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rolanda Jan 2014
trudging from lombard
pawned ring
to pay back long debt

Esta es mi vida.

wonderful friend sent a letter:
dont send me poems
I dont love poetry

Caminando por la calles.

On the streets Lanterns
blinding  eyes
while I need darkness

Yo tener enemigos en todos el mundo

letter from court
to pay penalty 1200 euro
for spraying graffities in Friedrichshain


Esta mi vida es afuera un campos de batalla.


i am hungry
I pick from some wheelchair near entrance of supermarket
one banan
towards me run and attacks me a huge drunkard
beat out from my hands banan
slaps in brow
and I fall on snowed pavement
feel no pains
he stays over me and yell: Sie klaute banane, Nutte!!
I low whisper: yourself schweine backe..
jump from spot and imaginary bite the **** of his imaginary gun

El mundo es maravilloso

I possess no more a laptop
i spilled wine on it
being taken aback of one scene of pure *******
of one lovely  guest in my flat
how now to write manifesting defending verses?

Politico de mierda que gobierna el pais.

Internet shop
whole night over
beneath of buzzing of casino machines
I sit and write the letter to imaginary dad
to imaginary lovely mom
to sweet sister or brother
well,  I have nobody of them
though would I be orphan
I guess my existence were not so dismal

Yo tengo el mi fierro por disparar.

I writing email to american situationist
his nickname is rasputin
I saying him, that I am situationist
and I am recently became persona non-grata
and I better die than
land in loony-bin
need your aid.
he answers with a link about  a war in Irak
my solar plexus clenchs tight

Puta yo no necesita usted!

Esta mi maniera,
Caminando por la calles,
Listo para morir,
Esta mi vida es terminada.

*

Friedrichshain- urban district in Berlin
Sie klaute banane, Nutte!- she stole a banan, *****!(german)
schweine backe- pig's **** (german)

(thank you Alessandro P. for lesson in spanish)

Esta es mi vida.    This is my life.
Caminando por la calles.  Walk on the streets
Yo tener enemigos en todos el mundo.I have enemies allover the world
Esta mi vida es afuera un campos de batalla.This is my life outside for the battlefield    
    
El mundo es maravilloso   The world is beautiful
Politico de mierda que gobierna el pais. Politic in this land is merde
Yo tengo el mi fierro por disparar. I have my iron for shooting
Puta yo no necesita usted.  *****, I dont need you


Esta mi maniera,
Caminando por la calles,
Listo para morir,
Esta mi vida es terminada:


this is my attitude
walking through the streets
to search for death
my life is finished
bleh Jan 2016
(not a poem i guess but eh)




Space keeps falling to the sides. I try to concentrate, - I mean, I make a token effort every now and again,- but concentration, fixation is always in terms of something external, something I'm not sure I can deal with.  I roll over and go back to sleep.



'Where's the flour?'
'Where you left it.'
'Which is where?'
'On the table. What you want it for anyway?'
'Which table?'
'Haha. The generic maple with the ugly-*** spandrels. What are you making?'
'You think we could afford that? Nah, it's like, faux-pine or some ****. And like muffins.'
'Oh good, there's banan's that need using up'
'No no, like, other muffins. Crumpets and such. Got any golden syrup?'
'I think there's some maple.'
'No, it's like, ply, I swear.'



I haven't moved in days. I need to. He'll come eventually and I don't want him to see me like this. Plus, I need to locate that smell. I can't have guests over with it here. I'm just not sure where it is though. I  feel like it's on my left arm when I’m in the middle of the room, but off to the right everywhere else. It's.. acerbic, but fermenting, like vegetables on the onset of rot but not quite there yet. Not that I know; I haven't moved in days. I don't want to smell it again. Also garlic, definitely garlic.



We visited the inland sea the other day. The hundred years since last time hadn't changed it one bit. The beached clay was brittle under the midday sun, and the cracking footsteps fragmented it into a hundred hexagons.
               'I hear a strain of the pathogen is airborne. It's only a matter of time now'
A group of tourists park up by the shore. A child holds out their arms and runs in small circles.



The corridor keeps flashing. And maybe spinning. It's hard to tell, the colour change starts at a different point each time and there's no discernible rhythm to it. You keep pacing up and down. I feel self conscious that you want to leave, but then again, you did show up unannounced. You shake the snowglobe disinterestedly. The fragments burn like molten static.
'Stop that. I feel like I’m vomiting spiders.'
'You're being dramatic.'
'None the less.'
'Don't worry; you'll get through it. The world is transitioning, and this is just motion sickness.'
'I know that, I didn't say I was worried, I said I wanted it to stop.'

'sorry'



We'd always go for a walk at night if we felt we needed to talk. It was an unwritten rule. The veil of amber filter let our more timid thoughts breath in the nebulous darkness. Stark daylight was always too suffocatingly real, and that was the one thing we were never allowed to be; real. You'd always talk superficially if we discussed personal matters. That day you did a one-third spin clockwise and faced my side, and talked grandeloquently, hammed up like on a stage. You gave an embarrassed smile and blew a kiss for the invisible audience. I always felt jealous of those nothings, those non-existent beings, that got to figure into your world.



'Christ it's warm today. I can't think.'
'so don't bother.'
I spin in the chair. Whooosh. Whooosh.



It's the end of a 6 hour shift. A customer, a mother in her odd thirties, was angry that a sale item was out of stock, like sale items always are: She'd only gone out of her way to shop at this store because of the advertised deal, and we had taken time out of her busy schedule under false pretence. Her child stared at the ground intensely, his eyes watering. I tried to imagine the situation through his eyes, to try and ground myself; to remain both present, but stable. She insisted on speaking to the manager. It's a relief really; He's a skeevy ****, but he at least knows when the customers are just there to start ****, and responds accordingly. He comes over, asks what the problem is. It turns out I entered the code wrong and the item was still available after all. He gets one from out the back, handles the transaction, says have a nice day and apologises for me and everything, and I just stand there blankly; I’d had the graveyard shift the night before and honestly I’m beyond feeling right now, but when she mutters 'dumb *****' as she turns away a tight feeling still twists in my gut anyway.
I come home and leave the door hanging open framed in the setting sun and just drop my bags in the hallway. You're in the kitchen, hunched over a workbench eating out of a mug.
'Whatcha having?'
'Cornflakes.'
'….Cornflakes?'
'Yep.' you pivot as I approach. 'corn..flakes.' you hold out the packet.
'coooornfllllakkkkkkkeeeessssss' I start laughing.
'coooornfllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakes'
we chorus the term in groaning monotone, and I grab the packet out your hand and throw it down and violently stomp it into the ground with every non-energy I have left. You just laugh and egg me on, repeating 'cornflakes! Cornflakes!' in crescendo, ostinato. The satisfaction of each crunch gives me the drive to smash them further, and corn dust spills out of the pulverised cardboard and gets everywhere. In the end I’m panting, my face is a mess of tears, and I collapse over onto it and just roll, bathing in the glorious fragments of reconstituted mulch.



'They say another ice age is coming.'
'They also say we'll be swallowed by the sun'
'well, it's true.'
'Yeah, but which'll happen first? I need to know to dress accordingly.'
'Tunnel's up ahead'
'I know, I see it.'
I deliberately swerve to the side and speed up, changing back at the last moment.
'You know I hate it when you do that.'
'What, don't you wanna die together with me? Here and now? Immortalised, as if our existences actually meant something?'
'like Diana and the nameless chauffeur?'
'******* exactly.'
We step out onto the hill, frozen **** tufts breaking underfoot. It's cold as hell but the skies glittering. You get out the telescope you borrowed off your rich *** sister.
'I think that's Jupiter over there.'
'Pfft, Jupiter.'
'What?'
'What's the blankest space you can find?'
'Hmm.. that way?'
You point it in that direction. 'Look'
I stare into it, but it's hard to keep focus while shaking from the cold. You keep adjusting and asking ,’See anything?', eventually some hazy distortion comes into view.
'See, no matter where you look, there's always something there.' You're trying to sound eloquent. 'Even when it seems like you're drowning in nothing.'
I stand back. 'That's terrifying. I feel sick.' I try to breathe but it's shaky and shallow. I stare into the ground, but I can still feel it; the blaze of the myriad innumerable heavens burn into me. Their judging gaze pierces through me and tears me to shreds.  



'You know, I think I read that Spinoza thought that consciousness is manifest in the ability of finite beings to continue persisting in and of their own will over time.'
'Doesn't that make a toaster more conscious than us?'
'Yeah, you don't say.'



We were twelve and at the department store. It was strange. I'd never taken the bus by myself to just hang out in town before. I always feel disorientated and light-headed in crowds so it had a strangeness; waves of apprehension cushioned by the homogeneity of it. one can be truly alone in a crowd; floating in a sea of otherness, where each gaze is no longer a signification of anything, but a warm static. We were among the aisles of a department store, in the toys and tacky house ornament section. Like, the junk you buy children and grandparents for their birthday. **** that you'd only attribute to people whom have no discernible qualities of their own. We were looking at snow globes. We kept trying to shake them violently enough so that the scene framed within would become entirely lost to the fog; it always felt so disappointing when clarity returned and things re-became what they were. I remember saying, 'I wonder if it tastes like real snow', I don't remember, It was stupid, I don't know why I said it, it sounded cool in my head. But you responded, that I remember, by taking the thing and smashing it against the concrete floor, and pouring out all the fragments into our hands. We tried them together and coughed and choked in laugher. It tasted awful, entirely unsurprisingly. On a rush you stuck one in your pocket, grabbed my hand, and we promptly left the store, and my heart was palpitating, it felt like all the rules, all the natural laws that had prefigured my world were crumbling, and I was terrified, trapped in the gaze of my mothers look of disappointment when we'd be inevitably caught, somehow watching me from its potential future, and I'd no longer be allowed to visit you but it was okay because I was here with you now in this moment and we were alone in this faceless mechanical place crumbling around us, and when we left, and no sirens buzzed, I felt sick with excitement at the unbounded possibility present in everything in every second. I cringe thinking back on it, and feel ashamed at finding such meaning, feeling such unabashed wholesale virtue in indiscriminate destruction, but sometimes, sometimes I still shake that snowglobe as hard as I can, till everything determinate is lost in haze, and I still feel a wave of comfort wash over me.



‘We’ve been walking for ages. you know where we’re going, right?’
‘It’s just up ahead. I swear’
‘You swear?’

‘I mean, I’ve only been there once before myself.’
‘****. This way?’
‘Wait-‘
‘What?’
‘Huh. Nothing. Sorry, I thought I heard a car coming.’


‘I think that’s the ocean?’
‘But.. aren’t we heading inland?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I swear.’



We're in your room. Your reading on your bed and I'm in the swivelly chair by the desk, pretending to work, but really we're just chatting, talking about.. something. Whatever. It was probably stupid, laughing at our own jokes, as always, catchphrases repeated till they loose all meaning. It's been a long day and honestly we're both too tired for coherence by this point, but the lack of effort lends the air an easy comfortability. But then suddenly.. Suddenly you stare into my eyes as if you're looking at me and it's somehow different, an intense gaze that I can't escape, as if you somehow found something located there, something fixed in those abyssal pupils. The feeling is overwhelming and terrifying. I am grounded, ripped into the prison of being and frozen static like a dumb animal transfixed in headlights: I am outside myself facing in, and I’m falling away. I pull you in and kiss you to escape; now, it is your touch that is fixed, your smell, your taste, and I breath a sigh of reprieve. You hold my back as I fall into you. I lace my fingers through the buttons in your shirt and feel the faint pulse of your flickering heartbeat. At once an ever-changing epiphenomena, and a calming rhythmic certainty. I vacantly tug at the buttons and your expression changes, gone is the feeling of suffocating questioning, but one of transfixed observation. Your touch is not a reaching out into something, but a continuation of yourself; I am an instrument of your lust, an extension. Holding me in your arm, you nervously run your hand down from my nape and trace my bra from the strap over the line of my breast. The lightness of your touch is a painful tickling and I push myself into you further, my thighs wrapping around yours. Your touch shoots a burning into me, not painful, but like glowing kindling, or the warmth of a blanket; an immanence, a retreat. I let my mind go blank and we continue; you fumble with my bra as I fumble with your belt. We're both shaking but too far gone to notice, too distant to care. The dry freeze of the night air contrasts your damp heat. You clasp me as you trace your hand under my skirt and I feel your arm brush my thigh. I tremble slightly at the sharp coldness of the damp cotton coming unstuck. After a stretching moment of awkward liminality, I feel you pass into me. It's a burning smoothness, distilled liquor. The rubber is an alien feeling, and for some reason I imagine myself as a giant balloon; a malleable featureless surface, filled with emptiness. I feel myself through the threshold of your presence and I am afraid; I am a boundary which encompasses nothing, and by your passing through I fear that I will be pierced; I will burst and out will flow an obsidian wind that will wither you to nothing, but it will keep coming, an endless torrent that will subsume the world and turn everything to desert, and the only way to save you is to keep it bound up as tight as I possibly can till my heart feels like burning metal, and I feel my tears land on my hand tightly clasping your shoulder. You ask through wavering breaths if I want to stop, but I shake my head; if you left now I would be caught and torn open; no, instead I subsume your undulations into myself; till the rhythm is as oceanic noise; a surface rolling located miles above a lightless motionless centre.



The pale green lamplight flickers. A nausea, tepid, but understated. The sentience of moss; an almost motionless drone, but the sense of unfolding. The corridor seems larger than it once was. Blank reflections harrowing accusations, mechanically indifferent but piercing; an alarm clocks wail. I lie still, I lie still. The buzzing repeats. I lie still. I am flowing, seeping through floorboards into the pores of the earth, into colonies of worms and I am lost and free, a motion, a multiplicity, pure form without the anxious drudgery of parts; pure alimentary canal, pure Elysium absolution. The flickering quickens and gets brighter. A pulsating light, a strobe, a beat frequency wavering behind vision. The liquid earth, saturated by light, hardens and dissolves. And 'I' am lost among the ruins, a vague memory of a sentiment. A nostalgic grief, an asphyxiated longing. I reach out to you desperately in the drag of the undertow, but you are the chalk of faded bones; cast to the winds centuries prior. A thousand years pass of blanket darkness, and a unitary bell rings. The flotsam batters against the temple gates. Debris collects in cracks, and my pieces are among them. I cling to retention, and return. I am cold sweat outlining the floorboards, the feeling of clenching before vomiting, repeated endlessly.



A few weeks after, turning off an avenue onto the main road, I see you. You're crossing, coming this way. It was bound to happen eventually. I bite back the moisture forming in my eyes and try to remain faceless. You suddenly change your trajectory, and hit the side of a car. It honks at you and you dodge around it. I allow a bitter smile to myself; the fact I can cause you such disorientating discomfit indicates I still mean something to you. Even if it's just a discomforting anxiousness, something beyond the boundary to be avoided, I have causal powers, extension; I can see my flicker of presence in you even now, even if I cannot for the life of me find it within myself. You run around and I walk straight. It's empowering; I can remain fixed, even if the torrent of the world flows around me. At that moment, I feel the indubitable strength to persevere. I am stronger than this world; I am stronger than you. But then, just as suddenly, the feeling folds upon itself and is gone. I felt solidified, just now, by the fact that I was the one that remained in this random encounter. I won, you lost. but Won how? With the ability to pretend that I can exist alone, in a world that means nothing to me? The ability to maintain a solid spectral façade, when underneath, scratching away under the skin, I contain nothing? To continue terrifies me. Knowing that I have the strength to continue terrifies me. That last thing I ever intended was to outlive you. I feel the world drain away from me, and yet I remain, left standing, alone, in a of realm of perpetual nothing.  



I feel sick

a hundred years pass in the cavity of the desert. Merchants make trade off raided materials and makeshift weapons. A library is burned. A soldier, wanders freely. An insect buzzes around his face. He darts about the place in annoyance, but it remains. He can't shake it. He closes his eyes. It's still there

I feel sick

the sun burns bright arrhythmic  clicking.  A late twenties couple go clothes shopping, however the child is hungry and will have none of it. Lunch is suggested. They are jocular about the decision, but feel an uneasiness about the indulgence. The air is saturated and dries
Ankit Dubey May 2019
Tera aks hi kuj is kadar samaya hai meri ankhon me,
K ajnabi bhi milkar tera naam bata dete hai,
Koi kahta hai k ashik hai ye shakhs kisi ka,
Koi kah deta hai k toota hai dil iska,
Shayad nahi janta hai koi,
K ashik to hu mai apni jindagi ka,
par dil abhi tak meri jindagi ne toda nahi hai,
Gam to hai mujhko mohabbat me mila,
Par shayad isliye k mera mahboob abhi tak mere aagosh me har pal k liye aaya nahi hai,
Haan ashik to hu mai uska par usne dil mera abhi tak toda nahi hai,
Vo door bahut hai mujhse,
Par khata uski nahi hai,
Vo bhi utna hi bechain hai mere liye,
Utni hi tadap hai usme bhi mere kareeb aane ki,
Par shayad jindagi dene vale ki jimmedariuon se aabhi vo farig hua nahi hai,
Haan ashik to hu mai us har saans me mujhko yaad karne vale,
Par dil abhi mohabbat me toota nahi hai,
Intjaar karta to bahut hu uska,
Par intjaar abhi poora hua nahi hai,
Kuj der abhi aur baki hai,
Thode se aansoo abhi bahne aur baki hai,
Dil me thodi c chubhan baki hai ,
Baki hai abhi use apna banan,
Aur thoda sa pyar karna aur baki hai,
Haan ashik to jaroor hu mai us mohabbat me tadpane vale ka,
Par sach to ye b hai k mohabbat me dil abhi toota nahi hai.....
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
left home at 10am: came back home at 10pm...
at Romford ordered 6 spicy chicken wings
for £3... ate them with such a relish
perhaps even some relief... didn't eat anything
since 12pm...
i felt relieved to be eating something when
truly hungry... i think that's important:
eating something when you're truly hungry:
reliving ancient days when a man would
have to hunt...
                        like Socrates "said":
some people live to eat...
                                  while others eat to live...
i'm persuaded by the latter category:
everything tastes all the better...
    i'm not talking about starving... i'm talking
fasting...

the best atmosphere at Wembley so far...
     Nottingham Forest vs. Huddersfield...
the most pleasant crowd so far...
no one really running into me and trying to
hug me while at the same time bruising me
from all the joy... over such trivial matters...
then again... people invest years and years
into watching soap operas on t.v.
Forest's sitcom "suspended sentence" has been
running for 23 years after being relegated
to the lesser league... i was actually chatting
to this colt about: how he wasn't even born
when Forest was a high-flying football club...

fist bumping: 'i want your children'...
getting candy from a lady after i helped her out
to get a cleaner to clean the pigeon ****
off her seat... blah blah...
full smile one: genuine...
     i already have the silver linings:
smile wrinkles under around my eyes...
and grey hair making a conquest
around my sideburns... i really am 36...
i feel like i'm 36 years old...
it feels good to be 36 years old...
this confident and at the same this reserved:

it's a good thing i visited the brothel
and sat there, in the waiting room... intimidated
by about 10 prostitutes... asking all of them to choose
being told by one: you can't do that!
then telling the one that told me that:
oh, fair enough... you'll do... since you're the mouthy one...

i ate my six spicy chicken wings:
no point getting a meal with chips...
the ratio of meat to batter on those wings sort
of counters the point of having chips...
smoked a cigarette in the fresh air... ah...

back to the stadium...
     a lot of young boys making makeshift
paper aeroplanes from paper left on every seat
for the opening ceremony...
i was thinking: what if someone was
to randomly turn around and that paper aeroplane
would hit them in the eye?
no matter... the boys were having fun...

people trying to bring alcohol and drink it in view
of the pitch... body language took over:
i just insinuated... and i was obeyed...
talk about owning a dog but not owning
a leash... i'd love to own a dog like i might be a cat:
i can' imagine stressing a cat with either
accessory of a leash or a muzzle...
so why would i do that to a dog?
i see foxes freely roaming... i couldn't...

more hugs, handshakes, fist-bumps...
for some reason... stroking the new lucky charm
of Nottingham Forest: an inflatable banana...
funny, that... my nickname at university
was BANAN... because i once wore
the Velvet Underground t-shirt to a party...

i was stroking the inflatable banana for good luck...
everyone managed to get the joke...
it's good... to find oneself in / with appeal
among a crowd of strangers...
in the moment? they're better than friends...
everything remains puddle deep...
it's veneer but at the same time it's not veneer...

only racial minorities will continue to complain
about the English (people)...
but... being a good judge of character...
i was supposed to be paired up...
i ended up doing most of the shift on my own...
because some copper-neck was slacking...
every time some **** hit the fan he would
come across as too authoritative...
or he would disappear...

it's not a judge of "colour"...
that's the descriptive element of MY language...
one excuse after another...
i was supposed to be giving the benefit of the doubt
to a slacker...
   my supervisor... beyond copper-neck
excused him with the words: oh... benefit of the doubt...
he's just work shy... work shy? work shy?!
lazy... but not lazy enough to
    climb up the tree and try the arithmetic of
straightening bananas, no?!

i don't need an extra hassle if i can do this job
by myself...

"we" reached a sentimental zenith with this one
guy, i.e. me and him... about old Wembley...
how i managed to see the 1995 charity shield
match between Manchester United and Newcastle...
how i was doing my job...
because i kindly pointed him to a slot on the wall...
some 1985 Act about not drinking in view
of the pitch... at a football event...

and he came back at me: it's people like you
that make... my first time at Wembley...
so special... you're just doing your job...
   i'm perfecting my orientation: i just give off
body language cues... i'm not going to shout...
i make that suggestion of: being placed
before the guillotine... cut-it-out...
even a deaf person could understand me:
i extend my fingers... and make a cutting motion
across my neck... moving my hand right to left...

that helps...
   no... my father: i was a roofer too, once upon a time...
wouldn't call it work... managing a crowd is
not really work... once you're left in a trench
of dealing with inanimate things that always:
always obey your every whim is work...
but dealing with people is never work...

fair enough... what a lovely day...
   it's Wembley and i love taking the Metropolitan Line
from Wembley Park to Liverpool St.,
mind you... come Wednesday i do hope that
that coming Jubilee will ensure the major night tube lines
will be open... i dread taking the night buses home
even thought the Argentina vs. Italy match is supposed
to finish at around 10:30pm....

hell... i don't care if i'm being underpaid...
i don't think i am... i'm getting paid to "work"
while other people pay... circa £100 for a seat...
stroking an inflatable banana for good luck:
it's going to become a Nottingham Forest gimmick:
a good luck charm...
i'm feeling it... Nottingham Forest & bananas...

in that kind of scenario i was genuinely for them
winning against Huddersfield...
why? well... on the way in i heard rumours
that Nottingham Forest only got promoted
on penalty shoot-outs...
i needed a 90min closure... if it wasn't
a 90min closure... i would have left at...
perhaps 10pm... got home at 12am...
   obviously i was supporting the Nottingham crowd...
i even took a "break" 10 minutes from the end
to share in their drama enthusiasm of a supporter...

another thing? you notice it...
just before the match...
i stood with my arms folded behind my back...
"lip-reading": i couldn't sing...
the national anthem...
   people notice that...
          i'm not "one of them": but i am "one of them"...
she's still my Queenie...
only racial minorities have a problem
with the English...
i don't have a problem with the English...
i think the English people are spectacular people...

i made a mistake of studying in Scotland-Sock-Land...
i should have studied in Liverpool...
Newcastle... why is it that the further up you go
the women are friendlier and prettier?!
more Norse genes?!

why am i writing about work?
nothing interesting is happening in the idea department
of my 'ead...
   literally... nothing...
only today i thought: it would be worthwhile to read
a book... rather than a newspaper...
this book has ben bugging me for some time...

thank god i don't have the Latin original...
it's all in English...
Ovid's ****** Poems...
i don't do chapters... esp. not when commuting...
and to intimidate the possible onlookers...
my book-note?
   a 100 rouble banknote...
    yay! "Ukraine"...
                              really?
                i really don't care about Ukraine...
why would i give a **** about Ukraine...
if Ukraine will not give Lvov back to the original
architects of the city?!

i'm seriously not the man who heard a choir
in an empty church and a great wind
that subsequently dispersed it back in 2007...
i'm the guy with... Nik Kershaw's
wouldn't it be good playing on repeat in my head...
on silent mode...

nothing truly beats ancient Roman poets...
i'm reliving an experience that was originally intended
to remain stale... moulded... gathering dust on
my shelf... i've owned a book by Ovid for...
when awake? you count donkeys...
when trying to stay awake: you count donkeys...
sure... then trying to fall asleep you count sheep:
imitation clouds...
but Ovid... Ovid was always going to surpass
my esteem for either Virgil and Horace...
Ovid was always going to cut the argument short...

like today... two guys were adamant on an argument...
Hazard or Salah...
i was asked the question when the shift ended...
Hazard or Salah?
my reply? Hazard... when he played for Chelsea...
hands down...
what team do you support? West Ham...
  see! see! the response came! what bias?!
a West Ham supporter can't support anything good
about Chelsea! just because these guys haven't
seen Hazard in his prime at Real Madrid...

             it's true... Hazard at Chelsea...
Lukaku at Inter Milan...
              you think that Haaland and City is
a match-made-in-heaven?
   i doubt it...
        some players should just stick to the atmosphere...
Mark Noble at West Ham...
Steven Gerrard at Liverpool...
        you can't just transfer someone's soul
from one body to another like you: "supposedly" can
in the Hindu concept of reincarnation...
no!
              e.g.? the Watkin's Tower makes a lot of sense...
since... the prime icons of London are hardly
reminding anyone that this construction
exists... because: competition with Paris' Eiffel
suffocated the idea into a: misnomer of: ooh!
icon of architecture!
it isn't...
                   the "idea" concerning the architecture
of the tower of Eiffel in Paris worked...
Watkin's Tower is hardly central...
what has London have? pseudo-communist
Barbican: as the saying goes...

either you are happy with what you have...
or you have what you are happy with...

London is not a ******* cliche Las Vegas...
sure... sure... lodge a ******* pseudo-Eiffel
next to St. Paul's cathedral and
let's rewrite Handel's Messiah with
some dub-step DROP interludes...

******* overshadowing pyramid-height chasers...

****'s sake... i can see the Watkin's Tower
from Mashiters Hill... or... wait...
was that from a roof at one of the office blocks...
near St. Paul's... the Scottish Widows' HQ
when i joked: isn't that... the Eiffel?

it's that genius of Ovid's observations...
about touching one's ear lobes to provide evidence
of disinterest...
while at the same time: oh modern optics...
back in the elder times... perhaps fiddling
with one's ring on one's ring finger was a sign
of approval... but lately i've noticed that women
place a ring on either their index or *******:
as if implying:
i do not require to be wed...
    a ring placed on the index or *******:
a ring placed on the *******?!
*******! marriage! *******: pair-bonding!
let's make the nobility of swans extinct!
and on the index... who knows?!

i yawn at the football match,
concentrating my attention on the crowd...
i murmur the national anthem of:
god save the queen and i spot an alliance...
someone in the crowd feels "secure" that i'm murmuring
alongside them a pride:
not a homosexual pride... just an outright...
as i fiddle with my fu manchu...

   and my... competing love-patch in length...
blonde... competing in length with my beard's length...
like some ancient Cossack...

the Slavic proverb stands solid:

wenn unter krähen: du krächzen wie sie!
when among crows: you croak like them!

i find myself very accommodating...
when it's required...

i need no "other" place to visit... i need to become
more of a spider and weave more of my web
and strangle the topography of London
to my demands... of the commute...
       as much as i'd love to escape to the Faroe Islands...
i don't think i could ever leave London
behind... as much as i loved Edinburgh on first
impressions... i could leave Edinburgh...
i don't think i could ever leave London...
seeing it morph: diverge: grow...
                        i don't think i could ever leave
London...
Loon-doon...
          
die ganze welt ist hier! pfauen ihre sprachen!
the whole world is here! peacocking their languages!
while i come with my toy-zeppelins!
während ich kommen sie mit mein
spielzeugzeppeline!

— The End —