i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

Why is it the "love" I felt with her
Felt quick, we always remarked
"I can't believe it's been this long
I feel like it was yesterday..."
Yet this "love" I feel with you
Feels slow, but evenly paced.
We always remak
"I can't belive its only been this long
It feels like forever."

the famous czech immunologist (miroslav holub) got it right, holding his complete works, seeing the precious output,  then hearing him say it: 'i'm not against the repetition, but what the hell would i write if i lost my first ambition of a career? i would write dross, but i'm not against balzac or dickens doing the ironing work - but i just couldn't do it - better me likened to a butterfly that was the czech spring of '68. indeed mummified flowers between the pages.'*

the main reason poetry books will never be
shelved, itemised, on the inventory: BEST SELLER,
is because they use priceless things in their contents
section of approved poetics ticked off...
poets mention the moon, the night,
the sun, the orange glaciers of skin of suntans
bundled up in fat and sold as ****,
poets forget they are touching priceless things
with words, i'm sure a readership numbering
1,000 will dry your socks after that marathon
run on lake verbose in the middle of hunting season,
but it will never go past that,
that's the fury and the fear surrounding
hunting down the poet who exceeds producing
the noble prize winning output of a szymborska,
~100 poems a lifetime means you really did live
it out, and wrote with slithering undertones
the art, the paradoxical art of the ancient world
trumpet or saxophone - it wasn't philosophy
that attacked us... but the woodwind instruments,
the harps are safe, i stashed them while cracking
and playing bone poker dominoes with my fingers.
poetry doesn't attract the most socially acceptable
form of lying: namely fiction -
poets don't lie - there's no genre that does it better
than writing fiction - and if they do lie,
it's un-intentional - mechanical, like the world,
like the world being so mechanised it almost
feels self-content without applause but an opera
chorus of screams and other forms of hysterics.
some books talk of seen and unseen realities,
i beg to differ, i can claim certain unseen realities
in the seen realities, take for example
man's ability to walk the method of onomatopoeia
like virgil walking dante through the inferno...
man as an animate thing can clearly imitate
other animate things.... he can howl, meow and bark,
he can imitate the pig's and the deer's snout
when impregnating a mare...
the grunt hot breath riff of things...
but he misjudges his accuracy of recording sounds...
he simply cannot fathom the sounds of inanimate
things in the realm of onomatopoeia;
it's not that he mishandles the 26 symbols,
but when he tries to make the visible doubly-visibly-divisible,
to notate knocking on a door, to notate
the scorching sounds of the sun in the equilibrated
exchange of hydrogen & helium (sun gods
laugh after all), when he tries to notate
the carbonated water fizz, the beer bottle cap
charles i pop / apache scalping with a tomahawk...
he's off by a mile and a marathon...
we can't mutilate words into sounds just to see
certain sounds (primarily of inanimate things)
with letters... there's an impasse about the whole thing;
this is trans-verbosity, overt-verbosity that cannot stand...
it's pointless trying to see a complex sound
with letter governed by the onomatopoeia...
it's enough to hear it... touch it... seeing is not believing
in this instance... this insistence...
after all we're utilising priceless things to get out message
across... so if man makes it worthwhile,
an onomatopoeic antonymous decision i have crafted:
the sound of the universe's vacuum "silence"
is counterweight to neither the sound of atoms congregating
into celestial orbs... but rather the place where man
out to shove his parallel representation of thought.
you can already see invisible realities within the realm
of visible realities, the many missing and the many amiss
onomatopoeias of what animate things echo from when
interacting with inanimate things... paradoxically
atoms are in an inanimate equilibrium as animate things
likened to the celestial bodies in orbit,
but in fact they are inanimate in an animate equilibrium...
worth a worth's worth of study in a laboratory allotment...
and if it was a cow's digestive system you were investigating,
the inanimate equilibrium is being worked on:
the equilibrium of what sort of usefulness from experience
can be possibly passed on;
but wait, you can't write me the onomatopoeia
for the crating of carbon monoxide (CO),
or formic acid (HCOOH),
or myristic acid - nutmeg  (CH3 branch with twelve CH2
and the carboxylic ending),
nor the ester (RCO2R) - because now you're
using a chemical alphabet of the periodic table,
and all necessary onomatopoeias are lost
to the names of the necessary elements
that begin with hydrogen, and end with anything
remotely removed from a famous scientist
by the elemental name akin to einsteinium.

that's what i found so problematic in
understanding thought,
but concerning the idea of a flux
i found the stasis point in it,
it was better translated by the cartesian basis
of inquiry, i can't negate thinking
because the ontology of thought
is primarily synthetic to pass the time,
rarely analytic unless professional,
so i dropped the a priori / a posteriori
compounding crap and came up with
good enough reasons for cognitive analysis
and cognitive synthesis...
i can relax now, i guess...
so wrote something in a hardcover by horace
to remind me of the origins of biases and bases...
kindergarden swing tactic and pendulum continuum,
i hate to break it to you, but my thought
has no megaphone in the 18th century,
but my words have a place in the 22nd century
given the 21st century provide the images
i'm bound to decipher...
i guessed the asian girl was a robot...
and subsequently i thought all those things
i wrote in the poem prior...
imagination is hard to insist with regards to successful
usage... it uses no patent geometry or
skeletal phoneticism of reminder...
you will not remember a picasso to say something...
but i bet you'll remember an m to utter the sound
em em mmm mumble, funny how it works.
we're not in art gallery... we're just buying
potatoes for home-made *****...
we're living under martial law in poland
before the anticipated soviet invasion and we're happy...
not like now... the silicon god of the microchip
chopped our limbs and we lost the amazon
green for london grey cement and cemetery...
we're here, there's not point poking fun at my grimace
with a flashlight.
so losing the timing of knowledge... the spacing
of knowledge is an onion metaphor for a working
car engine: drilling team in arabia,
the pirates of somalia,
the cargo ships from scandinavia,
the flirty whipping rich boy scouts asking for
a next **** mojito of fever...
well... i did the opposite to english...
i allowed "*****" words into the vocabulary i use
rather than allow dirt images to weave a spiderweb
enclosing the spider...
i rather censor images than censor words...
poor tactic to censor images...
sometimes a nibble of sadism will penetrate
this whole provision of safe *****,
censor "*****" word usage and you'll only
allow dirtier than the ***** words to enter via
images... my god... you must be a sensitive cubist!
we'll allow **** cannibalism and squares...
but we won't allow the representative of
seasonal cannibalism of spring eating autumn
with the tetragrammaton's H & H (twinned temperament
in coordinate starting vector 0ºC
then donning the appropriate clothes while
the trees change their muscles leaving the skeletal exposed),
or acknowledging that there's only a definite
capital delta / y in writing -
we synthesised the square the circle the triangle...
we got π and pythagorean equation...
we gave these shapes the thesis categorisation of scalpel...
we cut with them...
but then they cut us... mathematicians committing
suicide with drills over the π-continuum
that's anti-trigonometric surrounding anti-matter...
but as society goes... courtesy in speech
doesn't necessarily provide courtesy and chivalry
in action...
censor the words ****... and then watch the emerging show
that's antonymous to the majority of time
spent in commute: dumb gloom & grey fancy
to create a rainbow like a shaman.

you know, i can **** before i become homeless; yes? ok... cheerio.

when i experience no intelligence
after being educated, it's
hardly an expectation to
experience any after... desirably hoped for, that
which offers up the antonymous by-product that's
despaired after so freely, and all those more profitable affairs
of a literate nature to engage with: to be
enslaved likewise missing; oh the gravity
as nothing falling, the tears on my cheeks
with *vide cor meum, ah, but you see,
i can stomach a cage and being caged,
should i be forced into a freedom that's
only homelessness.
oh so many insignias of pause that were never
given a mathematical rubric of allowed deciphering!
that grand pause of arithmetic in the undecided
length of pause between (,) (.) (;) and that italicised
pause of (:) readying (a) list(s) of emphasis; let alone
the hyphenation of all the lost emphasises of Pompeii
(embark tongue tied into the grapheme æ);
or embark asking between the threes that are
direct and indirect articulation of plurality,
given then the anti of pluralism is god, and that's neither
direct or indirect, consolidating the direct as prayer
and the indirect as atheism.

three ante-chambers and then the bedroom, a valet rather than my wife sleeping in the same room as me... if this is a will to power, i'd rather see the Sunday menu of: a will to whatever's on offer, other than hereditary genetics... mind you, 20th century anti-hereditary genetics seemed like quite fun, all that eugenic stuff... i love the byproducts that came with that, weaklings to be sure, missing horse and engaged tractor, celeb culture and the next Raphael pickling a hammer-shark sidelined with Warhol's quote: knock knock - ah cheap, i know, but when wasn't sarcasm ever?

the famoud *will to power is a fable, there are too few words
in between will and power, since both are rather antonymous
in application, the argument -
the will to power is a state of anonymity
rather than a dualism,
in Versailles Louis XIV questions himself
as both man and king, and the god appointed;
instead of duality there's an anonymity,
a permanent height outreaching / out-qualifying
the jumper, all pampers and demure,
the mirror circus of poses that Louis XIV
was compared to his brother
gauging out an eye of a laughing man in
a role of a Kafka play the nobles thirsted for
and slyly forgot - there was once a prancing
lady of France, who donned the title
as the king of France, but was overshadowed by
his ****-******* brother; there are indeed
Arabia in the King to quench Africa,
but not enough to go further, with his philandering
******* boyishness to succumb to the womanising
artefact with brotherly jest as with a woman's
care for an up-kept boudoir... of matching stockings
and his matching socks: never mind the places
cut first on the gauges of fear of the guillotine
with the eyes turning all Newtonian searching
for the next cake - the roles we keep are not the
identities we express, keeping the militant
populace ignorant and ourselves kept by
the labyrinth sexed-up, keeping one pronoun
a wall of denoted king and the rest
a scramble which, whoever, we wish to choose -
as ever, preferring a woman...
well i preferred animals, how's that for an argument
from *****? oh wait, that's an argument from Eden...
ooh choo choo the pick-up truck never picked up steam,
the democracy of nobles overtook the notion
of king as the psychiatric, philosophical rigidity
overtook the notion of ego...
well, weeners and winners here and there,
like salt and pepper... mm, push it! push it real
good! wait a minute, i thought that aristocracy kept
Paris and subsequent Parisian a folded model ready for
corruption with adequate vices?
when Communism came about the aristocracy was replaced
with intelligentsia - the urban version of what was once
property owning now replaced with idea owning -
it all gets a bit murky here, i write with a more detached
defacement in mind onto a head of a donkey to reveal
the saintly cranium, but never mind the joke,
there's still the papal yoke to keep us curbed, after all,
the best ****** travel to home to sing: love live papa,
love like papa.
it just got me thinking, this obscure cannibal of
aristocracy could scare the king, no wonder the king
in chess is just an extension of pawns, while the queen
is an extension of rook, knight, bishop -
reductionist Darwinism uncovered more than
Darwinism per se, we were originally reduced to insects,
revolving past that and encouraging us to exhibit
mammalian tendencies made us into being unable to
choose which monkey was worthwhile to have originated from;
but still the black widow, the mantis -
female reductions took her beyond mammals,
into pre-reptiles,
male reductions took him into pure mammal,
we're both running treadmills now though,
we're both rodents, hamsters, ha ha, it's funny how
equilibrium works, there's two opposites, both need
to be pacified, no trans-gender changes will actually
objectify or personify, it'll just the other more even and the
other mode off / left in / left out.
you never ask so much about art, you just say
the magic Sesame words of Ali-Baba 'i don't get it'
and it opens, but then you suddenly want poetry to read like
chemistry, what a ******* oddity, and say the words
'i get it', but all that opens is a can of tuna, wooh!
what a ******* stink. imagine these words unlike what
you'd might use buying a pint of beer at a pub,
grow up, you hit puberty with fifty shades of grey,
bestsellers this century, the last, Don Quixote...
believe me, these words will be around for not that long,
soon ingested by what the already aristocracy isn't,
modern aristocracy are mere inheritors, spongers,
they overslept the mark of complicated phonetic encoding
being exhausted, hence the dissociation with politics,
the apathy of the former lusts for war -
granny can write a tweet, but granny can't write an app.,
never mind if it's Buckingham Palace or
the French Riviera mansion... Party Harry gives less ****
than the red squirrels when the grey Canadian squirrels
were introduced, and the next Prince of Wales
is wondering: did i really need to waste 20 minutes of my
life watching Head & Shoulders' adverts?!

tachyphylaxis - tach·y·phy·lax·is (tāk'ə-fĭ-lāk'sĭs)  n.
1.    A rapidly decreasing response to pleasure following initial administration.

I didn’t know this
demon had a name.
Ugly as it is it fits,
a random mish-mash
of unpleasant sounds
and equal unpleasantness
felt.

I’ve known the *******
forever, manifest in vitamin cures
and psychological processes,
SSRI’s and stabilizers.

He attends to the end of
affectionate loving and all
the designer vacations
you've ever taken.

He is the golden handcuffs of
square foot home ownership
and his business cards are
set in silver.

To put it bluntly
his continuous presence
is intent on destruction
of any contentment.

He is all things along the way
that appear so promising at first
but never last.

Synonymous with tolerance,
antonymous with precedence,


the antagonistic leaven of all living.

i always aimed at returning Nietzsche's ping-pong serve of poet-philosopher, as philosopher-poet... well, you know, any vanity project will do these days, given our current celebrity culture... there's nothing celebratory about it, so my little festivity of hope in establishing a self-style vocabulary might be too much for Gucci... but you got to try and whiff up a tornado of absinthe sweeties in licorice black (lee ko reesh).*

there's only one argument i cling on to,
it is theological,
i'm biased toward the theological argument
always,
because i've seen the ontological argument
become desecrated by oncology -
every theologian argues the same:
there's a god, because, to be frank,
whatever ontology provides us, it leaves us more
bewildered than anything:
how we expressed our freedom will
never be compensated in terms of how
others expressed theirs...
so even Kant said: my ontology is based on god...
so his contemporaries said:
my theology is based on no god...
    which is why Kant professed a theology
  without an ontology, and his contemporaries
professed an ontology without a theology -
or as the other, in existentialist terms might have
suggested: timing - but no one desires a godly status,
so even his promenade timing made affinities
with serfs begging for a watch rather than watching
their shadows dwarf at noon...
                                            this is called
translating rhyme into philosophy, or philosophical rhyming...
words of close proximity are prime exponents,
given the spelling, i.e. the suffix - but which are totally
antonymous - they look so alike, but then thinking
provides disparity of intention, not so lazily done
with red
                  and dead...
                                              head
       and Pb...                                      is it?

funny how they write in their spare time poetry, or that they
write poetry in their spare time as art's necessity:
the fifth minding the four are lacking in functioning
accountability - never necessary, but always there.
poetry akin to such past-times as gluing together
model aeroplanes - what a shame for the art
that no longer attracts the upper-muddle class
to "excess" themselves as if salvaging something
worth a brief encounter with the Antiques' Roadshow.
the love i loved since the Renaissance was
extinguished ever since we've been left with
part-time art, artists on the sly -
more than impotent popes -
i mean impotent popes, impotent popes -
old men knowing as much of art
as the art of decoration - floral canapes
and wallpaper scraps? that'll do.
royal highness, hmm, whatnot?
crimson is synonymous with cherry on paper -
but in an artwork totally antonymous,
the peculiarity of shades necessary - old stink
of unpolished mahogany of Burgundy, the deep red
almost brown - settling into respectably dated bottles.
i guess democracy is short-lived,
we're all uneducated illiterate X on the ballot papers -
sign your name with X -
but they educated us and robbed us at the same time -
all you have left concerning a *** life is
consolidation in ******* -
a cocktail shaker ******* to mind
along with the guillotine - chopped off, not stirred.
well, i'm sure they care, care as much
for their children's teddy bear - ooh smooch coma
self-abuse - the revealing part is st. Paul's cathedral -
as once it stood in zeppelin shadow,
so too it stood in the Focke-Wulf Ta 154 Moskito's shadow:
biblical reminiscence of the lord of mosquitoes
rather than Beelzebub - and a McDonald's takeaway;
western society is so ******* keen on utilising
respected sadism - so keen that it doesn't bother to read
books - the paranoid me says to the un-paranoid me?
why would these people once salon bound
educate us for the purpose of reading by making reading
non-vogue - if they themselves have not found
reading a part based on a stiffening? but i hardly think
a book is worth a pyramid of human sweat - less brow
and more armpit sweat - i still find it frightening that they
seemed to educate us in order to read book reviews
and become informed via that than the actual books themselves -
meanwhile the Chinese are laughing with "menial" labour
kindred of the unconscious prescribe of the drum-kit of the heart,
via being existentially less demanding -
via a respect for family - what with the sadist nurses
and aged soiled great-grandparents in fly-saliva-spas
on the quick to comment on your professionalism and keen
career making.... well, urbanity served us well,
until the times of: not so well.
oh sure, my vocabulary can sometimes become a
chewing gum simulation - elsewhere it's considered pure fibre:
means you eat less than you **** out.

ooh, watch out... Shaky Stevens is having a go: you spin me right round, baby right round, like a record baby round round - a quiet one in Soho; with your impressions to introduce me to ****, apologies in me wedding dressed and savouring the happy-life affair - S & G bemused by Nietzschean decease of god and theatre, 80s pop and the death of opera: communist attack on the bourgeoisie will take anti ante-Marx approach; i quiet enjoy knowing what i know and leaving the rest to mascara and ***** scrutiny of exaggerated libido.*

i'll be laughing at you when you
conjure up cancer...
huh? why not?! you misdiagnosed me
as schizophrenic when i
suffered a brain haemorrhage -
troll anti-antonymous ahoy -
you clearly spelled out S U R V I V A L
O F T H E F I T T E S T.

i. prelude in accordance with comparing the parting glass with auld lang syne.

aye, jingle jingle bell... jingle all ye may...
tis' the season to be jolly,
in times when elves are half-wits
without the graces of a Lord Elrond,
majestic, proud, here where little
hobbit-elves roam with pointy ears
and hairy nostrils... aye, jingle jingle bell...
jingle all the way...
   as you look east, and hear both the dove's
song of *silent night, to later hear
   the sombre mea culpa, and the creed
come easter... and upon the altar: get
your blames and your sins...
         for letting it happen! for letting it happen!
o heathens and o you gentiles!
    come while i scold my dog into having to
father me - aye...
       so frown too at the acronym prelude
with all that pandemonium glitter - presents,
crucifixes replaced by christmas trees:
and as is the clause of santa - reduced to burnt
smithereens of torture instruments standing
in Ka Ka poses - o hear the my new fatherland
waiting for me... while the cradle of my word
seemed but almost ready to finally to get rid of
me, i come back swiftly... and rid Europe
of harmony... nor was it that the Englishman foresaw
it... being a gemini-gentleman, he did what
any Pontius Pilate could do: he washed his
hands, then washed his feet - and assumed a moral
high-ground: in times when speaking German
or using German words parallels national socialism...
aye, and all good tidings to the many.

ii. interlude, beyond the 24th hour awake.

you know how they have these cautionary moments
on television during the news?
  they say something like: warning, this report contains
flash-photography...
     they should really have the same ****** cautionary
statement when you walk out on the streets these days:
caution! flashing christmas lights! santa's strobe disco
special... i'd be curious about those photosensitive
epileptics walking the streets these days...
and as they say: an englishman's home is his castle...
obviously that depends how many christmas lights
be dons in his windows... and how ****** annoying
their setting is... i blink less times in a minute
than these disco arrangements flash in 20 seconds...
but indeed, an englishman's home is his castle...
but put about twenty of such castles in a row
and you get the inkling... pray not call these
the abode of windsors... they look nothing like
castles... more like chicken-shacks...
      to live so close among each other, and for this
sole reason... despise each other so fervently
as to love one-another by simply: not even saying hello.
after a year so closely packed? what could
a hello ever do to me? ruin my day... that's what...
and you see these pseudo-hippies out there
on the television screen advertising mentos sweets
told by Ormond St. children in hospital to
hug people in the street,
          or 'wanna come round my house?'
that's a line out of Norman Bates' mouth, isn't it?
if we can't talk jolly over a drink,
    what do you think a conversation over a mentos
sweet would achieve? fresh breath...
  but certainly the still stone-cold heart of
              keeping up with mascaras and mortar.

iii. the best presents are the littlest of joys.

tiny, like the last babushka: a great psychological
schematic... hollowing out, hollowing out,
moving further apart... in the end it's not some
concrete ego-theory, or some self or some questionable
"self"... that last babushka (i was going to say egg,
added to babushka) - is but a pinch -
       pinch of salt, or a pinch of a little reality that's
that adequate spiderweb compliment toward each new day.
- and say, all grand things acquiring little idiosyncratic
words of these isles...
                            but inherently the baltic breathes into
us a different disposition: i too, upon waking
    see Sisyphus - but instead of utilising my body
i have to utilise my mind... i could remain a child
and think of pushing the stone telekinetically,
and become an engineer, and inventor, to ease the woes
of the daily toils, invent a mechanical drill rather than
use the old manual drill...
                         but i don't even contemplate
   telekinetic deviations... i just sit by the stone i'm supposed
to push up a non-existent hill...
    so unless i be ****** with some demon with a hot
poker to get mye lazy *** to the daily toils of the sweaty brow...
i'll finely sit and tell you this.

iv. and i told them.

i can stretch this soviet sleep experiment to two days,
sleep my twelve and wake to the twenty four and beyond
up to 36... but don't expect me to fear going
at night for my sedatives... even if I have to leave dear
McCormick behind on these travels, and travel east
and feed on ***** for a while, oh indeed the hiatus
and the family... even among my kinsmen i will walk
the night... and all I have to say: the worst has already
happened... the best that can happen would be
for Samael to kindly raise his *** from the cold marble throne
of graven idle - and finally make the clean scythe swoon
into my heart...
                            and that's how it began...
the †-word... the bilingual crossword -
       no, nothing like the original crossword game for
monolingual people...
          there are were no clues in the word scythe...
Scythians? that's Latin... meaning that etymology would
not help, but it was tested...
      and yes... he was crucified on the †-word,
on the basis that he gave no insight into hashem,
yes, the name, the y m c a, the y h w h... the acronym
of which was ironically †... or n.e.w.s. -
               that's why the scribes, the Pharisees pestered
him! they wanted some insight into their practices!
but what did he do? he scolded them!
         he insulted the scribes and the little scribblers of
Jerusalem long gone... and so with due irony:
got †-fied: defied... and by later jokes of the gentiles:
deified.             scimitar doesn't even help either...
then one word pops into my head, don't know
why, it's not even synonymous, and that makes it
even less antonymous - brzoza - birch tree...
also known as the pioneer tree... where the birch tree
settles, other trees may follow... palms?
palms are ******* dead end... the best you might
get from a palm tree... is a cactus.
        well... this is becoming a very horrible crossword,
i have scythe
                       Scythians... scimitar...
     sclera... dictionary...              but nothing leading
me to translate scythe into ol' ma'...
                                       no etymological congregation
to work from...
                  i'm not even going to cheat...
      i'll just make life a little bit more easier for myself
and enjoy the evening with my whiskey...
   KURVA JEGO PIERDOLONA MAĆ!
           now i know why i couldn't find the word,
it's too undisturbed by Greek or Latin,
        it goes to the ancient roots of when languages
didn't exactly borrow from each other...
scythe? in western slavic?       kosa.
      it's a basic word going back back to syllables...
and given that Latin is an alphabet of syllables
rather than nouns like Greek (a and alpha? different,
aren't they, obviously).

v. a chimeral opposite.

so fill to me the starting glass
good morning and misery be with you all,
as the years pass,
with each new year, i don't know what
i'm expected to be celebrating or seeing others celebrate.

You love me like twitchy fingers love pulling the trigger,
Not at all, and then all at once;
You replaced arrows with bullets,
And instead of filling with love, my heart poured out blood

You love me like tear gas loves open eyes,
To wish me blind to the things you've done;
You didn't think, you never do think
Can your conscious be clear if you don't have one?

You loved me like metal loves a microwave,
To make it spark and set fire;
Carelessness is antonymous with admiration,
And you always did admire destruction

no, what really got to me was that i wasn't allowed to practice my Christianity, even with abandoning all Catholic bureaucracy with a confirmation not had... i could have forgiven the brain haemorrhage, even though i should have been taken to a hospital while it happened and told to not use marijuana ever again to lead up to a 7 year psychosis... now i'm drinking each night to stabilise my wrath... you know the hardest thing to stomach practising Christ's lesson about turning the other cheek? the complete and utter apathy and added ridicule when you take it to the extreme of having a culprit you know live out Cain's life, free, no prison, no exacting of law, free-roaming true forgiveness faked by popes in prison cells forgiving criminals, under the full eye of the law, nothing godly about it... but what makes the criminal worse is this petty nibbling ridicule of Christians... they're the ones insuring themselves, and counting domino after domino of hurt... ******, at 115 kilograms, you better know judo... i'll broomstick that glee off your face like i'd eat a chicken nugget. or as it happened at the Olympics today, world champion Poland v. Iran (e-ran, or i-ran, you get the picture), 18 - 16 in the fifth set... there's a joke running in Poland, all about the Anti-Olympic scuffle... Harold Norse's poem i'm not a man - the beard and the braids... how this suicide bomber comes to Warsaw and gets braids on his beard and plums under his eyes and kills no one; funny, don't you think?

after that ****** book is finally published,
i'll head over to Richmond, or some other affluent
part of London and leave it somewhere someone
might pick it up, i decided on zero graphics,
meaning it be like the Beatles white album
with the words: Πoετικ Oπτoμετρy printed
on a white cover, with my name and signature
to mind - ever so often phonetic encoding become
skeletal, how bewildering that the Chinese
kept the ideogram from the times of Pharaohs -
and yes, i sometimes don't believe in Darwin,
with the way they treated Anaxagoras -
i think of the Forest Gump tribe in meddling
things up - among us it's so hard to involve
a question whether than evolution was as uniform
and coherent as expressed from the starting point
of a chimp revelling in more or less universal
behaviour akin to his physical attainments -
very much missing in man - either the Musketeer quote
or nothing at all... a dog like his owner is resemblance,
a friend carried away from being foe in
resemblance too - but i chose my friends unwisely -
the embittered loathing of life from a genetic point
of view, while i took to it in acceptance,
then of late experiencing a complete and utter
waste of trying to experience empathy totally corrupted -
i doubt we evolved, if evolution only means
the Christian elect, and the Hebraic chosen -
i guess it must feel like a night in Las Vegas trying
to talk for the entire human race...
no wonder atheism is supreme in that venture:
i can look at my **** floating as an ice-berg
in the toilet and speak Shakespeare to it,
but will that attract a crowd of listeners? probably not.
so according to the Chinese, keeping the ideogram
was not such a bad idea if encrypting sounds,
shoo xi chow min xaxa was not such a bad idea,
ideograms prevented more invasions than the great
wall of China... it was fattened up, that encryption,
it wasn't see-through skeletal as what was worked up
using the Hebraic standard... א... αλεφ - it just became
bones on bones*, or mass graves, or multiplicity, or algebraic
chi (χ) - the intersection, hence the engraved multiplying
capacity of more nouns, and more nouns, and nouns,
and more nouns, when the phonetic encoding for
the intersection came, we could hoard more riches
of naming things... in this i believe are animals
evolving... but within a framework of
day-to-day, we're not improving, collectively,
the trial of Socrates for one, the profanities surrounding
Anaxagoras - in the collective talk of things
when evolution arises from singletons it's untrue,
outcast, gone, no ditto never ever again -
evolution is talked about in a pluralistic tongue,
it's this autocratic inclusion of everyone on
the same level... that's fine when there are exceptions
on a purely physical criterium, spectator sports,
but on the mental level, without stadium
psychology of roaring and clapping?
you're in trouble... evolution involves progressive
uniformity and no individual out-performing,
but out-performing each other is demanded
when there's an evolutionary plateau,
meaning that the collective requires a physical
differentiation, a spectator sport, and that's applauded,
it's actually demanded...
but reach an evolutionary plateau where there are many
prior-established economic or political systems
believed to be defunct and unnecessary, and you
get an individual rebellion that criticises such
institutionalised systematisations - you run into trouble,
once trying for a viable individualisation,
no no longer a process of: but a stability as
the prior not-mentioned individual attainment.
when the fear of expressing language language in a complicate
way outweighs the presupposed complication of
the ten mathematical "letters"... that's
when it gets interesting... because then people
cannot conjunction casual inference of talk
with an abstract expression of talk... of v. v.
an abstract inference of thought with a
casual expression of talk - not quiet the square you
were expecting along the synonymous and antonymous
lines, were you? see how writing proposes geometry?
i could have written something different...
something akin to a poetic rhyme; it's harder to find
a rhyme using philosophy, and contradict that
it's necessarily a rhyming quartet not rhymed
as designated Gemini couplets.

I feel as though
I'm ever so synonymous
To mute
Antonymous to clangorous
I can't seem to transform
These inner vibrations into
The complicated English language
My voice is a broken record
Of "I'm fine"s
My head is permanently inside
A box
With a Polaroid of a smiling me
Smack dab on the front
Never budging at the slightest tear
But, this box is somewhat
Generous
Because every now and then
It'll let me make slits
Where my eyes are
And maybe someone
Will somehow see
How dead
I am.

Never ask a poet what they think
about the things that matter.
They will not give a definite answer
for their hearts tend to ache
somewhat too severely
and even then some things
are better left unsaid
unfinished
in a black and white world
where any shade of grey is a crime
somewhere over the rainbow
in a place where it is the safest
to not be there at all
or else you are certainly the one to blame
even if the lace is buried deep within
your overwhelming guilt and shame
hidden under all the what ifs and pleats
and somewhere deeper yet
there is the quietest of voices
too afraid to speak of the bruises
left on the inside of her thighs
and within her heart
the voice of reason that tells you
please don’t walk down that alley
keep your friends close
and the keys in your hand closer
keep your head up high
and your hopes down low
or whatever else makes sense
in this dog eat dog world
where everything you will ever know
will be shredded and recycled
oh, if only
to be crushed into a pulp
and spoon-fed to another generation
diluted with careful consideration
into a day-in day-out nine to five
not even a cog in the machine
a ***** at best
and you will be *******
tightened up more and more
until you can’t hold it together
and whatever it takes
falls apart into pieces
broken glass on the asphalt
a hole in the wall
that sinking feeling
where a soul should be
but the angels don’t visit anymore
or answer our prayers
the line is always busy
there is always something else
something more important
a bullet in the bible
escalating into emergency
but who is out there for the unarmed boy
dying on the sidewalk
misjudged for the colour of his skin
who is out there to stop the hand of a father
suspended in mid-air
with the children cowering at his feet
who is out there for the American dream
turning into a global nightmare
who can tell the pending future
staring down the barrel of the gun
wondering which side you should be on
and what of that which you call freedom
only to trade it for martyrdom
what of candour and justice
and their antonymous nature
what of the artists and the poets
and everyone else that took a shot
but didn’t even come close
living in a daydream
playing from the same broken record
telling us that there is meaning
and there is worth in the things we do
except that from time to time
the needle would skip
distorting the vision
and at times like these
it’s the easiest to look away
for every scratch on the surface of reality
encourages you simply to
pull the trigger

No.
I will not, I refuse
to let this get the best of me.
The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist
and pour my heart out onto the page
instead. This is a sacrifice
I am willing to make.
I will tear myself apart
on my own terms.
If I cannot do it myself,
who else will?

and hell, and war
                                          and all that bombardment,
a thousand chess pieces
                in an intellectual's mouth
                          like scrambled eggs: the same
****** superstition
                            of needing awe -
ivory tower talk, the best
talk there is, when all limbs
                 drop off and the vegetables
talk: tongues on cucumbers,
tongues on cabbages, tongues
              on cauliflowers - waggling about
like concerns for cars: how
                                        many horse power thrusts?
                             and hell, and war
    and all that bombardment -
like poetry, a bomb drops daily
coming from the ultimate war machine,
                                 the res vanus, the empty thing,
the sponge -
                      because why would
a bomb or a poem be ever dropped
from the Cartesian weapon
           that's kept, intact, peacefully
thinking, antonymous-synonymous
kindred of narration?
                                                there,­ another bomb,
                    here, another day,
                                    there, another bomb,
                       here another day,
       ping
                               pong
ping                                         pong
              poetry
                                         poesy
     poetry
                                                   poesy -
           and the world just turns
into black | white
                              and everything becoming
oh so ****** ordinary - so Tao -
            or Tao works with
a billionth birth in a nation that deters
from                media frenzy.
another way to say it:
how to write poetry when not listening
to music, when not listening to things
and your fingers' puncture on the keys -
                overview of the news,
   how to write in order to talk-over people:
you could be worse-off than being
a Heidegger apologist -
                             or to say: it was the binding
to the zeitgeist: the years later meant
repenting -
                            so from being defined
in Cartesian diagnostics as thinking,
          to deconstruct that and become empty
              (here too! my compass
n. Heidegger
                     w. Descartes
               e. Kant
                                    and s. Diogenes)
as the acronym suggests, toward the four winds!
         but of course, many more influences,
      but then again: who did i find commanding
and with difficulty bound...
     oh i too wish i could write populist
poetry, worded: shambles! shame! outrage!
                 outrage! shame! shambles! a national disaster!
  but here's little me, tucked away into a cosy
niche - weaving my little spiderweb -
                                      or how
the fingers feels, after having spent 2 days
   crushing 40kg of grapes to make wine,
    from grapes to pulp, from grapes to pulp,
in the shed in the garden, 2 days, 40 kilograms of grapes;
i should have added a few apples to be fermented alongside.

for those yet, imagining themselves alive...
i "kwa'ight"....
quiet... quite...
         acquitted...
if there's a rock to be lived
under:
i'll just be the rock... i once had a faint
notion that i was alive...
i had what might be congested in a summary:
a thirst... a willingness...
summary and all those
broken things... "things"...
within the enraged solo
projects of solipsists...
self-"betterment" up a cul
de sac... has... infiltrated my
breathing: crease... count in german:
eins zu zehn
jeden do dziesięć...
   kurwa jebana mać...
poor traffic... thd ******* blinkers are
on... a turning right done awry...
ein(s)... one... jeden...

eine ein eins jeden raz one
zwei dwa two
drei trzy three
vier cztery four
fünf pięć five
(pięść is a denotes a fist... a faust)
sechs sześć six
sieben siedem seven
acht osiem eight
neun dziewiendź nine (nein nein)
zehn dziesięć ten....

mind you...
be drop the pointless diacritical marker
on the iota... we'd see more "punctuation"
markers: where, otherwise: we wouldn't...

i congested myself with counting
in three languages to somehow...
ease-up...
ten? informant: he / him!
ta? informant: she... shimmy(?!) her's...
hisses of his'...

i will not bring the Iberians into
this discussion...
what's left, though? scraps
of language and language policing...
******* and bells...
twang... death to the ditto... blah blah:
bleach and mythological blondes...
scraps i do one job good for you...
most... better... will not trace lineage...
no smear...

          t"they" never think less of
the Yugoslavs... i'm tired of being a punching bag of a people...
of all "people": the Irish not 'ard enough to
challenge the English have to find...
come the Soviets come the Nazis simultaneously...
looks like integrating into English society
didn't allow me to forget...
this zunge doesn't erase the ******* blows...

rich, though... no surprise that the Reesh
would squander and throw their *******
potatoes like monkey **** at...
oh i guess: shelved "life"... peoples...
if i were living back among my brethren...
i don't think i'd be living at all...
what would i do with not being
agitated concerning... minor... qualms?

the ******* leprechauns... priests...
are less than the english...
but are somehow tier above the pollacks?
it's no offence when it sounds proper...
in a foreign babble...
dzida...

          i'd just ask the Eire son...
so... ahem... where's your ******* Celtic?
gone... non-existent?

aon, dhà, trì, ceithir...
   còig (what's wrong with co'ig?)
sia,
seachd, ochd... naoi... deich...
so the grapheme CH = X of greek origin...
a ******* hark?

the Irish like the ******* Arabs...
the British did this to: oos...
it's impossible to live with these
go-to-party "solipsists" to begin with...
integrate? into... or for what?
rot? that's a-plenty...
but when some spaghetti monsters
and those potato jargon-fiddlers start
their usual **** about a fellow
european people...

it's not like the Croats or the Serbs are
ever mentioned...
they vent to h'america and youz zee...
zese irish and italliano guinnea pig-me-ups...
kwoss-eyed... you know...
best bitterest better...
inbreeding... takes a chunk of coal...
chalk and cheddar...
mustard...

  inbreeding mentality... superiority complexes...
no reimagines parmesan cheese like
it's not... shredding... old skin
off of heels...
talk stinkiny witchy with a missing R...
this massive ******* gloat of "riddle"...
that suppose: it's also a man...

       while the world... "also" happens...
these little: belittling interferences...
as if we were all supposed to be crowned kings
or queens... it's not that i'm even elevated
above these concerns...
but that i must have them...
must: if i were a king... i most probably wouldn't
even entertain the sense of hearing
on their existence!

in a society of sociopaths and solipsists...
a massive get together
of protest happens once in a while...
i get drunk and dump ****** words
onto paper...
i'm not alone in this "adventure":
yet i'm beginning to be...
more and more sorry for having
such... indigestions to sorrow over...
moral relativism is out
in the words of the choicest
of the choiciest...
   i'm looking for something beside
the superlative adjective: choicest...
the diminutive "concern"...

which doesn't exist in english...
and i can't exactly introduce it using my:
mutterzunge either...
correct spelling?
look at it... choiciest vs. choicest...
the most most choosey...
to pick of calculus exponentially incremental
details of observable shifts...
the exponential aspect of detail...

how many of the Irish still speak
their Gaelic...
apparently there's a Scotch version
of the tongue...
but... the Scots will not speak it...
completely submerged in their union...
they'll just exfoliate in how distinct
they are from a Loon'don'er
speaking the same language...
you could probably rewrite trainspotting
using that linguistic language
embedded in the dictionary
of:

   how i met your mother, the mute...
/ (haʊ) /
       / (aɪ) /
                 / (mɛt) /
               / (jʊəp) /
                               / (ˈmʌðə) /,
                        / (ðə) /          / (mjuːt) /

i wonder... and what if we started writing
like this? proper... phonetically...
like linguists?
the side note of /(x)/ though...

the written word is doubly ambiguous...
to the point of no return concerning
the sufficiency of its practicality of use...

ʃeɪk  ænd
                ˈʃætə...

if i had the time and *******' worth of
writing a poo'em like a linguist...
if i had more love for the Irish...
sowwy... all love spent on the Scots...
from these Isles at least...

sheikh who? shake your: *****?
that's ******* fwank zapp'ah...
      
but it's not that... i have qualms with
the Irish over the stature and seriousness
when occupying the "underground"...
i won't rap: god forbid i...
"**** someone": my catchphrase
wouldn't be:

allahu akhbar... it would be that teutonic chant
of: gott! mit! uns!
if that Norwegian hyper-smart terroroist
chanted those words...
what words? these words:
gott! mit uns!

   but around these isels...
you'd think there might be a sense of solidarity...
among the catholic irish and the
catholic poles...
but no... tępy ajrysz...
  blunt-irishman...
                  one side arguing for the other sides
dislodging of "i.q."...
same with those spaghetti swindlers...
the...

mind you... ****** is not a racial slur...
it's actually better to denote a pole a ******
since... not kinh john: lackland...
the whole hiss-tow-stowwy...
i'm not pole: positioned...
i'm not...

    divorced from "my" people:
and the "mother" land...
                  Warsaw the last great end-venture...
keeping it up...
mawa: little old gone...
         in the hunch fabric of
lessening the diaspora approach...
you don't think i mind the missing links...
when there's a collected agenda for the purpose
of a purge of the intelligensia...
now... because only the Jewry suffered
a historical lineage of tonguies
towing complaints....

         **** it: the russian sayingly... newly invented:
**** me?! ******* too!
but in the english realm who's the lesser
******* among the polacks and the irish?
who's less gingerbreadman?
my side... most probably...
how will we ever let the 20th century become
past?
oh **** me... we will need another
war... but chances of that are...
sort-of-slim...

             no? it might begin with:
bypassing loan-words...
and how self-help gurus and famous psychologists
refrain from infiltrating lost hybrids of
focus, that there might be a clearaance to
discover society outside the realm of pop!
saavvy?
i don't like this...
psychological testimony of:
what's an alpha male?
not me... what's a beta male?
not me... what's a malaise?
what's an omega man?
everything that an alpha male is...
in that... there's an antonymous discharge
of needs... requests...
demands...

how many Irish still speak their...
diego / alfonso magic "whisker" ****?
that ******* Gaelic?
so much for aardvark "typo" in Scotch...
because it just so happens...
you speak an over exfoliation of lettering...
the aesthetically bogus: claim of...
no... no "originality":
i'm not even going to bother the higher
tier of diacritical markers to
instigate "something"...

but this whole: i'm a lesser "european" when
it doesn't suffice in north american parlance...
i'm sort of... em.... ******* bothered?
history seems to be a lesson
in teasing small-**** and the infinite
summary of infancy... last time i heard...
because the Mongols never made it to... "x"...
because the Turks never had ownership of Vienna...
because it took both the Nazis and the Soviets
to make me bow...
in England? the invention of snooker...
tennis... football... rugby...
bored people... obviously...

how: else: woudln't you have capacity...
need... to invent so many coliseum...
distractions to mind: and take seriously...
if you knew: you were an island dwelling folk...
and you staged your pride in not being
invade-prone...
a bit like the whole of east London's
pakistani-land...

wake up 40 years from now... from...
little bengali land...
the Pakistani grooming gangs of the supposed...
while i'm getting more and more irrritated
by paying for ***...
having Bulgarian ****** pretending to be
Romanian....
you see the grit in my use of teeth that aare never used to
nibble and conjure...
a "drying of bones"?

i will complain about the Irish as i will about the
tail-tan'ohs...
******* spaghetti slurppers...
we of the same European origins and the same
brain-drain... because the anglo-saxons
fiddled out a mechanism for...
a "coming together"... of...
a people... just like germany was confederated...
into a federality...
wow!

  the pope receding... on paper...
the Irish make complaints against the Polacks...
the Irish demean the Polacks...
nice nice... here's to me equipping myself with
Haitian "nouns"...
you, *******... ginger: knuckle-fiddle-numb...*****!
what Celt wishes himself to have
a Cyrillic ancestry?! almost all...

have your little i.r.a. memento...
       i'm only concerned about
a pomeranian, conrad... quest...
aren't the czechs / hungarians locked into
that... posit of being: without an access to
a "window"... hardly... that the baltic...
already is... Samaritan....

porsch monkey: among the slurrs... "poet"...
pshek in... denotative lingo...
it's a: thank you...
i call you worse:
    karot... burak... syberik....

thankful though: it's hardly a slur...
king John was known as lackland...
given the shrinking of the Angevin empire...
thus "we"... shrunk to the duchy of warsaw:
a satellite of Napoleon's ambitions...
then the Warsaw Pact...
pandering to the Bolsheviks...
blah blah: now more pandering to
woke ha-ha-h'americanacancan...
the mythological blonde: always on my mind...

the first words in my language
they managed to speak and they somehow managed to
call it a slurr... and polish: paul-leash isn't?
pole position, heading north?

say strawberry in ******?
TRU-S-KAWKA...
     paul's on a leash of nibbling on the quarters
and halves of would be barons of pandemonium...
we were teenagers once...
and once upon in an Ilford mall...
we bought compact disks...
rival schools... fugazi...
coal chamber's dark days...

  those where somewhat architecture days,
though...
you can't make this **** up...
you probably have had to live it, sort of.

- otherwise who can't forget the flight of the Jewry
from the area...
once there was a makeshift synagogue on
Coventry Rd.,
now there's a 7th day evangelical war band
gathering pulpit... source...
i was expecting a mosque: in all honesty...
it's a common suggestion:

now first comes the flight of the Jewry...
the whites are somehow 2nd...
but as i explained to my mother today...
i feel sick in a monochromatic...
homogeneous society...
i went to Cheltenham once...
to hussle my own self-published book...
i felt ill seeing so little minority
representation...
it's not like i'm brainwashed...
but among these minorities in Loon-dune
i'm a ******...
back in Warsaw i'm a feral animal...
among "my people" i'm zero-punkt-zero-nic...

the vagabonds of the world decide to congregate
in Loon'don... for some reason: ulterior or
altogether "other"...
the world has congregated:
is this still about the English having their
nationhood infringed?
perhaps from a perspective
of the Midlands... Birmingham...
but over 'ere...

funny that... i live in England...
but i probably interacted with more Irish
and more Scots than the supposedly
demographically first...
i probably encountered more Pakistanis too...

so what's the difference between
a Samaritan and a Sarmatian?
you're running? i thought i ran...
i might run... who's running?
is it raining?
is that... ****'ite iconoclasm?
sign me up...
            
but living among the Irish who are
not living in Ireland...
a tired old bunch... sometimes...
it's hard to fathom their identity crisis
since a whole swab of them
spoke a zilch of Gaelic...
it's like with these over-impressed
succcess stories of "integration"
from olive-pound land /
****** copper...

the parents want to integrate...
that **** backfires...
the grandson retains the tongue
to his grandma to speak
back to her her native...
yet his... "in-between"... "integrational english"
becomes a sick joke: stereotype...
almost a cul de sac accent...
the sort that has to breathe into a phrase:

oi oi! bown and bwead!
  em... bone and bread?
how does that work?
i guess it must work "miracles" from places
where the ingestion of gelatin is
foreign... transcending "foreign":
too alien to compose...

yes... detailing the promises of pork, pig...
the most economically sound
animal: beside the hoofs...
you can utilise almost... "almost": all of it...
one way of the other...
an animal that can never be a waste:
unless you're into dabbling into a cannibalistic diet...
plus... lamb... lamb: *******: stinks...
the aged lamb...
plus... how would you herd pigs...
pigs aren't herded...
it's a theological anger at...
camel-jockeys being unable to... harvest
the only potential of farm-food... via the pig...
pigs aren't herded:
i've only heard of a herd of pigs
and that's when there came a time
to treat a trough like an array of teats when
the porkies were 'ung...
is it a despised animal?
a despised animal because:
and the devil reimagined himself as a pig?

so god looks like a mythological blonde...
the devil looks like a piggish minotaur...
why this demise of pig?
why this gratification in the islamic mirror
of words looking accessible: i.e. dog | god...
my all mighty: allah: blah-lah...
fork in the road: are we 'appy... "now"?

but when you live among the diaspora of the Irish...
you'd sort of suppose... what's the gaelic for green?
now that the internet is here...
i can find out for myself...

why demean the pig? was the pig created by
the ******* devil?
or is this one of those Abrahamic ploy-toys...
rigidity structures...
to leave you surrendered...
go against anything else: beside the pig...
it's such an economic model, creature...
you can utilise almost all of it...

not all of us were born Afghan sheep
herders... savvy?
that eating pork is somehow signature
of inbreeding and s schizoid tinture...
wh'ah?! i lost the TAU along the way...
o.k.?!

it's a waste of time having arguments
with... oh forget: rag-muffin'...
inbreds... i wass thinking about ***...
i picked a spot... Rotherham...
Pakistani grooming gangs...
oh... right... here's a lollipop... here's some dosh...
i'll get a hard-on with a girl who didn't mature
into prostitution wtih a crack-******* 'abbit...

chances of me ******* low i.q. is like
zilch then? i imagine the tirades...
the knife-insinuations...
**** a barrister: **** for life...
settle down: solve **** concerninng:
immmovaable objects:
the sun still has "egotism" to rise
and call it tomorrow...
and her ******* own too: to boot...
imagine that!

why go after the pork 'n' pie?
why pet a dog?
why pet a cat?
     i've already mentioned...
sometimes lamb: just stinks...
lamb kidneys?
STINK... SCHTINK!
but you also can't keep pigs
in an environemnt where you also use
camels instead of horses... no?
no one is talking about this...
because... it's probably too obvious to have
to stress this ******* argument....

came the Ottomans... the Mongols...
the Soviets for a while...
came the Nazis...
why weren't we the people who championed
each other at snooker...
why didn't we invent football...
tennis... cricket...
rugby... i don't want to blame the English
for their race...
but they have been privileged in:
intra-"whiteness" terminology...

what English soldier ever stood ground
on ****** soil?
i've heard of ****** pilots having dog fights
for the battle of Britain...
how the enigma machine was not merely
the work of Turning...
etc. etc.
gravesend: i'm here reduced to "biasing"...
yet i'm giggling at the remote prospect
of "gravity"...

i have clues to concern myself over...
ownership...
          a hierarchy of a cascade...
time follows time...
this solo project of "individuality"
was never going to... "work"...

pending...

   connlach dearg...

    but the welsh still speak welsh... no?
i guess that Carlsbeg moment of:
probably the best'ly integrated people in
the world... the Welsh are...
they still exfoliate in having a punching bag
of their tow-tongue...
unlike that most, supposed... oppressed people
of the... anglophonic world affair...
the Reesh that speak no ditto of Gaelic...

who are, you, you people?!

disreputable disruption and chaos, beasts bellow
in admiration unyieldingly antonymous creatures' banality
and intimacy, uncommonly negated, patriotic mentality
and contempt much gathered remarkable as an ingenious fellow
entirely ignorant of green rings' properties, yellow
crosses for worshipers nothing loyally expected for false morality
slowly restored, staurolatry, endless formality
and traditional rules strict, desperate approaches to mellow
elements against monotonous brutality modifiable
partially, knowledges are unreal, blindly expressed
uranomania responding to numerous ends
of less industrious frameworks, mingled sections liable
for negligence, wholly natural ideas erratic gains obsessed
with superstitious claims for dividends

She tells me to move on
So that she can suppress her feelings and get on with old love
This is all fine

I feel sick as

I cannot force a flower to bloom
The petals would ruin
This flower was blooming for me
But we are young
And so just like every little kid
When they see a pretty garden
In their own backyard
I picked this flower too soon

You still need to grow

Where am I supposed to turn?
When we were supposed to be together
But will and supposed to
Have proven to be
Antonymous

it's beyond ironic
I'm writing you this poem
Themed around flowers
Comparing you to flowers

And the way everything
makes me think of you
The same way everything
makes you think of her

I am mislead
Maybe you aren't suppressing anything
I always get mixed up

You hate flowers

There is a certain light
which sits just on the edge of a cloud
more nuanced by the hues of blue sky
then the paler palletes of the further horizon

And you have seen the yellow flame dance
on the log
whose sparks
rise and twirl into the deep
crepuscular and cerulean blue
of summer’s twilight

And you have seen the golden
grasses’ halo
glow and circle round meadows
where tiny spinners of dandelion
catch the last lights of dimming day
as they parachute
drifting like dust

And you have seen the mountain
at fall’s eve catch the
purple-red of summer sunset
even as the currents and crests
of the cold Sound catch the same
both tinged majestic by its color

Light rising and falling
you have seen
reflected moonlight on midnight streams
rain bent neons on late wet sidewalks
candles dancing on lover’s skin
showers of light through storm clouds
and willow branches
the incandescence of stars
the cheap fluorescence of dingy bars

Light reflected and collected
you have seen
blue flames ‘neath copper pots
the mirrored heat antonymous
to glacial turquoise
or the sharp laser of snow’s
crystal rainbow

Living light
you have seen
liquid ocean bioluminescence
reminiscent of aurora
greener than firefly’s child-chased
summer lanterns
cat-eye glow
shining snakes of lava flow

So when you close your eyes
and your sleep is lit
mystical as the borders
of medieval illuminated
manuscript
and the light is tranquil
as the movements
of turtles and manatees
through shadowed shallows
all the light you have seen
becomes all the light
you can dream
and all the light below and above
becomes all the light
with which you love.

my life is a soup of choices,
a broth of consequence and
steaming of effect.
poached like my ideas of right.
burnt crisp like my thoughts of wrong.
I'm boiled up in a roast stew of fallacy,
chopped up guilt and crushed cloves of forgetten forethought to add reality.
layered in-between self-hating bread,
I'm like a rhetorical tomato,
or concise and crisp lettuce.
flavored with oxymoronic mayonnaise
and ironically erroneous thought.
a tossed salad of melodrama and not enough attention.
with self-defeating ranch,
I'm a self-deterministic rock.
like bitterly sweet sugar,
I swear loving words like antonymous
synonyms-
and I never read past where the sentence stops.

and i'm supposed to care...
because of...
       what?!

  the Chinks are taking over?
they're already all over...

why should i care?
am i investing in gene
propagation or something?

genes are like a fetus to me:
dead, until in my arms
and outside a woman's body...

nothing much in between...
well... a dichotomy
of argumentation...
and headbanging to
a megadeth song...

and the thought,
that some day,
my neighbor will cross
the line of private property,
and i''ll get to gut
him like...
what ends up pork trimmings...

thought: the last ******* theater,
given the potential...

why should i give a ****?
it's not like people gave a ****
about me to begin with...
        ****, i'm here for the bourbon...
am i jealous?
no... no... not really....
i should be, shouldn't i?
good luck.

no no... i'd love atheism...
if it wasn't for the coupling of
atheism with materialism,
why do atheists bang about this
gene argument?
  why are atheists primarily
materialistic thinkers?
never managed to figure that one
out...
  
all these atheists bang about are
materialistic arguments...
as long as there is no god,
or no soul...
    GENES... GENES 24/7...
      nothing else...
fear of death,
subservient to a gamble on
eternity with the passing on of
genes (according to Hitch-Itchy-Tongue)...

**** me...
      you want to know what scares me
that's outside the emphasis on
death?
old age...
death i can take:
please! the sooner the better!
old age scares me...
because it's not the sort of old
age that guaranteed the
antonymous youth
of ancient Greece, or Rome...

no...
when my parent's die...
i'm not waiting... **** it...
       can't be bothered...
that's why i'm waiting for my
grandparents to die,
so i can ingest the reactionary cycle...
i'm not waiting,
3 hours of pain is 3 years
of a disguised pain of "waiting"...
oh no no no...
   i'm not waiting for the *******
argument...
they're out... i'm out...
      
if only the atheistic arguments
didn't, needlessly, lead toward
a materialistic clinging...
    too much fake realism concentrated
on passing on the genes,
like... fingerprints or ****?
    
once again: good luck!
   you're not passing anything
unless you're not passing
a vagueness of a genesis for
an impersonal impetus -

the coordinates remain the same,
but the vector impetus changes...
genes are, well...
static.

          hence the atheistic argument
for ensuring they continue,
like some Hindu reincarnation tactic,
"levitating": unchanged...
           i'm correct on that one,
yes?
   genes are supposed to remain
static, yes?
   well then!
      atheists are *******
materialists...
        
last time i checked...
    i didn't know that air could be categorized
in the same way as a rock...
that... quasi-ancient
quaternary of the subject-object /
  object-subject "dichotomy"...
                
lying to behold, the prior to unseen
fascinations that might succumb
to the materialistic grip, of
so called reality...

                and if gravity is what
binds all the orbs into a glued motion...

what force, actually instigated
the motion, or...
             kept it perpetuated?

sure... you have the glue question
answered...
but what is the perpetuated motion
question?

no? really?
  no?! really?!
  oh....           let me guess:
you don't!

i'm not kneeling,
and i'm not gesticulating with a prayer
in mind...
                 but god occupies
the entirety of my thinking...
   i can't think without the concept,
which, needless to say...
is so much more,
than the fabrication of
19th / 20th century
psychology of allowing the ego
to replace god...

sorry,
but sometimes the most irrational feeling
can overpower the most rational thought...
why?
   feelings are rarely allowed,
allowed to be caged,
or allow, * being*, caged...
         and my "belief" in a god aligns
itself with Heidegger...
     more to the point:
            man, made justice blind...
   man has no bearing in executing
   the most sacred sense of
                traversing both space, and time...
as mutually exclusive,
rather than the physics of their
mutual inclusion of the space-time
"continuum"...
          i believe in a god,
because, i do not believe that man:
has the sense of law,
to either pass judgement, or justice -
as the Satanic law encrusted:
   within the confines of your
gullible innocence...
        you will make a quadratic equation
of the whole escapade -
your goodness will be the justice,
while your evilness will be the judgement,
or vice versus,
or versus,
   or versus vice...
  or either, or none, or maybe...
    maybe the other way round,
from the other way round... or... quiet simply...
whatever.

what have i done: to deserve... this?
i must come across as the most honest i can summon:
i haven't sat down an read a book
in a while: not because i somehow "think":
synonymous with doubt...
although thinking is more antonymous
with negation... the "feels" the grand "waking"
hour... day... week.. year...
point being... i haven't sat down with a book
for a while... reading newspapers doesn't count:
reading newspapers is a bit like
reading advertisement slogans... prompts...
oi oi! peacock! vector...
if only newspapers were written on
good quality... silk-imitation toilet paper...
i'd wipe my *** with them...
prostitutes have a higher status in my mind
than... journalists...
anchors... ditto-heads...
hell... prostitutes outstrip the worth of
bureaucratic custard-fudge any day...
they know their worth... there's so much
transparency concerning prostitutes that...
i haven't been on a date... not ever...
not since that one memorable date
with an Australian girl... we used to go to
highschool together... i took her to an Edward Hopper
exhibition... and a screening of Troy
in the cinema... some sushi...
she ended up being the most popular girl in
the school...
all on a single date...
that was fun... but by current standards?
a date is a meal?
pretending there was no prior
profiling... i imagine a date to imply:
i'm going to take up the whole of your day...
we'll do just fine: if we need a day...
dating... kind of boring... not boring...
claustrophobic... congested...
the whole culture of "dating" always felt to me
like a screening event at the airport...
getting an x-ray of a broken leg...
i'd require a day...
an art gallery... 3 ******* hours in the cinema...
a bite of sushi...
i don't need a "date"... i need a DAY... ugh...
or... i bypass all that foreplay before
foreplay and charge right into a naked
corpse of a Turkish ******* who's
geared up for... the mythology of hair
in Islam...
seriously... if you had a hair in your soup...
it would be equivalent to finding a fly?
i will forever attest...
the most ****** part of a female body is
her hands... probably  because they're smaller...
geisha riddles the jest of:
proper ****...

no one was going to date her...
i was the tallest in the cauldron...
and she was... properly bred in the outback...
coming up to 6ft...
the loveliest pair of pits on anything:
woman, cow... horse(?)...
in Edinburgh before she didn't...
decide to lose her virginity with me...
i did that work prior...
on some 3rd year psychology major
from Grenoble who moaned about
me having Napoleon on my wall..
the Duchy of Warsaw?
and Marquis de Sade...

ever ****** a ****** once...
72 times is... too much...
you begin by pretending your whittle richard
is just enough / teasing at: too small...
i can't explain the sensation:
it's ******* universal...
it's like... the shared sensation bound
to the hands when... tearing apart
a cotton cloth...

i don't know: what it is...
was i gearing her up to something more:
ambitious... like...
impregnation?
it wasn't terribly "fun"...
just about right... with the timing...
it can't be understated...
having the chance to relax with...
already "sacrificed" *****...
of prostitutes...
it's so much easier: for the transparency...
since no dating is ever to be invoked...

dating: i need a day...
i don't require profile screening over food
i'd rather eat in silence...
for ****'s sake...

just my luck... dating the elder of two sisters...
because: almost always...
the younger sister is more attractive than
the older one...
Promis & Priya...
   Laura... oh that Scot & Persian mongrel link
but i can't remember her sister's name...

"something in the way": clearly...
i was just taking to Knausgaard's vol. 4
of "mein kapf"...
the entire room pulsated with a silence
that only outside noises can intrude upon:
notably traffic...
caressing a book...
there's the t.v. blank...
i'm seriously in need of a fire & crackle
of... a fireplace...
reading a book would be best complimented by...
said sound: never mind...
the hushed murmur of the traffic outside
is also: stimulating...

reading a book... i forgot what that feels like...
it's not like reading a newspaper...
hardly... ugh... notably the opinion sections...
of the 5 major "feels" i can quest for...
reading a book in a room
inviting silence...
petting a cat... whenever a cat feels like it
or rather: whenever i also feel like it...
that i have a maine **** sleeping in my
bed...
is beyond me... i always thought it was
hard for a tiger bonsai to like you...
it is... how men champion dog-ownership...
of sure... esp. in England...
where you have to make cleaning up after
your beloved so ******* public...
in the doggy-bag the **** goes...
not prior to the "pandemic" did these dog-walkers
walk around with hand-sanitizers to boot...

dog = leash = muzzle = walking the **** thing...
it's like owning a bicycle and paying road tax!
to hell with paying road tax...
the argument follows:
the dog is loyalty...
it's also always ******* apparent!
a cat can play the Schrödinger's gimmick...
it can *******: on its own will...
i can ignore it... i can... leave it... freely:
available and... consecrated on some binding
glue whenever it feels like it...

between a dog and a cat and a... ******* fern...
well... the cat is a tier above the fern...
but... a tier below an orchid...
since? orchids need less tending to than cats...
but please don't think
that... it was terribly important to have dogs
when i was growing up...
as the only child they were my substitute
brother... sister...
but as you age... dogs... eh... not so relevant...
again: i'd hope to own one... if...
i also didn't have to leash-the-poor-sod...
at least with cats i can ignore them...
come to think of it...
i ignore them up to the point where
i clean their **** and slice them raw turkey...
hell... this one time: at "band camp":
i fed my maine ****
a "live olive":  fish-eye...
i once held a female mosquito by the ballerina
leg and watched as the cat gulped her down...

seems oddly nice to be part of something...
even if it's only a food-chain of events...
at least a tiger wouldn't...
**** me to get a hard-on...
it would **** me: in order to eat me...
now the ******* parade...
people killing people because they are
some hyper-inflated chimpanzee status
worth... for fun or for status...
last time i checked?
the constellations still worked:
they were kept intact... the moon came
with the night... the sun with the day...
the water with the tide...

of the 5 major sensations...
i don't even know whether there are five...
reading a book...
petting a cat... cycling...
pebbles of Dagenham...
estranged grandmother
*** is great: if you have it regularly...

notes...
pebbles of Dagenham?
oh don't ever try to cycle via Dagenham...
someone must have brainstormed
a pretty octopus when...
the pebbles... like glass...
were... left to season the usual grit of
road / pave...
mind you: i had tires that were gagging
for being replaced... 23cm width...
it was bound to happen...
but Dagenham has the worst roads...

reading a book can almost retain all
the necessities of petting a cat whenever
it feels like it...
it's good to read a lot of newspapers
before relaxing with a book...
i can never relax with a newspaper:
i relax taking a ****...
shame i can't bring a newspaper to the event!
i would... if i could...
i doubly-relax taking a **** contemplating
homosexual antics...
just for kicks...

of all the surprises in this world... family...
i knew my uncle: was going to be estranged from
my mother... brother and sister...
opposites... "poor" father beginning with
no family... pseudo-orphaned...
marrying into this ******* cocktail...
but an estranged grandmother?
well... the "story" goes...
i saw my grandfather all well and certain...
joking about another family relation:
he being alive, my grandmother's brother being dead...
limping on the last remains of a foot...

my mother decided that her mother be estranged:
or perhaps... my grandmother decided with her
son: my uncle... that... it's better to keep ourselves
apart...
my grandfather's death was kept in secret...
two months prior i was sipping coffee with
him... he was rereading a book i picked up
from a bookshop in Kielce:

Knausgaard's autumn: that line about
eating apples: whole... at the end of your life...
to the bitter core...
i liked my grandmother: muffin...
the mornings with sober me...
drinking coffee solving crossword puzzles...
but i do remember her crying in the night...
my grandfather was...
an alcoholic... but she was... still is:
a most... disfranchised of women...

but... death is death...
there were 2 months between his final descent...
now i feel like i was the grandson that didn't
care... i was the only ******* grandson!
so much for family...
reading a book... caressing the pages...
the silence...
petting a cat whenever it wants it...
riding a bicycle...
riding a bicycle...
                        perhaps swimming...
***?
i can't say i haven't teased at it:
but it's best when it's frequented with...
enough repetition...
like... push-ups... if it's done on the spare...
it's hardly equivalent to breathing...
i can spare myself entertaining it...
*** is not water... it's not nutrients...
i can... live without it...

i love drinking... probably as the least frequent
spectacle of... ***...
but i also love sobering up:
while cycling...
here's a beard: here's an imitation violin!
watch me fiddle...
there's a roof?! there's a fiddler on top of:
said roof?
mein gott: bulgari?!

das ist genug!
      genug! genug!
kommen sie die fragezeichen...
fragen! fragen! fragen hier!
fragen jetzt!

           KOHLE: KALT!

i drink... i start speaking Deutsche...
no wonder...
the Pakistanis have taken over
the English sphere of "sensibility"...
eh... little... bog... bother-monster...
little freckle... little mind..
something... quasi-Welsh...
pseudo-Scot...

SILVERCHAIR'S FROGSTOMP
VS... DINO SURF...
TIDE....
NIRVANA'S... POLLY,,
ONE EYED BLIND,,,,

some freckle Cqsper
ginger boing: yo.... yo,,,
tooth-bit....
quickest...incubus...