because i reduced my language to encode onomatopoeia, and because i didn't allow stresses to be pronounced on letters for the appropriate expressions of deviating local accents (instead concentrating on the snail slogans of organic produce, local, ******): to contrast the inherited Latin encoding system - i used aesthetic encoding to such an extent that i gave birth to dyslexia, or to put simply: over-spelling... i deviated from the other inheritors of the Latin alphabet without stressing certain sounds, hence i conquered the world, and subsequently giving up Hong Kong, became the ****-hole of the world, with 5 year old children being accused of ****** exploitation in the newspapers... i didn't follow the continental drift toward evolving Latin, yet i immersed myself in Darwinism, to preach the doctrine of the evolution of forms, the square remained a square, the circle a circle... the monkey suddenly became a man... and since i preached the universality of man, i was wedged in too many particulars in how i said things to be... which is why i believed in America and decided to exit Project Europe... which is why i became the F. D. Roosevelt island of hopes, isolationism being the cure, sure, everyone is employed, but on 0 hour contracts... which is why someone with enough oil in their head came among and said: Sa-id! we need a hyphen over a letter rather than keep it as a wavering compound awaiting the Oxford nod of approval... it's a shame when you care for the aesthetics, but never provide a system of directness, as in always providing a system of indirectness - meaning there's no mathematics involved in lettering - no stress - all the stress gets turned into exploiting forms that don't nudge into coerced trapeziums of disintegration, means you work more than the 9 to 5 prescription... all because you exploited children during the Victorian age, and left the young of our present age to premature ailments that only old people should succumb to... you can't be Romans just like that! too may oceans, not enough seas... you need to add stresses to the letter you are sorta borrowing rather than plundering, be like the Germans, the French, the Poles, invite the aesthetic scientists to desecrate the temples of Runes... but at the same time plunder the encoding with accents, to simply say: we're above, no matter the success of trade your empire provides... we say it chisel, you say it chive... we build, you cook, the end. but keeping it in naked diacritic lack will expose weaknesses in the physical realm of use when silenced... English needs to stress itself with this phonetic encoding if it's to survive at all... but it's too late for that, i fear... there are too many particular instances of its eccentricity that come as pride a minute from now, and as a landfill site the minute after... they are paying for keeping with the Latin alphabet unabashed to continue without mathematical stresses of saying things... but the times of George V and the empire are long gone... it's just that, or the fact that they don't know what their weakness is... since they battle stresses of phonetic encoding with political egoism on a populist scaling.*

i congest myself on the feline onomatopoeia, between a roar
and a meow - between the matured tree
and the bonsai replica i tend to do my quasi-cartesian thinking -
i don't really have an ego to verb together
things with a pristine causality akin to exercise equalling
perspiration - thought has no verb attachment -
no motivational speech to boot -
being is the same -
i simply concentrated on the exponential
existence of nouns -
like anyone with too much information
i find keeping a respectable investment in
nouns to be the source of my misery -
with such a high number of nouns and a pauper's
share of verbs i will obviously become a slacker
in the former category, as in the latter -
instinctively like a cat, speaking the universal
sound that i silence and then rewrite in
the onomatopoeia form i hardly think and hardly
am, a cat... i just have too many nouns to
take care of, most of which i'd only use
slouched with a book before going to sleep,
and never actually using in my everyday speech,
it's back to the garden of Eden and the fruit of
temptation: aiming for a high propane vocabulary
is like Adam given the fruit, gets a vocabulary
of a chemist, but ends up being a plumber...
no one checks this ****, ever!
i get the part of "we're in this together",
but mediating all our specialisations in a democratic way
will only create more tangents and the trigonometric
tan(gens) graphs of solipsism - offshoots and
somehow always "dark graphs" (σκότογραφυ) -
oddly enough, making the acute omicron into a u
never allowed the upsilon an endeavour into Y (macron
i) with any diacritic, other than the hint in capital
of the mentioned lower-case encoding.
what the **** was i saying? i'm astounded at the
fact that i lost the fluidity, not what i was saying per se,
it seem the per se fluidity got blocked and i had
to reopen the Pandora box yet again... let me have
a while to guess where the narrative should realign
without the reverse of fictional characters as extensions
of the narrator - i.e. poetry's synonym of characters
is personae, meaning that poetry has personae
and fictional prose has characters... the fictional
prose narrator tries to piece a space together with many
characters he's conscious of as inventing...
the poet narrator tries to piece a person together with many
personae he's not conscious of, atypically a schizoid
symptom... or not... ... ... ... ... ... oh right...
the balance of nouns and verbs in the Cartesian sense
of exercise and perspiration, or the fact that Serena Williams
never breaks a sweat... love those thighs...
she never asks for a towel to rub her hands or face dry...
she must be doping with the Russians...
too many nouns surrounding us,
i feel like a proton surrounded by what i thought
was the limit (electrons), but no! oh no! there are
quarks, neutrinos, and ******* violins!
whirling whirlwind strings and chopsticks -
which translated into Chinese just means Chopping Suede Sue;
hey! i got a bell ding-**** knocking on wood just now...
funny how poetry can do that... knock on wood
you end up hearing a seashell tide break open
the coral restrictions with a tsunami gnash on earthly goods.

Joseph only nine sat at the dinner table, conversation passing around, a muffled, undulating vibration of utters.  “Don’t stare like that, it makes me uneasy, Joseph,” chided Joseph’s mother.  The hum resumed.  An hour later the table was emptied of its contents, except for Joseph, alone with his uneaten plate of food.  The TV, flickering its wantonly swirling amalgam of colors onto his mother’s face.  “Joseph, please, eat your food.  I’m worried about your eating habits,” her distant voice languidly taking its time to reach him from the couch.  His sister, all of seventeen, sat down across from him.  “Hey, kiddo,” in her reassuring singsong.  They talked and he ate.
Joseph hadn’t liked school since the kids began to make fun of him.  They poked and prodded him with words sharpened by blissful ignorance.  “Crybaby” the boys would jab, their penetrating and mockingly wide smiles, like jaws.  Each clinging to their inclusion, girls, in their giggling gaggles pass by him, atypically hushed.  “Yeah, he’s the one, the one that cried alone in the bathroom like a big baby” amongst themselves, but barely audible from the outside.
Joseph in his room, crowded by the darkness, lost in his imaginings.   The doorbell cries out for attention.  “Hey, kiddo” his sister affectionately, leaving the lights off.  She takes her jacket and leaves. “I’ll see you later Joey.” Hers and her friends’ voices waft, beckoning, upwards through the floor into Joseph’s room.  “What took you?” “Had to get my jacket from my brother’s room.” “Oh, he’s strange.  Sometimes it scares me how weird your brother is.” And Joseph, listening intently, as if balancing his entire weight on one single twig in fearful anticipation.  And his sister, her words forming slowly, then with gathering willingness, “Yeah, he can be pretty weird sometimes.” “Yeah, let’s get going.”  Joseph’s heart dropped, like a stone falling into a lake—less like a lake than an indentation filled with jet-black ink for water, and the stone, falling to the bottom, curling up on itself in the darkness.
Joseph, turning to his mother, her silhouette eclipsing a chunk of hallway light.  “You broke the mirror in my room today Joseph, you ought to clean it up now,” voice straight as an edge, though she layered it with a loud blanket of sweetness.
“No!” screamed Joseph.  “I won’t!  I wish dad was here, he would never make me do what you make me do!”
Her rage bursting suddenly through her self-control, flooded the entire room.  “Don’t talk to me like that!” her sobs even louder than his screams. “Its not easy for me!   Its not easy to do this alone, can’t you please try to understand…”  Joseph was having trouble hearing her, her voice and all else fading, as if the world’s voice were being smothered by a pillowcase, and he became distracted in the silence that enveloped him.
Joseph looked up and to the right, saw the stars, friendly and welcoming, with bright, honest smiles.  He decided he would rather be with them.  Joseph left his room, floating upwards, upwards, still higher, and to the right.
Joseph stretching his eyesight, saw something approach as he drifted further and faster into space.  As if from a horizon that couldn’t be seen and didn’t exist, there approached a colorful object.  Jupiter flashed by, looking very much like his mother’s TV.  It’s random assortment of colors whirled violently around in that confined space.  He said out loud, Jupiter is the most beautiful planet, I’d like to go there.  The planet whisked by.
Joseph, not disappointed in the least, kept floating.  He left the solar system, the galaxy, and came to a black hole.  It called him in, like a Siren, and Joseph smiled an angular, disjointed smile, and fell inward into the black hole’s embrace.

the English are a very special breed of bigots, they don't engage in hypocrisy to suggest they feel superior with a decent moral compass, or to provide gentelmanly airs: pick out the pointless sorry when bumping into someone on the street - their inherent stage-fright at vulgarity hides something... the biggest asset of this constipated hypocrisy? what happens next... satire... so in being hypocrites they are awash in satirical humour... they laugh it off the minute they make some sort of allusion to a moral concern for something... given the current situation with the migrant crisis: where the majority are single men rather than Jewish families, you get the picture... it's amazing how they can change their hypocrisy into satire, and do so blatantly without a care in a world... i do wonder how the Icelanders would compare, both being island societies and all.

5 sq miles is all i need, to breath new air
and look at the same garbage of what life has to offer,
obviously the chanced and randomised
encounter with some *** on a bench
laughing our socks off, or a retired grandpa
getting away from the wife -
just like today - a fresh autumnal breeze:
i the cooling process to the heating up process,
don't know why, but there's as much
beauty in slow decay as in slow sprouting -
decay and its many colours never feels as ever
being monochromatic winter or summer -
it's the persistence of change - two transition
seasons, two plateau seasons: what a strange balance.
anyway, my usual (see how i invoked:
my life's so ******* boring, i decided to write
about it - like hell would i document it using
photographs: that's for the rich flashy people -
i'm more into the archaic mode - bought what i need,
and now i'm really using it) route was disrupted,
that's all it takes, walk a different English suburban
labyrinth and the world kaleidoscopes beyond
comparison; drank the strong beer (although,
ice cubes do make a difference when poured from
a can into a glass, Oranjeboom used to stand at
8.5%, just half a % shy from the *******
Special Brew - now it's at 7.5%, and, well, it taste
just about like candy-barley) - but that's what changing
habits does to you, my usual stroll became,
for some reason, electrifying - i censored my audience
on that ghoulish website i was introduced to at
university to 23 people, and i'm chirpier than
a sparrow - the newspapers were telling the truth:
for once - it just seemed that i was seeing less
network opportunities, and more ghost,
pointless memories of school, that everyone seems
to exploit in art (notably the smiths' soloist doing
the part of: oh how horrid those days of yore) -
dunno, liked the uniform, liked the topics,
never bothered having a social life in there,
everyone had extra four hours spare, i was doing
4 A-levels rather than 3, and every Wednesday i
would finish at 2:30 p.m. and head straight home
to beat the traffic - i picked up a girlfriend at the end
of my education, passed the exams and ****** off
to Edinburgh - most congregated with their social
networks from school in Canterbury -
the city was all i cared for, nowhere like it -
and perhaps the twinning of what i used to call
kiszka* (sh, or sz) that became haggis - whichever,
the fact that my father was taught the trade of roofing
by Scots, and that my favourite teacher was a Scot
too must have played on my romance at needing
to leave England - shame it wasn't for good, but never mind.
as for the fact the school was Catholic, i didn't leave
it having been confirmed, everyone else got to choose
a confirmation name, i was asking: why would anyone
even make the choice of being baptised in the first place?
too much sniffing in the library, reading about
the Gnostic heretics, who, as i suggested it to the r.e.
teacher (religious education) shared a similar doctrine
with what later became Islam: the phantom being
crucified and what not - now i do wish i could
have had a liberal education without religion playing
a pivotal role in my development, but then i'd
have missed out on the uniform, and the army-style
regime: i swear, no uniform and your whole life
ends up a nightmare from high school - because
we didn't develop an image issue, we didn't really
care to exploit our youth to side with a rebellious
stampede of making a mark - it would look ridiculous,
what with g.c.s.e. mathematics and talk of
photosynthesis in biology - ah, the disfranchised
youth of America, with their high school debacles
echoing a mortal's sense of eternity -
yes, my father was conscripted into the army,
he served the tenure of three years in Warsaw,
because he was tall and handsome we has put into
the household division, schooling in Poland
doesn't exactly use uniforms, well, i was enlisted
into the next best thing (apart from a grammar school),
yep, a faith school - he learnt a softer variation
of arbeit macht frei i.e. arbeit veredeln (work
ennobles) - or some variation of arbeit adeln - referring
to knights - the same rigour in his physical
activities are equated to the same standard in my
choice of utilising the necessary faculty: bullshitting -
not necessarily lying: unnecessarily telling the truth -
                          ^
                  telling the                 funny how you don't
                                           need the words there -
the verb structure already within lies -
                  but with truth, ****, you have express it
further, by some set standard;
but that's all it takes, a different route from the routine
zigzag, and i become more Columbus and less Kant.
a few things popped up -
a. i could blatantly write you a psychological profile
of homegrown terrorists - the filtering process?
grammar - you can decipher everything with grammar.
they're usually immigrants like me,
but they were probably born here,
having spent 8 years of my life in Poland as a child
already undermined any hope of the nicely ethnic cleansing
phrased: "assimilation" / "integration" process -
i couldn't **** the child and his knowledge of a language,
although the ones condemning being bilingual
would hardly bother learning another language,
which is exactly what English people on holiday are:
rude... when i went alone to Paris and slept in a hostel
i had to befriend someone who knew the language,
and managed to, on two occasions, because, otherwise,
i'd look like a complete idiot; great city, circa 2005 / 6.
they homegrown because they haven't realised that
they've been ethnically cleansed, so they take up talking
slang, and monosyllable Arabic to express their anger,
they've got the olive skin, but not the tongue of the desert,
me? i find it easier to write in English than in Polish,
but i could talk to you in the tongue, as i can read it:
i already said - philosophy in English, even with Locke?
nope... no can do... not while you heard such
things as: thinking, a dangerous endeavour...
the English can't write philosophy to save their life,
i can't read Sartre in English... it's just gibberish to me,
you need to know a continental tongue to read philosophy,
where else, other than in England will you find people
associating thinking as a tedium, rather than a medium?
nowhere! and these kids are disgruntled because they
have lost the capacity to identify with their parents,
they only see the insulating anger done unto their parents
by the society they live in and can only communicate
with what would provide an equilibrium to their situation:
their nativity of the mother tongue -
but since they haven't done that, then they act with
monstrosity - slang being their reality, slang as a way
to "modernise" their host language -
or at least change it, meaning that middle class folk
are like: huh?! a big ingredient in urban areas, obviously.
then they feel marginalised in blocks of flats...
a communist reality in eastern europe, and no one
complained... and the new way of housing people?
a bit plushier versions of their concrete counter-parts:
glass people (the social media advent) in glass houses.
b. *******, i wasn't going to expand a minor point
in my cognitive narrative from my walk that much...
this is the epitome of writing and the English suburban
labyrinth - everything looks the same, then take a step
elsewhere and boom... fresh air.
ah yes... what's with this deepest desire to cut off
subjectivity? it's happening all the time,
esp. noticeable in newspapers - the English abhor
the mere idea of subjectivity - everyone's supposed
to be a scientists... ask any chemist though:
the holy grail is subjectivity - i studied chemistry
but i read Milan Kundera - my director of studies
owned an Edward Hopper postcard in his office...
does a scientist really have to tell people who find
science hard and rather read a toothpaste's list of ingredients
(yes, chemistry is the only study area that
shows off English having being rooted in Saxony,
chemists compound nouns like everyday Germans
say: i ate a peppermint after dinner:
               pfefferminzeessennachdemwurst) -
all this desire to look "cool" and atheistic never translates
into collective atheism: of imitating an ant colony
and banishing god forever - all this
angst against subjectivity - the blind pursuit of
objectivity does only one thing: it guises subjectivity
in the dire need for psychology - logic of the soul,
or logic of breathing: a strange possibility,
i could have asked an asthmatic -
                                         and this constant, constant
nagging against poetry, from journalists and
psychiatrists alike, oh wait, you didn't write a 500 page
book which i wouldn't have read anyway:
you must be mad! sure thing doctor, mad as Duracell
bunny - gotta live the life, gotta live the life,
gotta run a marathon, got to travel to India for
a spiritual breakthrough, gotta this, gotta do that...
sit on your *** and enjoy the pleasure of thought
that never materialises into owning toilet blockage...
well, something like that.
pointing that out i don't understand why
the abhorrence of god is later translated into David Attenborough,
          or why there's no O in Edinburgh -
berg... burg... berg.. burg... and they never teach
you plain and simple: we have so many leopard spot
variations in our language, we're betting that it will
have a universal appeal to all of humanity, a true global
glutton tongue, encompassing an empire on which
the sun never sets... and some disgruntled white youths
fist fighting a question: but what's the real deal with
the basics?! too many particulars -
                   and that's what's bothering me,
i don't know whether to feel shame or sorrow,
definitely not happiness - i speak the blimmin' tongue better
than the natives! this is the funny part, i can speak of
English people like they're red indians - the natives -
ha ha hmm... it's probably devastating in terms of
the educational system, but i do, maybe that's why i
mentioned a patriotism to the language, but not the culture
that provided it... a patriotism toward the language,
so, in reality: rewriting being English - so very much
like 1066 at Hastings - Norman steps onto the shore...
right! Domesday Book... dome and doom... never figured
that one out either... oh sure, a few of them got
smart and kept a secular monopoly on language like
the priests used to... but it's subtle these days,
it's not a blatant **** in your face where you can't read...
i'm betting that English has the highest rate of
dyslexia among all the languages of the world...
perhaps the French? n'ah, they love their public intellectuals...
here's it's all: sing sing sing... sing along and Tokyo
at the pub on Fridays;
and they know i speak better native than the natives,
because the conversation usually goes into
not language per se, but the organic side of language,
organic meaning idiosyncratic, a posh way of saying: accent...
and that horrid: where you from?
i usually just say something along the lines
of a Greek: citizen of the world... or was that commerce
deal with China a fake?
that's what it means when acquiring the English language,
the diversity of accents, primarily because
other languages have already implied a standard encoding
of accents, those diacritical marks are there for a reason:
a heightened involvement in specification of the desired sounds,
whenever someone learns English... it's not there!
it's simply missing, given the monopoly, for one,
which means that the language does attach itself to
the host living in a host society - funny dynamic away from
the dust covered master and slave - in a very
specific way, namely whatever diacritical assimilation
the host had with his mother tongue becomes atypically
exemplified in English - since English has hidden
diacritical dynamics - which obviously ****** the natives
off who didn't get a decent education - as in:
someone spotting this out for them - namely
someone who acquired the language like a native,
unconsciously - first come first served dynamic,
and not someone who had to consciously learn it,
i.e. not from mama and papa... from primary school
playgrounds, from teachers... through strife...
and this is my antidote of the central Nietzschean doctrine:
the will to strife...                not necessarily strive,
but a will to strife...                   well, if they're going to
keep shunning subjectivity, leaving it far too late
and in the hands of psychologists, faking it intellectually
but otherwise being fundamental in expressing it
only musically in pop culture... we will never reach
the objectivity of the Chinese and the Indians, forget it!
but that's what we're being prescribed -
and culminating in paradoxically abhorring the idea
of god - but admiring nature in all its glory -
                        i'm not even going to argue a god
of disabled people... they're having a laugh with the idea
of god at the Para-Olympics - i'm not getting into a debate
concerning that idea - just a congested version of
the universal why - but in the variation of constant
bewilderment in a particular *huh?!

tonight, i stand still,
all but well and slain by your
widening grin, with hair casting
ill-sketched shadows across
your cheek, out in the street, under
these humming lamps. under
this enveloping front.

some moment my head reeled
reveries of pretext for. still,
here i blink,
so unprepared. stuffing my
belongings into a tramping
pack late at night. laid out
on the couch arm. nothing knows,
now, i'd rather see you than
anything. careful footprint
placements. we got time, yeah.
still, honey, i'd trade magnitudes
of it up, for just just just a
handful extra seconds
skirting your gaze.

still,
honey, i'm atypically hopeful;
trembling here. i'm lit up
like you couldn't believe. i'm
on fire and kept warm,
throughout this meanwhile;
undertow miles away. grass
shooting up through the
soil in the back
yard.

I would have posited longings ago
this short-shrift to-do over such a curt list undone
was inconceivable
outside
the pages of deceptively practiced perceptions
published in a pop-up book smirk,
or beyond
the canary-yellow frames of a cartoonish
distortion relishing its mired but spongy giggles

A
Been-here-all-along,
you’ve-never-bothered-to-look­
lake sleeps implacably
at the bottom of an irascible ocean

Be
Whatever it may,
you can’t deny the wantonly
watted life teeming pretty as it pleases,
untroubled by a hollow-core belief
or the extremest demands of our foul temper

See
How I could have,
if I’d only swallowed
those bubbled-up blurts
ring-wronging the tip of my wriggling tongue,
never been audibly
landed by one alluringly barbed certainty

There are supine bodies—
stagnant, quicksilver pure—
no material ship navigates
and no intentional intruder can swim
without
emerging atypically
unsettled by the caustic exposure

Tread lithely
when you go;
this shoreline bites.
Its clustered rocks will snap shut around you
after digging in below you with a protruding toe,
and its carmine stalks will sting you
as they writhe past you
to mime a part-less goodbye

Here be where
the monstrous cold seeps
and a hellish hot vents
in compliance with this centuries-old complaint:
too-short was the time we wept
for those wiggly wonders
we could have kept
if we’d only octopus-arm embraced
the inevitability of their bandy-legged escape

.i'm not going to perfect this piece of writing, since i know, that it will sink into the bottomless pit of time, and even if i give a **** about it being remembered, it won't be... there are authentic observations in this... the authenticity is in the fact they are being remarked... but to even bother to make said observations dogma, or perfected... no... not a chance... i can't be bothered... i'm already thinking about what i'll gorge down before going to sleep... a tuna, sweetcorn and mayo side... i showed the way, i'm not going to provide the pristine scholastic schematic of the interaction between tongue, lips, teeth and the breath; least of all... people will draw different conclusions when they look into their mouth while ushering out an R... notably in English... with the extinct trill, in orthodox text: atypically associated with the letter... bee sting ow something... these people mowphed the lettew Aw into a lisp and wewe stung by a bee, so they widiculously speak like so? calling it a lisp?

all the president's men...

   i just woke up from
a period of the 1980s,
the 1990s,
the naughty-naughty
double zero d'd'digtal
aging of the digital world...

the Mongols are coming!
the Aztecs are coming!
death cloud don counter
measures, no. 6...

but seriously...
what the **** happened
to journalism?
you think that i am nostalgic
about the music from
the 20th century?

i'm nostalgic about
the sort of journalism
displayed
in the movie all the president's men...
the current stuff?
thanks for the crack...
but... i'll just stick to either
sober, cigarettes or *****...

what happened,
why all this bogus...
worse than fiction dissection...
words are... violence?!
i thought that words
were meaning?
i thought that words
were phonetic encoding
devices?
  from the phonetics
came the linguistics...
i thought weren't
mono-,
  one-dimensional,
they had a resonance
to them,
the words were stereo-....
words, are, violence...
let that sink in...
words, are... violence?!
you sure on that one?

words are the skeletal
representation of forms,
words are the elevated status
of hieroglyphs...
they are the conjurers of
ideas, narrative, otherwise
hidden / lost names
and nukes of meme...
ideas... working from the basin
of images...
  
words are violence...
wow!
     it's like the previous
years were backwards
chimp frenzy of violence...
but now?
now is a different playground...

i thought that words were meaning...
so...
     all meaning is now hate?
so... if i wanted to encode someone's
speech, by lip-reading...
the B pouch of the bubble lips...
P, also similar...
   M the vibrating lips murmur...
A: hidden breath catcher H
in dentistry...
        open mouth...
O genesis of an open mouth
getting smaller...
   U... open mouth...
forming into a bird's beak worth
of lips...
    so many instances...
wait... how many times is the tongue
actually used... to provide
letters?
A: x
      B: x
C: ✓
      D: ✓
E: x
          F: x
   G: ✓
                H: ✓ (not in Slavic, though)
I: ✓/x
   J: ✓
    K: x
        L: ✓
    M: x
  N: ✓ (tongue pressed to the palette)
O: x
               P: x
             Q: ✓ (the tongue is tensed,
   when the breath is passed...
like when you fold your tongue
to look like a ******, ever so slightly...
the letter actually rests upon
a tensed tongue, slightly folded,
retracted, and the breath and pursed
lips being subsequent)
    R: ✓ / x
         unless you had your tongue
numbed in western Europe,
on this letter, or harking up
no excess phlegm from a non-existent
flu in French... this is the rattle
letter... rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rolling a ball...
rattlesnake...
  you pass a breath... whereby your
tongue waggles... repeatedly slapping
itself against the palette...
otherwise... just a boring Ar....
S: ✓ (no explanation required...
          the tongue presses against
the palette... a breath is passed through
it... and a hiss is made)
T: ✓ - the tongue bounces off
the palette once it has been pressed on
it for a while...
U: x
    V: x
        W: a misnomer in terms of vowels...
or in terms of consonants...
   it's a duo-syllable,
and... well... not exactly given status
as a letter, a mono-syllable instance
of either vowel, or consonant...
it's the only name of a letter
in the English language...
a double-U (shh... it's a double V)
X: ✓ an exploratory variant of S:
choking tongue on the rub-rub with tonsil,
pulling back, and then behaving like an S...
Y: ✓
                 the shape?
  pursed lips, expanding to an open mouth,
almost smiling, pivot on the tongue
caught on the schematic            i
Z: another alternative to S...
tongue pressed to the teeth,
a breath passes above it...
   a vibration, the teeth unclench
their bite... and an -ed comes out...
but the tongue posits the Z,
so unlike the S
             the breath is ejected
-ed
                 rather than inhaled
           es-

tongue versus the palette versus
the top two incisors,
contra breath and lips...
of the bones...

- rock 'n' roll -
    once upon
      a time
   a Patti Smith
          in Nigeria.

on the rare occasion that i thinking to myself:
well... i'm not exactly going to end up being a millionaire...
the game is rigged... last time i heard...
poets get paid every 50 years...
    if that... but... someone has to do the workload
for the mere passion... of course: looking for other outlets
of income...
mind you... how did Bukowski get to sleep with
so many women? hmm... well... he didn't go off to fight
in World War II... i'm guessing... plenty of widows...
plenty of girls who lost their boyfriends...
to the Panzer brigade et al.,
         so... less of luck and more: opportunity came...
hell... i remember times before the advent of social
media... you... could actually date...
there was this guy in high school with a terrible case
of eczema... still managed to get a girlfriend...
i'm not going to become rich... **** it...
less chance of me looking like a sucker should
some hot fling come around and start milking me...
who vowed that... vow of poverty?
well... it's not the Medieval Ages...
   you can hardly vow to that sort of shin-dig these days...
scrape the bare minimum...
if by bare minimum implies...
   today at the vinyl shop...
         oh... wow! Matt?! what? you don't think they
have the new Ghost record, on vinyl?
what? Impera?!
    i just found Ghost B.C. Infestissumam...
   so i started fiddling around...
   sort of oblivious to my surroundings...
some pretty teenager girls... whatever...
    bothersome flies...
                       they hover around you for a while:
then notice that you're not noticing them:
******* just as promptly as they came...
    oh man... these records are getting dear...
lucky for me the ghost record was on offer...
2 for £40... ****... now i need to find a second record...
aha! Lana Del Rey's debut...
   i'd love to hear a woman's voice on vinyl:
not that i haven't...
      walk up to the counter... she's a he he's a she?
right? i didn't ask... i just made the complicated
assumption that she was a he / he was a she...
anyway... it (sorry) they checked whether everything
was in order... some cheap-*** *******
decided to take out one of the vinyl disks and stuff
the sleeve with cardboard...
   how on earth the record was returned...
beats me... well she he he she it they said: well i can't
sell you this... hell... i'll just pick something else...
originally i was going to buy the Rammstein record
with a match on the front cover and with songs
like Deutschland and Radio on it...
but when i saw the ghost record... ugh...
Lana Del Rey was a cop-out...
            what else did i have in my hand?
Patti Smith's Horses... does that album have that
song covered by American Head Charge?
i.e. rock 'n' roll ******?! oh... right... it doesn't...
pass..
             Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA...
does that album have the song:
human touch on it?
              no? oh... right... pass...
        well... there was clearly only one alternative...
Fatboy Slim's: you've come a long way, baby...
a bit like DJ Shadow's endtroducing...
or... Leftfield's leftism album(s)...
         i was never into any club-scene...
         but these albums... don't get me wrong...
they haven't aged that terribly...
they haven't aged akin to something like...
atypically generational... lodged to a past...
the Grateful Dead... the Eagles... em... i'll give
King Crimson a pass...
              surprising... what? oh...
the Fatboy Slim record... not that i was a massive fan...
but...
it has aged really well...
then again: most electronica ages really well...
it can't exactly be innovated upon...
             dub-step tried... sure... kudos...
some decent examples...
                           but it's almost like classical music...
or jazz... the strange death of jazz...
someone should have written a book about that
phenomenon... how jazz emerged and just as quickly
as it emerged: how it died...
did the beatnik poets drag the whole jazz music scene
down with their "experimental poetry-jazz" fusion?!
that must have been a ******...
for the saxophone player... imagine having to loose
your melody to the bass player in turn losing his rhythm
with the rhythm of the drummer because...
some idiot is talking over you with half-baked
rhymes... the ******* headache...
ugh...
                  clearly i don't want to think about it...
i only wish bands like Boy Harsher could become...
no i don't... i don't want bands like Boy Harsher to become
mainstream... sure... all the success...
but with that comes a tainting...
                 i know that if i started performing some
of these scribbles... i'd stop creating new content...
un-poetic? hmm... like no one ever read Ancient Roman
poetry... try... Horace for starters... or Ovid...
they... sort of wrote like this...
plenty of conversational overtones...
to hell with too much claustrophobic techniques of rhyme...
i'm of that school: if there even is a school
of that sort... conversational overtones...
                        a narrator that can also play
a character... sort of scenario... oh... irony:
very much confusing with no quotation markers...
now i'm being doubly ironic... now i'm being sarcastic...
but it's rather pleasant to watch younglings
walk into a shop and see someone actually sieving
through vinyl records with the intent of buying them...
it's like they spotted a dinosaur...
a strange looking dinosaur since the dinosaur
is not even 40 years old...
             it's like a curiosity experiment...
but... but... you can... listen to this music... online...
yeah... but the difference between listening to music...
on your headphones... and... on a gramophone...
when the house is empty... the room is empty...
   it's a little bit different... but hey... i'm this dinosaur...
and you're circling me looking for clues to some
magical equation / thought experiment that:
i simply can't give you...
   ******: now that i'm listening to Summertime Sadness
on the earphones... i'm sad...
i wanted to hear it via a gramophone....
winter is coming to its final closure...
               here we go... libido insomnia... girls
*******... more flesh that a porky pie's worth of
rind... but good to know that some will still
keep on their napkins / diapers on their faces...
the hypochondriac types...
        well... at least i've managed to curb all
that journalistic limp-**** mentality...
the world is sort of a haze in some distant background...
it is... but at the same time: it isn't...
not for the past 2 years...
   not with the ****-show of my grandfather's
death and a bigger ****-show of the funeral...
the world: as i currently see it...
doesn't deserve me to couple myself to Heidegger's
Dasein... what was once there-being
has become: simply... there-is-being...
                           i've read enough of German thinking
to now, finally... retort as a Frenchman might:
c'est la vie!
i'm not going to touch anything by English
thinkers... i've touched enough of Newton via
Voltaire... but Locke? who else... Hobbes?!
i'm not going to touch English intellectuals...
the people who invented football... rugby... cricket...
even if they have anything interesting to add:
intellectually... the English are a pragmatic people...
they don't like cafe conversation riddles / complications...
why bother?
   if they want to be oh so practical...
so direct two-faced... let them...
               i esp. love how they downgrade the Australians
from the anglosphere...
while having their heads shoved up some
fat H'american ***...
                no... don't get me wrong... it's just....
sort of... funny to watch...
this big... English diaspora... but...
there are gradations... like... Canadians are not a laughing
stock? but... to be English is to...
have one's head shoved up a H'american fat ***?!
seriously? right now?
perhaps it's an English thing...
to see New York... to see Las Vegas...
me? i've already seen Moscow... i've already seen
St. Petersburg... i'm thinking...
ooh... the Kamchatka Peninsula...
   to hell with Finland and the rest of Scandinavia...
i might speak the language:
but i'm hardly going to blah-bah-black-sheep
go along with the narrative...
blow myself up? hardly... i say... live a little more...
let life drag you down...
       should have employed Chinese ideograms
to protect your idea-churning-machine
of liberal Englishness... no?
     not good?               what the **** is ever good
with these people?!
  anti-racist confused pebble-roast...
                 i'm not siding with the Russians but i'm
pretty sure the Ukrainians were pretty glad
when Poland was invaded by **** Germany...
i'm also pretty sure... Volhynia & Eastern Galicia...
the genocides...
   right... so why remember anything?!
i've learned that the English have this tactic...
the history of other people is... insolate...
childish... or rather: that they remember it...
while... at the same time... the battle of Hastings?!
what a ******* joke of a battle...
but hey... it's their culture... it needs to be stressed...
not... the winged hussar charge at the siege
of Vienna against the Ottomans...
but... it's childish... for me... to give my psyche to
these events... no? but... if i were to regurgitate
the history of the Angevin Empire:
all's kosher, sonny... like **** it is...
take a ******* hike... daddy... to the highest peak
of Rotherham!

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

23,190 days ago,

Yours truly got hashtagged
as the 2,975,075,410TH
person alive on Earth
according to website
https://worldpopulationhistory.org/
my-population-number/.

Come November 15, 2022
(a little more than
four months from now -
actually one hundred twenty days
after today July 11, 2022),
the world's population
projected to reach eight billion.

The latter date underlined
and iterated above
recognized as World Population Day
according to United Nations
World Population Prospects 2022.

Though prone to espouse Malthusian theory
(the idea that population growth
graphs potentially exponential curve
while the growth of the food supply
or other resources remain linear,
which eventually reduces living standards
to the point of triggering a population die off),
I tend to embrace more optimistic forecasts
encompassing number of people
livingsocial cheek to jowl
upon oblate spheroid
also known as planet earth.

Throughout mein kampf and hard times
(spanning three score plus three years)
the fourth industrial revolution (4IR) prevails.

The 4th Industrial Revolution (4IR)
constitutes a fusion of advances
in artificial intelligence (AI), robotics,
the Internet of Things (IoT),
genetic engineering, quantum computing,
and more applications with microchips
implemented in almost every electronic device
we use today, including smartphones,
gaming consoles, cars and medical equipment.

I feel excluded amidst radical transformations
upending long established paradigms,
and hanker with nostalgic tug in my breast
when civilization linkedin with humankind
reliant upon sweat of their brow efforts
cultivating, harvesting, oiling tired muscles
xing off daily, weekly, monthly... chores
until the morrow beckons hours spent
physically engrossed with labor of love.

No doubt I characterize, fantasize, idealize,
mythologize, romanticize... woebegone time
that only existed within the outer limits
of the twilight zone, where dark shadows
presaged the approach of an alien nation
seeding colonization courtesy
super intelligent species
employing exploitation of innocent naivete
characteristic of yours truly
suitable as key personality,
whereby intergalactic entities jump/kickstart
regime trumpeting other worldly credo
gussied up as faux capitalistic enterprise.

Deft cosmic management utilizes
extra terrestrial workshops
that inculcate transparent
lgbtqia2+ friendly principles
plus reproductive rights
no matter ****** orientation
trends atypically heterosexual
imposing zero tolerance policy instituted
to accommodate divers
creed, ethnicity, gender,
nationality, race, religion, et cetera.

Such far out hypothetical scenario,
whereby once self important **** sapiens
become plaything of all powerful universe force
able, eager, ready and willing
to mutate into any terrestrial animal or plant
can even shrink down
into bot size unit and embed themselves
inside body electric
of people like you and me
ultimately regulating ability
for us to procreate
eventually relegating humankind
to the dustbin of history.