leading herds of roaring cows
into and among pastures on the slopes
of mountainous valleys...
             hunt boars... interlock with beef...
                  so as to have a noble variety of fruit,
from pressed plasters: honey sieved into amphorae
or clipper woolly sheep of the herd.
                - and when golden autumn above
the fields - donning a wreath of harvested wheat:
raises its head -
with what kind of ecstasy / delight...
tears the sight of grafted pears...
                   and bunches in clusters of purple -
should for Priapus and Silvanus,
     watchman's bordering copper, bring forth:
the first gifts.
     how pleasant to rest upon cushioning grass
or under a an old and shady oak:
where fluvial trends in precipitious stance
of banks errodes...
                     where the birds' graceful nagging...
foliage murmurs, streams of water incessant:
thus a dream make... unexpectedly.

estrada: tempus...
                            auditores? lemures!
stage: time...
            the audience? ghosts!
that's bound to happen... binding oneself
to a Horace...
       with what's already available...
the stage: the audience....
and beside: the audience: time...
        well... i rather enjoy entertaining...
a stage of time: and the audience of ghosts...
than have to resort / retort to
the latter "debacle"...

             i, didn't... bring an "invaders"...
detail... lucky for me...
of the german the zeppelin and the ******...
you didn't even have to taste
anything by the leftover mongol...
that crimea became the capital of
the diaspora... that the mongol became known
as the tartar...
                                      chebureki...

endear me! have you humpty-dumpties!
your sacred cows!
your mosques! your chinatown!
your frizzy and your froth!
your angst your liberals and your
huguenots!
your passive-aggresive secular "christianity"
tingling with **** atheism...
"your"... Birmingham!
"your"... Loon'don...
                            
             clywed y çymraeg!
                                    éist clann gàidhli!

seobheith!
           no heidegger: no "there"...
                        anois!
              
        YMA!
                                     YMABODAU!
i leave Wstminster to the porky-pies...
who with and with: "who":
where else?!

i can verily appreciate my initial frustration
barely a day ago,
       or at least a day a nibble of today's
contentment at:
    (a) drinking beer on a very sour,
wet atypically english afternoon -
      reigned over by who else if not
earl grey... and...
   (b) autumnal cuisine, planning dinner,
roasted vegetables,
       parsnip, peppers, courgettes,
onions, potatoes, carrots, mushrooms,
glazed in oil balsamic vinegar and some honey...
hell, when they said: 5 a day -
a nurse told me: it's good that
   1. you don't run on pavement and instead
allow 5 miles become deserving of
your tread - longshanks -
and 2. the 5 a day implies veg, not fruit...
younger? sure, fruits, but as i got older
it was the timidity of vegetables -
their sweetness, but also lack of
acidity -
             no **** sherlock -
          a combination of fruit acidity and
sugar is probably just as bad as chocolate...
  hence my championing of winter...
sure, in the spring it might be warmer outside,
but during autumn it's much warmer
inside...
              due to the food...
          but i can only see with lucidy
my initial frustration, as to why only a day
or so ago (with a nibble of today) came
the realisation... frustration at a lack of
the usual writing impetus...
      i had to (on purpose) force myself to
solve two súdokū puzzles -
  having failed both of them...
     but it was never about solving these puzzles...
what was actually happening was nothing
short of a transition period...
    unlike your typical bestseller page turners,
i was stuck with a book for at least... god...
       almost half a year?
                that's the problem when you give
too much thought to a book,
  well, a "problem" -
                              but deep-reading does that
to you, in that you have to burn off
any memory of what you spent investing
all that time in...
  and how better than by puzzling number games?
it's the mere focus on numbers,
an overly strained focus on them,
an exhaustion due to focusing on them
that can only allow you to detach your from
the book you've just finished,
        and the next book you picked up...
   after all, the books can't be more parallel -
notably since one predates the others
  (1670 - 1931) - with the latter citing no
influence of the former...
       let's face it, having just finished a nationalist
socialist philosopher's musings...
  and then picking up benedict spinoza's work?
that's almost like having read stephen king,
and then picking up hans christian andersen...
obviously it had to take drastic measures,
sheer mental exhaustion having concentrated
on numbers, and then a sleepless night
watching movies to bury one book
  in my library, to subsequently take a new one
out... unlike binge reading on twilight trilogy
(e.g.).
                  besides, i managed to re-watch
good will hunting...
                                     and it struck me:
     there's that scene were a father busting his
*** on a construction site for his son's education...
hmm...
                 and how good education this
and good education that...
                          zdrowie na budowie -
health in construction -
         couldn't agree more -
          plus an art form / trade being perfected
to absolute efficiency -
                 if only i was born a bit later,
at the time when tuition fees went up to
   9 grand per annum for a degree at university,
if only! even when they started hovering
above 3 grand i dropped out from doing
a second degree...
                      busting his *** my **** -
   my university cost my father one week's
worth of wages, back when it was just over a grand...
but that's the reality,
     trades pay good, esp. industrial scale roofing,
a hard graft, but i have to say: fun to do -
it puts going to the gym out of the equation,
for sure...
              and roofers? i know that i'll never
manage to visit the maldives... 'e did...
         mexico and kenya and jamaica and...
      i've got a degree in chemistry and the best
offer of work outside of university was:
   stacking shelves in a supermarket.
                     plus, i've taught myself more
than i was taught in these institutions...
                     and i really recommend this:
stop your formal education in language at
the age of 16... after 16? teach yourself...
                         i took the foundation in history
from 16 through to 20...
              a canvas of essay writing...
   butch-ed-up writing history essays...
    i wouldn't trust anyone to teach me this
language after 16...
                          that said,
we really were sold a lie about the mantra
of education education education...
       frightfully, if not merely thankfully
the lie was cheap, cheap cheap cheap,
  thankfully it was cheap at the time -
otherwise the majority of us would have
probably left school at 16 and learned a trade...
point being...
     in poland it's clear cut...
         because you have polytechnics -
  and i'll tell you how they look like:
    schools for boys, hardly any girls...
                  let's say: no girls...
        and then there are the schools with
*****-whipping material guys who study
  the arts, languages, literature etc. etc. -
       if only england had established firm roots
in polytechnics - almost all men would have
defaulted - and so much rests on how things
are worded -
                      they call it apprenticeships...
  as if you have to be a victorian slave labour
of a child...
                       forced into work straight at 16?
how about a few more years in a polytechnic?
so you can at least learn more theories and ideas,
create a technical base, before you enter
an apprenticeship at, say, 18 or 19?
                     is the ******* house burning down
that you have to be forced into a technical trade
at 16?
              no! it's not fair on the guys who have
aren't given the luxury of those 2 to 3 years
of joking in the playground, playing footie &
all that...
                    if a polytechnic network of schools,
we'd know that at least a plumber would
come out the other end,
   rather than upon leaving university -
a chemist becomes a supermarket cashier...
why? it's a choking joke that these university
lecturers are doctor in their field and what they
really want to do is to focus on their research...
  understandably...
  which is why all university lectures should
be conducted by post-graduates...
   seems simple enough...
   post-graduate students and professors -
  those old geezers who are almost retired and
have the same capacity for wisdom as
  a grandfather has to a grandson,
  which a father will never have to his son.

i sometimes spend the first 30 minutes
of s drinking sessions
ingesting bachelor videos...
men's opinions about women...
i have to grant some, perhaps almost all
observational pointers,
come to think of it: i think for a while
about a dialectical approach...
on such subjects i don't really want to
have an opinion...
like: i don't want to be famous:
i want to be left alone...
so i listen... opinion X and opinion Y...
sure, could have one,
but i... am... sort of lacking...
investing in opinions,
that will later not be dialectically
scrutinised, what's the point?
too many unnecessary feels...
most people cower from their original
opinion to begin with,
when push comes to shove,
or when shove comes to a clenched fist...
my life doesn't revolve around
staging a snippet of some *******
Mexican / English soap-opera...
my use of the internet it simple:
1. listen to some music
2. check the encyclopedia
3. doodle something, equivalent to this
4. email someone
5. complete some form
6. buy a book, or a CD / vinyl
7. check the dictionary
8. look at pictures of myself:
i've "recently" lost a sixth of me...
down from 120kg to 97kg...
like i told my neighbour,
i'm very much like a vampire...
of course i see myself in a mirror,
but i really don't...
sure... if i were to go to the nurse,
she wold check my blood-pressure...
no more dizziness...
i had two options: lose weight...
or be put on some high blood-pressure
tablets, **** the second part...
no more pills...
it's enough that i mix a knock-out
punch with some whiskey, some cider,
some naproxen, some phenergan...
some APAP...
oh, quiet the contrary, i'm not sedated by
alcohol... i'm soothed:
not exactly pushing a cube through
a square hole in the wall...
when comparing the words: sedated vs.
soothed...
i need a chemical knock-out
to find release from a vibrating mind...
that's of course if i start writing...
i need an opt-out scenario...
what points have i already mentioned, are there 8?
9. checking general information,
perhaps some news, but i rather like my
cul de sac existence, so i rarely bother
about being informed, unless
10. TfL... train times, esp. concerning Sundays
and holidays
11. maps, i sometimes ride my bicycle
into Essex countryside, completely
forgetting where Epping or Theydon Bois
is placed... oh, right, i'm "here"?!

o.k., these bachelor videos...
m.g.t.o.w. or whatever: read some Kierkegaard,
who the hell composed the music
for the Giselle ballet?
           Adolphe Adam, Theophile Gautier,
Jean Coralli?!

so i listen to their videos... eh... easy listening...
men talking to men...
it could be worse:
it could be... getting dating advice from women...
that's why i prefer exchanging
messages with older women...
in their 50s... 40s...
60s is sort of stretching it...
come on...

that taboo of teenage girls is a flimsy fantasy...
it's ****** at first, at first, prior to them opening their
mouths... of course the debate concerning
outliers and Humbert Humbert...
ha ha... catch-22... major major... anyways...
sure, there are outliers...
like i acknowledge the existence of nymphomaniacs...
for a split second i was going
to turn ol' Humbert into: Herbert Herbert...

i'm out, Pontius Pilate style...
i have washed my hands clean from this whole
"affair"... speak to older women whenever online,
don't engage in the comment section
on any item you're ingesting...
why would i stop myself being from
being the passive reader, spectator,
why do i need those 2 cents of "thought"...
of opinion...
and... just ******* to the brothel...
if *** is what you want...
the clarity of a monetary exchange...
no dating...
oh, sure... i remember going on a date once...
we were both 18...
i paid for her gallery ticket,
since i invited her,
but he later went to the cinema,
she paid for herself,
then for some Japanese food...
she split the bill with me...
we weren't dating prior... just high school-friends...

this other date i was on...
we were "dating"... well... it was more like...
she was a first year university student
living with other girls in student accommodation,
i was a third year student with a flat i shared with
only one guy... what was his name...
Tristan! from Bristol, a math major:
a complete brood... some German lineage:
go figure... a half-German
and a fully-blooded ****** living under
the same roof... "complications"...

look at her go... now that i think of it...
she moves it... she has escalated her worth by getting
out of student accommodation,
she moves into a flat on Montague St.,
because... as time passes by, the candles did their magic...
she can give decent head...
we go to St. Petersburg, see Metallica in Moscow...
i return to London, she remains in Edinburgh...

with all the women i was ever with...
all managed to break up with me prior to me
even whispering that i might...
thank god that none of these relationships lasted
per annum... just a few months of my life:
lost...

now... older women on the internet...
and prostitutes...
at least i know what i'm buying...
i'm hardly going to buy a girl dinner...
if i'm not assured some... extra...
like a Chinese fortune cookie peek...
so i listen to these bachelor videos...
"misogyny" etc. again:
like the minorities... throwing words against
the wind, so frivolously...
i am the minority, how many Polacks
live in England?!
like my training suggested:
not all disabilities are visible...
most Arabs+ confuse my physiognomy with
that of a German...
hmm... i can use this...
if i look like a German: even to my fellow Polacks...
if they can't identify as one of "their own":
great... i can merge into this phenomenon
of how the entire world seems to have
congregated on these little isles...

- i wish i had the concerns of the natives,
what are they? being undermined
demographically, what else?
i'm pretty sure the story goes...
even though Britain staged:
we will make war on Germany for invading Poland...
funny, that... it took both Germany
and the Soviet union (35 days)
to completely subjugate Poland during the theatre
of the second world war...
1 September 1939 – 6 October 1939...
but it took the Germans: alone...
6, *******, 6 weeks to subjugate
France (and the little ******* extensions of
the Benelux)
10 May – 25 June 1940 (6 weeks)....
if the current climate of, ahem... "discussion" is anything
to go by, or pretend to go fishing....
like **** i will: unless we're hunting rather than
fishing for whale...
killing off an Estonian elephant (a mammoth)...

easily: the French **** welcomes the ZZ-top
SS-mensch(en)... who attired them?
no, it wasn't Gucci... it might have been
Chanel... Hugo! *******! Boss!
yeah, how could you ever make
khaki ***** into uniform somehow bearable...
beyond me...

from under the iron curtain to now, "this"...
sorry, i'm not going to comply...
trans-genderism with flaky transcendentalism...
sorry, what?!
you can only do so much within the confines
of a metaphor, within the certification
of metaphysics,
three directions... meta-physics...
trans-whatever...
ortho-graphy... English is a language with no
knowledge of implementing orthographical
critique: it, does, not, employ, any,
diacritical, markers! the end!

all that English has to replace a study of orthography
is, the para-avenue...
Charlie ****-sense might have glorified a spelling
mistake by citing the term orthography...
poor Charlie D...
oh my god... i'm pumped!
it's what ******* might have felt working his way around
a genesis of a blank canvas...
me, i just have sounds... but i'm not encoding music:
i'm translating meaning...

i'm not even translation two languages
etymologically apart...
i'm translating language in order for it to be written
to begin with...

some other point... why i use the internet..
i listen to some of these bachelor videos,
but then i have to step back...
get completely pummeled,
become pulverised, become almost deaf with
music that's the antithesis adhesive of
someone talking... lately?
COMBICHRIST: all pain is gone,
   sent to destroy, never surrender...

12. looking for "googlewhacks"... mostly those i can invest
in as secondary search results...
13.  what the ****'s a "13"?
if ever, summon an elf: + / ?

-

paul joseph
              watson...

         ha ha...

                     graham /

                    gray-ham;

i can't even appreciate
this comparison
  without a sentiment
for guilt...

    but it certainly works
my pavlov
   in thinking about
a fried egg on toasted
bread.

oh, i won't be better off
having written this,
      have my feet,
have my head,
and the bits in between
that i gamble with,
drinking
a bottle of whiskey
   per night.

how long now?
        must be into my 2nd
annum...
          not speaking
                             really helps.

ever visit a farm
    where they kept the most fertile
hog,
        with a harem of meat
perfected by the "ladies"?
    
  a bit like eating any male meat,
**** just stinks of
       testosterone hormones...
   great for crafting salami though...
      
  but to me it's still just a pair
of eggs, fried and dumped
onto toasted bread...

           call me old fashioned...
   with me concerned?
   you can tell a joke,
   but it's probably going to be
a choke rather than
     a gagging order...
              
                    hands in the air:
you cought me...
                  i'll just have to
mime a reaction...
                  because, i,
  don't really have much more
than an image of
a tree riddled by
          the mistletoe botanical
parasite
                 in replica
                      of cancer patients.

***** hat that one mile
charity run?
                            and the clock
ticks,
              and the floors creak,
  and the shadow whispers,
    and these feet will hardly
allow another tap dancer
             joining cabaret berlin
                           sporting a top-hat;

stink-meat...
                      testosterone infused...
lobsters & oysters
   have suddenly become
more appealing...
            pearls & scissors from
Poseidon...
                  but still that:
harem of meat of those
                                  nun pigs...

while death, the slouch,
          the ******,
                     the "clandestine" one...
          male ***** in
                    the palace of shiva...
    decided it
      was worthwhile to agree
on yawning, rather than
         scratching his body
           with a silent imitation
                           of a scream
of a mouth agape and
            no sound being excavated.

not much needs to be written these days,
i hardly ask to peer at the face
of god:
what, with all these full bodied
chinese ideograms or ancient egyptian
hieroglyphs - strenuous like
impromptu hindenburg explosions...
at least with these latin letters:
well: the hebrew revision -
skeletons... endless row of skeletons...
shackles of bone...
i never promised myself this...
but... upon seeing an open coffin
in the morgue: the detail beside walking
around town putting up necrolog posters...
the bureaucratic detail in
what culminates in the whole:
well attired in princey navy jacket...
cuffs and: remembering how to tie:
a tie...
the generic mass at a funeral:
family secrets... oh the bogus lot of:
an unhappy marriage...
only somehow saved by the prefix grand-
some ever summer for several years
from the womb of the daughter...
this unhappy marriage...
only 3 months ago:
i could see the eyes of resignation...
perhaps cancer finally matched up to:
his willingness to let go...
i'm writing this to justify his unwillingness
to live: after all... rosy whenever i
visited him: otherwise purgatory:
skinning of pigs for shoes...
a grandmother's tongue like a sting of a wasp...
it was not for anyone to live:
no wonder he recounted: he decided to
escape into memory...
and it wasn't like upon death:
all of life flashes before your eyes:
once you age and service up half a dozen
years, months, weeks and countless days:
an eternity of hours...
memory become cinema...
i've seen it myself...
to play the cameo...
            but i can't imagine
being married to someone who might
wish me dead or:
that i might die like a dog dies:
in my native tongue: zdechnąć...
which refers to animals...
people: people have the capacity (rather than
the potential) to... umrzeć..
to die like an animal is to
heave the last breath without
the ease of possessing a differential
sigma of all part concerned that
tells any naked eye the difference
between
an animate and an inanimate object...
well... further along...
that's a bad joke...
since most of the time...
something animate doesn't
necessarily have to become subjected
to our observation: filtering the amassing
grey fudge of pedestrians:
which is less... even though animate...
than the inanimate mountain...
then again... the earth is static by
illusion... suddenly broken
by the wind... hurried disillusionment
by a hurricane... hey presto!
i'm standing on a "levitating" orb...
- i promised something...  
ah... identifying a corpse in an open coffin
in a morgue before the funeral...
biting-the-quill-procedures of death:
death... i have to let you know...
is very well organised...
it's very bureaucratic...
hell for all it's insomniac democracy:
"veto"...
it's... impossible to suffer childish fears
when walking through a graveyard...
hours shy post the burial
i sat by the grave like a dutiful
dog and teased my eye with a candle
while burning the ridges of plastic
into a cascade of all things hot, molten...
- my new found source of "debate"?
not finishing a cigarette...
smoking... half of it...
extinguishing it... half an hour later...
with the filter already soaking wet
with wet nicotine from all my drags...
new found pleasure...
it's a ******* mirage:
the idea that there are inanimate
objects at hand for the eye to admire
and meditate on...
a mountain in all its grandiosity...
yes yes... esp. when slap-sticked to
a... magician'******that:
the tetragrammaton has a daughter:
who he calls the annum...
HH: for summer and winter: chiral entities...
Y for spring... W for autumn...
why that is so...
Nero could have told you...
my lyre! my liar! rome is afloat!
the waves are ablaze!
this english tongue would not be
recognised by either greeks or the romans!
yet i'm using the lettering
of qua quixote: qua ape borgia...
pope!         pope!
are all the protestant sovereigns rich?
guess it comes to quest with a question:
the catholic rich ****** of france or
spain... who are the pauper catholics?
by all means: i know all the orthodox
castratos are: grecian and challenging:
take turns concerning either Malta
or Cyprus...
- here's to! here's to not getting my "mojo"
back concerning writing:
it's not like there's a horizon of
a stephen king worth for me to play
jester with... it's not like i'm some clive barker
who explored narratives
and character studies in h'amsterdam's
underground play-toy-play-t'ing...
rubber ole! studding with nails
and a fetish for leather...
while having sioux...
kneecap fold at the elbow:
wave goo'-bye!
             none of that... no...
             meat 'n' tow veg unfathomable...
like testing the vernacular of
testicles of... five men, all blind...
and a whale to make jokes concerning
an elephant...
- now i am extending my "privy"...
i am making myself welcome by ****
and wilt alone...
i am playing solitaire and i am rearranging
chess and dominos of letters:
but all these fattenings that come back
to bite phonetic enclosures
of chinese ideograms and egyptian
hieroglyphics... bloat in my face like
sprouts of mushroom growth
and bulging pockets of **** of gangrene
and sickly sweet acne...
- you know... i expected any other
play on a hiatus... i see old people walk
around and i'm like: coming on 81...
bragging about pushing 120...
when i came back from the funeral
i felt a sense of relief...
there's the concept of the mother-tongue...
as the very central european concept
of the fatherland...
it's not german...
hardly... concerning that he died
a philosopher: i.e. married to an abomination
of a woman...
i'll sooner gamble on horses!
or... how i will have to stand alone...
or walk into the north sea one
day and drown... or head to the civilisation
crown of humanity's deity: the switz land
or the benelux and spend my last
halving of paper with
tsar nicholas II imprinted on it...
for a dosage of euthanasia...

let the africans and the arabs come...
i am tired of having to jest
not suffering from bouts of
lethargy... let them i don't mind...
i'm of the mind concerning the belief
in shadows and in volcanoes...
the larva of the lava needs new:
sprouts!
copper-skinned "i" and R: further! US!
but not from this boring set of
stale ideas!

- a grandfather died: sorry... was i supposed
to be more... more estranged from
the concept of family?!
grandfather is pushing it?
but that Poland has reached
a mythological status entry for past...
hell... England is on par...
concerning Ilford... Gants Hill...
Barkingside... and sooner or later...
Romford...
white-flight... well no **** sherlock!
we're not going to fit onto
the Faroe Islands like a bunch
of hiding oysters!

- again... was this at all offensive
or am i just too grief stricken to mind
the already apolitical "political correctness"
sort of ******* that's reserved
for the retards that: will hardly
envision actual bridges and actual rivers...
no... "society"... is their... ******* disneyland
of concerns!

money is a social construct...
pay 'em in either pebbles or peanuts!
how else?!
- and what of still stalling of bulging
"anger" from a "erectile dysfunction":
glad you asked...
i... simply don't know...
why it works a charm with prostitutes...
but... fails... whenever i have to
date someone from
a mythos of the 1950s: bidding for a
housewife... thank you...
i can... or rather: i much prefer
to cook for myself...
i need no **** or **** in that department...

- because it's that nagging sensation
surround: only recently the parisian police
burned another migrant camp...
not in calais...
in some underpass...
i was in Paris circa 2004 - 2007 and
it was that city of Hemingway et al.,
now... it's the city where
there's a mausoleum of a bonaparte...
if that...
in a sunday newspaper magazine
a book review concerning Idi Amin...
attempted to portray him
in good faith... turns out!
****** gassed... Idi Amin performed
miraculous surgery...

- believe it or now: i'm on my way out...
thank **** and god to boot for
having inherited such fuckery of
grandmothers... and paternal... blah blah...
synchronised fuckery of a Tolstoy's
Anna Karenina opening - with the world
as a whole...
and i... poor ****-wit...
a cameo narrative-ist...

- in this tongue alone: "borrowed":
lent, acquired... why should "i"...
the dumb polacks were graced with a pope?
as instrument... let my fellow countrymen
gloat in a darkness of: that's already
easily manipulated...
saint my *** on a peddle-stool!
- what do i owe... "europe":
exactly what it owes me...
privy to the image of... salvaging...
tank-tops and ******...
even when it was grizzly ritzy and **** on
you:
the same foundation:
how plagued could we have become...
gorging on the same load of
masochism yet feeling no inclination
for: the colonial adventures that
landed "us" on the moon...

how there is a past for some...
but not for others: "my" people ought to
regress to the grievances bestowed
to them by the teutonic knights: failed 4th crusade...
the mongols, the swedes concerning
the deluge...
the ottomans... the ukranian nationalists...
oh.. "multicultural" society... "worked"...
in the polish-lithuanian commonwealth:
so well that what was required
was a foreign king...

i too... own... my body my land...
mythological as it might still be:
leaving school i do know how to dictate
the last of the anglo--saxon king's "whereabouts"
in history... the angevin empire...
the normie 'orms... and europe
can go **** itself...

           why? grief bespoke... i'm on
an "angry" hiatus...
  i write skeletons of letters and i'm peering
at the house of god...
all that's missing is what's hidden in 'ebrew...
i.e. the niqab vowels...
which would make words arrive
back at a reading:
LK S...
        S Y MGHT S
   like so
so you might see...
               - charles dickens called it
orthography... i just call it bad spelling...
i would call it orthography if...
english entertained the concept and use of
diacritical markers...
i.e. ó vs. u...
               does... english (as a language)
even bother to... no... it doesn't...
matter desiring to dictate: ******* stark naked...
a CH from a SH otherwise
hiding the foot of the tetragrammaton
in a caron, i.e. Č or Š...
oh... right... still pandering to the cannibals
of the pacific isles...
- what the **** are we... philandering
as: fiddlin with: as... escapee ******* / tattoo?!
it's not "orthography": mr. dickness...
it's either bad spelling or outright dyslexia...

orthography implores the application of
diacritical markers...
the russians: employ them...
however subtle...
so subtle... but english doesn't permit
an entire letter to be fathomable...
for a compound...
Ч (Č) - CH - you hide the heb' god...
no? no... you expose 'im... no?

    Ш (Š) - SH... oi 'rew! 'rew! i find the wind...
caressing... the Faroe isles most inviting:
i was so very close to the concept
of how...
                  ш + ц ≠ щ
   given ч... i might have wished...

- here;s too giving myself to too much greek
or the hebrew counter: these letters...
the new testament...
here's to europe: yur-op!
my pondering a  burning of a scarf:
the summoning of a wind...
the necropolis hybrid... a skinning
of a... believe them greeks,
believe them hebrews:
sooner or later they become ottomans...
whether asked or being in want...

- such that the closet of your kin leave you
being hindered...
and that all: that remains...
is a **** flinging fest of lobotomy creasure...
you take your pick: whether i've
disused or under achieved
usage of a certain: verbiage - attache...
told the point... the laughing dolphin...
when "arrayed" with a display of
a butterfly's quest...
as one: ibn: might be left demanding:
no camel jockey who afre you...
no yacht... a dolphin giggling...
flapping at makeshift:
feathers...

           i cleave to... a hybrid...
what has to become the genius
of BARR... **** it... capital lettering...
the IRN BRU sod...
the 18--... fuckety-fuckety...
    history impromptu!

hello comparisons BARR "conctra"
KRUPPS...

such that i might drink: h'american
ice-cream / cream soda...
all of that jingle...
bubble-gum what's-not-to-like?!
all the synthetic soda-creamed-up
pie...
all that curated...
bukakke and gloryhole...
and **** on me **** on you,..

- so who's left... *******, pretend one is...
smiling?!
nairobi ping-pong quest old german
boring toothache too?!

i sorta think i've served a purpose...
if it wasn't enough:
well? then i can become most hurried and
harried in giving all the necessary
exaltations...
w.d.y.f.o.
  in acronyms and in a slapping
of hands by the deaf i learned from my youth
in a country i was last felt welcome in.

but please! go on! do... your... ****-most with!
keeping your most similar least involved!
to hell with you!
to hell with you!
i can't sacrifice imploring...
your already disguised hyper-tensioned
phrase for keeping up with
demands for tourism:
your nay bother... you ******* deaf-counter-quip
of a ******* fidget of a forgotten use
of a whip!

strap them to an island,
arm them with a gimp's shame...
yet still they persist in their...
monolingual plebiscite!
the afghan peoples of the ancient world...
no wonder! "afghans"...
that they are.. stubborn
integral follow up to how the french
also didn't.

because how much of thinking,
or rather: "thinking"
                    is to do about being,
and how much of it
is to do with the matter of perception:
in that,
   a reverse-perception,
                                  of appearance?
seems
         the thespian insurrection
              has become paramount...
   totalitarian...
       but my god:
           does it really have to take grip
of the depths of faking an ******
from a woman's perspective?
   watching a woman "fake"      "it"
makes mainstream movies
look sinister compared to b-movies
(namely hellraiser):
and that's not indicative of anything
bad about the movie -
frankly - i can listen to the christopher
young soundtrack, while falling
     asleep, on a(n) annum reel;
of all the people in the world -
rome: never reached us...
                the byzantines modified
greek to inform the quasi-vikings
          of the ukraine through cyrillic...
about...
                something less than
the concept of an icon?
   given the ascribed veneration for, icons?
and i was baptised into new romanic
font...
            god only knows if "my" people
used runes when they were not
using, anything but the roman dicta...
later bloomer, ugly duckling...
   but i'm among people who know
the rigid roman thumb,
                      either up, or down...
still...
            the thespians, are starting
to really, bug me...
                   their complete infiltration
of all of what composites a life...
     hmm...
          me? i'm of the shadow segment...
because...
        hmm...
                  i'm trying to mind what
phonetic encoding (beside the norse
    encoding still preserved to memory)
the slavs used...
               i "could" go, travel to america
and stand
          on the shoreline of the grand canyon,
with mouth agape like a scared
     macaque monkey...
and yet...
               i'm already standing before
a canyon,
                   juxtaposing
                             the big bang theory,
certain years in a past calendar...
                but today?!
              proud boys exploring space...
yet to be honest...
                   we'll never, exactly "explore"
time...
              only what we lost...
              and only what we gain as
momentum into: through tomorrow -
                     the blind eye seeking.