A serene cottage upon a dreary hillside
  Where my mind's listless galaxy of neurons
Synapse in the absolute darkness,
  Is painted in Victorian hues, cold and haunting.

Dejection rains down from the leeward sky
  With nothing harkened save for the ocean's
Stormy roar and a desolate lighthouse,
  Beckoning through the fog and memoirs of the past.

The deeper my soul is carved out with sorrow,
  The deeper the hollow can be filled with joy.
But alas, I feel nothing of joy but only a void
  Left by the dagger of yesterday's darkening tragedies.

I feel the rain soothe my skin and kiss my cheek
  Like the sweetest lover on midnight's embrace,
Yet my moth-eaten quilt of memories only seems
  Enough to shelter our legs but ne'er our feet.

My heart feels the warmth of an autumn fire,
  Kindling in the crisp rain, bleeding beneath
A rose where we burn in the endless torture
  Of our own despondence.

I can feel the blood in my veins turning to fire
  As I imagine her fingertips unzipping my spine
As though it were full of secrets and mysteries
  Unbeknowst to myself...

I can feel the inferno that rages within my aortic arch
  Every moment I imagine losing myself within her
Eyes, glimmering like an eclipse over a midnight
  Sea...the Sleepless Coventry.

She unlocks my secrets and weaves them in the bouquet
  Of tendrils in her hair like ribbons of crimson and light,
Waving in the vehement northerlies with numbing scents
  Of argan and spice.

Her body is but a canvas wrapped neatly around a
  Paper mache skeleton, the most beautifully tragic
Foundation known to humanity...
  
She arrives right on the equinox to set fire to my sorrow,
  Intoxicating me with her kiss and infecting me with her smile.

And so enters the conflagration of my soul,
  An annihilation of light, blackening my coronary
Artery whilst shooting smoke through my cinnamon
  Whiskey tainted veins.

'Tis hard to look through such a misconstrued lens
  As such, the Vena Cava Kaleidoscope...
Where the flames burn through the galaxy of neurons
  Expending the harrowing memories as its fuel.

I can see the magnetic alloy of her Cobalt eyes reflecting
  The fire that consumes me from the inside out.
She pulls on me like the moon pulls upon the tide
  As she whispers with her soft, enamored sigh.

I burn in my silent knowing, my liquid mind
  Awakening in fervor and strange euphoria.

I burn for the Aurora Infinite.

It's the scent of
sunscreen and Argan oil
in your hair and
the softness of a pillow
beneath your head.
The dilation of your brown eyes
staring up into the white stucco.
Remembering the old days
as they were.
When the sand of our bodies
told the difference in time,
chasing us towards the edge
of the water.
"I miss the tall grass," you said
pulling a reed up from the earth.
"I miss looking down into the water
and seeing both our feet,"
but as clear as it was then
where little fish and turtles swam
the future was never coherent
as we thought.
Because the grains that fell
from our skin
represented more than us.
It was life slipping from our hands
When we were young and tanned.
It's what we do when
looking for it
'Time can tell a lot of things,'  I whisper
Realizing,
what I've lost.

I bathe myself in preparation
Suds of lavender & honey
lathered over my smooth summer skin
I even shave
just for you
Moroccan oil pours over my scalp
exfoliating extra well behind the ears
ah the ears
my favorite spot
Gently dry off
Making sure not to miss any spots
above the knee
where usually a stubble island lingers
make sure the *******
are like starfruit
ready for your suckling
Lather cocoa butter
on elbows and around neckline
sensual, a paradise for you
My argan oil tresses, your palm trees
drown lashes in bat black
curl them upward towards cloudy head
I pinch already flushed cheeks
nice and baby doll pink, just the way you like it
All the while staining lips vamp scarlet
so that you may think their sole purpose
on my face is for
circling around your ****
I tweeze brows into crescent moons
over a Bette Davis eye sky
And I won't dare forget to bleach each pearly tooth
picket fence white
So when I flash my counterfeit grin
a twinkle may appear
and blur the emptiness
lurking between both corners
Now for the *****, bra pairing
of course midnight lace and twin
You, my dear get to unwrap this body of mine
How will you choose what to unravel first?
******* or ****?
Decisions. Decisions.
All of it for your
heartbreaking ***** machismo

I arrive,
just as those perfect hands
of your clock
strike the moment you wanted them to
You dine
licking your fingers after each dish
You breathe cigarette breathe
Your pungent odor wreaks over my body
as yours climbs aboard
Hair, greasy hamburger follicles
Skin, porous with choking chemicals
And there is nothing to unwrap
nothing for me to find
Except an empty chest
The gold had been in my pockets the whole time
I must bathe you off.

I stayed

When I knew you were burying me
Convinced myself I loved the smell
Of the earth you piled over my grave
“Sometimes you have to get your hands *****” I laughed
I wasn’t the only one laughing

When I came to see you last
I didn’t know I had invited myself to a funeral
You didn’t close my eyes
You didn’t cover me in the funeral shroud
Neglected to inform me
I had died
“Miskeena”* they said

There wasn’t much of a crowd that day
You said you tried, you really did
The mourners reassured you
You did, you really did
Bisous, bisous*

You left without saying my final rites
But the water, snow, and hail
Washed my body clean without you
And I adorned my own body in white  

By chance
If you see me again, please don’t be startled
I’m sure you’ve heard stories of how pretty I am
For a corpse

And when you come close
Don’t expect a stench or a rotten tongue
My skin would make the argan trees weep with joy
Yes, I smell just as good as I used to

You should have already known that I’m the kind of girl who can grow flowers
Even in a grave.


-Norah Khardaji

Leaning against the shadow
of self, starting the
monologue. With the fall
I don't want to think of the other.

The beasts.
I give a call, to someone
over there,
who will listen.

A systematic peel, opens
the doorless cage and
sets free the malignancy―

to spread. Now multiple argan
failure, stares at you,
celebrating the anniversary
of the ****.

We are made up of
charcoal, writing on the walls
with dark fingers―
name of the victim.

i can't believe this has already happened,
in a work environment you'd expect some sort of professionalism
but it's back to sq. 1 of dealing with people
at work as if it's a school-playground...
the moment Gemma entered the scene it must have
become obvious to the other girls (they're not women,
they lost that status today)
that i took a liking to her... i still don't get it as to why
i have a crush on her... i mean: she's out of reach,
not because she's this stunner: to me she is...
or that she's younger than me and i'm not a supervisor /
manager and therefore i can't impress her with
a higher status...
she's out of reach because i already know her life story...
she expanded upon it today...
mein gott... compared to her life: i merely exist...
she's the one that lived a life: i've merely existed
(as the saying goes) - 7 attempts at a pregnancy...
7 miscarriages... or whatever the problems were...
two attempts at marriage: both times she pulled it off...
raising a boy as a single mum...
an ex: her baby's-father who didn't pay her any alimony
or helped her with rent... a child that hasn't ever
seen his father... then some other ex who trained
as a boxer... 9 years her junior... who was ostracized by
his family for dating a woman much older...
she apparently showed him the sort of life he wanted
to live... ended up with him beating her up
and the child... running her into 9K of debt:
spiralling out of control...
                 how in her 20s she was working in the financial
sector and earning good money,
getting a mortgage... now: look at me, she says,
i'm working security at football stadiums...
she also has an M.O.T. license - she can check whether
cars are eligible to be driven on roads:
whether they're safe, since her dad (now retired)
used to own his own garage...
she also slyly mentioned psychosis...
                        breakdowns, social workers...
oh... look... one madman meets a madwoman...
no wonder there's an immediate attraction...
   i haven't mentioned that to her yet...
i'm throwing caution against the wind...
since? my psychosis aged 21 was slightly different...
walking into a church and hearing a choir of singing
"angels" (well, they weren't the ******* Baptist choir
from a church in Georgia) - i sampled a choir in my head?
what?! and then the great wind that dispersed the choir
as i started panicking and checking my MP3 player
for an alternative music... yeah... i put headphones in...
played some music... the choir was still singing...
i hid under the altar and covered myself
in a white cloth from the altar, shivering with fear...
then running aimlessly around the church
the wind descended...
that was back in 2007... funny things have happened since
2007... it's hardly a coincidence...
no i sometimes hear something akin to:
WIDZISZ    (in my mother tongue) - YOU SEE...
honestly, compared to her life: i merely existed...
she has lived: i had pockets of opportunity to live
(as the saying goes among people who "suffer" from
f.o.m.o. - fear of missing out) - i "missed" out on
the life usually lived by people in their 20s...
i could have started this security job in my 20s...
but it's not like an opportunity arose - well: until now...
i could have been a manager by now...
instead: "god" and ****... and writing these doodles...
any regrets? what, the time i ran with deer that
were obstructing a traffic intersection while holding
a can of beer: playing off the stag of the little harem
with young? inviting a fox to come to my garden
for daily food for about a month?
having a sparrow fly into my hand from a bush (ages ago,
Valentine's park, i must have been 8 or 9) -
no...
when she asked me: who do you live with
and my reply is: well, not my peers, i still live with my parents,
but i do most of the cooking, all of the housework,
the gardening and some DIY...
i feel ashamed saying that... even though i'm not some
loner gamer based in the basement not being helpful
around the house like a custodian ought to be...
then again: i'm not a single father either... so that's that...
but single mothers are never told to feel ashamed:
i'm inherently ashamed for still living with my parents...
i too might be hurting someone:
to put it all into biblical proportions i.e. how
a man is to get away from his mother and father and get
with a woman... these days? i'd replace my own mother
and father with: a father-in-law and a mother-in-law:
because a woman will always drag the man into her
family circle... so it's ****: either way...
- she regretted not going to university,
i told her that i regret having went to university,
if your son thinking about going to university?
yeah, he is... i wish i went into a trade school...
bad idea: sending him to university...
he wants to work in finance... well, that's fine...
as long as he's not studying the humanities:
universities are cess pools of indoctrination these days...
but... last time i heard: law departments at university
are not safe from leftist propaganda... what are the chances
that the sciences and economics will be?
science can be undermined by transgender biological
warfare... economics: well... erm... Marxism?
she also knows that i haven't been in a relationship since
i've been 21... now that i'm 35... what's that, i asked?
14 years... 15 years sooner rather than later...
i didn't tell her about my visits to the brothel
or the random one-night-stand...
          with the current funny geo-political ambiance:
it would have been hard having a Russian wife / girlfriend...
oh yeah, she proposed to me... chose the ring...
then she broke it off... so... technically:
i feel less guilty about how it ended - since i didn't end it...
Gemma... all the girls i ever really fancied had
that name... no... this is not some astrological conspiracy
theory... it just so happens that the two i'm thinking
of had the same sort of hue of ginger hair...
bombshells by my reading... and i thought i had
an archetypical weak-spot for blondes... turns out:
as much as i love Turkic raven haired girls...
a certain type of ginger makes me weak in the knees...
i'm still ******* confused... i get nervous, i get excited...
what the hell is wrong with me?
i'm playing a game of thinking that:
something might be on the cards...
we're already talked about that last time when she came
home to an empty house and ate a Chinese take-away
on her own... although we're working as part
of a team i still don't have her number: even though
i might need it for work reasons...
i'm playing this ****** game of being infatuated like
a teenager... well great, for me, of being only 4 years
her junior... but i'm constantly trying to bang my head
against the wall of impossibility of:
you go down this rabbit hole... things are going
to get ugly... i don't even think about getting hurt:
i'm thinking that i might do her more damage...
that wouldn't be fair...
but it has finally happened...
people are shifting, choosing sides... about 2 months in
and it's happening like it might be a schoolyard...
today i learned that this other... single mum:
5 kids... from 5 different fathers...
she only manages to live in a house for about a month
before she has rent arrears...
big... chunky girl... for the most part i thought she
had a decent personality... she joked that i wanted to hold
her hand... so... i arch my arm and wait for her
to put it into the slot... but she literally wanted
me to hold her hand like a father might hold a daughter's...
not like i'm a man and she's a woman and she puts her
hand into my trouser pocket or rests it on my forearm...
literally holding hands...
but it has happened...
a woman's take on violence... i'd rather slap myself
in the face...
one girl being jealous of another girl...
because a boy is giving the other girl more attention:
is being more tentative to her needs: since...
Gemma is much smaller than the lass i'm referring to who:
has started using... reputational propaganda...
strange... that she goes against the guy (i.e. me) rather than
a fellow female...
so Gemma turns out today and tells me:
oh, you know what she said? that you stank of alcohol
on the job...
i could seriously go through a list of chemistry i use
to pamper my *** up for the job...
sure, i might be drinking into the night,
but it's hardly me merely drinking...
i drink to exfoliate in my scribbles...
avon's soft skin - an air brush spray: which contains
alcohol,
      any and every ****** cream... Garnier...
Nzuri's argan oil on the hair mixed with
style expertise wax diluted with some water...
Ossion beard balsam... 1881 aftershave...
some sprayed on my neck just below my heard line...
some on my beard, some on my **** collar...
obviously some deodorant... best the soft scented
Dove stuff... Colgate toothpaste, bubblegum flavoured
gum chewed for almost 4 hours prior to an event...
some tobacco influence, some coffee...
i even apply some foot deodorant..
one accusation flies against another...
that's why i'm seeing this red flag...
Gemma says that X said Y about me: that i stink of
alcohol... wow... with all that pandering...
i'm surprised she might whiff up a scent of bourbon...
but X already pointed out... she ******* sniffed me
up... she put her nose in almost a touching distance
of my neck: oh, what smells so funny...
no... wait... you're just smelling good...
this is ******* schoolyard politics 2.0...
girls being girls... boys being... boys... boys actually
tending to their physique, their presentation...
an aesthetic...
if i were happily married with 4 kids, like Dan,
my supervisor i'd have a more: **** it attitude...
but now... one girl with aqua-marine girls keeps telling
the joke that: i honestly misheard her say:
hello darling for: hello daddy...
Gemma think she's being rude to her / not being friendly...
while also said X is telling me i smell nice
while Gemma says that X was telling everyone
that i smell of bourbon... what, under those 7 ******* layers
of scents that ends me soaking up a scent of soap...
so... my conclusion is...
Gemma doesn't have the audacity to tell me i smell
good... so she has to make it out that X said i smell of *****...
while X said that i smelt good...
you know... this makes absolutely:
all the necessary sense that it allows itself to allow...
while i'm the one who's somehow endearing
and have an affectionate heart / a rubber ear
to listen to life stories... no one is really going to
listen to mine...
             to reiterate: Gemma says X said that i smelled
of ***** on the job... i tend to sober up, proper,
on a commute... but then i use all these chemicals to
smell good... X managed to bypass her inhibitions
and tell me that i smell good: sniffing my neck...
what, the, ****, is this?
i'm not even as pessimistic as Daniel with regards
to people: sure, some might be *******, outright...
but some people are just like children...
they want to be told: no, you didn't **** up...
you want me to hold your hand in hand?
within my confines: i don't think i could ever arrive
at the unconscious realisation of resurrecting the child:
to feed myself with blamelessness...
that's not how the man-child dynamic works...
such petty lies.... petty politics...

one girl spread rumours about another girl...
come to think of it: it wasn't an attack on me:
since Gemma immediately retracted the accusation
with a way to defend me...
it was false from the get-go...
what Gemma didn't allow herself to follow-up on is
what girl X already arrived at:
a dis-inhibition of telling me that i smell good...
i'm working on her, i need more time...
i'm teasing her, sexually tensing her up...
like today... i bought her coffee... at first she asked for
3 sugars, then she asked for 2 sugars...
so? i bought myself a coffee and a coffee for her...
both were white... i put 3 sugars in one...
i put 2 sugars in the other...
i was gagging for her to suckle at the make-shift ****
of plastic for i could taste her back:
i already asked her to smoke a cigarette
she was already smoking which she willingly gave up...
but no... she took the plastic-****-cap off and drank
from the side: as i explained to her:
sorry, confused the two coffees...
which one is sweeter?

well... that "confusion" being sorted...
second "thinking" comes to mind, spinning an alternative
narrative... oh, sure, at first i did the right thing
of thinking that these two girls were out to destroy my
reputation... but being single mothers...
one has 5 brats from 5 different fathers,
the other has 1 child from 1 father...
some ******, ex... 7 miscarriages...
                  they're going out against each other...
they are... X tells me i smell good while
the other is telling me that X said i was scented with
bourbon...

considering that X has already started bragging that
she can get through a half a bottle of brandy in a single
night...

women! why have the gods "cursed" me with
such attributes that women: still in their 30s are behaving
like careless whisperers of bogus...
and then they turn around and tell you:
how their relatives worked in the security services
and how it was oh so different back then:
what? you mean when men only worked with men?!
and there was none of this pseudo-speed-dating
******* around?
i started to kee stressing:
so... we're here to avoid another Hillsborough Tragedy?
and all the women look at me all funny...
aren't we?!

lying: a byway of compensating for our life's works being
undermined from the get go...
i stopped myself from lying for the simple reason
that lying erodes memory: you always have
to back up one lie with another lie...
but... if you tell but one truth...
you can ******* toward the void of silence...
from what i've seen, from what i heard...
people who tell lies, who allow themselves to
                           be self-aggrandising...
who never channel self-deprecating humour...
well... i sniff it out... i too am recipient of scent...
it might not be *****... it might not be shampoo
or cologne... it's something deeper...
i might only be a steward... the minion,
the infantry pawn... but i sense something,
"something" is suspicious...

then again; how the **** have i managed to juggle
my current predicament, i will never know...
women... they ******* each other off...
what am i, best next suitor for their children that
i am not a father of?
me? ancient Rome's good uncle Caesar?
sure, i'd love to be even the most remote: surrogate status:
if i was given full access... but even these poor *******'
biological fathers are not given full access...

who the **** am i? what, i know that universities
are ideological breeding grounds, that i too agree:
it's going to become a waste of money?
that i know ethnic words like: niqab?!
that i can't be anti-racist: because even the racists
are people that need to be catered to?
i can be: non-racist... but i can't be anti-racist,
why? yeah, a low-hanging fruit...
trying to establish a new aristocracy...
my preferred pronouns are:
the royal ONE & WE...

one might think that we are not invoked to
ask such questions or to give such answers...
one is always supposed to counter any deviances
with a: we might do Z...
one most certainly concerns oneself with:
ought we?! if one is not concerned with (an) i;
since one is rarely to be bound to being agreeable with,
yet, disposing of an agreeableness
that constitutes a we; paradoxically...
it ought to be believed that that's how the English Restoration
looked like... on the basis of how language was
utilised...

year 0... we're not really having this conversation...
believe me (that) we're no(t) having it...
you're not reading this,
i actually haven't written it...
it's just a figment of your "imagination"...
but to think that the infra-sctructure of
the English language would be / could be... undermined
by their own native population....
so easily... as to be so accommodating to the fringes
of society?!

hey! maestro! now you let the orchestra play!
o.k.?!

Le poème éploré se lamente ; le drame
Souffre, et par vingt acteurs répand à flots son âme ;
Et la foule accoudée un moment s'attendrie,
Puis reprend : « Bah ! l'auteur est un homme d'esprit,
Qui, sur de faux héros lançant de faux tonnerres,
Rit de nous voir pleurer leurs maux imaginaires.
Ma femme, calme-toi ; sèche tes yeux, ma soeur. »
La foule a tort : l'esprit c'est le coeur ; le penseur
Souffre de sa pensée et se brûle à sa flamme.
Le poète a saigné le sang qui sort du drame ;
Tous ces êtres qu'il fait l'étreignent de leurs noeuds ;
Il tremble en eux, il vit en eux, il meurt en eux ;
Dans sa création le poète tressaille ;
Il est elle ; elle est lui ; quand dans l'ombre, il travaille,
Il pleure, et s'arrachant les entrailles, les met
Dans son drame, et, sculpteur, seul sur son noir sommet
Pétrit sa propre chair dans l'argile sacrée ;
Il y renaît sans cesse, et ce songeur qui crée
Othello d'une larme, Alceste d'un sanglot,
Avec eux pêle-mêle en ses oeuvres éclôt.
Dans sa genèse immense et vraie, une et diverse,
Lui, le souffrant du mal éternel, il se verse,
Sans épuiser son flanc d'où sort une clarté.
Ce qui fait qu'il est dieu, c'est plus d'humanité.
Il est génie, étant, plus que les autres, homme.
Corneille est à Rouen, mais son âme est à Rome ;
Son front des vieux Catons porte le mâle ennui.
Comme Shakspeare est pâle ! avant Hamlet, c'est lui
Que le fantôme attend sur l'âpre plate-forme,
Pendant qu'à l'horizon surgit la lune énorme.
Du mal dont rêve Argan, Poquelin est mourant ;
Il rit : oui, peuple, il râle ! Avec Ulysse errant,
Homère éperdu fuit dans la brume marine.
Saint Jean frissonne : au fond de sa sombre poitrine,
L'Apocalypse horrible agite son tocsin.
Eschyle ! Oreste marche et rugit dans ton sein,
Et c'est, ô noir poète à la lèvre irritée,
Sur ton crâne géant qu'est cloué Prométhée.

Paris, janvier 1834.

what the hell is happening... i've just put in a 12 hour shift...
well...
getting picked up at 9:45am at a Covid vaccination
centre... woke up at 7:30am... drank a coffee smoked two
cigarettes... brought in Saturday's newspaper...
****** off proper at around 9am for the meeting...
managed to get another coffee and a sausage egg muffin
from McDonald's, smoked another cigarette...
slightly hangover, but most certainly pampered myself
with some stuff... after having taken a shower...
bubble-gum on the ready after having brushed my teeth
like a dentist:
- garnier body intesive care cream on my face,
   hands, the nether-regions, feet...
- diesel, fuel for life, two hits of the spray
   on the area below my beard and smeared across my collar
   bone,
- avon skin so soft, airbrush spray on the face,
- nzuri argan oil on hair & beard...
- then some style expertise wax 04
(flexible hold) so your hair still looks naturally held
together.... you can actually put your hand through it
and you will not get any residue...
- MORFORE OSSION beard care balsam...
   turkish... all the best products for beard are
turkish... like the barbers: the best barbers are...
turkish!
- some deodorant under the armpits,
the ***-crack... the groin region and all over the torso...
shirt-ironed, trousers ironed, clip-on tie firm set...
shoes polished... thermal socks donned...
off to Oxford for Oxford United vs. Wigan Athletic...
first job... enter the turnstile cage... lock myself in...
the ticket reader wasn't working...
got a tally clicker...
supervisor came back with a working ticket reader...
but i still used the tally clicker...
managed to allow passage of 218 people into
the stadium... the children looked amazingly...
sincere with regards to authority of sorts...
caged man... some boy asked... why is that man
in that cage? has he been naughty?
so i endeared him... yeah... i've been a very naughty man...
i still find it weird when women tell their children:
give your ticket to the MAN...
mind what... the MAN is telling you to do...
in my 20s i never reached that level... i was still a boy then...
everything went smoothly...
the tickets i scanned went through...
the tickets the scanner wouldn't scan i just brush aside
with the clicker... most were season ticket holders...
10 minutes into the match, one or two late-comers
and then we shut the turnstile gates...
next? pitch-side duty... this time i got a seat...
watched the crowd... my god... the football crowd in
London... tame *******...
go anywhere outside of London and you're getting
fanatics! the Wigan Athletic crowd...
i mean: men in their 40s / 50s... on the face of it...
yet deep down... teenagers...
drunk, mad, chanting... by the end of the match
losing their voices...
one father was more of a kid than the kid he was
with: was... spotted this one guy smoking,
another jumped the barrier...
for once i didn't actually watch the match...
i had an eye on this one... classical English beauty...
i'm guessing a single mum who came with two of
her children, her father and mother...
the mother didn't look that bad either...
sometimes you can isolate a woman's face in a crowd
and... a war might be happening...
you sort of become oblivious to everything beside
the serenity such a face imbues and translates onto
you something... Sophia-esque... Athena...
she might not be... but... appearances are appearances...
12 hours from since i left the house to when
i returned... i tried to eat something...
first that chicken burger on my way home...
3 chips... i couldn't eat more...
my stomach had shrunk to the point that i might as well
have done a day of Ramadam...
bought some whiskey and pepsi on the way...
hanged it on the fence at the back of my garden:
i am only drinking... because i smuggle the alcohol in...
then tried to eat some rice & a chickpea / spinach curry
i made a day prior...
couldn't lodge that into my shrunk stomach...
i decided to get some calories
by drinking a glass of milk infused with
some Nesquik straberry powder...
worked a miracle...
then one cider & now some whiskey & pepsi...
i was falling asleep watching some
Masterchef professionals...
sorry... nothing can compare the Australian
amateurs...
they're such a new culture: and i look at them,
as a people: drawn into civilization building
from the ground-up, beginning with a cuisine
that's unique to them...
all the old European cuisines seem rather stale
by comparison...
i jolted myself: tired, restless...
******* i lay in my underwear on the floor
of my bedroom having placed my feet on
the radiator...
i don't care what anyone says...
you always feel cold from the feet up...
if your feet are cold... the rest of your body feels
cold... warmed my feet... still restless...
tired... really tired... but that's the problem with
my tiredness... i also somehow to feel... *****...
i had to do two no. 3s in a row...
tame *******... recently... what's her name...
that singer of BAD GUY was celebrated
by journalists for coming out against
******* apologists...
i'm sorry... what sort of ******* are, "you" watching?
the freakiest i ever allowed myself to become
was watching a ******* gloryhole compilation
of women jerking off a ***** that started shooting
custard... probably while listening to E Nomine's
song angst...
i'm tired but also too *****... i need to calm down
a little...
and perhaps the Hebrews have a fair point about
this "taboo"... of the solipsist Onan...
the Arabic religion isn't so strict... after all...
their mother was a concubine of Abraham...
   it's not like i 'm doing it in a ******* armchair,
with scented candles, with a ******...
or have a webcam active recording myself for a larger
public... or that i might have a ******* toy...
just this boney-**** of a hand...
yeah... it really does feel small...
that's perhaps why i have allowed myself to see
the female hand as the most ****** part of a woman's
body... i look at women's hands and think...
i'd need to sacrifice my pinky + knuckle...
if i can hold a basketball with one hand...
i don't think my phallus is small...
my hands are just big...
never in a million years would i want to watch
"sacrificial *******": the Italian classics...
sure... something classy... edgy...
not this ****** modern crap...
show me something that invokes latex... thrill!
thrill-e-he!
last time i heard women were into gang-bangs,
choking... ****...
come to think of it... paycheck is coming up...
i "wonder": how will i spend, that money?
new trousers, gamble with going on a date?
sure... a "date" in a brothel... where, EVERY-THING
is, transparent...
no one is there for milk & cookies...
i like to keep things transparent like that...
one hour of ******* and perhaps talking in between...
what's the Romanian word / Turkish word for eyes?
nose? lips? freckles?
**** a little, take a break, smoke a cigarette...
blah blah...
of course the Hebrews would think that *******
is a taboo on the male part, historically:
religiously... well i have a taboo for the Hebrews too:
circumcision...
  the act wouldn't really be a taboo is the Hebrews didn't
begin cutting off "excess" skin of the fore-,
if i keep a high hygienic standard: prior and after the act...
sometimes... it just eases taking a ****...
relaxes the **** muscles a little...
but i have no qualms, when it's done hygienically...
after all... "sword" & "sheath"...
for my boney elephant **** of a hand... skin on...
for actual *******... skin off...
it's not exactly rocket science...
but imagine the scenario when... i would be circumcised...
i'd be mad...
looking for that fleshy pouch of a woman's ******...
because my own protective layer would be
"missing"... sometimes i'm tired after a shift
in the cold & i still want to...
but my "would be" partner wouldn't be in the mood...
what then?
i'm tired, i'm *****... but she's not in the mood...
what do i do? think about, *******: carp fishing?!
no... since i have the "excess" i do two in a row over
really tame, wholesome *** and i'm ready to doodle
these words, drink... i concentrate my energy
on the mind having absolutely gotten rid of any remaining
****** impulses... the end...
oh... but that weak-spot of mine...
Asian models, notably the Japanese models...
there's a whole genre... GRAVURE...
*** is always insinuated... it's never explicit...
a photography of a girl showing her underwear...
the Eden of those inner-thighs...
the world is standing on its head:
with women thinking that men enjoy shaming ***,
violent ***... sorry, honey... those are
exclusively the pornographers: men who have
too much ***... most men don't get enough enough...
men might... have a fetish for...
say... a step-mother ******* her step-son...
obviously women will subsequently insinuate
their fantasy of: ******... ******!
ha! they should Marquis de Sade's masterpiece
of a novella... the one in which he's concise, genius...
hardly making waffles of speech...
i wish i was ****** more... but what's a boy to do
if not getting as much as his libido would allow
him to... men express... women explore...
i'd rather ******* to some Bronzino...
i'm thinking... a borderline taboo... she's 16... 18...
it's a momentary idea...
a momentary bulge... soon i digress toward thinking
about... fuller-forms... women in their 30s... 40s... 50s...
i think about... a well aired bottle of red wine...
fully-formed... none of this lazily available fetish
for matchstick, pseudo-anorexic:
under-developed... dolls...
i like to think of a woman like i might think
about sitting in a very comfortable leather arm-chair...
or... reading a very old... 19th century
hardback, leather-bound book...
the type of woman that might kiss her children
goodnight... but an hour later... do the complete opposite
with her lips...
it's a nice thought...
while men starve & women explore...
it's good to starve... somehow... so many less consequences...
but as long as you're hygienic about it...
all the better for the GRAVURE medium
from Japan... finally! *** can be insinuated...
it doesn't require for you to be "excited" over something:
so explicit that you get a LIMPY for simply not
being involved... *** as something "forbidden"...
since not readily available...
no longer the sort of *** of the western canon that
invokes... *** isn't to be "forbidden":
it ought to be shamed & "shamed"...
that's how schizophrenics are bred...
via a double-negation...
   via mis-wiring of messages, *** constructed from
a contradiction....
oh the English are the best at this...
they enjoy it so much that they have to lie about
enjoy it... they sort of flagellate themselves over
the whole affair... in the open they are:
such prim labourers of puritanism...
yet, give them the right sort of opportunity to
express their sexuality in private...
talkies... the ******* is rife with...
"too much talk during ***, too much: **** me daddy,
**** me mummy... oh yeah, you want it rough..."
the list is seemingly endless...
in the beginning there was the word,
and the word was (with) god...
yeah... so talking during *** is such a good idea?
i can boast about herr stumm...
i can boast about... an "alphabet" of onomatopoeias...
something akin to eating laughter with
sighs and oh: really?
talk ruins ***... a body ought to speak to body...
the tongue is reserved for something more
than being more than a vehicle for syllables...
words are best kept outside the medium of ***...
eyes ought to eat up the other's body;
mirror should most certainly be used.

before i might launch into an armchair of a paragraph...
no... nothing of the sort...
r.em.'s song: nightswimming... i have my own
version of ulterior events: nightcycling...

i'm not much of a lyricist...
nightcycling: such nights are all but forgotten...
how i miss the traffic
how i don't miss the traffic...
how my face isn't in need of being washed
since there's so little sandpaper debris on it...
there was never going to be a photograph...
the moon was perhaps almost always
a glass-is-half-empty: most certainly a frozen
biscuit: a pretend-tooth that's
glazed with a shy colour: a hue of diluted
sepia / wheat... yellowish as bone allows...
or antiques...

          nightcycling... hardly years from now...
or even days... it makes so much sense to be alone
that it doesn't even bother me
to sometimes wish i wasn't
when i know: that if i wasn't...
i'd be pulled toward wishing i was...
i don't want to feel that sadness:
that claustrophobic energy of having to
chain myself to... at best all the *** at worst
all that... anaemic conversation about:
how we might be the best, better: couple...

a sensation like no other...
perhaps if one were to kiss bone...
or perhaps like biting off
the ends of chicken bones
to get at the marrow
once all the meat and sinew has
been munched off: almost
slurped... most certainly
bitten: subsequently gnashed...
- eating frozen blueberries...
                 till the tongue turns
blue till the tongue is numbed
till the teeth start to itch (which
is of course impossible)...
but words make it possibly... eh... maybe...

it was raining throughout the day
and... i had to wait for the night
before i cycled...
in between...
   i made... raspberry... ice cream...
the classical way, using egg yolks because
i have no fear of salmonella...
at worst: i'd get my intestines cleaned
out with some diarrhoea...

such a simple recipe...
2 cups of double cream...
1/4 cup of milk
1/2 a cup of sugar...
heated up...
5 egg yolks beaten... 1 cup of the mixture
mixed with the beaten egg yolks
at 165°F... then all together...
12oz of raspberries blitzed up...
sieved through so the seeds would
not agitate... 1/4 cup of sugar
and some vanilla extract...
mixed together... with the cream
chilled in the fridge for 2 hours...
then into an ice-cream machine to churn for...
roughly 40 minutes...

later... two small brownie slices
and this... "ambrosia"...
if it rains... might as well make some ice-cream...

- i don't want to fall in love... ever again...
it's not that i'm hung-up on an ex...
come to think of it: i'm hung-up on myself...
what a lot of love wasted on someone
so rotten...
i wish i was myself the time i fell in love:
tender, young, naive...
then again: perhaps not...
i don't want to be a father
i don't want to have this responsibility
hanging over me like Damocles' sword...
cut the curtain... and the violin strings...
i don't want to be weak: dependent on someone:
i don't want to share my autonomy...
i'm growing tired of the idea of love...
i like to keep it very... formal...
perhaps no one is gesticulating or pushing airs
of 'yes sir'
         'no sir'... perhaps i'm not gagging to be
a well tailored waiter...
i'd shoot those lazy-***** who order shopping
on that metaphor of kangaroo...
bucket-list to-do:
don't ever place an order: go to the shop yourself...
******* pickled brains...
break each limb into pieces:
throw the torso into the pool... hope that it might
swim...

the wind blows from the south...
i stand in a cricket field on top of Havering-atte-Bower
and look at the great span of horizon...
there's Kent... there's ol' Thames...
my eyes are eating the distance apart...
to nowhere...

- well... if you put it like that...
scribbling: i was cycling at 30kmh...
suppose i was cycling quicker...
the metric units inflate the achievement...
while imperial units... deflate it...
it's only 18mph...
the metric system loves zeros:
0000000000000000000000000000000000
the imperial system: quirky...
loves decimals of Pi...

what a lazy night...
what a lazy of writing...
nightcycling...
something must have happened...
so few girls on the town partying...
did something happen?
did their income source dry up
or something?
i've had eyes of women clamour onto me
like they might...
give me ******* while simultaneously
circumcising me...
or pecking at my liver...
that's why... at the Turkish barbers...
it's almost like going to a brothel...
but when getting my bush-whack of a beard
trimmed... i close my eye while
the barber does miracles with a blade
tendering my neck...
eyes wide open... when ******* is performed...
since... well... that "hole" has teeth...
it might be pretend-oyster in the act...
but it's also a mouth that bites...
salivates... breaks up large chunks into small
chunks...

love... yes... at the brothel...
i like that sort of love...
i'm happy to not end up being an old man
who still has presumptions about:
the nobility of swans...
it didn't require either Darwin or Copernicus
to find out... the birds...
you will never see crows
gagging for it... you'll never find crows
asking for voyeurs like pigeons gag...
the crows do their funny... morbid b.d.s.m.
at night... no one's ever looking...
the pigeons? in full sight!

why i get a full glare of... pigeon courting...
i'm seeing... niqab clad ravens take:
"second purpose"...
not to mention... a... widow and widower swan...
my... how... they coupled...
never mind Rod Liddle...
i don't like the way he writes:
but god... i love how he speaks...
i don't very much like how i think:
that i perhaps think: at all...

my libido suffers from strobe-light
insomnia i dare call: quasi-epilepsy...
my dreams: i have shrapnel...
these buildings seem rigid enough:
it'll do... i don't need to make a broth
out of... bones... no skin... no meat...
i feel a crippling nausea-sickness
whenever dropped into a place like
Warsaw... or somewhere far beyond
the home counties...
like Cheltenham...

               it's oh so... monochromatic...
so... missing arrogant Muslims:
London: loon-bin...
this be, Islamabad... if only Polacks
had the same arrogance...
what an obnoxious lot we could have
become...
ask the Romanians?
the Turkish prostitutes... or the barbers?!

England belongs to the English...
thank you for keeping me: tightly knitted to a tuck...
friar...
you'll have to move aside...
while i make some space for my...
gluttonous... thought...
for several years i stopped seeing skin
colours... i stopped seeing ethnicity...
oh... grand reveal!
some equilibrium antics bringing
pronoun "concerns"...

                    ah ha... a world so tame...
i just want to **** on it...
i'm lazily itching toward "something"...
  look here... see an angst-riddled
existential paragraph...
if the natives can't bring some authority
to the table while the minorities run:
******* rampant...
it's like... living in slow-motion
of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
being carved up... dissolved..
like the crown of Poland wasn't ever
a ******* of foreign rulers...
because... lineage didn't matter...
a  Duke of Orléans: could be the king of Poland
but not the king of France...
because... ******* of kings...
Poland... was readily giving it her sway of...
"favour"... alas... the fate of keeping
lineage... inbreeding... weakened genes...
pizza antics in... ******* Woking of all places...
silly Andy... willing Andy buckled on
the ginger gal...

nzuri argan oil... supposedly it works miracles
than any... other... recipe for keeping
one's hair looking: prim... intact...
wind-relieved...
better than any hair-gel...
a well oiled crop of hair is better suited
to... daily troubles than...
applying some stiffening agent...
hair like... deep-fried linguine... ugh...

that i believe advertisers more than
journalists...
a Warsaw fountain... someone abandoned
a dog in there... the poor thing was
running round and round...
me and ol' Joseph...
testing me? my mother takes centre stage
when his memory sparks...
a pain akin to a cut excites...
a spontaneity...
but a pain that cuts towards
a numbing...

like Tolstoy said: every family is ****** up...
it's almost insensible to curate
the formality of strangers with
all the baggage being... towed...
sinking... me... drowning...
but making raspberry ice-cream..
while it was raining outside...
hanging the washing on the lines:
i was expecting a silenced orchestra: timid
of sparrows...

to hell with the constellation of stars...
just watch what the birds are doing...
last time i heard... cats do not require
leashes...
i wish i could have the sort of audacity
of hands i have with cats:
translated into how women are
treated...
at the brothel... at the brothel...
open a bottle of bourbon: i'm there! sober!
strictly oops in-and-out-of-"it"...

this is not even my land...
one which i might wish to defend...
who are these pseudo-post-Soviets...
the originals i could have cited as borrowing
from pan-Slavism...
although mistook took place
concerning... the disintegration of
Yugoslavia...
if the Germanic people knew how to dispose
of the Hebrews...
the southern Slavs knew how to dispose
of the remnants of Muslims...
ugly affair...

time by now has to escape its own clutches with
a... debilitating: yawn...
pass the pawn... crux... lineage!
pawn... broker...
bishop... tilt! tally the rooks...
shoot the horses dead-centre
before they have a chance to retire from
the races...

that i have a fetish for recycling..
that there's a **** to tow...
that there's a **** to tow...
there's some crippling Gehenna
of corn: baking...
snippet: clue...
   whatever happened to the incredibly
sensibly native people...

like ha'hum?

a demonic silence and calm preserves this place
i call home:
today i was recovering from working
at the AC/DC gig at Wembley: henchman man:
wager man... wagey...
such pivotal hierarchies in the high viz
community outside of the construction industry:
human chess
it would seem: is the end result
of this working dynamic...

                   i'd call it my dream period but it's
more or less my nostalgic impromptu
retrospection thinking of myself writing in my mid-20s
but i really can't see:
in the classical period music was innovative:
it inspired philosophers such as Nietzsche
but these days i can't say: much about music...
it became an art form relegated to the piles
of dung of Beelzebub's ****** archiving of important
matters:
a total messy ******* he is...

            coughed up whiskey into my nose
which was a sobering experience
like a Pakistani girl
telling out in full claustrophobic no personal
space antic of taking a lift
imploring me to stand in front of her
imploring me to smell my skin and my ***
and my love to block out
someone else's bad personal hygiene...
and then i said: well: like nicotine
like caffeine: a whiff of ammonia: a chemical salt
or acid
          someone's poor personal hygiene can
become a stimulant: especially if you add to that
the torrential rain:

but my dry period?
i was young and not boring enough:
so i'd pick up a book and take out a snippet
and work with that:
i suppose i could rehash that youthful distress
by picking up
Ulysses - i don't remember any of it:






                                                      / /

nothing: nothing comes to mind...
         so when music used to be innovative in the infancy
now hardly irrelevant
but AC/DC are not an innovative band
if say: Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin were...
or god forbid someone take up the Q of Pink "barber" Floyd
because that's not Nirvana relevant?

i guess music of the 20th century
might require someone listening to classical and reflecting:

weird antics for the closure of a day
and it's impeding reopening after a nap
circa 8pm through to 12am
in the day made perfect timing to
send off a Taylor Swift t-shirt:
medium... almost a large:
regardless: she wanted to have it scented with me
so i rubbed the early stink from lying
in bed first...
then walked around in it...
then took a shower:
didn't use deodorant (but squeezed some in
when i finished packing the package
to get the plastic smell out...
the air around the item)
i rubbed myself cleaner than mirror versus
the glass
in i guess: if i can remember:
was a honeycomb and macadamia nuts
soap...
          then i washed my hair with Argan oil
infusion...
and beard too: ah: maybe the shampoo was
the macadamia nuts infusion
and the soap was just the honeycomb infusion...

but no deodorant on the body:
just into the back...

friendship bands
and me playing with my mother's makeup drawer
while writing her a letter
some little nothing something perhaps sweet
and to think i'm suited to a Christian girl
and i'm supposedly this Catholic
which is supposedly a novelty in America
like J.F.K was a novel Catholic
in the land of Protests and hyper-inflated individualism
that's so fake it beggars-belief...

Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose
thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up
all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on
tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

J. J. Ulysses page 217 reprinted Penguin classic 2000

as i said: innovative: music once was
no longer so and
it's a shame that those who wrote music are
more alive than some people
who are alive and haven't been gifted with
much: but as in that Dead Can Dance song
about great men:
Solomon, Caesar, Socrates... and there is a third:
how fortunate the man with none...
how fortunate that no one should remember

but even then what's that to life: expected...
if anything: a kind surprise to an otherwise unwarranted
***** of the hope...
some higher demand the everyday expectation
to the materialistic grit (spoken like a true
teenager)...
but just so: my riches are in books and in music
records:
at least one painting of my own:
a sitter in Grey
by Candlelight...
a sword from the forest i called my Cossack
SHASHKA...
              
           just a breaking of a night within night
to tip over the scales of time from day x
to day y
                      by nocturnal musings:
    having signed the Last Will of my parents
i am now the inheritor de facto
of this house and garden:
it's almost comical when
Joe stood before me at cordon 6
wearing a Quadrant Supervisor bib and
almost gesticulating at:
well: why haven't you been promoted?
well: who gives a ****
it's a wash-a-hand-hand-washing-hand
not nepotism but quasi-nepotism
of the family breakdown and making new friends
in the playground
so children are growing up my lord
but the elementary
and the pedagogy remains the same:
perhaps if with children you can pretend
to be an adult with responsibilities
when when in psychiatry you pretend to be a god
because that's not me saying:
Prometheus my Guide:
but at least you have to pretend to be a god
since god is so abstract
and that's what people required other people to
become: in just the verb and noun orientation
of this delicate ballet...
not by any stretch of imagining grandiosity
not in any way profound
there's the nearing of the bad grammar god
and his fetish is pronouns
and being a Dyslexic his favorite demonic ****
is at the pulpit of a pseudo-Protestant
i.e. Protestantism against itself:
dying off without a Catholic antagonist since that
path deviated and found root
in the life now enjoyed by the Spanish, French,
Italians, Pollacks...

                         i could mention the Irish but is there
a point of mentioning the Irish as Catholics
and not simply as the Irish:
the sublime masochists... which the Pollacks can't be
but what's horrible about us is
a Catholic Work Ethos that we don't share
with anyone: beside the Irish: in that span of rubric:

Spanish
French
Italians
Porto-Geese (easier, i'm not going to spell it correctly)...

ah... jeez: what a Chopin's nocturnes sort of
night:
it's blessedly raining outside and it feels like
the proper July:
did i forget to mention that there's a lesson
in geography to be had, right about now?

it bothered me: the English mentality
concerning Eastern Europe:
Poland is Central Europe with Germany
you ******* PLEB...
deafness and more deafness: no intellectual music
no conversation:
just innocent bystanders: collateral ditto virus...
geography bothered me in the lexicon:
is that common speech of man? hmm:
gonna get myself a Jane Austen tattoo...
not on my skin: but on the silk
bothered by the wind
itching inside my mind like no other caged ego
to thought or being:
just ego-nothing
beside what is already available
with i-think and i'm-not: i-am...

                           familialism: something
borrowed from Anti-Oedipus: i don't understand
the French intellect so well:
please can i gravitate towards German High Intellect
with some dabbing in Scandinavian:
everyday-ism?

   the French have a freakish morbid intellect
bent on destruction and painting with language:
i don't want to paint when i write...
i want to abstract: find solutions:
complications:
impasses...
              facts: i don't want to find bad grammar
and a chemistry lab
of boorish wordings overtly hyphenated into
compounds like di-hydroxy-carbonate blah blah...

who is the real psychotic?
i have no knowledge of a Spanish intellect...
Italian maybe with Machiavelli but
that's irrelevant:
Giuseppe Belli:     (o.k. **** me, shoot me
my youth was greatly invoked to age beyond
my peers because of Dante: *******
and yeah yeah ******* twice
because i had Horace and Ovid in my life)

inzomma, da la predica de jjeri,
ggira che tt'ariggira, in concrusione
venissimo a ccapi cche sso mmisteri...

      just look how Latin devolved...
to sign language and spitting
and eyes darting and foundations
like Rome and the Italians is an observational
view point of a mountain range
some weirdly anthropological
no people discovered or conquered
so aboriginal blah
i mean: just looking at the language
that's Italian: that used to be Latin:
it's a bit like looking at the Polynesians
originally from Taiwan:
perhaps they didn't gain height
rowing all that time no sight of horses
but they bulked up
and i can see something Oriental about
them with the exception of their tailoring
to a darker color of skin: complexion...

bad Latin to come:

in brevi, et ex sermon nos accepit
summa summarum,
                          idiom: say how it is... to:
            obtusis-lingua-acuere:
blunt tongue sharpening...
               videtur: mysterium est mysterium...

perhaps that's the non-authoritative
variation on Latin:
certainly not Italian: or what happened
when Germanic blood of the Lombard
achieved the fold to the Razor and Papacy:
the Pope a Drowning Man...

that lesson in geography:
well... whenever listening to a meteorological
dial-up
with a person in the luminary of a quasi-fire
that's the t.v. screen:
believe me in 100 years what will
the t.v. beside a fireplace
a radio and then what will internet access be

i'm listening to my favorite nocturne:
i've currently digested:
47 minutes:

nocturne in B♭minor op 9 no 1
     "         "   " minor op 9 no 2
and the list goes on and on
but i'm too lazy to type each song out...
but it would look pretty:
i gather there's that aesthetic concern
and if i wanted to spend years
on art
i'd become a grave sculptor...
not some celebrated Rodin bound
to the museum:
CENTAUR and the Urmahlullu...

in some there's this tease toward anticipating
Wagner's Das Reihngold: the entry
of the gods into Valhalla:

         like we all know the play on Les Mars

♯C
#****

       ah! subliminal! HELMHOLTZ! HELMHOLTZ!
just like
Les Marseillas... apparently a right wing
revival, non?
but instead a Fringe Red seeking majority?
i did say: Serenity Red:
not simply - but the left was becoming
constipated communicative-ly: all lively...

number: first: 1812:
ah yes: Tchaikovsky and the Polish Plumbers
Orchestra...
some Dostojnie: Igrzyska:
  
               geography!
England is part of Scandinavia!
England: Scotland:
Ireland:
this is not Western Europe!
this is Scandinavian Territory!
if Poland is Eastern Europe:
collectively...
blah Ukraine blah Czechia
blah Lithuania and not Russia
blah Romania
and blah some more maybe even Greek
and Turkish:
forget Serbia Croat

but England is Scandinavia:
it's not WESTERN EUROPE:
what is western Europe but an Atlantis
figment of the imagination
if Germany is Central Europe
and Poland too
have to look at the planet from sunrise
have to rotate the planet into
vertigo mode horizontal....
not some meteorological Chinese script
the westerners read weather
at X Greenwich
and Y equator: Kenya:
Z? the winds and casual tornadoes?

  England is Scandinavia
in temperament and feels:
                   it's not Western Europe:
there never was: beside
as the bad apple export to America...
Scandi to the north
while the also northern bunch
finding recliners and cheaper weather:
the Goths via the Spaniards
and the Berbers
toward Argentina...

               then again to a waltz:
still a nocturne waltz...

                       but that piece with
the reverbretating insinuation of the piano
working as a bass guitar...
not the waltz no 7 in c (sharp) minor
op 64,2

                absolved from the hierarchy of cultures:
that Germany transliterated
away from a superiority complex
of ethnocentrism of white via white versus:
such heightened exploration dynamic:
peace to mind: a piece of:
the langui: a **** in boots and a freakish:
i don't event want to remember
dreams...

         if no longer ethnocentric then cocktails
in Berlin with a hyper-inflation
of race mixing like
it couldn't be a sand story:
this new Dune
not a desert
but a "jungle" of Concrete:
this Nedu:
        planet of sand without wind
this concrete grey
this fudge packing:
this also glass and mirror and mannequin...
this planet we live on
i give a name:

           Nedu.
        formerly called Earth:
              Nē̆dû has spoken and spoke at its
crux of nadir: thus.