hiatus awaiting
welcome are the nights,
with a chance of snow,
and me...
writing practically nothing;
i guess the common ground
encompassed by a
acted out "laziness"....
i can admire *******
and it feels
the same dead weight of
*******' hanging weight...
i sacrifice my lamb
on the altar of Slayer
and say goodnight....
i like these nights, redying
myself for an internet hiatus...
getting a haircut,
trimming my beard...
it will be a most pleasant
experience,
being internet-free...
i can actually forget about
the dialogues...
for a month or so...
the whiskey dries out,
the will abides by hibernation,
the book is read...
time passes via
a Maori interpretation....
slow, deathly,
unpredictable...
such warm wintry
nights when the snow falls,
and the fox scuttles about...
are paid grievances
for want of dream...
i write the least
because i belittled the most...
zeit werden plötzlich halt...
like i said: i pay my allegienace
to a tongue..
i align with german
on a fetishist's whim,
not a nationality...
speaking german comes
across as oral ***...
scheiße ficken auster!
i pay my allegiance
to a tongue, not the people -
der zunge uber die volk...
i reek of the kind of hate
that these zombie-people dreams of
the living become acrid...
i am sodium and sulphate!
i watch
the shamanic dance and the *******
"ladies" in waiting...
i am the tongue
above the people;
thinking comes later...
last...
the only increment of crafting
a nostalgia of carving
and a nostalgia of what's past;
****** the oyster with the serpent,
maggot, worm...
there's nothing with
leverage of poetics...
why has the thrill of life
and upkeep "suddenly"
expired from me?
why has this quasi-
castration taken hold of me?
all before the
perfected mechanisation ugly...
doesn't matter,
as individualism dies
i am the one to inherit it...
die hitzig nächte
aus gefallen schnee...
und die tänzeln fuchs...
zu sehen.
- perhaps a return to
the saxon rooting...
perhaps that,
perhaps anything at all...
what does it matter,
there's the troubling tomorrow
to pitch against...
the lost beauty of
the sunrise, to the day's insistence
for love lost unto labour;
the abhorring obedience to
said, "love", and slavish schematics;
love is a pardoning word
in keeping things intact,
but not a word worth an ounce
of motivational value.
and due to CSFR (cross-site request forgery)...
*Turkish Barbers
once more, the notion of the simplest pleasures in life, are the most rewarding; maybe i should be 30 to 40 years older to make such a statement, maybe i ought to be the colt-type bungee jumping and skydiving feeding an adrenaline rush... but then again once you make life slim of extreme pleasure, the real authentic pleasures come through in the most unexpected way, out of the mundane every day, a proud, strutting peacock - let's keep the intricacies of pleasures and experienced bound to a labyrinth of either such extreme experiences, or the heights of philosophical discourse... keep the pauper's share, allow the everyday form of grey separate itself: till you finally see the black & white.
it was about time, someone had to allow this
ruffian, this ***, this barbarian into society...
sure, a suit makes a man,
but since we're living in times of smart casual,
where ties are not required nor
the top button done up -
the next thing that makes a man,
is a well deserved, haircut.
i come to think that a haircut makes more
of a man, than a well attired suit,
call me old fashioned, or new fashioned -
but it comes as a shame to not bother
with a haircut, like i did for almost a year,
considering the angst of the baldies,
with their shining craniums exposed
to moonlight...
like ice converging to act as mirror
in a firming puddle on the pavement...
yes, i am prone to "forget", well, in actual
fact abandon any ****** aesthetics to
imitate a variant of Lent...
i give certain things up and fast in a much
different way... vain?
hardly...
you only notice the difference
when a girl looks your way after a transition,
even with a puffer-fish face from all the drinking...
but it had to be done,
someone really had to get rid of the barbarian,
this: feral *thing...
and who better if not a Turkish Barber?
i have to say... i lost my virginity to a razor today...
Turkish Barbers are the best in the world,
that's not an opinion, that's a fact,
and from what the result is...
women can't cut beards,
they can do a brazilian wax no problem,
but the ***** on the face?
ladies, leave that to the men...
and there's one in particular,
a local,
a very cameo parlour,
two seats, almost like a kiosk -
Ustun's -
4 chase cross road, romford, essex,
RM5 3PR.... cemil ustun,
phone number 07447752357...
i don't know what's better,
receiving oral ***, or getting a proper barber's
treatment...
i'm starting to think the latter,
since it's cheaper...
i've come to a conclusion,
forget inquiring into prostitution -
£110 for an hour of agonising *** acts,
i'd take an hour with cemil for
a £20...
first time i actually had
oil applied to my ****** hair,
and foam and blow-drying it into shape...
before i grew my hair like a, ******* hippy,
i never really had a proper barber experience,
and i've learned something important:
not all "feminine" professions are actually
feminine...
a barber is as important as a soldier...
and that coincides with:
well, if we don't really believe in
moral relativism but absolutism,
and if we don't believe in cultural relativism
but absolutism,
we can at least agree that:
every, single, job, is, important,
that there must be a professional relativism,
or that there is a relativism of labour,
since nature does not like vacuums...
every job is equally important,
in that relativism exists on the basis of
gradation, an "ablaut" of incremental changes
in "value"...
by not money has exited the original
idea that it's the source of
the trans-valuation of values -
point being?
£20 for a haircut and a beard trim,
£110 for some wacky fucky-fucky...
hey, that's five and a half sessions
with cemil...
barbers can out-compete
the necessity of prostitutes...
but you can only, really, come to such conclusion
if you've been to both...
and this has to be the most authentic
experience of pampering that a *******,
with her moral baggage, simply can't give;
but it ought to be noted once more...
the best barbers in the world are Turks...
must be the highlight of the Ottoman empire,
akin to the english coffeehouses,
the barbers of the Ottoman empire
probably had as much significance as
the coffeehouses of england...
and that's how the cookie crumbles.
