Having you
All I want and need
Petrichor in the air
Playing the devil with my love, you sinner
Infinities before us
Nemeses – I defeated them all
Evanescent beauty with age; growing love
Surreptitious gazes and love
S**cintillas of a lunatic love tainting this happiness.

Loving you is the best thing
I* can do! I want to spend
Forever with you and with
Everyday that passes I

Can't wait to be your wife!
Having you in my life has made my life better
And I can't image it without you
Nor do I want to think of that.
Going with you to baseball games, shopping, or just
Evenings at the gym or home as long as I'm
Spending time with you, I am happy!

I love you!

rub it in... rub it in why don't you? isn't that the point of capitalism, this competitive mentality? why're you looking at me as if i killed your mother with a ******* harmonica?

i love how people regress their national frustrations
into sports - England is perfect with football...
oh? did i poke a beehive just now?
is Brexit for real now? it is now...
apparently one of the Icelandic managers is a
dentist, he just does the coaching in the summer
part time - i was walking for my daily metabolic
dosage of alcohol a little suspicious, acting out
all doom and gloom - well, it's more fun than
paying your taxes or seeking out career promotion
to be honest, after all, abolishing asylums turned
the entire social cohesion stratification into an
asylum, everywhere you go you have the phantoms
of "men in white coats", everywhere, can't ****
in an alley, can't drink a beer in public,
forget adrenaline *** - the entire human potential
of civilisation the Englishman stashed in his semi-detached,
by the way... don't you think that a Londoner will
find himself in lost-territory outside of London?
i love how the S.N.P. are in parliament 'aving a go
at voicing their compulsion for Brussels' choc &
guillotine chop policy - they want in... oh! does this
mean goodbye Jack ol' Boy? really? well, if you need
a ***** might as well be Wales - they're hanging, they're
hanging, and finally the bubble will burst,
why not Union John (like a toilet) or a Union Jeremy?
Union Jeffrey - Jaffas? Jizzum - Jazz?
but they're out for certain, if a bunch of
barbers, carpenters and sheep herders can beat them
living the Leicester City dream, i'm thinking of them being
the second Denmark from 1992 -
i've had so much emotion in my heart that now
i have a ******* headache - go on! a third goal! get in!
bam wam thank you Black Betty, bam ba'h lam.
it's not the football that interests me as much...
you seen the fans? ha ha! *a'woo!
              a'woo!                                    a­'woo!
a'woo!          a'woo!            a'woo! a'woo! a'woo!
mind you the sober wisdom of Alan Shearer
but that ******* chant man! coupling the missing
trill in the English R (how many gym sessions was that
to get the R to not trill? 2000 years and counting?
trickier than a French phlegm hark mind you)
and extending the E, well, the A isn't really necessary,
it's still reel...
*but who the hell decided what vowel goes where
and what vowel goes in anywhere given a change from
i - aye - and í - as in a punctured punctuation of
e    - prolonged -            and c            -
            a variant of        is              i.e.           ís
and not the German                   iß                    -
called a Kama Sutra of tonguing - slightly zeddy -
you really start to get polishing that mahogany table
for starters - no one gave me the rule books,
what's an offside, what's an penalty, etc. etc.,
i'm working at the scrapheap of language -
there was no congregation akin to the Diet of Worms
(ˈʁaɪçstaːk tsuː ˈvɔɐms) - try deciphering this
educated alphabet - upside-down Cyrillic for starters,
a bit of French, Greek iota, then circus without
a sheering process to add the -ta:k, and there too
a gamma is missing due to the softening into a kappa,
tsu;?                     huh?      why not              ßu?
to mind the Chiral (kye-rawl) nature of S and Z?
ich haben, ih blaben blabshen? *****-slap this to Jupiter,
i will... Tao no mayo in this ninja chow mein -
then it just, gets nuts! ɔɐ is what i've been discussing
about the umlaut - could have just written Wörms -
it's not straight arithmetic - it's that ɔɐ... thing...
like woad but more like woo'ed - you sort of have to
speak sideways - wo'o'erms - werms - or
so i thought.

it has been exactly since ~3p.m.
                                                            yesterday...
                                       through to
3p.m. today: that's 24 hours +
                                      4 o'clock, 5 o'clock rock,
          6 o'clock,
                                          7, 8, 9
                     10, 11 and the upcoming twelve
         24 + 9 + excess passing the 36th hour...
oh this is just target practice -
                  what used to be
   serotonin has become adrenaline:
   spawning cobweb shadows with
   a mere arm-hair aligned with an itch:
i say to my cohabitants -
        i'm too poor to rent an apartment
with my contemporaries,
         and i can't be bothered to look cool
for 10 years... before the money starts
coming in... a day before a tongue spoke:
and see you in 20 years...
         and see you in 30 years...
the people born prior to 1975
       and after 1969 came out to earn
£57,000 a year... while those born
after 1979 and before 1985 had a wealth
*** of £27,000...
                            who are the landlords?
quick digression, i love how the idea
of exiting the bloc (it used to be designated
to the eastern bloc, now anything east of Calais
if a bloc... the European bloc -
        my my... ain't it love-ly?
   they wanted an Australian points system,
so first came the Australian plastic currency,
boy, i was happy, cashing in my first Churchill
miniature that i could dip in baked beans
and use as a spoon) spread beyond the old
stereotype... and the points system?
you know who's smoking the hookah of
panic here?            
                            the freelancers of nationality...
   they haven't fitted in...
don't worry... they'll keep you,
but after seeing you they just thought:
once the cheeky chappy, now a chavvy chappy...
  we love the E2 dialect, it's hardly Coccers
or bonkers... but after my day
(i'll relate to it in a moment)
       i heard to prop'ah Cockneys giving it
all the guv' and n'ah and
        what's Kilimanjaro in Cockney slang?
all the Cockneys are living in Essex,
   Romford, Chelms and the Essex lads
from Ireland are a bit shy, never talk to
the old people who used to live on
the Isle of Dogs or the Wharf -
              East London moved, and i'm in
the thick o' it... you ***...
                       i'm here,
open ******* spaces and hedgehog counts
to mind... never the next Susie from
Whitechapel doing the runner from Jackie,
             and funny that,
the day began during the night,
sober, i tested the idea: if you gonna go
nocturnal, stay sober...
                  fast... drink coffee in the morning,
and what some proper bollocking
        on the box...
                               i say: revivals never
sounded more like bells, the 1970s
had Patois... the old parle with dread-lock Sam...
             i squeeze in a bit of Norse
and hey presto... Ahmed's your uncle...
                     'cos we all like a bit of
way-hey banter, the: back in the day
   when the 1966 squad was best known
for West 'am...
                               am i sensing the idea that
i'm licking off the prop'ah beef burger 'ere?
                    what the **** rhymes
with Kilimanjaro?
                                wait! got this one:
apples & pears - stairs...
                          you gyro?
                        no! wait... the two Cockneys
weren't from south London,
this ain't Peck'am talk... this is proper grub...
         jar squared: verb, meaning?
     i know my neighbour, heard him
lecturing his wife over the wall about
the diminishing concept of family in the "west",
           to me that's
the Cockneys meant by guv'nah:
                           aw right der geezer,
   stop that fidgety: don't be late tomorrow,
let a man eat his plums and wear his trousers...
       i swear: the only good cinema these days
is English cinema...
                                 i said! the only good cinema
these days is English cinema...
               if i didn't watch
       we **** the old way during the night,
after spending my day as i did (i'll get onto it,
hold your submarines)
                               i would have pricked my ears
on the two Cockneys next door
   at 4p.m.                  finishing some job...
but given the "guv'nah's" attitude: 'aving
a laugh at coming early tomorrow, if at all.
     my day?
                 i wished i could say i woke up
early...
                            the entire spectrum
of sunrise...
                            epileptic shock from the sun
after smoking a cigarette at 5a.m. when
all the constellations where out...
                          not enough sleep,
as the Russians say: no good to live but to
not have seen snow.
                               it shivers with enough
hours under your belt...
                                      i'd love those
Soviet torture chambers of sleep malnutrition...
gents? when the ***** and the cards and cigarettes?
    i'm currently the most loathed
  person in America... which technically makes me
more than simply unemployed...
        anyway...
cut my hair... two millimetres off the helmet...
off the cranium... not crew cut, not skin on side
and some ***-fluff on top...
in the night, when the moon is bright,
   my two millimetres of hair look like skin...
oi! Skinners! the shame would have really been
to have protruding ears...
                                    come to think of it,
i love the contorts of my shadow more than
the body my shadow disdains...
                  i decided to visit my old school
after that...
                     ...............................
do you know the feeling of getting onto a bus
when you having been on any other form
of transportation (other than your legs)
for a few months?             surreal...
                   and even that's a bad way to describe it...
this is where words simply fizzle out...
                            they just did the white rabbit
trick and you're felt with nothing else to
do but squeeze into the top-hat and hope
that some other magician will pull you out
rather than another: white rabbit.
                          so the 499 from my house
up to Romford (sunny! glorious day!
   shirt, sleeves rolled up,
           denim trousers, navy suede shoes,
azure shirt, headphones, bus ticket,
wallet, packet of smokes, and the ride -
smile all you want - when you smash a sports
car you don't have the view of a dozen
horrified passengers there with you
to practice your ultimate Buddha gimmick -
Ching-Chong Eyed and smiling)
                oh yeah, the insurance... huh?
   off at Romford central, and onto the 86
courier from Bangladesh to Ilford...
                    what did i miss in the list above?
ah... three copies of poetic optometry...
written by? moi, n'est pas? oh come on,
let's not get the ruler out: mangetout and manage trois...
                           (only fuel is horses)
           the 86 is a double decker, the 499 isn't...
sun in my eyes behind the glass the enhanced star
gleamed: what privilege -
               by day the star
                                           by night the star in
   a mirror that's the moon -
                                         selfish helium
giggling into a hydrogen Hindenburg fury!
                 or that's what the scientists say...
how they worked it out, i'll never know...
                            but apparently the sun
is a H-He           something or other...
            H because of atom bombs,
   and He because we giggle like idiots when we see
it: never the thirsty horse in cowboy movies.
   got off at Seven Kings...
in between school girls eyeing everyone and everything...
just my luck... schoolchildren...
                               everywhere on the bus...
just there...
                                    and also just nowhere...
         so i got off at Seven Kings and went into my
old catholic school...
                                  waited at the reception for a good
5 minutes (good to know they're still teaching
people manners with regards to the uttermost
productive necessity of bureaucrats)
               -              i asked about my old English
teacher: does Dr... er... does Mr. Thomas,
        er, does Mr. Bunce (Thomas) still work here?
   yes, he does.
             you see, i'm a former pupil of this school
and i wondered if i could have a meeting with him.
oh, that's impossible, he's currently teaching.
                     Kafka... note this in your afterlife...
         well... in that case, could i leave him a message?
oh sure, just write your name and your contact details
and he'll get in touch with you.
   well... i need a bit more than a scrap of paper,
can i have a notepad?
                 sure.
                                    so i took  the pen
and the notepad and sat in this grand refurbished hall
of the school that used to remind me
of chemistry labs stinking of old wood and sulphur,
of the old ways... of being beaten and Pink Floyd
escapism and all the hippy crap...
                               what a grand place this has become...
it's no longer known as C. P. Catholic School...
but the plus version: C. P. Academy...
  but you still walk into the plus surroundings and there
are still pamphlets written by Father Ted
about *our Lord and Saviour christ Jesus...
          or Hey! Zeus! in Spanish... same ****...
different cover...
                               but i was well dressed in my
Indian summer wear that's Indian summer:
English September and October...
              i'd move the calendar up a bit...
get the kids off anti-depressants...
                           anyway, i had my three copies
of the "first edition", try tell that with the internet
breathing down your neck... it doesn't, matter...
             but i did write him a lovely note:
unchaining me from the straitjacket of grammar!
                  i wrote from what year i graduated
2002 (g.c.s.e.) or 2004 (a-level),
                        and blah blah and one more blah
later                    walked back to the reception
  and asked for a rubber-band...
                   then i bundled the whole thing together
and asked if she could give it to him...
                    of course, she replied.
                            p.s. if you don't mind,
Mr. Thomas, you can always shove one of those
copies into the school library...
                         p.p.s., someone stashed
the book about the Gnostics by some German in
there once... maybe i'm thinking along the same lines.
      the journey back?
i walked.
                                 i walked from Seven Kings
to Romford...
                               taking a stroll
with one hand in my pocket (left)
because holding a cigarette in the other is never
exactly great when it's not doing something...
that's what the pockets are for...
not exactly suited for your wallet... but your hand...
when you're strolling in the green-belt fields
segregating the outer-most London (wannabe
Londoners / Eastenders) and the Essex inheritors
of Cockney... Kilimanjaro?
                                  Kilimanjaro?
                 ­                          me, i don't Essex
either...           most of the bankers chose this
district for the scenery, i.e. standing in a field
that isn't a hill or any sort of elevation
and beyond, yonder, the glass shards of their
former institutions...
                                        4.7 miles... not bad...
  a stroll... and that's without any food and solely
on coffee and a sleepless night...
           a butterfly fluttering along the way (only one)
and a fresh ripe auburn conker lying beneath
an oak tree (also, only one)...
            but what hit me was walking back...
it was truly like reading the book of revelation...
13:7... all the way from Seven Kings through to
the Romford: the street vendors, the bookies,
the Muhammedian car dealers...
                  the bewildered ones walking into
mosques, Sikh temples...
                                       one man cleaning the patio
entrance to a church from weeds...
                           cheap Kentucky chicken from America
         (if you think, that they don't synthesise
the meat in cat food and call it tuna or beef
but rather use actual meat... you're grossly mistaken,
    it was on the news...
                                         they are already
capable to synthesise meat...
                                     they do it in the perfume industry,
they're doing it in the food industry -
    a childhood memory of asking why they were
smearing lipstick on the frogs they caught...
they replied: they burn easier...
                  and they did... paint a frog lipstick
pink and boy... that's a French marshmallow, right there)...
           but if you ever walk that stretch of road...
               revelation 13:7...
          i'd like to see the Evangelists wriggle out
of that one...                       oh sure...
i treat religious television like some meathead
might watch football... it's game on after 5 minutes...
but anyway... that was my day...
           all 36 or so hours of it... how was yours?
                                                          ­                        g'day!

Seldom do you come,
Lighting up my dreams,
Anxiety wakes me up,
Vague memories though,
Escalating my heart beat,
Raving behavior,
Y**elling for no reason.

'Ello, 'ello, is that the coppers?
I got somefink 4 U and I don't tell no whoppers -
That fatboy Billy Bunter from Number 4
'E won't be coming 'ome no more
'Cos I 'eard 'im 'aving a row wiv 'is Dad, old Zorro
And 'e won't be seen about the place tomorrow.

Alas! Poor old Fat Boy Billy from Number 4
Is in some black bags lying outside the door:
So come along and get 'im, coppers,
Before the ******* foxes get all stressy
Wiv their ******* great choppers
Which will make it well ******* messy.

Then I wake--
Having the *worst nightmare of my life.
Either it was about *losing my mind, or my touch of
Reality. I know I'm already on a fine line with reality, anyways.
Every night I have this

Same nightmare.       What am I to do?
How can I make it stop?               Who do I call?
Everywhere I look I see people being               corrupted,

Going nowhere fast.     When is this going to stop?
Only time knows the answer.      I'll just have to wait.
Eternity should come soon and together we can
S****        a               new                   *beginning.

So, here I am free and with
Each new day without you I grow stronger.
Can you believe that it's been a year,         since you left me standing...
Only that doesn't matter.                            I don't care you're
No one important to me anymore, but                                      just a ~friend~.
Don't you see I always loved (and still love) you; always will.

Change happens and we have to move on.
Having the time of my life and                                        enjoying being free!
And I hope whatever you're doing,                   you're happy too.
Now that our time is over and things have
Changed! I am ready to find my Second Chance.
Each day;       I think, breathe, live, & dream positive** thoughts.

from experience,
Alzheimer's in males is
more bearable
than in females,
given the example of
my grandfather,
there are always
dasein coordinates
of memory laying
siege to the inanimate
present...
under a veil and curtain
of solipsism
and schizophrenia
(respectively)...
"i" play truant...
      not that there is
a gender neutrality of
pronouns, there is also
a neutrality of pluralism...
thesaurus subtleties;
bull riddling *******!
males deflect
memory and coordination
of the present,
hence the "presumptive"
"thought"...
       that,
even if Elijah is to return:
a son's heart will turn
to his father's...
we both share a nostalgia,
me and Joseph...
   how we used to ride bicycles
and went fishing...
now he sleeps, and
I'm bound to drinking
till sunrise I wish will
never come...
irony... the anomaly of
premature "Alzheimer's",
namely the calculative
mind, a Macchievelian
"syndrome":
  Venetian contra
Milanese familiar...
    what? talk! talk!
"he" sure as **** will not
climb down off a cross and
give his Judas due
to another iconoclasm project
akin to: Metallica's
before it sleeps...
      a game of chess
between a schizophrenic
and an Alzheimer's project
uno...
      guess who's bluffing
toying with solipsism...
mind you, both are jacked up
on pharma placebos,
which are, so short of the true
psychedelic escapades...
     then they throw IN
a ******* in a wheelchair to
balance the books,
get a medium,
    churn out a no man's land...
get all body-realistic
and shove the brain
from basic piston dynamics
into artificial intelligence
webbing custard,
which later becomes
dog food, cartilage for
prosthetics,
         and a canvas for
medical students...
     since the blood never gushes
out of grey... mint...  
not even if I tried,
given that certain mental illnesses
are pure pilitoco...
there's market on easily accessible
terminology,
  again, borrowed from the medical
profession...
   the reason they are taboo,
is because they are too politically
useful, unless of course,
the "surprising" happens,
akin to a Texans shootout...
    straight away, gobs into the trough,
eyes into the precursor *******'
worth of **** stipends at
the Vatican...
                   if only...
       **** could run the world...
you ******* donning a bow-tie
to talk such plain-policed-talk?
apparently there's a tomorrow...
to be honest,
to me that only means
a yesterday that just happened
today...
   memory,
outside the schooldays living
plasticine...
   head in a churner,
and the sick vogue of
peacocking psychopathy,
before, the glued eyes to the void
starts swerving his
multifaceted scream of ideas...
see em, dull eyes...
toad eyes... eaten by amphibian
apathy...
    saliva on the oculus...
     and twice the venom
akin to an immovable statue...
like a copper statue of Montgomery,
so too, the one pence,
two pence in the pavement...
copper herald: the screeching
shaman of the collective death...
while tomorrow,
the dead night in sloth's *****
awaiting suckling for a dream...
a kite was flown,
an ice cream was turned into
a fancy quasi-arctic inverted
dollop...
               empire strikes back:
the Rolling Stones / the Beatles
SCHIZOPHRENIA
         was debated by the titilated
public...
         unless you're not
bilingual...
imagine...
       Pacquiau vs. Klitschko...
honey... your depression
narrative isn't going to be some
David contra Goliath anomaly...
    like that *****-whiff of a man
'aving a pint,
sliding into tango...
   while me 'aving a 50cl of *****,
doing an hour's worth of
Buckingham duck-snap
       salutations in:
                         'eet up! 'ed do'n!
sorry...
    there are too many exceptions
at the zenith that are a
turkey-feeding antithesis of
bulimia made believable...
as ever... too few exceptions at
the nadir, that are somehow
precursors to
a grief upon the plateau,
communal...
    altogether worrying...
slyly, rather than shyly,
within e.g., trying to...
      do you know that Rasputin
gave me an old Tsar rüble banknote
from the grave,  via
a Jew, that earned a Monte Casino
cross for bravery?
    the Poles still think
the Mongols are coming...
   like the Arabs...
who still think water is
       a...
                  whatever happens
in Las Vegas...
              doesn't leave Las Vegas?
about time "they" figured
out how to water the plants
with dog ****...
mind you, with a back
to the future hindsight 100 years on...
it wasn't so much that
we were ignorant,
but rather that we were:
                       misinformed...
catch you next time,
experiencing a barage of
information,
and interacting with
a self-modified
          censor-***-filter...
"thing".

Come now
Only you and I can figure this out.
Under the cork tree,
Never-the-less we're done.
The good times have come and gone,
In the middle of the
Night I scream, "What am I
Gonna do!" ---Friends we shall be.

Together doing stuff that two friends do,
Having fun, hanging, or seeing horror movies.
Everyday is a new

Day-- a new chance to meet a new guy
And someday I will find that special guy.
Young love will find me
S**omeday! I hope. <3

Spiritual hope is in my pleading soul
Until the wondrous Rapture comes!
Christ be in my futile heart
Kindly looking down on me!
O** Lord how I earnestly beg of you,
Fearful and worthless creature that I am,
Forgive me as I grovel before Thy Cross!

Cleanse me please of sin dearest Lord,
Help me to know my own faults,
Raise me from the dust and dirt
Into which I am condemned to lie!
Slake my thirst for Holy Truth,
The Truth which only Thou can bring!

Only Thou, O great Lord, our Hope,
No one else can save the world,
Thou great Savio[u]r up above
Hearken unto our weedy and feeble cries!
Everlasting life is what you bring,
Crucified for us on Calvary
Royal and Holy Hill of Death,
Our only hope of Salvation!
Save us O mighty sweetest Lord,
Save us this coming Eastertide!

All must fall down on their knees,
Not forgetting to confess our sins
Devoutly worshipping the Lord's
Saving grace in this wicked world
Wherein we must toil and strive,
And at the last we must come face to face
Loving you, O great Lord!
Let Thy holy words filter down
On us like humble Easter Eggs,
World without end in thy embrace!

How can we dare to approach Thee
In the knowledege we are hopeless sinners,
Sinful filth from the days of Adam and Eve?
Sweet blessings we beg of Thee,
Prayers we send up to Heaven like emails!
Unless we confess and beg forgiveness
No one may be saved for the
Kingdom eternal in the sky!

Yea, please do not crush us to atoms
Underfoot as we grovel in the dust
Mutely offering up our anthems to Thee!

Hello my comfort through dark
Episodes,through depression and
Loathing, I've missed your solace, your
Loquacious eloquence.
Opining my misery

Profuse prose poetry attempting to heal
Open wounds,
Emitting sorrow and loneliness
Take me back as an errant lover, the lost and
Raving raven of old and,
Y**ore, tell me repeatedly, that nevermore will we part.

"There's been a million before me,"* and
Having been in the mental health field for a while now;
Each day I'm always learning and sharing "That ultra-kind a

Love," one that I'll "never walk away from."
And "I will shield you from the waves, If they find you."
So "I'm done with having dreams;
The thing I believe;

Oh, you drain all the fear from me."
From this moment on "I will protect you."* I'm "just

The last of a dying breed,"
Hoping more people will come out and help others.
Every day someone needs help and

Really we're all in this together. No one is alone.
Every day "I wonder if your therapist knows everything
About me." I'm just "here in search of your glory."
Love is all we need!

One day, we'll see that mental health is okay,
Not something to be feared.
Enjoy life for what it is and
So much greatest will come to you!

                                                           ­                        *STAY STRONG!

Having everyone around in the morning,
Everyone ridicules me without warning,
Love fills my day before it has begun,
People in my life shine brighter than the sun!
My desires have to be put aside for theirs,
E**very once in a while, they care!

Having the urge to crumble, but instead trying to stay strong.

Everything seems blurry, until you release the tears you've been holding in.

All the memories come streaming back, forcing you to remember the good times.

Repeating the words, "I don't need you." constantly.

The way you can literally feel that rib-splitting ache in your chest as they say goodbye.

Bonding yourself back together with time.

Reliving all the experiences you've had with them, but this time reminiscing with a smile.

Explaining to a new someone how that old someone broke your heart.

A** moment in time where you look into your new someone's eyes and fall back into passionate love.

Kite flying in the park with that new someone wrapped around you, and the thought of that old someone pushed back into the crevices of your mind.

written, as the grammatically -hyphen- open... add a bit 'ere, add a bit d'er... y'ah n'o, pick 'n' mix... it's open love... i'd rather revise the affair to your standards of "perfecting" english... but then i'm wrapped up in 'aving a drink and investigating excusing myself while easing out a ****!*

i like the sound
scissors make
hmm...
              it makes
to sheer a sheep
rather than to
shave a man...
something, quasi-
aristocratic riddles
the air...
   or if you're
be-chancing
  being *******'s lasp ,
call for the *******
mother of kings inheritor -
the guillotine...
sense my lad,
is knowing,
when to keep your mouth,
shut up!
oh, i remember,
i had not been courted
with the  notion
of... monarchic royalty...
but but must make you sleep
upon investing in the peasant,
crown be invested in?!
what shame! what shambles!
only a german could utter such
airs!
       my god man... is the Raj
of Hindustan to know ma'am's soujorn
of deliberation?
            i come from a background
of domesticating aristocracy to
the point of no bewilderment
via disapproval, as to the point of:
allow them their luxury,
but never their pretence of making a,
choice...
                 you are allowed trust
in aristocracy when they have made
the proper choice,
and less, if there ought to have there
been, a making of one...
   a constitutional monarchy
surely makes commoners aristocrats,
but at the same time,
unearths graveyards of nations...
for the elected monarch
scuttles back to his humbling
abode like rat and peacock in grip...
believe me i tell three monarchs:
i hope you die before your mother,
your son will reign the most uneventful
years,
and your grandson will bring
majesty to his mother#'s death...
     you want to know my secret?
minus the pills you'll defame all
desires for chemistry or chemists...
*******..
  you want to know my secret?
i sleep, with, a clean, conscience.
given the 24h, i am hardly sleeping...
i'm hibernating.
she's half black? i thought ***** 'arry
got a loose ginger ninja!
            what? because the **** is all
one can have in commoner's terms...
       i thought she was an illusion
of dating a senorita!
                 he's still ***** harry to me...
i'm not post constitutional monarchy...
i'm more:
   i find myself coordinated when
standing before the Thames and not
the Firth of Forth...
        south... past the river...
north... where i'm standing...
west... buoyancy of big ben
and the most expensive sigh...
         east...
              **** down the middle,
or... where the tourists would have headed
when it could ever become,
affordable...
        richness stinks,
but not of the sort of stink you'd
associate with the poor...
the sort of stink that's, eloquent,
high-brow, solipsistic...
                        the sort of stink that makes
an empty space, become;
crowded.

ha ha...  i can't believe rich people
don't believe in places where
even they don't belong,
nor can they buy themselves into!

cultural darwinism:

too much time spent
looking through
the ****
of a chimpanzee
expecting to roar
like a lion...
and now enough time
spent looking
through the ****
of a homosexual
looking for
a higher mind
  of heterosexual
male's
worth of an imploded
fwench kissing
marathon
of...
   what didn't satiate
the body,
sure as hell made
up for in a thai
circus of convo.

i: unit of one...
am but the wishful
attention span
of: the crux of algebra:
verbiose,
  and... more verbiose...

cabbage +2 + 2 'n' 1 kids...
mother
             sgt. pepper's
and...
that collage...
like a bearded man
doing an American Pie
Ostreicher...

me? my fetish with
the...
polish-lithuanian
charge of the winged
hussars...
against the Cossack
rebellion...

hardly a lawd tennyson...
but a great
sienkiewicz novel
to: mind you what
and what not...

the middle-Asian
fetish for cabbage...
like mine:
the *******'re going
to do with all that turmeric
and chilli, and ginger,
garlic... and?
stink with a stink's waaa'th
w'ah?

the pride the boot
and then...
expecting some
côte d'ivoire
brute...

           and i'm to be:
the napkins provider...
i, the:
       curtain fling -
à la flop...
      
  ***. fetish for western
cuck...

             like ski jumping...
noriaki kasai...
and...
what happens in
sapporo:
stays in sapporo:

while in ****-yo:

          rabu hoteru:
  súkī súkī: thai goose:
guess lucky lucky...

suave... baige 'n' all...

indentations: loci: print...

that movie!
no!
not ninja scroll!
not tenchu
or ten-times-achoo!

  funny... not howl's
moving / floating /
whatever the castle did...

or spirited away...
that... manga *****...

shingles for a schmile...
like: teeth...
but less ordered in:
the arithmetic of...
buck-tooth
kicked out...

   that ******* manga
***** though!

         what was it?!

(20 minute interlude):

ah!

               urotsukidoji!
shin-towing
a pajama in bamboo
strict-tease...
via: dojo-open:
**** flower
    alias kimono...

sigh / aye / sigh / aye /
soogh-too'ji!
Shanghai express...

but i whittle
Pole'lock's breath
of the anglican
might but might not add:

         pale Franckian
'aving imported
the: what the Moroccan
sheikh didn't
deem "necessary"
to export...

           but i'm on
the receiving end:
tell ******* coco
what the copper turban
said...
try that...
ain't no *******
cul de sac sushi
palace wish where
whatever comes
after, come prior to:
"a" from...

world salad from now
on...
    it needs to be
IKEA literal...
no nuance...
   no... just literal:
give me the verbs
and...
  and no 'uance
considering 'ouns...

me?
   i like the idea of
the English language
having the capacity to
entertain more requisites
of letters 'come surds...
  
      cockney playing
conckers...
    C C, K K...
            either cold or:
kindled spirit:
yo ** ** and
a fidgeting compass
originating in Sigh-bear-ah...

cold Solomon:
a cod's whallop...

in summary:
i'd still prefer the tongue
of a gay
to a body of a woman
should it be suggested
i pass the hour in:
"prevailing"
to consecrate myself
upon the altar of
a continuum;

but hey...
that's life...

     her life...
i no chimpanzee shrunk
worth a fight
into her dynamo
of the Mars: ahoy!
if she...
       toying mantis...
           mother... tarantula.

the ninth gate,
or how, even a bibliophile
can have a little
adventure...

perhaps there's a world
out "there",
but there's also the Heideggerean
retraction  from the world,
into Tao...
         or at least, Tao,
with a bit more of a European
entanglement of narrative...
or past 4 summers
to count, exploring
        moth flight into dust
made into sediment
on yawning bookshelves...
as much of a world out "there"...
as there is life in th vicinity,
in a myopic worldview,
almost aquatic...
        via the H. retraction of
dasein... being by a plateau-esque
increment...
rather than the synonym
big bang and 20th century
exponential circus of populations...
epoch of consolidation,
and cultural exhaustion...
since art could not be industrialised
with a focus on originality,
standing face to face with
industrialised "art" of household
decorum... back to the cave it went
to craft a think-tank,
and a safe space...

which begs the question
as to why certain people allow themselves
the chance to exploit the haiku...
rubric rigid, however-many
syllables it takes...
prior to, some Ching Shin Po
drinking heavily during
the night (why would
you ever drink during the day?)
laughing at the moon,
astounded, mesmerised...
terse saying, sealed lips,
never a haiku being intrusive,
never the haiku made into
a jazz standard,
or a because a sonnet rhymes
like so...
                 20 years,
and still waiting for a haiku...
not this, industrialised:
'aving a blueprint,
ergo: mass replica pulverising
tumult...

           tickling-fingers,
using bookmarks rather than desecrating
books by folding pages into pytharogean
origami...
                reading best investigated
as private tele broadcasting channels...
ad intermissions...

       tonight all i have to offer is this...
a bibliophile's tender woven care...
  holding a book, 3 years older than
me... namely 34 / 35...
in pristine condition...
namely... and the pages are still white...
ironic... since the content
of the book is about ghosts...
take a printed 1957
and the pages turn to sepia...
unlike those barons
and stubborn sycophantic
       wine, "conneisours"...
   the pleb turned snob
is harder to find among book
fetishists...
             the oldest in my possession?
a 19th century print...
     amrican...
     in one psychoice instance
i gave the works of Emerson to
Oxfam...
not that i mind charity,
but that I mind Oxfam...
                  
a new breed narration,
if art, for art's sake...
digression being the new form of
narrative... because
i don't remember what i was going to...

ah!

   Duchy Polskie: Wydawnictwo
         PTTK "KRAJ" (Warszawa 1983)
person in question?
the illustrator,
janusz stanny...
and notably the method
of translating a flint stone
into graphic...
                 hell...
a little corner of the world
and nothing as mundane as...
a postcard from the usual:
wish you were here,
and wish i wasn't,
      sending you this ******* postcard
making me look
like an utter plonk...

and what of the commandments regarding
a neighbour...
big town no neighbours...
small town... promotion
into gossip... little talk...
big town no gossip,
suffocated little interests,
plotki... suffocated to the point
when too it's too late,
and the straitjacket comes out...

the forgetful faces
and the dizzying carousel of urban
living...
              if fame is to be worth 15 minutes...
friendships have a life-span
of a dumb mosquito sitting
on the arm of a lucid man...
            teasing this minion
of the antithesis of Belzeebub
before the needle...
   SMACK...
                         pancake.

        the digressive narrative...
or in better grammar without
a doubled -ive...
digression as the new form
of a narrative...
    as such:
      acute amnesia...
    regarding the muse...

               not for any other,
other than the love of the craft...
or how to escape
the Alcatraz... of sitting through
and English literature / language class...

oh ****... would you loom at that...
a rhyming couplet!
   that's as rare as Van Helsing
finding out that... beyond the romance
of the sickly and sweaty sweet Bar-fe-lona...
all vampires are like mushrooms...
kept in the dark and fed ****...
namely... all vampires are albinos.

on the odd occasion of finding a rhyme,
without even looking for one...
esp. not pulverising a reader with it...
every,  single, or, other, line!

/when y'ah know that rhythm guitar, is best envisioned by synch. with a bass guitar. have your american-english acronyms.... have it! feed; feed off of it! feed off of my prefix adjustments!/

look busy,
                          jesus
              is coming.
i.e.
martim luther
                in en-glout;
'aving a take on
                sally;
purr fiddle
                  quest:
char,
reminder of
                 Upminster.

a hour's worth of the refined
art of threaded silk,
could be mustered,
to constitute more of the, authenticity
of a romanian *******,
than, it might ever justfiy
the artless confiscate of a woman
with an Albian
monstrosity of, what, is,
a socio-historical convenience,
akin to a ****** skin:
why only the transgressor only
wish to *******, and your,
prudish presence....
as a market worth
some egregious recant:
without a basis of minding
reminders...
            one could claim that
a fathomability of a male
concept of the travesty of
marketing the fathomably
   sterile, is...
                 argue from the
confiscate of:
           but men do not become
impregnated...
              therefore shallow
oath-keepers...
         therefore: the subsequent
        otherness-exageratted: S S es esses...
                     and a pity as such...

the body of a man,
                the mind of a child...

                   it surely requires
no counter-contract
concept of empathy...
just a worm and a tilt of
a boot,
                 psychiatrists are
afraid of empathetic actors
anyway...

                   empathy is the one
counter to the pharmacologist
explaration of what makes
psychiatry a humanism:
  namely dialogue...

          remove that?
        
              something akin to
a cross between
a person, and a void...

       something, worth the scapegoat
and vulture vulture with
a backdrop of: how one branch of
medicine is, and always will be:
undermined to agitate
a "proper" circumstance of the total
sum of events...

                beer interlude in
between drinking pict ****?!
           more like an irish laugh...
sane, sober people were only asked
to buy buy, spend spend spend....
who can cure this format of
an unconscious addiction?!

and as ****** as i might be,
a kite without a string attached to assume
it being: boy to earth to,
grounded...
to no "real": with or without...
                    can't help but to love
the pop(e) music interludes...
    
           a bit like tuning into
northern hyenas 'aving a laugh
in essex topology...
that is later considered: english;
      the st. petersburg fat lady will
sort and mind out the details for
you, and me, and anyone within
the unfaithful vicinity...
  of: never attempting to take to
Detroit hard rap...

        well... ain't that a ******* wonder!
could have guessed your name,
if i didn't try to, really
try to remember my own.

it's impossible to write anything...
when there's an ambition
to write...
          an ambition and no...
ice-cold crispness of spontaneity...
when... there's not even
all the bad reasons to write...
like money: carrot...
or... leaving a plough-of-
bombing sensations of past
and lost lovers... some variation
of a stick...
   it's impossible to write anything...
when there's an ambition
to write...
it's impossible knowing:
at best... a framing of anon.:
namely you... 40 years ago and through
to a now... your's an epitaph...
a grinding of a tombstone hoping
for... chatter cheats among teeth...
and imitation cages of rib-cages
from skeletons...
to ache like a body might for
a shadow... in reverse:
to ache like shadow might...
for a dead-end of being...
superstitious and coincidental
for a loot of soul...
       a mind a pickling jar...
an ego a pickle coo-coo:
                            lots lost cheaper...
for an umbrella...
    to cite: because there's no
quote involved...
                   simon posford...
flux & contemplation:
portrait of an artist in insolation...
i have my variation...
portrait of art: as failure...
           the... unfucked-******-with: wit...
of... the son not crucified...
is leftover cranium base: foot and food...
for... she has such...
ambitions for becoming the AVE MARIA...
the crucifix junction is...
a brothel robbed of a madame...
sort of... exact... scenario...
     we were the ones to tow
the toothless dog before the graveyard
of horses... stinking of sweat
and... hierarchy... and shadow...
demands of architecture...
language complicated itself along the way...
we substituted rye bread slices
with rye fermentation extracts...
we found melancholic joys from
drinking whiskey...
we were best kept apart...
sons and mothers...
ghosts and making those tender
years... her fully catered years...
with... even children are not allowed /
or are governed by such justifications...
i stand firm against a quake...
the winds make me a *******:
unfrequenting these parts...
there's a hounding sensation of...
the affirming mother of the elements...
coupling with the senses...
there's never, though!
never, though! a mother... making
me... this far grieving being in-depted...
as this... trivial affair of...
towing boredom to the extremes
of: the loiter gob-smacker-shut-****-off!
the cowering father figure...
some... mother: at least an adolf...
would have... speeded up the concept of:
to the grave best attired... bullett gritty...
catching... chewing on sand...
proposing...
   a shot of tequilla be not...
drank with a lick of salt...
   but a lick of... ashes... lazarus' ashes...
ghosts with echoes...
the resurrected kin'...
                                                'dred...
how does one... escape a mother a smothering
cult... of each and every... pardonable...
excuse post-riddle: forgiven?
it's a bad idea to have ambition
to write...
   to write without spontaneity...
it's idiotic to make oneself
inconveniently... in want of either money...
or... success on the breeding market...

           one can be forgiven with
having a mother... one can't exactly be forgiven
with having a wife...
esp. if one is... appeasing the...
already exploited avenue of re-,
   i welcome myself as a failure...
for the sole reason that i know what success
implies...
pride wet-locked egoism of...
when females congregate...
to boast of... ah... yes...
their offspring... not born from
alpha-male stature...
                  
      hence the greek alphabetical hierarchy...
omega's wording...
              shadow loiter...
it's almost funny:
the phrase... perhaps... perhaps we could
do some worshipping?
   oh forget about dividing will
and belief...
                   into something congregationally:
synonymous...

how does one... hide...
when your own mother abhors her own mother...
worships her father...
as a pseudo of man...
as a quasi of man...
                 to have had to marry...
it would have been easier:
it would have been... necessary...
to be... excused... as a homosexual...
i think my mother hoped for giving birth
to a homosexual...
rather than... a mongrel of...
solipsism and misanthropy...
   rejected by the "jedi" academy...
if i was the earning bread... and dough...
   and not some... loitering pass...
of a crossword puzzle...
we needed people to not... over-complicated
themselves...
we needed... safe avenues of...
earned wealth... that became...
running mates for others to earn theirs...
even if the... nuance...
came from... the dentist...
who desired toys...
             and the toys / dolls thust manufactured...

my words are no bricks... not glue...
nothing: to be invested by for the living...
except... by a living: in my own...
own invested in: post-mortem...
                        
                     i have a wild dream... though...
unlike the one concerning...
a... trampoline dachshund... spinning like crazy...
like a tony hawk...
   a wild wild dream...
me setting off to swim from norfolk...
to... norway...
        
beside having the concept
of a mother: i have a minder...
someone who desires... most...
to over-stretch her... authority for a simple...
per se motive...
      i want this complication
to be over... i want to establish it
like some vain hope acrostic enigma...
vain: hoping it's not true...
             add to it a trough of
borrowed bad experiences with
"gill-fwends" of shared drowning
with them 'aving daddy issues...
how best: to **** one's way out of these...
mummified sessions of wasted
psychiatric jargon-hunter misnomers of
schlang and grafitti?

tough treat... "mother"...
my grandfather was invested with these...
napoleons of the ****...
my father is invested in one...
my uncle said a beautiful goodbye...
took to acting... pretending the godfather
role... and... what not...
    
            i reason with an anger that ends
up being me tattooing my knuckles
plum against a wall...
             i suffocate an anger...
helen of troy... i guess hoped to: try...
to suffocate...
but what she didn't...
        her inverted ******* of *****
did... otherwise...

for the sacrifices of the living...
and the dead with their most profound:
told you so aversions of boast and
bewildering loiter...
                    this is a medium invitation...
that there be a bridge: yet...
burning... but sure as ****...
on its way to... bellow: the chime...
the grieving / numb echo of bell and toll.