you can undercook pork - a little bit of pink
is rather - favourable -
you can undercook beef - a little bit...
let's go full bleu: which has a name... pittsburg
blue...
but please don't slaughter the cow,
send it to the butchers for the cuts...
and then shame it by cooking it well done...
thrice the cow thus dies...
aside from... fish...
well...
i was never a fan of chicken *******...
because whenever someone cooked them:
i.e. my mother - they tended to be... dry...
chicken drum-sticks and the almost grey area
of muscle flesh close to the bone -
these days? the former schnitzel fan has
become a chicken roulade fan...
because the stress for 165°F - and 5 minutes
worth of rest... for the cooked meat...

Ciara - another daughter of U Kʼux Kaj -
she can still be felt in the early night
when walking the streets...
some storms never reach essex -
and that's probably why i decided to grow
my beard long - to feel it combed
by the wind... this elongating chin to match
the moon's scythe -

point being... cooking chicken is unlike cooking
beef or pork... because...
well beef is born from blood -
in the body of another -
the mother - the pork is born from blood -
in the body of another - the mother...
you can undercook it... most certainly:
esp. the beef...
trouble with chicken: is the trouble
with undercooking fish...

to perfect the cooking of chicken meat...
is very much like cooking the perfect
soft-boiled egg...
you want the yoke to be runny...
and the white to be a: ścięte białko...
a coagulated white...
it's quiet amazing how chicken meat
behaves like the egg - the protein
in the atom -
how you have to mind cooking chicken:
for that juicy chicken breast roulade -
in the same way as minding a soft-boiled
egg...

i've never noticed this...
apparently that's the glaring obvious...
it always was!
beef you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
pork you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
chicken? you can only cook it perfectly
or overcook it...
undercooked chicken is a bit like...
finding a raw scallop nugget kiev-esque
in your chicken -

perhaps because: we can eat a poultry abortion:
the egg -
that i forgot or never minded to think:
the meat will behave like the egg -
the protein is borderline with seafood...
after all.. the birds are fish with wings...
that we managed to domesticate
a wolf and breed it with a dingo
and give it a bark...
how did we pluck the hawk from the sky
and gave it marching orders among
the strutting gehenna-game of the wehrmacht
with the geese...

i have no "beef" with the british and their past...
how many zulus became slaves?
hot topic...
if only a people were as fortunate -
not to be landlocked -
the last known invasion dates back to
1066 - nothing is spoken about the ottoman
empire or the mongol empire at the gates...
perhaps other people too...
could have their idle -
and been left to their own devices...
their high tea and all sort of *******...
but i'll still bemoan that...
this language does not have any orthography...
but it does have: n'dubz...
and a york-shyre from peckham and the rest...

- you simply can't undercook chicken...
you can either cook it to perfection...
or overcook... anything undercook is not going
to be eaten!
an undercooked chicken breast roulade?
that's scallop nugget in a kiev-esque chicken..
but why didn't i see it sooner...
how chicken meat would behave like
the egg when it was being cooked?
after all... what becomes of the yoke
when translated into the full-grown chicken?
the internal organs? the bones?
i'm pretty sure the egg-white translates into
the skeleton...
and the bones? it's not like the egg-shell
implodes...

in my hand i hold a chicken's egg:
a poultry abortion...
in my hand, also... a babushka doll...
this: little matron... бaбушкa...
because who would have thought that...
cooking the perfect chicken roulade...
would be akin to... 15 minutes extra...
when working from a soft-boiled egg...
oven-baked of course...
prior to the skin needs to be butter-fried...
and you can't enjoy
a chicken's neck... if it's not poached...
too many bones: not enough meat...
the neck of the chicken needs to poached...

again: one feels inclined to stress the importance
of curating the meat: curing it is one "thing"...
but it's almost an art...
as long as you respect the meat...
i find that most vegeterians or vegans
become thus...
because they have not learned to respect
the meat they're about to eat...

beef you can undercook... the sooner you do so...
the less chance that you'll butcher a second time
with a well-done: eating sand...
wishing it was poppy-seeds itching at the gums
between your teeth...

to respect the meat is to also bite off the heads
of the bones... for the over-cooked marrow...
i once held 30 or so poultry hearts in a cusp of hands...
hands prior to romeo & juliet's amen and kiss...
before i imagined what 30 hearts would otherwise
look like: if i was given the remaining body parts...

or 30 poultry stomachs readied for the broth...
with groats...
i too would become a vegeterian...
if the only chicken ******* i ate in my life
were: usually over-cooked...
dry... simulating imitation cheese
and chalk... the sort of meat: overcooked...
whereby your teeth start to experience
protein glue... and it's hard to pull the jaw
from the skull apart...

i have mentioned pittsburg blue, haven't i?
you can undercook beef and pork...
but you can't undercook chicken...
now unless you want to encounter
a pocket of a raw scallop sensation...
a chicken has to be treated as well as an egg...

most of the time you need to undercook
beef and pork...
but chicken requires...
oh glory be to the poached egg on toast...
the scrambled eggs undisturbed fried on
some pork dewlap...
when you can tell the difference between
the yoke and the whites...

such a versitile creature - this domesticated
hawk... this chicken marshal...
this would be cannibal... i've seen how one
becomes butchered with an axe -
one chicken, one axe - on stump of wood...
the rolling eyes of the decapitated...
the other chickens didn't mind...
they'd run up to the altar with the running
blood of rivers making letter markings
on the woody crumble...
and drink the blood... peck at left-over
flesh from the decapitation...

"gender expressions"... and... what's that?
leftover grammar from french...
translated from inanimate objects:
as being either endowed with a phallus
or a floral pattern -
but in english almost all objects of worded
interaction are gender-neutral!

native tongue "endowement"...
słońce - sun - is feminine...
księżyc - moon - is masculine -
krzesło - chair - i'm siding with masculine...
stół - table - that's clearly "gender neutral" /
alias: hermaphrodite... alias for the *******...
son / daughter of Aphrodite...
kamień - stone - masculine...
góra - mountain - feminine...

and so the heavens opened and became:
short on breath and soul...
the groundwork of earth...
the earth itself... started to nibble
on the delicacy of feet - the wind whispered...
and the echo: and the footsteps...
and the dutch clank convened and called it:
marriage!

how grammar transcended casual english
usage... how it bypassed orthography...
how it never attained orthography...
oh yes... the russian have it...
but... who would have expected it...

n'est ce pas?

what was once the gestalt primer...
that became a rorschach test...
i say: it's either a ink-blotch of a pelvis or a moth...
but with regards to the selfie:
i always require two mirrors...
i still remember the days when someone
would take a photograph of you being:
oblivious...
as if god: the narrator...
convened and descended upon the scene
and imposed directions of keen: montage...

the basis of gender neutrality of nouns...
it can't be extended to encompass verbs...
an oak: dąb - is male...
but a pine - sosna - is female...
all fruit bearing trees are female connotations...

whatever sheryl crow's debut album was...
wasn't alanaise morissette's jagged little pill -
however the conundrum spins with no
favor for the electric currents passing via
Ariel... give me the wind god...
the daughters and barons of: the lesser involved!

because i'm a far cry the alpha...
kindred of the omega... and all that alphabet
of meaning behind letters...
"self-imposed"... less a ******* and more...
feeble guide of watching others get
pleasured by the mantis
and the black widows of tomorrow...

a cactus would grow in my palm should
i witness germany re-united:
at least that's how the proverb stood its ground...
before common or passed on "wisdom"
learned to gravitate toward...
soap bubbles pop... charcoals smoke...
ms amber becomes a river
when there was no river expected...

the tides are hardly shy: they're buying time...
this one last commodity of the rotten mind
of the gambler...
puny prophet - of fate -
alongside the weathermen of a forgotten
afternoon: come birthday prior to noon...
and the fungus umbrellas chat
among themselves in a premature autumn
cascade...

fungus or just... lungs... devoid of a body?

my god: the kids are going after the grammar
that has already absolved them...
knitting mosquitos and lambasting
gherkins' worth of would-be:
pickled cucumbers...

that herring tartar... with dill and juices...
that baltic sushi never to arrive
at the cusp of the Caspian sea...
Molotov shots;
the Russians will always bring glasses
and ***** with them...
because... they somehow can...

- and that's because...
sheryl crow's debut album wasn't
alanaise morissette's...
but never makes the cards of a...
poker-match-up to better not earn
money if all that money is a gambler's
Eden...

- there are better ways to get away with
cooking an egg...
there's this entire myth of...
no poultry sushi...
mein gott! how the meat agrees with
abortions...
you can undercook beef,
you can undercook pork...
but when there are poultry standards...
they're just as risk-aversive as when...
a soft-boiled egg is required...
same with meat...

this direct translation of the atomised meat
in an egg white...
how it needs to coagulate to pristine juice
and all that perfect *******...
and... ****** via the runny yoke...
because i believe there's a puritanical
aspect of all life in general...
when hard-ons are sold
within the quarantine confines
of a viagara episode of: ***** into a hard-on...

chuckles and whittle charlie chaser says:
no man was ever ***** into a hard-on...
no?!
when charlie met chuckles and chuckie
and charles...
it must be a russian "thing"...
they have them... and hide them better...
there's nothing to hide in english...
just bad grammar and trans-grammar....

i.e. чa-чa-чa
            believe me... they managed to fold...
hide the caron in that alice through the looking-glass
of greek mu: μ - or (h)atches open!
how about hiding...  (letovers: č              č
the caron, in russian?          č č             č č         č)
or the H and the Z in english and polish
respective - whole - attached to the S?

epsilon lying back... the toil
of Sysiphus is a bore: шit...
****... and... шarp...
and... mateuш...
    
maybe people... or so we at least,
have inkling to hope to be receptive of...

щ: twice the hiding caron...
it's not that the russians don't use diacritical
markers - they just hide them differently...
the self-exposed vowels...
last of the reminders...
because there's the carpenter's obligation
to chisel a Y into an I...
or at least a J...

to add this currency of momentum is...
to... leave without a memory spare...
whipped along the trail via
a maine ****'s finicky worship of
air that will never translate itself
as being: breathed...

and yes: i drink... i drink to relax
my lexicon from the everyday strict: rules
and obligation of formal mr and mrs
and what doesn't fit into
a metaphor tuxedo...

over-cook pasta: we'll never talk again...
over-cook beef or pork: ditto...

it's an art to treat cooking poultry meat
with a quasi seafood status of scallops...
to curate a soft-boiled egg -
not quiet the abortion portioned
within the confines of a lost shell when
thrown into the dead-bath of
a lobster's litany when the neither alive
nor dead is cooked...

some bloos is necessary when it comes
to either beef or pork...
but you can't just have undercooked
poultry...
the grounded clipped wing marshall:
the decency of cooking poultry has
to be equated with cooking
a soft-boiled egg...

otherwise the common saying:
one apple a day... keeps the doctor away...
well...
one poem a day... keeps the psychiatrist away...
no? who are the circus freaks
the pseudos and the quasis of what...
has to be compensated by mr. rather dr.
surgeons and... the better half of whatever
becomes the butchering degree:
a degree in: what's not to be eaten...
but what has to be left intact
and reused?

less the homosexual yet still la la land...
not quiet cuck...
but still... every time i visited...
and never managed to peer at
the sort of first-person doom shooter experience
that otherwise third party sources would
allow me when...
the best fallatio is done in third-person...
talk about having someone to sit
on your face like...
never the literal metaphor translation
of ****** acts...
face-grubber from alien and...
performing oral *** on a woman...
no... none of it is true!
******* and winding archaic clocks...

some would even call it electricity should
it come from a burning candle!

it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away

there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.

is this a literal housewarming

i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell ****, and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.

i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.

i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.

i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.

i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ******. i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.

ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.

a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.

.how else? with a variety of histories clinging to the focus and exerting the stamina as coordinator? there's the historiology of Darwinism, there's the historiology of the Big Bang theory (with "god" as a, end of sentence "after-thought", dot, , there's the historiology of scholastic efforts of the study of history of history, then there's the personal history of the individual: as nostalgia, then there's the historiology of journalism... then there's the historiology of your immediate predecessors... at what exact point, are you supposed to begin with, to create a rational creature? i suppose the easiest answer is... ? to have children... and construct a shadow, to hide all these focal points of genesis... never mind the historiological study via the biblical narrative, or archeological historiology; so, as you can see? time is not exactly the replica of space, a beginning a present a past... space is not three-dimensional outside this atmosphere of the grand Orb... because all scientists know that... this, supposed motivational claim of... "thinking" outside, "the" box... at the end... there's no "box" to begin with!

such a recurrent thought,
it stalks me like a shadow,
but i just... never seem to be rid of it...
i was 21, she was 18...
love...
                love...

but an unhinged desire for death
to boot,

******* her for 7 hours one night
in St. Petersburg...
didn't really matter...

a vague similarity to
incubating a cushion...

there was no accident...
if only talk took the place of telling lies...

i could have explored
the latex ***** *** **** outside
the realm of a ******...

sure, i write about Hebrew
theories in terms of phonetics...
but i could never be circumcised...
a caduceus of protruding veins
envelop my *******...
so... no mushroom head
of a phallus to boot...
i'd bleed out...

               but was it so bad of me
to suggest an abortion to
a teenager?
            would she still possess
a masters degree?

she married later,
then "divorced" her husband
and i met her new boyfriend,
when i randomly traveled
back to Edinburgh,
and watched her playing
video games with a slashes
hand...

no... not at the wrists...
along the veins,
from the inner side of the elbow
right down to the wrist...

my ex, my one true decency of
womanhood once said
to me: stop trying to save
these women,
to which i should have replied:
i'm not! i'm trying to
save myself!

sometimes the night creeps in,
and i think of the 21 year old me...
she, taking contraceptive pills,
then stopping,
and then, becoming
pregnant... or at least that's
what it sounded like:

matt, i think i'm pregnant...
it didn't register that well
while on a construction site...
industrial roofing never really
does give you the luxury of
pondering...
i was either about to move
some canadian tar into the boiler,
or cut up a roll of mineral felt,
or transfer some insulation...

she came from a Novosibirsk
oligarchy,
two apartments in St. Petersburg,
one in Moscow,
a mansion in Novosibirsk,
etc. etc....

     just left uni, and was doing
what any son of a manual laborer does,
being utilized in his father's
profession...

but it's not like i could afford
to give her what she expected...
a flat in central Edinburgh...
i might have said:
you might think about getting
an abortion /
you know what you have to
do? get an abortion...

            21?! seriously?
so i'm supposed to drop a job
in London?
the only sort of job i could
get out of uni?
a job i... to be honest...
yes, it was hard... but i enjoyed it!
it would have been a job
that would cover the years
my father went "missing",
from 4 through to 8...

but this Russian lass wouldn't
ever move in with her in-laws,
or to the outskirts for that
matter...

plus... what happened later?
she married...
supposedly divorced,
and there, i met her new boyfriend...

to be honest...
i don't even know if
there was ever a child to begin with...

see...
  hmm...
  the existence of god is not so much
an issue of me that serves
the diligence of plating up a proof...
i have too many personal
certainties in my own life,
to give the concept of god
the "benefit of the doubt"...

agnostics doubt a god,
atheists deny a god...
  big difference...
         i can't do either...
i know so little of my personal life
sometimes, if not all the time,
that... at least:
there's this coordinate
i can focus on...

as ever... it's not the freedom
of speech that bothers me...
i'm more inclined to serve the purpose:
give me the freedom
to think, from what i've said...

and what i have to say?
is found in the comment section...
not here... this is me...
thinking "aloud"...
don't come here expecting me
to be found talking,
you'll only receive a reply
of keyboard clicking...

i can think of a deity,
but, sure as ****: can't pray to one...

deus est cogitatio,
                    non est sermo:

god is thought,
                         isn't talk.

wow... i didn't even shed a tear
writing this...
ah...
               when i once played
my muse... my ex-girlfriend's
younger sister the song
solitude by black sabbath,
and then we washed the dishes together...
it's playing now...
and it's raining...

    a pristine English October.

a conundrum question...
did i chose wisely?
i didn't chose wisely at all...
i made a post-existentialist gamble...
i gambled...
   i simply... gambled...
  although as aversive i am
to casual gambling... on horses...
dogs... football matches...
i made but one gamble,
the result of which,
is confined to me writing, this.

I'm still caught up
In the faucets
Ive been brought up
My losses thought up
In loss-less
Fossils
soldering
The slaughter
Atop
An my inner adulterer
In the fodder
Of a ****
I am the will
Of my weakest link
Give me a shrink
To **** away at the sheets
Of freedom
Drink away the stink
Of freedom
You cant free them
Cant believe them
Cant be them
Just retrieve them
From this life
Deceive them
To the knife
Bleed them
From the heights
Of ego
Let em flow
To never
In the blight
Of severed stems
With sedatives
And seduction
Isolate the malfunctions
Of my internal combustion's
Busting in
Annihilation
Of the problem
Manifestation
Of the solemn
In columns of regret
Inscribed across my chest
Blessed with contempt
For the clause
Unmindful of the laws
And stalled
I will stand
Where you fall
And call
To myself
From the stealth
Of broken homes
And hungry dogs
I am the fog
Of arson
The discontent
Of the larceny
Of the peasants
I'm blessed in the curses
Of burnt
Churches
But in worse ways
Im versed
In aversive
Silence
Dispersed
In cursive slices
I realise this
Is
The decisive
Moment
In which i wake
For the sake
Of procreation
Infection
Of a system
Convection
Of a prison
Citizen
Of a religion
Under taxation
To live in it
I'm illiterate to the
Commonalities
I cant depict
the squiggled lines
Its a tragic comedy
Giggling to the rhyme
I think it is
Perfection
At its peak
Pulp for the weak
Its neat!
I cant tell
If i am half awake
Or half asleep
But text is cheap
So i bleed
On screens
But dont mean
A thing
In dreamless
States

⠞⠕     ⠇⠕⠕⠅         ⠊⠎        ⠞⠕     ⠝⠕⠞        ⠁⠇⠺⠁⠽⠎      ⠎⠑⠑
god, you really have to have tender finger tips to read braille... forget about learning to play the guitar... good luck being both blind lemon jefferson and a reader of braille... to look is to not always see... that's the braille translation...

attempting to learn "morality" from
gentile, circumcised men...
probably as useful as the translation
of st. peter into the embodiment
of van gogh...

               aren't these new moralists...
supposed to be less of guru
              and more the mediator?
don't they have,
"something", missing?

              i know of one "thing"...
        of course jerking off while taking
a **** is "disgusting"...
all this: save zee vest,
       blah blah...
               but i'm hearing it from
circumcised men...
at least in the old times,
circumcised men were granted
their circumcision, if, and only if,
they succumbed to strict obligations
of a religious nature...
given, that i'm not circumcised?
what's stopping me?
  i take a ****, i subsequently ****...
every single time,
it's almost like a post-hibernation
bear unclogging its **** duct,
to allow for an agitated waterfall
of digestion being revived...

           but... the "moral" question
of circumcised men, h'american men,
telling me, it's b'aaaah b'aaaah bad to
******* while taking a ****
looking at still images of fine renaissance
art encompassing ******...
  circumcised men...
                  if you had any *******
left in you, you'd know...
      i could tell you of circumcised men
who ****** off 20 times a day...
which is slightly pointless...
given...
            eh... the ******* is supposed
to be allocated to that sort of act...
and all the women are not circumcised...
hence the web cam earnings...

      ******* ******* *******...
maybe the whole idea could come about...
when a man is about to get married?
what's the ring about?
how about... how about...
a man consents to circumcision,
once he's about to marry...
   how about that?
                  and they're saying
abortion is bad...
   how can a baby consent to circumcision?!
the perfect marriage gift,
tying the knot,
          the next time i hear
a circumcised man's sort of *******,
the sort of ******* that circumcised men
give, without being able to have,
to have, to have given consent to their
circumcision?

                  i'm out...
                            it's just refrigerator
background snooze,
    ambient noise...
                blah blah this, blah blah that...
so...
        a woman can have both
the pleasures of jerking off,
but also the ***,
while men is, not supposed to have
the pleasures from jerking off,
and only the "sporadic" sense
of ***?
          great! gimp suit that ****** up...
he's about to become the next torpedo!

sure thing, if among the sort of people
that will guarantee you a spouse,
even if it's your ******* cousin...
   religious rules...
            but what the h'americans failed
to acknowledge...
   eh... circumcision...
   and whatever is left of secular
pseudo-religiosity of values?!
            
           at these moments i know i'm being
flamboyant and aversive...
i have to be: i can't listen to yet another
circumcised ****-whistling clarinet player
to save me...
          i'm sorry that you entered
the world of snippet!
   but please... the ******* is not
some "spare" part...
         no ***** pokey no ***** poke-'em-on...
no diddly...
                    but to be at the mercy
of women?! for the "added" pleasures
of phallus where the skin is pulled
back and is suffocating your "maiden head"?
seriously?!
              
          i'm sorry... unless the man is donning
a kippah... i can't listen to the *******
of circumcised men...

few drinks later, and a labour of minutes
that expand into the night:
nope, i still don't get it...
the sunday times news review,
sure, sure: that's fine...
         philip lamantia?
       no?
         i remember this one cucumber cutie...
spanish... lived with 2 faggy-bottom-blues
guys... went to the notting hill carnival
with her... samara?
    anyway, limp-****,
under the bed sheets:
cocoon *** under the bed sheets...
   tamara!
              
        well at leat with the bulgarian
prostitutes, two rules:
dimmed lights, no socks...
third rule: shower first.

          and i too brought a shrimp
to settle with on a swing...
swang like a ***** in bull's worth
of a saddle...
i smiled, till my mouth broke,
and i filed for:
           aesthetic surgery...

easy head, easy, easy as while drunk...
so much! cascade of being
                  de-armored...
      like the inflection of the exoskeleton
of an insect...
        
again: who are these, these,
circumcised men, shouting their moral
authority?
isn't the ******* supposed to imply:
a chanced rekindle of the sort of
puppeteering associated with
one child "policy" of men toying
with g.i. joe?! no?!
oh well...

            first i grew the long hair...
don't worry, i didn't turn trans-gender...
more a mosher, a metal-head...
a pig's-thick-skinned-novelty
of the banging cranium...
    shaved... then grew a beard...
relapse!
                   oops!

but there's still the, "problem" of
circumcised men spewing righteous maxims
akin to a t.v. evangelist's list of demands...
eh... women are the truth...
since they so rarely eschew it,
into the public forum...
           i can lie,
    i can tell the truth,
point being: i am not bound
to allocate myself to either...
the beard replaced my ambitions
to learn playing the violin...
point being: i can fiddle both!

            shrimpy! hey shrimpy!
bozos buggot beggar boo!
ooh yeah... now we're spreschen!

circumcised men talking to uncircumcised men,
while entertaining the lifestyles of
uncircumcised women,
"fwee" vank videos...
                               "extra" skin a pleasuredrome
in some parts... castrations,
     circumcisions elsewhere...
boy! good foot strutting child soldier
elsewhere!

  h'american circumcised men's arguments...
if i don't sniff my itchy finger-tips,
and don't sniff out tobacco;
who needs the opinions of circumcised,
secular, men?
                  
          i need a beard,
to hide my chin...
              i need a chin...
        to find the scimitar shaped moon...

circumcised gentile christians:
sorry... i'm tired,
i'm tired of the atlas pose...
i'm tired of only one man in existence
ever having existed...
   i'm tired of hey-zeus! being
compared to the vowel-catcher
of the tetragrammaton...
tonsure, kippah?!

                             the nag hammadi library
emerged in the year: 1945...
and still people... and still people...
****'s sake for sure:
the pagan nazis would have never
bombed st. peter's...
as they would have never
burned down the library of alexandria...
but the monotheists did...

  i spew i spew i spew...
              you know how insulting it is,
you were educated in chemistry?
here you go,
go back among the offspring of
the most irresponsible of people...
         oh you can have children in your
mid 50s...
         i'm not exactly sure what they'll
become...
            dr. who who's who wannabes...
certainly not usain bolt contenders...
even with basic arithmetic...
   hell... let's have them, let's pride
ourselves on... everyone sacred...
window-licker sacred society of
the enforced samaritans!

               the evolved "circumstance"
of a game of hide & seek...
               well... there's plenty to hide,
but not that much to be bound
to the desire to seek.

                                   savvy?

you only assimilate with what you care to retain, you retain nil, when you assimilate nil... meaning you turn toward white-boy masochism, but white-boy never taught your masochism... me? i know that i assimilate with, as i known what i retain to be worth being upkept... and leveraged toward a "loss". you only assimilate with that you care to lessen but at the same time keep as a "loss"; you retain nil, when you assimilate nil, but more abhorrent in retaining an origin, is very much asiatic, pakistani, the anglo-saxons were once, and never will be, anglo-indians... the most racist sons-of-goats akin to the arab closure on a curse to be worth minding... calls us vermin... no wonder my aversive vocab... ask a camel to spit at a donkey with these *******... some are anglo-eire-indian and think they're speaking einstein english when actually speaking your local rancid john of 'ackney... wankers can't even get a hard-on to **** one off solo. what? it's personal! you want a jerky-chicken-sauce-diablo to "mind the affairs" of a undeliberate "concern"? ****-hackney, sons of ******* are so ******* arrogant you almost wish to apply some sort of aversion to circumcision utilising their ****, twist one ****** of flesh out of the enclosure, and then trim the bits... only an anglo-**** would call a pole vermin... so? here comes, the party!


your attempt
  at an "education",
           is worth my response;
that's catholicism
minus the paedo paedo 'edo 'edo;
luckily enough;
thanks for not
teaching me any concern
for latin...
rather: the ethics
of being concerned with
abortion, aged 16...
  or sniffing glue aged 13...
i'd let you off had you
managed to teach me latin...
but no... you're about as catholic
as, ******* maradona;
     you know what's worse
in england than the finicky fake
englishness?
      alpha maling celtic...
       they actually think
the lowest of the lowest accepted rank
in their societal format is
actually king...
        most notable in the region
of the gael, who doesn't possess the
intelligence for bilingualism,
too busy playing video games,
too stupid in attempting to
write a book,
     twice the handyman
in attempts to learn his native
labhair* -
             his caint -
                                  ******, don't
teach me a "proper" within
the domains of a language:
that isn't either yours, as it isn't mine!

Pigeons. doves, no hummingbirds...wait.. actually the wild!
Parrots that squawk and fly about L.A.

Caustic bangs and screams-the South LA. Moniker
:the squirrelly streams.
Tales stay inside ceased thoughts; they drain the occlusion of deft variances kept
Apex aversive life dismissive; boundaries of good and evil call
Me, myself, morose circle of hope-... I'm denied these dreams- jimmied- stymied, called out for soul cries of induction to gleeful fate....
Truth now dissolves the Godless forces that are known
and the enduring flack of all peoples seeking retribution on the individual-
strife included- variance remains- ends on my individual as once was warned now is claimed

Like a tsunami, you came in and engulfed me
into what I thought was love.
Only it was not love at all.
Instead, it was a natural disaster.
Unruly, aversive, and destructive.
Oh, the endless possibilities
that once hindered me,
no longer seem to be.

Once the wounds had been inflicted, like deep lacerations
into innocent flesh,
I knew the picture that was once depicted
of you and I
hand in hand, side by side,
no longer existed.
You caused the pain, the deceit of broken promises,
and comforting lies.
You watched me bleed out, completely.
Incessantly, I still reached out
wanting more
than you were able to give.

You left my heart punctured, bruised, and battered
And have the nerve to ask me,
“what’s the matter?”
as if you weren’t the one
who caused it to shatter.
Still, I had hope.
Hope that our bond would grow stronger, not realizing that we just couldn’t afford to hold on
any longer.
I was the one hurting,
suffering.
While you clung to the title of victim
as if it were your life jacket,
keeping you safe and afloat
during the turmoil that was the storm.
All the while I was drowning in the agony and misery,
of the demise of you and I.

Perhaps, she is everything I never was,
but thought I could’ve been.
Just like you never were what I had imagined you to be.
Maybe the storm was created, to make us  
better people.
Maybe it was designed to prepare us for
future lovers.
Evidently, we weren’t meant to be.

Maybe we were just destined to love one another,
from afar. Across different oceans.  
Thinking of it that way makes it hurt a bit less.
And blurs the “what ifs” & the “could be’s”.

who is the mighty one?
he who conquers his impulse
his passion to overrun
with aversive repulse

the nimrods who hunt
with affront to confront
us lesser runts
with sneering grunts

have no real strength
or inner gold
only comes at length
of rejoinder withhold